"How, my sister?" replies the full, deep voice of the King, that voice which usually created so profound an impression on the nerves of those whom he addressed.
"Yes, to forbid it. Had your Majesty desired an alliance between my son and a daughter of your consort, Maria Theresa, I should have considered it my duty to submit."
"Oh!" exclaims the King in a loud voice, and quick steps are heard pacing up and down the room, "you would have condescended to accept a princess-royal for your daughter-in-law."
"Certainly, Sire; but because I committed a mésalliance myself in marrying your brother, Philippe de Orléans——"
"Pardieu! Madame," breaks in the King. "Do you talk of a mésalliance with a grandson of Henry the Great?"
"Certainly I do, your Majesty. What was Henry the Great, but an obscure Prince of Béarn, a beggarly little State among the valleys of the Pyrenees? Does your Majesty think that the hundred quarterings of my escutcheon will gain lustre by the arms of Bourbon?"
Louis is heard to stamp on the floor. "Madame," he cries, so loud that his words echo into every corner of the Œil de Bœuf, "Madame, you forget yourself. How dare you come here to insult me?"
"Sire, I come here to tell you the truth. My son, the Duc de Chartres, has forgotten himself by listening for one instant to your proposal. With my own hand I have chastised him as he deserves. I do not forget myself, whatever others may do. Philippe is too good for any princess in Europe. The blood in his veins is that of my ancestors—the Princes Palatine of the Rhine. We laugh at your modern houses—we laugh! Philippe is the best man in your Court. He knows everything—painting, music, poetry, science. None of you can understand him. You are too ignorant."
"Madame," the King is heard to say, "have a care—you are going too far!"