‘Come,’ at length said the Marchioness;—‘Come. To the ball!’
CHAPTER XVI.
THE GROTTO OF THETIS—THE GOOD AND EVIL ANGELS
As the Marchioness and Sainte-Croix entered the covered room in the Bosquet de la Salle de Bal, it presented a most brilliant spectacle. The whole of the company had adjourned there from the theatre in the Allée du Roi, and many were now dancing on the almost polished turf of the circular parterre. Others were seated on the steps, also of turf, which surrounded the salle in the manner of an amphitheatre, except for about an eighth of its circumference, where several fountains of sparkling water shot up nearly to the roof, falling back again to tumble with an agreeable murmur over the steps, which here were of bright pebbles and shells, until they reached the basin beneath. The roof was of deep blue, strained tightly upon poles, which were high enough to overtop the tallest trees, and an artificial moon had been constructed in it with consummate skill; whilst stars of brilliant pieces of metal hung by short invisible threads from the ceiling, and as they caught the light on their different facets with the slightest vibration had the appearance of twinkling.
Jean Blacquart was there, as well as the abbe, who, having found him a listener to his poem, had never once left him since the victim was caught in the foyer of the theatre. The Gascon, of course, did not dance, being only admitted to the bosquet by virtue of his assumed office of guard, under the auspices of Maître Picard; but he talked so largely, and indulged in such remarkable rhodomontades as to whom he knew and what he had done, that the abbe set him down for some distinguished officer, and was more than ever determined to keep by his side.
Louis was not dancing. He was seated on a platform slightly elevated from the ground, at the edge of the fountain; and was dividing his attentions between Madame de Montespan, who was still at his side, on his right hand, and another lady on his left, who had now joined the royal party. She was very lovely, although a close observer might have perceived that she was slightly marked with the small-pox. Her skin was delicately fair, and her beautiful flaxen hair clustered in heavy ringlets, less showery than generally worn according to the fashion of the time, over her forehead and neck. Her eyes were blue, swimming in softened light, and her countenance was overspread by a regard so tender yet so full of modesty, that she gained at the same moment the love and esteem of all who gazed upon her; and yet, when the occasional lighting up of her features as the King addressed her, died away, they became pale and sad. Her smile was followed by a pensive expression, which accorded but ill with the festivity around her.
‘Ah, times are changing!’ said the abbe, as he gazed at her; ‘and that fair lady’s reign is nearly over. I question whether La Montespan, with all her witcheries, will love him half so well though.’
‘Who is it?’ asked Jean.
The abbe appeared slightly astonished at the ignorance of his new acquaintance, as he replied—
‘Who could it be but Louise de la Vallière? Ah! hers was a curious destiny. Picked out by Louis to cover his attention to his sister-in-law Henriette, she has supplanted her. But it does not seem likely that the liaison will last much longer. Montespan has his heart.’
As he spoke, Mademoiselle de la Vallière rose from her seat and crossed over to speak to Madame de Maintenon, who was sitting on the parapet of the basin that received the water from the fountain. She limped as she walked along, and Jean saw that she was lame.