rested was as harmless an one as could be imagined, and surely a very familiar one, for the Comte de Montarnaud had been longer at court by many years than Louis himself. An old man, wigged, painted, padded, decrepit, and courtly, a man whose face nature had made handsome and noble, and seventy years of court life had rendered insignificant, crafty, and cringing. As he perceived that the king would address him, the wizened face lighted with servile joy, and the poor old back bent in a bow so profound that one knew not whether to fear the vertebrae should become dislocated or the peruke tumble off; misfortunes about equal, since one meant death, and the other the royal displeasure. Before either danger was fully overpast the king spoke coldly and haughtily:—
"Monsieur de Montarnaud, you asked permission some time since to marry your eldest son to Mademoiselle de Rochenbois, your ward."
"I had thought of it, your Majesty; but, when your Majesty deigned to remark that you did not like your officers to marry too young, I relinquished"—
"I withdraw my opposition, and permit the marriage. Nay, more: as you have been a faithful servant of my august father as well as of myself, the marriage may take place in the royal chapel; and we shall see if some position about the court can be found for the bride, who will remain here while the vicomte returns to his duty. Where is she now?"
"At the Chateau de Montarnaud, your Majesty."
"In Provence, I believe."
"Yes, your Majesty, near Marseilles."
