The King glanced into the dish, but the flames which danced before his eyes made it impossible to notice the slight trembling of Richelieu's hands. Slowly the contents of his bowl streamed into the rich mixture.
"That is all now. Your linen will burn," observed Louis, as the Duke remained standing before him.
Richelieu started. "Pardon, Sire," he said, absently, as he moved off towards the table.
"And now the sweetbreads and the chicken!" cried his Majesty.
"The vol-au-vent is nearly completed. When shall we announce refreshment?" asked Mouthier, as he bent over and sniffed his invention.
"In fifteen minutes. It is really delightful, Mouthier. Du Plessis, my coat!"
As the Duke helped his sovereign again into the green hunting-coat, he took occasion to whisper, with well-concealed anxiety: "Will your Majesty grant me a favor for the afternoon?"
"What's that?"
"Permit me to sit at table at some distance from—Mme. de Châteauroux."
The King shot a swift look into his gentleman's eyes, and it seemed as though he would speak. Richelieu knew from the glance that the fatal list had already been seen, though not executed, by the master of Versailles. "Sit where you choose. It will be as usual—hors d'étiquette," he said, at length, with indifference. And then, when the others came up, after recoating themselves, his Majesty led the way back to the salons.