“Sane!” he said furiously; “no one will think we are sane. King Frederick will laugh at us and curse too. Oh, if I were in Versailles or the old Cardinal here!”
He rang the elegant bell on the table and his valet instantly appeared.
“Draw the curtains,” ordered the Maréchal.
The man pulled back the soft straw-coloured silk from the blackness of the window.
“Open the casement.”
The valet obeyed; a blast of frozen air set the lamp flickering.
“What manner of night is it?” asked the Maréchal.
“Snowing, Monseigneur,” shivered the valet.
The heavy flakes whirled in out of the darkness and settled on the polished floor; the Maréchal looked at them in a bitter absorption.
“Close the window,” cried M. de Broglie; he was blenching in the deep cold that had in an instant chilled the luxurious little chamber.