“thirty-nine millions two hundred and sixty thousand livres make a good round sum.”
“Ah, Bernouin; I wish the king had it.”
“Your eminence told me that this money was his majesty’s.”
“Doubtless, as clear, as transparent as possible. These thirty-nine millions are bespoken, and much more.”
Bernouin smiled after his own fashion — that is, like a man who believes no more than he is willing to believe — whilst preparing the cardinal’s night draught, and putting his pillow to rights.
“Oh!” said Mazarin, when the valet had gone out; “not yet forty millions! I must, however, attain that sum, which I had