Montalvan."

"Yea, M. de Berniers, our part of the fighting is over for the present."

"Then why not leave off your fighting dress?" said M. de Berniers. "You
look as if you knew nothing of the age we are living in."

"My friend, we live in an age when nobody occupies himself with anything
but the pleasures of life. One of the pleasures of my life is to wear a
soldier's dress; and you very well know the reason why."

"Don't snarl, M. de Montalvan. Yes, I remember the reason now. Never
mind. Some wine; and tell me about the great Duke. Is he really as
gallant in the field as in the boudoir?"

"Hum. The great Duc de Richelieu looked on with remarkable bravery while
we took St. Philippe. Yes, now that the _salons_ refuse him for a hero,
I suppose we must make a place for him in the camp."

"Ah! I have heard why you begrudge the Marechal his fame. But it matters
very little; even Madame de Pompadour has given him her acclamations at
last."

"She knows when to hide her hatreds and how to cherish them. But that's
a dull subject, M. de Berniers; give me news of home. The Queen?"

"More virtuous than ever."

"And the King?"

"Less."

"Impossible!"

"Quite true."

"Some more wine, then. And the Pompadour?"

"Cold, but still powerful."

"I have heard," said M. de Montalvan, lowering his voice, "strange tales
about the Parliament,--that it holds secret meetings, and that the court
should keep itself prepared for some unexpected action."

"Bah!" said M. de Berniers, with a laugh, or rather a gentle
inarticulate murmur of mockery; "put aside those notions, my dear M. de
Montalvan. There is no power on earth can move the court of France."

"Good! And the theatres?"

"Intolerable. La Clairon has done something in a play by M. de
Voltaire,-a play stolen from a Chinese tragedy, 'The Orphan of Tchao.'
He calls it 'The Orphan of China.' It is dreary stuff. I wonder if our
well-beloved king could not be induced to keep M. de Voltaire's plays in
exile, as well as M. de Voltaire himself."

"Precisely," said M. de Montalvan. "Some more wine."

"And yet," said M. de Berniers, whose usually pale face was flushed by
the repeated draughts of Burgundy with which he had found it necessary
to stimulate himself to the effort of conversation, "and yet Mlle. de
Terville, they say, will hear of nothing but M. de Voltaire. We shall
quarrel finely about that, for one thing,"--and his eyes gleamed with
what would have been amusem