The king was quick, but Monsieur quicker. On his knees beside her, raising her head on his arm, he commanded me:
"Up-stairs, Félix! The door at the back—bid Dame Verney come instantly."
I flew, and was back to find him risen, holding mademoiselle in his arms. Her hair lay loose over his shoulder like a rippling flag; her lashes clung to her cheeks as they would never lift more.
"St. Quentin," his Majesty was saying, "I would have married her to a prince. But since she wants your son she shall have him, ventre-saint-gris, if I storm Paris to-morrow!" And as Monsieur was carrying her from the room, the king bent over and kissed her.
"Mademoiselle has dropped a packet from her dress," M. de Rosny said. "Will you take it, St. Quentin?"
The king, who was nearest, turned to pass it to him; at the sight of it he uttered his dear "ventre-saint-gris!" It was a flat, oblong packet, tied about with common twine, the seal cut out. The king twitched the string off, and with one rapid glance at the papers put them into Monsieur's hand.
"Take them, St. Quentin; they are yours."