"Sire, this one person whom you so honor returns in the party to Versailles—is it not so?" asked de Sauvré, bravely.
"Naturally her Majesty returns to Versailles."
"She holds a salon that evening," muttered de Gêvres to de Coigny, who sat next him.
"Who?—The Queen?" whispered the marshal in his turn.
"I don't know. We are not really speaking of the Queen?"
"D'Argenson, you hold the supper-list for Choisy. I—a—would speak with you about invitations later this evening. You will be in the Salle des Pendules at an early hour."
D'Argenson bowed.
The supper-list? Deborah was upon that. Richelieu breathed deeply. Was he wrong in his fears? And yet, was it possible that this secrecy should be used in the installation of a new favorite? Certainly none at that table except Maurepas was any more enlightened concerning this affair than he was himself. He scanned the faces around him. De Sauvré and Coigny were unconcerned. Veiled curiosity was perceptible in the eyes of d'Epernon and Penthièvre. D'Argenson, like a very young diplomat, appeared reflective, and inclined to conjecture by analysis the real object of his forthcoming interview with the King. And de Gêvres, whose face was invariably set in an expression of bored indifference, had now something in the line of mouth and eyes that gave his countenance a suggestion of alertness and satisfaction. Richelieu concluded his scrutiny with even less hope than he had begun it. However, since the table were eating with good appetite, he made shift to follow, and forget himself as far as might be in a well-seasoned ragout of pigeon.
"Vol-au-vent is certainly a charming dish!" cried Louis, presently, harking back to his favorite pursuit.
"And of what is it made, Sire? Is it—sweet?"