Footmen in gay-laced livery bring in beer
noiselessly and carry out apple-peelings dropped by the guests.
Valerie, seventh Duchess du Bellairs, leans back on a solid gold ottoman
on eiderdown cushions, surrounded by the wittiest, the bravest, and the
handsomest courtiers in the capital.
"Ah, madame," said the Prince Champvilliers, of Palais Royale, corner
of Seventy-third Street, "as Montesquiaux says, 'Rien de plus bon
tutti frutti'--Youth seems your inheritance. You are to-night the most
beautiful, the wittiest in your own salon. I can scarce believe my own
senses, when I remember that thirty-one years ago you--"
"Saw it off!" says the Duchess peremptorily.
The Prince bows low, and drawing a jewelled dagger, stabs himself to the
heart.
"The displeasure of your grace is worse than death," he says, as he
takes his overcoat and hat from a corner of the mantelpiece and leaves
the room.
"Voila," says Beebe Francillon, fanning herself languidly. "That is the
way with men. Flatter them, and they kiss your hand.
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