“Invention, no; a true story, yes.”
“Confess, whether invention or true story, that it was told to you as you have told it to me, but that you were not there.”
“Upon my honor, Madame, I was there.”
“And you think that these confessions may have made an impression on the king?”
“Certainly, as those of Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente did upon me,” replied Saint-Aignan; “do not forget, Madame, that Mademoiselle de La Vallière compared the king to the sun; that was flattering enough.”
“The king does not permit himself to be influenced by such flatteries.”
“Madame, the king is just as much Adonis as Apollo; and I saw plain enough just now when La Vallière fell into his arms.”
“La Vallière fell into the king’s arms!”
“Oh! it was the most graceful picture possible; just imagine, La Vallière had fallen back fainting, and—”
“Well! what did you see?—tell me—speak!”
“I saw what ten other people saw at the same time as myself; I saw that when La Vallière fell into his arms, the king almost fainted himself.”
Madame smothered a subdued cry, the only indication of her smothered anger.
“Thank you,” she said, laughing in a convulsive manner, “you relate stories delightfully, M. de Saint-Aignan.” And she hurried away, alone, and almost suffocated by painful emotion, towards the château.
119
Courses de Nuit
Monsieur quitted the princess in the best possible humor, and feeling greatly fatigued, retired to his apartments, leaving everyone to finish the night as he chose. When in his room, Monsieur began to dress for the night with careful attention, which displayed itself from time to time in paroxysms of satisfaction. While his attendants were engaged in curling his hair, he sang the principal airs of the ballet which the violins had played and to which the king had danced. He then summoned his tailors, inspected his costumes for the next day, and, in token of his extreme satisfaction, distributed various presents among them. As, however, the Chevalier de Lorraine, who had seen the prince return to the château, entered the room, Monsieur overwhelmed him with kindness. The former, after having saluted the prince, remained silent for a moment, like a sharpshooter who deliberates before deciding in what direction he will renew his fire; then, seeming to make up his mind he said, “Have you remarked a very singular coincidence, Monseigneur?”
“No; what is it?”
“The bad reception which His Majesty, in appearance, gave the Comte de Guiche.”
“In appearance?”
“Yes, certainly; since, in reality, he has restored him to favor.”
“I did not notice it,” said the prince.
“What, did you not remark, that, instead of ordering him to go away again into exile, as was natural, he encouraged him in his opposition by permitting him to resume his place in the ballet?”
“And you think the king was wrong, chevalier?” said the prince.
“Are you not of my opinion, prince?”
“Not altogether so, my dear chevalier; and I think the king was quite right not to have made a disturbance against a poor fellow whose want of judgment is more to be complained of than his intention.”
“Really,” said the chevalier, “as far as I am concerned, I confess that this magnanimity astonishes me to the highest degree.”
“Why so?” inquired Philip.
“Because I should have thought the king had been more jealous,” replied the chevalier, spitefully. During the last few minutes Monsieur had felt there was something of an irritating nature concealed under his favorite’s remarks; this last word, however, ignited the powder.
“Jealous!” exclaimed the prince. “Jealous! what do you mean? Jealous of what, if you please—or jealous of whom?”
The chevalier perceived that he had allowed an excessively mischievous remark to escape him, as he was in the habit of doing. He endeavored, therefore, apparently to recall it while it was still possible to do so. “Jealous of his authority,” he said, with an assumed frankness; “of what else would you have the king jealous?”
“Ah!” said the prince, “that’s very proper.”
“Did Your Royal Highness,” continued the chevalier, “solicit dear de Guiche’s pardon?”
“No, indeed,” said Monsieur. “De Guiche is an excellent fellow, and full of courage; but as I do not approve of his conduct with Madame, I wish him neither harm nor good.”
The chevalier had assumed a bitterness with regard to de Guiche, as he had attempted to do with regard to the king; but he thought he perceived that the time for indulgence, and even for the utmost indifference, had arrived, and that, in order to throw some light on the question, it might be necessary for him to put the lamp, as the saying is, beneath the husband’s very nose.
Very well, very well
, said the chevalier to himself, I must wait for de Wardes; he will do more in one day than I in a month; for I verily believe he is even more envious than I am. Then, again, it is not de Wardes I require so much as that some event or another should happen; and in the whole of this affair I see none. That de Guiche returned after he had been sent away is certainly serious enough, but all its seriousness disappears when I learn that de Guiche has returned at the very moment Madame troubles herself no longer about him. Madame, in fact, is occupied with the king, that is clear; but she will not be so much longer if, as is asserted, the king has ceased to trouble his head about her. The moral of the whole matter is, to remain perfectly neutral, and await the arrival of some new caprice and let that decide the whole affair.
And the chevalier thereupon settled himself resignedly in the armchair in which Monsieur permitted him to seat himself in his presence, and, having no more spiteful or
