“Hush, mademoiselle,” answered the boy, gravely, as though his own dignity had received a hurt, “you must not speak like that. It is very rude. It is very wrong. If a man were to say such things it should cost him his life.” Cerise opened her blue eyes wider than ever. “Wrong!” she repeated, “rude! what have I done? who is it, then?” “It is the King!” answered the boy, proudly. “It is _Louis le Grand_!” CHAPTER II THE MONTMIRAILS Ladies first. Let us identify the pretty little girl in the gardens of Versailles, who answered to the name of Cerise, before we account for the presence of George Hamilton the page. It is a thing well understood—it is an arrangement universally conceded in France—that marriages should be contracted on principles of practical utility, rather than on the vague assumption of a romantic and unsuitable preference. It was therefore with tranquil acquiescence, and feelings perfectly under control, that Thérèse de la Fierté, daughter of a line of dukes, found herself taken out of a convent and wedded to a chivalrous veteran, who could scarcely stand long enough at the altar, upon his well-shaped but infirm old legs, to make the necessary responses for the conversion of the beautiful _brunette_ over against him into Madame la Marquise de Montmirail. The bridegroom was indeed infinitely more agitated than the bride. He had conducted several campaigns; he was a Marshal of France; he had even been married before, to a remarkably plain person, who adored him; he had undergone the necessary course of gallantry inflicted on men of his station at the Court and in the society to which he belonged; nevertheless, as he said to himself, he felt like a recruit in his first “affair” when he encountered the plunging fire of those black eyes, raking him front, and flanks, and centre, from under the bridal wreath and its drooping white lace veil. Thérèse had indeed, in right of her mother, large black eyes as well as large West Indian possessions; and her light-haired rivals were good enough to attribute the rich radiance of her beauty to a stain of negro blood somewhere far back in that mother’s race. Nevertheless, the old Marquis de Montmirail was really over head and ears in love with his brilliant bride. That he should have indulged her in every whim and every folly was but reasonably to be expected, but that _she_ should always have shown for _him_ the warm affection of a wife, tempered by the deference and respect of a daughter, is only another instance, added to the long score on record of woman’s sympathy and right feeling when treated with gentleness and consideration.