The Strangled Queen. Морис Дрюон
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‘I know, Nephew, I am thinking of nothing else,’ replied Valois, his brow wrinkled in thought.
Artois, standing face to face with The Hutin, whose forehead came up only to his shoulder, said to him in a whisper that could have been heard twenty yards away, ‘If you are afraid of a celibate life, Cousin, I can always furnish your bed with charming young females, whom the promise of a purse of gold and the vanity of pleasuring the King would render most agreeable to you.’
He spoke with a certain relish, as if of a fine roast or a dish with an exquisite sauce.
Monseigneur of Valois spread out his ring-laden hands.
‘Of what use is an annulment to you, Louis,’ he said, ‘so long as you have not chosen the new woman you wish to marry? Don’t be so anxious about your annulment; a Sovereign can always obtain one in the end. What you need to do at once is to set about finding the wife who will make a suitable figure as queen beside you and give you a fine posterity.’
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