Angelique
rose, gathered up her rich train, and with an air of royal coquetry
took his arm and accompanied the Intendant on a promenade down the
grand alley of roses.
"What favorite bird has escaped from your bosom, Angelique?" asked
the Intendant, who had, however, a shrewd guess of the meaning of
her metaphor.
"The pleasure I had in anticipation of this ball! The bird has
flown, I know not where or how. I have no pleasure here at all!"
exclaimed she, petulantly, although she knew the ball had been
really got up mainly for her own pleasure.
"And yet Momus himself might have been your father, and Euphrosyne
your mother, Angelique," replied Bigot, "to judge by your gaiety to-
night. If you have no pleasure, it is because you have given it all
away to others! But I have caught the bird you lost, let me restore
it to your bosom pray!" He laid his hand lightly and caressingly
upon her arm. Her bosom was beating wildly; she removed his hand,
and held it firmly grasped in her own.
"Chevalier!" said she, "the pleasure of a king is in the loyalty of
his subjects, the pleasure of a woman in the fidelity of her lover!"
She was going to say more, but stopped.
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