One of the Italian gentlemen had hardly finished asking the Marechal what he thought of the way in which the Cardinal treated the daughter of the Duc de Mantua, when he exclaimed, in his familiar language: 

“Heavens, man! what are you talking about? what do I comprehend of this new system under which France is living?  We old companions-in-arms of his late Majesty can ill understand the language spoken by the new court, and that in its turn does not comprehend ours.  But what do I say?  We speak no language in this sad country, for all the world is silent before the Cardinal; this haughty little, vassal looks upon us as merely old family portraits, which occasionally he shortens by the head; but happily the motto always remains.  Is it not true, my dear Puy-Laurens?”

This guest was about the same age as the Marechal, but, being more grave and cautious, he answered in vague and few words, and made a sign to his contemporary in order to induce him to observe the unpleasant emotions which he had caused the mistress of the house by reminding her of the recent death of her husband and in speaking thus of the minister, his friend.  But it was in vain, for Bassompierre, pleased with the sign of half-approval, emptied at one draught a great goblet of wine—­a remedy which he lauds in his Memoirs as infallible against the plague and against reserve; and leaning back to receive another glass from his esquire, he settled himself more firmly than ever upon his chair, and in his favorite ideas.

“Yes, we are in the way here; I said so the other day to my dear Duc de Guise, whom they have ruined.  They count the minutes that we have to live, and shake the hour-glass to hasten the descent of its sands.  When Monsieur le Cardinal-Duc observes in a corner three or four of our tall figures, who never quitted the side of the late King, he feels that he is unable to move those statues of iron, and that to do it would require the hand of a great man; he passes quickly by, and dares not meddle with us, who fear him not.  He believes that we are always conspiring; and they say at this very moment that there is talk of putting me in the Bastille.”

“Eh!  Monsieur le Marechal, why do you delay your departure?” said the Italian.  “I know of no place, except Flanders, where you can find shelter.”

“Ah, Monsieur! you do not know me.  So far from flying, I sought out the King before his departure, and told him that I did so in order to save people the trouble of looking for me; and that if I knew when he wished to send me, I would go myself without being taken.  He was as kind as I expected him to be, and said to me, ’What, my old friend, could you have thought that I desired to send you there?  You know well that I love you.’”

“Ah, my dear Marechal, let me compliment you,” said Madame d’Effiat, in a soft voice.  “I recognize the benevolence of the King in these words; he remembers the affection which the King, his father, had toward you.  It appears to me that he always accorded to you all that you desired for your friends,” she added, with animation, in order to put him into the track of praise, and to beguile him from the discontent which he had so loudly declared.