“Sire,” said the duke, with a glance full of rage and hatred, “before insulting a man of my rank, you should have refused me the hospitality of the Louvre; in the Hotel d’Anjou, at least, I should have been free to reply to you.”
“Really, you forget, then, that wherever you are, you are my subject; that I am the king, and that every house is mine.”
“Sire, I am at the Louvre, at my mother’s.”
“And your mother is in my house. But to the point—give me that paper.”
“Which?”
“That which you were reading, which was on your table, and which you hid when I came in.”
“Sire, reflect.”
“On what?”
“On this, that you are making a request unworthy of a gentleman, and fit only for a police-officer.”
The king grew livid. “That letter, monsieur!”