“No,” she said, “you do not grin. You are sincere.”

Her face, half-hidden in her velvet bonnet trimmed with lace, had, if not beauty, at least a daintiness and charm peculiar to so many French women. A few, thinly-drawn, almost imperceptible wrinkles danced about her eyes, tightly shut, and about her lips.

“I do not know what you may have heard about me, Prince. A blind person suspects every whisper.”

“I have heard only praises– —”

“I have not always done what I should have done—that is true. But monsieur, I was bored. I strove to evade the great God Ennui.”

I sighed. “Who has not been smothered by his terrible shadow, madame?”

“Your voice seems different, Prince. I should almost have believed it another man’s. Strange! It sounded far, far off, thousands of miles—or perhaps, thousands of years. I was frightened.”

“I spoke of the god Ennui, madame. One should be realistic.”

She bade me give her my hand which she pressed. “Let me whisper something into your ear.”

I bent until her lips touched and pressed my ear.

“Je vous adore.”

I kissed her fingers. Meanwhile, the Salon became crowded with ladies and gentlemen.

The hearing of Madame la Marquise was very acute.

“The man who is laughing now,” she said, “is Monsieur d’Alembert, a fine genius but rather effeminate. Once,” she sighed, “I thought I loved him. Youth—you know. The lady who speaks now is Madame d’Epinay. Beware of her, Prince! She smiles always, I remember, but it is a false smile, I assure you. But then, it was a man’s fault, as usual. Her husband, Monsieur de la Live, has hardened her heart. Had he only been a little more careful in his faithlessness,—for it is not expected of a man to be a model of virtue. It is enough if one can betray with tact, and charm, and wit.”

“Madame, every country has its own customs. Virtue is a matter of time and space. It partakes neither of infinity nor eternity. Charm, however, seems to prefer France for her habitation.”

She whispered, “The lady who has just sneezed—she takes too much snuff at one time—is Madame Geoffrin, a splendid woman and as virtuous as it is compatible with politeness and humor.”

The Marquise laughed a little. “Mon ami, come nearer, and I shall tell you a comical story about Madame Geoffrin.”

I approached until our legs touched. I understood she desired more the proximity of my thigh than that of my ear. It amused me although the posture was slightly uncomfortable.

Mlle. de Lespinasse, tall, angular, with magnificent eyes and hair, bent and whispered into the ear of the Marquise. One or two other ladies approached. I took the opportunity to rise and walk away. Madame du Deffand motioned to me with her hand to remain, but I made believe I did not see. A little later, I saw her lips stretch into a painful grin. I, too, had disappointed her, I understood, and life was a bore.

Kotikokura, in a corner, wearing his Russian uniform and all his medals, was smothered by the attentions of three ladies, chattering incessantly. I approached and bowed. Kotikokura rose.

“Please do not disturb yourself, Duke, I beg you.”

“Monsieur le Duc is most fascinating,” one of the ladies observed.

“I have long ago discovered it, madame,” I said.

“It is strange. He knows so little French but makes himself understood splendidly.”

“He never uses a verb.”

“That is marvelous, Prince. I must speak to Monsieur Diderot about it. He says that the verbs are the life of a language.”

“Medals—Tsar—Russia,” Kotikokura whispered to one of the ladies who played with his decorations.

“Now isn’t that just charming? Le Duc means these medals have been given him by the Tsar of Russia.”

Kotikokura nodded.

“Splendid!” another lady ejaculated.

“The Duke will reform our language, Monsieur le Prince. I think I shall stop using verbs myself. Duke charming—medals beautiful,” she addressed Kotikokura.

Kotikokura was flustered and uncomfortable. To avoid bursting out into laughter, I snuffed a large quantity of tobacco and sneezed several times.

Kotikokura started to rise again. The ladies pulled him back. “Monsieur le Duc—ici–with us.”

I walked away, leaving him to his delightful discomfort.

The conversation became very noisy, the remarks fragmentary.

A fellow, his face besmirched with tobacco and mud, wild-eyed, half toothless, shouted back, waving his fist, while his moth-eaten wig toppled to one side like an uncomfortable crown: “Back to Nature, all you wicked and godless creatures!”

“But Monsieur Rousseau, what does it mean?” the first man insisted.

“It means that you throw away all your false books, false habits, false words, false arts.” “Everything is false, naturally, save le Contrat Social by Jean Jacques Rousseau.”

There was general laughter.

“Jean Jacques is charming, n’est-ce-pas?’ one woman observed.

“I think he is the rudest man in the world,” another answered.

“Go back to God!” Rousseau shouted.

“It is too great a journey from Earth to Heaven, and I have a touch of the gout, monsieur,” someone said, and turning to a man who was sitting near the window, “What say you, Monsieur Saint-Lambert, to a visit to God?”

“I say that belief in God is the origin of all follies.”

Rousseau, exasperated, unable to speak, danced about waving his fists.

“Jean Jacques has the St. Vitus dance again,” Madame la Marquise du Deffand remarked, fanning herself.

“The idea of God is necessary to happiness,” Rousseau blurted out.

“Only beauty is necessary to happiness,” Saint-Lambert answered. A lady next to him kissed his cheek.

“Happiness,” Madame du Deffand said, “is the Philosopher’s Stone which ruins those who seek it.”

“There is a God!” Rousseau shouted, “There is a God! Messieurs, there is a God. If any one contradicts me, I go!”

“I contradict!” several voices answered.

“Cochons!” Rousseau blurted out, as if his mouth had been filled with pebbles, and dashed out of the room, his wig upon his neck.

“He is a fool!” Saint-Lambert remarked.

“Voltaire is right about him,” another added.

“He is disagreeable,” Madame du Deffand declared. “His ‘Emile’ is contrary to good sense, his ‘Héloise’ is contrary to good manners, and nothing in the world is quite so dull and obscure as his ‘Contrat Social.’ ”

There was general applause. “Monsieur le Duc, do you believe in God?” one of the three ladies asked.

“Ca-ta-pha god,” Kotikokura answered.

“Magnificent!” they shouted.

“Ca-ta-pha god! Ca-ta-pha god!”

The words became contagious. Everybody repeated and laughed. “Ca-ta-pha god.”

Kotikokura, indignant at the general merriment, rose and exclaimed, making the sign of my godhead, “Ca-ta-pha god!”

The three women kissed his face at the same time. Bewildered, he reseated himself.

The conversation drifted to politics. “Liberty—canaille—the king—equality—la France—treason” bombarded the room like a cannonade.

Madame Geoffrin walked among the people. “I beg you, gentlemen, no politics! Please, I beg you.”

It was becoming very warm. The ladies nibbled at biscuits and fanned themselves, scattering about the scent of many perfumes and stale powder. The gentlemen consumed ices and wines.

“Your husband is a monster, madame, and you are an adorable creature,” one man whispered to a woman. She struck him very gently over the mouth with the tip of her finger and after consulting her calendar, she breathed a date.

Other gentlemen whispered into other ladies’ ears variations of the eternal formula. I was bored. I suddenly felt my age. What had I to do among these children?

Some one pulled gently at the lace of my sleeve. I turned around. A young woman whom I had not noticed until then, whispered to me, “Monsieur le Prince s’ennuie, n’est-ce-pas?”