who comes from traveling and begs to present her respects to your majesty."
"Let us have Chon in, for I have missed something lately, and it may be her."
"I thank your majesty," said Chon, coming in, and hastening to whisper to her sister in kissing her:
"I have done it."
The countess could not repress an outcry of delight.
"I am so glad to see her."
"Quite so; go on and chat with her while I confer with Sartines to learn whence you come, Chon."
"Sire," said Sartines, eager to avoid the pinch, "may I have a moment for the most important matter?—about these seers, illuminati, miracle workers——"
"Quacks? make them take out licenses as conjurers at a high figure, and they will not be any cause of fear."
"Sire, the situation is more serious than most believe. New masonic lodges are being opened. This society has become a sect to which is affiliated all the foes of the monarchy, the idealists, encyclopedists and philosophers. Voltaire has been received at court."
"A dying man."
"Only his pretense. All are agitating, writing, speaking, corresponding, plotting and threatening. From some words dropped, they are expecting a leader."
"When he turns up, Sartines, we will turn him down, in the Bastille."
"These philosophers whom you despise will destroy the monarchy."
"In what space of time, my lord?"
"How can I tell?" said the chief of police, looking astonished. "Ten, fifteen or more years."
"My dear friend, in that time I shall be no more; tell this to my successor."
He turned away, and this was the opportunity that the favorite was waiting for, since she heaved a sigh, and said:
"Oh, gracious, Chon, what are you telling me? My poor brother Jean so badly wounded that his arm will have to be amputated!"
"Oh, wounded in some street affray or in a drinking-saloon quarrel?"
"No, sire! attacked on the king's highway and nearly murdered."
"Murdered?" repeated the ruler, who had no feelings, but could finely feign them. "This is in your province, Sartines."
"Can such a thing have happened?" said the chief of police, apparently less concerned than the king, but in reality more so.
"I saw a man spring on my brother," said Chon, "force him to draw his sword and cut him grievously."
"Was the ruffian alone?"
"He had half a dozen bullies with him."
"Poor viscount forced to fight," sighed the monarch, trying to regulate the amount of his grief by the countess'; but he saw that she was not pretending.
"And wounded?" he went on, in a heartbroken tone.
"But what was the scuffle about?" asked the police lieutenant, trying to see into the affair.
"Most frivolous; about posthorses, disputed for with the viscount, who was in a hurry to help me home to my sister, whom I had promised to join this morning."
"This requires retaliation, eh, Sartines?" said the king.
"It looks so, but I will inquire into it. The aggressor's name and rank?"
"I believe he is a military officer, in the dauphiness' dragoon guards, and named something like Baverne, or Faver—stop—it is Taverney."
"To-morrow he will sleep in prison," said the chief of police.
"Oh, dear, no," interrupted the countess out of deep silence; "that is not likely, for he is but an instrument and you will not punish the real instigators of the outrage. It is the work of the Duke of Choiseul. I shall leave the field free for my foes, and quit a realm where the ruler is daunted by his ministers."
"How dare you?" cried Louis, offended.
Chon understood that her sister was going too far, and she struck in.
She plucked her sister by the dress and said:
"Sire, my sister's love for our poor brother carries her away. I committed the fault and I must repair it. As the most humble subject of your majesty, I merely apply for justice."
"That is good; I only ask to deal justice. If the man has done wrong, let him be chastised."
"Am I asking anything else?" said the countess, glancing pityingly at the monarch, who was so worried elsewhere and seldom tormented in her rooms. "But I do not like my suspicions snubbed."
"Your suspicions shall be changed to certainty by a very simple course. We will have the Duke of Choiseul here. We will confront the parties at odds, as the lawyers say."
At this moment the usher opened the door and announced that the prince royal was waiting in the king's apartments to see him.
"It is written I shall have no peace," grumbled Louis. But he was not sorry to avoid the wrangle with Choiseul, and he brightened up. "I am going, countess. Farewell! you see how miserable I am with everybody pulling me about. Ah, if the philosophers only knew what a dog's life a king has—especially when he is king of France."
"But what am I say to the Duke of Choiseul?"
"Send him to me, countess."
Kissing her hand, trembling with fury, he hastened away as usual, fearing every time to lose the fruit of a battle won by palliatives and common cunning.
"Alas! he escapes us again!" wailed the courtesan, clenching her plump hands in vexation.
Chapter XVII.
A Royal Clock-repairer.
In the Hall of the Clocks, in Versailles Palace, a pink-cheeked and meek-eyed young gentleman was walking about with a somewhat vulgar step. His arms were pendent and his head sunk forward. He was in his seventeenth year. He was recognizable as the king's heir by being the living image of the Bourbon race, most exaggerated. Louis Auguste, Duke of Berry and heir to the throne as the dauphin, soon wearied of his lounge and stopped to gaze with the air of one who understood horology, on the great clock in the back of the hall. It was a universal machine, which told of time to the century, with the lunar phases and the courses of the planets, and was always the prince's admiration.
Suddenly the hands on which his eyes were fastened came to a standstill. A grain of sand had checked the mechanism, and the master-piece was dead.
On seeing this misfortune, the royal one forgot what he had come to do. He opened the clock-case glazed door, and put his head inside to see what was the matter. All at once he uttered a cry
