“Well,” thought Saint-Aignan, “the king’s regard is beginning to display itself, and for that girl too. It is extraordinary; I should never have believed it.” And with this thought passing through his mind, he showed the king the room to which La Vallière had been carried; the king entered, followed by Saint-Aignan. In a low chamber, near a large window looking out upon the gardens, La Vallière, reclining in a large armchair, was inhaling deep draughts of the perfumed evening breeze. From the loosened body of her dress, the lace fell in tumbled folds, mingling with the tresses of her beautiful fair hair, which lay scattered upon her shoulders. Her languishing eyes were filled with tears; she seemed as lifeless as those beautiful visions of our dreams, that pass before the mental eye of the sleeper, half-opening their wings without moving them, unclosing their lips without a sound escaping them. The pearl-like pallor of La Vallière possessed a charm it would be impossible to describe. Mental and bodily suffering had produced upon her features a soft and noble expression of grief; from the perfect passiveness of her arms and bust, she more resembled one whose soul had passed away, than a living being; she seemed not to hear either of the whisperings which arose from the court. She seemed to be communing within herself; and her beautiful, delicate hands trembled from time to time as though at the contact of some invisible touch. She was so completely absorbed in her reverie, that the king entered without her perceiving him. At a distance he gazed upon her lovely face, upon which the moon shed its pure silvery light. “Good Heavens!” he exclaimed, with a terror he could not control, “she is dead.” “No, sire,” said Montalais, in a low voice; “on the contrary, she is better. Are you not better, Louise?” But Louise did not answer. “Louise,” continued Montalais, “the king has deigned to express his uneasiness on your account.” “The king!” exclaimed Louise, starting up abruptly, as if a stream of fire had started through her frame to her heart; “the king uneasy about me?” “Yes,” said Montalais. “The king is here, then?” said La Vallière, not venturing to look round her. “That voice! that voice!” whispered Louis, eagerly, to Saint-Aignan. “Yes, it is so,” replied Saint-Aignan; “your majesty is right; it is she who declared her love for the sun.” “Hush!” said the king. And then approaching La Vallière, he said, “You are not well, Mademoiselle de la Vallière? Just now, indeed, in the park, I saw that you had fainted. How were you attacked?” “Sire,” stammered out the poor child, pale and trembling, “I really do not know.” “You have been walking too far,” said the king; “and fatigue, perhaps--” “No, sire,” said Montalais, eagerly, answering for her friend, “it could not be from fatigue, for we passed most of the evening seated beneath the royal oak.”