The King looked quickly up. "Quite true. The councils have demanded me. But I am arranging a hunt—a large hunt. What meetings to-morrow, d'Argenson?"
"An important one, Sire, at which M. Machault reads a report of the taxes of the Navarraise clergy during the last quarter—"
"Ah, yes. You and Machault are diligent enough there. But the day after—the 7th? I do not wish to be at council on that day."
"There will be none, Sire," responded the young man, obediently, the interest dying out of his eyes; and Maurepas, with some amusement, watched him begin to crumble his bread.
"That is very well. On Tuesday, gentlemen, we will follow the hounds through Sénart, retire to Choisy in the afternoon, and return to Versailles in time for her Majesty's salon in the evening. At Choisy, gentlemen, I shall myself prepare a dish, an especial one, which Mouthier* has created for me, and in the making of which the greatest delicacy is necessary. It is to be a vol-au-vent royal, à la—the last of the name is not important. It will be a triumph of art."
* Louis' favorite chef.
"Shall you prepare it for the company, or—for one person, Sire?" queried de Gêvres.
"There will be more for the party. This one—is—particular."
"For her Majesty, without doubt," murmured d'Epernon, smiling.
Maurepas and the King exchanged glances, and Richelieu, intercepting the look, started suddenly, not recovering his poise till de Gêvres had read into his mind.