“But, Louise,” exclaimed Montalais, “you tell us this, and do not carry it into practice.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are adored by Raoul de Bragelonne, who worships you on both knees. The poor fellow is made the victim of your virtue, just as he would be—nay, more than he would be, even—of my coquetry, or Athenaïs’s pride.”
“All this is simply a different shade of coquetry,” said Athenaïs; “and Louise, I perceive, is a coquette without knowing it.”
“Oh!” said La Vallière.
“Yes, you may call it instinct, if you please, keenest sensibility, exquisite refinement of feeling, perpetual display of restrained outbreaks of affection, which end in smoke. It is very artful too, and very effective. I should even, now that I reflect upon it, have preferred this system of tactics to my own pride, for waging war on members of the other sex, because it offers the advantage sometimes of thoroughly convincing them; but, at the present moment, without utterly condemning myself, I declare it to be superior to the non-complex coquetry of Montalais.” And the two young girls began to laugh.
La Vallière alone preserved silence, and quietly shook her head. Then, a moment after, she added, “If you were to tell me, in the presence of a man, but a fourth part of what you have just said, or even if I were assured that you think it, I should die of shame and grief where I am now.”
“Very well; die, poor tender little darling,” replied Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente; “for if there are no men here, there are at least two women, your own friends, who declare you to be attainted and convicted of being a coquette from instinct; in other words, the most dangerous kind of coquette the world possesses.”
“Oh! mesdemoiselles,” replied La Vallière, blushing, and almost ready to weep. Her two companions again burst out laughing.
“Very well! I will ask Bragelonne to tell me.”
“Bragelonne?” said Athenaïs.
“Yes! Bragelonne, who is as courageous as Caesar, and as clever and witty as M. Fouquet. Poor fellow! for twelve years he has known you, loved you, and yet—one can hardly believe it—he has never even kissed the tips of your fingers.”
“Tell us the reason of this cruelty, you who are all heart,” said Athenaïs to La Vallière.
“Let me explain it by a single word—virtue. You will perhaps deny the existence of virtue?”
“Come, Louise, tell us the truth,” said Aure, taking her by the hand.
“What do you wish me to tell you?” cried La Vallière.
“Whatever you like; but it will be useless for you to say anything, for I persist in my opinion of you. A coquette from instinct; in other words, as I have already said, and I say it again, the most dangerous of all coquettes.”
“Oh! no, no; for pity’s sake do not believe that!”
“What! twelve years of extreme severity.”
“How can that be, since twelve years ago I was only five years old? The frivolity of the child cannot surely be placed to the young girl’s account.”
“Well! you are now seventeen; three years instead of twelve. During those three years you have remained constantly and unchangeably cruel. Against you are arrayed the silent shades of Blois, the meetings when you diligently conned the stars together, the evening wanderings beneath the plantain trees, his impassioned twenty years speaking to your fourteen summers, the fire of his glances addressed to yourself.”
“Yes, yes; but so it is!”
“Impossible!”
“But why impossible?”
“Tell us something credible and we will believe you.”
“Yet, if you were to suppose one thing.”
“What is that?”
“Suppose that I thought I was in love, and that I am not.”
“What! not in love!”
“Well, then! if I have acted in a different manner to what others do when they are in love, it is because I do not love; and because my hour has not yet come.”
“Louise, Louise,” said Montalais, “take care or I will remind you of the remark you made just now. Raoul is not here; do not overwhelm him while he is absent; be charitable, and if, on closer inspection, you think you do not love him, tell him so, poor fellow!” and she began to laugh.
“Louise pitied M. de Guiche just now,” said Athenaïs; “would it be possible to detect an explanation of her indifference for the one in this compassion for the other?”
“Say what you please,” said La Vallière, sadly; “upbraid me as you like, since you do not understand me.”
“Oh! oh!” replied Montalais, “temper, sorrow, tears; we are jesting, Louise, and are not, I assure you, quite the monsters you suppose. Look at the proud Athenaïs, as she is called; she does not love M. de Montespan, it is true, but she would be in despair if M. de Montespan did not continue to love her. Look at me; I laugh at M. Malicorne, but the poor fellow whom I laugh at knows precisely when he will be permitted to press his lips upon my hand. And yet the eldest of us is not twenty yet. What a future before us!”
“Silly, silly girls!” murmured Louise.
“You are quite right,” said Montalais; “and you alone have spoken words of wisdom.”
“Certainly.”
“I do not dispute it,” replied Athenaïs. “And so it is clear you do not love poor M. de Bragelonne?”
“Perhaps she does,” said Montalais; “she is not yet quite certain of it. But, in any case, listen, Athenaïs; if M. de Bragelonne is ever free, I will give you a little friendly advice.”
“What is that?”
“To look at him well before you decide in favor of M. de Montespan.”
“Oh! in that way of considering the subject, M. de Bragelonne is not the only one whom one could look at with pleasure; M. de Guiche, for instance, has his value also.”
“He did not distinguish himself this evening,” said Montalais; “and
