“And what will the change cost, sire?”

“Some millions of livres, but then the view will be much improved from the south side.  I have taken in another mile of ground in that direction, for there were a number of poor folk living there, and their hovels were far from pretty.”

“And why have you not ridden to-day, sire?”

“Pah! it brings me no pleasure.  There was a time when my blood was stirred by the blare of the horn and the rush of the hoofs, but now it is all wearisome to me.”

“And hawking too?”

“Yes; I shall hawk no more.”

“But, sire, you must have amusement.”

“What is so dull as an amusement which has ceased to amuse?  I know not how it is.  When I was but a lad, and my mother and I were driven from place to place, with the Fronde at war with us and Paris in revolt, with our throne and even our lives in danger, all life seemed to be so bright, so new, and so full of interest.  Now that there is no shadow, and that my voice is the first in France, as France’s is in Europe, all is dull and lacking in flavour.  What use is it to have all pleasure before me, when it turns to wormwood when it is tasted?”

“True pleasure, sire, lies rather in the inward life, the serene mind, the easy conscience.  And then, as we grow older, is it not natural that our minds should take a graver bent?  We might well reproach ourselves if it were not so, for it would show that we had not learned the lesson of life.”

“It may be so, and yet it is sad and weary when nothing amuses.  But who is there?”

“It is my companion knocking.  What is it, mademoiselle?”

“Monsieur Corneille, to read to the king,” said the young lady, opening the door.

“Ah, yes, sire; I know how foolish is a woman’s tongue, and so I have brought a wiser one than mine here to charm you.  Monsieur Racine was to have come, but I hear that he has had a fall from his horse, and he sends his friend in his place.  Shall I admit him?”

“Oh, as you like, madame, as you like,” said the king listlessly.  At a sign from Mademoiselle Nanon a little peaky man with a shrewd petulant face, and long gray hair falling back over his shoulders, entered the room.  He bowed profoundly three times, and then seated himself nervously on the very edge of the stool, from which the lady had removed her work-basket.  She smiled and nodded to encourage the poet, while the monarch leaned back in his chair with an air of resignation.

“Shall it be a comedy, or a tragedy, or a burlesque pastoral?” Corneille asked timidly.

“Not the burlesque pastoral,” said the king with decision.  “Such things may be played, but cannot be read, since they are for the eye rather than the ear.”

The poet bowed his acquiescence.

“And not the tragedy, monsieur,” said Madame de Maintenon, glancing up from her tapestry.  “The king has enough that is serious in his graver hours, and so I trust that you will use your talent to amuse him.”