Part 28

And with these words, pronounced with all the majesty the young prince knew how to assume on such occasions, he dismissed Colbert in order to give audience to the tailors.

The order given by the king was known throughout Fontainebleau; it was already common knowledge that the king was trying on his costume and that the ballet would be danced that evening.

This news flew with the swiftness of lightning, and in its wake it kindled every coquetry, every desire, every mad ambition.

Instantly, and as if by enchantment, all who knew how to wield a needle, all who knew how to tell a doublet from a pair of breeches, as Molière says, were summoned to serve as auxiliaries to the fashionable gentlemen and the ladies.

The king had finished his toilet by nine o'clock; he appeared in his open carriage, adorned with foliage and flowers.

The queens had taken their places upon a magnificent dais set up on the banks of the pond, in a theatre of marvellous elegance.

In five hours the carpenter workmen had assembled all the fitted pieces of this theatre; the upholsterers had hung their tapestries, set up their seats, and, as at the signal of an enchanter's wand, a thousand arms, aiding one another instead of hindering, had raised the edifice in that place to the sound of music, while already the fireworks masters were illuminating the theatre and the banks of the pond with an incalculable number of candles.

Since the sky was starry and without a single cloud, since not a breath of air was heard in the great woods, since nature herself seemed accommodated to the prince's fancy, the back of the theatre had been left open. So that, behind the front planes of the scenery, one glimpsed as a background that beautiful sky streaming with stars, that sheet of water aflame with fires reflected therein, and the bluish silhouettes of the great rounded crests of the woods.

When the king appeared, the whole hall was full, and presented a sparkling cluster of jewels and gold, in which the first glance could distinguish no single face.

Little by little, as the eye grew accustomed to so much brilliance, the rarest beauties emerged, like the stars in the evening sky, one by one, for him who has closed his eyes and opens them again.

The theatre represented a grove; a few fauns, lifting their cloven feet, skipped hither and thither; a dryad, appearing, excited them to the chase; others joined her to defend her, and they quarrelled as they danced.

Suddenly were to appear, to restore order and peace, the Spring and all his court.

The elements, the subaltern powers, and mythology with their attributes, hurried in the footsteps of their gracious sovereign.

The Seasons, allies of the Spring, came at his side to form a quadrille, which, to more or less flattering words, began the dance. The music, oboes, flutes and viols, painted the rustic pleasures.

Already the king entered amid a thunder of applause.

He was clad in a tunic of flowers, which, instead of weighing down his slender and well-shaped waist, set it free. His leg, one of the most elegant at court, showed to advantage in a flesh-coloured silk stocking, silk so fine and transparent that one would have said it was the flesh itself.

The most charming light lilac satin shoes, with ruffs of flowers and leaves, imprisoned his small foot.

The bust was in harmony with this base; beautiful waving hair, an air of freshness heightened by the brightness of fine blue eyes that gently burned hearts, a mouth with appetising lips, which deigned to open to smile: such was the prince of the year, whom one might, and with good reason that evening, have named the king of all the Loves.

There was in his bearing something of the light majesty of a god. He did not dance, he hovered.

This entrance therefore produced the most brilliant effect. Suddenly, as we have said, the Count of Saint-Aignan was seen seeking to approach the king or Madame.

The princess, clad in a long robe, diaphanous and light as the finest nets woven by the skilled women of Malines, her knee sometimes traced beneath the folds of the tunic, her small foot shod in silk, advanced radiant with her cortege of bacchantes, and already touched the place assigned her for dancing.

The applause lasted so long that the count had all the leisure to reach the king, halted upon a point.

"What is it, Saint-Aignan?" said the Spring.

"My God, Sire," replied the courtier, quite pale, "it is that Your Majesty has not thought of the dance of the Fruits."

"Yes I did; it is suppressed."

"Not so, Sire. Your Majesty gave no such order, and the music has kept it."

"That is unfortunate!" murmured the king. "This dance is not executable, since M. de Guiche is absent. It will have to be suppressed."

"Oh! Sire, a quarter of an hour of music without dancing will be cold enough to kill the ballet."

"But, count, then..."

"Oh! Sire, the great misfortune is not there; for, after all, the orchestra would cut it short well enough, if need be; but..."

"But what?"

"It is that M. de Guiche is here."

"Here?" replied the king, frowning, "here?... Are you sure?..."

"All dressed for the ballet, Sire."

The king felt the red mount to his face.

"You must be mistaken," said he.

"So little, Sire, that Your Majesty may look to his right. The count is waiting."

Louis turned sharply to that side; and, indeed, on his right, blazing with beauty beneath his habit of Vertumnus, de Guiche waited for the king to look at him in order to address him.

To tell the king's stupefaction, that of Monsieur who stirred in his box, to tell the whisperings, the oscillation of heads in the hall, to tell the strange seizure of Madame at the sight of her partner, is a task we leave to abler pens.

The king remained open-mouthed and gazed at the count.

The latter approached, respectful, bowed:

"Sire," said he, "the most humble servant of Your Majesty comes to do him service on this day, as he did on the day of battle. The king, by missing this dance of the Fruits, was losing the finest scene of his ballet. I would not have such a loss result from me, to the beauty, skill and grace of the king; I left my farmers, to come to the aid of my prince."

Each of these words fell, measured, harmonious, eloquent, into the ear of Louis XIV. The flattery pleased him as much as the courage astonished him. He contented himself with answering:

"I had not told you to return, count."

"Assuredly, Sire; but Your Majesty had not told me to stay."

The king felt time running. The scene, by prolonging itself, could confuse everything. A single shadow upon this picture spoiled it beyond remedy.

The king, moreover, had his heart full of good ideas; he had just drawn from the so eloquent eyes of Madame a new inspiration.

That glance of Henriette had said to him:

"Since one is jealous of you, divide the suspicions; he who mistrusts two rivals mistrusts none."

Madame, with this skilful diversion, carried the day.

The king smiled at de Guiche.

De Guiche understood not a word of Madame's mute language. Only, he saw well that she affected not to look at him. His pardon obtained, he attributed it to the princess's heart. The king was grateful to everyone for it.

Monsieur alone understood nothing.

The ballet began; it was splendid.

When the violins, by their bursts, lifted these illustrious dancers, when the naive pantomime of that epoch, yet more naive still through the play, quite mediocre, of the august mimes, attained its culminating point of triumph, the hall well-nigh crumbled beneath the applause.

De Guiche shone like a sun, but like a courtly sun that resigns itself to the second role.

Disdainful of this success, of which Madame showed him no recognition, he thought only of bravely reconquering the princess's open preference.

She gave him not a single glance.

Little by little all his joy, all his brilliance were extinguished in sorrow and unease: so that his legs became slack, his arms heavy, his head dulled.

The king, from that moment, was truly the first dancer of the quadrille.

He cast a sidelong glance upon his vanquished rival.

De Guiche was no longer even courtly; he danced badly, without adulation; soon he danced no more at all.

The king and Madame triumphed.

Chapter CXIV — The Nymphs of the Park of Fontainebleau

The king remained a moment to enjoy his triumph, which, we have said, was as complete as possible.

Then he turned toward Madame to admire her a little in his turn.

Young people love, perhaps, with more liveliness, more ardour, more passion than those of mature age; but they have at the same time all their other sentiments developed in proportion to their youth and vigour, so that self-love being almost always, in them, the equivalent of love, this latter sentiment, combated by the laws of balance, never attains the degree of perfection it acquires in men and women of thirty to thirty-five.

Louis thought therefore of Madame, but only after having thought well of himself, and Madame thought much of herself, perhaps without thinking in the least of the king.

But the victim, amid all these royal loves and self-loves, was de Guiche.

Also could everyone at once remark the agitation and the prostration of the poor gentleman, and this prostration, especially, was the more remarkable in that one was not accustomed to see his arms fall, his head grow heavy, his eyes lose their flame. One was not ordinarily anxious on his account when it was a question of elegance and taste.

So the defeat of Guiche was attributed, by the greater number, to his skill as a courtier.

But others also — clear-sighted eyes are at court — but others also remarked his pallor and his atony, pallor and atony that he could neither feign nor hide, and they concluded, with reason, that de Guiche was not playing a comedy of adulation.

These sufferings, these successes, these commentaries were enveloped, confounded, lost in the noise of applause.

But, when the queens had testified their satisfaction, the spectators their enthusiasm, when the king had withdrawn to his box to change costume, while Monsieur, dressed as a woman, according to his habit, danced in his turn, de Guiche, returned to himself, approached Madame, who, seated at the back of the theatre, awaited the second entrance, and had made herself a solitude amid the crowd, as if to meditate in advance her choreographic effects.

One understands that, absorbed by this grave meditation, she saw not, or feigned not to see, what passed around her.

De Guiche, finding her therefore alone near a bush of painted cloth, approached Madame.

Two of her ladies of honour, clad as hamadryads, seeing de Guiche approach, drew back out of respect.

De Guiche advanced therefore into the midst of the circle and saluted Her Royal Highness.

But Her Royal Highness, whether she had remarked the salute or not, did not even turn her head.

A shiver passed through the veins of the unhappy man; he expected not so complete an indifference, he who had seen nothing, he who had learned nothing, he who, consequently, could guess nothing.

Therefore, seeing that his salute obtained no answer; he took one step more, and, in a voice he strove, but vainly, to render calm:

"I have the honour," said he, "of presenting my most humble respects to Madame."

This time Her Royal Highness deigned to turn her languid eyes toward the count.

"Ah! M. de Guiche," said she, "it is you; good day!"

And she turned away again.

Patience well-nigh failed the count.

"Your Royal Highness danced to ravishment but now," said he.

"You think so?" said Madame negligently.

"Yes, the character is quite that which befits the nature of Her Royal Highness."

Madame turned round completely, and, regarding de Guiche with her clear and fixed eye:

"How so?" said she.

"Doubtless."

"Explain yourself."

"You represent a divinity, beautiful, disdainful and light," said he.

"You mean Pomona, M. le comte?"

"I speak of the goddess represented by Your Royal Highness."

Madame remained an instant with lips curled.

"But you yourself, sir," said she, "are you not also a perfect dancer?"

"Oh! I, madame, am of those who are not distinguished, and who are forgotten if by chance they have been distinguished."

And with these words, accompanied by one of those deep sighs that make the last fibres of the being thrill, his heart full of anguish and palpitations, his head on fire, his eye wavering, he saluted, panting, and withdrew behind the bush of cloth.

Madame, for all answer, slightly shrugged her shoulders.

And as her ladies of honour had, as we have said, withdrawn through discretion during the colloquy, she recalled them with a look.

They were Mlles de Tonnay-Charente and de Montalais.

Both, at this sign from Madame, approached with eagerness.

"Did you hear, mesdemoiselles?" asked the princess.

"What, madame?"

"What M. le comte de Guiche said."

"No."

"In truth, it is a remarkable thing," continued the princess with the accent of compassion, "how much this exile has wearied the mind of that poor M. de Guiche."

And louder still, for fear the unhappy man should lose a word:

"He danced badly at first," she continued; "then, afterward, he said nothing but poor things."

Then she rose, humming the air to which she was about to dance.

Guiche had heard all. The thrust pierced to the depths of his heart and tore it.

Then, at the risk of interrupting all the order of the feast by his spite, he fled, rending his fine habit of Vertumnus, and scattering along his path the vine-leaves, the mulberries, the almond leaves and all the little artificial attributes of his divinity.

A quarter of an hour later, he was back upon the theatre. But it was easy to understand that only a powerful effort of reason over madness could have brought him back, or perhaps — the heart is so made — the very impossibility of remaining longer away from her who broke his heart.

Madame was finishing her dance.

She saw him, but looked not at him; and he, irritated, furious, turned his back to her in his turn when she passed escorted by her nymphs and followed by a hundred flatterers.

During this time, at the other end of the theatre, near the pond, a woman was seated, her eyes fixed upon one of the windows of the theatre.

From this window streamed floods of light.

This window was that of the royal box.

De Guiche, on leaving the theatre, de Guiche, in going to seek the air of which he had such need, de Guiche passed near this woman and saluted her.

She, on her side, at sight of the young man, had risen like a woman surprised amid thoughts she would fain hide from herself.

Guiche recognised her. He stopped.

"Good evening, mademoiselle!" said he quickly.

"Good evening, M. le comte!"

"Ah! Mlle de La Vallière," continued de Guiche, "how happy I am to meet you!"

"And I also, M. le comte, am happy at this chance," said the young girl, making a movement to withdraw.

"Oh! no! no! do not leave me," said de Guiche, extending his hand toward her; "for you would thus give the lie to the kind words you have just spoken. Stay, I beg you, it is the finest evening in the world. You flee the noise, you! You love your own society alone, you! Well! yes, I understand that; all women who have a heart are so. Never shall one be seen to weary far from the whirl of all these noisy pleasures! Oh! mademoiselle! mademoiselle!"

"But what ails you, M. le comte?" asked La Vallière with a certain fright. "You seem agitated."

"I? Not at all; no."

"Then, M. de Guiche, permit me to make you here the acknowledgement that I meant to make you at the first opportunity. It is to your protection, I know, that I owe having been admitted among the maids of honour of Madame."

"Ah! yes, truly, I remember it and congratulate myself upon it, mademoiselle. Do you love anyone, you?"

"I?"

"Oh! pardon, I know not what I say; pardon a thousand times. Madame was right, quite right; this brutal exile has completely overturned my mind."

"But the king received you well, it seems to me, M. le comte?"

"Do you think?... Received well... perhaps... Yes..."

"Doubtless, well received; for, after all, you return without his leave?"

"That is true, and I believe you are right, mademoiselle. But have you not seen about here M. le vicomte de Bragelonne?"

La Vallière trembled at this name.

"Why that question?" asked she.

"Oh! my God! would I wound you again?" said de Guiche. "In that case, I am most unhappy, much to be pitied!"

"Yes, much unhappy, much to be pitied, M. de Guiche, for you seem to suffer horribly."

"Oh! mademoiselle, that I had a devoted sister, a true friend!"

"You have friends, M. de Guiche, and M. le vicomte de Bragelonne, of whom you spoke but now, is, it seems to me, one of those good friends."

"Yes, yes, indeed, he is one of my good friends. Adieu, mademoiselle, adieu! receive all my respects."

And he fled like a madman toward the pond.

His black shadow glided, growing, among the luminous yews and the broad resplendent ripples of the water.

La Vallière regarded him some time with compassion.

"Oh! yes, yes," said she, "he suffers and I begin to understand why."

She had scarce finished, when her companions, Mlles de Montalais and de Tonnay-Charente, came running.

They had finished their service, doffed their nymph habits, and, joyous at this fine night, at the success of the evening, they came back to find their companion.

"What! already!" said they to her. "We thought to arrive first at the rendezvous."

"I have been here these quarter of an hour," answered La Vallière.

"Did not the dance amuse you then?"

"No."

"And all the spectacle?"

"No more. As for spectacle, I much prefer that of these black woods, at the depths of which shines here and there a light that passes like a red eye, now open, now shut."

"She is a poet, this La Vallière," said Tonnay-Charente.

"That is to say insupportable," said Montalais. "Every time it is a question of laughing a little or amusing oneself with something, La Vallière weeps; every time it is a question of weeping, for us other women, lost rags, pricked self-love, ineffectual finery, La Vallière laughs."

"Oh! as for me, I cannot be of that character," said Mlle de Tonnay-Charente. "I am a woman, and a woman as one is not; who loves me flatters me, who flatters me pleases me by his flattery, and who pleases me..."

"Well! you do not finish?" said Montalais.

"It is too difficult," replied Mlle de Tonnay-Charente, laughing aloud. "Finish for me, you who have so much wit."

"And you, Louise," said Montalais, "does one please you?"

"That concerns no one," said the young girl, rising from the bench of moss where she had remained stretched during all the time the ballet lasted. "Now, mesdemoiselles, we formed the project of diverting ourselves tonight without supervisors and without escort. We are three, we like one another, the weather is superb; look yonder, see the moon that mounts softly to the sky and silvers the crests of the chestnuts and oaks. Oh! the fine walk! oh! the fine liberty! the fine fine grass of the woods, the fine favour your friendship does me; let us link arms and gain the great trees. They are all, at this moment, at table and busy yonder, occupied in adorning themselves for a state promenade; they are saddling the horses, harnessing the carriages, the queen's mules or Madame's four white mares. We, let us quickly gain a spot where no eye divines you, where no step walks in our step. Do you recall, Montalais, the woods of Cheverny and Chambord, the endless poplars of Blois? we exchanged there many hopes."

"Many confidences also."

"Yes."

"I," said Mlle de Tonnay-Charente, "think much also; but take care..."

"She says nothing," said Montalais, "so that what Mlle de Tonnay-Charente thinks, Athénaïs alone knows."

"Hush!" cried Mlle de La Vallière, "I hear steps coming from this side."

"Eh! quick! quick! into the reeds," said Montalais; "stoop, Athénaïs, you who are so tall."

Mlle de Tonnay-Charente stooped indeed.

Almost immediately one saw, in fact, two gentlemen advance, head inclined, arms intertwined and walking upon the fine sand of the alley parallel to the shore.

The women made themselves small, imperceptible.

"It is M. de Guiche," said Montalais at the ear of Mlle de Tonnay-Charente.

"It is M. de Bragelonne," said the latter at the ear of La Vallière.

The two young men continued to approach, conversing in an animated voice.

"It is hereabouts she was but now," said the count. "Had I but seen her, I would say it is an apparition; but I spoke to her."

"So, you are sure?"

"Yes; but perhaps also I frightened her."

"How so?"

"Eh! my God! I was still mad from what you know, so that she will have understood nothing of my discourse and will have taken fright."

"Oh!" said Bragelonne, "do not trouble yourself, my friend. She is good, she will excuse; she has wit, she will understand."

"Yes; but if she understood, too well understood."

"After?"

"And that she speak."

"Oh! you do not know Louise, count," said Raoul. "Louise has all the virtues, and not a single fault."

And the young men passed on thereupon, and, as they withdrew, their voices were gradually lost.

"How! La Vallière," said Mlle de Tonnay-Charente, "M. le vicomte de Bragelonne said 'Louise' in speaking of you. How comes that?"

"We were brought up together," answered Mlle de La Vallière; "as little children, we knew one another."

"And then M. de Bragelonne is your betrothed, everyone knows that."

"Oh! I did not know it, I. Is it true, mademoiselle?"

"That is to say," answered Louise, blushing, "that is to say that M. de Bragelonne did me the honour of asking for my hand... but..."

"But what?"

"But it appears that the king..."

"Well?"

"That the king will not consent to this marriage."

"Eh! why the king? and what is the king?" cried Aure with asperity. "Has the king then the right to meddle in such things, good God?... 'Politics is politics,' as M. de Mazarin said; 'but love, it is love.' If therefore you love M. de Bragelonne, and, if he loves you, marry. I give you my consent, I."

Athénaïs began to laugh.

"Oh! I speak seriously," answered Montalais, "and my opinion in this case is worth as well the opinion of the king, I suppose. Is it not, Louise?"

"Come, come, these gentlemen are gone," said La Vallière; "let us profit then by the solitude to cross the meadow and throw ourselves into the wood."

"So much the better," said Athénaïs, "for there are lights departing from the château and the theatre, which give me the impression of preceding some illustrious company."

"Let us run," said they all three.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”