"I have been occupied, my dear Count, in making the estates of Châteauroux, together with the duchy, fall, by a peculiar line of heredity, from the deceased Duchess to her living cousin-german, Mistress Deborah Travis, otherwise the Comtesse de Mailly."
"Mordi! You have my compassion. My task is as nothing to yours."
"Oh, you are wrong. The matter is nearly arranged. We shall see, my dear Count—we shall see—"
"When?"
"At no later period than to-morrow evening."
"Ah! Then his Majesty is to escape from the levee?"
"Yes, probably. Monseigneur the Dauphin will be asked to take his place after the fourth minuet. And you, Marc—do you know what part in the affair is to fall to you?"
"Alas, yes—I can conjecture it. I had not feared that it would come so soon. The husband—Claude—will be my task."
"I am, indeed, sorry for it. Once before, you remember, he fell to me. Mon Dieu! He took it manfully enough then; but this is worse. Unhappily, he is fond of his wife."
"Monsieur le Ministre—you of the school of Montesquieu—have you ever been able to picture to yourself an honest woman—one who would refuse the—post?"