The comte Jean had scarcely returned an hour, when we received a letter from M. Morand, stating, that he had gone, in consequence of the instructions of comte Jean, to the comtesse de Bearn; that he had found the lady pliant enough on the first point, and disposed to content herself with the half of the sum originally demanded; that on point the second, I mean the appointments of herself and son, she would come to no compromise, and stuck hard and fast to the written promise of the king; that he, Morand, thought this an obstacle not to be overcome unless we subscribed to her wishes. This letter put me in an excessively ill-humor. I saw my presentation deferred till doom’s day, or, at least, adjourned sine die. I questioned my friends: the unanimous advice was that I ought to mention it to the king at one of his evening visits; and I determined to do so without loss of time.
When his majesty came I received him very graciously, and then said to him,
“Congratulate me, sire; I have found my godmother.”
“Ah, so much the better.” (I know that, at the bottom of his heart, he said “so much the worse.”)
“And who,” asked the king, with impatience, “may the lady be?”
“Madame de Bearn, a lady of quality in her own right, and of high nobility on her husband’s side.”
“Yes, he was a garde du corps, and the son has just left the pages. Ah! she will present you then. That’s well; I shall feel favored by her.”
“Would it not be best, sire, to tell her so yourself?”
“Yes, yes, certainly; but after the ceremony.”
“And why not previously?”