Ninon was now only in her seventeenth year. She observed that she was very pale, that her round cheeks were colourless, and some remarks made by the Abbé Scarron on the decay of youth, the fading of beauty, the gradual advance of years, made the young girl thoughtful; and she was too intelligent and too well-read to be without reflection, so she thought of the future with forebodings, for already had late hours and gaiety robbed her of her roses.
Arrayed for conquest, who at that time could have competed with Ninon? Round her slender neck she wore the collet-monti, or standing collar, which disappeared with Louis XIV.; her fine hair was delicately sprinkled with perfumed maréchal powder; a kissing-patch, like a tiny star, was in one of the dimples at the corner of her rosy mouth, and her robe of silver gauze was looped in ample festoons, to display the petticoat of crimson brocade beneath.
Would a time ever come when she would be covered with wrinkles, like the Comtesse de la Suze, or when her most passionate lover, the gay young English Count of Jersey* would weary of her? Oh, mon Dieu! it was not to be thought of with patience.
* William Villiers, Viscount Grandison, then known in France by that title.
At that moment Guillot, her valet, tapped at the door of her boudoir.
"Who is there?" she asked, impatiently.
"A stranger, who would speak with you, mademoiselle," replied Guillot.
"A stranger, and at this hour! What is his name?"
"He declines to give it."
"Ridiculous! Is he armed?"