“But we will go, for all that! The dowager is too delightful to miss.”
“A religieuse and a blue stocking!” and the smile of Lavergne was accompanied by a doubtful shrug. “I might 7 devote myself to either, if apart, but never to both in one. Is she then ugly that she dare be so superior?”
“Greek and Latin did not lessen the charm of Heloise for Abelard, Monsieur.”
Sidonie glanced consciously out of the window. Even the dust of six centuries refuses to cover the passion of Heloise, and despite the ecclesiastical flavor of the romance––demoiselles were not supposed to be aware––still––!
Lavergne beckoned to a fair slight man near the piano.
“We will ask Loris––Loris Dumaresque. He is god-son of the dowager. He was in Rome also. He will know.”
“Certainly;” and Madame Choudey glanced in the mirror opposite and leaned her cheek on her jeweled hand, the lace fell from her pretty wrist and the effect was rather pleasing. “Loris; ah, pardon me, since your last canvas is the talk of Paris we must perhaps say Monsieur Dumaresque, or else––Master.”
“The queen calls no man master,” replied the newcomer as he bent over the pretty coquette’s hand. “The humblest of your subjects salutes you.”
“My faith! You have not lost in Rome a single charm of the boulevardes. We feared you would come back a devotee, and addicted to rosaries.”
“I only needed them when departing from Paris––and you.” His eyes alone expressed the final words, but they spoke so eloquently that the woman of the world smiled; attempted to blush, and dropping her own eyes, failed to see the amusement in his.