At once all was over. As soon as she had cast a rapid glance over this fortunate _brevet_, the good lady clasped her hands, an unspeakable expression of envy and despair contracted her countenance, and she was obliged to sit down to avoid fainting. Montalais was not malicious enough to rejoice extravagantly at her victory, or to overwhelm the conquered enemy, particularly when that enemy was the mother of her friend; she used then, but did not abuse her triumph. Malicorne was less generous; he assumed noble _poses_ in his _fauteuil_ and stretched himself out with a familiarity which, two hours earlier, would have drawn upon him threats of a caning. “Maid of honor to the young madame!” repeated Madame de Saint-Remy, still but half convinced. “Yes, madame, and through the protection of M. Malicorne, moreover.” “It is incredible!” repeated the old lady: “is it not incredible, Louise?” But Louise did not reply; she was sitting, thoughtfully, almost sad; passing one had over her beautiful brow, she sighed heavily. “Well, but, monsieur,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, all at once, “how did you manage to obtain this post?” “I asked for it, madame.” “Of whom?” “One of my friends.” “And you have friends sufficiently powerful at court to give you such proofs of their credit?” “It appears so.” “And may one ask the name of these friends?” “I did not say I had many friends, madame, I said I had one friend.” “And that friend is called?” “_Peste!_ madame, you go too far! When one has a friend as powerful as mine, we do not publish his name in that fashion, in open day, in order that he may be stolen from us.” “You are right, monsieur, to be silent as to that name; for I think it would be pretty difficult for you to tell it.” “At all events,” said Montalais, “if the friend does not exist, the _brevet_ does, and that cuts short the question.” “Then, I conceive,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, with the gracious smile of the cat who is going to scratch, “when I found monsieur here just now--” “Well?” “He brought you the _brevet_.” “Exactly, madame; you have guessed rightly.” “Well, then, nothing can be more moral or proper.” “I think so, madame.” “And I have been wrong, as it appears, in reproaching you, mademoiselle.” “Very wrong, madame; but I am so accustomed to your reproaches, that I pardon you these.” “In that case, let us begone, Louise; we have nothing to do but retire. Well!” “Madame!” said La Vallière starting, “did you speak?” “You do not appear to be listening, my child.” “No, madame, I was thinking.” “About what?” “A thousand things.” “You bear me no ill-will, at least, Louise?” cried Montalais, pressing her hand. “And why should I, my dear Aure?” replied the girl in a voice soft as a flute. “_Dame!_” resumed Madame de Saint-Remy; “if she did bear you a little ill-will, poor girl, she could not be much blamed.” “And why should she bear me ill-will, good gracious?”