I tell you, against both. I tell you that the queen does not love me; I tell you that she loves another; I tell you that she loves this infamous Duke of Buckingham! Why did not you arrest him, whilst he was in Paris?”
“Arrest the duke! arrest the prime minister of Charles I. Think, sire, what a commotion! And then, if the suspicions of your majesty had any foundation, which I much doubt, what a dreadful exposure—what horrible scandal.”
“But if he exposed himself to it, like a vagabond and a pilferer, he ought—”
Louis stopped, catching himself on the verge of a dreadful expression, whilst Richelieu, stretching out his neck, in vain expected the word which hung upon the king’s lips.
“He ought—”
“Nothing,” said the king, “nothing. But,” added he, “during all the time that he was in Paris, you did not ever lose sight of him?”
“Never, sire!”
“Where did he reside?”
“In the Rue de la Harpe, at No. 75.”
“Where is that?”
“Near the Luxembourg.”
“And you are certain that the queen and he did not see each other?”
“I believe that the queen is too much attached to her duty, sire!”
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