The King advances towards her and addresses her. He awaits her reply with indescribable anxiety. She trembles, grows still more pale, then blushes crimson, and finally answers in a voice tremulous with timidity; but it was the voice! He has found her. This, then, is the unknown, and she loves him; her own lips confessed it. Delightful! He leaves the apartments of Madame abruptly in speechless ecstasy.
From that day he sees, he lives only for La Vallière. Ever in the apartments of his sister-in-law, it was evident even to her that he did not come to seek her, and her rage knew no bounds. She had hitherto had ample reason to believe that the attachment the King felt for her somewhat exceeded that of a brother. With the spiteful penetration of a jealous woman, she now discovers how often the eyes of Louis are fixed with admiration on the timid, downcast La Vallière. She is not, therefore, long in guessing the object of his preference, and the cause of his frequent visits to her apartments. From this moment she hates poor Louise, and determines, if possible, to ruin her.
The King on his part, unconscious of the storm he was raising about La Vallière, is enchanted not only with herself, but with all he hears of her character. She is beloved by every one; her goodness, sweetness, and sincerity are universally acknowledged, and the account of her various good qualities tend to enhance her merit.
When the Court returns to Saint-Germain (now, can one fancy romance within those dingy walls?—but so it was), Louis is desperately, head and ears over, in love. A party of pleasure is arranged to take place in the forest under a tent formed of boughs, tapestry, and flowers. The ladies invited to this sylvan retreat are habited as shepherdesses and peasants. They form charming groups, like Sèvres china. On their arrival the most delicious music is heard from the recesses of the leafy woods, which as it plays at intervals, now here, now there, among the trees, is the signal for the appearance of various groups of satyrs, fauns, and dryads, who after dancing grotesque figure-dances, and singing verses in honour of the King, disappear, to be quickly replaced by another troupe. These present flowers, and also sing and dance as no dryads or fauns had ever dreamed of in classic bowers, but in a style quite peculiar to the age and taste of le Grand Monarque, who liked even nature itself to appear as artificial and formal as he was himself. This agreeable fête has lasted all day, and the company is about to return, when, conceive the alarm—a violent storm comes on, thunder rolls, the sky is suddenly overcast, and a heavy rain, enough to drench the whole Court to the skin, descends with remorseless violence. How every one scuds hither and thither! The thickest trees are eagerly seized on as a slight protection against the storm. Others hide themselves in the bushes, some penetrate deeper into the cover of the copse wood. Spite of the rain, and the destruction of the dresses, the ladies come to vote it rather an agreeable incident on the whole, when they find their favourite cavaliers beside them, placed, perchance, somewhat nearer than would have been comme il faut in the Court circle. For although the ladies might really at first have been a little terrified, the gentlemen are certainly not likely to be troubled with any nervousness on account of a thunderstorm, and preserve sufficient sang-froid each to select his lady-love in order to protect her from the weather. Thus it chanced that Madame Henriette finds herself under the care of the Comte de Guiche; the fair Mancini, once beloved by the King, now Comtesse de Soissons, is under the protection of her dear De Vardes; and Mademoiselle d'Orléans—la Grande Mademoiselle—is completely happy, and forgets the thunder, rain, and, more wonderful still, her own dignity, at finding herself escorted by Lauzun!
The King, nowise behind his courtiers in gallantry, at once offers his escort and his arm to support La Vallière, who, naturally timid, is really frightened, and clings to him with a helplessness that enchants him. All the world knows she is a little lame, a defect which was said in her to be almost a grace. Now she does not perhaps regret that this infirmity prevents her running as quickly as the rest, and thus prolonging the precious moments passed alone with the King. Louis places her under a tree, where they are both protected from the rain and are shrouded by the thick boughs which hang low and fringe the grass.
The King seizes on this happy opportunity to declare his passion, and to whisper to La Vallière the love she has inspired ever since that evening, when he had overheard her. Poor Louise! She had never dared to imagine that her love was returned, and she well-nigh faints as the King proceeds. Her heart beats so violently it is almost audible. She is actually on the point of rushing from under the tree, when the King lays hold of her hand, and retains her.
"What!" cries he, "do you fear me more than the storm? What have I done to frighten you? you whom I love, whom I adore! Why do you hate me? Speak, I implore you, Louise."
"Oh, Sire! do not say hate. I revere you—I love you—as my King, but——"