“Then that is agreed,” said the king, “and that is all I had to say to you.”
“But on what day will this ball take place?” asked Anne of Austria.
Louis XIII felt instinctively that he ought not to reply to this question, the queen having put it in an almost dying voice.
“Oh, very shortly, Madame,” said he; “but I do not precisely recollect the date of the day. I will ask the cardinal.”
“It was the cardinal, then, who informed you of this fête?”
“Yes, Madame,” replied the astonished king; “but why do you ask that?”
“It was he who told you to invite me to appear with these studs?”
“That is to say, Madame—”
“It was he, sire, it was he!”
“Well, and what does it signify whether it was he or I? Is there any crime in this request?”
“No, sire.”
“Then you will appear?”
“Yes, sire.”
“That is well,” said the king, retiring, “that is well; I count upon it.”
The queen made a curtsy, less from etiquette than because her knees were sinking under her. The king went away enchanted.
“I am lost,” murmured the queen, “lost!—for the cardinal knows all, and it is he who urges on the king, who as yet knows nothing but will