"I conceal myself like the kings of Persia, from the eyes of my subjects," replied Louis XV. "Hush, Marchioness." A few moments later, and Monsieur de Beaugency entered the room. II. The Marquis was a charming cavalier; tall, slight, with a moustache black and curling upwards, an eye sparkling and intelligent, a Roman nose, an Austrian lip, a firm step, a noble and imposing presence. The Marchioness blushed slightly, at sight of him, but offered him her hand to kiss; and as she begged him by a gesture to be seated, thus inwardly took counsel with herself. "Decidedly, I believe that the test is useless; it is Monsieur de Beaugency whom I love. How proud shall I be to lean upon his arm at the court-fêtes! With what delight shall I keep long watches in the cabinet of his Excellency the Ambassador, whilst he is busy with his Majesty's affairs!" But after this "aside," the Marchioness resumed her gracious and coquettish air; as though the woman comprehended the mission of refined gallantry which was reserved for her seductive and delicate epoch by an indulgent Providence, that laid by its anger and its evil days for the subsequent reign. "Marchioness," said Monsieur de Beaugency, as he held in his hands the rosy fingers of the lovely widow, "it is fully a week since you received me!" "A week? why, you were here yesterday!" "Then I must have counted the hours for ages." "A compliment which may be found in one of the younger Crebillon's books!" "You are hard upon me, Marchioness." "Perhaps so, ... it comes naturally ... I am tired." "Ah, Marchioness! Heaven knows that I would make of your existence one never-ending fête!" "That would, at least, be wearisome." "Say a word, Madam, one single word, and my fortune, my future prospects, my ambition!"-- "You are still then as ambitious as ever?" "More than ever, since I have been in love with you." "Is that necessary?" "Beyond a doubt. Ambition--what is it but honours, wealth, the envious looks of impotent rivals, the admiration of the crowd, the favour of monarchs?... And is not one's love unanswerably and most triumphantly proved, in laying all this at the feet of the woman whom one adores?" "You may be right." "I may be right, Marchioness! Listen to me, my fair lady-love." "I am all attention, sir." "Between us, who are well-born, and consort not with plebeians, that vulgar and sentimental sort of love, which is painted by those who write books for your mantuamakers and chambermaids, would be in exceedingly bad taste. It would be but slighting love and making no account of its enjoyments, were we to go and bury it in some obscure corner of the Provinces, or of Paris--we, who belong to Versailles--living away there with it, in monotonous solitude and unchanging contemplation!" "Ah!" said the Marchioness, "you think so?"