"To death."

"And a prisoner?"

"Completely. The king pretends no one can amuse him but me. He
is very good, for since yesterday I have made more grimaces than
his ape, and been more rude than his jester."

"Well, it is my turn to render you a service: can I do it?"

"Yes, go to the Marshal de Brissac's, and reassure my poor little
wife, who must be very uneasy, and must think my conduct very
strange."

"What shall I say to her?"

"Morbleu! tell her what you see; that I am a prisoner, and that
the king talks to me of friendship like Cicero, who wrote on it;
and of virtue like Socrates, who practised it. It is in vain
I tell him I am ungrateful for the first, and incredulous as
to the last: he only repeats it over again."

"Is that all I can do for you?"

"Ah, mon Dieu! I fear so."

"Then it is done."

"How so?"