“I shall go to bed before he catches me, then,” she answered; “not that he is in the least out of favour; on the contrary, I love him dearly; but when he has been here five minutes I yawn, in ten I shut my eyes, and long before he gets to that bridge which Monsieur de Vendôme ought, or ought not, to have blown up—there—it’s no use! The thing is stronger than I am, and I go fast asleep.” “And so my little rake is disappointed,” said the elder lady, taking her child’s pretty head caressingly between her hands. “She would like to have a ball, or a reception, or something that would make an excuse for a sumptuous toilet, and she finds it very wearisome to sit at home, even for one night, and take care of her old mother!” “Very!” repeated the girl playfully, while her tone made so ungracious an avowal equivalent to the fondest expression of attachment. “My old mother is so cross and so tiresome and so very _very_ old. Now, listen, mamma. Shall I have a dress exactly like yours for the ball at the Tuileries? The young king is to dance. I know it, for my dear Prince-Marshal told me so while I was still awake. I have never seen a king, only a regent, and I _do_ think Monsieur d’Orleans so ugly. Don’t tell him, mamma, but our writing-master at the convent was the image of him, and had the same wrinkles in his forehead. He used to wipe our pens in his wig, and we called him ‘Pouf-Pouf!’ I was the worst writer amongst all the girls, and the best arithmetician. ‘Pouf-Pouf’ said I had a geometrical head! Well, mamma, you must order me a dress the exact pattern of yours; the same flounces, the same trimmings, the same ribbons, and I will present myself before the Prince-Marshal the instant he arrives in the ball-room, to receive his accustomed compliment. Perhaps on that occasion he will take me for _you_! Would it not be charming? My whole ambition just now is to be exactly like my mother in every respect!”