She gave him a grave but ardent look.
“Such as—revolutions?” she breathed.
“Maybe, Madame; the most securely placed will sometimes think of revolutions.”
Madame Lavalette was silent. De Pomponne had not prepared her for a youth so haughtily self-possessed, so (seemingly) impervious to flattery and enticements.
She knew of his upbringing in austere surroundings, she knew something of the Dutch stateliness of manner; but this perfect composure and gravity on the part of a Prince of seventeen were, nevertheless, a surprise.
Madame Lavalette was familiar with most of the Courts of Europe, and had considered herself equally familiar with most types of men—even men like John de Witt; such were rare, but she had met them.
But in William of Orange she found what she could not place or label. She went cautiously, a little bewildered, a little piqued, and more impressed by this boy’s personality than she would have cared to admit.
The musicians played the prelude; the couples took their places.
Madame Lavalette glanced again at the Marquis, who danced with Lady Temple, and he raised his brows and slightly shrugged his shoulders as if he commiserated her on an impossible task.