Part 5

— Very well. I will even tell you that at this moment I am certain you detest me.

— Oh! you never spoke a truer word.

— Good! As for me, I hate you.

— Ah! I take note of that.

— Do. You find me brutal and stupid; I, for my part, find you hard of voice and with a face distorted by anger. At this moment you would throw yourself out of that window rather than let me kiss the tip of your finger; I would hurl myself from the top of the bell turret rather than touch the hem of your gown. But in five minutes you will love me, and I will adore you. Oh! that is how it is.

— I doubt it.

— And I swear to it.

— Fop!

— And besides, that is not the true reason; you have need of me, Aure, and I have need of you. When it pleases you to be merry, I make you laugh; when it suits me to be in love, I look at you. I gave you a commission as lady of honour that you desired; you are about to give me, in a moment, something that I shall desire.

— I?

— You! but at this moment, my dear Aure, I declare to you that I desire absolutely nothing; so, be at ease.

— You are an odious man, Malicorne; I was about to rejoice over that commission, and now you have taken all my joy from me.

— Well! no time is lost; you will rejoice when I have gone.

— Then go…

— So be it; but, beforehand, a word of advice…

— What?

— Recover your good humour; you grow ugly when you pout.

— Boor!

— Come, let us speak our truths while we are at it.

— O Malicorne! O wicked heart!

— O Montalais! O ingrate!

And the young man leaned his elbows on the window ledge.

Montalais took up a book and opened it.

Malicorne straightened up, brushed his felt hat with his sleeve, and smoothed the wrinkles from his black doublet.

Montalais, while pretending to read, watched him out of the corner of her eye.

— Good! she cried furiously, there he goes putting on his respectful air. He will sulk for a week.

— A fortnight, mademoiselle, said Malicorne with a bow.

Montalais raised her clenched fist toward him.

— Monster! said she. Oh! if I were a man!

— What would you do to me?

— I would strangle you!

— Ah! very good, said Malicorne; I believe I am beginning to desire something.

— And what do you desire, Monsieur Demon! That I lose my soul through anger?

Malicorne was respectfully turning his hat between his fingers; but suddenly he let his hat fall, seized the girl by both shoulders, drew her to him, and pressed upon her lips two lips quite ardent for a man pretending to such indifference. Aure would have uttered a cry, but that cry died in the kiss.

Nervous and irritated, the girl pushed Malicorne back against the wall.

— Good! said Malicorne philosophically, that is worth six weeks; farewell, mademoiselle! accept my most humble salutation.

And he took three steps to withdraw.

— Well! no, you shall not leave! cried Montalais, stamping her foot; stay! I order you to!

— You order me?

— Yes; am I not the mistress?

— Of my soul and my mind, without doubt.

— Fine property, faith! The soul is foolish and the mind dry.

— Take care, Montalais, I know you, said Malicorne; you are going to fall in love with your servant.

— Well! yes, said she, throwing herself upon his neck with a childlike indolence far more than with a voluptuous abandon; well! yes, for I must thank you, at last.

— And for what?

— For that commission; is it not all my future?

— And all of mine.

Montalais looked at him.

— It is frightful, said she, never to be able to guess whether you speak seriously.

— More seriously than ever; I was going to Paris, you are going there, we are going there.

— Then it is for that sole motive that you served me, selfish one?

— What would you have, Aure, I cannot do without you.

— Well! in truth, it is the same with me; you are, however, it must be owned, a very wicked heart!

— Aure, my dear Aure, take care; if you fall back into abuse, you know the effect it produces on me, and I am going to adore you.

And, while saying these words, Malicorne drew the girl to him a second time.

At the same instant a step sounded on the stair. The young people were so close that they would have been surprised in each other's arms, had not Montalais violently pushed Malicorne away, who went to strike his back against the door, which was opening at that moment. A loud cry, followed by oaths, rang out at once.

It was Mme de Saint-Remy who uttered that cry and those oaths: the unhappy Malicorne had just crushed her half-way between the wall and the door she was partly opening.

— It is that good-for-nothing again! cried the old lady; always there!

— Ah! madame, answered Malicorne in a respectful voice, it is a full eight days since I last came here.

Chapter LXXVIII — Wherein the True Heroine of This History Is at Last Seen to Reappear

Behind Mme de Saint-Remy came Mlle de La Vallière. She heard the outburst of maternal anger, and as she guessed its cause, she entered the chamber all trembling, and perceived the unhappy Malicorne, whose desperate bearing would have softened or amused anyone who had observed him with cold blood. Indeed, he had swiftly taken refuge behind a large chair, as if to avoid the first assaults of Mme de Saint-Remy; he did not hope to bend her by words, for she spoke louder than he and without pause, but he counted on the eloquence of his gestures.

The old lady neither listened nor saw anything; Malicorne had long been one of her antipathies. But her anger was too great not to overflow from Malicorne onto his accomplice. Montalais had her turn.

— And you, mademoiselle, and you, do you count that I shall not warn Madame of what passes in the house of one of her maids of honour?

— Oh! my mother, cried Mlle de La Vallière, I beg you, spare…

— Hold your tongue, mademoiselle, and do not weary yourself uselessly interceding for unworthy subjects; that an honest girl like you should suffer the bad example, that is already certainly a great enough misfortune; but that she should authorise it by her indulgence, is what I will not suffer.

— But, in truth, said Montalais, rebelling at last, I do not know on what pretext you treat me thus; I do no harm, I suppose?

— And that great idler, mademoiselle, resumed Mme de Saint-Remy, pointing to Malicorne, is he here to do good? I ask you.

— He is here neither for good nor for ill, madame; he comes to see me, that is all.

— Very well, very well, said Mme de Saint-Remy; Her Royal Highness shall be informed, and she will judge.

— In any case, I do not see why, answered Montalais, it should be forbidden to M. Malicorne to have designs upon me, if his design be honest.

— Honest design, with such a face! cried Mme de Saint-Remy.

— I thank you on behalf of my face, madame, said Malicorne.

— Come, my daughter, come, continued Mme de Saint-Remy; let us go warn Madame that at the very moment when she weeps for a husband, at the moment when we weep for a master in this old castle of Blois, abode of sorrow, there are those who amuse themselves and rejoice.

— Oh! cried the two accused with one motion.

— A maid of honour! a maid of honour! cried the old lady, raising her hands to heaven.

— Well! that is where you are mistaken, madame, said Montalais, exasperated; I am no longer a maid of honour, of Madame at least.

— You give in your resignation, mademoiselle? Very well! I can but applaud such a determination and I do applaud it.

— I do not give in my resignation, madame; I take another service, that is all.

— In the bourgeoisie or in the robe? asked Mme de Saint-Remy with disdain.

— Learn, madame, said Montalais, that I am no girl to serve bourgeoises or pettifoggers, and that instead of the miserable court where you vegetate, I am going to dwell in an almost royal court.

— Ah! ah! a royal court, said Mme de Saint-Remy, forcing a laugh; a royal court, what think you of it, my daughter?

And she turned toward Mlle de La Vallière, whom she wished by all means to draw against Montalais, and who, instead of obeying the impulse of Mme de Saint-Remy, looked now at her mother, now at Montalais, with her beautiful conciliating eyes.

— I did not say a royal court, madame, answered Montalais, because Madame Henriette of England, who is to become the wife of His Royal Highness Monsieur, is not a queen. I said almost royal, and I said rightly, since she is to be the sister-in-law of the king.

Thunder falling upon the castle of Blois would not have stunned Mme de Saint-Remy as did this last phrase of Montalais.

— What speak you of Her Royal Highness Madame Henriette? stammered the old lady.

— I say that I am going into her house as maid of honour: that is what I say.

— As maid of honour! cried at once Mme de Saint-Remy with despair and Mlle de La Vallière with joy.

— Yes, madame, as maid of honour.

The old lady bowed her head as if the blow had been too strong for her.

However, almost immediately she straightened up to launch a last projectile at her adversary.

— Oh! oh! said she, much is spoken of such promises in advance, one often flatters oneself with foolish hopes, and at the last moment, when it is a question of keeping those promises, of realising those hopes, one is quite surprised to see reduced to vapour the great credit upon which one counted.

— Oh! madame, the credit of my protector, mine, is unquestionable, and his promises are as good as deeds.

— And this so powerful protector, would it be indiscreet to ask his name?

— Oh! my God, no; it is Monsieur here, said Montalais, pointing to Malicorne, who, during the whole of this scene, had preserved the most imperturbable coolness and the most comical dignity.

— Monsieur! cried Mme de Saint-Remy with an explosion of hilarity, Monsieur is your protector! This man whose credit is so powerful, whose promises are as good as deeds, it is M. Malicorne?

Malicorne bowed.

As for Montalais, for all answer she drew the commission from her pocket, and showing it to the old lady:

— Here is the commission, said she.

At this, all was over. As soon as she had run her eye over the blessed parchment, the good lady joined her hands, an unspeakable expression of envy and despair contracted her face, and she was obliged to sit down lest she faint.

Montalais was not wicked enough to rejoice excessively over her victory and crush the vanquished enemy, especially when that enemy was the mother of her friend; she therefore used, but did not abuse, her triumph.

Malicorne was less generous; he struck noble poses upon his armchair and stretched himself with a familiarity which, two hours earlier, would have drawn upon him the threat of a stick.

— Lady of honour to the young Madame! repeated Mme de Saint-Remy, still hardly convinced.

— Yes, madame, and by the protection of M. Malicorne, again.

— It is incredible! repeated the old lady; is it not, Louise, that it is incredible?

But Louise did not answer; she was bent, dreamy, almost afflicted; a hand upon her fair brow, she sighed.

— At last, monsieur, said Mme de Saint-Remy suddenly, how did you manage to obtain that office?

— I asked for it, madame.

— Of whom?

— Of a friend of mine.

— And you have friends well enough at court to give you such proofs of credit?

— Why, it would seem so.

— And may one know the name of these friends?

— I did not say I had several friends, madame, I said a friend.

— And this friend is called?

— Peste! madame, how you go at it! When one has a friend as powerful as mine, one does not produce him thus in broad daylight for fear someone steal him from you.

— You are right, monsieur, to hide the name of that friend, for I believe it would be difficult for you to tell it.

— In any case, said Montalais, if the friend does not exist, the commission exists, and that settles the question.

— Then I understand, said Mme de Saint-Remy with the gracious smile of a cat about to scratch, when I found Monsieur with you just now…

— Well?

— He was bringing you your commission.

— Exactly, madame, you have guessed.

— But it was, then, nothing could be more moral.

— I believe so, madame.

— And I was wrong, it would seem, to reproach you, mademoiselle.

— Very wrong, madame; but I am so used to your reproaches, that I forgive them to you.

— In that case, let us go, Louise; we have nothing left but to withdraw. Well?

— Madame! said La Vallière, starting, you say?

— You were not listening, it would seem, my child?

— No, madame, I was thinking.

— And of what?

— Of a thousand things.

— You do not bear me ill will at least, Louise? cried Montalais, pressing her hand.

— And why should I bear you ill will, my dear Aure? answered the young girl with her voice sweet as music.

— Why! resumed Mme de Saint-Remy, if she bore you a little, poor child! she would not be altogether wrong.

— And why should she bear me ill will, good heavens?

— It seems to me she is of as good family and as pretty as you.

— My mother! cried Louise.

— A hundred times prettier, madame; of better family, no; but that does not tell me why Louise should bear me ill will.

— Do you think it amusing for her to bury herself at Blois when you are going to shine in Paris?

— But, madame, it is not I who prevent Louise from following me there, to Paris; on the contrary, I should certainly be very happy if she came.

— But it seems to me that M. Malicorne, who is all-powerful at court…

— Ah! so much the worse, madame, said Malicorne, each for himself in this poor world.

— Malicorne! said Montalais.

Then, bending toward the young man:

— Occupy Mme de Saint-Remy, either by quarrelling or by making it up with her; I must have a talk with Louise.

And, at the same time, a gentle pressure of the hand rewarded Malicorne for his future obedience. Malicorne drew near, all grumbling, to Mme de Saint-Remy, while Montalais said to her friend, throwing an arm about her neck:

— What ails you? Come! Is it true you would love me no more because I should shine, as your mother says?

— Oh! no, answered the young girl, scarce holding back her tears; I am very happy at your happiness, on the contrary.

— Happy! and one would say you are ready to weep.

— Does one weep only from envy?

— Ah! yes, I understand, I am going to Paris, and that word 'Paris' recalled to you a certain cavalier.

— Aure!

— A certain cavalier who, formerly, dwelt at Blois, and who now dwells at Paris.

— I do not know, in truth, what ails me, but I am stifling.

— Weep then, since you cannot smile at me.

Louise raised her face so sweet that tears, rolling one after another, lit it like diamonds.

— Come, confess, said Montalais.

— What would you have me confess?

— What makes you weep; one does not weep without cause. I am your friend; all you would have me do, I will do. Malicorne is more powerful than is thought, go to! Do you wish to come to Paris?

— Alas! said Louise.

— Do you wish to come to Paris?

— To remain alone here, in this old castle, I who had that sweet habit of hearing your songs, of pressing your hand, of running with you all in that park; oh! how I shall be bored, how quickly I shall die!

— Do you wish to come to Paris?

Louise uttered a sigh.

— You do not answer.

— What would you have me answer you?

— Yes or no; that is not very difficult, it seems to me.

— Oh! you are happy, Montalais!

— Come, that means you would like to be in my place?

Louise was silent.

— Little stubborn one! said Montalais; was there ever seen such keeping of secrets from a friend! But confess then that you would like to come to Paris, confess then that you are dying with desire to see Raoul again!

— I cannot confess that.

— And you are wrong.

— Why?

— Because… Do you see this commission?

— Of course I see it.

— Well! I would have had one like it made out for you.

— By whom?

— By Malicorne.

— Aure, do you speak true? would it be possible?

— Why! Malicorne is there; and what he has done for me, he must needs do for you.

Malicorne had just heard his name pronounced twice; he was delighted to have an occasion to be done with Mme de Saint-Remy, and he turned round.

— What is it, mademoiselle?

— Come here, Malicorne, said Montalais with an imperative gesture.

Malicorne obeyed.

— A commission like this, said Montalais.

— How so?

— A commission like this one; it is clear.

— But…

— I must have it!

— Oh! oh! you must have it?

— Yes.

— It is impossible, is it not, Monsieur Malicorne? said Louise with her sweet voice.

— Why! if it is for you, mademoiselle…

— For me. Yes, Monsieur Malicorne, it would be for me.

— And if Mlle de Montalais asks for it at the same time as you…

— Mlle de Montalais does not ask for it, she demands it.

— Well! we shall see about obeying you, mademoiselle.

— And you will have her appointed?

— We shall try.

— No evasive answer. Louise de La Vallière shall be maid of honour to Madame Henriette within a week.

— How you go at it!

— Within a week, or else…

— Or else?

— You will take back your commission, Monsieur Malicorne; I do not leave my friend.

— Dear Montalais!

— Very well, keep your commission; Mlle de La Vallière shall be lady of honour.

— Is it true?

— It is true.

— May I then hope to go to Paris?

— Count upon it.

— Oh! Monsieur Malicorne, what gratitude! cried Louise, joining her hands and bounding with joy.

— Little dissembler! said Montalais, try again to make me believe you are not in love with Raoul.

Louise blushed like the rose of May; but, instead of answering, she went to embrace her mother.

— Madame, said she to her, do you know that M. Malicorne is going to have me appointed maid of honour?

— M. Malicorne is a disguised prince, replied the old lady; he has all powers.

— Do you also wish to be maid of honour? asked Malicorne of Mme de Saint-Remy. While I am at it, I may as well have the whole world appointed.

And, thereupon, he went out, leaving the poor lady quite undone, as Tallemant des Réaux would say.

— Come, murmured Malicorne as he descended the stairs, come, that is yet another thousand-livre note this will cost me; but one must make up one's mind to it; my friend Manicamp does nothing for nothing.

Chapter LXXIX — Malicorne and Manicamp

The introduction of these two new personages into this history, and that mysterious affinity of names and of sentiments, merit some attention on the part of the historian and the reader. We are going to enter, then, into some details concerning M. Malicorne and M. de Manicamp.

Malicorne, it is known, had made the journey to Orléans to fetch that commission destined for Mlle de Montalais, and whose arrival had just produced so vivid a sensation at the castle of Blois. This was because at Orléans was to be found for the moment M. de Manicamp. A singular personage, if ever there was one, was this M. de Manicamp: a fellow of much wit, always strapped, always needy, although he drew at will upon the purse of M. the Count de Guiche, one of the best-lined purses of the epoch.

This was because M. the Count de Guiche had had for childhood companion de Manicamp, a poor gentleman vassal born of the Grammonts. This was because M. de Manicamp, with his wit, had created himself a revenue in the opulent family of the marshal.

From childhood, he had, by a calculation far above his years, lent his name and his complaisance to the follies of the Count de Guiche. Had his noble companion stolen a fruit destined for Mme la Maréchale, had he broken a mirror, put out a dog's eye, de Manicamp declared himself guilty of the crime committed, and received the punishment, which was none the gentler for falling upon the innocent.

But also, this system of abnegation was paid him. Instead of wearing mediocre clothes as the paternal fortune made a law for him, he could appear dazzling, superb, like a young lord of fifty thousand livres a year.

It is not that he was base of character or humble of spirit; no, he was a philosopher, or rather he had that indifference, that apathy, and that reverie which remove from a man all sentiment of the hierarchical world. His sole ambition was to spend money. But, in that regard, this good M. de Manicamp was a gulf.

Three or four times regularly a year, he exhausted the Count de Guiche, and, when the Count de Guiche was well exhausted, had turned his pockets and purse inside out before him, and declared that at least a fortnight was needed for paternal munificence to refill purse and pockets, de Manicamp lost all his energy, he took to his bed, stayed there, ate no more, and sold his fine clothes on the pretext that, remaining abed, he had no further need of them.

During this prostration of strength and spirit, the purse of the Count de Guiche filled, and, once filled, overflowed into that of Manicamp, who bought new clothes again, re-dressed, and began the same life as before.

This mania for selling his new clothes at a quarter of their worth had rendered our hero rather famous in Orléans, a town where, in general, we should be much embarrassed to say why he came to pass his days of penitence.

The debauchees of the province, the petty fops of six hundred livres a year, shared among them the shreds of his opulence.

Among the admirers of these splendid toilets shone our friend Malicorne, son of a syndic of the town, to whom M. the Prince de Condé, always needy like a Condé, often borrowed money at high interest.

M. Malicorne held the paternal cash-box. That is to say, that in this time of easy morals he made on his own account, following the example of his father and lending by the week, a revenue of eighteen hundred livres, not counting six hundred other livres furnished by the generosity of the syndic, so that Malicorne was the king of the dandies of Orléans, having two thousand four hundred livres to dilapidate, to waste, to scatter in follies of every kind.

But, quite contrary to Manicamp, Malicorne was frightfully ambitious.

He loved through ambition, he spent through ambition, he would have ruined himself through ambition.

Malicorne had resolved to succeed at any price; and for that, at any price, he had given himself a mistress and a friend.

The mistress, Mlle de Montalais, was cruel to him in the last favours of love; but she was a noble girl, and that sufficed Malicorne.

The friend had no friendship, but he was the favourite of the Count de Guiche, friend himself of Monsieur, brother of the king, and that sufficed Malicorne.

Only, in the chapter of charges, Mlle de Montalais cost per year: ribbons, gloves, and sweetmeats, a thousand livres. De Manicamp cost, in money lent never returned, from twelve to fifteen hundred livres a year.

There remained therefore nothing to Malicorne.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”