Malletort did not think so, and his hopes, just now so buoyant, lost nothing by a suggestion which only betrayed his patron’s ignorance of the female mind. “Ah, Highness,” he exclaimed, throwing a gleam of sympathy into his eyes, which contrasted much with their usual expression, “how completely is your condescension misjudged! how utterly your kind heart thrown away! You say truly, women are so different. These think of their own aggrandisement even while they bask in your affection. Others here at Court would throw themselves body and soul at your feet were you to-morrow changed into a simple page from Duke of Orleans and Master of France!” “How?” exclaimed the Regent, unable to conceal that his vanity was gratified. “Do you speak from your own knowledge? Are you laughing at me? How can you possibly have found this out?” “It is indeed a matter quite beyond my province,” answered the Abbé; “but circumstances have thrown me so frequently into the society of one of the ladies in question, that I must indeed have been blind not to perceive the truth. Excuse me, Highness, I had rather not pursue the subject any farther.” But the Regent was not so to be put off. With all his shrewdness, he had considerable personal vanity, and but for his debaucheries, might perhaps have shown some sensibility of heart. In his mind he ran over the leading beauties of the Court, and as he had been little scrupulous in paying them attention, one and all, the riddle was perhaps the less difficult to solve. His eye sparkled, and he clapped his hands like a schoolboy, while he shouted out— “I have it! I have it! Little Abbé, you have let the cat out of the bag. Now I know why the proudest names in France have been offered her in vain. Now I understand her defiance, her coldness, her unapproachable dignity. Do you know, my friend, what you tell me is a veritable romance, and, in return, I assure you I have never been insensible to the charms of Madame de Montmirail!” “You are speaking of my kinswoman, Monsieur le Duc,” replied the Abbé, haughtily; “and a member of the proudest house in the kingdom. Your Highness will be good enough to reflect that I mentioned no names, and I have been too faithful a servant, I think, to deserve a gratuitous insult.” “Pardon, my dear Abbé!” exclaimed the Regent, with an affectation of deep concern, though accepting Malletort’s protest, no doubt, at its real value. “None can respect the house of Montmirail more than I do. None can value the friendship of Abbé Malletort so much; but these women and their whims turn my poor head. What did you advise about the Parabére? I forget.” “Dismiss her!” answered the churchman, shortly. “It will be one embarrassment the less in your Highness’s career.”