Louis eyed both with distaste. The Maréchal smiled and waited. “If I sign, will you help me with La Chateauroux?” asked Louis at length. M. de Richelieu lifted his shoulder with an expressive gesture. “What do you want me to do with her?” he demanded, putting letter and pen on the mantelpiece. “Do with her?” repeated the King impatiently. “Get her into a convent, send her back to her husband, find her another, banish her to the country, promise her anything, as long as you get her out of the palace. The Marquise absolutely refuses to allow her to remain.” “If I make Madame de Chateauroux leave the Louvre peaceably I shall want more than your Majesty’s signature to that paper,” replied the Marshal. “You promised yesterday you would see her for me,” protested Louis. “When I was not sober,” said M. de Richelieu; “and afterwards you told her she should stay.” “Well, I was not sober either,” responded the King sullenly. “Can you not accuse her of treason and get her into the Bastille? Nothing less will stop her tongue. Get rid of her so that I never see her again, and I will make your Vauvenargues anything you wish.” “Mon Dieu,” responded the Marshal, “your Majesty drives a hard bargain; if Madame la Duchesse was to hear you she would buy us both a potion from the old witch in the Rue du Bac.” Louis shivered. “I consulted her yesterday,” he said, lowering his voice; “she was very vague. I think Madame la Duchesse pays her to deceive me, for she said I had better beware of the Marquise and the atheist who is her friend--that is M. de Voltaire.” The Duke took the now dry quill, redipped it in the ink, and presented it to Louis. “Sign, sire,” he said amiably, “and we will discuss La Chateauroux afterwards.” With an impatient exclamation the King scrawled his signature to the few lines of writing in the Maréchal’s beautiful hand. “That appoints M. de Vauvenargues secretary to the next embassy to Spain,” remarked M. de Richelieu, “and is a clear affront to M. Amelot, who has his nephew preparing for the post,” he added with malicious levity as he rang the silver and sardonyx hand-bell on the desk. An usher in white livery instantly appeared. M. de Richelieu gave him the note, folded carelessly across. “For the Minister of Foreign Affairs,” he said. When they were alone again Louis sighed discontentedly. “I shall be plagued out of my life,” he complained. “No, sire,” replied M. de Richelieu. “I told M. Amelot yesterday to write to this young man and command him to the Louvre to-day, and that your Majesty intended giving him a post.” “Impudent!” cried Louis. “You took all this upon yourself? Really, Maréchal, you might as well be King of France.” “I suppose,” replied the Duke, “I should fill the position as well as your Majesty.” “I suppose you would,” agreed the King indifferently. “Meanwhile--suggest something to pass the time.” The Maréchal mentioned several amusements, all of which the King languidly rejected.