“Where is your letter?”
He was no longer the “marquis” of the night before, and, this time, there was no Duc d’Aumont. The chevalier lowered his eyes sadly, and noticed that his white stockings and Rhinestone buckles were covered with dust. He had made the mistake of coming on foot, in a region where no one walked. The gatekeeper also bent his eyes, and scanned him, not from head to foot, but from foot to head. The dress seemed neat enough, but the hat was rather askew, and the hair lacked powder.
“You have no letter. What do you wish?”
“I wish to speak to Madame de Pompadour.”
“Really! And you think this is the way it is done?”
“I know nothing about it. Is the King here?”
“Perhaps. Go about your business and leave me alone.”
The chevalier did not wish to lose his temper, but, in spite of himself, this insolence made him turn pale.
“I sometimes have told a lackey to go away,” he replied, “but a lackey never said so to me.”
“Lackey! I a lackey?” exclaimed the enraged gatekeeper.