Daburon disappeared. His friends sought for him, but he was nowhere to
be met with. What could he be doing? Inquiry resulted in the discovery
that he passed nearly all his evenings at the house of the Marchioness
d'Arlange. The surprise was as great as it was natural.
This dear marchioness was, or rather is,--for she is still in the land
of the living,--a personage whom one would consider rather out of date.
She is surely the most singular legacy bequeathed us by the eighteenth
century. How, and by what marvellous process she had been preserved
such as we see her, it is impossible to say. Listening to her, you would
swear that she was yesterday at one of those parties given by the queen
where cards and high stakes were the rule, much to the annoyance of
Louis XIV., and where the great ladies cheated openly in emulation of
each other.
Manners, language, habits, almost costume, she has preserved everything
belonging to that period about which authors have written only to
display the defects. Her appearance alone will tell more than an
exhaustive article, and an hour's conversation with her, more than a
volume.
She was born in a little principality, where her parents had taken
refuge whilst awaiting the chastisements and repentance of an erring and
rebellious people.
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