Madame was not bad-hearted--she was only hasty and impetuous. The king
was not imprudent--he was simply in love. Hardly had they entered into
this compact, which terminated in La Vallière’s recall, when they both
sought to make as much as they could by their bargain. The king wished
to see La Vallière every moment of the day, while Madame, who was
sensible of the king’s annoyance ever since he had so entreated her,
would not relinquish her revenge on La Vallière without a contest. She
planted every conceivable difficulty in the king’s path; he was,
in fact, obliged, in order to get a glimpse of La Vallière, to be
exceedingly devoted in his attentions to his sister-in-law, and this,
indeed, was Madame’s plan of policy. As she had chosen some one to
second her efforts, and as this person was our old friend Montalais,
the king found himself completely hemmed in every time he paid Madame
a visit; he was surrounded, and was never left a moment alone. Madame
displayed in her conversation a charm of manner and brilliancy of wit
which dazzled everybody. Montalais followed her, and soon rendered
herself perfectly insupportable to the king, which was, in fact, the
very thing she expected would happen. She then set Malicorne at the
king, who found means of informing his majesty that there was a young
person belonging to the court who was exceedingly miserable; and on
the king inquiring who this person was, Malicorne replied that it
was Mademoiselle de Montalais. To this the king answered that it was
perfectly just that a person should be unhappy when she rendered others
so. Whereupon Malicorne explained how matters stood; for he had received
his directions from Montalais. The king began to open his eyes; he
remarked that, as soon as he made his appearance, Madame made hers too;
that she remained in the corridors until after he had left; that she
accompanied him back to his own apartments, fearing that he might speak
in the ante-chambers to one of her maids of honor. One evening she went
further still. The king was seated, surrounded by the ladies who were
present, and holding in his hand, concealed by his lace ruffle, a small
note which he wished to slip into La Vallière’s hand. Madame guessed
both his intention and the letter too. It was difficult to prevent the
king going wherever he pleased, and yet it was necessary to prevent his
going near La Vallière, or speaking to her, as by so doing he could
let the note fall into her lap behind her fan, or into her
pocket-handkerchief. The king, who was also on the watch, suspected that
a snare was being laid for him. He rose and pushed his chair, without
affectation, near Mademoiselle de Chatillon, with whom he began to
talk in a light tone. They were amusing themselves making rhymes; from
Mademoiselle de Chatillon he went to Montalais, and then to Mademoiselle
de Tonnay-Charente. And thus, by this skillful maneuver, he found
himself seated opposite to La Vallière, whom he completely concealed.
Madame pretended to be greatly occupied, altering a group of flowers
that she was working in tapestry. The king showed the corner of his
letter to La Vallière, and the latter held out her handkerchief with
a look that signified, “Put the letter inside.” Then, as the king had
placed his own handkerchief upon his chair, he was adroit enough to let
it fall on the ground, so that La Vallière slipped her handkerchief on
the chair. The king took it up quietly, without any one observing what
he did, placed the letter within it, and returned the handkerchief to
the place he had taken it from. There was only just time for La Vallière
to stretch out her hand to take hold of the handkerchief with its
valuable contents.
But Madame, who had observed everything that had passed, said to
Mademoiselle de Chatillon, “Chatillon, be good enough to pick up the
king’s handkerchief, if you please; it has fallen on the carpet.”
The young girl obeyed with the utmost precipitation, the king having
moved from his seat, and La Vallière being in no little degree nervous
and confused.
“Ah! I beg your majesty’s pardon,” said Mademoiselle de Chatillon; “you
have two handkerchiefs, I perceive.”
And the king was accordingly obliged to put into his pocket La
Vallière’s handkerchief as well as his own. He certainly gained that
souvenir of Louise, who lost, however, a copy of verses which had cost
the king ten hours’ hard labor, and which, as far as he was concerned,
was perhaps as good as a long poem. It would be impossible to describe
the king’s anger and La Vallière’s despair; but shortly afterwards a
circumstance occurred which was more than remarkable. When the king
left, in order to retire to his own apartments, Malicorne, informed
of what had passed, one can hardly tell how, was waiting in the
ante-chamber. The ante-chambers of the Palais Royal are naturally very
dark, and, in the evening, they were but indifferently lighted. Nothing
pleased the king more than this dim light. As a general rule, love,
whose mind and heart are constantly in a blaze, contemns all light,
except the sunshine of the soul. And so the ante-chamber was dark; a
page carried a torch before the king, who walked on slowly, greatly
annoyed at what had recently occurred. Malicorne passed close to the
king, almost stumbled against him in fact, and begged his forgiveness
with the profoundest humility; but the king, who was in an exceedingly
ill-temper, was very sharp in his reproof to Malicorne, who disappeared
as soon and as quietly as he possibly could. Louis retired to rest,
having had a misunderstanding with the queen; and the next day, as soon
as he entered the cabinet, he wished to have La Vallière’s handkerchief
in order to press his lips to it. He called his valet.
“Fetch me,” he said, “the coat I wore yesterday evening, but be very
sure you do not touch anything it may contain.”
The order being obeyed, the king himself searched the pocket of the
coat; he found only one handkerchief, and that his own; La Vallière’s
had disappeared. Whilst busied with all kinds of conjectures and
suspicions, a letter was brought to him from La Vallière; it ran thus:
“How good and kind of you to have sent me those beautiful verses; how
full of ingenuity and perseverance your affection is; how is it possible
to help loving you so dearly!”
“What does this mean?” thought the king; “there must be some mistake.
Look well about,” said he to the valet, “for a pocket-handkerchief
must be in one of my pockets; and if you do not find it, or if you have
touched it--” He reflected for a moment. To make a state matter of the
loss of the handkerchief would be to act absurdly, and he therefore
added, “There was a letter of some importance inside the handkerchief,
which had somehow got among the folds of it.”
“Sire,” said the valet, “your majesty had only one handkerchief, and
that is it.”
“True, true,” replied the king, setting his teeth hard together. “Oh,
poverty, how I envy you! Happy is the man who can empty his own pockets
of letters and handkerchiefs!”
He read La Vallière’s letter over again, endeavoring to imagine in what
conceivable way his verses could have reached their destination. There
was a postscript to the letter:
“I send you back by your messenger this reply, so unworthy of what you
sent me.”
“So far so good; I shall find out something now,” he said delightedly.
“Who is waiting, and who brought me this letter?”
“M. Malicorne,” replied the _valet de chambre_, timidly.
“Desire him to come in.”
Malicorne entered.
“You come from Mademoiselle de la Vallière?” said the king, with a sigh.
“Yes, sire.”
“And you took Mademoiselle de la Vallière something from me?”
“I, sire?”
“Yes, you.”
“Oh, no, sire.”
“Mademoiselle de la Vallière says so, distinctly.”
“Oh, sire, Mademoiselle de la Vallière is mistaken.”
The king frowned. “What jest is this?” he said; “explain yourself. Why
does Mademoiselle de la Vallière call you my messenger? What did you
take to that lady? Speak, monsieur, and quickly.”
“Sire, I merely took Mademoiselle de la Vallière a pocket-handkerchief,
that was all.”
“A handkerchief,--what handkerchief?”
“Sire, at the very moment when I had the misfortune to stumble against
your majesty yesterday--a misfortune which I shall deplore to the
last day of my life, especially after the dissatisfaction which you
exhibited--I remained, sire, motionless with despair, your majesty being
at too great a distance to hear my excuses, when I saw something white
lying on the ground.”
“Ah!” said the king.
“I stooped down,--it was a pocket-handkerchief. For a moment I had an
idea that when I stumbled against your majesty I must have been the
cause of the handkerchief falling from your pocket; but as I felt it all
over very respectfully, I perceived a cipher at one of the corners,
and, on looking at it closely, I found that it was Mademoiselle de la
Vallière’s cipher. I presumed that on her way to Madame’s apartment in
the earlier part of the evening she had let her handkerchief fall, and
I accordingly hastened to restore it to her as she was leaving; and that
is all I gave to Mademoiselle de la Vallière, I entreat your majesty to
believe.” Malicorne’s manner was so simple, so full of contrition, and
marked with such extreme humility, that the king was greatly amused in
listening to him. He was as pleased with him for what he had done as if
he had rendered him the greatest service.
“This is the second fortunate meeting I have had with you, monsieur,” he
said; “you may count upon my good intentions.”
The plain and sober truth was, that Malicorne had picked the king’s
pocket of the handkerchief as dexterously as any of the pickpockets of
the good city of Paris could have done. Madame never knew of this little
incident, but Montalais gave La Vallière some idea of the manner in
which it had really happened, and La Vallière afterwards told the king,
who laughed exceedingly at it and pronounced Malicorne to be a first
rate politician. Louis XIV. was right, and it is well known that he was
tolerably well acquainted with human nature.