you know?”
“That Madame is in love with M. de Guiche.”
“The one is the consequence of the other.”
“Not always, my good monsieur.”
“Is that remark intended for me?”
“Present company always excepted.”
“Thank you,” said Malicorne. “Well, and in the other direction, what is stirring?”
“The king wished, this evening, after the lottery, to see Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”
“Well, and he has seen her?”
“No, indeed!”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The door was shut and locked.”
“So that—”
“So that the king was obliged to go back again, looking very sheepish, like a thief who has forgotten his crowbar.”
“Good.”
“And in the third place?” inquired Montalais.
“The courier who has just arrived for De Guiche came from M. de Bragelonne.”
“Excellent,” said Montalais, clapping her hands together.
“Why so?”
“Because we have work to do. If we get weary now, something unlucky will be sure to happen.”
“We must divide the work, then,” said Malicorne, “in order to avoid confusion.”
“Nothing easier,” replied Montalais. “Three intrigues, carefully nursed, and carefully encouraged, will produce, one with another, and taking a low average, three love letters a day.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Malicorne, shrugging his shoulders, “you cannot mean what you say, darling; three letters a day, that may do for sentimental common people. A musketeer on duty, a young girl in a convent, may exchange letters with their lovers once a day, perhaps, from the top of a ladder, or through a hole in the wall. A letter contains all the poetry their poor little hearts have to boast of. But the cases we have in hand require to be dealt with very differently.”
“Well, finish,” said Montalais, out of patience with him. “Some one may come.”
“Finish! Why, I am only at the beginning. I have still three points as yet untouched.”
“Upon my word, he will be the death of me, with his Flemish indifference,” exclaimed Montalais.
“And you will drive me mad with your Italian vivacity. I was going to say that our lovers here will be writing volumes to each other. But what are you driving at?”
“At this. Not one of our lady correspondents will be able to keep the letters they may receive.”
“Very likely.”
“M. de Guiche will not be able to keep his either.”
“That is probable.”
“Very well, then; I will take care of all that.”
“That is the very thing that is impossible,” said Malicorne.
“Why so?”
“Because you are not your own mistress; your room is as much La Valliere’s as yours; and there are certain persons who will think nothing of visiting and searching a maid of honor’s room; so that I am terribly afraid of the queen, who is as jealous as a Spaniard; of the queen-mother, who is as jealous as a couple of Spaniards; and, last of all, of Madame herself, who has jealousy enough for ten Spaniards.”
“You forgot some one else.”
“Who?”
“Monsieur.”
“I was only speaking of the women. Let us add them up, then: we will call Monsieur, No. 1.”
“De Guiche?”
“No. 2.”
“The Vicomte de Bragelonne?”
“No. 3.”
“And the king, the king?”
“No. 4. Of course the king, who not only will be more jealous, but more powerful than all the rest put together. Ah, my dear!”
“Well?”
“Into what a wasp’s nest you have thrust yourself!”
“And as yet not quite far enough, if you will follow me into it.”
“Most certainly I will follow you where you like. Yet—”
“Well, yet—”
“While we have time, I think it will be prudent to turn back.”
“But I, on the contrary, think the wisest course to take is to put ourselves at once at the head of all these intrigues.”
“You will never be able to do it.”
“With you, I could superintend ten of them. I am in my element, you must know. I was born to live at the court, as the salamander is made to live in the fire.”
“Your comparison does not reassure me in the slightest degree in the world, my dear Montalais. I have heard it said, and by learned men too, that, in the first place, there are no salamanders at all, and that, if there had been any, they would have been infallibly baked or roasted on leaving the fire.”
“Your learned men may be very wise as far as salamanders are concerned, but they would never tell you what I can tell you; namely, that Aure de Montalais is destined, before a month is over, to become the first diplomatist in the court of France.”
“Be it so, but on condition that I shall be the second.”
“Agreed; an offensive and defensive alliance, of course.”
“Only be very careful of any letters.”
“I will hand them to you as I receive them.”
“What shall we tell the king about Madame?”
“That Madame is still in love with his majesty.”
“What shall we tell Madame about the king?”
“That she would be exceedingly wrong not to humor him.”
“What shall we tell La Valliere about Madame?”
“Whatever we choose, for La Valliere is in our power.”
“How so?”
“Every way.”
“What do you mean?”
“In the first place, through the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
“Explain yourself.”
“You do not forget, I hope, that Monsieur de Bragelonne has written many letters to Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”
“I forget nothing.”
“Well, then, it was I who received, and I who intercepted those letters.”
“And, consequently, it is you who have them still?”
“Yes.”
“Where—here?”
“Oh, no; I have them safe at Blois, in the little room you know well enough.”
“That dear little room—that darling little room, the ante-chamber of the palace I intend you to live in one of these days. But, I beg your pardon, you said that all those letters are in that little room?”
“Yes.”