M. Tartuffe was but a faint copy of le petit saint as he presented himself before me. His manners still retained part of their former servility, but there was a lurking smile about him, which proved how well he was pleased with the part he had to perform.
He approached me with lingering steps and an air of mysterious importance, while a sort of sardonic grin contradicted the sorrow he endeavored to force into his countenance. For my own part, I caused the folding-doors to be thrown open, and advancing ceremoniously, stood to receive the orders of the king. I bowed stiffly and silently; and, with something like a malicious satisfaction, I witnessed the embarrassment into which my cool and collected manner threw him.
“Madam,” said he at last, “I have a painful duty to perform: in a word, I am the bearer of a lettre de cachet.”
“Well, sir!” said I, tranquilly.
“Madam, I must request you to believe how greatly I regret the task imposed upon me; but my duty and obedience to the king—”
“Would enable you to strangle your nearest relative. All that is well known; but, in the name of all that is base, cowardly, and unmanly, could no one but you be found to remind a distressed and afflicted woman that she has lost her only friend and support?”
“Madam, I repeat, obedience—necessity—”
“Enough, sir; I pity you.”
“Madam, you outrage the king in my person.”
“No, sir; I respect the king too highly to believe that there could ever be any relation between him and one who is too contemptible to remind me that he was but a few days back the most cringing of my servile slaves.”