“And I should have thanked you,” stammered out Louise, “although the advice does not appear to me to be altogether sound.”
“Wait, wait. But immediately after having given you that advice, I should have added—‘Louise, it is very dangerous to pass whole days with your head drooping, your hands unoccupied, your eyes restless and full of thought; it is dangerous to prefer the least frequented paths, and no longer be amused with such diversions as gladden young girls’ hearts; it is dangerous, Louise, to scrawl with the point of your foot, as you do, upon the gravel, certain letters it is useless for you to efface, but which appear again under your heel, particularly when those letters rather resemble the letter L than the letter B; and, lastly, it is dangerous to allow the mind to dwell on a thousand wild fancies, the fruits of solitude and heartache; these fancies, while they sink into a young girl’s mind, make her cheeks sink in also, so that it is not unusual, on such occasions, to find the most delightful persons in the world become the most disagreeable, and the wittiest to become the dullest.’ ”
“I thank you, dearest Aure,” replied La Vallière, gently; “it is like you to speak to me in this manner, and I thank you for it.”
“It was only for the benefit of wild dreamers, such as I have just described, that I spoke; do not take any of my words, then, to yourself, except such as you think you deserve. Stay, I hardly know what story recurs to my memory of some silly or melancholy girl, who was gradually pining away because she fancied that the prince, or the king, or the emperor, whoever it was—and it does not matter much which—had fallen in love with her; while on the contrary, the prince, or the king, or the emperor, whichever you please, was plainly in love with someone else, and—a singular circumstance, one, indeed, which she could not perceive, although everyone around and about her perceived it clearly enough—made use of her as a screen for his own love affair. You laugh as I do, at this poor silly girl, do you not, Louise?”
“I?—oh! of course,” stammered Louise, pale as death.
“And you are right, too, for the thing is amusing enough. The story, whether true or false, amused me, and so I remembered it and told it to you. Just imagine then, my good Louise, the mischief that such a melancholy would create in anybody’s brain—a melancholy, I mean, of that kind. For my own part, I resolved to tell you the story; for if such a thing were to happen to either of us, it would be most essential to be assured of its truth; today it is a snare, tomorrow it would become a jest and mockery, the next day it would mean death itself.” La Vallière started again, and became, if possible, still paler.
“Whenever a king takes notice of us,” continued Montalais, “he lets us see it easily enough, and, if we happen to be the object he covets, he knows very well how to gain his object. You see, then, Louise, that, in such circumstances, between young girls exposed to such a danger as the one in question, the most perfect confidence should exist, in order that those hearts which are not disposed towards melancholy may watch over those likely to become so.”
“Silence, silence!” said La Vallière; “someone approaches.”
“Someone is approaching fast, in fact,” said Montalais; “but who can it possibly be? Everybody is away, either at Mass with the king, or bathing with Monsieur.”
At the end of the walk the young girls perceived almost immediately, beneath the arching trees, the graceful carriage and noble stature of a young man, who, with his sword under his arm and a cloak thrown across his shoulders, booted and spurred besides, saluted them from the distance with a gentle smile. “Raoul!” exclaimed Montalais.
“M. de Bragelonne!” murmured Louise.
“A very proper judge to decide upon our difference of opinion,” said Montalais.
“Oh! Montalais, Montalais, for pity’s sake,” exclaimed La Vallière, “after having been so cruel, show me a little mercy.” These words, uttered with all the fervor of a prayer, effaced all trace of irony, if not from Montalais’s heart, at least from her face.
“Why, you are as handsome as Amadis, Monsieur de Bragelonne,” she cried to Raoul, “and armed and booted like him.”
“A thousand compliments, young ladies,” replied Raoul, bowing.
“But why, I ask, are you booted in this manner?” repeated Montalais, whilst La Vallière, although she looked at Raoul with a surprise equal to that of her companion, nevertheless uttered not a word.
“Why?” inquired Raoul.
“Yes!” ventured Louise.
“Because I am about to set off,” said Bragelonne, looking at Louise.
The young girl seemed as though smitten by some superstitious feeling of terror, and tottered. “You are going away, Raoul!” she cried; “and where are you going?”
“Dearest Louise,” he replied, with that quiet, composed manner which was natural to him, “I am going to England.”
“What are you going to do in England?”
“The king has sent me there.”
“The king!” exclaimed Louise and Aure together, involuntarily exchanging glances, the conversation which had just been interrupted recurring to them both. Raoul intercepted the glance,
