“You, too, abandon me, then,” said Louis XIV, in a similar tone of lamentation to that with which Caesar, eighteen hundred years previously, had pronounced the Et tu quoque.
“Sire, I am far from abandoning you, for, on the contrary, I am busily occupied in changing my lodgings.”
“What do you mean? I thought you had finished moving three days ago.”
“Yes, sire. But I don’t find myself comfortable where I am, so I am going to change to the opposite side of the building.”
“Was I not right when I said you were abandoning me?” exclaimed the king. “Oh! this exceeds all endurance. But so it is: there was only one woman for whom my heart cared at all, and all my family is leagued together to tear her from me; and my friend, to whom I confided my distress, and who helped me to bear up under it, has become wearied of my complaints and is going to leave me without even asking my permission.”
Saint-Aignan began to laugh. The king at once guessed there must be some mystery in this want of respect. “What is it?” cried the king, full of hope.
“This, sire, that the friend whom the king calumniates is going to try if he cannot restore to his sovereign the happiness he has lost.”
“Are you going to let me see La Vallière?” said Louis XIV.
“I cannot say so, positively, but I hope so.”
“How—how?—tell me that, Saint-Aignan. I wish to know what your project is, and to help you with all my power.”
“Sire,” replied Saint-Aignan, “I cannot, even myself, tell very well how I must set about attaining success; but I have every reason to believe that from tomorrow—”
“Tomorrow, do you say! What happiness! But why are you changing your rooms?”
“In order to serve Your Majesty to better advantage.”
“How can your moving serve me?”
“Do you happen to know where the two rooms destined for de Guiche are situated?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Your Majesty now knows where I am going.”
“Very likely; but that does not help me.”
“What! is it possible that you do not understand, sire, that above de Guiche’s lodgings are two rooms, one of which is Mademoiselle Montalais’s, and the other—”
“La Vallière’s, is it not so, Saint-Aignan? Oh! yes, yes. It is a brilliant idea, Saint-Aignan, a true friend’s idea, a poet’s idea. By bringing me nearer her from whom the world seems to unite to separate me—you are far more than Pylades was for Orestes, or Patroclus for Achilles.”
“Sire,” said Aignan, with a smile, “I question whether, if Your Majesty were to know my projects in their full extent, you would continue to pronounce such a pompous eulogium upon me. Ah! sire, I know how very different are the epithets which certain Puritans of the court will not fail to apply to me when they learn of what I intend to do for Your Majesty.”
“Saint-Aignan, I am dying with impatience; I am in a perfect fever; I shall never be able to wait until tomorrow—tomorrow! why, tomorrow is an eternity!”
“And yet, sire, I shall require you, if you please, to go out presently and divert your impatience by a good walk.”
“With you—agreed; we will talk about your projects, we will talk of her.”
“Nay, sire; I remain here.”
“Whom shall I go out with, then?”
“With the queen and all the ladies of the court.”
“Nothing shall induce me to do that, Saint-Aignan.”
“And yet, sire, you must.”
“Must?—no, no—a thousand times no! I will never again expose myself to the horrible torture of being close to her, of seeing her, of touching her dress as I pass by her, and yet not be able to say a word to her. No, I renounce a torture which you suppose will bring me happiness, but which consumes and eats away my very life; to see her in the presence of strangers, and not to tell her that I love her, when my whole being reveals my affection and betrays me to everyone; no! I have sworn never to do it again, and I will keep my oath.”
“Yet, sire, pray listen to me for a moment.”
“I will listen to nothing, Saint-Aignan.”
“In that case, I will continue; it is most urgent, sire—pray understand me, it is of the greatest importance—that Madame and her maids of honor should be absent for two hours from the palace.”
“I cannot understand your meaning at all, Saint-Aignan.”
“It is hard for me to give my sovereign directions what to do; but under the circumstances I do give you directions, sire; and either a hunting or a promenade party must be got up.”
“But if I were to do what you wish, it would be a caprice, a mere whim. In displaying such an impatient humor I show my whole court that I have no control over my own feelings. Do not people already say that I am dreaming of the conquest of the world, but that I ought previously to begin by achieving a conquest over myself?”
“Those who say so, sire, are as insolent as they would like to be thought facetious; but whomever they may be, if Your Majesty prefers to listen to them, I have nothing further to say. In such a case, that which we have fixed to take place tomorrow must be postponed indefinitely.”
“Nay, Saint-Aignan, I will go out this evening—I will go by torchlight to Saint-Germain: I will breakfast there tomorrow, and will return to Paris by three o’clock. Will that do?”
“Admirably.”
“In that case I will set out this evening at eight o’clock.”
“Your Majesty has fixed upon the exact minute.”
“And you positively will tell
