The young girl bowed with so much grace, mingled with the profound timidity inspired by the presence of the king, that the latter lost, while looking at her, a few words of the conversation of Monsieur and the cardinal. “Daughter-in-law,” continued Madame, “of M. de Saint-Remy, my maitre d’hotel, who presided over the confection of that excellent daube truffee which your majesty seemed so much to appreciate.” No grace, no youth, no beauty, could stand out against such a presentation. The king smiled. Whether the words of Madame were a pleasantry, or uttered in all innocency, they proved the pitiless immolation of everything that Louis had found charming or poetic in the young girl. Mademoiselle de la Vallière, for Madame and, by rebound, for the king, was, for a moment, no more than the daughter of a man of a superior talent over dindes truffees. But princes are thus constituted. The gods, too, were just like this in Olympus. Diana and Venus, no doubt, abused the beautiful Alcmena and poor Io, when they condescended, for distraction’s sake, to speak, amidst nectar and ambrosia, of mortal beauties, at the table of Jupiter. Fortunately, Louise was so bent in her reverential salute, that she did not catch either Madame’s words or the king’s smile. In fact, if the poor child, who had so much good taste as alone to have chosen to dress herself in white amidst all her companions—if that dove’s heart, so easily accessible to painful emotions, had been touched by the cruel words of Madame, or the egotistical cold smile of the king, it would have annihilated her. And Montalais herself, the girl of ingenious ideas, would not have attempted to recall her to life; for ridicule kills beauty even. But fortunately, as we have said, Louise, whose ears were buzzing, and her eyes veiled by timidity,—Louise saw nothing and heard nothing; and the king, who had still his attention directed to the conversation of the cardinal and his uncle, hastened to return to them. He came up just at the moment Mazarin terminated by saying: “Mary, as well as her sisters, has just set off for Brouage. I make them follow the opposite bank of the Loire to that along which we have traveled; and if I calculate their progress correctly, according to the orders I have given, they will to-morrow be opposite Blois.” These words were pronounced with that tact—that measure, that distinctness of tone, of intention, and reach—which made del Signor Giulio Mazarini the first comedian in the world. It resulted that they went straight to the heart of Louis XIV., and the cardinal, on turning round at the simple noise of the approaching footsteps of his majesty, saw the immediate effect of them upon the countenance of his pupil, an effect betrayed to the keen eyes of his eminence by a slight increase of color. But what was the ventilation of such a secret to him whose craft had for twenty years deceived all the diplomatists of Europe?