was a man acquainted with the usages
of the highest society, he had begun by sending his lackey to inquire if
Monsieur de Saint-Aignan were at home, and received, in answer, that M.
le Comte de Saint-Aignan had had the honor of accompanying the king to
Saint-Germain, as well as the whole court; but that Monsieur le Comte
had just that moment returned. Immediately upon this reply, Porthos made
as much haste as possible, and reached Saint-Aignan's apartments just as
the latter was having his boots taken off. The promenade had been
delightful. The king, who was in love more than ever, and of course
happier than ever, behaved in the most charming manner to every one.
Nothing could possibly equal his kindness. M. de Saint-Aignan, it may be
remembered, was a poet, and fancied that he had proved that he was so,
under too many a memorable circumstance, to allow the title to be
disputed by any one. An indefatigable rhymester, he had, during the
whole of the journey, overwhelmed with quatrains, sextains, and
madrigals, first the king, and then La Valliere. The king was, on his
side, in a similarly poetical mood, and had made a distich; while La
Valliere, like all women who are in love, had composed two sonnets. As
one may see, then, the day had not been a bad one for Apollo; and,
therefore, as soon as he had returned to Paris, Saint-Aignan, who knew
beforehand that his verses would be sure to be extensively circulated in
court circles, occupied himself, with a little more attention than he
had been able to bestow during the promenade, with the composition, as
well as with the idea itself. Consequently, with all the tenderness of a
father about to start his children in life, he candidly interrogated
himself whether the public would find these offspring of his imagination
sufficiently elegant and graceful; and so, in order to make his mind
easy on the subject, M. de Saint-Aignan recited to himself the madrigal
he had composed, and which he had repeated from memory to the king, and
which he had promised to write out for him on his return. All the time
he was committing these words to memory, the comte was engaged in
undressing himself more completely. He had just taken off his coat, and
was putting on his dressing-gown, when he was informed that Monsieur le
Baron de Valon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds was waiting to be received.

"Eh!" he said, "what does that bunch of names mean? I don't know
anything about him."

"It is the same gen