“Well; I know them all.”
“Some of them are pretty.”
“Don’t say that too loud, Monsieur my nephew; you will drive them wild.”
“Stop a bit, stop a bit, dear aunt!” said the king, smiling; “for the second part of my sentence will serve as a corrective to the first. Well, my dear aunt, some of them appear old and others ugly, thanks to their ten-year-old fashions.”
“But, sire, Blois is only five days’ journey from Paris.”
“Yes, that is it,” said the king: “two years behind for each day.”
“Indeed! do you really think so? Well, that is strange! It never struck me.”
“Now, look, aunt,” said Louis XIV, drawing still nearer to Mazarin, under the pretext of gaining a better point of view, “look at that simple white dress by the side of those antiquated specimens of finery, and those pretentious coiffures. She is probably one of my mother’s maids of honor, though I don’t know her.”
“Ah! ah! my dear nephew!” replied Madame, laughing; “permit me to tell you that your divinatory science is at fault for once. The young lady you honor with your praise is not a Parisian, but a Blaisoise.”
“Oh, aunt!” replied the king with a look of doubt.
“Come here, Louise,” said Madame.
And the fair girl, already known to you under that name, approached them, timid, blushing, and almost bent beneath the royal glance.
“Mademoiselle Louise Françoise de la Beaume le Blanc, the daughter of the Marquise de La Vallière,” said Madame, ceremoniously.
The young girl bowed with so much grace, mingled with the profound timidity inspired by the presence of the king, that the latter lost, while looking at her, a few words of the conversation of Monsieur and the cardinal.
“Daughter-in-law,” continued Madame, “of M. de Saint-Remy, my maître d’hôtel, who presided over the confection of that excellent daube truffée which Your Majesty seemed so much to appreciate.”
No grace, no youth, no beauty, could stand out against such a presentation. The king smiled. Whether the words of Madame were a pleasantry, or uttered in all innocency, they proved the pitiless immolation of everything that Louis had found charming or poetic in the young girl. Mademoiselle de La Vallière, for Madame and, by rebound, for the king, was, for a moment, no more than the daughter of a man of a superior talent over dindes truffées.
But princes are thus constituted. The gods, too, were just like this in Olympus. Diana and Venus, no doubt, abused the beautiful Alcmena and poor Io, when they condescended for distraction’s sake, to speak, amidst nectar and ambrosia, of mortal beauties, at the table of Jupiter.
Fortunately, Louise was so bent in her reverential salute, that she did not catch either Madame’s words or the king’s smile. In fact, if the poor child, who had so much good taste as alone to have chosen to dress herself in white amidst all her companions—if that dove’s heart, so easily accessible to painful emotions, had been touched by the cruel words of Madame, or the egotistical cold smile of the king, it would have annihilated her.
And Montalais herself, the girl of ingenious ideas, would not have attempted to recall her to life; for ridicule kills beauty even.
But fortunately, as we have said, Louise, whose ears were buzzing, and her eyes veiled by timidity—Louise saw nothing and heard nothing; and the king, who had still his attention directed to the conversation of the cardinal and his uncle, hastened to return to them.
He came up just at the moment Mazarin terminated by saying: “Marie, as well as her sisters, has just set off for Brouage. I make them follow the opposite bank of the Loire to that along which we have traveled; and if I calculate their progress correctly, according to the orders I have given, they will tomorrow be opposite Blois.”
These words were pronounced with that tact—that measure, that distinctness of tone, of intention, and reach—which made del Signor Giulio Mazarini the first comedian in the world.
It resulted that they went straight to the heart of Louis XIV, and the cardinal, on turning round at the simple noise of the approaching footsteps of His Majesty, saw the immediate effect of them upon the countenance of his pupil, an effect betrayed to the keen eyes of His Eminence by a slight increase of color. But what was the ventilation of such a secret to him whose craft had for twenty years deceived all the diplomatists of Europe?
From the moment the young king heard these last words, he appeared as if he had received a poisoned arrow in his heart. He could not remain quiet in a place, but cast around an uncertain, dead, and aimless look over the assembly. He with his eyes interrogated his mother more than twenty times: but she, given up to the pleasure of conversing with her sister-in-law, and likewise constrained by the glance of Mazarin, did not appear to comprehend any of the supplications conveyed by the looks of her son.
From this moment, music, lights, flowers, beauties, all became odious and insipid to Louis XIV. After he had a hundred times bitten his lips, stretched his legs and his arms like a well-brought-up child, who, without daring to gape, exhausts all the modes of evincing his weariness—after having uselessly again implored his mother and the minister, he turned a despairing look towards the door, that is to say, towards liberty.
At this door, in the embrasure of which he was leaning, he saw, standing out strongly, a figure with a brown and lofty countenance, an aquiline nose, a stern but brilliant eye, gray and long hair, a black mustache, the true type of military beauty, whose gorget, more sparkling than a mirror, broke all the reflected lights which concentrated upon it, and sent them back as lightning. This officer wore his gray hat with its long red plumes upon his head, a proof that he was called
