lighted a chamber forming part of what were called the
little apartments. For the rest, a joyous beam of the sun,
for the sun appeared to care little for the loss France had
just suffered; a sunbeam, we say, descended upon them,
drawing perfumes from the neighboring flowers, and animating
the walls themselves. These two persons, so occupied, not by
the death of the duke, but by the conversation which was the
consequence of that death, were a young woman and a young
man. The latter personage, a man of from twenty-five to
twenty-six years of age, with a mien sometimes lively and
sometimes dull, making good use of two large eyes, shaded
with long eye-lashes, was short of stature and swart of
skin; he smiled with an enormous, but well-furnished mouth,
and his pointed chin, which appeared to enjoy a mobility
nature does not ordinarily grant to that portion of the
countenance, leant from time to time very lovingly towards
his interlocutrix, who, we must say did not always draw back
so rapidly as strict propriety had a right to require. The
young girl — we know her, for we have already seen her, at
that very same window by the light of that same sun — the
young girl presented a singular mixture of shyness and
reflection; she was charming when she laughed, beautiful
when she became serious; but, let us hasten to say, she was
more frequently charming than beautiful. These two appeared
to have attained the culminating point of a discussion —
half-bantering, half-serious.
“Now, Monsieur Malicorne,” said the young girl, “does it, at
length, please you that we should talk reasonably?”
“You believe that that is very easy, Mademoiselle Aure,”
replied the young man. “To do what we like, when we can only
do what we are able —- ”
“Good! there he is bewildered in his phrases.”
“Who, I?”
“Yes, you quit that lawyer’s logic, my dear.”
“Another impossibility. Clerk I am, Mademoiselle de
Montalais.”
“Demoiselle I am, Monsieur Malicorne.”
“Alas, I know it well, and you overwhelm me by your rank; so
I will say no more to you.”
“Well, no, I don’t overwhelm you; say what you have to tell
me — say- it, I insist upon it.”
Well, I obey you.”
“That is truly fortunate.”
“Monsieur is dead.”
“Ah, peste! there’s news! And where do you come from, to be
able to tell us that?”
“I come from Orleans, mademoiselle.”
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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later
“And is that all the news you bring?”
“Ah, no; I am come to tell you that Madame Henrietta of
England is coming to marry the king’s brother.”
“Indeed, Malicorne, you are insupportable with your news of
the last century. Now, mind, if you persist in this bad
habit of laughing at people, I will have you turned out.”
“Oh!”
“Yes; for really you exasperate me.”
“There, there. Patience, mademoiselle.”
“You want to make yourself of consequence; I know well
enough why. Go!”
“Tell me, and I will answer you frankly, yes, if the thing
be true.”
“You know that I am anxious to have that commission of lady
of honor, which I have been foolish enough to ask of you,
and you do not use your credit.”
“Who, I?” Malicorne cast down his eyes, joined his hands,
and assumed his sullen air. “And what credit can the poor
clerk of a procurer have, pray?”
“Your father has not twenty thousand livres a year for
nothing, M. Malicorne.”
“A provincial fortune, Mademoiselle de Montalais.”
“Your father is not in the secrets of monsieur le prince for
nothing.”
“An advantage which is confined to lending monseigneur
money.”
“In a word, you are not the most cunning young fellow in the
province for nothing.”
“You flatter me ”
“Who, I?”
“Yes, you.”
“How so?”
“Since I maintain that I have no credit, and you maintain I
have.”
“Well, then, — my commission?”
“Well, — your commission?”
“Shall I have it, or shall I not?”
“You shall have it.”
“Ay, but when?”
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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later
“When you like.”
“Where is it, then?”
“In my pocket.”
“How — in your pocket?”
“Yes.”
And, with a smile, Malicorne drew from his pocket a letter,