Louis shivered.
“I consulted her yesterday,” he said, lowering his voice; “she was very vague. I think Madame la Duchesse pays her to deceive me, for she said I had better beware of the Marquise and the atheist who is her friend—that is M. de Voltaire.”
The Duke took the now dry quill, redipped it in the ink, and presented it to Louis.
“Sign, sire,” he said amiably, “and we will discuss La Chateauroux afterwards.”
With an impatient exclamation the King scrawled his signature to the few lines of writing in the Maréchal’s beautiful hand.
“That appoints M. de Vauvenargues secretary to the next embassy to Spain,” remarked M. de Richelieu, “and is a clear affront to M. Amelot, who has his nephew preparing for the post,” he added with malicious levity as he rang the silver and sardonyx hand-bell on the desk.
An usher in white livery instantly appeared. M. de Richelieu gave him the note, folded carelessly across.
“For the Minister of Foreign Affairs,” he said.
When they were alone again Louis sighed discontentedly.
“I shall be plagued out of my life,” he complained.