“Oh, oh!” said the king, with every sign of vexation.
“Yes, and only too happy to get it,” said the queen.
“Madame!” interrupted he, “you are full of noble feelings; but this impetuous generosity becomes a fault. Remember,” continued he, “that I never suspected you of anything that was not perfectly pure and honest: it is only your mode of acting and adventurous spirit that displease me. You have, as usual, been doing good, but the way you set about it makes it injurious to yourself. This is what I reproach you with. You say that I have faults to repair—that I have failed in my duty to a member of my own family. Tell me who the unfortunate is, and he shall no longer have reason to complain.”
“The name of Valois, sire, is sufficiently illustrious not to have escaped your memory.”
“Ah!” cried Louis, with a shout of laughter, “I know now whom you mean. La petite Valois, is it not?—a countess of something or other.”
“De la Motte, sire.”
“Precisely, De la Motte; her husband is a gendarme.”
“Yes, sire.”
“And his wife is an intrigante. Oh! you need not trouble yourself about her: she is moving heaven and earth; she worries my ministers, she teases my aunts, and overwhelms me with supplications, memorials, and genealogies.”
“And all this uselessly, sire.”