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Does not this blood, which is about to flow for all men, cry out to me that all are sinners? And shall I dare, I, to make one exception! No, sire, no! I will not set you apart; I would not wish that your diadem should prevent your receiving today upon your brow, like the humblest of your subjects,— some drops of the blood which purifies and saves

The way was open; he had now but to go on. And not only had the orator decided to omit nothing, but further,―sure henceforth of himself and his courage, he was in no haste to reach the pages of Claude. It was with a kind of pride and pleasure, that he dwelt upon the idea by which he had begun to approach them.

"Wo!" he continued, "wo to him who should keep out of this multitude for which Jesus died! Wo to the king who should imagine that there are two roads to heaven, one for himself, and one for his people.-Or rather yes, yes, there are two. But the narrowest, the most rugged, the one in which aid and pity is the most needed, is that in which walk those men who are surrounded with so many dangers, so many temptations. It is yours, oh kings, oh ye gods of the earth !"

And Bourdaloue then went on to the illusions under which a king labors, as to the nature and extent of his vices. He wheeled around his prey; the circle grew smaller and smaller; it was solemn, terrible.-There was many an old soldier present, whose heart had never before throbbed so quickly.

At last Bourdaloue gave place to Claude. The lion ceased to turn, and walked straight up to the enemy. At the first words of this fresh passage, which, although admirably brought in, yet contrasted somewhat with the preceding phrases, an imperceptible shudder ran through the assembly. Happily, the king cast down his eyes, which somewhat relieved the agonies of those present. If he had but frowned, they would have wished the

earth to swallow them, and we will not answer for what the orator himself would have said or done. But the king did not After having cast down his eyes, he also bent down his

move. head.

It was because once caught in the double net of religion and eloquence, he felt that debate was not longer possible. People of his temper do nothing by halves. That subjugation which had so long taken place to the impure despotism of a mistress, was in this moment transferred to the sacred despotism of faith, morals, and genius. Besides, in lending his weapons to Bourdaloue, Claude had been careful not to mingle with them any of those irritating darts which annoy rather than kill, and which by exasperating the enemy, only restore him all his power. He knew that a word, a single word, is enough to destroy the effect of twenty reasons. A combat of pin-pricks would have appeared to him unworthy of the pulpit, and imprudent, above all, with a man like the king. Blows from a heavy club alone would an

swer.

The

If the chapel had been peopled with statues, the silence could not have been more profound, nor the immovability more perfect. From time to time a sound was audible, like that of a stifled sob; it appeared to proceed from the seats of the queen.-But who would have dared to raise his head, or turn it to see if it was her?-It was the queen in fact. Her tearful eyes, wandered from the king to Bourdaloue, from Bourdaloue to Bossuet. latter might have seen her, but he did not, his eyes, his soul were elsewhere. He had scarcely seen her when he re-entered the chapel, and taken the place from which her supplicating look had driven him before. It was only at the close that their eyes met, and that he read in those of the queen, a gratitude, of which, in fact, he deserved the greater part.

Bourdaloue saw nothing, heard nothing. His eager eyes never

quitted the king;-he held him with his glance, as with his words and gestures. There was no longer the slightest trace of indecision, of terror. He dashed headlong into passages which he had most dreaded beforehand; he pronounced with a vigorous assurance, those words which he had trembled at in reading; and like a soldier, intoxicated with noise and powder, he rejoiced in his triumph, and thirsted for warfare and victory. And now Louis, frown if thou wilt; raise thyself;-raise thine eyes.What is that to him? He knows, he feels that he has that which will make thee lower them again.

But the more complete the victory appeared, the more towards the close, he felt another uneasiness increase. This discourse of which the triumph is no longer doubtful, he is not really the author of it, since the principal passage in it is not his own; and commendations will be showered upon him.-He cannot accept them. Did his conscience permit him, Claude is there. Refuse them? But how? By naming the author? That would be almost a scandal. Without naming him? People would lose themselves in conjectures, and the sermon itself would be forgotten for the mystery connected with it.

The end of the sermon came before he had decided..

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE SERMON IS AT LENGTH OVER.

TWENTY minutes after, the services were over. They had been shortened as much as possible. The grand almoner, the Cardinal de Bouillon, was not a little in haste to escape from the constraint and emotions of such a scene.

The king frequently stopped, as he left the chapel, in a little saloon contiguous, which was for this reason commonly called the king's sacristy. Few persons took the liberty of following him here; it was a sort of familiar reunion, which, indeed, never lasted more than a quarter of an hour at most. On sermon days, the discourse which had just been pronounced, generally formed the subject of conversation.

It was not so on this day, as may well be imagined. If the king appeared very little disposed to speak of what he had just heard, the people of his suite were still less disposed to ask him what he thought of it. They were even considerably embarrassed as to how they should act. If they remained silent, it would be as much as to say to the king that they had seen all, understood all. It was better to speak; but what should they say? The Duke de la Feuillade made an effort, and with the courage of desperation said:

"How excessively warm! (two months earlier he would have said, how excessively cold!) Would one think that we are only in the beginning of April ?"

No answer.

"It is not so warm here,” he added judiciously. "But in the chapel the crowd-"

"What hour is it?" asked the king.

"The hour that pleases your Majesty.”*

The poor duke had not his equal for insipid and mean adula tion. But this time he had his trouble for his pains. The king drew out his watch, casting at him a look of contempt. Deci dedly the sermon was taking effect. But where? On the sur face or in his heart? God alone could know this as yet. There was a silence.

"Is he still there?" asked the king, a moment after. "Father Bourdaloue, sire ?"

"Yes. Bring him to me."

There was a crowd in the sacristy. Bourdaloue would wil lingly have escaped, but this was the usage. Louis XIV. being accustomed to compliment his preachers when they had particularly distinguished themselves, the courtiers were always in haste to do the same, even before him. Besides, any preacher liked by the king, stood a chance of being his confessor some day, and there was not a duke or peer so wrapped up in his own greatness, that he was not enchanted to get into the good graces of a future confessor of the king.

The Marquis de Fénélon had already addressed to the preacher, not his compliments, for he said that compliments were only for lawyers and actors, but his congratulations upon his courage, and thanks for the good which he had done. Bourdaloue received them with a constrained and embarrassed air; and when Bossuet also approached, not without difficulty on account of the crowd, he said in a low voice, extending his hand to Bossuet:

"I have something to say to you, gentlemen. Leave me, I * Historical. "The earthquake which the king felt at Marly," says

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