Monsieur Voltaire finished his reading, and the ladies, to show their appreciation, rose and bowed again to him. I think he was amused by their silence, and it became a kind of duel between him and them to find out who they were, and it was not without interest to Gaston Cheverny. Jacques Haret, I was convinced, already knew them. By way of making them betray themselves, Monsieur Voltaire asked, with a mischievous gleam in his lustrous eyes:
“What ladies of the great world, think you, gentlemen, are remarkable for esprit?”
At that Madame Villars ran forward and tapped him smartly with her fan by way of rebuke.
Gaston Cheverny mentioned several, as did Monsieur Voltaire. Both of them included both Madame Villars and her mother-in-law, Madame la Maréchale Villars, and Monsieur Voltaire made the handsomest possible 443 allusion to Madame Gaston Cheverny’s wit and charm, which Gaston suitably acknowledged. Jacques Haret declared that it had been so long since he had talked with a woman of quality he had almost forgotten there were such creatures in the world.
“But,” he added, laughing, “I shall renew my acquaintance with fine ladies and gentlemen when I go to Capello this summer to visit Monsieur and Madame Cheverny.”
I could scarcely believe my ears, and I feared to look toward Francezka.
“You are not the only one who will enjoy that privilege,” cried Monsieur Voltaire, “for Madame Cheverny has invited me, and Monsieur Cheverny has approved of me.”
Francezka rose and made a signal to Madame Villars that it was time to depart. All rose. Francezka, advancing to the table, took up the pen and in her clear, bold handwriting, wrote on a slip of paper:
Jacques Haret: Do not you dare to come to Capello.
Francezka Cheverny de Capello del Medina y Kirkpatrick.
She slipped her hands into the sleeves of her domino and stood erect before Jacques Haret, her eyes blazing at him through the eyeholes in her mask. I was reminded of that Captain Agoust who, by the intensity of his gaze, goaded the Prince de Conti into a duel. Francezka’s look at Jacques Haret was equivalent to running a sword through him. Nothing, however, could change 444 Jacques Haret’s native and incurable levity. He rose, and grinning, made Francezka a low bow.