“Who had a son, had she not?”

“I believe she had,” replied the duke, with careless naivete and a complaisant forgetfulness, of which no words could translate the tone and the vocal expression.

“Now, here is poor Raoul, who is your son, I believe.”

“Yes, he is my son, monseigneur.”

“And the poor lad has been cut out by the king, and he frets.”

“Still better, monseigneur, he abstains.”

“You are going to let the boy rust in idleness; it is a mistake. Come, give him to me.”

“My wish is to keep him at home, monseigneur. I have no longer anything in the world but him, and as long as he likes to remain —