“Here!” cried the king.
“Sire, you know I went to see her one day; that day of which so many things were said,” and she looked again at the Comte de Provence, who felt ready to sink through the ground; “and I then dropped at her house a box, containing a portrait, which she was to return to me to-day, and she is here.”
“No, no,” said the king; “I am satisfied, and do not wish to see her.”
“But I am not satisfied, and shall bring her in. Besides, why this repugnance? What has she done? If there be anything, tell me; you, M. de Crosne? you know everything.”
“I know nothing against this lady,” replied he.
“Really?”
“Certainly not; she is poor, and perhaps ambitious, but that is all.”
“If there be no more than that against her, the king can surely admit her.”
“I do not know why,” said Louis; “but I have a presentiment that this woman will be the cause of misfortune to me.”
“Oh! sire, that is superstition; pray fetch her, Madame de Lamballe.”