Ah, Madame, Madame, loveliest in all France, 'twas your beautiful eyes.

For the joy of looking into them, I have soiled a fresh quill, tumbled into a pit, played the fool! And a silver crown against a golden louis, you know nothing about politics or intrigue, nor that that old fool of a husband is making a decoy of your beauty.
But my head cleared this morning.

That paper must be mine.

First, because it is a guaranty for my head, and second, because it is likely to fatten my purse.

It will be simple to erase my name and substitute another's.