“Than what, ma mignonne?” blandly inquired his Grace, who had stolen in upon the group. “I would have you know, ladies, that in a white peignoir, with her hair about her bare shoulders, the Marquise de Pompadour is the prettiest woman save one at Versailles, or Paris for that matter.”
“Every one,” laughed the Abbé, “knows that Monsieur le Duc is a connoisseur of painting.”
“And the name of the other divine grisette?” asked the Comtesse roguishly, for the Duke was studying her as he studied the coryphées of the opera or his race-horses.
The Duke kissed the plump fingers of his wife with the most charming grace imaginable. “The mirror will answer Madame la Duchesse,” quoth he.
“But my peignoir is blue,” she protested, “and even Françoise could tell you my shoulders on such occasions never are bare.”
“The more’s the pity.” St. Benôit bowed to the diamonds on her breast.
“Amen!” droned the Abbé in the officiating priest’s sing-song, and the Duchess dimpled with delight.
“The Abbé has not told you,” said the Duke, “how he sat on the f-fishy grisette’s bed. He is a bold man our spiritual friend. Listen. There were we all at madame’s toilet this morning—charming shoulders she has I repeat—and kept standing on our feet were we, for she is royal now is the Marquise, and no one may have a chair.”
“The insolence of the jade,” cried the Comtesse. “That Versailles should endure it!”
“And presently strides in the King. No chair for him either. Parbleu! My legs were breaking and so apparently were the Abbé’s. Presently I heard a crack, and there had our witty friend plumped himself down right on Madame’s bed. ‘With your permission, sire,’ he said with a comic cock of his eye, ‘but I am dead tired.’ And the King, who had come in as sulky as a bear, burst into laughter. ‘Look, Madame,’ he said, ‘look at this poor devil of an Abbé!’”