I approached, and
he said:

"The Count has just gone away to look for his wife. It is a pity she was
not here to consult the prophet; it would have been amusing, I daresay,
to see how the Count bore it. Suppose we follow him. I have asked him to
introduce you." With a beating heart, I accompanied the Marquis d'Harmonville. Chapter XIV

MADEMOISELLE DE LA VALLIÈRE


We wandered through the _salons_, the Marquis and I. It was no easy
matter to find a friend in rooms so crowded. "Stay here," said the Marquis, "I have thought of a way of finding him. Besides, his jealousy may have warned him that there is no particular
advantage to be gained by presenting you to his wife; I had better go
and reason with him, as you seem to wish an introduction so very much." This occurred in the room that is now called the "Salon d'Apollon." The
paintings remained in my memory, and my adventure of that evening was
destined to occur there. I sat down upon a sofa, and looked about me. Three or four persons
beside myself were seated on this roomy piece of gilded furniture. They
were chatting all very gaily; all--except the person who sat next me,
and she was a lady. Hardly two feet interposed between us. The lady sat
apparently in a reverie. Nothing could be more graceful. She wore the
costume perpetuated in Collignan's full-length portrait of Mademoiselle
de la Valière. It is, as you know, not only rich, but elegant. Her hair
was powdered, but one could perceive that it was naturally a dark brown. One pretty little foot appeared, and could anything be more exquisite
than her hand? It was extremely provoking that this lady wore her mask, and did not, as
many did, hold it for a time in her hand. I was convinced that she was pretty. Availing myself of the privilege of
a masquerade, a microcosm in which it is impossible, except by voice and
allusion, to distinguish friend from foe, I spoke:

"It is not easy, Mademoiselle, to deceive me," I began. "So much the better for Monsieur," answered the mask, quietly. "I mean," I said, determined to tell my fib, "that beauty is a gift
more difficult to conceal than Mademoiselle supposes." "Yet Monsieur has succeeded very well," she said in the same sweet
and careless tones. "I see the costume of this, the beautiful Mademoiselle de la Valière,
upon a form that surpasses her own; I raise my eyes, and I behold a
mask, and yet I recognize the lady; beauty is like that precious stone
in the 'Arabian Nights,' which emits, no matter how concealed, a light
that betrays it." "I know the story," said the young lady. "The light betrayed it, not in
the sun but in darkness. Is there so little light in these rooms,
Monsieur, that a poor glowworm can show so brightly? I thought we were
in a luminous atmosphere, wherever a certain Countess moved?" Here was an awkward speech! How was I to answer? This lady might be, as
they say some ladies are, a lover of mischief, or an intimate of the
Countess de St. Alyre. Cautiously, therefore, I inquired,

"What Countess?" "If you know me, you must know that she is my dearest friend. Is she not
beautiful?" "How can I answer, there are so many countesses." "Everyone who knows me, knows who my best beloved friend is. You don't
know me?" "That is cruel. I can scarcely believe I am mistaken." "With whom were you walking, just now?" she asked. "A gentleman, a friend," I answered. "I saw him, of course, a friend; but I think I know him, and should like
to be certain. Is he not a certain Marquis?" Here was another question that was extremely awkward. "There are so many people here, and one may walk, at one time with one,
and at another with a different one, that--"

"That an unscrupulous person has no difficulty in evading a simple
question like mine. Know then, once for all, that nothing disgusts a
person of spirit so much as suspicion. You, Monsieur, are a gentleman of
discretion. I shall respect you accordingly." "Mademoiselle would despise me, were I to violate a confidence." "But you don't deceive me. You imitate your friend's diplomacy. I hate
diplomacy. It means fraud and cowardice. Don't you think I know him? The
gentleman with the cross of white ribbon on his breast? I know the
Marquis d'Harmonville perfectly. You see to what good purpose your
ingenuity has been expended." "To that conjecture I can answer neither yes nor no." "You need not. But what was your motive in mortifying a lady?" "It is the last thing on earth I should do." "You affected to know me, and you don't; through caprice, or
listlessness, or curiosity, you wished to converse, not with a lady, but
with a costume. You admired, and you pretend to mistake me for another. But who is quite perfect? Is truth any longer to be found on earth?" "Mademoiselle has formed a mistaken opinion of me." "And you also of me; you find me less foolish than you supposed. I know
perfectly whom you intend amusing with compliments and melancholy
declamation, and whom, with that amiable purpose, you have been
seeking." "Tell me whom you mean," I entreated. "Upon one condition." "What is that?" "That you will confess if I name the lady." "You describe my object unfairly," I objected. "I can't admit that I
proposed speaking to any lady in the tone you describe." "Well, I shan't insist on that; only if I name the lady, you will
promise to admit that I am right." "_Must_ I promise?" "Certainly not, there is no compulsion; but your promise is the only
condition on which I will speak to you again." I hesitated for a moment; but how could she possibly tell? The Countess
would scarcely have admitted this little romance to anyone; and the mask
in the La Vallière costume could not possibly know who the masked domino
beside her was. "I consent," I said, "I promise." "You must promise on the honor of a gentleman." "Well, I do; on the honor of a gentleman." "Then this lady is the Countess de St. Alyre." I was unspeakably surprised; I was disconcerted; but I remembered my
promise, and said:

"The Countess de St. Alyre _is_, unquestionably, the lady to whom I
hoped for an introduction tonight; but I beg to assure you, also on the
honor of a gentleman, that she has not the faintest imaginable suspicion
that I was seeking such an honor, nor, in all probability, does she
remember that such a person as I exists. I had the honor to render her
and the Count a trifling service, too trifling, I fear, to have earned
more than an hour's recollection." "The world is not so ungrateful as you suppose; or if it be, there are,
nevertheless, a few hearts that redeem it. I can answer for the Countess
de St. Alyre, she never forgets a kindness. She does not show all she
feels; for she is unhappy, and cannot." "Unhappy! I feared, indeed, that might be. But for all the rest that you
are good enough to suppose, it is but a flattering dream."