“Will your highness be seated?” he said smoothly. “Had I known that they would find you at Poissy, I should have prepared a more suitable reception.”
Finding that he was known, the Duke of Orleans flung himself into a chair by the fire and tore off his mask, disclosing a flushed and angry but frightened face.
“As usual,” he said sullenly, “I have been treated with malice. I am always persecuted, I tell you, monsignor; my brother shall hear my version of this.”
Richelieu looked at him with fierce eyes.
“His majesty has already heard your highness many times,” he remarked dryly. “The story is always much the same.”
“I have been badly used,” retorted Monsieur. “If anything goes wrong, I am always the one to be blamed; if any man is a traitor, I am always accused of being his accomplice, yet no brother could love the king more dearly than I!”
“Your highness has a singular way of showing your affection,” Richelieu rejoined calmly. “It should be remembered that the King of France is the state, and he who fosters conspiracy against the state fosters it against his majesty.”
“You are fond of giving me advice, monsignor,” d’Orléans said sullenly, “but you cannot prove—this time—that I have singed my fingers.”
“Ah, M. le Prince, that is an old argument,” returned the cardinal, “and you and I are old friends. Let us remember M. de Montmorency and M. de Chalais, and a few more whom I might name, and then let us adjust our thoughts to the matter in hand.”
Monsieur made no reply; he thrust his feet out before the fire and sank deeper into his chair. Richelieu looked at him from head to foot, with a glance that was full of the most profound contempt.