"No, it is not the King nor the crown he wears that I declare for; it is not his rank that makes him so charming: on the contrary, to me it is rather a defect. If he were not the King I should positively dread him. His position is my best safeguard. However——" And La Vallière drops her head on her bosom and falls into a deep reverie.
On hearing these words the King is strangely affected, he whispers to Lauzun not to mention their adventure; they retire silently as they came, and re-enter the château. The King is in a dilemma. If he could only discover who this fair damsel is who prefers him to all others with such naïveté—who admires him for himself alone, and not for his rank—a preference as flattering as it is rarely the lot of a monarch to discover! All he knows is that it must be one of the maids of honour attached to the service of Madame Henriette, his sister-in-law, and he cannot sleep all night, he is so haunted with the melting tones of her voice, and so anxious to discover to whom it belongs.
In the morning, as soon as etiquette allowed of his appearing, Louis hurries off to the toilette of Madame, whom he finds seated before a mirror of the rarest Dresden china, looped up with lace and ribbons, her face and shoulders covered with her long brown hair.
"Your Majesty honours me with an early visit," says she, colouring with pleasure as he enters. "What plans have you arranged for the hunt to-day? When are we to start?"
Louis, with his usual politeness—shown, be it recorded to his credit, towards any woman, whatever might be her degree—gallantly replies that it is for her to command and for him to obey. But there the conversation drops, and the Duchess observes that he is absent and preoccupied. This both chagrines and disappoints her. Piqued at his want of empressement, she turns from him abruptly and begins conversing with the Comte de Guiche, who with ill-disguised uneasiness had stood aloof watching her warm reception of his Majesty.
Henriette, the royal daughter of the Stuarts and the Bourbons, without being positively handsome, has the air of a great princess. The freshness of her complexion is, however, all that is English about her. Her forehead, high and broad, but too much developed for beauty, gives a certain grandeur to her expression; her eyes are sparkling, but placed too near together. Still her face is intelligent and lively. She is tall, slim, and very graceful. Around her long neck, on which her small head is admirably set, is bound a single string of fine orient pearls, and a mantle and train of turquoise faille fall back from a flounced petticoat of yellow satin.
While Madame Henriette talks with the Comte de Guiche, Louis is at liberty to use his eyes as he chooses, and he hastily surveys the group of lovely girls that stand behind the Princess's chair. One placed a little apart from the rest rivets his attention. Her pale and somewhat melancholy countenance imparts an indescribable air of languor to her appearance, and the graceful tournure of her head and neck are admirable.
"Can this be she?" he asks himself. He hopes—he fears (he was young then, Louis, and not the blasé débauché he afterwards became)—he actually trembles with emotion, suspense, and impatience. But determined to ascertain the truth, and regardless of the furious glances cast at him by Madame,—who evidently neither likes nor understands his wandering looks, directed evidently to her ladies, and his total want of empressement towards herself,—he approaches the fair group and begins conversing with them, certain that if that same soft voice is heard that had never ceased to echo in his ears, he shall at once recognise it. He speaks to Mademoiselle de Saint-Aignan, but his eyes are fixed on the pale face of La Vallière, for she it was whom he so much admired. La Vallière casts down her eyes and blushes.