“Well, I will not ask you to,” said Isabella. “Does my cheek satisfy you now? But it does not blush for what you think; only to be made the target to gossips and impertinents.” “O, mademoiselle! O, your Highness! Let me go and weep my heart out in solitude. I have offended you, and without the least little thought of offence. O, let me go, mademoiselle!” “Don’t be silly, Fanchette. I am not blaming you for the idle chatter you repeat. People may think what they like about rouge, without its affecting my fortunes, that is all. Sensitive! There is nobody in the world so absurdly sensitive as yourself, I believe. Come----” She rose to her feet, with a coaxing smile. The maid held in her hand a little ornament of paste and silver with which she had been about to fasten the flowers into place; Isabella took the trinket from her, and, putting an arm round the over-slim waist, tried the effect of the thing against Fanchette’s own powdered locks. “It is like sparkles of ice through mist,” she said. “It suits you ever so much better than it does me. Will you accept it for your own, Fanchette, and bring me something else?” Fanchette sobbed, wiping an eye which yet had a covetous side-glance for the toy. “I’m sure I meant no presumption,” she gurgled; “or to abuse the confidence your Highness reposes in me. I only thought your Highness would approve sincerity better than an affectation of ignorance, which your Highness must know could not be real.” Isabella sighed. “There, girl,” she said--“there. To be sure I like sincerity.” “Where what is to be is an open secret,” continued Fanchette--“and somebody’s tastes so coincide with your Highness’s; I--I thought your Highness would be gratified to know.” Isabella laughed, and then sighed again, as she released her hold, with a little conciliatory pat, and reseated herself--a movement which gave Fanchette an opportunity furtively to examine her prize. “I daresay I am,” said the Infanta. “It is gratifying, at least----” she stopped. “It is gratifying, at least,” said the maid, who had resumed her duties, “to learn, as your Highness was about to remark, that philosophy can so concern itself with natural beauties. But indeed there are other proofs that a fine complexion is not the only thing honoured in Vienna.” “I suppose I ought not to ask you what you mean, Fanchette.” “Mademoiselle has not heard of the Chevalier Tiretta?” “No.” “Such a voice, your Highness, and such a man! He is a gift from the archduke to his Excellency, and has been ravishing the Courts of Parma with his music these days past. They say----” “Well?” “I hardly like to repeat.” “Do not, then.” “That somebody in love has made this nightingale his avant-coureur to overture his passion.” “Do they say, girl? I think, indeed, your idle fancy is the only gossip.” Fanchette’s head was seen in the mirror to nod itself, and her strait lips to smile.