“Hear what she says of me:  ’Old Father Grumpy is much as usual, save that he gives a little at the knees.  You remember how we used to laugh at his airs and graces!  Well, he has given up all that, and though he still struts about on great high heels, like a Landes peasant on his stilts, he has no brightness at all in his clothes.  Of course, all the court follow his example, so you can imagine what a nightmare place this is.  Then this woman still keeps in favour, and her frocks are as dismal as Grumpy’s coats; so when you come back we shall go into the country together, and you shall dress in red velvet, and I shall wear blue silk, and we shall have a little coloured court of our own in spite of my majestic papa.’”

Louis sank his face in his hands.

“You hear how she speaks 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.”