“My dear fellow, she has brought herself up all alone; you might guess that I did not bother myself about her. It was hard enough to keep alive in that hole at Taverney. Virtue sprang up in her of its own impulsion.”
“Yet I thought that the rural swains rooted out ill weeds. In short, your girl is a nun.”
“You are wrong—she is a dove.”
Richelieu made a sour face.
“The dove had better get another turtle to mate, for the chances to make a fortune with that blessing are pretty scarce nowadays.”
Taverney looked at him uneasily.
“Luckily,” went on the other, “the King is so infatuated with Dubarry that he will never seriously lean towards others.”
Taverney’s disquiet became anxiety.
“You and your daughter need not worry,” continued Richelieu. “I will raise the proper objections to the King and he will think no more about it.”
“About what?” gasped the old noble, pale, as he shook his friend’s arm.