ible words.

"I am perfectly well aware," returned Monsieur, "that the subject is a
delicate one, but you know you can tell me everything. What do you think
of her?"

In order to avoid betraying his real thoughts, De Guiche had recourse
to the only defense which a man taken by surprise really has, and
accordingly told an untruth. "I do not find Madame," he said, "either
good or bad looking, yet rather good than bad looking."

"What! count," exclaimed the chevalier, "you who went into such
ecstasies and uttered so many exclamations at the sight of her
portrait."

De Guiche colored violently. Very fortunately, his horse, which
was slightly restive, enabled him by a sudden plunge to conceal his
agitation. "What portrait?" he murmured, joining them again. The
chevalier had not taken his eyes off him.

"Yes, the portrait. Was not the miniature a good likeness?"

"I do not remember. I had forgotten the portrait; it quite escaped my
recollection."

"And yet it made a very marked impression upon you," said the chevalier.

"That is not unlikely."

"Is she witty, at all events?" inquired the duke.

"I believe so, my lord."

"Is M. de Buckingham witty, too?" said the chevalier.

"I do not know."

"My own opinion is that he must be," replied the chevalier, "for he
makes Madame laugh, and she seems to take no little pleasure in his
society, which never happens to a clever woman when in the company of a
simpleton."

"Of course, then, he must be clever," said De Guiche, simply.

At this moment Raoul opportunely arrived, seeing how De Guiche was
pressed by his dangerous questioner, to whom he addressed a remark, and
in that way changed the conversation. The _entree_ was brilliant and
joyous.

The king, in honor of his brother, had directed that the festivities
should be on a scale of the greatest possible magnificence. Madame and
her mother alighted at the Louvre, where, during their exile they had
so gloomily submitted to obscurity, misery, and privations of every
description. That palace, which had been so inhospitable a residence
for the unhappy daughter of Henry IV., the naked walls, the uneven
floorings, the ceilings matted with cobwebs, the vast dilapidated
chimney-places, the cold hearths on which the charity extended to them
by parliament hardly permitted a fire to glow, was completely altered
in appearance. The richest hangings and the thickest carpets, glistening
flagstones, and pictures, with their rich