Part 41

De Saint-Aignan paused there; he was savoring the pleasure of the compliments, and this portrait, however grotesquely inflated it was, had found favor especially in certain ears, for whom the merits of the shepherd did not seem to have been exaggerated. Madame urged the speaker to continue.

— Tircis, said the count, had a faithful companion, or rather a devoted servant, who was called… Amyntas.

— Ah! let us see the portrait of Amyntas! said Madame mischievously; you are such a good painter, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan!

— Madame…

— Oh! Count de Saint-Aignan, do not, I beg you, sacrifice poor Amyntas! I should never forgive you.

— Madame, Amyntas is of too inferior a condition, especially beside Tircis, for his person to have the honor of a parallel. There are certain friends like those servants of Antiquity who had themselves buried alive at their master's feet. At the feet of Tircis, that is where Amyntas belongs; he claims no other place, and if sometimes the illustrious hero…

— Illustrious shepherd, do you mean? said Madame, feigning to correct M. de Saint-Aignan.

— Your Royal Highness is right, I was mistaken, resumed the courtier: if, I say, the shepherd Tircis deigns at times to call Amyntas his friend and to open his heart to him, it is an unmatched favor, of which the lowly one makes as much as of the most signal happiness.

— All that, interrupted Madame, establishes the absolute devotion of Amyntas to Tircis, but gives us no portrait of Amyntas. Count, do not flatter him if you wish, but paint him for us; I want the portrait of Amyntas.

De Saint-Aignan complied, after bowing profoundly before His Majesty's sister-in-law:

— Amyntas, he said, is a little older than Tircis; he is not a shepherd entirely disfavored by nature; indeed it is said that the Muses deigned to smile at his birth as Hebe smiles at youth. He has no ambition to shine; he has that of being loved, and perhaps he would not be unworthy of it if he were well known.

This last paragraph, reinforced by a deadly glance, was sent straight to Mlle de Tonnay-Charente, who bore the shock without flinching.

But the modesty and the skill of the allusion had produced a good effect; Amyntas reaped the fruit of it in applause; the head of Tircis himself gave the signal with a look full of benevolence.

— Now, continued de Saint-Aignan, Tircis and Amyntas were walking one evening in the forest, talking of their amorous griefs. Note that this is already the dryad's tale, ladies; otherwise how could one have known what Tircis and Amyntas were saying, the two most discreet of all the shepherds on earth? They were thus making for the thickest part of the forest to isolate themselves and confide their troubles more freely to one another, when suddenly their ears were struck by a sound of voices.

— Ah! ah! was heard around the narrator. This is becoming most interesting.

Here Madame, like a vigilant general inspecting his army, straightened Montalais and Tonnay-Charente with a glance, who were bending under the effort.

— Those harmonious voices, resumed de Saint-Aignan, were those of some shepherdesses who had also wished to enjoy the coolness of the shade, and who, knowing the secluded, almost inaccessible spot, had gathered there to pool a few ideas on shepherding.

An immense burst of laughter, raised by this phrase of Saint-Aignan, an imperceptible smile of the king as he looked at Tonnay-Charente, such were the results of the sally.

— The dryad assures, continued Saint-Aignan, that the shepherdesses were three, and that all three were young and beautiful.

— Their names? said Madame tranquilly.

— Their names! said de Saint-Aignan, who reared up against this indiscretion.

— No doubt. You have called your shepherds Tircis and Amyntas: call your shepherdesses something or other.

— Oh! madame, I am not an inventor, a trouvère, as they used to say; I am recounting under the dictation of the dryad.

— How did your dryad name those shepherdesses? Truly, that is a most stubborn memory. Was that dryad on bad terms with the goddess Mnemosyne?

— Madame, those shepherdesses… Pray note well that revealing women's names is a crime!

— From which a woman absolves you, count, on condition that you reveal to us the name of the shepherdesses.

— They were named Philis, Amaryllis and Galatea.

— Very well! they have not lost by waiting, said Madame, and there are three charming names. Now, the portraits?

De Saint-Aignan made another movement.

— Oh! let us proceed in order, I beg you, count, resumed Madame. Is it not so, Sire, that we must have the portraits of the shepherdesses?

The king, who expected this insistence, and who was beginning to feel some uneasiness, did not think fit to goad so dangerous an interrogator. He thought besides that de Saint-Aignan, in his portraits, would find the means to slip in a few delicate touches of which would profit the ears that His Majesty had an interest in charming. It was in this hope, it was with this fear, that Louis authorized de Saint-Aignan to draw the portrait of the shepherdesses Philis, Amaryllis and Galatea.

— Well then, so be it! said de Saint-Aignan like a man making up his mind.

And he began.

Chapter CXXXI — End of the tale of a naiad and a dryad

— Philis, said Saint-Aignan, casting a provocative glance at Montalais, much as in a fencing bout a master of arms invites a rival worthy of him to guard, Philis is neither brunette nor blonde, neither tall nor short, neither cold nor exalted; she is, shepherdess though she be, witty as a princess and coquettish as a demon.

Her sight is excellent. All that her sight embraces, her heart desires. She is like a bird that, ever warbling, now skims the grass, now rises fluttering in pursuit of a butterfly, now perches at the top of a tree, and from there defies all bird-catchers, either to come take her or to make her fall into their nets.

The portrait was so lifelike that all eyes turned toward Montalais, who, with alert eye and nose to the wind, listened to M. de Saint-Aignan as if it were a question of a person quite strange to her.

— Is that all, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan? asked the princess.

— Oh! Your Royal Highness, the portrait is but sketched, and there would be much to say. But I fear wearying the patience of Your Highness or wounding the modesty of the shepherdess, so that I pass to her companion Amaryllis.

— That is right, said Madame, pass to Amaryllis, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, we follow you.

— Amaryllis is the eldest of the three; and yet, Saint-Aignan hastened to say, that great age does not reach twenty years.

The eyebrow of Mlle de Tonnay-Charente, which had furrowed at the beginning of the tale, smoothed itself with a slight smile.

— She is tall, with immense hair that she ties back in the manner of the statues of Greece; she has a majestic gait and a proud gesture: thus she has far more the air of a goddess than of a simple mortal, and, among the goddesses, the one she most resembles is Diana the huntress; with this sole difference, that the cruel shepherdess, having one day stolen the quiver of Love while poor Cupid slept in a rosebush, instead of directing his darts at the dwellers of the forests, looses them pitilessly at all the poor shepherds who pass within reach of her bow and her eyes.

— Oh! the wicked shepherdess! said Madame; will she not one day prick herself with one of those darts she launches so pitilessly right and left?

— That is the hope of all shepherds in general, said de Saint-Aignan.

— And that of the shepherd Amyntas in particular, is it not? said Madame.

— The shepherd Amyntas is so timid, resumed de Saint-Aignan with the most modest air he could assume, that, if he has that hope, no one has ever known it, for he hides it in the depths of his heart.

A murmur of the most flattering kind greeted this profession of faith of the narrator regarding the shepherd.

— And Galatea? asked Madame. I am impatient to see so skilled a hand take up the portrait where Virgil left it, and finish it before our eyes.

— Madame, said de Saint-Aignan, beside the great poet Virgilius Maro, your humble servant is but a very poor poet; however, encouraged by your command, I shall do my best.

— We are listening, said Madame.

Saint-Aignan extended his foot, his hand and his lips.

— White as milk, he said, golden as the wheat-ears, she shakes in the air the perfumes of her blonde tresses. Then one asks if this is not that fair Europe who gave love to Jupiter, when she played with her companions in the flowering meadows.

From her eyes, blue as the azure of the sky on the finest summer days, falls a gentle flame; reverie feeds it, love dispenses it. When she frowns or bends her brow toward the earth, the sun veils itself in sign of mourning.

When she smiles, on the contrary, all nature resumes its joy, and the birds, silent for a moment, begin again their songs in the heart of the trees.

That one above all, said de Saint-Aignan to conclude, that one is worthy of the adorations of the world; and, if ever her heart gives itself, happy the mortal whose virginal love shall consent to make a god!

Madame, in listening to this portrait, which each listened to as she did, contented herself with marking her approval at the most poetic passages by a few nods; but it was impossible to say whether these marks of assent were given to the talent of the narrator or to the likeness of the portrait.

It resulted therefrom that, Madame not applauding openly, no one presumed to applaud, not even Monsieur, who found at the bottom of his heart that de Saint-Aignan dwelt too much on the portraits of the shepherdesses, after having passed a little too quickly over the portraits of the shepherds.

The assembly appeared frozen.

De Saint-Aignan, who had exhausted his rhetoric and his brushes in shading the portrait of Galatea, and who thought, from the favor that had greeted the other pieces, to hear stamping of feet for the last, de Saint-Aignan was even more frozen than the king and all the company.

There was a moment of silence which was at last broken by Madame.

— Well! Sire, she asked, what does Your Majesty say of these three portraits?

The king wished to come to the aid of Saint-Aignan without compromising himself.

— But Amaryllis is beautiful, he said, in my opinion.

— I, I prefer Philis, said Monsieur; she is a good girl, or rather a good fellow of a nymph.

And everyone laughed.

This time, the glances were so direct that Montalais felt the red rise to her face in violet flames.

— Then, resumed Madame, these shepherdesses were saying?…

But de Saint-Aignan, struck in his self-love, was not in a state to sustain an attack of fresh and rested troops.

— Madame, he said, these shepherdesses were reciprocally confessing their little leanings.

— Go on, go on, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, you are a river of pastoral poetry, said Madame with an amiable smile that somewhat comforted the narrator.

— They told one another that love is a danger, but that the absence of love is the death of the heart.

— So that they concluded?… asked Madame.

— So that they concluded that one ought to love.

— Very good! Did they attach conditions to it?

— The condition of choosing, said de Saint-Aignan. I must even add, it is the dryad speaking, that one of the shepherdesses, Amaryllis, I believe, was completely opposed to one's loving, and yet she did not defend herself too much from having let the image of a certain shepherd penetrate to her heart.

— Amyntas or Tircis?

— Amyntas, madame, said de Saint-Aignan modestly. But immediately Galatea, the gentle Galatea with pure eyes, answered that neither Amyntas, nor Alphesiboeus, nor Tityrus, nor any of the fairest shepherds of the region could be compared to Tircis, that Tircis eclipsed all men, just as the oak eclipses in height all trees, the lily in majesty all flowers. She even drew such a portrait of Tircis that Tircis, who listened to her, must truly have been flattered despite his greatness. Thus Tircis and Amyntas had been distinguished by Amaryllis and Galatea. Thus the secret of the two hearts had been revealed under the shadow of night and in the secrecy of the woods.

This, madame, is what the dryad told me, she who knows all that passes in the hollow of oaks and in the tufts of grass; she who knows the loves of birds, who knows what their songs mean; she who finally understands the language of the wind in the branches and the humming of golden or emerald insects in the corolla of wild flowers; she told it to me again, I repeat it.

— And now you are finished, are you not, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan? said Madame with a smile that made the king tremble.

— I am finished, yes, madame, answered de Saint-Aignan; happy if I have been able to divert Your Highness for a few moments.

— Too short moments, answered the princess, for you have perfectly related all that you knew; but, my dear Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, you have had the misfortune of informing yourself with but a single dryad, is that not so?

— Yes, madame, with a single one, I confess it.

— It follows that you passed near a little naiad who seemed to be nothing, and who knew ever so much more than your dryad, my dear count.

— A naiad? repeated several voices that were beginning to suspect the tale was to have a sequel.

— No doubt: beside that oak of which you speak, and which is called the royal oak, as I believe at least, is it not so, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan?

Saint-Aignan and the king looked at each other.

— Yes, madame, answered de Saint-Aignan.

— Well! there is a pretty little spring that murmurs over pebbles, amid forget-me-nots and daisies.

— I think Madame is right, said the king, ever uneasy and hanging on his sister-in-law's lips.

— Oh! there is one, I assure you of it, said Madame; and the proof is that the naiad who rules that spring stopped me as I passed, me who speaks to you.

— Bah! said Saint-Aignan.

— Yes, continued the princess, and that to tell me a quantity of things that M. de Saint-Aignan did not put in his tale.

— Oh! tell it yourself, said Monsieur, you tell things in a charming way.

The princess bowed before the conjugal compliment.

— I shall not have the count's poetry and his talent for bringing out all the details.

— You will not be listened to with less interest, said the king, who felt in advance something hostile in his sister-in-law's tale.

— I speak besides, continued Madame, in the name of that poor little naiad, who is surely the most charming demi-goddess I have ever met. Now, she was laughing so much during the tale she told me, that by virtue of that medical axiom: 'Laughter is contagious,' I ask permission to laugh a little myself when I recall her words.

The king and de Saint-Aignan, who saw on many faces break forth a beginning of hilarity like that Madame announced, ended by looking at each other and asking each other with their eyes if there might not be some little conspiracy underneath.

But Madame was quite decided to turn and return the knife in the wound; so she resumed with her air of naive candor, that is to say with the most dangerous of all her airs:

— So, I was passing by there, she said, and, as I found beneath my steps many fresh flowers newly blown, no doubt that Philis, Amaryllis, Galatea, and all your shepherdesses, had passed on the path before me.

The king bit his lips. The tale was becoming more and more threatening.

— My little naiad, continued Madame, was cooing her little song on the bed of her brook; as I saw that she accosted me touching the hem of my robe, I did not think to give her a bad reception, and that all the better, after all, since a divinity, were she of the second order, is always worth more than a mortal princess. So, I approached the naiad, and here is what she said to me, bursting with laughter: 'Imagine, princess…'

— You understand, Sire, it is the naiad speaking.

The king made a sign of assent; Madame resumed:

— 'Imagine, princess, that the banks of my stream have just been witness to one of the most amusing spectacles. Two shepherds, curious to the point of indiscretion, have been mystified in a most delightful fashion by three nymphs or three shepherdesses…' I beg your pardon, but I no longer recall whether it is nymphs or shepherdesses she said. But it matters little, does it not? Let us pass on then.

At this preamble, the king visibly reddened, and de Saint-Aignan, losing all composure, began to stare with the most anxious eyes in the world.

— 'The two shepherds,' pursued my little naiad, still laughing, 'were following the trail of the three young ladies…' No, I mean the three nymphs; pardon, I am mistaken, the three shepherdesses. That is not always sensible, that may embarrass those one follows. I appeal to all these ladies, and not one of those here will contradict me, I am certain of it.

The king, much troubled by what was to follow, nodded.

— 'But,' continued the naiad, 'the shepherdesses had seen Tircis and Amyntas slip into the wood; and, the moon aiding, they had recognized them through the quincunxes…' Ah! you laugh, interrupted Madame. Wait, wait, you are not at the end.

The king paled; de Saint-Aignan wiped his brow damp with sweat.

There were among the groups of women little stifled laughs, furtive whisperings.

— The shepherdesses, I was saying, seeing the indiscretion of the two shepherds, the shepherdesses went and sat at the foot of the royal oak, and, when they felt their indiscreet listeners within earshot of not losing a word of what was to be said, they innocently addressed them, the most innocently in the world, an incendiary declaration of which the natural self-love in all men, and even in the most sentimental shepherds, made the terms appear sweet as rays of honey to the two auditors.

The king, at these words which the assembly could not hear without laughing, let escape a flash from his eyes.

As for de Saint-Aignan, he let his head fall upon his chest, and veiled, under a bitter burst of laughter, the deep vexation he felt.

— Oh! said the king, drawing himself up to his full height, that is, upon my word, a charming jest assuredly, and, recounted by you, madame, in a no less charming fashion: but really, truly, did you understand the language of the naiads?

— But the count pretends to have understood that of the dryads, replied Madame quickly.

— No doubt, said the king. But, as you know, the count has the weakness of aiming at the Academy, so that he has learned, to that end, all sorts of things that happily you are ignorant of, and it could be that the language of the water-nymph was among the things you have not studied.

— You understand, Sire, answered Madame, that for such facts one does not trust to oneself alone; the ear of a woman is not an infallible thing, said Saint Augustine; so I wished to enlighten myself with opinions other than my own, and, as my naiad, who, in quality of goddess, is polyglot… is that not how one says it, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan?

— Yes, madame, said de Saint-Aignan, quite undone.

— And, continued the princess, as my naiad, who, in quality of goddess, is polyglot, had first spoken to me in English, I feared, as you say, to have misheard and had Mlles de Montalais, de Tonnay-Charente and La Vallière brought, praying my naiad to repeat to me in the French language the tale she had already told me in English.

— And she did it? asked the king.

— Oh! she is the most obliging divinity that exists… Yes, Sire, she did it again. So that there is no doubt to be kept. Is it not so, young ladies, said the princess, turning toward the left of her army, is it not so that the naiad spoke exactly as I relate, and that I in no way failed of the truth?… Philis?… Pardon! I am mistaken… Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais, is it true?

— Oh! absolutely, madame, articulated Mlle de Montalais distinctly.

— Is it true, Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente?

— Pure truth, answered Athénaïs in no less firm a voice, but nevertheless less intelligible.

— And you, La Vallière? asked Madame.

The poor child felt the burning gaze of the king directed upon her; she dared not deny, she dared not lie; she lowered her head in sign of acquiescence.

Only her head did not rise again, half frozen as she was by a cold more painful than that of death.

This triple testimony crushed the king. As for Saint-Aignan, he did not even try to disguise his despair, and without knowing what he said, he stammered:

— Excellent jest! well played, Mesdames the shepherdesses!

— Just punishment of curiosity, said the king in a hoarse voice. Oh! who, after the chastisement of Tircis and Amyntas, who would dare to seek to surprise what passes in the hearts of shepherdesses? Certainly, it shall not be I… And you, gentlemen?

— Nor I! nor I! repeated in chorus the group of courtiers.

Madame triumphed in this vexation of the king; she delighted in it, believing that her tale had been or ought to be the denouement of all.

As for Monsieur, who had laughed at this double tale understanding nothing of it, he turned toward de Guiche:

— Eh! count, he said to him, you say nothing; you find nothing to say then? Would you be pitying MM. Tircis and Amyntas, by chance?

— I pity them with all my soul, answered de Guiche; for, in truth, love is so sweet a chimera, that to lose it, chimera though it be, is to lose more than life. So, if these two shepherds believed themselves loved, if they found themselves happy therein, and that instead of this happiness they meet not only the void that equals death, but a raillery of love that is worth a hundred thousand deaths… well! I say that Tircis and Amyntas are the two most unhappy men I know.

— And you are right, Monsieur de Guiche, said the king; for after all, death, that is very hard for a little curiosity.

— Then, is it to be understood that the tale of my naiad displeased the king? asked Madame naively.

— Oh! madame, undeceive yourself, said Louis, taking the princess's hand; your naiad pleased me all the better in that she was more truthful, and that her tale, I must say, is supported by irrefutable testimonies.

And these words fell upon La Vallière with a glance that none, from Socrates to Montaigne, could have perfectly defined.

This glance and these words finished overwhelming the unhappy young girl, who, leaning on Montalais's shoulder, seemed to have lost consciousness.

The king rose without noticing this incident, which moreover no one heeded; and against his custom, for ordinarily he stayed late with Madame, he took leave to enter his apartments.

De Saint-Aignan followed him, quite as despairing at his exit as he had shown himself joyful at his entrance.

Mlle de Tonnay-Charente, less sensitive than La Vallière to emotions, was little alarmed and did not faint.

However, the supreme glance of Saint-Aignan had been far more majestic than the last look of the king.

End of Volume II

“Stories of the world, in your language.”