I well remember what M. de Fleury said of
him to the king in my presence. "Sire," said he, "the thing I
most dread in the world next to a bite from M. d'Ayen, is the
bite of a mad dog." For my own part, I did not in the end look
upon him with less terror, and well he paid me for my fears.
Upon one occasion, when the king was speaking of me to him, he
said, "I am well aware that I succeed St. Foix."
"Yes, sire"; replied the duke, "in the same manner as your majesty
succeeds Pharamond!"
I never forgave him those words, dictated by a fiendish malice.
However, upon the evening of my first introduction to him, he
behaved to me with the most marked politeness. I was then an
object of no consequence to his interests, and his vision had not
yet revealed to him the height I was destined to attain. He looked
upon me but as one of those meteors which sparkled and shone in
the castle at Versailles for twenty-four hours, and sank to rise
no more.
The duc de Duras was not an ill-disposed person, but inconceivably
stupid; indeed, wit was by no means a family inheritance. Both
father and son, good sort of people in other respects, were for
ever saying or doing some good thing in support of their reputation
for stupidity at court. One day the king quite jokingly inquired
of the duc de Duras, what was done with the old moons.
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