ison life has aged you."

"Aged me, Madame?" reproachfully. "I grow old? Never. I have found
the elixir of life."

"You will give me the recipe?" softening.

"You already possess it."

"I? Pray, explain."

"We who have the faculty of learning, without the use of books, of
refusing to take life seriously, of forgetting injuries,--we never grow
old. We simply die."

A third person would have enjoyed this blundering, unconscious irony
which in no wise disturbed madame.

"The recipe is this," continued Beaufort: "enjoy the hours as they
come; borrow not in advance, but spend the hour you have; shake the
past from the shoulders like a worn-out cloak; laugh at and with your
enemies; and be sure you have enemies, or life's without salt."

Madame gazed dreamily at the picture-lined walls. She smiled,
recalling some happy souvenir. Presently she asked: "And who is this
Chevalier du Cevennes?"

"A capital soldier, a gay fellow, rich and extravagant. I do not know
him intimately, but I should like to. I knew his father well. The
Marquis de Perigny was . . ."

"The Marquis de Perigny!" interrupted the duchess, half rising from her
seat. "Do you mean to tell me that the Chevalier du Cevennes is the
son of the Marquis de Perigny?" For a moment her mind was confused; so
many recollections awoke to life at the mention of this name. "The
Marquis de Perigny!"

Beaufort smiled. "Yes. Do you not recall the gay and brilliant
marquis of fifteen years ago?"

Madame colored. "You said that the past should be shaken from the
shoulders like a worn-out cloak."

"True. Ah, but that mad marquis!" reminiscently. "What a man he must
have been in his youth! A fatalist, for I have seen him walk into the
enemy's fire, laughing. Handsome? Too handsome. Courage? He was
always fighting; he was a lion. How we youngsters applauded him! He
told Richelieu to his face that he would be delighted to have him visit
Perigny and dance the saraband before his peasant girls. He was always
breaking the edicts, and but for the king he would have spent most of
his time in the Bastille. He hasn't been to court in ten years."

"And is this son handsome?"

"Handsome and rich, with the valor of a Crillon. The daughter of a
Montbazon would never look at a clod. . . . Monks of Touraine!" he
ejaculated. "I remember now. I have seen her. Madame, I compliment
you."

"Beaufort, believe me when I say that my daughter and the Che