“‘What then,’ do you say? Why, these two rooms are empty, since M. de Guiche is now lying wounded at Fontainebleau.”
“I assure you, my dear fellow, I cannot grasp your meaning.”
“Well! if I had the happiness to call myself Saint-Aignan, I should guess immediately.”
“And what would you do then?”
“I should at once change the rooms I am occupying here, for those which M. de Guiche is not using yonder.”
“Can you suppose such a thing?” said Saint-Aignan, disdainfully. “What! abandon the chief post of honor, the proximity to the king, a privilege conceded only to princes of the blood, to dukes, and peers! Permit me to tell you, my dear Monsieur de Malicorne, that you must be out of your senses.”
“Monsieur,” replied the young man, seriously, “you commit two mistakes. My name is Malicorne, simply; and I am in perfect possession of all my senses.” Then, drawing a paper from his pocket, he said, “Listen to what I am going to say; and afterwards, I will show you this paper.”
“I am listening,” said Saint-Aignan.
“You know that Madame looks after La Valliere as carefully as Argus did after the nymph Io.”
“I do.”