"The ceremonies being over, Monsieur le Vicomte," said
Montalais, "take a chair, and tell us quickly the news you
bring flying thus."

"Mademoiselle, it is no longer a secret; the king, on his
way to Poitiers, will stop at Blois, to visit his royal
highness."

"The king here!" exclaimed Montalais, clapping her hands.
"What! are we going to see the court? Only think, Louise --
the real court from Paris! Oh, good heavens! But when will
this happen, monsieur?"

"Perhaps this evening, mademoiselle; at latest, tomorrow."

Montalais lifted her shoulders in sign of vexation.

"No time to get ready! No time to prepare a single dress! We
are as far behind the fashions as the Poles. We shall look
like portraits of the time of Henry IV. Ah, monsieur! this
is sad news you bring us!"

"But, mesdemoiselles, you will be still beautiful!"

"That's no news! Yes, we shall be always beautiful because
nature has made us passable; but we shall be ridiculous,
because the fashion will have forgotten us. Alas!
ridiculous! I shall be thought ridiculous -- I!