The volatile Duke was soon weary of handing out the papers; he hurried them, signed and unsigned, back into the portfolio.
“It is time for the audience with the new envoy from Russia,” he said, glancing at the pale pink marble clock.
Louis cast down his pen and moved away towards the window, from which he could see the dusty gold prospect of Paris, and the tawny glitter of the river, and the flutter of the trees in the palace garden and along the quays.
“Maréchal,” he said reflectively, “I am much loved in Paris. Yesterday when I drove out there was the very mob shouting. I think I shall go to the war again,” he added—“to Flanders.”
“To please Paris, sire?” asked the Maréchal, who, now the King’s back was turned, was skilfully abstracting from the portfolio some of the papers which happened to be against the interest of certain friends of his. “Certainly the people like nothing better than a hero.”
Louis laughed with a depth of bitterness that was surprisingly in contrast to the almost stupid apathy of his usual demeanour.
“I was well trained to be a hero to please the French,” he said. He turned and laid his white right hand, still strong for all its idle slackness, on M. de Richelieu’s shoulder. “Come, Maréchal, let us attend our audience.”
The Duke closed the portfolio with an air of nonchalance and rose; the King’s hand slipped to his arm and rested there on the Duke’s black sleeve that was stiff with coloured sequin embroidery.
The two—the King still leaning on the Maréchal’s arm—left His Majesty’s private apartments for the long galleries of the Louvre.
As M. de Richelieu was lifting the purple curtain from the entrance of the antechamber of the audience room he saw a solitary young man coming down the corridor.