“I have reflected, madame, and I shall not accompany you.”
“Really—and why not?”
“Because I have the most perfect confidence in you.”
“You overpower me. But—provided I receive the hundred thousand crowns?”
“Here they are, madame,” said Colbert, scribbling a few lines on a piece of paper, which he handed to the duchesse, adding, “You are paid.”
“The trait is a fine one, Monsieur Colbert, and I will reward you for it,” she said, beginning to laugh.
Madame de Chevreuse’s laugh was a very sinister sound; a man with youth, faith, love, life itself, throbbing in his heart, would prefer a sob to such a lamentable laugh. The duchesse opened the front of her dress and drew forth from her bosom, somewhat less white than it once had been, a small packet of papers, tied with a flame-colored ribbon, and, still laughing, she said, “There, Monsieur Colbert, are the originals of Cardinal Mazarin’s letters; they are now your own property,” she added, refastening the body of her dress; “your fortune is secured. And now accompany me to the queen.”
“No, madame; if you are again about to run the chance of her majesty’s displeasure, and it were known at the Palais Royal that I had been the means of introducing you there, the queen would never forgive me while she lived. No; there are certain persons at the palace who are devoted to me, who will procure you an admission without my being compromised.”
“Just as you please, provided I enter.”
“What do you term those religious women at Bruges who cure disorders?”