“My dear Louise, you answer my question by another, or rather, by ten others, which is not answering me at all. I will tell you all you want to know later, and as it is of secondary importance, you can wait. What I ask you—for everything will depend upon that—is, whether there is or is not any secret?”
“I do not know if there is any secret,” said La Vallière; “but I do know, for my part at least, that there has been great imprudence committed. Since the foolish remark I made, and my still more silly fainting yesterday, everyone here is making remarks about us.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Montalais, laughing, “speak for yourself and for Tonnay-Charente; for both of you made your declarations of love to the skies, which unfortunately were intercepted.”
La Vallière hung down her head. “Really you overwhelm me,” she said.
“I?”
“Yes, you torture me with your jests.”
“Listen to me, Louise. These are no jests, for nothing is more serious; on the contrary, I did not drag you out of the château; I did not miss attending Mass; I did not pretend to have a cold, as Madame did, which she has no more than I have; and, lastly, I did not display ten times more diplomacy than M. Colbert inherited from M. de Mazarin, and makes use of with respect to M. Fouquet, in order to find means of confiding my perplexities to you, for the sole end and purpose that, when at last we were alone, with no one to listen to us, you should deal hypocritically with me. No, no; believe me, that when I ask you a question, it is not from curiosity alone, but really because the position is a critical one. What you said yesterday is now known—it is a text on which everyone is discoursing. Everyone embellishes it to the utmost, and according to his own fancy; you had the honor last night, and you have it still today, of occupying the whole court, my dear Louise; and the number of tender and witty remarks which have been ascribed to you, would make Mademoiselle de Scudéry and her brother burst from very spite, if they were faithfully reported.”
“But, dearest Montalais,” said the poor girl, “you know better than anyone exactly what I said, since you were present when I said it.”
“Yes, I know. But that is not the question. I have not forgotten a single syllable you uttered, but did you think what you were saying?”
Louise became confused. “What,” she exclaimed, “more questions still! Oh, heavens! when I would give the world to forget what I did say, how does it happen that everyone does all he possibly can to remind me of it? Oh, this is indeed terrible!”
“What is?”
“To have a friend who ought to spare me, who might advise me and help me to save myself, and yet who is undoing me—is killing me.”
“There, there, that will do,” said Montalais; “after having said too little, you now say too much. No one thinks of killing you, nor even of robbing you, even of your secret; I wish to have it voluntarily, and in no other way; for the question does not concern your own affairs only, but ours also; and Tonnay-Charente would tell you as I do, if she were here. For, the fact is, that last evening she wished to have some private conversation in our room, and I was going there after the Manicamp and Malicorne colloquies terminated, when I learned, on my return, rather late, it is true, that Madame had sequestered her maids of honor, and that we were to sleep in her apartments, instead of our own. Moreover, Madame has shut up her maids of honor in order that they should not have the time to concert any measures together, and this morning she was closeted with Tonnay-Charente with the same object. Tell me, then, to what extent Athenaïs and I can rely upon you, as we will tell you in what way you can rely upon us?”
“I do not clearly understand the question you have put,” said Louise, much agitated.
“Hum! and yet, on the contrary, you seem to understand me very well. However, I will put my questions in a more precise manner, in order that you may not be able, in the slightest degree, to evade them. Listen to me: Do you love M. de Bragelonne? That is plain enough, is it not?”
At this question, which fell like the first bombshell of a besieging army into a doomed town, Louise started. “You ask me,” she exclaimed, “if I love Raoul, the friend of my childhood—my brother almost?”
“No, no, no! Again you evade me, or rather, you wish to escape me. I do not ask if you love Raoul, your childhood’s friend—your brother; but I ask if you love the Vicomte de Bragelonne, your affianced husband?”
“Good heavens! dear Montalais,” said Louise, “how severe your tone is!”
“You deserve no indulgence—I am neither more nor less severe than usual. I put a question to you, so answer it.”
“You certainly do not,” said Louise, in a choking voice, “speak to me like a friend; but I will answer you as a true friend.”
“Well, do so.”
“Very well; my heart is full of scruples and silly feelings of pride, with respect to everything that a woman ought to keep secret, and in this respect no one has ever read into the bottom of my soul.”
“That I know very well. If I had read it, I should not interrogate you as I have done; I should simply say—‘My good Louise, you have the happiness of an acquaintance with M. de Bragelonne, who is an excellent young man, and an
