“It is because I have nothing more to tell you. Industry counts for something in this world, sire; but still, chance plays so important a part in it that I have been accustomed to leave her the sidewalk, confident that she will manage so as to always take the street.”
“Well, I abandon myself entirely to you.”
“And you are quite right.”
Comforted in this manner, the king went immediately to Madame, to whom he announced the intended expedition. Madame fancied at the first moment that she saw in this unexpectedly arranged party a plot of the king’s to converse with La Vallière, either on the road under cover of the darkness, or in some other way, but she took especial care not to show any of her fancies to her brother-in-law, and accepted the invitation with a smile upon her lips. She gave directions aloud that her maids of honor should accompany her, secretly intending in the evening to take the most effectual steps to interfere with His Majesty’s attachment. Then, when she was alone, and at the very moment the poor lover, who had issued orders for the departure, was reveling in the idea that Mademoiselle de La Vallière would form one of the party—luxuriating in the sad happiness persecuted lovers enjoy of realizing through the sense of sight alone all the transports of possession—Madame, who was surrounded by her maids of honor, was saying:—“Two ladies will be enough for me this evening, Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente and Mademoiselle de Montalais.”
La Vallière had anticipated her own omission, and was prepared for it: but persecution had rendered her courageous, and she did not give Madame the pleasure of seeing on her face the impression of the shock her heart received. On the contrary, smiling with that ineffable gentleness which gave an angelic expression to her features—“In that case, Madame, I shall be at liberty this evening, I suppose?” she said.
“Of course.”
“I shall be able to employ it, then, in progressing with that piece of tapestry which Your Highness has been good enough to notice, and which I have already had the honor of offering to you.”
And having made a respectful obeisance she withdrew to her own apartment; Mesdemoiselles de Tonnay-Charente and de Montalais did the same. The rumor of the intended promenade soon spread all over the palace; ten minutes afterwards Malicorne learned Madame’s resolution, and slipped under Montalais’s door a note, in the following terms:
“L. V. must positively pass the night with Madame.”
Montalais, in pursuance of the compact she had entered into, began by burning the letter, and then sat down to reflect. Montalais was a girl full of expedients, and so she very soon arranged her plan. Towards five o’clock, which was the hour for her to repair to Madame’s apartment, she was running across the courtyard, and had reached within a dozen paces of a group of officers, when she uttered a cry, fell gracefully on one knee, rose again, with difficulty, and walked on limpingly. The gentlemen ran forward to her assistance; Montalais had sprained her foot. Faithful to the discharge of her duty, she insisted, however, notwithstanding her accident, upon going to Madame’s apartments.
“What is the matter, and why do you limp so?” she inquired; “I mistook you for La Vallière.”
Montalais related how it had happened, that in hurrying on, in order to arrive as quickly as possible, she had sprained her foot. Madame seemed to pity her, and wished to have a surgeon sent for immediately, but she, assuring her that there was nothing really serious in the accident, said: “My only regret, Madame, is, that it will preclude my attendance on you, and I should have begged Mademoiselle de La Vallière to take my place with Your Royal Highness, but—” seeing that Madame frowned, she added—“I have not done so.”
“Why did you not do so?” inquired Madame.
“Because poor La Vallière seemed so happy to have her liberty for a whole evening and night too, that I did not feel courageous enough to ask her to take my place.”
“What, is she so delighted as that?” inquired Madame, struck by these words.
“She is wild with delight; she, who is always so melancholy, was singing like a bird. Besides, Your Highness knows how much she detests going out, and also that her character has a spice of wildness in it.”
So!
thought Madame, this extreme delight hardly seems natural to me.
“She has already made all her preparations for dining in her own room tête-à-tête with one of her favorite books. And then, as Your Highness has six other young ladies who would be delighted to accompany you, I did not make my proposal to La Vallière.” Madame did not say a word in reply.
“Have I acted properly?” continued Montalais, with a slight fluttering of the heart, seeing the little success that seemed to attend the ruse de guerre which she had relied upon with so much confidence that she had not thought it even necessary to try and find another. “Does Madame approve of what I have done?” she continued.
Madame was reflecting that the king could very easily leave Saint-Germain during the night, and that, as it was only four leagues and a half from Paris to Saint-Germain, he might readily be in Paris in an hour’s time. “Tell me,” she said, “whether La Vallière, when she heard of your accident, offered at least to bear you company?”
“Oh! she does not yet know of my accident; but even did she know of it, I most certainly should not ask her to do anything that might interfere with her own plans. I think she wishes this evening to realize quietly by herself that amusement of the late king, when he said to M. de Cinq-Mars, ‘Let us amuse ourselves by doing nothing, and making ourselves miserable.’ ”
Madame felt convinced that some mysterious love adventure lurked behind this strong desire for solitude. The secret might be Louis’s return during the night; it could not be doubted any longer
