“What did he say,” queried Richelieu.
“That he was sure I found pleasure in bearing such a message.”
“Rather rough,” remarked Dubarry.
“But a man cannot get such a chimney-brick on his head Without crying out something,” added the marshal-duke. “I wonder if he will obey?”
“Bless us, here he comes, with his official portfolio under his arm!” exclaimed the Master of Ceremonies aghast, while Jean Dubarry had the cold shivers.
Lord Choiseul indeed was crossing the courtyard, with a calm, assured look blasting with his clear glance his enemies and those who had declared against him after his disgrace. Such a step was not foreseen and his entrance into the royal privy chambers was not opposed.
“Hang it! will he coax the King over, again?” muttered Richelieu.
Choiseul presented himself to the King with the letter of exile in his hand.
“Sire, as it was understood that I was to hold no communication from your Majesty as valid without verbal confirmation, I come for that.”
“This time it holds good,” rejoined the King.