“Yes,” said the king. “You see, the storm has not passed away.”
“It is a warning, sire.” The king smiled. “Sire, it is the voice of Heaven in anger.”
“Be it so,” said the king. “I agree to accept that peal of thunder as a warning, and even as a menace, if, in five minutes from the present moment, it is renewed with equal violence; but if not, permit me to think that the storm is a storm simply, and nothing more.” And the king, at the same moment, raised his head, as if to interrogate the heavens. But, as if the remark had been heard and accepted, during the five minutes which elapsed after the burst of thunder which had alarmed them, no renewed peal was heard; and, when the thunder was again heard, it was passing as plainly as if, during those same five minutes, the storm, put to flight, had traversed the heavens with the wings of the wind. “Well, Louise,” said the king, in a low tone of voice, “do you still threaten me with the anger of Heaven? and, since you wished to regard the storm as a warning, do you still believe it bodes misfortune?”
The young girl looked up, and saw that while they had been talking, the rain had penetrated the foliage above them, and was trickling down the king’s face. “Oh, sire, sire!” she exclaimed, in accents of eager apprehensions, which greatly agitated the king. “Is it for me,” she murmured, “that the king remains thus uncovered, and exposed to the rain? What am I, then?”
“You are, you perceive,” said the king, “the divinity who dissipates the storm, and brings back fine weather.” In fact, even as the king spoke, a ray of sunlight streamed through the forest, and caused the raindrops which rested upon the leaves, or fell vertically among the openings in the branches of the trees, to glisten like diamonds.
“Sire,” said La Vallière, almost overcome, but making a powerful effort over herself, “think of the anxieties Your Majesty will have to submit to on my account. At this very moment, they are seeking you in every direction. The queen must be full of uneasiness; and Madame—oh, Madame!” the young girl exclaimed, with an expression almost resembling terror.
This name had a certain effect upon the king. He started, and disengaged himself from La Vallière, whom he had, till that moment, held pressed against his heart. He then advanced towards the path, in order to look round, and returned, somewhat thoughtfully, to La Vallière. “Madame, did you say?” he remarked.
“Yes, Madame; she, too, is jealous,” said La Vallière, with a marked tone of voice; and her eyes, so timorous in their expression, and so modestly fugitive in their glance, for a moment, ventured to look inquiringly into the king’s.
“Still,” returned Louis, making an effort over himself, “it seems to me that Madame has no reason, no right to be jealous of me.”
“Alas!” murmured La Vallière.
“Are you, too,” said the king, almost in a tone of reproach, “are you among those who think the sister has a right to be jealous of the brother?”
“It is not for me, sire, to seek to penetrate Your Majesty’s secrets.”
“You do believe it, then?” exclaimed the king.
“I believe Madame is jealous, sire,” La Vallière replied, firmly.
“Is it possible,” said the king with some anxiety, “that you have perceived it, then, from her conduct towards you? Have her manners in any way been such towards you that you can attribute them to the jealousy you speak of?”
“Not at all, sire; I am of so little importance.”
“Oh! if it were really the case—” exclaimed Louis, violently.
“Sire,” interrupted the young girl, “it has ceased raining; someone is coming, I think.” And, forgetful of all etiquette, she had seized the king by the arm.
“Well,” replied the king, “let them come. Who is there who would venture to think I had done wrong in remaining alone with Mademoiselle de La Vallière?”
“For pity’s sake, sire! they will think it strange to see you wet through, in this manner, and that you should have run such risk for me.”
“I have simply done my duty as a gentleman,” said Louis; “and woe to him who may fail in his, in criticising his sovereign’s conduct.” In fact, at this moment a few eager and curious faces were seen in the walk, as if engaged in a search. Catching glimpses at last of the king and La Vallière, they seemed to have found what they were seeking. They were some of the courtiers who had been sent by the queen and Madame, and uncovered themselves, in token of having perceived His Majesty. But Louis, notwithstanding La Vallière’s confusion, did not quit his respectful and tender attitude. Then, when all the courtiers were assembled in the walk—when everyone had been able to perceive the extraordinary mark of deference with which he had treated the young girl, by remaining standing and bareheaded during the storm—he offered her his arm, led her towards the group who were waiting, recognized by an inclination of the head the respectful salutations which were paid him on all sides; and, still holding his hat in his hand, he conducted her to her carriage. And, as a few sparse drops of rain continued to fall—a last adieu of the vanishing storm—the other ladies, whom respect had prevented from getting into their carriages before the king, remained altogether unprotected by hood or cloak, exposed to the rain from which the king was protecting, as well as he was able, the humblest among them. The queen and Madame must, like the others, have witnessed this exaggerated courtesy of the king. Madame was so disconcerted at
