"
"Alas," I replied, "how? Shall I give him a new tragedy of la
Harpe's,--he will yawn; an opera of Marmontel,--he will go to
sleep. Heavens! how unfortunate I am!"
"Really, my dear," replied the marechale, "I cannot advise you;
but I can quote a powerful example. In such a case madame de
Pompadour would have admitted a rival near the throne."
"Madame de Pompadour was very amiable, my dear," I replied, "and
I would have done so once or twice, but the part of Mother Gourdan
does not suit me; I prefer that of her young ladies."
At these words the marechale laughed, whilst I made a long grave
face. At this instant comte Jean entered, and exclaimed,
"Really, ladies, you present a singular contrast. May I ask you,
sister, what causes this sorrow? What ails you?"
"Oh, brother!" was my response, "the king is dying of ennui."
"That is no marvel," said my brother-in-law.
"And to rouse him," I added, "it is necessary, the marechale says,
that I must take a pretty girl by the hand, and present her to
the king with these words: 'Sire, having found that you grow
tired of me, I present this lady to you, that you may amuse
yourself with her."
'That would be very fine," replied comte Jean; "it would show
him that you had profited by my advice." Then, whispering in my
ear, "You know, sister, I am capable of the greatest sacrifices
for the king.
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