These were in full swing at a game called, in England, Flirtation. It is an elastic process, embracing an extensive area in the field of gallantry, and so far resembling the tournaments of the Middle Ages, that while its encounters are presumed to be waged with weapons of courtesy, blunted for bloodless use, such fictitious conflicts very frequently bring on the real combat _à l’outrance_ with sharp weapons, and then, as in other death-struggles, _væ victis_! If girth breaks, or foot slips, the fallen fighter must expect no mercy. Pitted against Point d’Appui, Madame de Sabran might be likened to an accomplished swordsman practising cut and thrust on a wooden trunk. But the block was good-natured and good-looking. When such is the case, I have observed that a witty woman takes no small delight in the exercise of her talent. There is a generosity about the sex not sufficiently appreciated, and if a man will only keep quiet, silent, receptive, and immoveable, it will pour its treasures at his feet in a stream of lavish and inexhaustible profusion. Point d’Appui contented himself with looking very handsome and drinking a great deal of Burgundy. His neighbour hacked and hewed him without intermission, and Madame de Parabére’s attention seemed entirely engrossed by the pair. Malletort, in possession of the Regent’s ear, proceeded diligently with the edifice for which he had so artfully laid the foundations. “I must ask permission to take my leave early to-night, Highness,” observed the churchman. “Like our friend the Musketeer, who has served his purpose, by the way, as I learn, so may I be rubbed out of the calculation; and I must drink no more of this excellent Burgundy, for I have promised to present myself in a lady’s drawing-room, late as it is, before I go to bed.” Though somewhat confused by wine, the Regent understood his confidant’s meaning perfectly well, and his eye kindled as he gathered its purport. “I will accompany you, little Abbé,” he whispered with a hiccough, and a furtive glance at the ladies, lest they should overhear. “Too late, my Prince,” answered the other, “and useless besides, even for you, since I have not yet obtained permission. Oh! trust me. The fortress is well guarded, and has scarce ever been summoned; much less has it offered a parley.” The Duke looked disappointed, but emptied another bumper. He was rapidly arriving at the state Malletort desired, when a well-turned compliment would have induced him to sign away the crown of France. “To-morrow then,” he grunted, with his hands on the Abbé’s shoulder. “The great Henry used to say—what used he to say? Something about waiting; you remember, Abbé. _Basta!_ Reach me the Burgundy.”