“What, only that? We will grant so much.”
“Then a regiment for her son.”
“Oh, he is the wood they make colonels of, and if he behave well—”
“But then! She wishes to be annexed in some station or other to the household of the future dauphine.”
“Oh, that is impossible: all the selections have been made: but we will make an equivalent by placing one of her family about the person of one of the princes, my grandson. Is this all?”
“Yes, sire, that is all, with one small formality excepted. This lady, who is one of much punctilio, only considers written engagements as binding. She wishes for one word in your majesty’s hand-writing—”
“A most impertinent woman!” cried the king, walking with rapid strides up and down my room.— “She has dared not to believe me on my word! Writing!—signature! She mistrusts me as she would the lowest scribbler of France. A writing! My signature! My grandfather, Louis XIV, repented having given his to Charost. I will not commit a similar error.”
“But, sire, when a prince has a real desire to keep his word, it is of little import whether he gives it in writing.”
At these words, Louis XV frowned sternly, but as he had the best sense in the world, he saw that he was wrong; and having no reply to make, he determined to flee away. I ran after him, and taking him by the arm, he said, with assumed anger, which did not deceive me:—
“Leave me, madame, you have offended my honor.”