“I believe that not a stone in Paris will remain unturned,” put in the marechal.
“It was not your opinion that I asked,” said the queen, sharply, without even turning around.
“If it is I whom your majesty interrogates,” replied the coadjutor in the same calm manner, “I reply that I hold monsieur le marechal’s opinion in every respect.”
The color mounted to the queen’s face; her fine blue eyes seemed to start out of her head and her carmine lips, compared by all the poets of the day to a pomegranate in flower, were trembling with anger.
Mazarin himself, who was well accustomed to the domestic outbreaks of this disturbed household, was alarmed.