Louis, at this last sentence, smiled sadly. The court was young, it was true, but the avarice of the cardinal had taken good care that it should not be brilliant.
“You have nevertheless no intention,” replied Monsieur, “to cloister them or make them bourgeoises?”
“Not at all,” replied the cardinal, forcing his Italian pronunciation in such a manner that, from soft and velvety as it was, it became sharp and vibrating, “not at all: I have a full and fixed intention to marry them, and that as well as I shall be able.”
“Parties will not be wanting, monsieur le cardinal,” replied Monsieur, with a bonhomie worthy of one tradesman congratulating another.
“I hope not, monseigneur, and with reason, as God has been pleased to give them grace, intelligence, and beauty.”
During this conversation, Louis XIV., conducted by Madame, accomplished, as we have described, the circle of presentations.
“Mademoiselle Auricule,” said the princess, presenting to his majesty a fat, fair girl of two-and-twenty, who at a village fete might have been taken for a peasant in Sunday finery,—“the daughter of my music-mistress.”
The king smiled. Madame had never been able to extract four correct notes from either viol or harpsichord.
“Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais,” continued Madame, “a young lady of rank, and my good attendant.”
This time it was not the king that smiled; it was the young lady presented, because, for the first time in her life, she heard, given to her by Madame, who generally showed no tendency to spoil her, such an honorable qualification.