Part 34

If the information was good, to tell the king with effusion that he had laid hands on a pearl, and to claim the privilege of setting that pearl in the royal crown.

If the information was bad—a possible thing after all—to examine how attached the king was to La Vallière, and to direct the report in such a way as to expel the little girl, thereby earning merit for that expulsion in the eyes of all the women who might have pretensions to the king's heart, beginning with Madame and ending with the queen.

In case the king proved stubborn in his desire, to hide the bad reports; to let La Vallière know that those bad reports, without exception, dwell in a secret drawer of the confidant's memory; thus to display generosity before the unhappy girl, and to keep her perpetually suspended by gratitude and fear, so as to make her a court friend, interested like an accomplice in making the fortune of her accomplice while making her own.

As for the day when the bomb of the past should explode, supposing that bomb should ever explode, de Saint-Aignan promised himself well to have taken all precautions and to play the ignorant man before the king.

With La Vallière, even on that day he would still have a superb role of generosity to play.

It was with all these ideas, hatched in half an hour at the fire of covetousness, that de Saint-Aignan, the best son in the world, as La Fontaine would have said, went off with the settled intention of making de Guiche talk—that is to say, of disturbing him in his happiness, which de Saint-Aignan, moreover, knew nothing about.

It was one in the morning when de Saint-Aignan caught sight of de Guiche standing, motionless, leaning against the trunk of a tree, his eyes fixed upon that lighted window.

One in the morning: that is to say, the sweetest hour of the night, the one that painters crown with myrtle and budding poppies, the hour with weary eyes, a palpitating heart, and a heavy head, that casts a regretful glance upon the day that has passed, and sends a loving salute to the new day.

For de Guiche, it was the dawn of an ineffable happiness: he would have given a treasure to the beggar planted in his path, to obtain that he should not disturb him in his dreams.

It was precisely at that hour that Saint-Aignan, ill-advised—selfishness always advises ill—came and tapped him on the shoulder, at the moment when he was murmuring a word, or rather a name.

— Ah! he cried heavily, I was looking for you.

— Me? said de Guiche, starting.

— Yes, and I find you dreaming at the moon. Would you by chance be afflicted with the malady of poetry, my dear count, and are you making verses?

The young man forced his features to smile, while a thousand and a thousand contradictions rumbled against Saint-Aignan in the deepest recess of his heart.

— Perhaps, said he. But what happy chance?

— Ah! that proves to me you did not hear me well.

— How so?

— Yes, I began by telling you I was looking for you.

— You were looking for me?

— Yes, and I catch you at it.

— At what, pray?

— Why, at singing of Philis.

— It is true, I do not deny it, said de Guiche laughing; yes, my dear count, I sing of Philis.

— That is granted you.

— To me?

— Doubtless, to you. To you, the intrepid protector of every beautiful and witty woman.

— What the devil are you telling me there.

— Recognized truths, I know well. But wait, I am in love.

— You?

— Yes.

— So much the better, dear count. Come and tell me about it.

And de Guiche, perhaps a little late, fearing that Saint-Aignan might notice that lighted window, took the count's arm and tried to draw him away.

— Oh! said the latter, resisting, do not lead me toward those black woods, it is too damp that way. Let us stay in the moonlight, will you?

And, while yielding to the pressure of de Guiche's arm, he remained in the flowerbeds that bordered the castle.

— Come, said de Guiche resigned, lead me where you please, and ask me what is agreeable to you.

— No one could be more charming.

Then, after a second of silence:

— Dear count, continued de Saint-Aignan, I should like you to tell me a couple of words about a certain person you have protected.

— And whom you love?

— I say neither yes nor no, dearest... You understand one does not thus place one's heart at a dead loss, and that one must well take one's securities in advance.

— You are right, said de Guiche with a sigh; a heart is precious.

— Mine above all, it is tender, and I give it to you as such.

— Oh! you are known, count. And then?

— Here it is. It is simply a question of Mlle de Tonnay-Charente.

— Come now! my dear Saint-Aignan, you are going mad, I presume!

— Why so?

— I never protected Mlle de Tonnay-Charente, I!

— Bah!

— Never!

— It was not you who got Mlle de Tonnay-Charente admitted to Madame's household?

— Mlle de Tonnay-Charente, and you should know that better than anyone, my dear count, is of good enough family to be desired, still more to be admitted.

— You are railing at me.

— No, upon my honor, I do not know what you mean.

— Thus, you had no hand in her admission?

— No.

— You do not know her?

— I saw her for the first time on the day of her presentation to Madame. So, as I did not protect her, as I do not know her, I could not give you, my dear count, the explanations you desire about her.

And de Guiche made a movement to leave his interlocutor.

— There! there! said Saint-Aignan, one moment, my dear count; you shall not escape me thus.

— Pardon, but it seemed to me it was time to go home.

— Yet you were not going in, when I, not met you, but found you.

— Also, my dear count, from the moment you still have something to say to me, I place myself at your disposal.

— And you do well, by God! A half-hour more or less, your lace will be neither more nor less crumpled. Swear to me that you had no bad reports to give me about her, and that those bad reports which you might have given me are not the cause of your silence.

— Oh! the dear child, I believe her pure as crystal.

— You overwhelm me with joy. However, I do not wish to appear before you like a man so ill-informed as I seem. It is certain that you furnished the princess's house with ladies of honor. They have even made a song about that furnishing.

— You know, my dear friend, that they make songs about everything.

— Do you know it?

— No; but sing it to me, I shall make its acquaintance.

— I could not tell you how it begins, but I remember how it ends.

— Good! that is already something.

_Of maidens of honor, Guiche is named the purveyor._

— The idea is weak and the rhyme poor.

— Ah! what would you have, my dear, it is neither Racine nor Molière, it is by La Feuillade, and a great lord cannot rhyme like a clown.

— It is vexing, truly, that you remember only the end.

— Wait, wait, here is the beginning of the second verse coming back to me.

— I listen.

_He has filled the aviary, Montalais and..._

— By God! and La Vallière! cried de Guiche, impatient and above all completely ignorant of where Saint-Aignan was aiming.

— Yes, yes, that is it, La Vallière. You found the rhyme, my dear.

— A fine find, faith!

— Montalais and La Vallière, that is it. Those are the two little girls you protected.

And Saint-Aignan began to laugh.

— So, you do not find in the song Mlle de Tonnay-Charente? said de Guiche.

— No, faith!

— Are you satisfied, then?

— Doubtless; but I do find Montalais there, said Saint-Aignan, still laughing.

— Oh! you will find her everywhere. She is a very restless young lady.

— You know her?

— By intermediary. She was protected by a certain Malicorne, whom Manicamp protects; Manicamp had me ask for a post of lady of honor for Montalais in Madame's household, and a place as officer for Malicorne in Monsieur's household. I asked; you know well I have a weakness for that rogue Manicamp.

— And you obtained?

— For Montalais, yes; for Malicorne, yes and no, he is only tolerated as yet. Is that all you wished to know?

— Remains the rhyme.

— What rhyme?

— The rhyme you found.

— La Vallière?

— Yes.

And de Saint-Aignan resumed his air that so irritated de Guiche.

— Well! said the latter, I did get her admitted to Madame's, that is true.

— Ah! ah! ah! went de Saint-Aignan.

— But, continued de Guiche with his coldest air, you will make me very happy, dear count, if you do not jest about that name. Mlle La Baume Le Blanc de La Vallière is a perfectly virtuous person.

— Perfectly virtuous?

— Yes.

— But do you not know the new rumor? cried Saint-Aignan.

— No, and indeed you will do me a service, my dear count, in keeping that rumor to yourself and to those who are spreading it.

— Ah! bah, you take the matter so seriously?

— Yes; Mlle de La Vallière is loved by one of my good friends.

Saint-Aignan started.

— Oh! oh! said he.

— Yes, count, continued de Guiche. Consequently, you understand, you the most polite man in France, I cannot let my friend be placed in a ridiculous position.

— Oh! admirably.

And Saint-Aignan bit his fingers, half vexation, half disappointed curiosity.

De Guiche gave him a fine bow.

— You dismiss me, said Saint-Aignan, who was dying to know the name of the friend.

— I do not dismiss you, dearest... I am finishing my verses to Philis.

— And those verses?...

— Are a quatrain. You understand, do you not? a quatrain is sacred.

— Faith! yes.

— And as, of the four verses of which it must naturally consist, I still have three verses and a half-verse to compose, I need all my head.

— That is understandable. Farewell, count!

— Farewell!

— By the way...

— What?

— Are you facile?

— Enormously.

— Will you have finished your three verses and a half by tomorrow morning?

— I hope so.

— Well! until tomorrow.

— Until tomorrow; farewell!

Saint-Aignan had to accept the dismissal; he accepted it and disappeared behind the trellis.

The conversation had carried de Guiche and Saint-Aignan rather far from the castle.

Every mathematician, every poet, and every dreamer has his distractions; Saint-Aignan therefore found himself, when de Guiche left him, at the limits of the quincunx, at the spot where the commons begin and where, behind great clusters of acacias and horse-chestnuts crossing their bunches beneath heaps of clematis and Virginia creeper, rises the separating wall between the woods and the courtyard of the outbuildings.

Saint-Aignan, left alone, took the path toward those buildings; de Guiche turned the opposite way. The one therefore returned toward the flowerbeds, while the other went toward the walls.

Saint-Aignan walked beneath an impenetrable vault of service trees, lilacs, and gigantic hawthorns, his feet on soft sand, buried in shadow.

He ruminated a revenge that seemed difficult to take, quite dismounted, as Tallemant des Réaux would have said, at having learned no more about La Vallière, despite the ingenious tactic he had employed to get to her.

Suddenly a warbling of human voices reached his ear. It was like whisperings, like feminine complaints mingled with appeals; there were little laughs, sighs, stifled cries of surprise; but, above all, the feminine voice dominated.

Saint-Aignan stopped to get his bearings; he recognized with the liveliest surprise that the voices came, not from the earth, but from the tops of the trees.

He raised his head as he slipped under the walk, and perceived at the crest of the wall a woman perched on a great ladder, in great communication of gestures and words with a man perched in a tree, of whom only the head was visible, his body being lost in the shadow of a horse-chestnut.

The woman was on this side of the wall; the man beyond it.

Chapter CXXIII — The Labyrinth

De Saint-Aignan sought only information and found an adventure. It was good fortune.

Curious to know why and above all what this man and this woman were talking about at such an hour and in so singular a situation, de Saint-Aignan made himself very small and arrived almost beneath the rails of the ladder.

Then, taking his measures to be as comfortable as possible, he leaned against a tree and listened.

He heard the following dialogue.

It was the woman who spoke.

— Truly, Monsieur Manicamp, said she in a voice which, amid the reproaches she was uttering, retained a singular accent of coquetry, truly, you are of the most dangerous indiscretion. We cannot talk thus long without being surprised.

— That is very probable, interrupted the man in the calmest and most phlegmatic tone.

— Well then! what will be said? Oh! if anyone saw me, I declare I should die of shame.

— Oh! that would be a great childishness, and one I believe you incapable of.

— It would be something else if there were something between us; but to do oneself harm for nothing, truly, I am very silly. Farewell, Monsieur de Manicamp!

"Good! I know the man; now I shall see the woman," said de Saint-Aignan to himself, watching at the rails of the ladder the extremity of two legs elegantly shod in sky-blue satin shoes and flesh-colored stockings.

— Oh! come, come; for mercy's sake, my dear Montalais, cried de Manicamp, do not flee, what the devil! I still have things of the highest importance to tell you.

"Montalais!" thought de Saint-Aignan softly; "that makes three! The three gossips each have her adventure; only it had seemed to me that the adventure of this one was called M. Malicorne and not de Manicamp."

At this appeal from her interlocutor, Montalais stopped midway in her descent.

Then was seen the unfortunate de Manicamp climb a story in his horse-chestnut, whether to better his position or to combat the weariness of his bad posture.

— Come, said he, listen to me; you know well, I hope, that I have no evil design.

— Doubtless... But, finally, why this letter you wrote me, stimulating my gratitude? Why this rendezvous you ask of me at such an hour and in such a place?

— I stimulated your gratitude by reminding you that it was I who got you admitted to Madame's, because, desiring eagerly the interview you have been good enough to grant me, I employed, to obtain it, the surest means. Why I asked it of you at such an hour and in such a place? It is that the hour seemed discreet to me and the place solitary. Now, I had to ask you things that require both discretion and solitude.

— Monsieur de Manicamp!

— In all honor, dear mademoiselle.

— Monsieur de Manicamp, I believe it would be more proper that I withdraw.

— Listen, or I jump from my nest into yours, and take care not to defy me, for there is just, at this moment, a branch of horse-chestnut that is troublesome to me and provokes me to excesses. Do not imitate that branch and listen to me.

— I listen, I consent; but be brief, for, if you have a branch that provokes you, I have, myself, a triangular rung that is pressing into the sole of my feet. My shoes are undermined, I warn you.

— Do me the friendship of giving me your hand, mademoiselle.

— And why?

— Give it anyway.

— Here is my hand; but what are you doing?

— I am drawing you to me.

— To what end? You do not want me to come join you in your tree, I hope?

— No; but I desire that you seat yourself on the wall; there, good! the place is wide and fair and I would give much for you to permit me to seat myself there beside you.

— Not at all! you are well where you are; you would be seen.

— Do you think so? asked Manicamp in an insinuating voice.

— I am sure of it.

— Be it so! I remain on my horse-chestnut, though I am as ill-placed as possible.

— Monsieur Manicamp! Monsieur Manicamp! we are wandering from the point.

— That is just.

— You wrote to me?

— Very well.

— But why did you write to me?

— Imagine that today, at two o'clock, de Guiche departed.

— After?

— Seeing him depart, I followed him, as is my habit.

— I see it well, since there you are.

— Wait though... You know, do you not, that that poor de Guiche was up to his neck in disgrace?

— Alas! yes.

— It was therefore the height of imprudence for him to come find at Fontainebleau those who had exiled him to Paris, and above all those from whom he was being kept away.

— You reason like the late Pythagoras, Monsieur Manicamp.

— Now, de Guiche is stubborn like a lover; he listened therefore to none of my remonstrances. I begged him, I supplicated him, he would hear nothing of anything... Ah! devil!

— What is the matter?

— Pardon, mademoiselle, but it is that accursed branch of which I already had the honor to speak to you and which has just torn my breeches.

— It is night, replied Montalais laughing: let us continue, Monsieur Manicamp.

— De Guiche therefore departed at full gallop on horseback, and I, I followed him, but at a walk. You understand, to go throw oneself into the water with a friend as fast as he goes himself, is the act of a fool or a madman. I therefore let de Guiche take the lead and traveled with a wise slowness, persuaded as I was that the unhappy man would not be received, or, if he were, would turn bridle at the first thrust, and that I should see him return even faster than he had gone, without my having gone further than Ris or Melun, and that was already too much, you will agree, eleven leagues going and as many returning.

Montalais shrugged her shoulders.

— Laugh as much as you please, mademoiselle; but if, instead of being squarely seated on the coping of a wall as you are, you found yourself astride the branch here, you would aspire to come down.

— A little patience, my dear Monsieur Manicamp! an instant soon passes: you were saying then that you had passed Ris and Melun.

— Yes, I passed Ris and Melun; I continued to walk, still astonished at not seeing him return; finally, here I am at Fontainebleau, I inquire, I ask everywhere for de Guiche; no one has seen him, no one has spoken to him in the town: he arrived at full gallop, entered the castle, and disappeared. Since eight o'clock this evening, I have been at Fontainebleau, asking the echoes for de Guiche; no de Guiche. I am dying of anxiety! you understand that I did not go throw myself into the wolf's mouth, by entering the castle myself, as my imprudent friend did: I came straight to the outbuildings, and I had a letter delivered to you. Now, mademoiselle, in Heaven's name, relieve my anxiety.

— That will not be difficult, my dear Monsieur Manicamp: your friend de Guiche was received admirably.

— Bah!

— The king made much of him.

— The king, who had exiled him!

— Madame smiled upon him; Monsieur seems to like him more than before!

— Ah! ah! said Manicamp, that explains to me why and how he stayed. And he said nothing of me?

— He has not said a word of it.

— That is ill of him. What is he doing at this moment?

— In all probability, he is sleeping, or, if he is not sleeping, he is dreaming.

— And what was done all evening?

— There was dancing.

— The famous ballet? How was de Guiche?

— Superb.

— That dear friend! Now, pardon, mademoiselle, but I still have to pass from my place to yours.

— How so?

— You understand: I do not presume the castle gate will be opened to me at this hour, and, as for sleeping on this branch, I should like to, but I declare the thing impossible for any animal other than a parrot.

— But I, Monsieur Manicamp, I cannot just like that introduce a man over a wall?

— Two, mademoiselle, said a second voice, but with so timid an accent, that one understood its owner felt all the impropriety of such a request.

— Good God! cried Montalais, trying to plunge her gaze to the foot of the horse-chestnut; who speaks to me?

— I, mademoiselle.

— Who, you?

— Malicorne, your very humble servant.

And Malicorne, while saying these words, hoisted himself from the head to the lower branches, and from the lower branches to the height of the wall.

— M. Malicorne!... Divine goodness! but you are both mad!

— How do you do, mademoiselle, asked Malicorne with much civility.

— That one was missing! cried Montalais in despair.

— Oh! mademoiselle, murmured Malicorne, do not be so harsh, I beg you!

— Finally, mademoiselle, said Manicamp, we are your friends, and one cannot desire the death of one's friends. Now, to leave us to spend the night where we are, is to condemn us to death.

— Oh! said Montalais, M. Malicorne is robust, and he will not die from a night passed in the open air.

— Mademoiselle!

— It will be a just punishment for his escapade.

— Be it so! Let Malicorne arrange as he will with you; I, I pass, said Manicamp.

And, bending that famous branch against which he had made such bitter complaints, he finished, aiding himself with hands and feet, by seating himself side by side with Montalais.

Montalais wished to push Manicamp away, Manicamp sought to maintain himself.

This conflict, which lasted some seconds, had its picturesque side, a side at which the eye of M. de Saint-Aignan certainly found its account.

But Manicamp prevailed. Master of the ladder, he placed his foot upon it, then he offered his hand gallantly to his enemy.

During this time, Malicorne installed himself in the horse-chestnut, in the place Manicamp had occupied, promising himself in his own mind to succeed him in that which he occupied.

Manicamp and Montalais descended some rungs, Manicamp insisting, Montalais laughing and defending herself.

Then was heard the voice of Malicorne who was supplicating.

— Mademoiselle, said Malicorne, do not abandon me, I beg you! My position is false, and I cannot without accident get alone to the other side of the wall; let Manicamp tear his clothes, very well: he has those of M. de Guiche; but I shall not even have those of Manicamp, since they will be torn.

— Methinks, said Manicamp, without heeding Malicorne's lamentations, methinks the best is that I go find de Guiche this instant. Later perhaps I could no longer penetrate to him.

— That is my opinion too, replied Montalais; go then, Monsieur Manicamp.

— A thousand thanks! Farewell, mademoiselle, said Manicamp, jumping to the ground, no one could be more amiable than you.

— Monsieur de Manicamp, your servant; I am now going to rid myself of M. Malicorne.

Malicorne uttered a sigh.

— Go, go, continued Montalais.

Manicamp took a few steps; then, returning to the foot of the ladder:

— By the way, mademoiselle, said he, which way does one go to M. de Guiche's?

— Ah! it is true... Nothing simpler. You follow the trellis...

— Oh! very good.

— You arrive at the green crossroads.

— Good!

— You find there four walks...

— Admirable.

— You take one...

— Which?

— The one on the right.

— The one on the right?

“Stories of the world, in your language.”