The duchess exhibited at intervals a fine set of teeth. In
the old days when the literary salons of the Hotel de Rambouillet were
at zenith, the Duchesse de Montbazon was known to be at once the
handsomest and most ignorant woman in France. But none denied that she
possessed a natural wit or the ability successfully to intrigue; and
many were the grand _sieurs_ who had knelt at her feet. But now, like
Anne of Austria, she was devoting her time to prayers and to the
preservation of what beauty remained.
"So De Brissac is dead?" said Beaufort seriously. "Ah well, we all
must die. I hope he has straightened up his affairs and that his
papers fall into worthy hands." The prince glanced covertly toward
Mazarin. "But it was all his own fault. The idea of a man of sixty
marrying a girl of seventeen, fresh from convent, and a beauty, too,
they say. He deserved it."
"Beaufort, few persons deserve violent deaths," replied the duchess;
and with a perceptible frown she added: "And are you aware that Madame
de Brissac, of whom you speak so lightly, is my own daughter?"
Beaufort started back from the chair. "Word of honor, I had forgotten!
But it was so long ago, and no one seems to have heard of her.
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