"And have I not a passport in due form?" quoth she, displaying a sheet
of paper, wherein she was described as M. le Vicomte Felix de
Vandeness, Master of Requests, and His Majesty's private secretary.
"And do I not play my man's part well?" she added, running her fingers
through her wig a la Titus, and twirling her riding switch.
"O! Mme. la Duchesse, you are an angel!" cried Chesnel, with tears in
his eyes. (She was destined always to be an angel, even in man's
attire.) "Button up your greatcoat, muffle yourself up to the eyes in
your traveling cloak, take my arm, and let us go as quickly as
possible to Camusot's house before anybody can meet us."
"Then am I going to see a man called Camusot?" she asked.
"With a nose to match his name,"[*] assented Chesnel.
[*] Camus, flat-nosed
The old notary felt his heart dead within him, but he thought it none
the less necessary to humor the Duchess, to laugh when she laughed,
and shed tears when she wept; groaning in spirit, all the same, over
the feminine frivolity which could find matter for a jest while
setting about a matter so serious. What would he not have done to save
the Count? While Chesnel dressed; Mme. de Maufrigneuse sipped the cup
of coffee and cream which Brigitte brought her, and agreed with
herself that provincial women cooks are superior to Parisian chefs,
who despise the little details which make all the difference to an
epicure.
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