“No, sire,” replied M. de Richelieu. “I told M. Amelot yesterday to write to this young man and command him to the Louvre to-day, and that your Majesty intended giving him a post.”
“Impudent!” cried Louis. “You took all this upon yourself? Really, Maréchal, you might as well be King of France.”
“I suppose,” replied the Duke, “I should fill the position as well as your Majesty.”
“I suppose you would,” agreed the King indifferently. “Meanwhile—suggest something to pass the time.”
The Maréchal mentioned several amusements, all of which the King languidly rejected.
“Well, then, some business!” exclaimed M. de Richelieu. He snatched up a blue portfolio with gold ribbons and opened it, scattering the papers over the desk. “All these to be read, considered, and signed—M. de Voltaire’s instructions on his secret embassy to Berlin—the war—the question about the Chevalier St. George—the Austrian affair—Canada—Flanders—”
“Mon Dieu!” cried Louis impatiently. “How many more?”
“A great many, sire.”
Louis cursed his Minister wearily, crossed to the desk, took up the pen, and began signing the documents, one after another, as the Maréchal, laughing, put them before him.
“I would never have employed this Voltaire,” he remarked with an air of distaste, “but the Marquise says he is a great man.”