"Pray mention it," replied Louis, tapping his boots with a riding-whip he had taken off a table.
"My relative, the Comte de la Meilleraye, begs your permission to marry."
"Willingly," replied Louis; "who is the fair lady, Cardinal?"
"It is Mademoiselle Louise de Lafayette, Sire, maid of honour to the Queen."
If a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, Louis could not have been more overcome. He turned perfectly livid, took a long breath, tottered backwards and sat down again. The all-seeing eyes of the Cardinal were fixed upon him; he did not speak, but watched his master. Louis for some moments did not raise his head; then he heaved a deep sigh, and with much effort, in a strangely different voice, asked faintly—
"Does Mademoiselle de Lafayette herself desire this marriage?"
Richelieu had turned away, and affecting to be busied with some books and papers lying on the table, replied in an indifferent manner—
"As yet, Sire, we are unacquainted with the lady's sentiments; but, as I am informed she has no other attachment, I cannot but believe such an alliance as that of my cousin will be acceptable to her."
The nervous spasm with which it was evident the King had awaited this reply instantly relaxed. The colour returned to his cheeks, his eyes brightened, and he stood up—