“Have you any commands for Paris, Hyacinth?” repeated Lord Fareham, his wife being for the moment too surprised to answer him. “Or have you, sister? I am starting for France to-morrow. I shall ride to Dover—lying a night at Sittingbourne, perhaps—and cross by the Packet that goes twice a week to Calais.” “Paris! And pray, my lord, what business takes you to Paris?” “There is a great collection of books to be sold there next week. The library of your old admirer, Nicolas Fouquet, whom you knew in his splendour, but who has been a prisoner at Pignerol for a year and a half.” “Poor wretch!” cried De Malfort, “I was at the Chamber with Madame de Sévigné very often during his long tedious trial. Mon dieu! what courage, what talent he showed in defending himself! Every safeguard of the law was violated in order to silence him and prove him guilty; his papers seized in his absence, no friend or servant allowed to protect his interest, no inventory taken—documents suppressed that might have served for his defence, forgeries inserted by his foes. He had an implacable enemy, and he the highest in the land. He was the scapegoat of the past, and had to answer for a system of plunder that made Mazarin the richest man in France.” “I don’t wonder that Louis was angry with a servant who had the insolence to entertain his Majesty with a splendour that surpassed his own,” said Lady Fareham. “I should like to have been at those fêtes at Vaux. But although Fareham talks so lightly of travelling to Paris to choose a few dusty books, he has always discouraged me from going there to see old friends, and my own house—which I grieve to think of—abandoned to the carelessness of servants.” “Dearest, the cleverest woman in the world cannot be in two places at once; and it seems to me you have ever had your days here so full of agreeable engagements that you can have scarcely desired to leave London,” answered Fareham, with his grave smile. “To leave London—no! But there have been long moping months in Oxfordshire when it would have been a relief to change the scene.” “Then, indeed, had you been very earnest in wanting such a change, I am sure you would have taken it. I have never forbidden your going to Paris, nor refused to accompany you there. You may go with me to-morrow, if you can be ready.” “Which you know I cannot, or you would scarce make so liberal an offer.” “Très chère, you are pleased to be petulant. But I repeat my question. Is there anything you want at Paris?”