When these ceased, soft music sounded from out the fiery woods, from violins and flutes, swelling in the cadences of some tender melody. The crowd below, changing with the metamorphose of the lights, formed a fitting fore-ground to this burning perspective. It was a scene of artificial life after Lancret, backed by a conflagration. Brocaded trains swept along the fine gravel of the walks. Wreaths of diamonds sparkled on voluminous wigs, which fell in heavy curls over neck and shoulders. Long white feathers, and finest Brussels lace, fringed and decked turned-up hats of velvet. Glittering officers were side by side with comely pages, brighter than butterflies. Gold embroideries shone on delicately coloured velvets, satins, and watered-silks; priceless jewels glittered on knee and shoe, on neck and arm, on waist and drapery; torsades on hats, and sword-hilts flashed and multiplied the fiery marvels of the night. Even _le Grand Monarque_, as he paused upon the terrace to observe the scene, deigned to express his admiration and surprise. But his praise was scant, his words cold, he spoke morosely, and his brows were knit. The more he investigated the magnificence of Vaux, the more he believed the accusations of Colbert. Fouquet heard the praise; he did not observe the frown. He was radiant. Louis looked round, anxious to escape from the glare and the crowd. He longed to retire into some shady grove with La Vallière. She was very beautiful that evening. Louis reproached himself for ever having caused her pain. She wore a dress of white stuff, worked with golden leaves; a blue ribbon, tied in a knot in front, encircled her small waist. Her light hair, untouched by powder, and sown with flowers and pearls, fell over her shoulders; two enormous emeralds hung in her ears. Her arms were uncovered, but to conceal their thinness, she wore above the elbow a broad circlet of gold set with opals. Her gloves were of fine Brussels lace, showing the rosy skin beneath. Her graceful yet dignified manners, her tender blue eyes, breathing nothing but love and gentleness, her look of patient goodness, were never more charming than when seen among the painted and powdered belles of that intriguing Court. It was impossible for Louis to have a word with her in private. Every feminine eye was bent upon him. All the ladies—young, old, fair and dark—pressed round him as he moved among the alleys and terraces of the illuminated garden. He was the rose that attracted alike the butterflies and the grubs—the sunshine and the shadow. Like royalty of all ages, Louis soon grew weary of this espionage, and called for the Duc de Saint-Aignan. He was nowhere to be found. At last, after having walked up and down the three terraces, admired the great cascade and the grotto, afterwards to be repeated at Saint-Cloud, he sought out the Queen-mother. She was seated on the terrace, surveying the illumination at a distance. Louis leaned over the marble balustrade near her.