The Vicomte de Bragelonne

taken Saint-Aignan with him one evening when he wished to pay La Vallière a visit; but he had found no one but Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, who had begun to call out “Fire!” and “Thieves!” in such a manner that a perfect legion of chambermaids, attendants, and pages, ran to her assistance; so that Saint-Aignan, who had remained behind in order to save the honor of his royal master, who had fled precipitately, was obliged to submit to a severe scolding from the queen-mother, as well as from Madame herself. In addition, he had, the next morning, received two challenges from the de Mortemart family, and the king had been obliged to interfere. This mistake had been owing to the circumstance of Madame having suddenly ordered a change in the apartments of her maids of honor, and directed La Vallière and Montalais to sleep in her own cabinet. No gateway, therefore, was any longer open⁠—not even communication by letter; to write under the eyes of so ferocious an Argus as Madame, whose temper and disposition were so uncertain, was to run the risk of exposure to the greatest danger; and it can well be conceived into what a state of continuous irritation, and ever increasing anger, all these petty annoyances threw the young lion. The king almost tormented himself to death endeavoring to discover a means of communication; and, as he did not think proper to call in the aid of Malicorne or d’Artagnan, the means were not discovered at all. Malicorne had, indeed, occasional brilliant flashes of imagination, with which he tried to inspire the king with confidence; but, whether from shame or suspicion, the king, who had at first begun to nibble at the bait, soon abandoned the hook. In this way, for instance, one evening, while the king was crossing the garden, and looking up at Madame’s windows, Malicorne stumbled over a ladder lying beside a border of box, and said to Manicamp, then walking with him behind the king, “Did you not see that I just now stumbled against a ladder, and was nearly thrown down?”

“No,” said Manicamp, as usual very absentminded, “but it appears you did not fall.”

“That doesn’t matter; but it is not on that account the less dangerous to leave ladders lying about in that manner.”

“True, one might hurt one’s self, especially when troubled with fits of absence of mind.”

“I don’t mean that; what I did mean, was that it is dangerous to allow ladders to lie about so near the windows of the maids of honor.” Louis started imperceptibly.

“Why so?” inquired Manicamp.

“Speak louder,” whispered Malicorne, as he touched him with his arm.

“Why so?” said Manicamp, louder. The king listened.

“Because, for instance,” said Malicorne, “a ladder nineteen feet high is just the height of the cornice of those windows.” Manicamp, instead of answering, was dreaming of something else.

“Ask me, can’t you, what windows I mean,” whispered Malicorne.

“But what windows are you referring to?” said Manicamp, aloud.

“The windows of Madame’s apartments.”

“Eh!”

“Oh! I don’t say that anyone would ever venture to go up a ladder into Madame’s room; but in Madame’s cabinet, merely separated by a partition, sleep two exceedingly pretty girls, Mesdemoiselles de La Vallière and de Montalais.”

“By a partition?” said Manicamp.

“Look; you see how brilliantly lighted Madame’s apartments are⁠—well, do you see those two windows?”

“Yes.”

“And that window close to the others, but more dimly lighted?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that is the room of the maids of honor. Look, there is Mademoiselle de La Vallière opening the window. Ah! how many soft things could an enterprising lover say to her, if he only suspected that there was lying here a ladder nineteen feet long, which would just reach the cornice.”

“But she is not alone; you said Mademoiselle de Montalais is with her.”

“Mademoiselle de Montalais counts for nothing; she is her oldest friend, and exceedingly devoted to her⁠—a positive well, into which can be thrown all sorts of secrets one might wish to get rid of.”

The king did not lose a single syllable of this conversation. Malicorne even remarked that His Majesty slackened his pace, in order to give him time to finish. So, when they arrived at the door, Louis dismissed everyone, with the exception of Malicorne⁠—a circumstance which excited no surprise, for it was known that the king was in love; and they suspected he was going to compose some verses by moonlight; and, although there was no moon that evening, the king might, nevertheless, have some verses to compose. Everyone, therefore, took his leave; and, immediately afterwards, the king turned towards Malicorne, who respectfully waited until His Majesty should address him. “What were you saying, just now, about a ladder, Monsieur Malicorne?” he asked.

“Did I say anything about ladders, sire?” said Malicorne, looking up, as if in search of words which had flown away.

“Yes, of a ladder nineteen feet long.”

“Oh, yes, sire, I remember; but I spoke to M. Manicamp, and I should not have said a word had I known Your Majesty was near enough to hear us.”

“And why would you not have said a word?”

“Because I should not have liked to get the gardener into a scrape who left it there⁠—poor fellow!”

“Don’t make yourself uneasy on that account. What is this ladder like?”

“If Your Majesty wishes to see it, nothing is easier, for there it is.”

“In that box hedge?”

“Exactly.”

“Show it to me.”

Malicorne turned back, and led the king up to the ladder, saying, “This is it, sire.”

“Pull it this way a little.”

When Malicorne had brought the ladder on to the gravel walk, the king began to step its whole length. “Hum!” he said; “you say it is nineteen feet long?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Nineteen feet⁠—that is rather long; I hardly believe it can be so long as that.”

“You cannot judge very correctly with the ladder in that position, sire. If it were upright, against a tree or a wall, for instance, you would be better able to judge, because the comparison would assist you a good deal.”

“Oh! it does not matter, M. Malicorne; but I can hardly believe that