"At once, Claude. My friend, your buoyancy is worth rubies. Even now I am mourning for you more than you for yourself. How are you able to move hand or foot?"
"Come, you are aping d'Epernon. You make a bad lover. No woman likes a man with a face so long. Ah! And that reminds me—but what shall you do when you are dressed?"
"Coffee—if 'tis to be had here—and eggs; the health of Mme. de Châteauroux; that of Mme. de Coigny; our sleigh; Versailles; you with me. Now, of what is it that you are reminded?"
"Good. Good. Hurry now, Chaumelle. I famish.... I was reminded that, last evening, as I left the last antechamber on the great hall, I beheld your charming Victorine, herself charming—and being charmed."
"Ah!—Mordi! It is that vile abbé—de Bernis, they call him—who was her companion in Paris."
"A handsome fellow," observed the Count, from a mirror where he was adjusting his wig.
The Marquis turned so sharply under Chaumelle's razor that he narrowly missed having his chin laid open. "You think so?" he cried out, anxiously.
Claude burst into a shout of laughter. "On my soul, Henri, you are a prig. Use a little indifference towards her. 'Tis only that can save you now. Why, positively, you are absurd. How is it that you arrange the 'gallant' now?"
"A trifle smaller than you have it there, and farther down towards the left ear. There. That is better."
"Thanks. Ah, Chaumelle, five livres to you if you have Monsieur le Marquis ready by half-past nine."