Chapter LX. The New General of the Jesuits
While La Valliere and the king were mingling, in their first confession of love, all the bitterness of the past, the happiness of the present, and hopes of the future, Fouquet had retired to the apartments which had been assigned to him in the chateau, and was conversing with Aramis precisely upon the very subjects which the king at that moment was forgetting.
“Now tell me,” said Fouquet, after having installed his guest in an armchair and seated himself by his side, “tell me, Monsieur d’Herblay, what is our position with regard to the Belle-Isle affair, and whether you have received any news about it.”
“Everything is going on in that direction as we wish,” replied Aramis; “the expenses have been paid, and nothing has transpired of our designs.”
“But what about the soldiers the king wished to send there?”
“I have received news this morning they arrived there fifteen days ago.”
“And how have they been treated?”
“In the best manner possible.”
“What has become of the former garrison?”
“The soldiers were landed at Sarzeau, and then transferred immediately to Quimper.”
“And the new garrison?”
“Belongs to us from this very moment.”
“Are you sure of what you say, my dear Monsieur de Vannes?”
“Quite sure, and, moreover, you will see by and by how matters have turned out.”
“Still you are very well aware, that, of all the garrison towns, Belle-Isle is precisely the very worst.”
“I know it, and have acted accordingly; no space to move about, no gayety, no cheerful society, no gambling permitted: well, it is a great pity,” added Aramis, with one of those smiles so peculiar to him, “to see how much young people at the present day seek amusement, and how much, consequently, they incline to the man who procures and pays for their favorite pastimes.”
“But if they amuse themselves at Bell-Isle?”
“If they amuse themselves through the king’s means, they will attach themselves to the king; but if they get bored to death through the king’s means, and amuse themselves through M. Fouquet, they will attach themselves to M. Fouquet.”
“And you informed my intendant, of course? – so that immediately on their arrival – ”
“By no means; they were left alone a whole week, to weary themselves at their ease; but, at the end of the week, they cried out, saying that former officers amused themselves much better. Whereupon they were told that the old officers had been able to make a friend of M. Fouquet, and that M. Fouquet, knowing them to be friends of his, had from that moment done all he possibly could to prevent their getting wearied or bored upon his estates. Upon this they began to reflect. Immediately afterwards, however, the intendant added, that without anticipating M. Fouquet’s orders, he knew his master sufficiently well to be aware that he took an interest in every gentleman in the king’s service, and that, although he did not know the new-comers, he would do as much for them as he had done for the others.”
“Excellent! and I trust that the promises were followed up; I desire, as you know, that no promise should ever be made in my name without being kept.”
“Without a moment’s loss of time, our two privateers, and your own horses, were placed at the disposal of the officers; the keys of the principal mansion were handed over to them, so that they made up hunting-parties, and walking excursions with such ladies as are to be found in Belle-Isle; and such other as they are enabled to enlist from the neighborhood, who have no fear of sea-sickness.”
“And there is a fair sprinkling to be met with at Sarzeau and Vannes, I believe, your eminence?”
“Yes; in fact all along the coast,” said Aramis, quietly.
“And now, how about the soldiers?”
“Everything precisely the same, in a relative degree, you understand; the soldiers have plenty of wine, excellent provisions, and good pay.”
“Very good; so that – ”
“So that this garrison can be depended upon, and it is a better one than the last.”
“Good.”
“The result is, if Fortune favors us, so that the garrisons are changed in this manner, only every two months, that, at the end of every three years, the whole army will, in its turn, have been there; and, therefore, instead of having one regiment in our favor, we shall have fifty thousand men.”
“Yes, yes; I knew perfectly well,” said Fouquet, “that no friend could be more incomparable and invaluable than yourself, my dear Monsieur d’Herblay; but,” he added, laughing, “all this time we are forgetting our friend, Du Vallon; what has become of him? During the three days I spent at Saint-Mande, I confess I have forgotten him completely.”
“I do not forget him, however,” returned Aramis. “Porthos is at Saint-Mande; his joints are kept well greased, the greatest care is being taken care of him with regard to the food he eats, and the wines he drinks; I advise him to take daily airings in the small park, which you have kept for your own use, and he makes us of it accordingly. He begins to walk again, he exercises his muscular powers by bending down young elm-trees, or making the old oaks fly into splinters, as Milo of Crotona used to do; and, as there are no lions in the park, it is not unlikely we shall find him alive. Porthos is a brave fellow.”
“Yes, but in the mean time he will get bored to death.”
“Oh, no; he never does that.”
“He will be asking questions?”
“He sees no one.”
“At all events, he is looking or hoping for something or another.”
“I have inspired in him a hope which we will realize some fine morning, and on that he subsists.”
“What is it?”
“That of being presented to the king.”
“Oh! in what character?”
“As the engineer of Belle-Isle, of course.”
“Is it possible?”
“Quite true.”
“Shall we not be obliged, then, to send him back to Belle-Isle?”
“Most certainly; I am even thinking of sending him as soon as possible. Porthos is very fond of display; he is man whose weakness D’Artagnan, Athos, and myself are alone acquainted with; he never commits himself in any way; he is dignity himself; to the officers there, he would seem like a Paladin of the time of the Crusades. He would make the whole staff drunk, without getting tipsy in the least himself, and every one will regard him with admiration and sympathy; if, therefore, it should happen that we have any orders requiring to be carried out, Porthos is an incarnation of the order itself, and whatever he chose to do others would find themselves obliged to submit to.”
“Send him back, then.”
“That is what I intend to do; but only in a few days; for I must not omit to tell you one thing.”
“What is it?”
“I begin to mistrust D’Artagnan. He is not at Fontainebleau, as you may have noticed, and D’Artagnan is never absent, or apparently idle, without some object in view. And now that my own affairs are settled, I am going to try and ascertain what the affairs are in which D’Artagnan is engaged.”
“Your own affairs are settled, you say?”
“Yes.”
“You are very fortunate in that case, then, and I should like to be able to say the same.”
“I hope you do not make yourself uneasy.”
“Hum!”
“Nothing could be better than the king’s reception of you.”
“True.”
“And Colbert leaves you in peace.”
“Nearly so.”
“In that case,” said Aramis, with that connection of ideas which marked him, “in that case, then, we can bestow a thought upon the young girl I was speaking to you about yesterday.”
“Whom do you mean?”
“What, have you forgotten already? I mean La Valliere.”
“Ah! of course, of course.”
“Do you object, then, to try and make a conquest of her?”
“In one respect only; my heart is engaged in another direction, and I positively do not care about the girl in the least.”
“Oh, oh!” said Aramis, “your heart is engaged, you say. The deuce! we must take care of that.”
“Why?”
“Because it is terrible to have the heart occupied, when others, besides yourself, have so much need of the head.”
“You are right. So you see, at your first summons, I left everything. But to return to this girl. What good do you see in my troubling myself about her?”
“This. – The king, it is said, has taken a fancy to her; at least, so it is supposed.”
“But you, who know everything, know very differently.”
“I know that the king is greatly and suddenly changed; that the day before yesterday he was crazy over Madame; that a few days ago, Monsieur complained of it, even to the queen-mother; and that some conjugal misunderstandings and maternal scoldings were the consequence.”
“How do you know all that?”
“I do know it; at all events, since these misunderstandings and scoldings, the king has not addressed a word, has not paid the slightest attention, to her royal highness.”
“Well, what next?”
“Since then, he has been taken up with Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Now, Mademoiselle de la Valliere is one of Madame’s maids of honor. You happen to know, I suppose, what is called a chaperon in matters of love. Well, then, Mademoiselle de la Valliere is Madame’s chaperon. It is for you to take advantage of this state of things. You have no occasion for me to tell you that. But, at all events, wounded vanity will render the conquest an easier one; the girl will get hold of the king, and Madame’s secret, and you can scarcely predict what a man of intelligence can do with a secret.”
“But how to get at her?”
“Nay, you, of all men, to ask me such a question!” said Aramis.
“Very true. I shall not have any time to take any notice of her.”
“She is poor and unassuming, you will create a position for her, and whether she tames the king as his lady confessor, or his sweetheart, you will have enlisted a new and valuable ally.”
“Very good,” said Fouquet. “What is to be done, then, with regard to this girl?”
“Whenever you have taken a fancy to any lady, Monsieur Fouquet, what course have you generally pursued?”
“I have written to her, protesting my devotion to her. I have added, how happy I should be to render her any service in my power, and have signed ‘Fouquet,’ at the end of the letter.”
“And has any one offered resistance?”
“One person only,” replied Fouquet. “But, four days ago, she yielded, as the others had done.”
“Will you take the trouble to write?” said Aramis, holding a pen towards him, which Fouquet took, saying:
“I will write at your dictation. My head is so taken up in another direction, that I should not be able to write a couple lines.”
“Very well,” said Aramis, “write.”
And he dictated, as follows: “Mademoiselle – I have seen you – and you will not be surprised to learn, I think you very beautiful. But, for want of the position you merit at court, your presence there is a waste of time. The devotion of a man of honor, should ambition of any kind inspire you, might possibly serve as a means of display for your talent and beauty. I place my devotion at your feet; but, as an affection, however reserved and unpresuming it may be, might possibly compromise the object of its worship, it would ill become a person of your merit running the risk of being compromised, without her future being assured. If you would deign to accept, and reply to my affection, my affection shall prove its gratitude to you in making you free and independent forever.”
Having finished writing, Fouquet looked at Aramis.
“Sign it,” said the latter.
“Is it absolutely necessary?”
“Your signature at the foot of that letter is worth a million; you forget that.” Fouquet signed.
“Now, by whom do you intend to send this letter?” asked Aramis.
“By an excellent servant of mine.”
“Can you rely on him?”
“He is a man who has been with me all my life.”
“Very well. Besides, in this case, we are not playing for very heavy stakes.”
“How so? For if what you say be true of the accommodating disposition of this girl for the king and Madame, the king will give her all the money she can ask for.”
“The king has money, then?” asked Aramis.
“I suppose so, for he has not asked me for any more.”
“Be easy, he will ask for some, soon.”
“Nay, more than that, I had thought he would have spoken to me about the fete at Vaux, but he never said a word about it.”
“He will be sure to do so, though.”
“You must think the king’s disposition a very cruel one, Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“It is not he who is so.”
“He is young, and therefore his disposition is a kind one.”
“He is young, and either he is weak, or his passions are strong; and Monsieur Colbert holds his weakness and his passions in his villainous grasp.”
“You admit that you fear him?”
“I do not deny it.”
“I that case I am lost.”
“Why so?”
“My only influence with the king has been through the money I commanded, and now I am a ruined man.”
“Not so.”
“What do you mean by ‘not so?’ Do you know my affairs better than myself?”
“That is not unlikely.”
“If he were to request this fete to be given?”
“You would give it, of course.”
“But where is the money to come from?”
“Have you ever been in want of any?”
“Oh! if you only knew at what a cost I procured the last supply.”
“The next shall cost you nothing.”
“But who will give it me?”
“I will.”
“What, give me six millions?”
“Ten, if necessary.”
“Upon my word, D’Herblay,” said Fouquet, “your confidence alarms me more than the king’s displeasure. Who can you possibly be, after all?”
“You know me well enough, I should think.”
“Of course; but what is it you are aiming at?”
“I wish to see upon the throne of France a king devoted to Monsieur Fouquet, and I wish Monsieur Fouquet to be devoted to me.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Fouquet, pressing his hand, – “as for being devoted to you, I am yours, entirely; but believe me, my dear D’Herblay, you are deceiving yourself.”
“In what respect?”
“The king will never become devoted to me.”
“I do not remember to have said that King Louis would ever become devoted to you.”
“Why, on the contrary, you have this moment said so.”
“I did not say the king; I said a king.”
“Is it not all the same?”
“No, on the contrary, it is altogether different.”
“I do not understand you.”
“You will do so, shortly, then; suppose, for instance, the king in question were to be a very different person to Louis XIV.”
“Another person.”
“Yes, who is indebted for everything to you.”
“Impossible.”
“His very throne, even.”
“You are mad, D’Herblay. There is no man living besides Louis XIV. who can sit on the throne of France. I know of none, not one.”
“But I know one.”
“Unless it be Monsieur,” said Fouquet, looking at Aramis uneasily; “yet Monsieur – ”
“It is not Monsieur.”
“But how can it be, that a prince not of the royal line, that a prince without any right – ”
“My king, or rather your king, will be everything that is necessary, be assured of that.”
“Be careful, Monsieur d’Herblay, you make my blood run cold, and my head swim.”
Aramis smiled. “There is but little occasion for that,” he replied.
“Again, I repeat, you terrify me,” said Fouquet. Aramis smiled.
“You laugh,” said Fouquet.
“The day will come when you will laugh too; only at the present moment I must laugh alone.”
“But explain yourself.”
“When the proper time comes, I will explain all. Fear nothing. Have faith in me, and doubt nothing.”
“The fact is, I cannot but doubt, because I do not see clearly, or even at all.”
“That is because of your blindness; but a day will come when you will be enlightened.”
“Oh!” said Fouquet, “how willingly would I believe.”
“You, without belief! you, who, through my means, have ten times crossed the abyss yawning at your feet, and in which, had you been alone, you would have been irretrievably swallowed; you, without belief; you, who from procureur-general attained the rank of intendant, from the rank of intendant, that of the first minister of the crown, and who from the rank of first minister will pass to that of mayor of the palace. But no,” he said, with the same unaltered smile, “no, no, you cannot see, and consequently cannot believe – what I tell you.” And Aramis rose to withdraw.
“One word more,” said Fouquet; “you have never yet spoken to me in this manner, you have never yet shown yourself so confident, I should rather say so daring.”
“Because it is necessary, in order to speak confidently, to have the lips unfettered.”
“And that is now your case?”
“Yes.”
“Since a very short time, then?”
“Since yesterday, only.”
“Oh! Monsieur d’Herblay, take care, your confidence is becoming audacity.”
“One can well be audacious when one is powerful.”
“And you are powerful?”
“I have already offered you ten millions; I repeat the offer.”
Fouquet rose, profoundly agitated.
“Come,” he said, “come; you spoke of overthrowing kings and replacing them by others. If, indeed, I am not really out of my senses, is or is not that what you said just now?”
“You are by no means out of your senses, for it is perfectly true I did say all that just now.”
“And why did you say so?”
“Because it is easy to speak in this manner of thrones being cast down, and kings being raised up, when one is, one’s self, far above all kings and thrones, of this world at least.”
“Your power is infinite, then?” cried Fouquet.
“I have told you so already, and I repeat it,” replied Aramis, with glistening eyes and trembling lips.
Fouquet threw himself back in his chair, and buried his face in his hands. Aramis looked at him for a moment, as the angel of human destinies might have looked upon a simple mortal.
“Adieu,” he said to him, “sleep undisturbed, and send your letter to La Valliere. To-morrow we shall see each other again.”
“Yes, to-morrow,” said Fouquet, shaking his hands like a man returning to his senses. “But where shall we see each other?”
“At the king’s promenade, if you like.”
“Agreed.” And they separated.
Chapter LXI. The Storm
The dawn of the following day was dark and gloomy, and as every one knew that the promenade was down in the royal programme, every one’s gaze, as his eyes were opened, was directed towards the sky. Just above the tops of the trees a thick, suffocating vapor seemed to remain suspended, with barely sufficient power to rise thirty feet above the ground under the influence of the sun’s rays, which was scarcely visible as a faint spot of lesser darkness through the veil of heavy mist. No dew had fallen in the morning; the turf was dried up for want of moisture, the flowers withered. The birds sang less inspiringly than usual upon the boughs, which remained motionless as the limbs of corpses. The strange confused and animated murmurs, which seemed born and to exist in virtue of the sun, that respiration of nature which is unceasingly heard amidst all other sounds, could not be heard now, and never had the silence been so profound.
The king had noticed the cheerless aspect of the heavens as he approached the window immediately upon rising. But as all the necessary directions had been given respecting the promenade, and every preparation had been made accordingly, and as, which was far more imperious than anything else, Louis relied upon this promenade to satisfy the cravings of his imagination, and we will even already say, the clamorous desires of his heart – the king unhesitatingly decided that the appearance of the heavens had nothing whatever to do with the matter; that the promenade was arranged, and that, whatever the state of the weather, the promenade should take place. Besides, there are certain terrestrial sovereigns who seem to have accorded them privileged existences, and there are certain times when it might almost be supposed that the expressed wish of an earthly monarch has its influence over the Divine will. It was Virgil who observed of Augustus: Nocte pluit tota redeunt spectacula mane.10
Louis attended mass as usual, but it was evident that his attention was somewhat distracted from the presence of the Creator by the remembrance of the creature. His mind was occupied during the service in reckoning more than once the number of minutes, then of seconds, which separated him from the blissful moment when the promenade would begin, that is to say, the moment when Madame would set out with her maids of honor. Besides, as a matter of course, everybody at the chateau was ignorant of the interview which had taken place between La Valliere and the king. Montalais, perhaps, with her usual chattering propensity, might have been disposed to talk about it; but Montalais on this occasion was held in check by Malicorne, who had securely fastened on her pretty lips the golden padlock of mutual interest. As for Louis XIV., his happiness was so extreme that he had forgiven Madame, or nearly so, her little piece of malice of the previous evening. In fact, he had occasion to congratulate himself rather than to complain of it. Had it not been for her ill-natured action, he would not have received the letter from La Valliere; had it not been for the letter, he would have had no interview; and had it not been for the interview he would have remained undecided. His heart was filled with too much happiness for any ill-feeling to remain in it, at that moment at least. Instead, therefore, of knitting his brows into a frown when he perceived his sister-in-law, Louis resolved to receive her in a more friendly and gracious manner than usual. But on one condition only, that she would be ready to set out early. Such was the nature of Louis’s thoughts during mass; which made him, during the ceremony, forget matters which, in his character of Most Christian King and of the eldest son of the Church, ought to have occupied his attention. He returned to the chateau, and as the promenade was fixed for midday, and it was at present just ten o’clock, he set to work desperately with Colbert and Lyonne. But even while he worked Louis went from the table to the window, inasmuch as the window looked out upon Madame’s pavilion: he could see M. Fouquet in the courtyard, to whom the courtiers, since the favor shown towards him on the previous evening, paid greater attention than ever. The king, instinctively, on noticing Fouquet, turned towards Colbert, who was smiling, and seemed full of benevolence and delight, a state of feeling which had arisen from the very moment one of his secretaries had entered and handed him a pocket-book, which he had put unopened into his pocket. But, as there was always something sinister at the bottom of any delight expressed by Colbert, Louis preferred, of the smiles of the two men, that of Fouquet. He beckoned to the superintendent to come up, and turning towards Lyonne and Colbert, he said: – “Finish this matter, place it on my desk, and I will read it at my leisure.” And he left the room. At the sign the king had made to him, Fouquet had hastened up the staircase, while Aramis, who was with the superintendent, quietly retired among the group of courtiers and disappeared without having been even observed by the king. The king and Fouquet met at the top of the staircase.
“Sire,” said Fouquet, remarking the gracious manner in which Louis was about to receive him, “your majesty has overwhelmed me with kindness during the last few days. It is not a youthful monarch, but a being of higher order, who reigns over France, one whom pleasure, happiness, and love acknowledge as their master.” The king colored. The compliment, although flattering, was not the less somewhat pointed. Louis conducted Fouquet to a small room that divided his study from his sleeping-apartment.
“Do you know why I summoned you?” said the king as he seated himself upon the edge of the window, so as not to lose anything that might be passing in the gardens which fronted the opposite entrance to Madame’s pavilion.
“No, sire,” replied Fouquet, “but I am sure for something agreeable, if I am to judge from your majesty’s gracious smile.”
“You are mistaken, then.”
“I, sire?”
“For I summoned you, on the contrary, to pick a quarrel with you.”
“With me, sire?”
“Yes: and that a serious one.”
“Your majesty alarms me – and yet I was most confident in your justice and goodness.”
“Do you know I am told, Monsieur Fouquet, that you are preparing a grand fete at Vaux.”
Fouquet smiled, as a sick man would do at the first shiver of a fever which has left him but returns again.
“And that you have not invited me!” continued the king.
“Sire,” replied Fouquet, “I have not even thought of the fete you speak of, and it was only yesterday evening that one of my friends,” Fouquet laid a stress upon the word, “was kind enough to make me think of it.”
“Yet I saw you yesterday evening, Monsieur Fouquet, and you said nothing to me about it.”
“How dared I hope that your majesty would so greatly descend from your own exalted station as to honor my dwelling with your royal presence?”
“Excuse me, Monsieur Fouquet, you did not speak to me about your fete.”
“I did not allude to the fete to your majesty, I repeat, in the first place, because nothing had been decided with regard to it, and, secondly, because I feared a refusal.”
“And something made you fear a refusal, Monsieur Fouquet? You see I am determined to push you hard.”
“The profound wish I had that your majesty should accept my invitation – ”
“Well, Monsieur Fouquet, nothing is easier, I perceive, than our coming to an understanding. Your wish is to invite me to your fete, my own is to be present at it; invite me and I will go.”
“Is it possible that your majesty will deign to accept?” murmured the superintendent.
“Why, really, monsieur,” said the king, laughing, “I think I do more than accept; I rather fancy I am inviting myself.”
“Your majesty overwhelms me with honor and delight,” exclaimed Fouquet, “but I shall be obliged to repeat what M. Vieuville said to your ancestor, Henry IV., Domine non sum dignus.”11
“To which I reply, Monsieur Fouquet, that if you give a fete, I will go, whether I am invited or not.”
“I thank your majesty deeply,” said Fouquet, as he raised his head beneath this favor, which he was convinced would be his ruin.
“But how could your majesty have been informed of it?”
“By a public rumor, Monsieur Fouquet, which says such wonderful things of yourself and the marvels of your house. Would you become proud, Monsieur Fouquet, if the king were to be jealous of you?”
“I should be the happiest man in the world, sire, since the very day on which your majesty were to be jealous of Vaux, I should possess something worthy of being offered to you.”
“Very well, Monsieur Fouquet, prepare your fete, and open the door of your house as wide as possible.”
“It is for your majesty to fix the day.”
“This day month, then.”
“Has your majesty any further commands?”
“Nothing, Monsieur Fouquet, except from the present moment until then to have you near me as much as possible.”
“I have the honor to form one of your majesty’s party for the promenade.”
“Very good; indeed, I am now setting out; for there are the ladies, I see, who are going to start.”
With this remark, the king, with all the eagerness, not only of a young man, but of a young man in love, withdrew from the window, in order to take his gloves and cane, which his valet held ready for him. The neighing of the horses and the crunching of the wheels on the gravel of the courtyard could be distinctly heard. The king descended the stairs, and at the moment he appeared upon the flight of steps, every one stopped. The king walked straight up to the young queen. The queen-mother, who was still suffering more than ever from the illness with which she was afflicted, did not wish to go out. Maria Theresa accompanied Madame in her carriage, and asked the king in what direction he wished the promenade to drive. The king, who had just seen La Valliere, still pale from the event of the previous evening, get into a carriage with three of her companions, told the queen that he had no preference, and wherever she would like to go, there would he be with her. The queen then desired that the outriders should proceed in the direction of Apremont. The outriders set off accordingly before the others. The king rode on horseback, and for a few minutes accompanied the carriage of the queen and Madame. The weather had cleared up a little, but a kind of veil of dust, like a thick gauze, was still spread over the surface of the heavens, and the sun made every atom glisten within the circuit of its rays. The heat was stifling; but, as the king did not seem to pay any attention to the appearance of the heavens, no one made himself uneasy about it, and the promenade, in obedience to the orders given by the queen, took its course in the direction of Apremont. The courtiers who followed were in the very highest spirits; it was evident that every one tried to forget, and to make others forget, the bitter discussions of the previous evening. Madame, particularly, was delightful. In fact, seeing the king at the door of her carriage, as she did not suppose he would be there for the queen’s sake, she hoped that her prince had returned to her. Hardly, however, had they proceeded a quarter of a mile on the road, when the king, with a gracious smile, saluted them and drew up his horse, leaving the queen’s carriage to pass on, then that of the principal ladies of honor, and then all the others in succession, who, seeing the king stop, wished in their turn to stop too; but the king made a sign to them to continue their progress. When La Valliere’s carriage passed, the king approached it, saluted the ladies who were inside, and was preparing to accompany the carriage containing the maids of honor, in the same way he had followed that in which Madame was, when suddenly the whole file of carriages stopped. It was probable that Madame, uneasy at the king having left her, had just given directions for the performance of this maneuver, the direction in which the promenade was to take place having been left to her. The king, having sent to inquire what her object was in stopping the cavalcade, was informed in reply, that she wished to walk. She most likely hoped that the king, who was following the carriages of the maids of honor on horseback, would not venture to follow the maids of honor themselves on foot. They had arrived in the middle of the forest.
The promenade, in fact, was not ill-timed, especially for those who were dreamers or lovers. From the little open space where the halt had taken place, three beautiful long walks, shady and undulating, stretched out before them. These walks were covered with moss or with leaves that formed a carpet from the loom of nature; and each walk had its horizon in the distance, consisting of about a hand-breadth of sky, apparent through the interlacing of the branches of the trees. At the end of almost every walk, evidently in great tribulation and uneasiness, the startled deer were seen hurrying to and fro, first stopping for a moment in the middle of the path, and then raising their heads they fled with the speed of an arrow or bounded into the depths of the forest, where they disappeared from view; now and then a rabbit, of philosophical mien, might be noticed quietly sitting upright, rubbing his muzzle with his fore paws, and looking about inquiringly, as though wondering whether all these people, who were approaching in his direction, and who had just disturbed him in his meditations and his meal, were not followed by their dogs, or had not their guns under their arms. All alighted from their carriages as soon as they observed that the queen was doing so. Maria Theresa took the arm of one of her ladies of honor, and, with a side glance towards the king, who did not perceive that he was in the slightest degree the object of the queen’s attention, entered the forest by the first path before her. Two of the outriders preceded her majesty with long poles, which they used for the purpose of putting the branches of the trees aside, or removing the bushes that might impede her progress. As soon as Madame alighted, she found the Comte de Guiche at her side, who bowed and placed himself at her disposal. Monsieur, delighted with his bath of the two previous days, had announced his preference for the river, and, having given De Guiche leave of absence, remained at the chateau with the Chevalier de Lorraine and Manicamp. He was not in the slightest degree jealous. He had been looked for to no purpose among those present; but as Monsieur was a man who thought a great deal of himself, and usually added very little to the general pleasure, his absence was rather a subject of satisfaction than regret. Every one had followed the example which the queen and Madame had set, doing just as they pleased, according as chance or fancy influenced them. The king, we have already observed, remained near La Valliere, and, throwing himself off his horse at the moment the door of her carriage was opened, he offered her his hand to alight. Montalais and Tonnay-Charente immediately drew back and kept at a distance; the former from calculated, the latter from natural motives. There was this difference, however, between the two, that the one had withdrawn from a wish to please the king, the other for a very opposite reason. During the last half-hour the weather also had undergone a change; the veil which had been spread over the sky, as if driven by a blast of heated air, had become massed together in the western part of the heavens; and afterwards, as if driven by a current of air from the opposite direction, was now advancing slowly and heavily towards them. The approach of the storm could be felt, but as the king did not perceive it, no one thought it proper to do so. The promenade was therefore continued; some of the company, with minds ill at ease on the subject, raised their eyes from time to time towards the sky; others, even more timid still, walked about without wandering too far from the carriages, where they relied upon taking shelter in case the storm burst. The greater number of these, however, observing that the king fearlessly entered the wood with La Valliere, followed his majesty. The king, noticing this, took La Valliere’s hand, and led her to a lateral forest-alley; where no one this time ventured to follow him.