"France's religion should be that of France's king," said he, "and if my own guardsmen thwart me in such a matter, I must find others who will be more faithful. That major's commission in the mousquetaires must go to Captain de Belmont, Louvois."
"Very good, sire."
"And De Catinat's commission may be transferred to Lieutenant Labadoyere."
"Very good, sire."
"And I am to serve you no longer?"
"You are too dainty for my service."
De Catinat's arms fell listlessly to his side, and his head sunk forward upon his breast. Then, as he realised the ruin of all the hopes of his life, and the cruel injustice with which he had been treated, he broke into a cry of despair, and rushed from the room with the hot tears of impotent anger running down his face. So, sobbing, gesticulating, with coat unbuttoned and hat awry, he burst into the stable where placid Amos Green was smoking his pipe and watching with critical eyes the grooming of the horses.
"What in thunder is the matter now?" he asked, holding his pipe by the bowl, while the blue wreaths curled up from his lips.
"This sword," cried the Frenchman—"I have no right to wear it! I shall break it!"
"Well, and I'll break my knife too if it will hearten you up."