Fashion is a strange thing. Our grandmothers thought nothing of going to court in immense robes exposing almost the entire bosom, and it was by no means considered indecent; but they carefully hid the back of their necks, which the fine ladies of to-day expose so freely in the balcony of the opera. This is a newly invented beauty.
On the frail, white, dainty shoulder of Madame de Pompadour there was a little black mark that looked like a fly floating in milk. The chevalier, serious as a giddy boy who is trying to keep his countenance, looked at the mark, and the marquise, holding her pen in the air, looked at the chevalier in the mirror.
In that mirror a rapid glance was exchanged, which meant to say on the one side, “You are charming,” and on the other, “I am not sorry for it.”
However, the marquise readjusted her dressing-gown.
“You are looking at my beauty-spot?”
“I am not looking, madame; I see and I admire.”
“Here is my letter; take it to the King with your petition.”
“But, madame—”
“Well?”
“His Majesty is hunting; I have just heard the horn in the wood of Satory.”