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Updated: June 6, 2025
He was silent, but as the king spoke not, he felt it incumbent to stammer something: "That is my life's misfortune, Sire." "Misfortune, sirrah? Misfortune you call it? Let me hear you say fault." "I dare not, Sire," M. Étienne murmured. "It was of course your Majesty's fault. We cannot serve heretics, we St. Quentins." "Ventre-saint-gris! You think well of yourself, young Mar."
Saperlotte! the best way to adore God is to love one's wife. I love thee! that's my catechism. He who loves is orthodox. The oath of Henri IV. places sanctity somewhere between feasting and drunkenness. Ventre-saint-gris! I don't belong to the religion of that oath. Woman is forgotten in it. This astonishes me on the part of Henri IV. My friends, long live women!
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