“This necromancer is delightful,” said old Richelieu, laughing heartily as he leaned back in his chair: “catch Choiseul redhanded in treason? that is all, and quite enough, too, ha, ha, ha!”
“Would not a confidential letter do it?” said Balsamo impassibly. “Say from Lady Grammont?”
“My good wizard, if you could conjure up one!” said the countess. “I have been trying to get one for five years and spent a hundred thousand francs a year and have never succeeded.”
“Because, madam, you did not apply to me. I should have lifted you out of the quandary.”
“Oh, I hope it is not too late!”
“It is never too late,” said Count Fenix, smiling.
“Then you have such a letter?” said the lady, clasping her hands. “Which would compromise Choiseul?”
“It would prove he sustains the Parliament in its bout with the King; eggs on England to war with France; so as to keep him indispensable: and is the enemy of your ladyship.”
“I would give one of my eyes to have it.”
“That would be too dear; particularly as I shall give you the letter for nothing.” And he drew a piece of paper folded twice from his pocket.