ls a fine set of teeth. In
the old days when the literary salons of the Hotel 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."

Madame's lips formed for a spiteful utterance, but what she said was:
"Pr