When the sun has set, a merry party, consisting of four of the maids of honour, leave the château by a side door. They run swiftly along the terrace,—frightening the peacocks, who drop their tails and fly screeching into the trees,—and ensconce themselves in a trellised arbour, garlanded with honeysuckles and roses, hid in a thicket of flowering shrubs skirting one side of the parterre. Once there, their tongues are let loose like so many cherry-clappers. It was so nearly dark that the maids of honour did not notice the King as they scudded along the garden, who, attended by the mischief-loving Comte de Lauzun, had also stolen out to enjoy the evening. Louis watched them as they ran, and then, hearing their voices in such eager talk, was seized with an intense desire to know who they were, and what they were saying. He dare not speak, for they would hear him, and perhaps recognise his voice. Signing to his confidant Lauzun to follow him, he softly approached the arbour in which the four girls are hid. He finds that they are all talking about a fancy ball given the night before by Madame Henriette, Duchesse d'Orléans, his brother's wife; and particularly about a ballet in which he himself had danced. The King and Lauzun, favoured by the increasing darkness of the night, and well entrenched behind the shrubs, lose not a syllable. The question is, which dancer was the handsomest and the most graceful? Each pretty lady has, of course, her own predilection. One declares for the Marquis d'Alençon, another will not hear of any comparison with M. de Vardes, a third stoutly maintains that the Comte de Guiche was by far the handsomest man there and everywhere else (an opinion which, _par parenthèse_, Madame herself takes every opportunity of showing she endorses, displaying, moreover, this opinion somewhat too openly, notwithstanding her designs on the heart of the King himself, whom she fancies, and others declare, is, or has been, her admirer). The fourth damsel is silent. Called upon to give her opinion, she speaks. In the sweetest and gentlest of voices she thus expresses herself:— "I cannot imagine how any one could have been even noticed when the King was present. He is quite fascinating." "Ah, then, mademoiselle, you declare for the King. What will Madame say to you?" "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.