king rhymes; from
Mademoiselle de Chatillon he went to Montalais, and then to Mademoiselle
de Tonnay-Charente. And thus, by this skillful maneuver, he found
himself seated opposite to La Valliere, whom he completely concealed.
Madame pretended to be greatly occupied: she was altering a group of
flowers that she was working in tapestry. The king showed the corner of
his letter to La Valliere, and the latter held out her handkerchief with
a look which signified, "Put the letter inside." Then, as the king had
placed his own handkerchief upon his chair, he was adroit enough to let
it fall on the ground, so that La Valliere slipped her handkerchief on
the chair. The king took it up quietly, without any one observing what
he did, placed the letter within it, and returned the handkerchief to
the place he had taken it from. There was only just time for La Valliere
to sketch out her hand to take hold of the handkerchief with its
valuable contents.

But Madame, who had observed everything that had passed, said to
Mademoiselle de Chatillon, "Chatillon, be good enough to pick up the
king's handkerchief, if you please: it has fallen on the carpet."

The young girl obeyed with the utmost precipitation, the king having
moved from his seat, and La Valliere being in no little degree nervous
and confused.

"Ah! I beg your majesty's pardon," said Mademoiselle de Chatillon; "you
have two handkerchiefs, I perceive."

And the king was accordingly obliged to put into his pocket La
Valliere's handkerchief as well as his own. He certainty gained that
souvenir of Louise, who lost, however, a copy of verses which had cost
the king ten hours' hard labor, and which, as far as he was concerned,
was perhaps as good as a long poem. It would be impossible to describe
the king's anger and La Valliere's despair; but shortly afterward a
circumstance occurred which was more than remarkable. When the king
left, in order to retire to his own apartments, Malicorne, informed of
what had passed, one can hardly tell how, was waiting in the
antechamber. The antechambers of the Palais Royal are naturally very
dark, and, in the evening, they were but indifferently lighted. Nothing
pleased the king more than this dim light. As a general rule, Love,
whose mind and heart are constantly in a blaze, dislikes light anywhere
else than in the mind and heart. And so the antechamber was dark; a page
carried a torch before the king, who walked on slowly, greatly annoyed