Chapter XLVIII. Fontainebleau at Two o’Clock in the Morning
As we have seen, Saint-Aignan had quitted the king’s apartment at the very moment the superintendent entered it. Saint-Aignan was charged with a mission that required dispatch, and he was going to do his utmost to turn his time to the best advantage. He whom we have introduced as the king’s friend was indeed an uncommon personage; he was one of those valuable courtiers whose vigilance and acuteness of perception threw all other favorites into the shade, and counterbalanced, by his close attention, the servility of Dangeau, who was not the favorite, but the toady of the king. M. de Saint-Aignan began to think what was to be done in the present position of affairs. He reflected that his first information ought to come from De Guiche. He therefore set out in search of him, but De Guiche, whom we saw disappear behind one of the wings, and who seemed to have returned to his own apartments, had not entered the chateau. Saint-Aignan therefore went in quest of him, and after having turned, and twisted, and searched in every direction, he perceived something like a human form leaning against a tree. This figure was as motionless as a statue, and seemed deeply engaged in looking at a window, although its curtains were closely drawn. As this window happened to be Madame’s, Saint-Aignan concluded that the form in question must be that of De Guiche. He advanced cautiously, and found he was not mistaken. De Guiche had, after his conversation with Madame, carried away such a weight of happiness, that all of his strength of mind was hardly sufficient to enable him to support it. On his side, Saint-Aignan knew that De Guiche had had something to do with La Valliere’s introduction to Madame’s household, for a courtier knows everything and forgets nothing; but he had never learned under what title or conditions De Guiche had conferred his protection upon La Valliere. But, as in asking a great many questions it is singular if a man does not learn something, Saint-Aignan reckoned upon learning much or little, as the case might be, if he questioned De Guiche with that extreme tact, and, at the same time, with that persistence in attaining an object, of which he was capable. Saint-Aignan’s plan was as follows: If the information obtained was satisfactory, he would inform the king, with alacrity, that he had lighted upon a pearl, and claim the privilege of setting the pearl in question in the royal crown. If the information were unsatisfactory, – which, after all, might be possible, – he would examine how far the king cared about La Valliere, and make use of his information in such a manner as to get rid of the girl altogether, and thereby obtain all the merit of her banishment with all the ladies of the court who might have the least pretensions to the king’s heart, beginning with Madame and finishing with the queen. In case the king should show himself obstinate in his fancy, then he would not produce the damaging information he had obtained, but would let La Valliere know that this damaging information was carefully preserved in a secret drawer of her confidant’s memory. In this manner, he would be able to air his generosity before the poor girl’s eyes, and so keep her in constant suspense between gratitude and apprehension, to such an extent as to make her a friend at court, interested, as an accomplice, in trying to make his fortune, while she was making her own. As far as concerned the day when the bombshell of the past should burst, if ever there were any occasion, Saint-Aignan promised himself that he would by that time have taken all possible precautions, and would pretend an entire ignorance of the matter to the king; while, with regard to La Valliere, he would still have an opportunity of being considered the personification of generosity. It was with such ideas as these, which the fire of covetousness had caused to dawn in half an hour, that Saint-Aignan, the son of earth, as La Fontaine would have said, determined to get De Guiche into conversation: in other words, to trouble him in his happiness – a happiness of which Saint-Aignan was quite ignorant. It was long past one o’clock in the morning when Saint-Aignan perceived De Guiche, standing, motionless, leaning against the trunk of a tree, with his eyes fastened upon the lighted window, – the sleepiest hour of night-time, which painters crown with myrtles and budding poppies, the hour when eyes are heavy, hearts throb, and heads feel dull and languid – an hour which casts upon the day which has passed away a look of regret, while addressing a loving greeting to the dawning light. For De Guiche it was the dawn of unutterable happiness; he would have bestowed a treasure upon a beggar, had one stood before him, to secure him uninterrupted indulgence in his dreams. It was precisely at this hour that Saint-Aignan, badly advised, – selfishness always counsels badly, – came and struck him on the shoulder, at the very moment he was murmuring a word, or rather a name.
“Ah!” he cried loudly, “I was looking for you.”
“For me?” said De Guiche, starting.
“Yes; and I find you seemingly moon-struck. Is it likely, my dear comte, you have been attacked by a poetical malady, and are making verses?”
The young man forced a smile upon his lips, while a thousand conflicting sensations were muttering defiance of Saint-Aignan in the deep recesses of his heart. “Perhaps,” he said. “But by what happy chance – ”
“Ah! your remark shows that you did not hear what I said.”
“How so?”
“Why, I began by telling you I was looking for you.”
“You were looking for me?”
“Yes: and I find you now in the very act.”
“Of doing what, I should like to know?”
“Of singing the praises of Phyllis.”
“Well, I do not deny it,” said De Guiche, laughing. “Yes, my dear comte, I was celebrating Phyllis’s praises.”
“And you have acquired the right to do so.”
“I?”
“You; no doubt of it. You; the intrepid protector of every beautiful and clever woman.”
“In the name of goodness, what story have you got hold of now?”
“Acknowledged truths, I am well aware. But stay a moment; I am in love.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“So much the better, my dear comte; tell me all about it.” And De Guiche, afraid that Saint-Aignan might perhaps presently observe the window, where the light was still burning, took the comte’s arm and endeavored to lead him away.
“Oh!” said the latter, resisting, “do not take me towards those dark woods, it is too damp there. Let us stay in the moonlight.” And while he yielded to the pressure of De Guiche’s arm, he remained in the flower-garden adjoining the chateau.
“Well,” said De Guiche, resigning himself, “lead me where you like, and ask me what you please.”
“It is impossible to be more agreeable than you are.” And then, after a moment’s silence, Saint-Aignan continued, “I wish you to tell me something about a certain person in who you have interested yourself.”
“And with whom you are in love?”
“I will neither admit nor deny it. You understand that a man does not very readily place his heart where there is no hope of return, and that it is most essential he should take measures of security in advance.”
“You are right,” said De Guiche with a sigh; “a man’s heart is a very precious gift.”
“Mine particularly is very tender, and in that light I present it to you.”
“Oh! you are well known, comte. Well?”
“It is simply a question of Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.”
“Why, my dear Saint-Aignan, you are losing your senses, I should think.”
“Why so?”
“I have never shown or taken any interest in Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.”
“Bah!”
“Never.”
“Did you not obtain admission for Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente into Madame’s household?”
“Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente – and you ought to know it better than any one else, my dear comte – is of a sufficiently good family to make her presence here desirable, and her admittance very easy.”
“You are jesting.”
“No; and upon my honor I do not know what you mean.”
“And you had nothing, then, to do with her admission?”
“No.”
“You do not know her?”
“I saw her for the first time the day she was presented to Madame. Therefore, as I have never taken any interest in her, as I do not know her, I am not able to give you the information you require.” And De Guiche made a movement as though he were about to leave his questioner.
“Nay, nay, one moment, my dear comte,” said Saint-Aignan; “you shall not escape me in this manner.”
“Why, really, it seems to me that it is now time to return to our apartments.”
“And yet you were not going in when I – did not meet, but found you.”
“Therefore, my dear comte,” said De Guiche, “as long as you have anything to say to me, I place myself entirely at your service.”
“And you are quite right in doing so. What matters half an hour more or less? Will you swear that you have no injurious communications to make to me about her, and that any injurious communications you might possibly have to make are not the cause of your silence?”
“Oh! I believe the poor child to be as pure as crystal.”
“You overwhelm me with joy. And yet I do not wish to have towards you the appearance of a man so badly informed as I seem. It is quite certain that you supplied the princess’s household with the ladies of honor. Nay, a song has even been written about it.”
“Oh! songs are written about everything.”
“Do you know it?”
“No: sing it to me and I shall make its acquaintance.”
“I cannot tell you how it begins; I only remember how it ends.”
“Very well, at all events, that is something.”
“When Maids of Honor happen to run short, Lo! – Guiche will furnish the entire Court.”
“The idea is weak, and the rhyme poor,” said De Guiche.
“What can you expect, my dear fellow? it is not Racine’s or Moliere’s, but La Feuillade’s; and a great lord cannot rhyme like a beggarly poet.”
“It is very unfortunate, though, that you only remember the termination.”
“Stay, stay, I have just recollected the beginning of the second couplet.”
“Why, there’s the birdcage, with a pretty pair, The charming Montalais, and…”
“And La Valliere,” exclaimed Guiche, impatiently, and completely ignorant besides of Saint-Aignan’s object.
“Yes, yes, you have it. You have hit upon the word, ‘La Valliere.’”
“A grand discovery indeed.”
“Montalais and La Valliere, these, then, are the two young girls in whom you interest yourself,” said Saint-Aignan, laughing.
“And so Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente’s name is not to be met with in the song?”
“No, indeed.”
“And are you satisfied, then?”
“Perfectly; but I find Montalais there,” said Saint-Aignan, still laughing.
“Oh! you will find her everywhere. She is a singularly active young lady.”
“You know her?”
“Indirectly. She was the
protegee
of a man named Malicorne, who is a
protegee
of Manicamp’s; Manicamp asked me to get the situation of maid of honor for Montalais in Madame’s household, and a situation for Malicorne as an officer in Monsieur’s household. Well, I asked for the appointments, for you know very well that I have a weakness for that droll fellow Manicamp.”
“And you obtained what you sought?”
“For Montalais, yes; for Malicorne, yes and no; for as yet he is only on trial. Do you wish to know anything else?”
“The last word of the couplet still remains, La Valliere,” said Saint-Aignan, resuming the smile that so tormented Guiche.
“Well,” said the latter, “it is true that I obtained admission for her in Madame’s household.”
“Ah!” said Saint-Aignan.
“But,” continued Guiche, assuming a great coldness of manner, “you will oblige me, comte, not to jest about that name. Mademoiselle la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere is a young lady perfectly well-conducted.”
“Perfectly well-conducted do you say?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have not heard the last rumor?” exclaimed Saint-Aignan.
“No, and you will do me a service, my dear comte, in keeping this report to yourself and to those who circulate it.”
“Ah! bah! you take the matter up very seriously.”
“Yes; Mademoiselle de Valliere is beloved by one of my best friends.”
Saint-Aignan started. “Aha!” he said.
“Yes, comte,” continued Guiche; “and consequently, you, the most distinguished man in France for polished courtesy of manner, will understand that I cannot allow my friend to be placed in a ridiculous position.”
Saint-Aignan began to bite his nails, partially from vexation, and partially from disappointed curiosity. Guiche made him a very profound bow.
“You send me away,” said Saint-Aignan, who was dying to know the name of the friend.
“I do not send you away, my dear fellow. I am going to finish my lines to Phyllis.”
“And those lines – ”
“Are a
quatrain
. You understand, I trust, that a
quatrain
is a serious affair?”
“Of course.”
“And as, of these four lines, of which it is composed, I have yet three and a half to make, I need my undivided attention.”
“I quite understand. Adieu! comte. By the by – ”
“What?”
“Are you quick at making verses?”
“Wonderfully so.”
“Will you have quite finished the three lines and a half to-morrow morning?”
“I
hope
so.”
“Adieu, then, until to-morrow.”
“Adieu, adieu!”
Saint-Aignan was obliged to accept the notice to quit; he accordingly did so, and disappeared behind the hedge. Their conversation had led Guiche and Saint-Aignan a good distance from the chateau.
Every mathematician, every poet, and every dreamer has his own subjects of interest. Saint-Aignan, on leaving Guiche, found himself at the extremity of the grove, – at the very spot where the outbuildings of the servants begin, and where, behind the thickets of acacias and chestnut-trees interlacing their branches, which were hidden by masses of clematis and young vines, the wall which separated the woods from the courtyard was erected. Saint-Aignan, alone, took the path which led towards these buildings; De Guiche going off in the opposite direction. The one proceeded to the flower-garden, while the other bent his steps towards the walls. Saint-Aignan walked on between rows of mountain-ash, lilac, and hawthorn, which formed an almost impenetrable roof above his head; his feet were buried in the soft gravel and thick moss. He was deliberating a means of taking his revenge, which seemed difficult for him to carry out, and was vexed with himself for not having learned more about La Valliere, notwithstanding the ingenious measures he had resorted to in order to acquire more information about her, when suddenly the murmur of a human voice attracted his attention. He heard whispers, the complaining tones of a woman’s voice mingled with entreaties, smothered laughter, sighs, and half-stilted exclamations of surprise; but above them all, the woman’s voice prevailed. Saint-Aignan stopped to look about him; he perceived from the greatest surprise that the voices proceeded, not from the ground, but from the branches of the trees. As he glided along under the covered walk, he raised his head, and observed at the top of the wall a woman perched upon a ladder, in eager conversation with a man seated on a branch of a chestnut-tree, whose head alone could be seen, the rest of his body being concealed in the thick covert of the chestnut.
5
5
The verses in this chapter have been re-written to give the flavor of them rather than the meaning. A more literal translation would look like this: “Guiche is the furnisher Of the maids of honor.” and —
“He has stocked the birdcage;
Montalais and – ”
It would be more accurate, though, to say “baited” rather than “stocked” in the second couplet.
Chapter XLIX. The Labyrinth
Saint-Aignan, who had only been seeking for information, had met with an adventure. This was indeed a piece of good luck. Curious to learn why, and particularly what about, this man and woman were conversing at such an hour, and in such a singular position, Saint-Aignan made himself as small as he possibly could, and approached almost under the rounds of the ladder. And taking measures to make himself as comfortable as possible, he leaned his back against a tree and listened, and heard the following conversation. The woman was the first to speak.
“Really, Monsieur Manicamp,” she said, in a voice which, notwithstanding the reproaches she addressed to him, preserved a marked tone of coquetry, “really your indiscretion is of a very dangerous character. We cannot talk long in this manner without being observed.”
“That is very probable,” said the man, in the calmest and coolest of tones.
“In that case, then, what would people say? Oh! if any one were to see me, I declare I should die of very shame.”
“Oh! that would be very silly; I do not believe you would.”
“It might have been different if there had been anything between us; but to injure myself gratuitously is really very foolish of me; so, adieu, Monsieur Manicamp.”
“So far so good; I know the man, and now let me see who the woman is,” said Saint-Aignan, watching the rounds of the ladder, on which were standing two pretty little feet covered with blue satin shoes.
“Nay, nay, for pity’s sake, my dear Montalais,” cried Manicamp, “deuce take it, do not go away; I have a great many things to say to you, of the greatest importance, still.”
“Montalais,” said Saint-Aignan to himself, “one of the three. Each of the three gossips had her adventure, only I imagined the hero of this one’s adventure was Malicorne and not Manicamp.”
At her companion’s appeal, Montalais stopped in the middle of her descent, and Saint-Aignan could observe the unfortunate Manicamp climb from one branch of the chestnut-tree to another, either to improve his situation or to overcome the fatigue consequent upon his inconvenient position.
“Now, listen to me,” said he; “you quite understand, I hope, that my intentions are perfectly innocent?”
“Of course. But why did you write me a letter stimulating my gratitude towards you? Why did you ask me for an interview at such an hour and in such a place as this?”
“I stimulated your gratitude in reminding you that it was I who had been the means of your becoming attached to Madame’s household; because most anxiously desirous of obtaining the interview you have been kind enough to grant me, I employed the means which appeared to me most certain to insure it. And my reason for soliciting it, at such an hour and in such a locality, was, that the hour seemed to me to be the most prudent, and the locality the least open to observation. Moreover, I had occasion to speak to you upon certain subjects which require both prudence and solitude.”
“Monsieur Manicamp!”
“But everything I wish to say is perfectly honorable, I assure you.”
“I think, Monsieur Manicamp, it will be more becoming in me to take my leave.”
“No, no! – listen to me, or I will jump from my perch here to yours; and be careful how you set me at defiance, for a branch of this chestnut-tree causes me a good deal of annoyance, and may provoke me to extreme measures. Do not follow the example of this branch, then, but listen to me.”
“I am listening, and I agree to do so; but be as brief as possible, for if you have a branch of the chestnut-tree which annoys you, I wish you to understand that one of the rounds of the ladder is hurting the soles of my feet, and my shoes are being cut through.”
“Do me the kindness to give me your hand.”
“Why?”
“Will you have the goodness to do so?”
“There is my hand, then; but what are you going to do?”
“To draw you towards me.”
“What for? You surely do not wish me to join you in the tree?”
“No; but I wish you to sit down upon the wall; there, that will do; there is quite room enough, and I would give a great deal to be allowed to sit down beside you.”
“No, no; you are very well where you are; we should be seen.”
“Do you really think so?” said Manicamp, in an insinuating voice.
“I am sure of it.”
“Very well, I remain in my tree, then, although I cannot be worse placed.”
“Monsieur Manicamp, we are wandering away from the subject.”
“You are right, we are so.”
“You wrote me a letter?”
“I did.”
“Why did you write?”
“Fancy, at two o’clock to-day, De Guiche left.”
“What then?”
“Seeing him set off, I followed him, as I usually do.”
“Of course, I see that, since you are here now.”
“Don’t be in a hurry. You are aware, I suppose, that De Guiche is up to his very neck in disgrace?”
“Alas! yes.”
“It was the very height of imprudence on his part, then, to come to Fontainebleau to seek those who had at Paris sent him away into exile, and particularly those from whom he had been separated.”
“Monsieur Manicamp, you reason like Pythagoras.”
“Moreover, De Guiche is as obstinate as a man in love can be, and he refused to listen to any of my remonstrances. I begged, I implored him, but he would not listen to anything. Oh, the deuce!”
“What’s the matter?”
“I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Montalais, but this confounded branch, about which I have already had the honor of speaking to you, has just torn a certain portion of my dress.”
“It is quite dark,” replied Montalais, laughing; “so, pray continue, M. Manicamp.”
“De Guiche set off on horseback as hard as he could, I following him, at a slower pace. You quite understand that to throw one’s self into the water, for instance, with a friend, at the same headlong rate as he himself would do it, would be the act either of a fool or a madman. I therefore allowed De Guiche to get in advance, and I proceeded on my way with a commendable slowness of pace, feeling quite sure that my unfortunate friend would not be received, or, if he had been, that he would ride off again at the very first cross, disagreeable answer; and that I should see him returning much faster than he went, without having, myself, gone much farther than Ris or Melun – and that even was a good distance you will admit, for it is eleven leagues to get there and as many to return.”
Montalais shrugged her shoulders.
“Laugh as much as you like; but if, instead of being comfortably seated on the top of the wall as you are, you were sitting on this branch as if you were on horseback, you would, like Augustus, aspire to descend.”
“Be patient, my dear M. Manicamp; a few minutes will soon pass away; you were saying, I think, that you had gone beyond Ris and Melun.”
“Yes, I went through Ris and Melun, and I continued to go on, more and more surprised that I did not see him returning; and here I am at Fontainebleau; I look for and inquire after De Guiche everywhere, but no one has seen him, no one in the town has spoken to him; he arrived riding at full gallop, he entered the chateau; and there he has disappeared. I have been here at Fontainebleau since eight o’clock this evening inquiring for De Guiche in every direction, but no De Guiche can be found. I am dying with uneasiness. You understand that I have not been running my head into the lion’s den, in entering the chateau, as my imprudent friend has done; I came at once to the servants’ offices, and I succeeded in getting a letter conveyed to you; and now, for Heaven’s sake, my dear young lady, relieve me from my anxiety.”
“There will be no difficulty in that, my dear M. Manicamp; your friend De Guiche has been admirably received.”
“Bah!”
“The king made quite a fuss over him.”
“The king, who exiled him!”
“Madame smiled upon him, and Monsieur appears to like him better than ever.”
“Ah! ah!” said Manicamp, “that explains to me, then, why and how he has remained. And did he not say anything about me?”
“Not a word.”
“That is very unkind. What is he doing now?”
“In all probability he is asleep, or, if not asleep, dreaming.”
“And what have they been doing all the evening?”
“Dancing.”
“The famous ballet? How did De Guiche look?”
“Superb!”
“Dear fellow! And now, pray forgive me, Mademoiselle Montalais; but all I now have to do is pass from where I now am to your apartment.”
“What do you mean?”
“I cannot suppose that the door of the chateau will be opened for me at this hour; and as for spending the night upon this branch, I possibly might not object to do so, but I declare it is impossible for any other animal than a boa-constrictor to do it.”
“But, M. Manicamp, I cannot introduce a man over the wall in that manner.”
“Two, if you please,” said a second voice, but in so timid a tone that it seemed as if its owner felt the utter impropriety of such a request.
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Montalais, “who is that speaking to me?”
“Malicorne, Mademoiselle Montalais.”
And as Malicorne spoke, he raised himself from the ground to the lowest branches, and thence to the height of the wall.
“Monsieur Malicorne! why, you are both mad!”
“How do you do, Mademoiselle Montalais?” inquired Malicorne.
“I needed but this!” said Montalais, in despair.
“Oh! Mademoiselle Montalais,” murmured Malicorne; “do not be so severe, I beseech you.”
“In fact,” said Manicamp, “we are your friends, and you cannot possibly wish your friends to lose their lives; and to leave us to pass the night on these branches is in fact condemning us to death.”
“Oh!” said Montalais, “Monsieur Malicorne is so robust that a night passed in the open air with the beautiful stars above him will not do him any harm, and it will be a just punishment for the trick he has played me.”
“Be it so, then; let Malicorne arrange matters with you in the best way he can; I pass over,” said Manicamp. And bending down the famous branch against which he had directed such bitter complaints, he succeeded, by the assistance of his hands and feet, in seating himself side by side with Montalais, who tried to push him back, while he endeavored to maintain his position, and, moreover, he succeeded. Having taken possession of the ladder, he stepped on it, and then gallantly offered his hand to his fair antagonist. While this was going on, Malicorne had installed himself in the chestnut-tree, in the very place Manicamp had just left, determining within himself to succeed him in the one he now occupied. Manicamp and Montalais descended a few rounds of the ladder, Manicamp insisting, and Montalais laughing and objecting.
Suddenly Malicorne’s voice was heard in tones of entreaty:
“I entreat you, Mademoiselle Montalais, not to leave me here. My position is very insecure, and some accident will be certain to befall me, if I attempt unaided to reach the other side of the wall; it does not matter if Manicamp tears his clothes, for he can make use of M. de Guiche’s wardrobe; but I shall not be able to use even those belonging to M. Manicamp, for they will be torn.”
“My opinion,” said Manicamp, without taking any notice of Malicorne’s lamentations, “is that the best thing to be done is to go and look for De Guiche without delay, for, by and by, perhaps, I may not be able to get to his apartments.”
“That is my own opinion, too,” replied Montalais; “so, go at once, Monsieur Manicamp.”
“A thousand thanks. Adieu Mademoiselle Montalais,” said Manicamp, jumping to the ground; “your condescension cannot be repaid.”
“Farewell, M. Manicamp; I am now going to get rid of M. Malicorne.”
Malicorne sighed. Manicamp went away a few paces, but returning to the foot of the ladder, he said, “By the by, how do I get to M. de Guiche’s apartments?”
“Nothing easier. You go along by the hedge until you reach a place where the paths cross.”
“Yes.”
“You will see four paths.”
“Exactly.”
“One of which you will take.”
“Which of them?”
“That to the right.”
“That to the right?”
“No, to the left.”
“The deuce!”
“No, no, wait a minute – ”
“You do not seem to be quite sure. Think again, I beg.”
“You take the middle path.”
“But there are
four
.”
“So there are. All I know is, that one of the four paths leads straight to Madame’s apartments; and that one I am well acquainted with.”
“But M. de Guiche is not in Madame’s apartments, I suppose?”
“No, indeed.”
“Well, then the path which leads to Madame’s apartments is of no use to me, and I would willingly exchange it for the one that leads to where M. de Guiche is lodging.”
“Of course, and I know that as well; but as for indicating it from where we are, it is quite impossible.”
“Well, let us suppose that I have succeeded in finding that fortunate path.”
“In that case, you are almost there, for you have nothing else to do but cross the labyrinth.”
“
Nothing
more than that? The deuce! so there is a labyrinth as well.”
“Yes, and complicated enough too; even in daylight one may sometimes be deceived, – there are turnings and windings without end: in the first place, you must turn three times to the right, then twice to the left, then turn once – stay, is it once or twice, though? at all events, when you get clear of the labyrinth, you will see an avenue of sycamores, and this avenue leads straight to the pavilion in which M. de Guiche is lodging.”
“Nothing could be more clearly indicated,” said Manicamp; “and I have not the slightest doubt in the world that if I were to follow your directions, I should lose my way immediately. I have, therefore, a slight service to ask of you.”
“What may that be?”
“That you will offer me your arm and guide me yourself, like another – like another – I used to know mythology, but other important matters have made me forget it; pray come with me, then?”
“And am I to be abandoned, then?” cried Malicorne.
“It is quite impossible, monsieur,” said Montalais to Manicamp; “if I were to be seen with you at such an hour, what would be said of me?”
“Your own conscience would