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.