"Gentlemen, you have been to—Berkley's—that name!—have you not?"
"Yes, madame, and we left your husband there. He lost to Claude here, I think. Mordi, Claude! The gods are too good to you. If you would not have Mme. de Mailly carried off by some stricken gentleman, you should keep her locked in a jewel-case. Are you to be presented soon, madame, and by whom?"
Deborah blankly shook her head. "I do not know, monsieur."
Claude looked at her, more puzzled than ever, and Richelieu commented mentally: "Beauty and presence, without brains. It is as well."
"Mme. de Mailly-Nesle may present her, is it not so?" asked Victorine, again ending the pause.
"Certainly—I believe so. She has been a lady of the palace."
"I should advise Mme. de Conti, Claude. Her price is about two thousand francs, but she does it with an unequalled manner. She will direct the courtesies, the train, the kiss, the retreat, everything—perfectly. Besides that, you have her patronage forever after, particularly if you supplement the two thousand with a small jewel, or some such gift. Her rents are mortgaged, and she lives now on her presentations."
"When does the King leave Paris?" asked Claude, contemplatively.
Richelieu shrugged. "On Wednesday, we trust. He is now making snuff-boxes by the score, and if a fit of cooking succeeds that—Heaven knows! He may remain at the Tuileries till Christmas."
Deborah stared at this information, and Victorine turned to her, laughing nervously: "Has not monsieur told you what an excellent cook his Majesty is? He rivals Marin; and it is said that, could he win a cordon bleu, he would wear no other order. His bonbons are delicious. I once ate some of those that he sent to—" she stopped suddenly.