On this occasion, his Majesty had stated that he would hunt till four P. M.
Countess Dubarry, who had her own game in view, promised herself that she would hunt the King as steadfastly as he would the deer.
But huntsmen propose and chance disposes. Chance upset the favorite’s project, and was almost as fickle as she was herself.
While talking politics with the Duke of Richelieu, who wanted by her help or otherwise to be First Minister instead of Choiseul, the countess—while chasing the King, who was chasing the roebuck—perceived all of a sudden, fifty paces off the road, in a shady grove, a broken down carriage. With its shattered wheels pointing to the sky, its horses were browsing on the moss and beech bark.
Countess Dubarry’s magnificent team, a royal gift, had out-stripped all the others and were first to reach the scene of the breakdown.
“Dear me, an accident,” said the lady, tranquilly.
“Just so, and pretty bad smash-up,” replied Richelieu, with the same coolness, for sensitiveness is unknown at court.
“Is that somebody killed on the grass?” she went on.
“It makes a bow, so I guess it lives.”
And at a venture Richelieu raised his own three-cocked hat.