And now I have only made an inventory of her dress after all. How can I hope to convey an idea of her face? How is it possible to describe that which constitutes a woman’s loveliness? that subtle influence which, though it generally accompanies harmony of colouring and symmetry of feature, is by no means the result of these advantages; nay, often exists without them, and seems in all cases independent of their aid. I will only say of her charms, that Madame de Montmirail was already past thirty, and nine men out of every ten in the circle of her acquaintance were more or less in love with her. She had a beautiful foot, besides. It was peeping out now from beneath her dress. The Abbé’s eyes unconsciously fixed themselves on the small white satin shoe, as he proceeded with his confidences. “It is good to be prepared, my cousin,” said he, in a low, hurried voice, very different from his usual easy, careless tone. “Everything will now be changed, if, as I expect, the indisposition of to-night is but the beginning of the end. You know my situation; you know my hopes; you know the difficulties I have had to contend with. The king’s suspicions, the courtiers’ jealousy, the imprudence of my patron himself; and you know, too, that through good and evil I have always stood firm by the Duke of Orleans. It is evident that in a few days he will be the most powerful man in France.” “Afterwards?” asked the Marquise, apparently unmoved by the contingency. “Afterwards!” repeated Malletort, almost with indignation. “Do you not see the career that opens itself before us all? Who is best acquainted with the Duke’s early history?—Abbé Malletort. Who is the Duke bound to serve before the whole world? Not from gratitude—bah! that is a thing of course—but from motives of the clearest self-interest?—Abbé Malletort. In brief, in whom does he confide?—In Abbé Malletort. And to whom does the Abbé lay bare his hopes, his aspirations, his ambition?—To whom but to his sweet cousin, Madame de Montmirail?” “And what would you have me do?” asked the Marquise, yawning, while she carelessly fastened the bracelet on her arm. “I would have you guard your lips with a clasp of iron,” answered the Abbé. “I would have you keep watch to-night and to-morrow, and every day till the end comes—on your words, your looks, your gestures—the very trimmings and colour of the dresses you wear. Be polite to all; but familiar, cordial, even communicative with none. In brief, have no friends, no enemies, no dislikes, no predilections, till the old state of affairs is ended and the new begun.” “I think you can trust me,” answered the Marquise. “My feelings are little likely to betray me into indiscretion; and though I have plenty of lovers at Court, I do not imagine I have many friends.” She spoke wearily, and finished with something like a sigh.