The Grey Cloak - Page 23/256

"Mademoiselle, each has its time and place, the battle and the

madrigal, Homer and Voiture, and besides, I never play when I fight;"

and De Gramont continued his thrumming.

Just outside the pale of this merry circle the Duc de Beaufort leaned

over the chair of Madame de Montbazon, and carried on a conversation in

low tones. The duchess exhibited at intervals a fine set of teeth. In

the old days when the literary salons of the Hôtel de Rambouillet were

at zenith, the Duchesse de Montbazon was known to be at once the

handsomest and most ignorant woman in France. But none denied that she

possessed a natural wit or the ability successfully to intrigue; and

many were the grand sieurs who had knelt at her feet. But now, like

Anne of Austria, she was devoting her time to prayers and to the

preservation of what beauty remained.

"So De Brissac is dead?" said Beaufort seriously. "Ah well, we all

must die. I hope he has straightened up his affairs and that his

papers fall into worthy hands." The prince glanced covertly toward

Mazarin. "But it was all his own fault. The idea of a man of sixty

marrying a girl of seventeen, fresh from convent, and a beauty, too,

they say. He deserved it."

"Beaufort, few persons deserve violent deaths," replied the duchess;

and with a perceptible frown she added: "And are you aware that Madame

de Brissac, of whom you speak so lightly, is my own daughter?"

Beaufort started back from the chair. "Word of honor, I had forgotten!

But it was so long ago, and no one seems to have heard of her. Your

daughter! Why was she never presented at court?"

"She was presented three years ago, informally. I wished it so.

Monsieur, we women love to hold a surprise in reserve. When we are no

longer attractive, a daughter more or less does not matter."

"Truly I had forgotten. Eh well, we can not remember everything,

especially when one spends five years in Vincennes," with another

furtive glance at Mazarin. "But why De Brissac? If this daughter has

half the beauty you had in your youth . . ."

Madame frowned.

"Half the beauty you still possess . . ."

Madame laughed. "Take care, or it will be said that Beaufort is become

a wit."

Beaufort went on serenely--"there had been many a princeling."

Madame contemplated the rosy horn on the tips of her fingers.

"Monsieur le Comte was rich."

"Admitted."

"His title was old."

"Again admitted. And all very well had he been only half as old as his

title, this son-in-law of yours. Your son-in-law! It reads like one

of Marguerite's tender tales. The daughter is three times younger than

the husband who is old enough to be the father of his wife's mother. I

must tell Scarron; he will make me laugh in retelling it."