“It is true that you are obstinate. Good-night, lieutenant.”
“What do you say, madame?”
“There is your commission and your marriage contract.” And she threw the fan to him.
It was the one which the chevalier had already twice picked up. The little cupids of Boucher sported on the parchment of the gilded mother-of-pearl masterpiece. There was no longer any doubt; it was the fan of Madame de Pompadour.
“Heavens! Marquise, is it possible?”
“Very possible,” said she, raising the little piece of black veil on her chin.
“I know, madame, how to answer—”
“It is not necessary. You are a loyal gentleman, and we shall see each other again, for we are to be in the same house. The King has placed you in the ‘cornette blanche.’ Remember that for a petitioner there is no greater eloquence than to know how to be silent if need be—”
“And forgive us,” added she, laughing as she ran away, “if before bestowing upon you our niece’s hand, we thought it expedient to find out your true worth.”[9]
FOOTNOTES: