With this remark, accompanied by one of those deep sighs which affect the remotest fibers of one’s being, his heart burdened with sorrow and throbbing fast, his head on fire, and his gaze wandering, he bowed breathlessly, and withdrew behind the thicket. The only reply Madame condescended to make was by slightly raising her shoulders, and, as her ladies of honor had discreetly retired while the conversation lasted, she recalled them by a look. The ladies were Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente and Mademoiselle de Montalais.
“Did you hear what the Comte de Guiche said?” the princess inquired.
“No.”
“It really is very singular,” she continued, in a compassionate tone, “how exile has affected poor M. de Guiche’s wit.” And then, in a louder voice, fearful lest her unhappy victim might lose a syllable, she said—“In the first place he danced badly, and afterwards his remarks were very silly.”
She then rose, humming the air to which she was presently going to dance. De Guiche had overheard everything. The arrow pierced his heart and wounded him mortally. Then, at the risk of interrupting the progress of the fête by his annoyance, he fled from the scene, tearing his beautiful costume of Autumn in pieces, and scattering, as he went along, the branches of vines, mulberry and almond trees, with all the other artificial attributes of his assumed divinity. A quarter of an hour afterwards he returned to the theater; but it will be readily believed that it was only a powerful effort of reason over his great excitement that enabled him to go back; or perhaps, for love is thus strangely constituted, he found it impossible even to remain much longer separated from the presence of one who had broken his heart. Madame was finishing her figure. She saw, but did not look at de Guiche, who, irritated and revengeful, turned his back upon her as she passed him, escorted by her nymphs, and followed by a hundred flatterers. During this time, at the other end of the theater, near the lake, a young woman was seated, with her eyes fixed upon one of the windows of the theater, from which were issuing streams of light—the window in question being that of the royal box. As de Guiche quitted the theater for the purpose of getting into the fresh air he so much needed, he passed close to this figure and saluted her. When she perceived the young man, she rose, like a woman surprised in the midst of ideas she was desirous of concealing from herself. De Guiche stopped as he recognized her, and said hurriedly—“Good evening, Mademoiselle de La Vallière; I am indeed fortunate in meeting you.”
“I, also, M. de Guiche, am glad of this accidental meeting,” said the young girl, as she was about to withdraw.
“Pray do not leave me,” said de Guiche, stretching out his hand towards her, “for you would be contradicting the kind words you have just pronounced. Remain, I implore you: the evening is most lovely. You wish to escape from the merry tumult, and prefer your own society. Well, I can understand it; all women who are possessed of any feeling do, and one never finds them dull or lonely when removed from the giddy vortex of these exciting amusements. Oh! Heaven!” he exclaimed, suddenly.
“What is the matter, Monsieur le Comte?” inquired La Vallière, with some anxiety. “You seem agitated.”
“I! oh, no!”
“Will you allow me, M. de Guiche, to return you the thanks I had proposed to offer you on the very first opportunity? It is to your recommendation, I am aware, that I owe my admission among the number of Madame’s maids of honor.”
“Indeed! Ah! I remember now, and I congratulate myself. Do you love anyone?”
“I!” exclaimed La Vallière.
“Forgive me, I hardly know what I am saying; a thousand times forgive me; Madame was right, quite right, this brutal exile has completely turned my brain.”
“And yet it seemed to me that the king received you with kindness.”
“Do you think so? Received me with kindness—perhaps so—yes—”
“There cannot be a doubt he received you kindly, for, in fact, you returned without his permission.”
“Quite true, and I believe you are right. But have you not seen M. de Bragelonne here?”
La Vallière started at the name. “Why do you ask?” she inquired.
“Have I offended you again?” said de Guiche. “In that case I am indeed unhappy, and greatly to be pitied.”
“Yes, very unhappy, and very much to be pitied, Monsieur de Guiche, for you seem to be suffering terribly.”
“Oh! Mademoiselle, why have I not a devoted sister, or a true friend, such as yourself?”
“You have friends, Monsieur de Guiche, and the Vicomte de Bragelonne, of whom you spoke just now, is, I believe, one of the most devoted.”
“Yes, yes, you are right, he is one of my best friends. Farewell, Mademoiselle de La Vallière, farewell.” And he fled, like one possessed, along the banks of the lake. His dark shadow glided, lengthening as it disappeared, among the illumined yews and glittering undulations of the water. La Vallière looked after him, saying—“Yes, yes, he, too, is suffering, and I begin to understand why.”
She had hardly finished when her companions, Mademoiselle de Montalais and Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, ran forward. They were released from their attendance, and had changed their costumes of nymphs; delighted with the beautiful night, and the success of the evening, they returned to look after their companion.
“What, already here!” they said to her. “We thought we should be first at the rendezvous.”
“I have been here this quarter of an hour,” replied La Vallière.
“Did not the dancing amuse you?”
“No.”
“But surely the enchanting spectacle?”
“No more than the dancing. As far as beauty is concerned, I much prefer that which these dark woods present, in whose depths can be seen, now in one direction and again in another, a light passing by, as though it were an eye, in color like a midnight rainbow, sometimes open, at others closed.”
“La Vallière is quite a poetess,” said Tonnay-Charente.
“In other words,” said Montalais, “she is
