"Yes; and I fancy that melancholy air assists him very much in vanquishing the gentle sex. I once had a little vein of that myself."
"So you had," murmured the duchess, with a tender smile of memory, and a little sigh. "But is it not a madness of poor Le Prun to present that terrible man to his handsome young wife?"
"He is to marry the niece—the affair is concluded. Poor little thing! she looks so frightened; see—a little fluttered pigeon of Venus—it becomes her very much."
Meanwhile Le Prun and the marquis were approaching Lucille and Julie, who were seated together close to a window which opened to the floor, and admitted the soft summer air, charged with such sounds and perfumes as might have hovered among the evergreen groves of Calypso's island.
"He is coming," said Julie, "he is coming with my uncle."
"Who?" asked Lucille, looking coldly on the advancing figures.
"My—my fiancé, the Marquis de Secqville," whispered Julie, in trembling haste, blushing, and dropping her eyes.
"Oh, then, I must observe him carefully," said Lucille, with an arch smile.
"Do, and tell me honestly what you think of him."
"Ha! little rogue, I see you are not quite so indifferent as you pretend."