“I will see,” said Louis, “that your friend the Chevalier is placed under arrest at once, and as much for his attempt upon your life as for the unstable quality of his political opinions, the law shall deal with him—conclusively.” He sighed. “It always pains me to proceed to extremes against a man of his stamp. To deprive a fool of his head seems a work of supererogation.”
I inclined my head, and smiled at his pleasantry. Louis the just rarely permitted himself to jest, and when he did his humour was as like unto humour as water is like unto wine. Still, when a monarch jests, if you are wise, if you have a favour to sue, or a position at Court to seek or to maintain, you smile, for all that the ineptitude of his witless wit be rather provocative of sorrow.
“Nature needs meddling with at times,” hazarded La Fosse, from behind His Majesty's chair. “This Saint-Eustache is a sort of Pandora's box, which it is well to close ere—”
“Go to the devil,” said the King shortly. “We are not jesting. We have to do justice.”
“Ah! Justice,” murmured La Fosse; “I have seen pictures of the lady. She covers her eyes with a bandage, but is less discreet where the other beauties of her figure are in question.”
His Majesty blushed. He was above all things a chaste-minded man, modest as a nun. To the immodesty rampant about him he was in the habit of closing his eyes and his ears, until the flagrancy or the noise of it grew to proportions to which he might remain neither blind nor deaf.
“Monsieur de la Fosse,” said he in an austere voice, “you weary me, and when people weary me I send them away—which is one of the reasons why I am usually so much alone. I beg that you will glance at that hunting-book, so that when I have done with Monsieur de Bardelys you may give me your impressions of it.”
La Fosse fell back, obedient but unabashed, and, moving to a table by the window, he opened the book Louis had pointed out.
“Now, Marcel, while that buffoon prepares to inform me that the book has been inspired by Diana herself, tell me what else you have to tell.”
“Naught else, Sire.”