"Pray turn to something else." "There is my _Pretended Astrologer_." "Yes, that will do." Corneille commenced to read his comedy, while Madame de Maintenon's white and delicate fingers picked among the many-coloured silks which she was weaving into her tapestry.

From time to time she glanced across, first at the clock and then at the king, who was leaning back, with his lace handkerchief thrown over his face.

It was twenty minutes to four now, but she knew that she had put it back half an hour, and that the true time was ten minutes past.
"Tut! tut!" cried the king suddenly.

"There is something amiss there.
The second last line has a limp in it, surely." It was one of his foibles to pose as a critic, and the wise poet would fall in with his corrections, however unreasonable they might be.
"Which line, sire?
It is indeed an advantage to have one's faults made clear." "Read the passage again." "Et si, quand je lui dis le secret de mon ame, Avec moins de rigueur elle eut traite ma flamme, Dans ma fayon de vivre, et suivant mon humeur, Une autre eut bientot le present de mon coeur." "Yes, the third line has a foot too many.

Do you not remark it, madame ?" "No; but I fear that I should make a poor critic." "Your Majesty is perfectly right," said Corneille unblushingly.
"I shall mark the passage, and see that it is corrected." "I thought that it was wrong.