The word Whiskers still stood its ground, and continued to be made use of in most of the best companies throughout the little kingdom of Navarre, notwithstanding the indiscreet use which La Fosseuse had made of it: the truth was, La Fosseuse had pronounced the word, not only before the queen, but upon sundry other occasions at court, with an accent which always implied something of a mystery—And as the court of Margaret, as all the world knows, was at that time a mixture of gallantry and devotion——and whiskers being as applicable to the one, as the other, the word naturally stood its ground——it gain’d full as much as it lost; that is, the clergy were for it——the laity were against it——and for the women,——they were divided.
The excellency of the figure and mien of the young Sieur De Croix, was at that time beginning to draw the attention of the maids of honour towards the terrace before the palace gate, where the guard was mounted. The lady De Baussiere fell deeply in love with him,——La Battarelle did the same—it was the finest weather for it, that ever was remembered in Navarre——La Guyol, La Maronette, La Sabatiere, fell in love with the Sieur De Croix also——La Rebours and La Fosseuse knew better——De Croix had failed in an attempt to recommend himself to La Rebours; and La Rebours and La Fosseuse were inseparable.
The queen of Navarre was sitting with her ladies in the painted bow-window, facing the gate of the second court, as De Croix passed through it—He is handsome, said the Lady Baussiere.——He has a good mien, said La Battarelle——He is finely shaped, said La Guyol—I never saw an officer of the horse-guards in my life, said La Maronette, with two such legs——Or who stood so well upon them, said La Sabatiere———But he has no whiskers, cried La Fosseuse——Not a pile, said La Rebours.
The queen went directly to her oratory, musing all the way, as she walked through the gallery, upon the subject; turning it this way and that way in her fancy—Ave Maria!———what can La Fosseuse mean? said she, kneeling down upon the cushion.
La Guyol, La Battarelle, La Maronette, La Sabatiere, retired instantly to their chambers———Whiskers! said all four of them to themselves, as they bolted their doors on the inside.
The Lady Carnavallette was counting her beads with both hands, unsuspected, under her farthingal——from St. Antony down to St. Ursula inclusive, not a saint passed through her fingers without whiskers; St. Francis, St. Dominick, St. Bennet, St. Basil, St. Bridget, had all whiskers.
The Lady Baussiere had got into a wilderness of conceits, with moralizing too intricately upon La Fosseuse’s text——She mounted her palfrey, her page followed her——the host passed by—the Lady Baussiere rode on.
One denier, cried the order of mercy—one single denier, in behalf of a thousand patient captives, whose eyes look towards heaven and you for their redemption.
——The Lady Baussiere rode on.
Pity the unhappy, said a devout, venerable, hoary-headed man, meekly holding up a box, begirt with iron, in his withered hands——I beg for the unfortunate—good my Lady, ’tis for a prison—for an hospital—’tis for an old man—a poor man undone by shipwreck, by suretyship, by fire——I call God and all his angels to witness——’tis to clothe the naked——to feed the hungry——’tis to comfort the sick and the broken-hearted.