“For the Bastille?”

“No; for Vincennes.”

“That will do very well.  Fill it up, Louvois!  Put this villain’s name in it!  Let him be arrested to-night, and taken there in his own caleche.  The shameless, ungrateful, foul-mouthed villain!  Why did you bring me these letters, Louvois?  Oh, why did you yield to my foolish whim?  My God, is there no truth, or honour, or loyalty in the world?” He stamped his feet, and shook his clenched hands in the air in the frenzy of his anger and disappointment.

“Shall I, then, put back the others?” asked Louvois eagerly.  He had been on thorns since the king had begun to read them, not knowing what disclosures might come next.

“Put them back, but keep the bag.”

“Both bags?”

“Ah!  I had forgot the other one.  Perhaps if I have hypocrites around me, I have at least some honest subjects at a distance.  Let us take one haphazard.  Who is this from?  Ah! it is from the Duc de la Rochefoucauld.  He has ever seemed to be a modest and dutiful young man.  What has he to say?  The Danube—­Belgrade—­the grand vizier—­Ah!” He gave a cry as if he had been stabbed.

“What, then, sire?” The minister had taken a step forward, for he was frightened by the expression upon the king’s face.

“Take them away, Louvois!  Take them away!” he cried, pushing the pile of papers away from him.  “I would that I had never seen them!  I will look at them no more!  He gibes even at my courage, I who was in the trenches when he was in his cradle!  ‘This war would not suit the king,’ he says.  ’For there are battles, and none of the nice little safe sieges which are so dear to him.’  By God, he shall pay to me with his head for that jest!  Ay, Louvois, it will be a dear gibe to him.  But take them away.  I have seen as much as I can bear.”

The minister was thrusting them back into the bag when suddenly his eye caught the bold, clear writing of Madame de Maintenon upon one of the letters.  Some demon whispered to him that here was a weapon which had been placed in his hands, with which he might strike one whose very name filled him with jealousy and hatred.  Had she been guilty of some indiscretion in this note, then he might even now, at this last hour, turn the king’s heart against her.  He was an astute man, and in an instant he had seen his chance and grasped it.

“Ha!” said he, “it was hardly necessary to open this one.”

“Which, Louvois?  Whose is it?”

The minister pushed forward the letter, and Louis started as his eyes fell upon it.

“Madame’s writing!” he gasped.

“Yes; it is to her nephew in Germany.”

Louis took it in his hand.  Then, with a sudden motion, he threw it down among the others, and then yet again his hand stole towards it.  His face was gray and haggard, and beads of moisture had broken out upon his brow.  If this too were to prove to be as the others!  He was shaken to the soul at the very thought.  Twice he tried to pluck it out, and twice his trembling fingers fumbled with the paper.  Then he tossed it over to Louvois.  “Read it to me,” said he.