“This is what we are thinking about now: The King no longer loves the marquise, and nobody believes that he ever loved her. She has just committed an imprudence; she has set the whole Parliament against her with her ‘two sous’ tax, and to-day she dares attack a far greater power—the Society of Jesuits. She will fail, but she has weapons, and, before perishing, she will defend herself.”
“Well, madame, what can I do?”
“I will tell you. M. de Choiseul has half quarreled with M. de Bernis; neither of them is sure what it is he would like to attempt. Bernis is going away; Choiseul will take his place. A word from you can decide it.”
“In what way, madame, pray?”
“By allowing your story of the other day to be told.”
“What earthly connection can there be between my visit, the Jesuits, and the Parliament?”
“Write me one word and the marquise is lost. And do not doubt that the warmest interest, the most complete gratitude—”
“I humbly beg your pardon again, madame, but what you are asking of me would be an act of cowardice.”
“Is there any honor in politics?”
“I know nothing of all that. Madame de Pompadour let her fan fall before me; I picked it up; I gave it back to her; she thanked me; she permitted me with that peculiar grace of hers to thank her in my turn.”