The room was empty when I entered, and after looking around me I picked up the volume of Ronsard. It was open at his ode to La Valentinois:
"Seray-je seul, vivant en France de vostre age,
Sans chanter vostre nom, si criant et si puissant?
Diray-je point l'honneur de vostre beau croissant?
Feray-je point pour vous quelque immortel ouvrage?"
So far I read, and then flung the book with its fulsome verses down on the cushions. As I did this, I heard a little burst of laughter, followed by the harsh, chuckling scream of a parrot, and then a voice:
"Here! Vert-Vert! Here! To my shoulder!"
I stepped back behind a pillar, the curtains covering a door leading into an inner apartment were set aside, and La Valentinois entered, bearing on her left shoulder a large green parrot, whose plumage she caressed with her right hand. She was clad in a loose robe of some soft, clinging material that shimmered like cloth of gold. It was fastened at her throat by a jewelled star, and a golden zone clasped her waist. Her abundant hair hung loose in black, curling masses, and her little feet were thrust into gemmed and embroidered slippers. Madame had apparently come forth in some haste I could see.
"Orrain," she said, her face half turned from me, for she was looking at her bird, "whatever brings you here? Is it anything from Sire Grosse-Tête?" And then an exclamation broke from her, and she stopped short, for she saw me.
"You!" she said. "I thought it was the Vidame d'Orrain."
"A mistake, madame, in announcing me, perhaps, which I regard as the most fortunate in my life." And I bowed before her.
So bad, so worthless was this woman, that she utterly mistook my speech.
"True! Leila said Monsieur d'Orrain—but I thought it was your brother."