"Then why not leave off your fighting dress?" said M. de Berniers. "You look as if you knew nothing of the age we are living in." "My friend, we live in an age when nobody occupies himself with anything but the pleasures of life. One of the pleasures of my life is to wear a soldier's dress; and you very well know the reason why." "Don't snarl, M. de Montalvan. Yes, I remember the reason now. Never mind. Some wine; and tell me about the great Duke. Is he really as gallant in the field as in the boudoir?" "Hum. The great Duc de Richelieu looked on with remarkable bravery while we took St. Philippe. Yes, now that the _salons_ refuse him for a hero, I suppose we must make a place for him in the camp." "Ah! I have heard why you begrudge the Maréchal his fame. But it matters very little; even Madame de Pompadour has given him her acclamations at last." "She knows when to hide her hatreds and how to cherish them. But that's a dull subject, M. de Berniers; give me news of home. The Queen?" "More virtuous than ever." "And the King?" "Less." "Impossible!" "Quite true." "Some more wine, then. And the Pompadour?" "Cold, but still powerful." "I have heard," said M. de Montalvan, lowering his voice, "strange tales about the Parliament,--that it holds secret meetings, and that the court should keep itself prepared for some unexpected action." "Bah!" said M. de Berniers, with a laugh, or rather a gentle inarticulate murmur of mockery; "put aside those notions, my dear M. de Montalvan. There is no power on earth can move the court of France." "Good! And the theatres?" "Intolerable. La Clairon has done something in a play by M. de Voltaire,-a play stolen from a Chinese tragedy, 'The Orphan of Tchao.' He calls it 'The Orphan of China.' It is dreary stuff. I wonder if our well-beloved king could not be induced to keep M. de Voltaire's plays in exile, as well as M. de Voltaire himself." "Precisely," said M. de Montalvan. "Some more wine." "And yet," said M. de Berniers, whose usually pale face was flushed by the repeated draughts of Burgundy with which he had found it necessary to stimulate himself to the effort of conversation, "and yet Mlle. de Terville, they say, will hear of nothing but M. de Voltaire. We shall quarrel finely about that, for one thing,"--and his eyes gleamed with what would have been amusement if they had been capable of so definite an expression. "Mlle. de Terville!" said M. de Montalvan in some surprise, which, however, the other did not observe; "do you know her?" "Perfectly." "Is it possible?" "All about her." "Tell me, how does she look?" "Ah, now you ask too much. I have never seen her." "But you say--" "That I know all about her. Yes, I am to wed her in six weeks." "The Devil and St. Philippe!"