“And very gallantly, as a true chevalier, you returned it to me. I did not thank you, but I was sure, all the same, that he who knows how to pick up a fan with such grace would also know, at the right time, how to pick up the glove. And we are not ill-pleased at that, we women.”
“And it is but too true, madame; for, on reaching here just now, I almost had a duel with the gatekeeper.”
“Mercy on us!” said the marquise, once more seized with a fit of gaiety. “With the gatekeeper! And what about?”
“He would not let me come in.”
“That would have been a pity! But who are you, monsieur? And what is your request?”
“Madame, I am called the Chevalier de Vauvert. M. de Biron had asked in my behalf for a cornetcy in the Guards.”
“Oh! I remember now. You come from Neauflette; you are in love with Mademoiselle d’Annebault—”
“Madame, who could have told you?”
“Oh! I warn you that I am much to be feared. When memory fails me, I guess. You are a relative of the Abbé de Chauvelin, and were refused on that account; is not that so? Where is your petition?”
“Here it is, madame; but indeed I can not understand—”