"Ah, Sire, that wasn't very kind of you." "Hush!" replied the King, in a good-humored tone. "It's only mid-day; and if the Marshal had forced his way in here at so early an hour, he would have bragged of it every where, this very evening. He is very apt to compromise one, and he is a great coxcomb too, the old Duke. But don't put yourself out of the way, Marchioness. Let Aspasia finish this becoming pile of your head-dress, and Florine spread out with her silver knife the scented powder that blends so well with the lilies and the roses of your bewitching face.... Why, Marchioness, you are so pretty, one could eat you up!" "You think me so, Sire?" "I tell you so every day. Oh, what fine oranges!" And the King seated himself upon the roomy sofa, by the side of the Marchioness, whose rosy finger-tips he kissed with an infinity of grace. Then taking up one of the oranges that he had admired, he proceeded leisurely to examine it. "But," said he at length, "what are oranges doing by the side of your Chinese powder-box and your scent bottles? Is there any connection between this fruit and the maintenance--easy as it is, Marchioness--of your charms?" "These oranges," replied the lady, gravely, "fulfilled just now, Sire, the functions of destiny." The King opened wide his eyes, and stroked the long ears of his dog, by way of giving the Marchioness time to explain her meaning. "It was the Countess who gave them to me," she continued. "Madame Dubarry?" "Exactly so, Sire." "A trumpery gift, it seems to me, Marchioness." "I hold it, on the contrary, to be an important one; since I repeat to your Majesty, that these oranges decide my fate." "I give it up," said the King. "Imagine, Sire; yesterday I found the Countess occupied in tossing her oranges up and down, in this way." And the Marchioness recommenced her game with a skill that cannot be described. "I see," said the King; "she accompanied this singular amusement with the words, 'Up, Choiseul! up, Praslin!' and, on my word, I can fancy how the pair jumped." "Precisely so, Sire." "And do you dabble in politics, Marchioness? Have you a fancy for uniting with the Countess, just to mortify my poor ministers?" "By no means, Sire; for, in place of Monsieur de Choiseul and the Duc de Praslin, I was saying to myself, just now, 'Up, Menneval! up, Beaugency!'" "Ay, ay," returned the King; "and why the deuce would you have them jumping, those two good-looking gentlemen--Monsieur de Menneval, who is a Croesus, and Monsieur de Beaugency, who is a statesman, and dances the minuet to perfection?" "I'll tell you," said the dame. "You know, Sire, that Monsieur de Menneval is an accomplished gentleman, a handsome man, a gallant cavalier, an indefatigable dancer, witty as Monsieur Arouet, and longing for nothing so much as to live in the country, on his estate in Touraine, on the banks of the Loire, with the woman whom he loves or will love, far from the court, from grandeur, and from turmoil."