"Charles-Louis de Vighan, Marquis of Létorière, Sire."
"You are from Xaintonge," said the king, who knew wonderfully well the genealogy of his nobility.
"But you have deposited your titles," added he. "You ought to be presented to me. Why have you not been?"
"Sire, I await the return of M. the Count of Appreville, my relative, to have that honor." . . .
"Marshal Richelieu, will you act as sponsor?" said the king, addressing the duke, who replied by a respectful gesture.
"That's right!" said the king. . . . "I do not forget, my child, that you have almost censured St. Clair . . . you must make him some amends. . . . Are you bold enough to encounter Barbara?" And the king pointed to the mare, who, held by the bridle, still kicked and pranced, notwithstanding the threats and caresses of the groom. "Are you not afraid of this fiery beast?"
"I fear but one thing, Sire: it is to show myself unworthy of the eminent grace with which the king deigns to honor me in ordering me to mount a horse in his presence."
"Is he not charming? He answers with such perfect grace . . . with such exquisite tact," . . . said the king to M. de Richelieu, while Létorière, his heart palpitating with emotion, approached the redoubtable Barbara.
"The king has told me sometimes that I'm a connoisseur of faces. Yes, yes, I can predict to the king that before six months this young falcon will have taken flight,—and then, beware of him;—there'll be a great flutter among the doves, I'll answer for it."
"Your example will have been of great service to him," said the king, smiling; then suddenly crying out with fright: "Ah, the unhappy child! he will kill himself. . . . St. Clair has given up the reins, and the cursed mare will not let him approach her. . . . What kicks . . . what plunges. . . . She is a devil to mount . . . St. Clair, why did you not hold her while he mounted?"