I undertook it only to obey the king, and in no way for the irksome privilege of being your preceptor. And to convince you of this truth I am now going to take you to His Majesty and beg of him to appoint some one else whose care of you will, I hope, be more successful than mine.” This was no idle threat; for Fénelon had always been determined to resign the tutorship as soon as he felt himself to be failing in it; and the prince was obliged to weigh his pride against his love. His love proved the greater; for life had been very different with him since Fénelon came into it, and no sacrifice of his vanity was too galling if he might cancel his offense and keep his friend. Moreover, he was sensitive to the last degree to public opinion and the faintest shadow of disgrace. What would the world think of a prince who was so hopelessly naughty that a man so universally admired and respected was forced to give him up, and what would become of the poor little boy to whom his nearest relatives were, after all, only “His Majesty” and “Monseigneur,” if the dear, kind preceptor, who loved him and devoted himself so entirely to him, were to go away? Poor Louis! The storm broke out anew; but this time it was of penitence and shame and regret, while with passionate sobs and tears he cried out: “O Monsieur, I am so sorry for what I did yesterday. If you tell the king he will not care for me any more; and what will people think if you leave me? I promise, O I promise ever so much, that you shall not have to complain of me if only you will promise not to go.” But Fénelon would promise nothing—the lesson would be lost if it were not sharp—and for a whole day he allowed the duke to undergo the pangs of anxiety and uncertainty. But at last, when his repentance seemed unlikely to be soon forgotten, Madame de Maintenon’s intercession was admitted, and the preceptor consented to remain.