Madame de Maintenon whispered to Mademoiselle de Scudéri, “Is she not exactly like La Vallière, the little thing? The King is indulging in the sweetest memories: you have gained the day.”
Though she spoke softly, the King seemed to hear.
A blush came to his cheek; he scanned Madame de Maintenon with a glance, and then said, gently and kindly: “I am quite sure that you, my dear child, think your lover is innocent; but we must hear what the Chambre Ardente has to say.”
A gentle wave of his hand dismissed Madelon, bathed in tears. Mademoiselle de Scudéri saw, to her alarm, that the resemblance to La Vallière, advantageous as it had seemed to be at first, had nevertheless changed the King’s intention as soon as Madame de Maintenon had spoken of it. Perhaps he felt himself somewhat ungently reminded that he was going to sacrifice strict justice to beauty; or he may have been like a dreamer who, when loudly addressed by his name, finds that the beautiful, magic visions by which he thought he was surrounded vanish away. Perhaps he no longer saw his La Vallière before him, but thought only of Soeur Louise de la Miséricorde—La Vallière’s cloister name among the Carmelite nuns—paining him with her piety and repentance. There was nothing for it now but to wait patiently for the King’s decision.
Meanwhile Count Miossens’ statement before the Chambre Ardente had become known; and, as often happens, popular opinion soon flew from one extreme to the other, so that the person whom it had stigmatized as the most atrocious of murderers, and would fain have torn in pieces before he reached the scaffold, was now bewailed as the innocent victim of a barbarous sacrifice. His old neighbours now only remembered his admirable character and behaviour, his love for Madelon, and the faithfulness and devotion of body and soul with which he had served his master. Crowds of people, in threatening temper, often collected before La Regnie’s Palais, crying, “Give us out Olivier Brusson!—he is innocent!”, even throwing stones at the windows, so that La Regnie had to seek the protection of the Marechaussée.
Many days elapsed without Mademoiselle de Scudéri’s hearing anything on the subject of Olivier Brusson. In her anxiety she went to Madame de Maintenon, who said the King was keeping silence on the subject, and it was not advisable to remind him of it. When she then, with a peculiar smile, asked after the “little La Vallière,” Mademoiselle de Scudéri saw that this proud lady felt, in the depths of her heart, some slight annoyance at a matter which had the power of drawing the fickle King into a province whose charm was beyond her own sphere. Consequently nothing was to be hoped from Madame de Maintenon.
At length Mademoiselle de Scudéri managed to find out, with D’Andilly’s help, that the King had had a long interview with Count Miossens; further, that Bontems, the King’s confidential groom of the chamber and secret agent, had been to the Conciergerie, and spoken with Brusson; that, finally, the said Bontems, with several other persons, had paid a long visit to Cardillac’s house. Claude Patru, who lived in the lower story, said he had heard banging noises above his head in the night, and that he had recognised Olivier’s voice amongst others. So far it was certain that the King was, himself, causing the matter to be investigated; but what was puzzling was the long delay in coming to a decision. La Regnie was most probably trying all in his power to prevent his prey from slipping through his fingers; and this nipped all hope in the bud.
Nearly a month had elapsed, when Madame de Maintenon sent to tell Mademoiselle de Scudéri that the King wished to see her that evening in her salon. Her heart beat fast. She knew that Olivier’s fate would be decided that night. She told Madelon so, and the latter prayed to the Virgin and all the Saints that Mademoiselle de Scudéri might succeed in convincing the King of her lover’s innocence.
And yet it appeared as if he had forgotten the whole affair, for he passed the time in chatting pleasantly with Madame de Maintenon and Mademoiselle de Scudéri, without a single word of poor Olivier Brusson.