“I must go to Versailles,” he said.
“And what will you do there?”
“I know not; but what am I doing here?”
“You keep me company. It certainly can not be very amusing for you, and I will not in any way seek to detain you. But do you forget that your mother is dead?”
“No, sir. I promised her to consecrate to you the life that you gave me. I will come back, but I must go. I really can not stay in this place any longer.”
“And why, if I may ask?”
“My desperate love is the only reason. I love Mademoiselle d’Annebault madly.”
“But you know that it is useless. It is only Molière who contrives successful matches without dowries. Do you forget too the disfavor with which I am regarded?”
“Ah! sir, that disfavor! Might I be allowed, without deviating from the profound respect I owe you, to ask what caused it? We do not belong to the Parliament. We pay the tax; we do not order it. If the Parliament stints the King’s purse, it is his affair, not ours. Why should M. l’Abbé Chauvelin drag us into his ruin?”
“Monsieur l’Abbé Chauvelin acts as an honest man. He refuses to approve the ‘dixiéme’ tax because he is disgusted at the prodigality of the court. Nothing of this kind would have taken place in the days of Madame de Chateauroux! She was beautiful, at least, that woman, and did not cost us anything, not even what she so generously gave. She was sovereign mistress, and declared that she would be satisfied if the King did not send her to rot in some dungeon when he should be pleased to withdraw his good graces from her. But this Étioles, this le Normand, this insatiable Poisson!”