se his majesty that half hour's
satisfaction."

"But the painter?" objected Saint-Aignan.

"I will take care of him," said Malicorne, "only I must study faces and
circumstances a little before I act; those are my magical inventions and
contrivances: and while sorcerers are enabled by means of their
astrolabe to take the altitude of the sun, moon, and stars, I am
satisfied merely by looking into people's faces, in order to see if
their eyes are encircled with dark lines, and if the mouth describes a
convex or concave arc."

And the cunning Malicorne had every opportunity of watching narrowly
and closely, for the very same evening the king accompanied the queen to
Madame's apartments, and made himself so remarked by his serious face
and his deep sighs, and looked at La Valliere with such a languishing
expression, that Malicorne said to Montalais during the evening:
"To-morrow." And he went off to the painter's house in the street of the
Jardins Saint-Paul to beg him to postpone the next sitting for a couple
of days. Saint-Aignan was not within, when La Valliere, who was now
quite familiar with the lower story, lifted up the trap-door and
descended. The king, as usual, was waiting for her on the staircase, and
held a bouquet in his hand; as soon as he saw her, he clasped her
tenderly in his arms. La Valliere, much moved at the action, looked
around the room, but as she saw the king was alone, she did not complain
of it. They sat down, the king reclining near the cushions on which
Louise was seated, with his head supported by her knees, placed there as
in an asylum whence no one could banish him; he gazed ardently upon her,
and as if the moment had arrived when nothing could interpose between
their two hearts; she, too, gazed with similar passion upon him, and
from her eyes, so soft and pure, there emanated a flame, whose rays
first kindled and then inflamed the heart of the king, who, trembling
with happiness as Louise's hand rested on his head, grew giddy from
excess of joy, and momentarily awaited either the painter's or
Saint-Aignan's return to break the sweet illusion. But the door remained
closed, and neither Saint-Aignan nor the painter appeared, nor did the
hangings even move. A deep mysterious silence reigned in the room--a
silence which seemed to influence even the birds in their gilded prison.
The king, completely overcome, turned round his head and buried his
burning lips in La Valliere's hands, who, herself,