“I a tyrant?” said Malicorne.
“Yes, you are always compromising me, Monsieur Malicorne; you are a perfect monster of wickedness.”
“I?”
“What have you to do with Fontainebleau? Is not Orléans your place of residence?”
“Do you ask me what I have to do here? I wanted to see you.”
“Ah, great need of that.”
“Not as far as concerns yourself, perhaps, but as far as I am concerned, Mademoiselle Montalais, you know very well that I have left my home, and that, for the future, I have no other place of residence than that which you may happen to have. As you, therefore, are staying at Fontainebleau at the present moment, I have come to Fontainebleau.”
Montalais shrugged her shoulders. “You wished to see me, did you not?” she said.
“Of course.”
“Very well, you have seen me—you are satisfied; so now go away.”
“Oh, no,” said Malicorne; “I came to talk with you as well as to see you.”
“Very well, we will talk by and by, and in another place than this.”
“By and by! Heaven only knows if I shall meet you by and by in another place. We shall never find a more favorable one than this.”
“But I cannot this evening, nor at the present moment.”
“Why not?”
“Because a thousand things have happened tonight.”
“Well, then, my affair will make a thousand and one.”
“No, no; Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente is waiting for me in our room to communicate something of the very greatest importance.”
“How long has she been waiting?”
“For an hour at least.”
“In that case,” said Malicorne, tranquilly, “she can wait a few minutes longer.”
“Monsieur Malicorne,” said Montalais, “you are forgetting yourself.”
“You should rather say that it is you who are forgetting me, and that I am getting impatient at the part you make me play here indeed! For the last week I have been prowling about among the company, and you have not once deigned to notice my presence.”
“Have you been prowling about here for a week, M. Malicorne?”
“Like a wolf; sometimes I have been burnt by the fireworks, which have singed two of my wigs; at others, I have been completely drenched in the osiers by the evening damps, or the spray from the fountains—half-famished, fatigued to death, with the view of a wall always before me, and the prospect of having to scale it perhaps. Upon my word, this is not the sort of life for anyone to lead who is neither a squirrel, a salamander, nor an otter; and since you drive your inhumanity so far as to wish to make me renounce my condition as a man, I declare it openly. A man I am, indeed, and a man I will remain, unless by superior orders.”
“Well, then, tell me, what do you wish—what do you require—what do you insist upon?” said Montalais, in a submissive tone.
“Do you mean to tell me that you did not know I was at Fontainebleau?”
“I?”
“Nay, be frank.”
“I suspected so.”
“Well, then, could you not have contrived during the last week to have seen me once a day, at least?”
“I have always been prevented, M. Malicorne.”
“Fiddlesticks!”
“Ask my companion, if you do not believe me.”
“I shall ask no one to explain matters, I know better than anyone.”
“Compose yourself, M. Malicorne; things will change.”
“They must indeed.”
“You know that, whether I see you or not, I am thinking of you,” said Montalais, in a coaxing tone of voice.
“Oh, you are thinking of me, are you? well, and is there anything new?”
“What about?”
“About my post in Monsieur’s household.”
“Ah, my dear Monsieur Malicorne, no one has ventured lately to approach His Royal Highness.”
“Well, but now?”
“Now it is quite a different thing; since yesterday he has left off being jealous.”
“Bah! how has his jealousy subsided?”
“It has been diverted into another channel.”
“Tell me all about it.”
“A report was spread that the king had fallen in love with someone else, and Monsieur was tranquillized immediately.”
“And who spread the report?”
Montalais lowered her voice. “Between ourselves,” she said, “I think that Madame and the king have come to a secret understanding about it.”
“Ah!” said Malicorne; “that was the only way to manage it. But what about poor M. de Guiche?”
“Oh, as for him, he is completely turned off.”
“Have they been writing to each other?”
“No, certainly not; I have not seen a pen in either of their hands for the last week.”
“On what terms are you with Madame?”
“The very best.”
“And with the king?”
“The king always smiles at me whenever I pass him.”
“Good. Now tell me whom have the two lovers selected to serve as their screen?”
“La Vallière.”
“Oh, oh, poor girl! We must prevent that!”
“Why?”
“Because, if M. Raoul Bragelonne were to suspect it, he would either kill her or kill himself.”
“Raoul, poor fellow! do you think so?”
“Women pretend to have a knowledge of the state of people’s affections,” said Malicorne, “and they do not even know how to read the thoughts of their own minds and hearts. Well, I can tell you that M. de Bragelonne loves La Vallière to such a degree that, if she deceived him, he would, I repeat, either kill himself or kill her.”
“But the king is there to defend her,” said Montalais.
“The king!” exclaimed Malicorne; “Raoul would kill the king as he would a common thief.”
“Good heavens!” said Montalais; “you are mad, M. Malicorne.”
“Not in the least. Everything I have told you is, on the contrary, perfectly serious; and, for my own part, I know one thing.”
“What is that?”
“That I shall quietly tell Raoul of the trick.”
“Hush!” said Montalais, mounting another round of the ladder, so as to approach Malicorne more closely, “do not open your lips to poor Raoul.”
“Why not?”
“Because, as yet you know nothing at all.”
“What is the matter, then?”
“Why, this evening—but no one is listening, I hope?”
“No.”
“This
