“Make your homage to the Queen of France, Monsieur,” exclaimed the elderly woman who had spoken to me first, evidently one of the great ladies of the Court.
“Your Majesty,” I replied, finding my wits at last, “I knelt as every gentleman should, to the queen of his heart, and when she stepped aside and revealed to me the queen of all hearts, I was unable to rise.”
“Perhaps, Monsieur, you have sufficiently recovered now to approach more nearly the throne,” she said, pleased at my compliment.
She extended her hand to me. I got to my feet, knelt again before her and kissed it. Queens are always beautiful, but I swear I would rather have kissed Mademoiselle’s hand at any hour. However, I reflected that the honor of America was in a measure committed to me, and I think I bore myself worthily.
“Rise, Monsieur,” said the Queen graciously; “the Comtesse de Villars”—I suppose it is bad manners to look at one woman when another woman is speaking to you, especially if that woman be of royal blood, but I could not help turning my head at her words.
There stood Mademoiselle more beautiful than ever. Indeed, I have observed that she always looks better the more beautiful her background, and Marie Antoinette might be Queen of France, but she was only a background to Mademoiselle that morning.
“Mademoiselle de Villars tells me that you have rendered me a great service.”
“If to love Mademoiselle de Villars,” I began, “with all my heart and soul, be to render Your Majesty a service——”
“Nay, nay, not that way. I fear you would fain rob me of my fairest maid of honor.”
“It ill becomes a gentleman to contradict a lady,” I replied quickly.