M. Beaucaire followed the carriage with his eyes. As the noise of the
wheels and the hoof-beats of the accompanying cavalcade grew fainter in
the distance, the handkerchief he had held against his side dropped into
the white dust, a heavy red splotch.
"Only--roses," he gasped, and fell back in the arms of his servants.
Chapter Five
Beau Nash stood at the door of the rooms, smiling blandly upon a dainty
throng in the pink of its finery and gay furbelows. The great exquisite
bent his body constantly in a series of consummately adjusted bows:
before a great dowager, seeming to sweep the floor in august deference;
somewhat stately to the young bucks; greeting the wits with gracious
friendliness and a twinkle of raillery; inclining with fatherly
gallantry before the beauties; the degree of his inclination measured
the altitude of the recipient as accurately as a nicely calculated
sand-glass measures the hours.
The King of Bath was happy, for wit, beauty, fashion--to speak more
concretely: nobles, belles, gamesters, beaux, statesmen, and poets
--made fairyland (or opera bouffe, at least) in his dominions; play ran
higher and higher, and Mr. Nash's coffers filled up with gold. To
crown his pleasure, a prince of the French blood, the young Comte de
Beaujolais, just arrived from Paris, had reached Bath at noon in state,
accompanied by the Marquis de Mirepoix, the ambassador of Louis XV.
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