"My God! Sire, besides my own particular sins, I have so many sins of other folks' upon my conscience, above all I have . . ."
"You have mine, you would say? Those, Chauvelin, I dispense you from revealing; a man need only confess his own faults."
"Still, Sire, sin is appallingly epidemic at Court. I am but just come, and already I have heard speak of a strange adventure."
"An adventure, Chauvelin, and whom have they credited with this adventure of yours, pray?"
"Whom do they credit with most happy adventures, Sire?"
"Egad!" it should be myself."
"Or perhaps . . ."
"Or perhaps the Comtesse du Barry, eh?"
"You have guessed. Sire?"
"What! the Comtesse du Barry has been sinning? Plague on't, tell me about it, Chauvelin."
"I don't say that the escapade is exactly a sin in itself, I only say it came into my head in talking of sins."
"Now, Marquis, what is this escapade? tell me directly."
"What! directly, Sire? "
"Yes; you know kings are not fond of waiting."
"Sire, the thing is serious."
"Pooh! perhaps a difference of opinion with my little daughter-in-law?"
"Sire, I cannot deny it."
"There, the Countess will end in quarrelling with the Dauphine, and then, my word . . ."
"Sire, I think the Countess is by this time in full quarrel."
"With the Dauphine?"
"No; but with another little daughter-in-law of yours."
"What, the Comtesse de Provence?"
"Precisely."
"Good! a pretty kettle of fish we have now? Look here, Chauvelin; is it the Comtesse de Provence who brings this complaint?"
"So they tell me."
"In that case the Comte de Provence will write the most odious epigrams on my poor Countess. Do what she will, she will be whipped in fine style."
"Then, Sire, 'twill only be a Roland for an Oliver, after all."
"What do you mean?"
"Just think, the Marquise de Rosen "That pretty little brunette, eh? the Comtesse de Provence's friend?"
"Yes, the lady Your Majesty has looked at so often in the last month."
"Oh! I have had scolding enough about it from a certain quarter, Marquis? Well, you say . . ."
"Who scolded you. Sire?"
"Egad! the Countess of course."
Well, Sire, if the Countess has scolded you, she has done more than scold somebody else!"
"Explain yourself, Marquis; you frighten me."
"Egad! Sire, I wish to frighten you."
"What! it is really serious then?"
"Most serious."
"Tell me."
"Well, it seems that . . . thatdo you know, Sire, it is harder to tell about than it was to do."
"Really you frighten me, Marquis. Till now I supposed you were joking. But if there is something really serious that has happened, come, let us be serious about it."
At this moment the Due de Richelieu entered.
"News, Sire," he announced with a smile both ingratiating and uneasy,—the former by way of currying favour with the Monarch, the latter because it was a difficult and doubtful matter to break the influence of this favourite who had been recalled to Versailles after one day's exile.
"News,—and where from, my dear Duke? " inquired the King. Then, looking round, he saw the Marquis de Chauvelin laughing in his sleeve.
"You are laughing, old friend; but you don't look merry," he called to him.
"Sire, the storm is going to break; I can see it by the mournful looks the Due de Richelieu wears."
"You are mistaken. Marquis; I said I had news; very true, but I do not undertake to tell it."
"But how, pray, am I to know it else?"
"A page of Madame de Provence's household is in your antechamber with a letter from his mistress; Your Majesty has only to give your orders."
"Oh, ho!" cried the King, who would have been only too glad to refer all the blame to the Comte or Comtesse de
