Alone, ensconced in an old armchair in the back of his little room at
the sign of “the Sun,” the chevalier waited the next day, then the
next, and no news!
“Singular woman! Gentle and imperious, good and bad, the most frivolous
of women, and the most obstinate! She has forgotten me. What misery!
She is right;--she is all-powerful, and I am nothing.”
He had risen, and was walking about the room.
“Nothing!--no, I am but a poor devil. How truly my father spoke! The
marquise was mocking me; that is all; while I was looking at her, it
was only the reflection in that mirror, and in my eyes, of her own
charms--which are, certainly, incomparable--that made her look so
pleased! Yes, her eyes are small, but what grace! And Latour, before
Diderot, has taken the dust from a butterfly’s wing to paint her
portrait. She is not very tall, but her figure is perfectly exquisite.
Ah! Mademoiselle d’Annebault! Ah! my beloved friend, is it possible
that I, too, should forget?”
Two or three sharp raps at the door awoke him from his grief.
“Who is there?”
The bony man, clad all in black, with a splendid pair of silk
stockings, which simulated calves that were lacking, entered, and made
a deep bow.
“This evening, Monsieur le Chevalier, there is to be a masked ball at
the court, and Madame la Marquise sends me to say that you are invited.”
“That is enough, monsieur. Many thanks.”
As soon as the bony man had retired, the chevalier ran to the bell; the
same maid-servant who, three days before, had done her best to be of
service to him, assisted him to put on the same spangled coat, striving
to acquit herself even better than before.
And then the young man took his way toward the palace, invited this
time, and more quiet outwardly, but more anxious and less bold than
when he had made his first steps in that, to him, still unknown world.