[_He helps her to rise, and leads her forward: then he kisses her hand, bowing over it with a very courtly air._]

THE LADY.

What am I, then?

PIERROT.

A most divine Marquise!

Perhaps that att.i.tude hath too much ease.

[_Pa.s.ses her._]

Ah, that is better! To complete the plan, Nothing is necessary save a fan.

THE LADY.

Cool is the night, what needs it?

PIERROT.

Madame, pray Reflect, it is essential to our play.

THE LADY [_taking a lily_].

Here is my fan!

PIERROT.

So, use it with intent: The deadliest arm in beauty's armament!

THE LADY.

What do we next?

PIERROT.

We talk!

THE LADY.

But what about?

PIERROT.

We quiz the company and praise the rout; Are polished, petulant, malicious, sly, Or what you will, so reputations die.

Observe the d.u.c.h.ess in Venetian lace, With the red eminence.

THE LADY.

A pretty face!

PIERROT.

For something tarter set thy wits to search-- "She loves the churchman better than the church."

THE LADY.

Her blush is charming; would it were her own!

PIERROT.

Madame is merciless!

THE LADY.

Is that the tone?

PIERROT.

The very tone: I swear thou lackest naught.

Madame was evidently bred at Court.

THE LADY.

Thou speakest glibly: 'tis not of thine age.

PIERROT.

I listened much, as best becomes a page.

THE LADY.

I like thy Court but little ----

PIERROT.

Hush! the Queen!

Bow, but not low--thou knowest what I mean.

THE LADY.

Nay, that I know not!

PIERROT.

Though she wear a crown, 'Tis from La Pompadour one fears a frown.

THE LADY.

Thou art a child: thy malice is a game.

PIERROT.

A most sweet pastime--scandal is its name.

THE LADY.