“Dear Prince!” exclaimed the Duchess. “If only he would come to Court I believe I could make Pontchartrain jealous and still have my lace washed by Françoise.”
“I should kiss him, yes I should kiss him, the royal hero. You agree, Des Forges?” cried the Comtesse. “The English—pah! I would do anything to spite the English for their treachery to their lawful Prince.”
“But your kisses, ma mie,” replied her husband, “w-would only keep the P-prince from g-going again to seek his c-crown.”
“Pray what does the Comte des Forges know of madame’s kisses?” asked the Duchess innocently, and they all laughed, no one more heartily than the Comtesse herself.
“And this is serious,” said St. Benôit, “even more serious than the kisses of Madame la Comtesse.”
“And the King is really angry,” the Comtesse said. “M. d’Argenson came away from his audience this morning looking as if he had stolen the despatches himself.”
“And His Majesty remained on his knees at mass ten minutes after every one else had risen,” said the Abbé; “he always does when he is thoroughly angry.”
“I told you it would play the devil with the peace negotiations,” Mont Rouge commented.
“It is curious,” mused St. Benôit, “very curious that this infernal treason should begin again just when the Chevalier de St. Amant has returned to his duties.”
“The Chevalier?” they all questioned eagerly.