And with these words, Dubois bowed with the mock respect which he generally assumed whenever, in the eternal game they played against each other, he held the best cards.
Nothing made the regent so uneasy as this simulated respect; he held him back—
"What is there now?" asked he; "what have you discovered?"
"That you are a skillful dissimulator, peste!"
"That astonishes you?"
"No, it troubles me; a few steps further, and you will do wonders in this art—you will have no further need of me; you will have to send me away to educate your son, whom, it must be confessed, requires a master like myself."
"Speak quickly."
"Certainly, monseigneur; it is not now, however, a question of your son, but of your daughter."
"Of which daughter?"
"Ah! true; there are so many. First, the Abbess of Chelles, then Madame de Berry, then Mademoiselle de Valois; then the others, too young for the world, and therefore for me, to speak of; then, lastly, the charming Bretagne flower, the wild blossom which was to be kept away from Dubois's poisoning breath, for fear it should wither under it."