“May I lead you out for the next measure, Madame?”
“I shall be honoured, Monsieur.”
Her eyes added more. There was something in the very carriage of her body, as she bent towards him, her head slightly drooping, that was subtly flattering—the more so that it came from a beautiful woman to a youth. She was more deferential and charming than she had meant to be, for his grave coldness forced her to use her weapons.
“Seventeen!” she said to herself. “Mon Dieu, seventeen!”
The next dance was a minuet.
“The music by Lulli,” she informed the Prince, “and called ‘Le Temple de la Paix’—take me to represent France, Monseigneur, and the title as an omen——”
“Of peace, Madame?”
“Do you not care to think of peace, Monsieur?”
“I am, Madame, in no position to think of war.”
As they passed into the ballroom she shot a look at M. de Pomponne. The Prince was at least dancing with her, her eyes bid the Marquis take note of it.