"It is a feast of nine, my friends—the old Roman number. Let us, then, be classic in our drinking and our conversation," observed his Majesty, with unusual loquacity.
"And is it to gods or goddesses that we chant our praises, Sire? Do we look to Olympus or—Cythera?" demanded Maurepas, slyly.
The King did not at once reply. Finally, with a smile peculiar to himself, he glanced at his favorite. "You shall choose the toast, du Plessis. Jove or Venus?"
Richelieu, ignorant of a cause, was at a loss to read the subtlety. "Venus, Sire," he replied, raising a glass to the candle-light before he drank.
"Merely the goddess in abstract?" murmured de Sauvré. "Surely her present living counterpart were better worthy the wine."
"Sire, will you not christen the toast?"
"Is it necessary? There is but one." The King negligently lifted his glass, while only de Coigny of all the tableful breathed normally. "Marie Leczinska, your Queen, gentlemen!"
Each face fell slightly. Glasses were emptied without a word, and the silence continued as the dishes of the first course were passed.
"These birds are very fine, but there is no venison," remarked Louis, helping himself to his favorite fillet of partridge.
"The last hunt was four days ago," observed Penthièvre.