“Oh! madame, I fear I am too inexperienced to be of use to him; but if the King does ask my advice, which seems very presumptuous in me to suppose, I shall conceal nothing that I think, neither facts nor opinions.”
“Ah, my cousin, try to rouse him; make him reign for himself; tell him to shake off that dreadful Cardinal.”
“That is, I fear, impossible; I am too ignorant of politics. Besides, what can I do now? he is going away to the war.”
“Well, but, petite sotte, he will return, and you will meet again.”
“Oh, no,” replied Louise, again colouring under the scrutinising eye of the mistress of the robes, “he will forget me long before that.”
“Nothing of the kind, Louise,” replied the Duchess, “the King never forgets anything.”
“Dear Duchess, you really are talking nonsense. What on earth could make the King care for me?” and she sighed deeply, and fell into a muse. “I do pity him, though,” she added, speaking with great feeling; “I pity him, I own. He is naturally good—brave—confiding,” and she paused between each word.
“I am glad you find him so,” answered the Duchess drily.
“Yet he ill fulfils his glorious mission,” continued Louise, as if speaking to herself. “He is conscious of it, and it pains him. I am sure he suffers acutely.”
“Heal his wounds, then,” said the Duchess, with a cynical smile, but speaking in so low a voice that Mademoiselle de Lafayette did not catch the words.