“Oh, it is as good a subject as another, sire,” returned M. de Richelieu good-humouredly, “and I do not often ask your Majesty for favours.” “No,” retorted Louis; “you generally take them.” He yawned, and sighed, and glanced distastefully round the room. “Come, sire,” urged M. de Richelieu, “it is only a few words to M. Amelot.” “I tell you he never takes my advice,” answered the King; “and I really know nothing about his business, so I have to be silent when he speaks, which makes our interviews very dull. Besides, I do not like him, and I do not wish to see him.” “Write him a note, then,” returned M. de Richelieu, coming from the window. “Mon Dieu, Maréchal,” said Louis peevishly, “I am not sure that I like your protégé either.” “You do not know him, sire,” replied the Maréchal, surprised. “Yes, I do. He wandered into my pavilion at Versailles. I think he is a little insane. Besides,” added His Majesty with some touch of animation, “he does not believe in God.” “Neither do I,” responded the Duke gaily. “I know, my dear Maréchal, and it lies on my conscience that I give you my countenance,” said the King with a melancholy sigh. “But I pray for you,” he added sincerely. “Your Majesty can pray for M. de Vauvenargues,” replied M. de Richelieu. Louis frowned. “Do you think I can put up prayers for every heretic and disbeliever in the kingdom? As for your Vauvenargues, why are you so eager to oblige him?” The Maréchal lifted his eyebrows and gave a whimsical little smile. “Because he obliged me once, and I do not wish to be indebted to the fellow.” “You can give him a post in Languedoc,” said the King obstinately. “He will not take it--he must not know that I am behind this--he thinks anything from me would be a bribe.” “Oh, he is one of that type, is he?” said Louis, leaning back on his cushions wearily. “I thought so. Well, I do not like them.” He selected another bonbon, then threw it down with disgust. “Nevertheless,” persisted M. de Richelieu calmly, “your Majesty is going to ask M. Amelot to give this young man a post in the next embassy to Madrid.” Louis was silent a moment; his soft, great eyes had a brooding look. “What does he know about you?” he asked at length with some interest. “Oh, it is not an amusing story,” replied the Maréchal, seating himself at a little desk that stood in a corner and commencing to write. Louis rose to his full splendid height and crossed to the chimneypiece; his dark blue satins, embroidered with steel, his paste buttons and buckles glittered from the head to the foot of his magnificent person. He yawned, took a spray of jasmine from a black enamel vase, and fastened it into the rich folds of his cravat. “What are you writing, Maréchal?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “Your letter to M. Amelot, sire.” “How I dislike people who make me do what I do not want to do,” complained the King reflectively. M. de Richelieu brought the letter and a quill over to the King.