But after this "aside," the Marchioness resumed her gracious and coquettish air; as though the woman comprehended the mission of refined gallantry which was reserved for her seductive and delicate epoch by an indulgent Providence, that laid by its anger and its evil days for the subsequent reign.
"Marchioness," said Monsieur de Beaugency, as he held in his hands the rosy fingers of the lovely widow, "it is fully a week since you received me!"
"A week? why, you were here yesterday!"
"Then I must have counted the hours for ages."
"A compliment which may be found in one of the younger Crebillon's books!"
"You are hard upon me, Marchioness."
"Perhaps so, ... it comes naturally ... I am tired."
"Ah, Marchioness! Heaven knows that I would make of your existence one never-ending fête!"
"That would, at least, be wearisome."
"Say a word, Madam, one single word, and my fortune, my future prospects, my ambition!"—