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Updated: June 18, 2025
"Placide de Mouret, Captain of Bienville's Guards, Province of Louisiana, may it please you, sire," I stammered out. "Attend me at the morning hour to-morrow," and he strutted away from the giggling crowd. I too would have turned off, had not my late antagonist proven himself a man at heart. He quickly moved toward me holding out his hand in reconciliation.
She shrugged her shoulders and spread apart her hands with one of her habitual, fatalistic gestures. "I don't mind. He can't do me more harm than he's done already. It's not of him that I'm thinking, but of Dorothea. She hasn't come." "No, she hasn't come." The fact had grown alarming, so much so as to make the incident of Bienville's appearance seem in comparison a matter of little moment.
I remembered Bienville's words "We know not who to trust," and being ignorant of what orders Serigny meant to give, or how much information they would convey to Jerome, deemed it best to let all the occurrences of the day come out.
When I thought I had finished, the King's face hardened, and looking me straight in the eye, he inquired: "What is this I hear of Bienville's presuming to criticise me me, Louis, his King for contemplating such a disposition of the colonies as suits my royal pleasure? Can you tell me that as glibly, sir?" For the moment I was astounded and had no word to say.
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