"It is useless, monseigneur, to tire you with that; it would not interest you."
"Never mind, tell it me."
"Well, the regent killed my brother."
"The regent killed your brother! how so? it is—impossible, Monsieur de Gaston," said the Duc d'Olivares.
"Yes, killed; if from the effect we go to the cause."
"Explain yourself; how could the regent do this?"
"My brother, who, being fifteen years of age when my father died, three months before my birth, stood to me in the place of that father, and of mother, who died when I was still in the cradle—my brother loved a young girl who was brought up in a convent by the orders of the prince."
"Do you know in what convent?"
"No: I only know that it was at Paris."
The duke murmured some words which Gaston could not hear.