“Fetch me,” he said, “the coat I wore yesterday evening, but be very sure you do not touch anything it may contain.”
The order being obeyed, the king himself searched the pocket of the coat; he found only one handkerchief, and that his own; La Vallière’s had disappeared. Whilst busied with all kinds of conjectures and suspicions, a letter was brought to him from La Vallière; it ran thus:
“How good and kind of you to have sent me those beautiful verses; how full of ingenuity and perseverance your affection is; how is it possible to help loving you so dearly!”
What does this mean?
thought the king; there must be some mistake.
“Look well about,” said he to the valet, “for a pocket-handkerchief must be in one of my pockets; and if you do not find it, or if you have touched it—” He reflected for a moment. To make a state matter of the loss of the handkerchief would be to act absurdly, and he therefore added, “There was a letter of some importance inside the handkerchief, which had somehow got among the folds of it.”
“Sire,” said the valet, “Your Majesty had only one handkerchief, and that is it.”
“True, true,” replied the king, setting his teeth hard together. “Oh, poverty, how I envy you! Happy is the man who can empty his own pockets of letters and handkerchiefs!”
He read La Vallière’s letter over again, endeavoring to imagine in what conceivable way his verses could have reached their destination. There was a postscript to the letter:
“I send you back by your messenger this reply, so unworthy of what you sent me.”
“So far so good; I shall find out something now,” he said delightedly. “Who is waiting, and who brought me this letter?”
“M. Malicorne,” replied the valet de chambre, timidly.
“Desire him to come in.”
Malicorne entered.
“You come from Mademoiselle de La Vallière?” said the king, with a sigh.
“Yes, sire.”
“And you took Mademoiselle de La Vallière something from me?”
“I, sire?”
“Yes, you.”
“Oh, no, sire.”
“Mademoiselle de La Vallière says so, distinctly.”
“Oh, sire, Mademoiselle de La Vallière is mistaken.”
The king frowned. “What jest is this?” he said; “explain yourself. Why does Mademoiselle de La Vallière call you my messenger? What did you take to that lady? Speak, Monsieur, and quickly.”
“Sire, I merely took Mademoiselle de La Vallière a pocket-handkerchief, that was all.”
“A handkerchief—what handkerchief?”
“Sire, at the very moment when I had the misfortune to stumble against Your Majesty yesterday—a misfortune which I shall deplore to the last day of my life, especially after the dissatisfaction which you exhibited—I remained, sire, motionless with despair, Your Majesty being at too great a distance to hear my excuses, when I saw something white lying on the ground.”
“Ah!” said the king.
“I stooped down—it was a pocket-handkerchief. For a moment I had an idea that when I stumbled against Your Majesty I must have been the cause of the handkerchief falling from your pocket; but as I felt it all over very respectfully, I perceived a cipher at one of the corners, and, on looking at it closely, I found that it was Mademoiselle de La Vallière’s cipher. I presumed that on her way to Madame’s apartment in the earlier part of the evening she had let her handkerchief fall, and I accordingly hastened to restore it to her as she was leaving; and that is all I gave to Mademoiselle de La Vallière, I entreat Your Majesty to believe.” Malicorne’s manner was so simple, so full of contrition, and marked with such extreme humility, that the king was greatly amused in listening to him. He was as pleased with him for what he had done as if he had rendered him the greatest service.
“This is the second fortunate meeting I have had with you, Monsieur,” he said; “you may count upon my good intentions.”
The plain and sober truth was, that Malicorne had picked the king’s pocket of the handkerchief as dexterously as any of the pickpockets of the good city of Paris could have done. Madame never knew of this little incident, but Montalais gave La Vallière some idea of the manner in which it had really happened, and La Vallière afterwards told the king, who laughed exceedingly at it and pronounced Malicorne to be a first rate politician. Louis XIV was right, and it is well known that he was tolerably well acquainted with human nature.
172
Which Treats of Gardeners, of Ladders, and Maids of Honor
Miracles, unfortunately, could not be always happening, whilst Madame’s ill-humor still continued. In a week’s time, matters had reached such a point, that the king could no longer look at La Vallière without a look full of suspicion crossing his own. Whenever a promenade was proposed, Madame, in order to avoid the recurrence of similar scenes to that of the thunderstorm, or the royal oak, had a variety of indispositions ready prepared; and, thanks to them, she was unable to go out, and her maids of honor were obliged to remain indoors also. There was not the slightest chance of means of paying a nocturnal visit; for in this respect the king had, on the very first occasion, experienced a severe check, which happened in the following manner. As at Fontainebleau, he had
