“We will begin with your family, monseigneur.”
“My mother, Anne of Austria! all her sorrows, her painful malady. Oh! I know her—I know her.”
“Your second brother?” asked Aramis, bowing.
“To these notes,” replied the prince, “you have added portraits so faithfully painted, that I am able to recognize the persons whose characters, manners, and history you have so carefully portrayed. Monsieur, my brother, is a fine, dark young man, with a pale face; he does not love his wife, Henrietta, whom I, Louis XIV., loved a little, and still flirt with, even although she made me weep on the day she wished to dismiss Mademoiselle de la Valliere from her service in disgrace.”
“You will have to be careful with regard to the watchfulness of the latter,” said Aramis; “she is sincerely attached to the actual king. The eyes of a woman who loves are not easily deceived.”
“She is fair, has blue eyes, whose affectionate gaze reveals her identity. She halts slightly in her gait; she writes a letter every day, to which I have to send an answer by M. de Saint-Aignan.”
“Do you know the latter?”
“As if I saw him, and I know the last verses he composed for me, as well as those I composed in answer to his.”
“Very good. Do you know your ministers?”
“Colbert, an ugly, dark-browed man, but intelligent enough, his hair covering his forehead, a large, heavy, full head; the mortal enemy of M. Fouquet.”