eaks of me, Louvois."

"It is infamous, sire; infamous!"

"She calls me names--_me_, Louvois!"

"Atrocious, sire."

"And my knees! one would think that I was an old man!"

"Scandalous. But, sire, I would beg to say that it is a case in which
your Majesty's philosophy may well soften your anger. Youth is ever
hot-headed, and says more than it means. Think no more of the matter."

"You speak like a fool, Louvois. The child that I have loved turns upon
me, and you ask me to think no more of it. Ah, it is one more lesson
that a king can trust least of all those who have his own blood in their
veins. What writing is this? It is the good Cardinal de Bouillon.
One may not have faith in one's own kin, but this sainted man loves me,
not only because I have placed him where he is, but because it is his
nature to look up to and love those whom God has placed above him.
I will read you his letter, Louvois, to show you that there is still
such a thing as loyalty and gratitude in France. 'My dear Prince de la
Roche-sur-Yon.' Ah, it is to him he writes. 'I promised when you left
that I would let you know from time to time how things were going at
court, as you consulted me about bringing your daughter up from Anjou,
in the hope that she might catch the king's fancy.' What! What!
Louvois! What villainy is this? 'The sultan goes from bad to worse.
The Fontanges was at least the prettiest woman in France, though between
ourselves there was just a shade too much of the red in her hair--an
excellent colour in a cardinal's gown, my dear duke, but nothing
brighter than chestnut is permissible in a lady. The Montespan, too,
was a fine woman in her day, but fancy his picking up now with a widow
who is older than himself, a woman, too, who does not even try to make
herself attractive, but kneels at her _prie-dieu_ or works at her
tapestry from morning to night. They say that December and May make a
bad match, but my own opinion is that two Novembers make an even worse
one.' Louvois! Louvois! I can read no more! Have you a _lettre de
cachet_?"

"There is one here, sire."

"For the Bastille?"

"No; for Vincennes."

"That will do very well. Fill it up, Louvois! Put this villain's name
in it! Let him be arrested to-night, and taken there in his own
caleche. The shameless, ungrateful, foul-mouthed villain! Why did you
bring me these letters, Louvois? Oh, why did you yield to my foolish
whim? My God, is there no