“Ce que votre pensee a votre coeur confie-. Ah, there is the ‘thought’ confiding in the ‘heart’! Why should not the heart confide with as good reason in the thought? In faith, for my part, I see nothing to hinder. Where the devil have I been, to bring together these two hemistiches? Now, the third is good,-
Iris, pourquoi faut-il que je passe ma vie- although the rhyme is not strong,- vie and confie. My faith! the Abbe Boyer, who is a great poet, has, like me, made a rhyme of vie and confie in the tragedy of ‘Oropaste, or the False Tonaxare’; without reckoning that M. Corneille did not scruple to do so in his tragedy of ‘Sophonisbe.’ Good, then, for vie and confie! Yes; but the line is impertinent. I remember now that the King bit his nail at that moment. In fact, it gives him the appearance of saying to Mademoiselle de la Valliere, ‘How does it happen that I am captivated by you?’ It would have been better, I think, to say,-
Que benis soient les dieux qui condamnent ma vie- Condamnent! ah! well, yes, there is a compliment!- the King condemned to La Valliere- no!” Then he repeated:-
“Mais benis soient les dieux qui- destinent ma vie. Not bad, although destinent ma vie is weak; but, good Heavens! everything can’t be strong in a quatrain. A plus aimer vos yeux,- in loving more whom, what? Obscurity. But obscurity is nothing; since La Valliere and the King have understood me, every one will understand me. Yes; but here is something melancholy,- the last hemistich: qui m’ont joue ces tours. The plural necessitated by the rhyme! And then to call the modesty of La Valliere a trick,- that is not happy! I shall be a byword to all my quill-driving acquaintances. They will say that my poems are verses in the grand-seigneur style; and if the King hears it said that I am a bad poet, he will take it into his head to believe it.”
While confiding these words to his heart and engaging his heart in these thoughts, the count was undressing himself. He had just taken off his coat, and was putting on his dressing-gown, when he was informed that M. le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds was waiting to be received.
“Eh!” he said, “what does that bunch of names mean? I don’t know him.”
“It is the same gentleman,” replied the lackey, “who had the honor of dining with you, Monseigneur, at the King’s table, when his Majesty was staying at Fontainebleau.”
“With the King, at Fontainebleau?” cried De Saint-Aignan. “Eh! quick, quick! introduce that gentleman.”
The lackey hastened to obey. Porthos entered. M. de Saint-Aignan had an excellent recollection of persons, and at the first glance he recognized the gentleman from the country who enjoyed so singular a reputation, and whom the King had received so favorably at Fontainebleau, in spite of the smiles of some of those who were present. He therefore advanced towards Porthos with all outward signs of good-will, which Porthos thought but natural, considering that he himself, whenever he called upon an adversary, hoisted the standard of the most refined politeness. De Saint-Aignan desired the servant to give Porthos a chair; and the latter, who saw nothing unusual in this act of politeness, sat down gravely, and coughed.
The ordinary courtesies having been exchanged between the two gentlemen, the count, since to him the visit was paid, said, “May I ask, Monsieur the Baron, to what happy circumstance I owe the favor of your visit?”
“The very thing I am about to have the honor of explaining to you, Monsieur the Count; but, I beg your pardon-”
“What is the matter, Monsieur?” inquired De Saint-Aignan.
“I regret to say that I have broken your chair.”
“Not at all, Monsieur,” said De Saint-Aignan; “not at all.”
“It is the fact, though, Monsieur the Count; I have broken it,- so much so, indeed, that if I remain in it I shall fall down, which would be an exceedingly disagreeable position for me in the discharge of the very serious mission which has been intrusted to me with regard to yourself.”