The comte Jean had scarcely returned an hour, when we received a letter from M. Morand, stating, that he had gone, in consequence of the instructions of comte Jean, to the comtesse de Bearn; that he had found the lady pliant enough on the first point, and disposed to content herself with the half of the sum originally demanded; that on point the second, I mean the appointments of herself and son, she would come to no compromise, and stuck hard and fast to the written promise of the king; that he, Morand, thought this an obstacle not to be overcome unless we subscribed to her wishes. This letter put me in an excessively ill-humor. I saw my presentation deferred till doom’s day, or, at least, adjourned _sine die_. I questioned my friends: the unanimous advice was that I ought to mention it to the king at one of his evening visits; and I determined to do so without loss of time. When his majesty came I received him very graciously, and then said to him, “Congratulate me, sire; I have found my godmother.” “Ah, so much the better.” (I know that, at the bottom of his heart, he said “so much the _worse_.”) “And who,” asked the king, with impatience, “may the lady be?” “Madame de Bearn, a lady of quality in her own right, and of high nobility on her husband’s side.” “Yes, he was a _garde du corps_, and the son has just left the pages. Ah! she will present you then. That’s well; I shall feel favored by her.” “Would it not be best, sire, to tell her so yourself?” “Yes, yes, certainly; but after the ceremony.” “And why not previously?” “Why? because I do not wish to appear to have forced your presentation.” “Well, then,” I replied, striking the floor with my foot, “you will not do for me what you would do for a woman who is a complete stranger to you. Many thanks for your excessive kindness.” “Well, well, do not scold. Anger does not become you.” “No more than this indifference suits you; it is cruel. If you recede from saying a word, what will you do when I tell you of the conditions of madame de Bearn?” “What does the good comtesse ask for?” “Things past conception.” “What?” “She has stipulations unlimited.” “But what are they then?” “A hundred thousand livres for herself.” “What, only that? We will grant so much.” “Then a regiment for her son.” “Oh, he is the wood they make colonels of, and if he behave well--” “But then! She wishes to be annexed in some station or other to the household of the future _dauphine_.” “Oh, that is impossible: all the selections have been made: but we will make an equivalent by placing one of her family about the person of one of the princes, my grandson. Is this all?” “Yes, sire, that is all, with one small formality excepted. This lady, who is one of much punctilio, only considers _written_ engagements as binding. She wishes for one word in your majesty’s hand-writing--”