“You’ll agree that he is something of a poet nevertheless?” smiled Hugh.
“Poet be damned!” said Rupert. “He’s walking about with a rose in his hand! A rose, Tony!” He snorted indignantly, and saw to his horror that a portly gentleman was preparing to read an essay on Love. “God save us all, who’s this old Turnip-Top?” he demanded irreverently.
“Hush, child!” whispered Lavoulère, who was standing near by. “It is the great M. de Foquemalle!”
M. de Foquemalle began to roll forth impressive periods. Rupert edged along the wall towards the smaller salon, with a look of comical dismay on his face. He came upon the Chevalier d’Anvau, who pretended to bar his passage.
“What, Rupert?” The Chevalier’s shoulders shook. “Whither away, mon vieux?”
“Here, let me pass!” whispered Rupert. “Damme if I can stand this! The last one kept snuffing at a rose, and this old ruffian’s got a nasty look in his eye which I don’t like. I’m off!” He winked broadly at Fanny, who was sitting with two or three ladies in the middle of the room, soulfully regarding M. de Foquemalle.
In the other salon Rupert found an animated party gathered about the fire. Condé was reading his stanza amid laughter, and mock applause. A lady beckoned to Rupert.
“Come, milor’, and join us! Oh, is it my turn to read?” She picked up her paper and read out her lines. “There! It goes not well when one has heard M. le Duc’s verse, I fear. Do you leave us, Duc?”
Avon kissed her hand.
“My inspiration fails, madame. I believe I must go speak with Madame du Deffand.”
Rupert found a seat beside a lively brunette.
“Take my advice, Justin, and keep away from the other room. There’s an ill-favoured old rascal reading an essay on Love, or some such nonsense.”
“De Foquemalle, I’ll lay a pony!” cried Condé, and went to peep through the doorway. “Shall you brave it, Duc?”
M. de Foquemalle came at last to his peroration; Madame du Deffand headed the compliments that showered upon him; de Marchérand started a discussion on M. de Foquemalle’s opinions. A lull fell presently, and lackeys came in with refreshments. Learned arguments gave way to idle chatter. Ladies, sipping negus and ratafie, talked of toilettes, and the new mode of dressing the hair; Rupert, near the door he guarded, produced a dice-box, and began surreptitiously to play with a few intimates. His Grace strolled over to where Merivale stood.
“More commands?” inquired my lord. “I see Fanny has Madame de Saint-Vire in close conversation.”
His Grace waved his fan languidly to and fro.
“But one more command,” he sighed. “Just keep our amiable friend away from his wife, my dear.” He passed on to speak to Madame de Vauvallon, and was presently lost in the crowd.
Lady Fanny was complimenting Madame de Saint-Vire on her gown.
“I declare, that shade of blue is positively ravishing!” she said. “I searched the town for just such a taffeta not so long ago. La, there is that lady in puce again! Pray who may she be?”
“It is—I believe it is Mademoiselle de Cloué,” Madame replied. The Vicomte de Valmé came up. “Henri, you have seen your father?”
“Yes, madame, he is with de Châtalet and another, over there.” He bowed to Fanny. “It is Milor’ Merivale, I think. Madame, may I be permitted to fetch you a glass of ratafie?”
“No, I thank you,” said my lady. “Madame, my husband!”
Madame gave her hand to Marling. Up came Madame du Deffand.
“Now, where is your brother, Lady Fanny? I have asked him to entertain us with some of his so amusing verses, and he says that he has another form of entertainment for us!” She rustled on, looking for Avon.
“Is Avon to read us his verses?” asked someone nearby. “He is always so witty! Do you remember the one he read at Madame de Marchérand’s rout last year?”
A gentleman turned his head.
“No, not verse this time, d’Orlay. I heard d’Aiguillon say that it was to be some kind of story.”
“Tiens! What will he be at next, I wonder?”
Young de Chantourelle came up with Mademoiselle de Beaucour on his arm.
“What’s this I hear of Avon? Is it a fairy tale he means to tell us?”
“An allegory, perhaps,” suggested d’Anvau. “Though they are not now in fashion.”
Madame de la Roque gave him her wineglass to take away. “It is so strange to tell us a story,” she remarked. “If it were not Avon one would go away, but since it is he one stays, full of curiosity. Here he comes!”
His Grace made his way across the room with Madame du Deffand. People began to seat themselves, and those gentlemen who could find no chairs ranged themselves along the wall, or stood in small groups by the doors. Out of the tail of her eye Lady Fanny saw Saint-Vire seated in a small alcove near the window, with Merivale perched on the edge of a table beside him. Madame de Saint-Vire made a movement as though to get to him. Lady Fanny took her arm affectionately.
“My dear, do sit with me! Now where shall we go?” Avon was at her side.
“You lack a chair, Fanny? Madame, your most devoted servant!” He raised his eyeglass, and beckoned to a lackey. “Two chairs for mesdames.”
“There is not the need,” said Madame hurriedly. “My husband will give me his—”
“Oh no, madame, you must not leave me thus alone!” said Fanny gaily. “Ah, here are chairs! I vow we have the best place in the room!” She whisked Madame into a spindle-legged chair that had been brought by the lackey, so that she sat by the fireplace, to one side, able to see the room, and to be seen by nearly everyone. On the same side, but withdrawn a little into the alcove, her husband sat, and could only see her profile. She turned to look at him imploringly; he sent her a warning glance, and set his teeth. Merivale swung one leg gently, and smiled across at Davenant,
