“Absolutely irresistible,” Ormond repeated, smiling; “not absolutely, I hope.”
“Oh! that is understood—you do not doubt la sagesse de Madame?—Besides, heureusement, there is an infinite safety for her in the number, as you see, of her adorers. Wait till I name them to you—I shall give you a catalogue raisonnée.”
With rapid enunciation Mademoiselle went through the names and rank of the circle of adorers, noting with complacency the number of ladies to whom each man of gallantry was supposed to have paid his addresses—next to being of the blood royal, this appearing to be of the highest distinction.
“And à propos, Monsieur d’Ormond, you, yourself, when do you count to go to Versailles?—Ah!—when you shall see the king and the king’s supper, and Madame la Dauphine! Ah!”
Mademoiselle was recalled from the ecstasy in which she had thrown up her eyes to Heaven, by some gentleman speaking to her as he passed the open door of the boudoir arm in arm with a lady—Mademoiselle answered, with a profound inclination of the head, whispering to Ormond after they had passed, “M. le Due de C—— with Madame de la Tour. Why he is constant always to that woman, Heaven knows better than me! Stand, if you are so good, Monsieur, a little more this way, and give your attention—they don’t want you yet at play.”
Then designating every person at the different card-tables, she said, “That lady is the wife of M.——, and there is M. le Baron de L—— her lover, the gentleman who looks over her cards—and that other lady with the joli pompon, she is intimate with M. de la Tour, the husband of the lady who passed with M. le Duc.” Mademoiselle explained all these arrangements with the most perfect sang froid, as things of course, that every body knew and spoke of, except just before the husbands; but there was no mystery, no concealment: “What use?—To what good?”
Ormond asked whether there were any ladies in the room who were supposed to be faithful to their husbands.
“Eh!—Ma nièce, par exemple, Madame de Connal, I may cite as a woman of la plus belle réputation, sans tâche—what you call unblemish.”
“Assuredly,” said Ormond, “you could not, I hope, think me so indiscreet—I believe I said ladies in the plural number.”
“Ah! oui, assuredly, and I can name you twenty. To begin, there, do you see that woman standing up, who has the air as if she think of nothing at all, and nobody thinking of her, with only her husband near her, cet grand homme blême?—There is Madame de la Rousse—d’une réputation intacte!—frightfully dressed, as she is always. But, hold, you see that pretty little Comtesse de la Brie, all in white?—Charmante! I give her to you as a reputation against which slander cannot breathe—Nouvelle mariée—bride—in what you call de honey-moon; but we don’t know that in French—no matter! Again, since you are curious in these things, there is another reputation without spot, Madame de St. Ange, I warrant her to you—bien froide, celle-là, cold as any English—married a full year, and still her choice to make; allons,—there is three I give you already, without counting my niece; and, wait, I will find you yet another,” said Mademoiselle, looking carefully through the crowd.