“Nevertheless,” persisted M. de Richelieu calmly, “your Majesty is going to ask M. Amelot to give this young man a post in the next embassy to Madrid.”
Louis was silent a moment; his soft, great eyes had a brooding look.
“What does he know about you?” he asked at length with some interest.
“Oh, it is not an amusing story,” replied the Maréchal, seating himself at a little desk that stood in a corner and commencing to write.
Louis rose to his full splendid height and crossed to the chimneypiece; his dark blue satins, embroidered with steel, his paste buttons and buckles glittered from the head to the foot of his magnificent person. He yawned, took a spray of jasmine from a black enamel vase, and fastened it into the rich folds of his cravat.
“What are you writing, Maréchal?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“Your letter to M. Amelot, sire.”
“How I dislike people who make me do what I do not want to do,” complained the King reflectively.
M. de Richelieu brought the letter and a quill over to the King.
Louis eyed both with distaste.