"And that object?" she inquired, with a practised glance.
"Angel of my life—need you ask?"
It was indeed unnecessary, since a very short acquaintance with this fervid lover was sufficient to assure any one that his devotion to himself was indeed his ruling and unalterable passion; perhaps the Marquise was aware of this, and was content to take the second, but not the third place, in his affections. She looked at him coquettishly.
"Ah," she said, "you mean it now, now perhaps, Monsieur, but when she comes, when you are married?"
"Eh, ma foi," and the Vicomte waved away his prospective marriage vows as lightly as if they were thistle-down, "one does not marry for love; the heart must be free, not bound,—and where will the free heart turn except to the magnet that has drawn it for so long?"
Madame extended a white, languid hand, and Monsieur kissed it with more elegance than fervour. As he was raising his head she whispered sharply:
"The new cipher, have you got it?"
He bent lower, and kissed the fair hand again, lingeringly.
"It is here, and I have drafted the letter we spoke of; it must go this week."
"The Queen is well?"