truth, or honour, or loyalty in the world?"
He stamped his feet, and shook his clenched hands in the air in the
frenzy of his anger and disappointment.

"Shall I, then, put back the others?" asked Louvois eagerly. He had
been on thorns since the king had begun to read them, not knowing what
disclosures might come next.

"Put them back, but keep the bag."

"Both bags?"

"Ah! I had forgot the other one. Perhaps if I have hypocrites around
me, I have at least some honest subjects at a distance. Let us take one
haphazard. Who is this from? Ah! it is from the Duc de la
Rochefoucauld. He has ever seemed to be a modest and dutiful young man.
What has he to say? The Danube--Belgrade--the grand vizier--Ah!"
He gave a cry as if he had been stabbed.

"What, then, sire?" The minister had taken a step forward, for he was
frightened by the expression upon the king's face.

"Take them away, Louvois! Take them away!" he cried, pushing the pile
of papers away from him. "I would that I had never seen them! I will
look at them no more! He gibes even at my courage, I who was in the
trenches when he was in his cradle! 'This war would not suit the king,'
he says. 'For there are battles, and none of the nice little safe
sieges which are so dear to him.' By God, he shall pay to me with his
head for that jest! Ay, Louvois, it will be a dear gibe to him.
But take them away. I have seen as much as I can bear."

The minister was thrusting them back into the bag when suddenly his eye
caught the bold, clear writing of Madame de Maintenon upon one of the
letters. Some demon whispered to him that here was a weapon which had
been placed in his hands, with which he might strike one whose very name
filled him with jealousy and hatred. Had she been guilty of some
indiscretion in this note, then he might even now, at this last hour,
turn the king's heart against her. He was an astute man, and in an
instant he had seen his chance and grasped it.

"Ha!" said he, "it was hardly necessary to open this one."

"Which, Louvois? Whose is it?"

The minister pushed forward the letter, and Louis started as his eyes
fell upon it.

"Madame's writing!" he gasped.

"Yes; it is to her nephew in Germany."

Louis took it in his hand. Then, with a sudden motion, he threw it down
among the others, and then yet again his hand stole towards it.
His face was gray and haggard, and beads of moisture had broken out upon
his brow. If this too