"When he turns up, Sartines, we will turn him down, in the Bastille."
"These philosophers whom you despise will destroy the monarchy."
"In what space of time, my lord?"
"How can I tell?" said the chief of police, looking astonished. "Ten, fifteen or more years."
"My dear friend, in that time I shall be no more; tell this to my successor."
He turned away, and this was the opportunity that the favorite was waiting for, since she heaved a sigh, and said:
"Oh, gracious, Chon, what are you telling me? My poor brother Jean so badly wounded that his arm will have to be amputated!"
"Oh, wounded in some street affray or in a drinking-saloon quarrel?"
"No, sire! attacked on the king's highway and nearly murdered."
"Murdered?" repeated the ruler, who had no feelings, but could finely feign them. "This is in your province, Sartines."