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Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 179 | The king could not restrain his emotion, and D’Artagnan, even, was overcome. Louis led the young girl away, lifted her into the carriage, and directed D’Artagnan to seat himself beside her, while he, mounting his horse, spurred violently towards the Palais Royal, where, immediately on his arrival, he sent to request an audience of Madame. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 180 |
From the manner in which the king had dismissed the ambassadors, even the least clear-sighted persons belonging to the court imagined war would ensue. The ambassadors themselves, but slightly acquainted with the king’s domestic disturbances, had interpreted as directed against themselves the celebrated sentence: “If I be not master of myself, I, at least, will be so of those who insult me.” Happily for the destinies of France and Holland, Colbert had followed them out of the king’s presence for the purpose of explaining matters to them; but the two queens and Madame, who were perfectly aware of every particular that had taken place in their several households, having heard the king’s remark, so full of dark meaning, retired to their own apartments in no little fear and chagrin. Madame, especially, felt that the royal anger might fall upon her, and, as she was brave and exceedingly proud, instead of seeking support and encouragement from the queen-mother, she had returned to her own apartments, if not without some uneasiness, at least without any intention of avoiding an encounter. Anne of Austria, from time to time at frequent intervals, sent messages to learn if the king had returned. The silence which the whole palace preserved upon the matter, and upon Louise’s disappearance, was indicative of a long train of misfortunes to all those who knew the haughty and irritable humor of the king. But Madame, unmoved in spite of all the flying rumors, shut herself up in her apartments, sent for Montalais, and, with a voice as calm as she could possibly command, desired her to relate all she knew about the event itself. At the moment that the eloquent Montalais was concluding, with all kinds of oratorical precautions, and was recommending, if not in actual language, at least in spirit, that she should show forbearance towards La Valliere, M. Malicorne made his appearance to beg an audience of Madame, on behalf of the king. Montalais’s worthy friend bore upon his countenance all the signs of the very liveliest emotion. It was impossible to be mistaken; the interview which the king requested would be one of the most interesting chapters in the history of the hearts of kings and of men. Madame was disturbed by her brother-in-law’s arrival; she did not expect it so soon, nor had she, indeed, expected any direct step on Louis’s part. Besides, all women who wage war successfully by indirect means, are invariably neither very skillful nor very strong when it becomes a question of accepting a pitched battle. Madame, however, was not one who ever drew back; she had the very opposite defect or qualification, in whichever light it may be considered; she took an exaggerated view of what constituted real courage; and therefore the king’s message, of which Malicorne had been the bearer, was regarded by her as the bugle-note proclaiming the commencement of hostilities. She, therefore, boldly accepted the gage of battle. Five minutes afterwards the king ascended the staircase. His color was heightened from having ridden hard. His dusty and disordered clothes formed a singular contrast with the fresh and perfectly arranged toilette of Madame, who, notwithstanding the rouge on her cheeks, turned pale as Louis entered the room. Louis lost no time in approaching the object of his visit; he sat down, and Montalais disappeared. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 181 | “My dear sister,” said the king, “you are aware that Mademoiselle de la Valliere fled from her own room this morning, and that she has retired to a cloister, overwhelmed by grief and despair.” As he pronounced these words, the king’s voice was singularly moved.
“Your majesty is the first to inform me of it,” replied Madame.
“I should have thought that you might have learned it this morning, during the reception of the ambassadors,” said the king.
“From your emotion, sire, I imagined that something extraordinary had happened, but without knowing what.”
The king, with his usual frankness, went straight to the point. “Why did you send Mademoiselle de la Valliere away?”
“Because I had reason to be dissatisfied with her conduct,” she replied, dryly.
The king became crimson, and his eyes kindled with a fire which it required all Madame’s courage to support. He mastered his anger, however, and continued: “A stronger reason than that is surely requisite, for one so good and kind as you are, to turn away and dishonor, not only the young girl herself, but every member of her family as well. You know that the whole city has its eyes fixed upon the conduct of the female portion of the court. To dismiss a maid of honor is to attribute a crime to her—at the very least a fault. What crime, what fault has Mademoiselle de la Valliere been guilty of?”
“Since you constitute yourself the protector of Mademoiselle de la Valliere,” replied Madame, coldly, “I will give you those explanations which I should have a perfect right to withhold from every one.”
“Even from the king!” exclaimed Louis, as, with a sudden gesture, he covered his head with his hat.
“You have called me your sister,” said Madame, “and I am in my own apartments.”
“It matters not,” said the youthful monarch, ashamed at having been hurried away by his anger; “neither you, nor any one else in this kingdom, can assert a right to withhold an explanation in my presence.”
“Since that is the way you regard it,” said Madame, in a hoarse, angry tone of voice, “all that remains for me to do is bow submission to your majesty, and to be silent.”
“Not so. Let there be no equivocation between us.”
“The protection with which you surround Mademoiselle de la Valliere does not impose any respect.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 182 | “Not so. Let there be no equivocation between us.”
“The protection with which you surround Mademoiselle de la Valliere does not impose any respect.”
“No equivocation, I repeat; you are perfectly aware that, as the head of the nobility in France, I am accountable to all for the honor of every family. You dismiss Mademoiselle de la Valliere, or whoever else it may be—” Madame shrugged her shoulders. “Or whoever else it may be, I repeat,” continued the king; “and as, acting in that manner, you cast a dishonorable reflection upon that person, I ask you for an explanation, in order that I may confirm or annul the sentence.”
“Annul my sentence!” exclaimed Madame, haughtily. “What! when I have discharged one of my attendants, do you order me to take her back again?” The king remained silent.
“This would be a sheer abuse of power, sire; it would be indecorous and unseemly.”
“Madame!”
“As a woman, I should revolt against an abuse so insulting to me; I should no longer be able to regard myself as a princess of your blood, a daughter of a monarch; I should be the meanest of creatures, more humbled and disgraced than the servant I had sent away.”
The king rose from his seat with anger. “It cannot be a heart,” he cried, “you have beating in your bosom; if you act in such a way with me, I may have reason to act with corresponding severity.”
It sometimes happens that in a battle a chance ball may reach its mark. The observation which the king had made without any particular intention, struck Madame home, and staggered her for a moment; some day or other she might indeed have reason to dread reprisals. “At all events, sire,” she said, “explain what you require.”
“I ask, madame, what has Mademoiselle de la Valliere done to warrant your conduct toward her?”
“She is the most cunning fomenter of intrigues I know; she was the occasion of two personal friends engaging in mortal combat; and has made people talk of her in such shameless terms that the whole court is indignant at the mere sound of her name.”
“She! she!” cried the king.
“Under her soft and hypocritical manner,” continued Madame, “she hides a disposition full of foul and dark conceit.”
“She!”
“You may possibly be deceived, sire, but I know her right well; she is capable of creating dispute and misunderstanding between the most affectionate relatives and the most intimate friends. You see that she has already sown discord betwixt us two.”
“I do assure you—” said the king. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 183 | “She!”
“You may possibly be deceived, sire, but I know her right well; she is capable of creating dispute and misunderstanding between the most affectionate relatives and the most intimate friends. You see that she has already sown discord betwixt us two.”
“I do assure you—” said the king.
“Sire, look well into the case as it stands; we were living on the most friendly understanding, and by the artfulness of her tales and complaints, she has set your majesty against me.”
“I swear to you,” said the king, “that on no occasion has a bitter word ever passed her lips; I swear that, even in my wildest bursts of passion, she would not allow me to menace any one; and I swear, too, that you do not possess a more devoted and respectful friend than she is.”
“Friend!” said Madame, with an expression of supreme disdain.
“Take care, Madame!” said the king; “you forget that you now understand me, and that from this moment everything is equalized. Mademoiselle de la Valliere will be whatever I may choose her to become; and to-morrow, if I were determined to do so, I could seat her on a throne.”
“She was not born to a throne, at least, and whatever you may do can affect the future alone, but cannot affect the past.”
“Madame, towards you I have shown every kind consideration, and every eager desire to please you; do not remind me that I am master.”
“It is the second time, sire, that you have made that remark, and I have already informed you I am ready to submit.”
“In that case, then, you will confer upon me the favor of receiving Mademoiselle de la Valliere back again.”
“For what purpose, sire, since you have a throne to bestow upon her? I am too insignificant to protect so exalted a personage.”
“Nay, a truce to this bitter and disdainful spirit. Grant me her forgiveness.”
“Never!”
“You drive me, then, to open warfare in my own family.”
“I, too, have a family with whom I can find refuge.”
“Do you mean that as a threat, and could you forget yourself so far? Do you believe that, if you push the affront to that extent, your family would encourage you?”
“I hope, sire, that you will not force me to take any step which would be unworthy of my rank.”
“I hoped that you would remember our recent friendship, and that you would treat me as a brother.”
Madame paused for a moment. “I do not disown you for a brother,” she said, “in refusing your majesty an injustice.”
“An injustice!” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 184 | “I hoped that you would remember our recent friendship, and that you would treat me as a brother.”
Madame paused for a moment. “I do not disown you for a brother,” she said, “in refusing your majesty an injustice.”
“An injustice!”
“Oh, sire! if I informed others of La Valliere’s conduct; if the queen knew—”
“Come, come, Henrietta, let your heart speak; remember that, for however brief a time, you once loved me; remember, too, that human hearts should be as merciful as the heart of a sovereign Master. Do not be inflexible with others; forgive La Valliere.”
“I cannot; she has offended me.”
“But for my sake.”
“Sire, it is for your sake I would do anything in the world, except that.”
“You will drive me to despair—you compel me to turn to the last resource of weak people, and seek counsel of my angry and wrathful disposition.”
“I advise you to be reasonable.”
“Reasonable!—I can be so no longer.”
“Nay, sire! I pray you—”
“For pity’s sake, Henrietta; it is the first time I entreated any one, and I have no hope in any one but in you.”
“Oh, sire! you are weeping.”
“From rage, from humiliation. That I, the king, should have been obliged to descend to entreaty. I shall hate this moment during my whole life. You have made me suffer in one moment more distress and more degradation than I could have anticipated in the greatest extremity in life.” And the king rose and gave free vent to his tears, which, in fact, were tears of anger and shame.
Madame was not touched exactly—for the best women, when their pride is hurt, are without pity; but she was afraid that the tears the king was shedding might possibly carry away every soft and tender feeling in his heart.
“Give what commands you please, sire,” she said; “and since you prefer my humiliation to your own—although mine is public and yours has been witnessed but by myself alone—speak, I will obey your majesty.”
“No, no, Henrietta!” exclaimed Louis, transported with gratitude, “you will have yielded to a brother’s wishes.”
“I no longer have any brother, since I obey.”
“All that I have would be too little in return.”
“How passionately you love, sire, when you do love!”
Louis did not answer. He had seized upon Madame’s hand and covered it with kisses. “And so you will receive this poor girl back again, and will forgive her; you will find how gentle and pure-hearted she is.”
“I will maintain her in my household.”
“No, you will give her your friendship, my sister.”
“I never liked her.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 185 | “I will maintain her in my household.”
“No, you will give her your friendship, my sister.”
“I never liked her.”
“Well, for my sake, you will treat her kindly, will you not, Henrietta?”
“I will treat her as your—mistress.”
The king rose suddenly to his feet. By this word, which had so infelicitously escaped her, Madame had destroyed the whole merit of her sacrifice. The king felt freed from all obligations. Exasperated beyond measure, and bitterly offended, he replied:
“I thank you, Madame; I shall never forget the service you have rendered me.” And, saluting her with an affectation of ceremony, he took his leave of her. As he passed before a glass, he saw that his eyes were red, and angrily stamped his foot on the ground. But it was too late, for Malicorne and D’Artagnan, who were standing at the door, had seen his eyes.
“The king has been crying,” thought Malicorne. D’Artagnan approached the king with a respectful air, and said in a low tone of voice:
“Sire, it would be better to return to your own apartments by the small staircase.”
“Why?”
“Because the dust of the road has left its traces on your face,” said D’Artagnan. “By heavens!” he thought, “when the king has given way like a child, let those look to it who may make the lady weep for whom the king sheds tears.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 186 |
Madame was not bad-hearted—she was only hasty and impetuous. The king was not imprudent—he was simply in love. Hardly had they entered into this compact, which terminated in La Valliere’s recall, when they both sought to make as much as they could by their bargain. The king wished to see La Valliere every moment of the day, while Madame, who was sensible of the king’s annoyance ever since he had so entreated her, would not relinquish her revenge on La Valliere without a contest. She planted every conceivable difficulty in the king’s path; he was, in fact, obliged, in order to get a glimpse of La Valliere, to be exceedingly devoted in his attentions to his sister-in-law, and this, indeed, was Madame’s plan of policy. As she had chosen some one to second her efforts, and as this person was our old friend Montalais, the king found himself completely hemmed in every time he paid Madame a visit; he was surrounded, and was never left a moment alone. Madame displayed in her conversation a charm of manner and brilliancy of wit which dazzled everybody. Montalais followed her, and soon rendered herself perfectly insupportable to the king, which was, in fact, the very thing she expected would happen. She then set Malicorne at the king, who found means of informing his majesty that there was a young person belonging to the court who was exceedingly miserable; and on the king inquiring who this person was, Malicorne replied that it was Mademoiselle de Montalais. To this the king answered that it was perfectly just that a person should be unhappy when she rendered others so. Whereupon Malicorne explained how matters stood; for he had received his directions from Montalais. The king began to open his eyes; he remarked that, as soon as he made his appearance, Madame made hers too; that she remained in the corridors until after he had left; that she accompanied him back to his own apartments, fearing that he might speak in the ante-chambers to one of her maids of honor. One evening she went further still. The king was seated, surrounded by the ladies who were present, and holding in his hand, concealed by his lace ruffle, a small note which he wished to slip into La Valliere’s hand. Madame guessed both his intention and the letter too. It was difficult to prevent the king going wherever he pleased, and yet it was necessary to prevent his going near La Valliere, or speaking to her, as by so doing he could let the note fall into her lap behind her fan, or into her pocket-handkerchief. The king, who was also on the watch, suspected that a snare was being laid for him. He rose and pushed his chair, without affectation, near Mademoiselle de Chatillon, with whom he began to talk in a light tone. They were amusing themselves making rhymes; from Mademoiselle de Chatillon he went to Montalais, and then to Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente. And thus, by this skillful maneuver, he found himself seated opposite to La Valliere, whom he completely concealed. Madame pretended to be greatly occupied, altering a group of flowers that she was working in tapestry. The king showed the corner of his letter to La Valliere, and the latter held out her handkerchief with a look that signified, “Put the letter inside.” Then, as the king had placed his own handkerchief upon his chair, he was adroit enough to let it fall on the ground, so that La Valliere slipped her handkerchief on the chair. The king took it up quietly, without any one observing what he did, placed the letter within it, and returned the handkerchief to the place he had taken it from. There was only just time for La Valliere to stretch out her hand to take hold of the handkerchief with its valuable contents. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 187 | But Madame, who had observed everything that had passed, said to Mademoiselle de Chatillon, “Chatillon, be good enough to pick up the king’s handkerchief, if you please; it has fallen on the carpet.”
The young girl obeyed with the utmost precipitation, the king having moved from his seat, and La Valliere being in no little degree nervous and confused.
“Ah! I beg your majesty’s pardon,” said Mademoiselle de Chatillon; “you have two handkerchiefs, I perceive.”
And the king was accordingly obliged to put into his pocket La Valliere’s handkerchief as well as his own. He certainly gained that souvenir of Louise, who lost, however, a copy of verses which had cost the king ten hours’ hard labor, and which, as far as he was concerned, was perhaps as good as a long poem. It would be impossible to describe the king’s anger and La Valliere’s despair; but shortly afterwards a circumstance occurred which was more than remarkable. When the king left, in order to retire to his own apartments, Malicorne, informed of what had passed, one can hardly tell how, was waiting in the ante-chamber. The ante-chambers of the Palais Royal are naturally very dark, and, in the evening, they were but indifferently lighted. Nothing pleased the king more than this dim light. As a general rule, love, whose mind and heart are constantly in a blaze, contemns all light, except the sunshine of the soul. And so the ante-chamber was dark; a page carried a torch before the king, who walked on slowly, greatly annoyed at what had recently occurred. Malicorne passed close to the king, almost stumbled against him in fact, and begged his forgiveness with the profoundest humility; but the king, who was in an exceedingly ill-temper, was very sharp in his reproof to Malicorne, who disappeared as soon and as quietly as he possibly could. Louis retired to rest, having had a misunderstanding with the queen; and the next day, as soon as he entered the cabinet, he wished to have La Valliere’s handkerchief in order to press his lips to it. He called his valet.
“Fetch me,” he said, “the coat I wore yesterday evening, but be very sure you do not touch anything it may contain.”
The order being obeyed, the king himself searched the pocket of the coat; he found only one handkerchief, and that his own; La Valliere’s had disappeared. Whilst busied with all kinds of conjectures and suspicions, a letter was brought to him from La Valliere; it ran thus: |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 188 | The order being obeyed, the king himself searched the pocket of the coat; he found only one handkerchief, and that his own; La Valliere’s had disappeared. Whilst busied with all kinds of conjectures and suspicions, a letter was brought to him from La Valliere; it ran thus:
“How good and kind of you to have sent me those beautiful verses; how full of ingenuity and perseverance your affection is; how is it possible to help loving you so dearly!”
“What does this mean?” thought the king; “there must be some mistake. Look well about,” said he to the valet, “for a pocket-handkerchief must be in one of my pockets; and if you do not find it, or if you have touched it—” He reflected for a moment. To make a state matter of the loss of the handkerchief would be to act absurdly, and he therefore added, “There was a letter of some importance inside the handkerchief, which had somehow got among the folds of it.”
“Sire,” said the valet, “your majesty had only one handkerchief, and that is it.”
“True, true,” replied the king, setting his teeth hard together. “Oh, poverty, how I envy you! Happy is the man who can empty his own pockets of letters and handkerchiefs!”
He read La Valliere’s letter over again, endeavoring to imagine in what conceivable way his verses could have reached their destination. There was a postscript to the letter:
“I send you back by your messenger this reply, so unworthy of what you sent me.”
“So far so good; I shall find out something now,” he said delightedly. “Who is waiting, and who brought me this letter?”
“M. Malicorne,” replied the valet de chambre, timidly.
“Desire him to come in.”
Malicorne entered.
“You come from Mademoiselle de la Valliere?” said the king, with a sigh.
“Yes, sire.”
“And you took Mademoiselle de la Valliere something from me?”
“I, sire?”
“Yes, you.”
“Oh, no, sire.”
“Mademoiselle de la Valliere says so, distinctly.”
“Oh, sire, Mademoiselle de la Valliere is mistaken.”
The king frowned. “What jest is this?” he said; “explain yourself. Why does Mademoiselle de la Valliere call you my messenger? What did you take to that lady? Speak, monsieur, and quickly.”
“Sire, I merely took Mademoiselle de la Valliere a pocket-handkerchief, that was all.”
“A handkerchief,—what handkerchief?”
“Sire, at the very moment when I had the misfortune to stumble against your majesty yesterday—a misfortune which I shall deplore to the last day of my life, especially after the dissatisfaction which you exhibited—I remained, sire, motionless with despair, your majesty being at too great a distance to hear my excuses, when I saw something white lying on the ground.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 189 | “Ah!” said the king.
“I stooped down,—it was a pocket-handkerchief. For a moment I had an idea that when I stumbled against your majesty I must have been the cause of the handkerchief falling from your pocket; but as I felt it all over very respectfully, I perceived a cipher at one of the corners, and, on looking at it closely, I found that it was Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s cipher. I presumed that on her way to Madame’s apartment in the earlier part of the evening she had let her handkerchief fall, and I accordingly hastened to restore it to her as she was leaving; and that is all I gave to Mademoiselle de la Valliere, I entreat your majesty to believe.” Malicorne’s manner was so simple, so full of contrition, and marked with such extreme humility, that the king was greatly amused in listening to him. He was as pleased with him for what he had done as if he had rendered him the greatest service.
“This is the second fortunate meeting I have had with you, monsieur,” he said; “you may count upon my good intentions.”
The plain and sober truth was, that Malicorne had picked the king’s pocket of the handkerchief as dexterously as any of the pickpockets of the good city of Paris could have done. Madame never knew of this little incident, but Montalais gave La Valliere some idea of the manner in which it had really happened, and La Valliere afterwards told the king, who laughed exceedingly at it and pronounced Malicorne to be a first rate politician. Louis XIV. was right, and it is well known that he was tolerably well acquainted with human nature. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 190 |
Miracles, unfortunately, could not be always happening, whilst Madame’s ill-humor still continued. In a week’s time, matters had reached such a point, that the king could no longer look at La Valliere without a look full of suspicion crossing his own. Whenever a promenade was proposed, Madame, in order to avoid the recurrence of similar scenes to that of the thunder-storm, or the royal oak, had a variety of indispositions ready prepared; and, thanks to them, she was unable to go out, and her maids of honor were obliged to remain indoors also. There was not the slightest chance of means of paying a nocturnal visit; for in this respect the king had, on the very first occasion, experienced a severe check, which happened in the following manner. As at Fontainebleau, he had taken Saint-Aignan with him one evening when he wished to pay La Valliere a visit; but he had found no one but Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, who had begun to call out “Fire!” and “Thieves!” in such a manner that a perfect legion of chamber-maids, attendants, and pages, ran to her assistance; so that Saint-Aignan, who had remained behind in order to save the honor of his royal master, who had fled precipitately, was obliged to submit to a severe scolding from the queen-mother, as well as from Madame herself. In addition, he had, the next morning, received two challenges from the De Mortemart family, and the king had been obliged to interfere. This mistake had been owing to the circumstance of Madame having suddenly ordered a change in the apartments of her maids of honor, and directed La Valliere and Montalais to sleep in her own cabinet. No gateway, therefore, was any longer open—not even communication by letter; to write under the eyes of so ferocious an Argus as Madame, whose temper and disposition were so uncertain, was to run the risk of exposure to the greatest danger; and it can well be conceived into what a state of continuous irritation, and ever increasing anger, all these petty annoyances threw the young lion. The king almost tormented himself to death endeavoring to discover a means of communication; and, as he did not think proper to call in the aid of Malicorne or D’Artagnan, the means were not discovered at all. Malicorne had, indeed, occasional brilliant flashes of imagination, with which he tried to inspire the king with confidence; but, whether from shame or suspicion, the king, who had at first begun to nibble at the bait, soon abandoned the hook. In this way, for instance, one evening, while the king was crossing the garden, and looking up at Madame’s windows, Malicorne stumbled over a ladder lying beside a border of box, and said to Manicamp, then walking with him behind the king, “Did you not see that I just now stumbled against a ladder, and was nearly thrown down?” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 191 | “No,” said Manicamp, as usual very absent-minded, “but it appears you did not fall.”
“That doesn’t matter; but it is not on that account the less dangerous to leave ladders lying about in that manner.”
“True, one might hurt one’s self, especially when troubled with fits of absence of mind.”
“I don’t mean that; what I did mean, was that it is dangerous to allow ladders to lie about so near the windows of the maids of honor.” Louis started imperceptibly.
“Why so?” inquired Manicamp.
“Speak louder,” whispered Malicorne, as he touched him with his arm.
“Why so?” said Manicamp, louder. The king listened.
“Because, for instance,” said Malicorne, “a ladder nineteen feet high is just the height of the cornice of those windows.” Manicamp, instead of answering, was dreaming of something else.
“Ask me, can’t you, what windows I mean,” whispered Malicorne.
“But what windows are you referring to?” said Manicamp, aloud.
“The windows of Madame’s apartments.”
“Eh!”
“Oh! I don’t say that any one would ever venture to go up a ladder into Madame’s room; but in Madame’s cabinet, merely separated by a partition, sleep two exceedingly pretty girls, Mesdemoiselles de la Valliere and de Montalais.”
“By a partition?” said Manicamp.
“Look; you see how brilliantly lighted Madame’s apartments are—well, do you see those two windows?”
“Yes.”
“And that window close to the others, but more dimly lighted?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that is the room of the maids of honor. Look, there is Mademoiselle de la Valliere opening the window. Ah! how many soft things could an enterprising lover say to her, if he only suspected that there was lying here a ladder nineteen feet long, which would just reach the cornice.”
“But she is not alone; you said Mademoiselle de Montalais is with her.”
“Mademoiselle de Montalais counts for nothing; she is her oldest friend, and exceedingly devoted to her—a positive well, into which can be thrown all sorts of secrets one might wish to get rid of.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 192 | “But she is not alone; you said Mademoiselle de Montalais is with her.”
“Mademoiselle de Montalais counts for nothing; she is her oldest friend, and exceedingly devoted to her—a positive well, into which can be thrown all sorts of secrets one might wish to get rid of.”
The king did not lose a single syllable of this conversation. Malicorne even remarked that his majesty slackened his pace, in order to give him time to finish. So, when they arrived at the door, Louis dismissed every one, with the exception of Malicorne—a circumstance which excited no surprise, for it was known that the king was in love; and they suspected he was going to compose some verses by moonlight; and, although there was no moon that evening, the king might, nevertheless, have some verses to compose. Every one, therefore, took his leave; and, immediately afterwards, the king turned towards Malicorne, who respectfully waited until his majesty should address him. “What were you saying, just now, about a ladder, Monsieur Malicorne?” he asked.
“Did I say anything about ladders, sire?” said Malicorne, looking up, as if in search of words which had flown away.
“Yes, of a ladder nineteen feet long.”
“Oh, yes, sire, I remember; but I spoke to M. Manicamp, and I should not have said a word had I known your majesty was near enough to hear us.”
“And why would you not have said a word?”
“Because I should not have liked to get the gardener into a scrape who left it there—poor fellow!”
“Don’t make yourself uneasy on that account. What is this ladder like?”
“If your majesty wishes to see it, nothing is easier, for there it is.”
“In that box hedge?”
“Exactly.”
“Show it to me.”
Malicorne turned back, and led the king up to the ladder, saying, “This is it, sire.”
“Pull it this way a little.”
When Malicorne had brought the ladder on to the gravel walk, the king began to step its whole length. “Hum!” he said; “you say it is nineteen feet long?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Nineteen feet—that is rather long; I hardly believe it can be so long as that.”
“You cannot judge very correctly with the ladder in that position, sire. If it were upright, against a tree or a wall, for instance, you would be better able to judge, because the comparison would assist you a good deal.”
“Oh! it does not matter, M. Malicorne; but I can hardly believe that the ladder is nineteen feet high.”
“I know how accurate your majesty’s glance is, and yet I would wager.”
The king shook his head. “There is one unanswerable means of verifying it,” said Malicorne.
“What is that?” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 193 | “Oh! it does not matter, M. Malicorne; but I can hardly believe that the ladder is nineteen feet high.”
“I know how accurate your majesty’s glance is, and yet I would wager.”
The king shook his head. “There is one unanswerable means of verifying it,” said Malicorne.
“What is that?”
“Every one knows, sire, that the ground-floor of the palace is eighteen feet high.”
“True, that is very well known.”
“Well, sire, if I place the ladder against the wall, we shall be able to ascertain.”
“True.”
Malicorne took up the ladder, like a feather, and placed it upright against the wall. And, in order to try the experiment, he chose, or chance, perhaps, directed him to choose, the very window of the cabinet where La Valliere was. The ladder just reached the edge of the cornice, that is to say, the sill of the window; so that, by standing upon the last round but one of the ladder, a man of about the middle height, as the king was, for instance, could easily talk with those who might be in the room. Hardly had the ladder been properly placed, when the king, dropping the assumed part he had been playing in the comedy, began to ascend the rounds of the ladder, which Malicorne held at the bottom. But hardly had he completed half the distance when a patrol of Swiss guards appeared in the garden, and advanced straight towards them. The king descended with the utmost precipitation, and concealed himself among the trees. Malicorne at once perceived that he must offer himself as a sacrifice; for if he, too, were to conceal himself, the guard would search everywhere until they had found either himself or the king, perhaps both. It would be far better, therefore, that he alone should be discovered. And, consequently, Malicorne hid himself so clumsily that he was the only one arrested. As soon as he was arrested, Malicorne was taken to the guard-house, and there he declared who he was, and was immediately recognized. In the meantime, by concealing himself first behind one clump of trees and then behind another, the king reached the side door of his apartment, very much humiliated, and still more disappointed. More than that, the noise made in arresting Malicorne had drawn La Valliere and Montalais to their window; and even Madame herself had appeared at her own, with a pair of wax candles, one in each hand, clamorously asking what was the matter. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 194 | In the meantime, Malicorne sent for D’Artagnan, who did not lose a moment in hurrying to him. But it was in vain he attempted to make him understand his reasons, and in vain also that D’Artagnan did understand them; and, further, it was equally in vain that both their sharp and intuitive minds endeavored to give another turn to the adventure; there was no other resource left for Malicorne but to let it be supposed that he had wished to enter Mademoiselle de Montalais’s apartment, as Saint-Aignan had passed for having wished to force Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente’s door. Madame was inflexible; in the first place, because, if Malicorne had, in fact, wished to enter her apartment at night through the window, and by means of the ladder, in order to see Montalais, it was a punishable offense on Malicorne’s part, and he must be punished accordingly; and, in the second place, if Malicorne, instead of acting in his own name, had acted as an intermediary between La Valliere and a person whose name it was superfluous to mention, his crime was in that case even greater, since love, which is an excuse for everything, did not exist in the case as an excuse. Madame therefore made the greatest possible disturbance about the matter, and obtained his dismissal from Monsieur’s household, without reflecting, poor blind creature, that both Malicorne and Montalais held her fast in their clutches in consequence of her visit to De Guiche, and in a variety of other ways equally delicate. Montalais, who was perfectly furious, wished to revenge herself immediately, but Malicorne pointed out to her that the king’s countenance would repay them for all the disgraces in the world, and that it was a great thing to have to suffer on his majesty’s account. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 195 | Malicorne was perfectly right, and, therefore, although Montalais had the spirit of ten women in her, he succeeded in bringing her round to his own opinion. And we must not omit to state that the king helped them to console themselves, for, in the first place, he presented Malicorne with fifty thousand francs as a compensation for the post he had lost, and, in the next place, he gave him an appointment in his own household, delighted to have an opportunity of revenging himself in such a manner upon Madame for all she had made him and La Valliere suffer. But as Malicorne could no longer carry significant handkerchiefs for him or plant convenient ladders, the royal lover was in a terrible state. There seemed to be no hope, therefore, of ever getting near La Valliere again, so long as she should remain at the Palais Royal. All the dignities and all the money in the world could not remedy that. Fortunately, however, Malicorne was on the lookout, and this so successfully that he met Montalais, who, to do her justice, it must be admitted, was doing her best to meet Malicorne. “What do you do during the night in Madame’s apartment?” he asked the young girl.
“Why, I go to sleep, of course,” she replied.
“But it is very wrong to sleep; it can hardly be possible that, with the pain you are suffering, you can manage to do so.”
“And what am I suffering from, may I ask?”
“Are you not in despair at my absence?”
“Of course not, since you have received fifty thousand francs and an appointment in the king’s household.”
“That is a matter of no moment; you are exceedingly afflicted at not seeing me as you used to see me formerly, and more than all, you are in despair at my having lost Madame’s confidence; come now, is not that true?”
“Perfectly true.”
“Very good; your distress of mind prevents you sleeping at night, and so you sob, and sigh, and blow your nose ten times every minute as loud as possible.”
“But, my dear Malicorne, Madame cannot endure the slightest noise near her.”
“I know that perfectly well; of course she can’t endure anything; and so, I tell you, when she hears your deep distress, she will turn you out of her rooms without a moment’s delay.”
“I understand.”
“Very fortunate you do.”
“Well, and what will happen next?”
“The next thing that will happen will be, that La Valliere, finding herself alone without you, will groan and utter such loud lamentations, that she will exhibit despair enough for two.”
“In that case she will be put into another room, don’t you see?” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 196 | “Well, and what will happen next?”
“The next thing that will happen will be, that La Valliere, finding herself alone without you, will groan and utter such loud lamentations, that she will exhibit despair enough for two.”
“In that case she will be put into another room, don’t you see?”
“Precisely so.”
“Yes, but which?”
“Which?”
“Yes, that will puzzle you to say, Mr. Inventor-General.”
“Not at all; whenever and whatever the room may be, it will always be preferable to Madame’s own room.”
“That is true.”
“Very good, so begin your lamentations to-night.”
“I certainly will not fail to do so.”
“And give La Valliere a hint also.”
“Oh! don’t fear her, she cries quite enough already to herself.”
“Very well! all she has to do is cry out loudly.”
And they separated. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 197 |
The advice which had been given to Montalais was communicated by her to La Valliere, who could not but acknowledge that it was by no means deficient in judgment, and who, after a certain amount of resistance, rising rather from timidity than indifference to the project, resolved to put it into execution. This story of the two girls weeping, and filling Madame’s bedroom with the noisiest lamentations, was Malicorne’s chef-d’oeuvre. As nothing is so probable as improbability, so natural as romance, this kind of Arabian Nights story succeeded perfectly with Madame. The first thing she did was to send Montalais away, and then, three days, or rather three nights afterwards, she had La Valliere removed. She gave the latter one of the small rooms on the top story, situated immediately over the apartments allotted to the gentlemen of Monsieur’s suite. One story only, that is to say, a mere flooring separated the maids of honor from the officers and gentlemen of her husband’s household. A private staircase, which was placed under Madame de Navailles’s surveillance, was the only means of communication. For greater safety, Madame de Navailles, who had heard of his majesty’s previous attempts, had the windows of the rooms and the openings of the chimneys carefully barred. There was, therefore, every possible security provided for Mademoiselle de la Valliere, whose room now bore more resemblance to a cage than to anything else. When Mademoiselle de la Valliere was in her own room, and she was there very frequently, for Madame scarcely ever had any occasion for her services, since she once knew she was safe under Madame de Navailles’s inspection, Mademoiselle de la Valliere had no better means of amusing herself than looking through the bars of her windows. It happened, therefore, that one morning, as she was looking out as usual, she perceived Malicorne at one of the windows exactly opposite to her own. He held a carpenter’s rule in his hand, was surveying the buildings, and seemed to be adding up some figures on paper. La Valliere recognized Malicorne and nodded to him; Malicorne, in his turn, replied by a formal bow, and disappeared from the window. She was surprised at this marked coolness, so different from his usual unfailing good-humor, but she remembered that he had lost his appointment on her account, and that he could hardly be very amiably disposed towards her, since, in all probability, she would never be in a position to make him any recompense for what he had lost. She knew how to forgive offenses, and with still more readiness could she sympathize with misfortune. La Valliere would have asked Montalais her opinion, if she had been within hearing, but she was absent, it being the hour she commonly devoted to her own correspondence. Suddenly La Valliere observed something thrown from the window where Malicorne had been standing, pass across the open space which separated the iron bars, and roll upon the floor. She advanced with no little curiosity towards this object, and picked it up; it was a wooden reel for silk, only, in this instance, instead of silk, a piece of paper was rolled round it. La Valliere unrolled it and read as follows: |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 198 | “MADEMOISELLE,—I am exceedingly anxious to learn two things: the first is, to know if the flooring of your apartment is wood or brick; the second, to ascertain at what distance your bed is placed from the window. Forgive my importunity, and will you be good enough to send me an answer by the same way you receive this letter—that is to say, by means of the silk winder; only, instead of throwing into my room, as I have thrown it into yours, which will be too difficult for you to attempt, have the goodness merely to let it fall. Believe me, mademoiselle, your most humble, most respectful servant,
“MALICORNE.
“Write the reply, if you please, upon the letter itself.”
“Ah! poor fellow,” exclaimed La Valliere, “he must have gone out of his mind;” and she directed towards her correspondent—of whom she caught but a faint glimpse, in consequence of the darkness of the room—a look full of compassionate consideration. Malicorne understood her, and shook his head, as if he meant to say, “No, no, I am not out of my mind; be quite satisfied.”
She smiled, as if still in doubt.
“No, no,” he signified by a gesture, “my head is right,” and pointed to his head, then, after moving his hand like a man who writes very rapidly, he put his hands together as if entreating her to write. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 199 | She smiled, as if still in doubt.
“No, no,” he signified by a gesture, “my head is right,” and pointed to his head, then, after moving his hand like a man who writes very rapidly, he put his hands together as if entreating her to write.
La Valliere, even if he were mad, saw no impropriety in doing what Malicorne requested her; she took a pencil and wrote “Wood,” and then walked slowly from her window to her bed, and wrote, “Six paces,” and having done this, she looked out again at Malicorne, who bowed to her, signifying that he was about to descend. La Valliere understood that it was to pick up the silk winder. She approached the window, and, in accordance with Malicorne’s instructions, let it fall. The winder was still rolling along the flag-stones as Malicorne started after it, overtook and picked it up, and beginning to peel it as a monkey would do with a nut, he ran straight towards M. de Saint-Aignan’s apartment. Saint-Aignan had chosen, or rather solicited, that his rooms might be as near the king as possible, as certain plants seek the sun’s rays in order to develop themselves more luxuriantly. His apartment consisted of two rooms, in that portion of the palace occupied by Louis XIV. himself. M. de Saint-Aignan was very proud of this proximity, which afforded easy access to his majesty, and, more than that, the favor of occasional unexpected meetings. At the moment we are now referring to, he was engaged in having both his rooms magnificently carpeted, with expectation of receiving the honor of frequent visits from the king; for his majesty, since his passion for La Valliere, had chosen Saint-Aignan as his confidant, and could not, in fact, do without him, either night or day. Malicorne introduced himself to the comte, and met with no difficulties, because he had been favorably noticed by the king; and also, because the credit which one man may happen to enjoy is always a bait for others. Saint-Aignan asked his visitor if he brought any news with him.
“Yes; great news,” replied the latter.
“Ah! ah!” said Saint-Aignan, “what is it?”
“Mademoiselle de la Valliere has changed her quarters.”
“What do you mean?” said Saint-Aignan, opening his eyes very wide. “She was living in the same apartments as Madame.”
“Precisely so; but Madame got tired of her proximity, and has installed her in a room which is situated exactly above your future apartment.”
“What! up there,” exclaimed Saint-Aignan, with surprise, and pointing at the floor above him with his finger.
“No,” said Malicorne, “yonder,” indicating the building opposite. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 200 | “Precisely so; but Madame got tired of her proximity, and has installed her in a room which is situated exactly above your future apartment.”
“What! up there,” exclaimed Saint-Aignan, with surprise, and pointing at the floor above him with his finger.
“No,” said Malicorne, “yonder,” indicating the building opposite.
“What do you mean, then, by saying that her room is above my apartment?”
“Because I am sure that your apartment ought, providentially, to be under Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s room.”
Saint-Aignan, at this remark, gave poor Malicorne a look, similar to one of those La Valliere had already given a quarter of an hour before, that is to say, he thought he had lost his senses.
“Monsieur,” said Malicorne to him, “I wish to answer what you are thinking about.”
“What do you mean by ‘what I am thinking about’?”
“My reason is, that you have not clearly understood what I want to convey.”
“I admit it.”
“Well, then, you are aware that underneath the apartments set for Madame’s maids of honor, the gentlemen in attendance on the king and on Monsieur are lodged.”
“Yes, I know that, since Manicamp, De Wardes, and others are living there.”
“Precisely. Well, monsieur, admire the singularity of the circumstance; the two rooms destined for M. de Guiche are exactly the very two rooms situated underneath those which Mademoiselle de Montalais and Mademoiselle de la Valliere occupy.”
“Well; what then?”
“‘What then,’ do you say? Why, these two rooms are empty, since M. de Guiche is now lying wounded at Fontainebleau.”
“I assure you, my dear fellow, I cannot grasp your meaning.”
“Well! if I had the happiness to call myself Saint-Aignan, I should guess immediately.”
“And what would you do then?”
“I should at once change the rooms I am occupying here, for those which M. de Guiche is not using yonder.”
“Can you suppose such a thing?” said Saint-Aignan, disdainfully. “What! abandon the chief post of honor, the proximity to the king, a privilege conceded only to princes of the blood, to dukes, and peers! Permit me to tell you, my dear Monsieur de Malicorne, that you must be out of your senses.”
“Monsieur,” replied the young man, seriously, “you commit two mistakes. My name is Malicorne, simply; and I am in perfect possession of all my senses.” Then, drawing a paper from his pocket, he said, “Listen to what I am going to say; and afterwards, I will show you this paper.”
“I am listening,” said Saint-Aignan.
“You know that Madame looks after La Valliere as carefully as Argus did after the nymph Io.”
“I do.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 201 | “I am listening,” said Saint-Aignan.
“You know that Madame looks after La Valliere as carefully as Argus did after the nymph Io.”
“I do.”
“You know that the king has sought for an opportunity, but uselessly, of speaking to the prisoner, and that neither you nor myself have yet succeeded in procuring him this piece of good fortune.”
“You certainly ought to know something about the subject, my poor Malicorne,” said Saint-Aignan, smiling.
“Very good; what do you suppose would happen to the man whose imagination devised some means of bringing the lovers together?”
“Oh! the king would set no bounds to his gratitude.”
“Let me ask you, then, M. de Saint-Aignan, whether you would not be curious to taste a little of this royal gratitude?”
“Certainly,” replied Saint-Aignan, “any favor of my master, as a recognition of the proper discharge of my duty, would assuredly be most precious.”
“In that case, look at this paper, monsieur le comte.”
“What is it—a plan?”
“Yes; a plan of M. de Guiche’s two rooms, which, in all probability, will soon be your two rooms.”
“Oh! no, whatever may happen.”
“Why so?”
“Because my rooms are the envy of too many gentlemen, to whom I certainly shall not give them up; M. de Roquelaure, for instance, M. de la Ferte, and M. de Dangeau, would all be anxious to get them.”
“In that case I shall leave you, monsieur le comte, and I shall go and offer to one of those gentlemen the plan I have just shown you, together with the advantages annexed to it.”
“But why do you not keep them for yourself?” inquired Saint-Aignan, suspiciously.
“Because the king would never do me the honor of paying me a visit openly, whilst he would readily go and see any one of those gentlemen.”
“What! the king would go and see any one of those gentlemen?”
“Go! most certainly he would ten times instead of once. Is it possible you can ask me if the king would go to an apartment which would bring him nearer to Mademoiselle de la Valliere?”
“Yes, indeed, delightfully near her, with a floor between them.”
Malicorne unfolded the piece of paper which had been wrapped round the bobbin. “Monsieur le comte,” he said, “have the goodness to observe that the flooring of Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s room is merely a wooden flooring.”
“Well?”
“Well! all you would have to do would be to get hold of a journeyman carpenter, lock him up in your apartments, without letting him know where you have taken him to, and let him make a hole in your ceiling, and consequently in the flooring of Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s room.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 202 | “Good heavens!” exclaimed Saint-Aignan, as if dazzled.
“What is the matter?” said Malicorne.
“Nothing, except that you have hit upon a singular, bold idea, monsieur.”
“It will seem a very trifling one to the king, I assure you.”
“Lovers never think of the risk they run.”
“What danger do you apprehend, monsieur le comte?”
“Why, effecting such an opening as that will make a terrible noise: it could be heard all over the palace.”
“Oh! monsieur le comte, I am quite sure that the carpenter I shall select will not make the slightest noise in the world. He will saw an opening three feet square, with a saw covered with tow, and no one, not even those adjoining, will know that he is at work.”
“My dear Monsieur Malicorne, you astound, you positively bewilder me.”
“To continue,” replied Malicorne, quietly, “in the room, the ceiling of which you will have cut through, you will put up a staircase, which will either allow Mademoiselle de la Valliere to descend into your room, or the king to ascend into Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s room.”
“But the staircase will be seen.”
“No; for in your room it will be hidden by a partition, over which you will throw a tapestry similar to that which covers the rest of the apartment; and in Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s room it will not be seen, for the trapdoor, which will be a part of the flooring itself, will be made to open under the bed.”
“Of course,” said Saint-Aignan, whose eyes began to sparkle with delight.
“And now, monsieur le comte, there is no occasion to make you admit that the king will frequently come to the room where such a staircase is constructed. I think that M. Dangeau, particularly, will be struck by my idea, and I shall now go and explain to him.”
“But, my dear Monsieur Malicorne, you forget that you spoke to me about it the first, and that I have consequently the right of priority.”
“Do you wish for the preference?”
“Do I wish it? Of course I do.”
“The fact is, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, I am presenting you with a Jacob’s ladder, which is better than the promise of an additional step in the peerage—perhaps, even with a good estate to accompany your dukedom.”
“At least,” replied Saint-Aignan, “it will give me an opportunity of showing the king that he is not mistaken in occasionally calling me his friend; an opportunity, dear M. Malicorne, for which I am indebted to you.”
“And which you will not forget to remember?” inquired Malicorne, smiling.
“Nothing will delight me more, monsieur.”
“But I am not the king’s friend; I am simply his attendant.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 203 | “And which you will not forget to remember?” inquired Malicorne, smiling.
“Nothing will delight me more, monsieur.”
“But I am not the king’s friend; I am simply his attendant.”
“Yes; and if you imagine that that staircase is as good as a dukedom for myself, I think there will certainly be letters of nobility at the top of it for you.”
Malicorne bowed.
“All I have to do now,” said Saint-Aignan, “is to move as soon as possible.”
“I do not think the king will object to it. Ask his permission, however.”
“I will go and see him this very moment.”
“And I will run and get the carpenter I was speaking of.”
“When will he be here?”
“This very evening.”
“Do not forget your precautions.”
“He shall be brought with his eyes bandaged.”
“And I will send you one of my carriages.”
“Without arms.”
“And one of my servants without livery. But stay, what will La Valliere say if she sees what is going on?”
“Oh! I can assure you she will be very much interested in the operation, and I am equally sure that if the king has not courage enough to ascend to her room, she will have sufficient curiosity to come down to him.”
“We will live in hope,” said Saint-Aignan; “and now I am off to his majesty. At what time will the carpenter be here?”
“At eight o’clock.”
“How long do you suppose he will take to make this opening?”
“About a couple of hours; only afterwards he must have sufficient time to construct what may be called the hyphen between the two rooms. One night and a portion of the following day will do; we must not reckon upon less than two days, including putting up the staircase.”
“Two days, that is a very long time.”
“Nay; when one undertakes to open up communications with paradise itself, we must at least take care that the approaches are respectable.”
“Quite right; so farewell for a short time, dear M. Malicorne. I shall begin to remove the day after to-morrow, in the evening.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 204 | “Nay; when one undertakes to open up communications with paradise itself, we must at least take care that the approaches are respectable.”
“Quite right; so farewell for a short time, dear M. Malicorne. I shall begin to remove the day after to-morrow, in the evening.”
Saint-Aignan, delighted with what he had just heard, and rejoiced at what the future foreshadowed for him, bent his steps towards De Guiche’s two rooms. He who, a quarter of an hour previously, would hardly yield up his own rooms for a million francs, was now ready to expend a million, if it were necessary, upon the acquisition of the two happy rooms he coveted so eagerly. But he did not meet with so many obstacles. M. de Guiche did not yet know where he was to lodge, and, besides, was still too far ill to trouble himself about his lodgings; and so Saint-Aignan obtained De Guiche’s two rooms without difficulty. As for M. Dangeau, he was so immeasurably delighted, that he did not even give himself the trouble to think whether Saint-Aignan had any particular reason for removing. Within an hour after Saint-Aignan’s new resolution, he was in possession of the two rooms; and ten minutes later Malicorne entered, followed by the upholsterers. During this time, the king asked for Saint-Aignan; the valet ran to his late apartments and found M. Dangeau there; Dangeau sent him on to De Guiche’s, and Saint-Aignan was found there; but a little delay had of course taken place, and the king had already exhibited once or twice evident signs of impatience, when Saint-Aignan entered his royal master’s presence, quite out of breath.
“You, too, abandon me, then,” said Louis XIV., in a similar tone of lamentation to that with which Caesar, eighteen hundred years previously, had pronounced the Et tu quoque.
“Sire, I am far from abandoning you, for, on the contrary, I am busily occupied in changing my lodgings.”
“What do you mean? I thought you had finished moving three days ago.”
“Yes, sire. But I don’t find myself comfortable where I am, so I am going to change to the opposite side of the building.”
“Was I not right when I said you were abandoning me?” exclaimed the king. “Oh! this exceeds all endurance. But so it is: there was only one woman for whom my heart cared at all, and all my family is leagued together to tear her from me; and my friend, to whom I confided my distress, and who helped me to bear up under it, has become wearied of my complaints and is going to leave me without even asking my permission.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 205 | Saint-Aignan began to laugh. The king at once guessed there must be some mystery in this want of respect. “What is it?” cried the king, full of hope.
“This, sire, that the friend whom the king calumniates is going to try if he cannot restore to his sovereign the happiness he has lost.”
“Are you going to let me see La Valliere?” said Louis XIV.
“I cannot say so, positively, but I hope so.”
“How—how?—tell me that, Saint-Aignan. I wish to know what your project is, and to help you with all my power.”
“Sire,” replied Saint-Aignan, “I cannot, even myself, tell very well how I must set about attaining success; but I have every reason to believe that from to-morrow—”
“To-morrow, do you say! What happiness! But why are you changing your rooms?”
“In order to serve your majesty to better advantage.”
“How can your moving serve me?”
“Do you happen to know where the two rooms destined for De Guiche are situated?”
“Yes.”
“Well, your majesty now knows where I am going.”
“Very likely; but that does not help me.”
“What! is it possible that you do not understand, sire, that above De Guiche’s lodgings are two rooms, one of which is Mademoiselle Montalais’s, and the other—”
“La Valliere’s, is it not so, Saint-Aignan? Oh! yes, yes. It is a brilliant idea, Saint-Aignan, a true friend’s idea, a poet’s idea. By bringing me nearer her from whom the world seems to unite to separate me—you are far more than Pylades was for Orestes, or Patroclus for Achilles.”
“Sire,” said Aignan, with a smile, “I question whether, if your majesty were to know my projects in their full extent, you would continue to pronounce such a pompous eulogium upon me. Ah! sire, I know how very different are the epithets which certain Puritans of the court will not fail to apply to me when they learn of what I intend to do for your majesty.”
“Saint-Aignan, I am dying with impatience; I am in a perfect fever; I shall never be able to wait until to-morrow—to-morrow! why, to-morrow is an eternity!”
“And yet, sire, I shall require you, if you please, to go out presently and divert your impatience by a good walk.”
“With you—agreed; we will talk about your projects, we will talk of her.”
“Nay, sire; I remain here.”
“Whom shall I go out with, then?”
“With the queen and all the ladies of the court.”
“Nothing shall induce me to do that, Saint-Aignan.”
“And yet, sire, you must.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 206 | “With you—agreed; we will talk about your projects, we will talk of her.”
“Nay, sire; I remain here.”
“Whom shall I go out with, then?”
“With the queen and all the ladies of the court.”
“Nothing shall induce me to do that, Saint-Aignan.”
“And yet, sire, you must.”
“Must?—no, no—a thousand times no! I will never again expose myself to the horrible torture of being close to her, of seeing her, of touching her dress as I pass by her, and yet not be able to say a word to her. No, I renounce a torture which you suppose will bring me happiness, but which consumes and eats away my very life; to see her in the presence of strangers, and not to tell her that I love her, when my whole being reveals my affection and betrays me to every one; no! I have sworn never to do it again, and I will keep my oath.”
“Yet, sire, pray listen to me for a moment.”
“I will listen to nothing, Saint-Aignan.”
“In that case, I will continue; it is most urgent, sire—pray understand me, it is of the greatest importance—that Madame and her maids of honor should be absent for two hours from the palace.”
“I cannot understand your meaning at all, Saint-Aignan.”
“It is hard for me to give my sovereign directions what to do; but under the circumstances I do give you directions, sire; and either a hunting or a promenade party must be got up.”
“But if I were to do what you wish, it would be a caprice, a mere whim. In displaying such an impatient humor I show my whole court that I have no control over my own feelings. Do not people already say that I am dreaming of the conquest of the world, but that I ought previously to begin by achieving a conquest over myself?”
“Those who say so, sire, are as insolent as they would like to be thought facetious; but whomever they may be, if your majesty prefers to listen to them, I have nothing further to say. In such a case, that which we have fixed to take place to-morrow must be postponed indefinitely.”
“Nay, Saint-Aignan, I will go out this evening—I will go by torchlight to Saint-Germain: I will breakfast there to-morrow, and will return to Paris by three o’clock. Will that do?”
“Admirably.”
“In that case I will set out this evening at eight o’clock.”
“Your majesty has fixed upon the exact minute.”
“And you positively will tell me nothing more?” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 207 | “Admirably.”
“In that case I will set out this evening at eight o’clock.”
“Your majesty has fixed upon the exact minute.”
“And you positively will tell me nothing more?”
“It is because I have nothing more to tell you. Industry counts for something in this world, sire; but still, chance plays so important a part in it that I have been accustomed to leave her the sidewalk, confident that she will manage so as to always take the street.”
“Well, I abandon myself entirely to you.”
“And you are quite right.”
Comforted in this manner, the king went immediately to Madame, to whom he announced the intended expedition. Madame fancied at the first moment that she saw in this unexpectedly arranged party a plot of the king’s to converse with La Valliere, either on the road under cover of the darkness, or in some other way, but she took especial care not to show any of her fancies to her brother-in-law, and accepted the invitation with a smile upon her lips. She gave directions aloud that her maids of honor should accompany her, secretly intending in the evening to take the most effectual steps to interfere with his majesty’s attachment. Then, when she was alone, and at the very moment the poor lover, who had issued orders for the departure, was reveling in the idea that Mademoiselle de la Valliere would form one of the party,—luxuriating in the sad happiness persecuted lovers enjoy of realizing through the sense of sight alone all the transports of possession,—Madame, who was surrounded by her maids of honor, was saying:—“Two ladies will be enough for me this evening, Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente and Mademoiselle de Montalais.”
La Valliere had anticipated her own omission, and was prepared for it: but persecution had rendered her courageous, and she did not give Madame the pleasure of seeing on her face the impression of the shock her heart received. On the contrary, smiling with that ineffable gentleness which gave an angelic expression to her features—“In that case, Madame, I shall be at liberty this evening, I suppose?” she said.
“Of course.”
“I shall be able to employ it, then, in progressing with that piece of tapestry which your highness has been good enough to notice, and which I have already had the honor of offering to you.”
And having made a respectful obeisance she withdrew to her own apartment; Mesdemoiselles de Tonnay-Charente and de Montalais did the same. The rumor of the intended promenade soon spread all over the palace; ten minutes afterwards Malicorne learned Madame’s resolution, and slipped under Montalais’s door a note, in the following terms:
“L. V. must positively pass the night the night with Madame.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 208 | “L. V. must positively pass the night the night with Madame.”
Montalais, in pursuance of the compact she had entered into, began by burning the letter, and then sat down to reflect. Montalais was a girl full of expedients, and so she very soon arranged her plan. Towards five o’clock, which was the hour for her to repair to Madame’s apartment, she was running across the courtyard, and had reached within a dozen paces of a group of officers, when she uttered a cry, fell gracefully on one knee, rose again, with difficulty, and walked on limpingly. The gentlemen ran forward to her assistance; Montalais had sprained her foot. Faithful to the discharge of her duty, she insisted, however, notwithstanding her accident, upon going to Madame’s apartments.
“What is the matter, and why do you limp so?” she inquired; “I mistook you for La Valliere.”
Montalais related how it had happened, that in hurrying on, in order to arrive as quickly as possible, she had sprained her foot. Madame seemed to pity her, and wished to have a surgeon sent for immediately, but she, assuring her that there was nothing really serious in the accident, said: “My only regret, Madame, is, that it will preclude my attendance on you, and I should have begged Mademoiselle de la Valliere to take my place with your royal highness, but—” seeing that Madame frowned, she added—“I have not done so.”
“Why did you not do so?” inquired Madame.
“Because poor La Valliere seemed so happy to have her liberty for a whole evening and night too, that I did not feel courageous enough to ask her to take my place.”
“What, is she so delighted as that?” inquired madame, struck by these words.
“She is wild with delight; she, who is always so melancholy, was singing like a bird. Besides, your highness knows how much she detests going out, and also that her character has a spice of wildness in it.”
“So!” thought Madame, “this extreme delight hardly seems natural to me.”
“She has already made all her preparations for dining in her own room tete-a-tete with one of her favorite books. And then, as your highness has six other young ladies who would be delighted to accompany you, I did not make my proposal to La Valliere.” Madame did not say a word in reply.
“Have I acted properly?” continued Montalais, with a slight fluttering of the heart, seeing the little success that seemed to attend the ruse de guerre which she had relied upon with so much confidence that she had not thought it even necessary to try and find another. “Does Madame approve of what I have done?” she continued. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 209 | Madame was reflecting that the king could very easily leave Saint-Germain during the night, and that, as it was only four leagues and a half from Paris to Saint-Germain, he might readily be in Paris in an hour’s time. “Tell me,” she said, “whether La Valliere, when she heard of your accident, offered at least to bear you company?”
“Oh! she does not yet know of my accident; but even did she know of it, I most certainly should not ask her to do anything that might interfere with her own plans. I think she wishes this evening to realize quietly by herself that amusement of the late king, when he said to M. de Cinq-Mars, ‘Let us amuse ourselves by doing nothing, and making ourselves miserable.’”
Madame felt convinced that some mysterious love adventure lurked behind this strong desire for solitude. The secret might be Louis’s return during the night; it could not be doubted any longer La Valliere had been informed of his intended return, and that was the reason for her delight at having to remain behind at the Palais Royal. It was a plan settled and arranged beforehand.
“I will not be their dupe though,” said Madame, and she took a decisive step. “Mademoiselle de Montalais,” she said, “will you have the goodness to inform your friend, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, that I am exceedingly sorry to disarrange her projects of solitude, but that instead of becoming ennuyee by remaining behind alone as she wished, she will be good enough to accompany us to Saint-Germain and get ennuyee there.”
“Ah! poor La Valliere,” said Montalais, compassionately, but with her heart throbbing with delight; “oh, Madame, could there not be some means—”
“Enough,” said Madame; “I desire it. I prefer Mademoiselle la Baume le Blanc’s society to that of any one else. Go, and send her to me, and take care of your foot.”
Montalais did not wait for the order to be repeated; she returned to her room, almost forgetting to feign lameness, wrote an answer to Malicorne, and slipped it under the carpet. The answer simply said: “She shall.” A Spartan could not have written more laconically.
“By this means,” thought Madame, “I will look narrowly after all on the road; she shall sleep near me during the night, and his majesty must be very clever if he can exchange a single word with Mademoiselle de la Valliere.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 210 |
La Valliere received the order to set off with the same indifferent gentleness with which she had received the order to play Cinderella. But, inwardly, her delight was extreme, and she looked upon this change in the princess’s resolution as a consolation which Providence had sent her. With less penetration than Madame possessed, she attributed all to chance. While every one, with the exception of those in disgrace, of those who were ill, and those who were suffering from sprains, were being driven towards Saint-Germain, Malicorne smuggled his workman into the palace in one of M. de Saint-Aignan’s carriages, and led him into the room corresponding to La Valliere’s. The man set to work with a will, tempted by the splendid reward which had been promised him. As the very best tools and implements had been selected from the reserve stock belonging to the engineers attached to the king’s household—and among others, a saw with teeth so sharp and well tempered that it was able, under water even, to cut through oaken joists as hard as iron—the work in question advanced very rapidly, and a square portion of the ceiling, taken from between two of the joists, fell into the arms of the delighted Saint-Aignan, Malicorne, the workman, and a confidential valet, the latter being one brought into the world to see and hear everything, but to repeat nothing. In accordance with a new plan indicated by Malicorne, the opening was effected in an angle of the room—and for this reason. As there was no dressing-closet adjoining La Valliere’s room, she had solicited, and had that very morning obtained, a large screen intended to serve as a partition. The screen that had been allotted her was perfectly sufficient to conceal the opening, which would, besides, be hidden by all the artifices skilled cabinet-makers would have at their command. The opening having been made, the workman glided between the joists, and found himself in La Valliere’s room. When there, he cut a square opening in the flooring, and out of the boards he manufactured a trap so accurately fitting into the opening that the most practised eye could hardly detect the necessary interstices made by its lines of juncture with the floor. Malicorne had provided for everything: a ring and a couple of hinges which had been bought for the purpose, were affixed to the trap-door; and a small circular stair-case, packed in sections, had been bought ready made by the industrious Malicorne, who had paid two thousand francs for it. It was higher than what was required, but the carpenter reduced the number of steps, and it was found to suit exactly. This staircase, destined to receive so illustrious a burden, was merely fastened to the wall by a couple of iron clamps, and its base was fixed into the floor of the comte’s room by two iron pegs screwed down tightly, so that the king, and all his cabinet councilors too, might pass up and down the staircase without any fear. Every blow of the hammer fell upon a thick pad or cushion, and the saw was not used until the handle had been wrapped in wool, and the blade steeped in oil. The noisiest part of the work, moreover, had taken place during the night and early in the morning, that is to say, when La Valliere and Madame were both absent. When, about two o’clock in the afternoon, the court returned to the Palais Royal, La Valliere went up into her own room. Everything was in its proper place—not the smallest particle of sawdust, not the smallest chip, was left to bear witness to the violation of her domicile. Saint-Aignan, however, wishing to do his utmost in forwarding the work, had torn his fingers and his shirt too, and had expended no ordinary amount of perspiration in the king’s service. The palms of his hands were covered with blisters, occasioned by his having held the ladder for Malicorne. He had, moreover, brought up, one by one, the seven pieces of the staircase, each consisting of two steps. In fact, we can safely assert that, if the king had seen him so ardently at work, his majesty would have sworn an eternal gratitude towards his faithful attendant. As Malicorne anticipated, the workman had completely finished the job in twenty-four hours; he received twenty-four louis, and left, overwhelmed with delight, for he had gained in one day as much as six months’ hard work would have procured him. No one had the slightest suspicion of what had taken place in the room under Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s apartment. But in the evening of the second day, at the very moment La Valliere had just left Madame’s circle and returned to her own room, she heard a slight creaking sound in one corner. Astonished, she looked to see whence it proceeded, and the noise began again. “Who is there?” she said, in a tone of alarm. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 211 | “It is I, Louise,” replied the well-known voice of the king.
“You! you!” cried the young girl, who for a moment fancied herself under the influence of a dream. “But where? You, sire?”
“Here,” replied the king, opening one of the folds of the screen, and appearing like a ghost at the end of the room.
La Valliere uttered a loud cry, and fell trembling into an armchair, as the king advanced respectfully towards her.
La Valliere very soon recovered from her surprise, for, owing to his respectful bearing, the king inspired her with more confidence by his presence than his sudden appearance had deprived her of. But, as he noticed that which made La Valliere most uneasy was the means by which he had effected an entrance into her room, he explained to her the system of the staircase concealed by the screen, and strongly disavowed the notion of his being a supernatural appearance.
“Oh, sire!” said La Valliere, shaking her fair head with a most engaging smile, “present or absent, you do not appear to my mind more at one time than at another.”
“Which means, Louise—”
“Oh, what you know so well, sire; that there is not one moment in which the poor girl whose secret you surprised at Fontainebleau, and whom you came to snatch from the foot of the cross itself, does not think of you.”
“Louise, you overwhelm me with joy and happiness.”
La Valliere smiled mournfully, and continued: “But, sire, have you reflected that your ingenious invention could not be of the slightest service to us?”
“Why so? Tell me,—I am waiting most anxiously.”
“Because this room may be subject to being searched at any moment of the day. Madame herself may, at any time, come here accidentally; my companions run in at any moment they please. To fasten the door on the inside, is to denounce myself as plainly as if I had written above, ‘No admittance,—the king is within!’ Even now, sire, at this very moment, there is nothing to prevent the door opening, and your majesty being seen here.”
“In that case,” said the king, laughingly, “I should indeed be taken for a phantom, for no one can tell in what way I came here. Besides, it is only spirits that can pass through brick walls, or floors and ceilings.”
“Oh, sire, reflect for a moment how terrible the scandal would be! Nothing equal to it could ever have been previously said about the maids of honor, poor creatures! whom evil report, however, hardly ever spares.”
“And your conclusion from all this, my dear Louise,—come, explain yourself.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 212 | “Oh, sire, reflect for a moment how terrible the scandal would be! Nothing equal to it could ever have been previously said about the maids of honor, poor creatures! whom evil report, however, hardly ever spares.”
“And your conclusion from all this, my dear Louise,—come, explain yourself.”
“Alas! it is a hard thing to say—but your majesty must suppress staircase plots, surprises and all; for the evil consequences which would result from your being found here would be far greater than our happiness in seeing each other.”
“Well, Louise,” replied the king, tenderly, “instead of removing this staircase by which I have ascended, there is a far more simple means, of which you have not thought.”
“A means—another means!”
“Yes, another. Oh, you do not love me as I love you, Louise, since my invention is quicker than yours.”
She looked at the king, who held out his hand to her, which she took and gently pressed between her own.
“You were saying,” continued the king, “that I shall be detected coming here, where any one who pleases can enter.”
“Stay, sire; at this very moment, even while you are speaking about it, I tremble with dread of your being discovered.”
“But you would not be found out, Louise, if you were to descend the staircase which leads to the room underneath.”
“Oh, sire! what do you say?” cried Louise, in alarm.
“You do not quite understand me, Louise, since you get offended at my very first word; first of all, do you know to whom the apartments underneath belong?”
“To M. de Guiche, sire, I believe.”
“Not at all; they are M. de Saint-Aignan’s.”
“Are you sure?” cried La Valliere; and this exclamation which escaped from the young girl’s joyous heart made the king’s heart throb with delight.
“Yes, to Saint-Aignan, our friend,” he said.
“But, sire,” returned La Valliere, “I cannot visit M. de Saint-Aignan’s rooms any more than I could M. de Guiche’s. It is impossible—impossible.”
“And yet, Louise, I should have thought that, under the safe-conduct of the king, you would venture anything.”
“Under the safe-conduct of the king,” she said, with a look full of tenderness.
“You have faith in my word, I hope, Louise?”
“Yes, sire, when you are not present; but when you are present,—when you speak to me,—when I look upon you, I have faith in nothing.”
“What can possibly be done to reassure you?”
“It is scarcely respectful, I know, to doubt the king, but—for me—you are not the king.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 213 | “Yes, sire, when you are not present; but when you are present,—when you speak to me,—when I look upon you, I have faith in nothing.”
“What can possibly be done to reassure you?”
“It is scarcely respectful, I know, to doubt the king, but—for me—you are not the king.”
“Thank Heaven!—I, at least, hope so most devoutly; you see how anxiously I am trying to find or invent a means of removing all difficulty. Stay; would the presence of a third person reassure you?”
“The presence of M. de Saint-Aignan would, certainly.”
“Really, Louise, you wound me by your suspicions.”
Louise did not answer, she merely looked steadfastly at him with that clear, piercing gaze which penetrates the very heart, and said softly to herself, “Alas! alas! it is not you of whom I am afraid,—it is not you upon whom my doubts would fall.”
“Well,” said the king, sighing, “I agree; and M. de Saint-Aignan, who enjoys the inestimable privilege of reassuring you, shall always be present at our interviews, I promise you.”
“You promise that, sire?”
“Upon my honor as a gentleman; and you, on your side—”
“Oh, wait, sire, that is not all yet; for such conversations ought, at least, to have a reasonable motive of some kind for M. de Saint-Aignan.”
“Dear Louise, every shade of delicacy of feeling is yours, and my only study is to equal you on that point. It shall be just as you wish: therefore our conversations shall have a reasonable motive, and I have already hit upon one; so that from to-morrow, if you like—”
“To-morrow?”
“Do you meant that that is not soon enough?” exclaimed the king, caressing La Valliere’s hand between his own.
At this moment the sound of steps was heard in the corridor.
“Sire! sire!” cried La Valliere, “some one is coming; do you hear? Oh, fly! fly! I implore you.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 214 | “To-morrow?”
“Do you meant that that is not soon enough?” exclaimed the king, caressing La Valliere’s hand between his own.
At this moment the sound of steps was heard in the corridor.
“Sire! sire!” cried La Valliere, “some one is coming; do you hear? Oh, fly! fly! I implore you.”
The king made but one bound from the chair where he was sitting to his hiding-place behind the screen. He had barely time; for as he drew one of the folds before him, the handle of the door was turned, and Montalais appeared at the threshold. As a matter of course she entered quite naturally, and without any ceremony, for she knew perfectly well that to knock at the door beforehand would be showing a suspicion towards La Valliere which would be displeasing to her. She accordingly entered, and after a rapid glance round the room, in the brief course of which she observed two chairs very close to each other, she was so long in shutting the door, which seemed to be difficult to close, one can hardly tell how or why, that the king had ample time to raise the trap-door, and to descend again to Saint-Aignan’s room.
“Louise,” she said to her, “I want to talk to you, and seriously, too.”
“Good heavens! my dear Aure, what is the matter now?”
“The matter is, that Madame suspects everything.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Is there any occasion for us to enter into explanations, and do you not understand what I mean? Come, you must have noticed the fluctuations in Madame’s humor during several days past; you must have noticed how she first kept you close beside her, then dismissed you, and then sent for you again.”
“Yes, I have noticed it, of course.”
“Well, it seems Madame has now succeeded in obtaining sufficient information, for she has now gone straight to the point, as there is nothing further left in France to withstand the torrent which sweeps away all obstacles before it; you know what I mean by the torrent?”
La Valliere hid her face in her hands.
“I mean,” continued Montalais, pitilessly, “that torrent which burst through the gates of the Carmelites of Chaillot, and overthrew all the prejudices of the court, as well at Fontainebleau as at Paris.”
“Alas! alas!” murmured La Valliere, her face still covered by her hands, and her tears streaming through her fingers.
“Oh, don’t distress yourself in that manner, or you have only heard half of your troubles.”
“In Heaven’s name,” exclaimed the young girl, in great anxiety, “what is the matter?” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 215 | “Alas! alas!” murmured La Valliere, her face still covered by her hands, and her tears streaming through her fingers.
“Oh, don’t distress yourself in that manner, or you have only heard half of your troubles.”
“In Heaven’s name,” exclaimed the young girl, in great anxiety, “what is the matter?”
“Well, then, this is how the matter stands: Madame, who can no longer rely upon any further assistance in France; for she has, one after the other, made use of the two queens, of Monsieur, and the whole court, too, now bethinks herself of a certain person who has certain pretended rights over you.”
La Valliere became as white as a marble statue.
“This person,” continued Madame, “is not in Paris at this moment; but, if I am not mistaken, is, just now, in England.”
“Yes, yes,” breathed La Valliere, almost overwhelmed with terror.
“And is to be found, I think, at the court of Charles II.; am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this evening a letter has been dispatched by Madame to Saint James’s, with directions for the courier to go straight to Hampton Court, which I believe is one of the royal residences, situated about a dozen miles from London.”
“Yes, well?”
“Well; as Madame writes regularly to London once a fortnight, and as the ordinary courier left for London not more than three days ago, I have been thinking that some serious circumstance alone could have induced her to write again so soon, for you know she is a very indolent correspondent.”
“Yes.”
“This letter has been written, therefore, something tells me so, at least, on your account.”
“On my account?” repeated the unhappy girl, mechanically.
“And I, who saw the letter lying on Madame’s desk before she sealed it, fancied I could read—”
“What did you fancy you could read?”
“I might possibly have been mistaken, though—”
“Tell me,—what was it?”
“The name of Bragelonne.”
La Valliere rose hurriedly from her chair, a prey to the most painful agitation. “Montalais,” she said, her voice broken by sobs, “all my smiling dreams of youth and innocence have fled already. I have nothing now to conceal, either from you or any one else. My life is exposed to every one’s inspection, and can be opened like a book, in which all the world can read, from the king himself to the first passer-by. Aure, dearest Aure, what can I do—what will become of me?”
Montalais approached close to her, and said, “Consult your own heart, of course.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 216 | Montalais approached close to her, and said, “Consult your own heart, of course.”
“Well; I do not love M. de Bragelonne; when I say I do not love him, understand that I love him as the most affectionate sister could love the best of brothers, but that is not what he requires, nor what I promised him.”
“In fact, you love the king,” said Montalais, “and that is a sufficiently good excuse.”
“Yes, I do love the king,” hoarsely murmured the young girl, “and I have paid dearly enough for pronouncing those words. And now, Montalais, tell me—what can you do either for me, or against me, in my position?”
“You must speak more clearly still.”
“What am I to say, then?”
“And so you have nothing very particular to tell me?”
“No!” said Louise, in astonishment.
“Very good; and so all you have to ask me is my advice respecting M. Raoul?”
“Nothing else.”
“It is a very delicate subject,” replied Montalais.
“No, it is nothing of the kind. Ought I to marry him in order to keep the promise I made, or ought I continue to listen to the king?”
“You have really placed me in a very difficult position,” said Montalais, smiling; “you ask me if you ought to marry Raoul, whose friend I am, and whom I shall mortally offend in giving my opinion against him; and then, you ask me if you should cease to listen to the king, whose subject I am, and whom I should offend if I were to advise you in a particular way. Ah, Louise, you seem to hold a difficult position at a very cheap rate.”
“You have not understood me, Aure,” said La Valliere, wounded by the slightly mocking tone of her companion; “if I were to marry M. de Bragelonne, I should be far from bestowing on him the happiness he deserves; but, for the same reason, if I listen to the king he would become the possessor of one indifferent in very many aspects, I admit, but one whom his affection confers an appearance of value. What I ask you, then, is to tell me some means of disengaging myself honorably either from the one or from the other; or rather, I ask you, from which side you think I can free myself most honorably.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 217 | “My dear Louise,” replied Montalais, after a pause, “I am not one of the seven wise men of Greece, and I have no perfectly invariable rules of conduct to govern me; but, on the other hand, I have a little experience, and I can assure you that no woman ever asks for advice of the nature which you have just asked me, without being in a terrible state of embarrassment. Besides, you have made a solemn promise, which every principle of honor requires you to fulfil; if, therefore, you are embarrassed, in consequence of having undertaken such an engagement, it is not a stranger’s advice (every one is a stranger to a heart full of love), it is not my advice, I repeat, that can extricate you from your embarrassment. I shall not give it you, therefore; and for a greater reason still—because, were I in your place, I should feel much more embarrassed after the advice than before it. All I can do is, to repeat what I have already told you; shall I assist you?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Very well; that is all. Tell me in what way you wish me to help you; tell me for and against whom,—in this way we shall not make any blunders.”
“But first of all,” said La Valliere, pressing her companion’s hand, “for whom or against whom do you decide?”
“For you, if you are really and truly my friend.”
“Are you not Madame’s confidant?”
“A greater reason for being of service to you; if I were not to know what is going on in that direction I should not be of any service at all, and consequently you would not obtain any advantage from my acquaintance. Friendships live and thrive upon a system of reciprocal benefits.”
“The result is, then, that you will remain at the same time Madame’s friend also?”
“Evidently. Do you complain of that?”
“I hardly know,” sighed La Valliere, thoughtfully, for this cynical frankness appeared to her an offense both to the woman and the friend.
“All well and good, then,” said Montalais, “for if you did, you would be very foolish.”
“You wish to serve me, then?”
“Devotedly—if you will serve me in return.”
“One would almost say that you do not know my heart,” said La Valliere, looking at Montalais with her eyes wide open.
“Why, the fact is, that since we have belonged to the court, my dear Louise, we are very much changed.”
“In what way?”
“It is very simple. Were you the second queen of France yonder, at Blois?” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 218 | “Why, the fact is, that since we have belonged to the court, my dear Louise, we are very much changed.”
“In what way?”
“It is very simple. Were you the second queen of France yonder, at Blois?”
La Valliere hung down her head, and began to weep. Montalais looked at her in an indefinable manner, and murmured “Poor girl!” and then, adding, “Poor king!” she kissed Louise on the forehead, and returned to her apartment, where Malicorne was waiting for her.
In that malady which is termed love the paroxysms succeed each other at intervals, ever accelerating from the moment the disease declares itself. By and by, the paroxysms are less frequent, in proportion as the cure approaches. This being laid down as a general axiom, and as the leading article of a particular chapter, we will now proceed with our recital. The next day, the day fixed by the king for the first conversation in Saint-Aignan’s room, La Valliere, on opening one of the folds of the screen, found upon the floor a letter in the king’s handwriting. The letter had been passed, through a slit in the floor, from the lower apartment to her own. No indiscreet hand or curious gaze could have brought or did bring this single paper. This, too, was one of Malicorne’s ideas. Having seen how very serviceable Saint-Aignan would become to the king on account of his apartment, he did not wish that the courtier should become still more indispensable as a messenger, and so he had, on his own private account, reserved this last post for himself. La Valliere most eagerly read the letter, which fixed two o’clock that same afternoon for the rendezvous, and which indicated the way of raising the trap-door which was constructed out of the flooring. “Make yourself look as beautiful as you can,” added the postscript of the letter, words which astonished the young girl, but at the same time reassured her.
The hours passed away very slowly, but the time fixed, however, arrived at last. As punctual as the priestess Hero, Louise lifted up the trap-door at the last stroke of the hour of two, and found the king on the steps, waiting for her with the greatest respect, in order to give her his hand to descend. The delicacy and deference shown in this attention affected her very powerfully. At the foot of the staircase the two lovers found the comte, who, with a smile and a low reverence distinguished by the best taste, expressed his thanks to La Valliere for the honor she conferred upon him. Then turning towards the king, he said: |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 219 | “Sire, our man is here.” La Valliere looked at the king with some uneasiness.
“Mademoiselle,” said the king, “if I have begged you to do me the honor of coming down here, it was from an interested motive. I have procured a most admirable portrait painter, who is celebrated for the fidelity of his likenesses, and I wish you to be kind enough to authorize him to paint yours. Besides, if you positively wish it, the portrait shall remain in your own possession.” La Valliere blushed. “You see,” said the king to her, “we shall not be three as you wished, but four instead. And, so long as we are not alone, there can be as many present as you please.” La Valliere gently pressed her royal lover’s hand.
“Shall we pass into the next room, sire?” said Saint-Aignan, opening the door to let his guests precede him. The king walked behind La Valliere, and fixed his eyes lingeringly and passionately upon that neck as white as snow, upon which her long fair ringlets fell in heavy masses. La Valliere was dressed in a thick silk robe of pearl gray color, with a tinge of rose, with jet ornaments, which displayed to greater effect the dazzling purity of her skin, holding in her slender and transparent hands a bouquet of heartsease, Bengal roses, and clematis, surrounded with leaves of the tenderest green, above which uprose, like a tiny goblet spilling magic influence a Haarlem tulip of gray and violet tints of a pure and beautiful species, which had cost the gardener five years’ toil of combinations, and the king five thousand francs. Louis had placed this bouquet in La Valliere’s hand as he saluted her. In the room, the door of which Saint-Aignan had just opened, a young man was standing, dressed in a purple velvet jacket, with beautiful black eyes and long brown hair. It was the painter; his canvas was quite ready, and his palette prepared for use.
He bowed to La Valliere with the grave curiosity of an artist who is studying his model, saluted the king discreetly, as if he did not recognize him, and as he would, consequently, have saluted any other gentleman. Then, leading Mademoiselle de la Valliere to the seat he had arranged for her, he begged her to sit down. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 220 | The young girl assumed an attitude graceful and unrestrained, her hands occupied and her limbs reclining on cushions; and in order that her gaze might not assume a vague or affected expression, the painter begged her to choose some kind of occupation, so as to engage her attention; whereupon Louis XIV., smiling, sat down on the cushions at La Valliere’s feet; so that she, in the reclining posture she had assumed, leaning back in the armchair, holding her flowers in her hand, and he, with his eyes raised towards her and fixed devouringly on her face—they, both together, formed so charming a group, that the artist contemplated painting it with professional delight, while on his side, Saint-Aignan regarded them with feelings of envy. The painter sketched rapidly; and very soon, beneath the earliest touches of the brush, there started into life, out of the gray background, the gentle, poetry-breathing face, with its soft calm eyes and delicately tinted cheeks, enframed in the masses of hair which fell about her neck. The lovers, however, spoke but little, and looked at each other a great deal; sometimes their eyes became so languishing in their gaze, that the painter was obliged to interrupt his work in order to avoid representing an Erycina instead of La Valliere. It was on such occasions that Saint-Aignan came to the rescue, and recited verses, or repeated one of those little tales such as Patru related, and Tallemant des Reaux wrote so cleverly. Or, it might be that La Valliere was fatigued, and the sitting was, therefore, suspended for awhile; and, immediately, a tray of precious porcelain laden with the most beautiful fruits which could be obtained, and rich wines distilling their bright colors in silver goblets, beautifully chased, served as accessories to the picture of which the painter could but retrace the most ephemeral resemblance.
Louis was intoxicated with love, La Valliere with happiness, Saint-Aignan with ambition, and the painter was storing up recollections for his old age. Two hours passed away in this manner, and four o’clock having struck, La Valliere rose, and made a sign to the king. Louis also rose, approached the picture, and addressed a few flattering remarks to the painter. Saint-Aignan also praised the picture, which, as he pretended, was already beginning to assume an accurate resemblance. La Valliere in her turn, blushingly thanked the painter and passed into the next room, where the king followed her, after having previously summoned Saint-Aignan.
“Will you not come to-morrow?” he said to La Valliere.
“Oh! sire, pray think that some one will be sure to come to my room, and will not find me there.”
“Well?”
“What will become of me in that case?” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 221 | “Will you not come to-morrow?” he said to La Valliere.
“Oh! sire, pray think that some one will be sure to come to my room, and will not find me there.”
“Well?”
“What will become of me in that case?”
“You are very apprehensive, Louise.”
“But at all events, suppose Madame were to send for me?”
“Oh!” replied the king, “will the day never come when you yourself will tell me to brave everything so that I may not have to leave you again?”
“On that day, sire, I shall be quite out of my mind, and you must not believe me.”
“To-morrow, Louise.”
La Valliere sighed, but, without the courage to oppose her royal lover’s wish, she repeated, “To-morrow, then, since you desire it, sire,” and with these words she ran lightly up the stairs, and disappeared from her lover’s gaze.
“Well, sire?” inquired Saint-Aignan, when she had left.
“Well, Saint-Aignan, yesterday I thought myself the happiest of men.”
“And does your majesty, then, regard yourself to-day,” said the comte, smiling, “as the unhappiest of men?”
“No; but my love for her is an unquenchable thirst; in vain do I drink, in vain do I swallow the drops of water which your industry procures for me; the more I drink, the more unquenchable it becomes.”
“Sire, that is in some degree your own fault, and your majesty alone has made the position such as it is.”
“You are right.”
“In that case, therefore, the means to be happy, is to fancy yourself satisfied, and to wait.”
“Wait! you know that word, then?”
“There, there, sire—do not despair: I have already been at work on your behalf—I have still other resources in store.” The king shook his head in a despairing manner.
“What, sire! have you not been satisfied hitherto?”
“Oh! yes, indeed, yes, my dear Saint-Aignan; but invent, for Heaven’s sake, invent some further project yet.”
“Sire, I undertake to do my best, and that is all that any one can do.”
The king wished to see the portrait again, as he was unable to see the original. He pointed out several alterations to the painter and left the room, and then Saint-Aignan dismissed the artist. The easel, paints, and painter himself, had scarcely gone, when Malicorne showed his head in the doorway. He was received by Saint-Aignan with open arms, but still with a little sadness, for the cloud which had passed across the royal sun, veiled, in its turn, the faithful satellite, and Malicorne at a glance perceived the melancholy that brooded on Saint-Aignan’s face.
“Oh, monsieur le comte,” he said, “how sad you seem!” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 222 | “Oh, monsieur le comte,” he said, “how sad you seem!”
“And good reason too, my dear Monsieur Malicorne. Will you believe that the king is still dissatisfied?”
“With his staircase, do you mean?”
“Oh, no; on the contrary, he is delighted with the staircase.”
“The decorations of the apartments, I suppose, don’t please him.”
“Oh! he has not even thought of that. No, indeed, it seems that what has dissatisfied the king—”
“I will tell you, monsieur le comte,—he is dissatisfied at finding himself the fourth person at a rendezvous of this kind. How is it possible you could not have guessed that?”
“Why, how is it likely I could have done so, dear M. Malicorne, when I followed the king’s instructions to the very letter?”
“Did his majesty really insist on your being present?”
“Positively.”
“And also required that the painter, whom I met downstairs just now, should be here, too?”
“He insisted upon it.”
“In that case, I can easily understand why his majesty is dissatisfied.”
“What! dissatisfied that I have so punctually and so literally obeyed his orders? I don’t understand you.”
Malicorne began to scratch his ear, as he asked, “What time did the king fix for the rendezvous in your apartments?”
“Two o’clock.”
“And you were waiting for the king?”
“Ever since half-past one; it would have been a fine thing, indeed, to have been unpunctual with his majesty.”
Malicorne, notwithstanding his respect for Saint-Aignan, could not help smiling. “And the painter,” he said, “did the king wish him to be here at two o’clock, also?”
“No; but I had him waiting here from midday. Far better, you know, for a painter to be kept waiting a couple of hours than the king a single minute.”
Malicorne began to laugh aloud. “Come, dear Monsieur Malicorne,” said Saint-Aignan, “laugh less at me, and speak a little more freely, I beg.”
“Well, then, monsieur le comte, if you wish the king to be a little more satisfied the next time he comes—”
“‘Ventre saint-gris!’ as his grandfather used to say; of course I wish it.”
“Well, all you have to do is, when the king comes to-morrow, to be obliged to go away on a most pressing matter of business, which cannot possibly be postponed, and stay away for twenty minutes.”
“What! leave the king alone for twenty minutes?” cried Saint-Aignan, in alarm.
“Very well, do as you like; don’t pay any attention to what I say,” said Malicorne, moving towards the door.
“Nay, nay, dear Monsieur Malicorne; on the contrary, go on—I begin to understand you. But the painter—”
“Oh! the painter must be half an hour late.”
“Half an hour—do you really think so?” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 223 | “Nay, nay, dear Monsieur Malicorne; on the contrary, go on—I begin to understand you. But the painter—”
“Oh! the painter must be half an hour late.”
“Half an hour—do you really think so?”
“Yes, I do, decidedly.”
“Very well, then, I will do as you tell me.”
“And my opinion is, that you will be doing perfectly right. Will you allow me to call upon you for the latest news to-morrow?”
“Of course.”
“I have the honor to be your most respectful servant, M. de Saint-Aignan,” said Malicorne, bowing profoundly and retiring from the room backwards.
“There is no doubt that fellow has more invention than I have,” said Saint-Aignan, as if compelled by his conviction to admit it. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 224 |
The revelation we have witnessed, that Montalais made to La Valliere, in a preceding chapter, very naturally makes us return to the principal hero of this tale, a poor wandering knight, roving about at the king’s caprice. If our readers will be good enough to follow us, we will, in his company, cross that strait, more stormy than the Euripus, which separates Calais from Dover; we will speed across that green and fertile country, with its numerous little streams; through Maidstone, and many other villages and towns, each prettier than the other; and, finally, arrive at London. From thence, like bloodhounds following a track, after having ascertained that Raoul had made his first stay at Whitehall, his second at St. James’s, and having learned that he had been warmly received by Monk, and introduced to the best society of Charles II.‘s court, we will follow him to one of Charles II.‘s summer residences near the lively little village of Kingston, at Hampton Court, situated on the Thames. The river is not, at that spot, the boastful highway which bears upon its broad bosom its thousands of travelers; nor are its waters black and troubled as those of Cocytus, as it boastfully asserts, “I, too, am cousin of the old ocean.” No, at Hampton Court it is a soft and murmuring stream, with moss-fringed banks, reflecting, in its broad mirror, the willows and beeches which ornament its sides, and on which may occasionally be seen a light bark indolently reclining among the tall reeds, in a little creek formed of alders and forget-me-nots. The surrounding country on all sides smiled in happiness and wealth; the brick cottages from whose chimneys the blue smoke was slowly ascending in wreaths, peeped forth from the belts of green holly which environed them; children dressed in red frocks appeared and disappeared amidst the high grass, like poppies bowed by the gentler breath of the passing breeze. The sheep, ruminating with half-closed eyes, lay lazily about under the shadow of the stunted aspens, while, far and near, the kingfishers, plumed with emerald and gold, skimmed swiftly along the surface of the water, like a magic ball heedlessly touching, as he passed, the line of his brother angler, who sat watching in his boat the fish as they rose to the surface of the sparkling stream. High above this paradise of dark shadows and soft light, rose the palace of Hampton Court, built by Wolsey—a residence the haughty cardinal had been obliged, timid courtier that he was, to offer to his master, Henry VIII., who had glowered with envy and cupidity at the magnificent new home. Hampton Court, with its brick walls, its large windows, its handsome iron gates, as well as its curious bell turrets, its retired covered walks, and interior fountains, like those of the Alhambra, was a perfect bower of roses, jasmine, and clematis. Every sense, sight and smell particularly, was gratified, and the reception-rooms formed a very charming framework for the pictures of love which Charles II. unrolled among the voluptuous paintings of Titian, of Pordenone and of Van Dyck; the same Charles whose father’s portrait—the martyr king—was hanging in his gallery, and who could show upon the wainscots of the various apartments the holes made by the balls of the puritanical followers of Cromwell, when on the 24th of August, 1648, at the time they had brought Charles I. prisoner to Hampton Court. There it was that the king, intoxicated with pleasure and adventure, held his court—he, who, a poet in feeling, thought himself justified in redeeming, by a whole day of voluptuousness, every minute which had been formerly passed in anguish and misery. It was not the soft green sward of Hampton Court—so soft that it almost resembled the richest velvet in the thickness of its texture—nor was it the beds of flowers, with their variegated hues which encircled the foot of every tree with rose-trees many feet in height, embracing most lovingly their trunks—nor even the enormous lime-trees, whose branches swept the earth like willows, offering a ready concealment for love or reflection beneath the shade of their foliage—it was none of these things for which Charles II. loved his palace of Hampton Court. Perhaps it might have been that beautiful sheet of water, which the cool breeze rippled like the wavy undulations of Cleopatra’s hair, waters bedecked with cresses and white water-lilies, whose chaste bulbs coyly unfolding themselves beneath the sun’s warm rays, reveal the golden gems which lie concealed within their milky petals—murmuring waters, on the bosom of which black swans majestically floated, and the graceful water-fowl, with their tender broods covered with silken down, darted restlessly in every direction, in pursuit of the insects among the reeds, or the fogs in their mossy retreats. Perhaps it might have been the enormous hollies, with their dark and tender green foliage; or the bridges uniting the banks of the canals in their embrace; or the fawns browsing in the endless avenues of the park; or the innumerable birds that hopped about the gardens, or flew from branch to branch, amidst the emerald foliage. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 225 | It might well have been any of these charms—for Hampton Court had them all; and possessed, too, almost forests of white roses, which climbed and trailed along the lofty trellises, showering down upon the ground their snowy leaves rich with soft perfumery. But no, what Charles II. most loved in Hampton Court were the charming figures who, when midday was past, flitted to and fro along the broad terraces of the gardens; like Louis XIV., he had their wealth of beauties painted for his gallery by one of the great artists of the period—an artist who well knew the secret of transferring to canvas the rays of light which escaped from beaming eyes heavy laden with love and love’s delights.
The day of our arrival at Hampton Court is almost as clear and bright as a summer’s day in France; the atmosphere is heavy with the delicious perfume of geraniums, sweet-peas, seringas, and heliotrope scattered in profusion around. It is past midday, and the king, having dined after his return from hunting, paid a visit to Lady Castlemaine, the lady who was reputed at the time to hold his heart in bondage; and this proof of his devotion discharged, he was readily permitted to pursue his infidelities until evening arrived. Love and amusement ruled the entire court; it was the period when ladies would seriously interrogate their ruder companions as to their opinions upon a foot more or less captivating, according to whether it wore a pink or lilac silk stocking—for it was the period when Charles II. had declared that there was no hope of safety for a woman who wore green silk stockings, because Miss Lucy Stewart wore them of that color. While the king is endeavoring in all directions to inculcate others with his preferences on this point, we will ourselves bend our steps towards an avenue of beech-trees opposite the terrace, and listen to the conversation of a young girl in a dark-colored dress, who is walking with another of about her own age dressed in blue. They crossed a beautiful lawn, from the center of which sprang a fountain, with the figure of a siren executed in bronze, and strolled on, talking as they went, towards the terrace, along which, looking out upon the park and interspersed at frequent intervals, were erected summer-houses, diverse in form and ornament; these summer-houses were nearly all occupied; the two young women passed on, the one blushing deeply, while the other seemed dreamily silent. At last, having reached the end of the terrace which looks on the river, and finding there a cool retreat, they sat down close to each other. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 226 | “Where are we going?” said the younger to her companion.
“My dear, we are going where you yourself led the way.”
“I?”
“Yes, you; to the extremity of the palace, towards that seat yonder, where the young Frenchman is seated, wasting his time in sighs and lamentations.”
Miss Mary Grafton hurriedly said, “No, no; I am not going there.”
“Why not?”
“Let us go back, Lucy.”
“Nay, on the contrary, let us go on, and have an explanation.”
“What about?”
“About how it happens that the Vicomte de Bragelonne always accompanies you in all your walks, as you invariably accompany him in his.”
“And you conclude either that he loves me, or that I love him?”
“Why not?—he is a most agreeable and charming companion.—No one hears me, I hope,” said Lucy Stewart, as she turned round with a smile, which indicated, moreover, that her uneasiness on the subject was not extreme.
“No, no,” said Mary, “the king is engaged in his summer-house with the Duke of Buckingham.”
“Oh! a propos of the duke, Mary, it seems he has shown you great attention since his return from France; how is your own heart in that direction?”
Mary Grafton shrugged her shoulders with seeming indifference.
“Well, well, I will ask Bragelonne about it,” said Stewart, laughing; “let us go and find him at once.”
“What for?”
“I wish to speak to him.”
“Not yet, one word before you do: come, come, you who know so many of the king’s secrets, tell me why M. de Bragelonne is in England?”
“Because he was sent as an envoy from one sovereign to another.”
“That may be; but, seriously, although politics do not much concern us, we know enough to be satisfied that M. de Bragelonne has no mission of serious import here.”
“Well, then, listen,” said Stewart, with assumed gravity, “for your sake I am going to betray a state secret. Shall I tell you the nature of the letter which King Louis XIV. gave M. de Bragelonne for King Charles II.? I will; these are the very words: ‘My brother, the bearer of this is a gentleman attached to my court, and the son of one whom you regard most warmly. Treat him kindly, I beg, and try and make him like England.’”
“Did it say that!”
“Word for word—or something very like it. I will not answer for the form, but the substance I am sure of.”
“Well, and what conclusion do you, or rather what conclusion does the king, draw from that?”
“That the king of France has his own reasons for removing M. de Bragelonne, and for getting him married anywhere else than in France.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 227 | “Well, and what conclusion do you, or rather what conclusion does the king, draw from that?”
“That the king of France has his own reasons for removing M. de Bragelonne, and for getting him married anywhere else than in France.”
“So that, then, in consequence of this letter—”
“King Charles received M. de Bragelonne, as you are aware, in the most distinguished and friendly manner; the handsomest apartments in Whitehall were allotted to him; and as you are the most valuable and precious person in his court, inasmuch as you have rejected his heart,—nay, do not blush,—he wished you to take a fancy to this Frenchman, and he was desirous to confer upon him so costly a prize. And this is the reason why you, the heiress of three hundred thousand pounds, a future duchess, so beautiful, so good, have been thrown in Bragelonne’s way, in all the promenades and parties of pleasure to which he was invited. In fact it was a plot,—a kind of conspiracy.”
Mary Grafton smiled with that charming expression which was habitual to her, and pressing her companion’s arm, said: “Thank the king, Lucy.”
“Yes, yes, but the Duke of Buckingham is jealous, so take care.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 228 | Mary Grafton smiled with that charming expression which was habitual to her, and pressing her companion’s arm, said: “Thank the king, Lucy.”
“Yes, yes, but the Duke of Buckingham is jealous, so take care.”
Hardly had she pronounced these words, when the duke appeared from one of the pavilions on the terrace, and, approaching the two girls, with a smile, said, “You are mistaken, Miss Lucy; I am not jealous; and the proof, Miss Mary, is yonder, in the person of M. de Bragelonne himself, who ought to be the cause of my jealousy, but who is dreaming in pensive solitude. Poor fellow! Allow me to leave you for a few minutes, while I avail myself of those few minutes to converse with Miss Lucy Stewart, to whom I have something to say.” And then, bowing to Lucy, he added, “Will you do me the honor to accept my hand, in order that I may lead you to the king, who is waiting for us?” With these words, Buckingham, still smiling, took Miss Stewart’s hand, and led her away. When by herself, Mary Grafton, her head gently inclined towards her shoulder, with that indolent gracefulness of action which distinguishes young English girls, remained for a moment with her eyes fixed on Raoul, but as if uncertain what to do. At last, after first blushing violently, and then turning deadly pale, thus revealing the internal combat which assailed her heart, she seemed to make up her mind to adopt a decided course, and with a tolerably firm step, advanced towards the seat on which Raoul was reclining, buried in the profoundest meditation, as we have already said. The sound of Miss Mary’s steps, though they could hardly be heard upon the green sward, awakened Raoul from his musing attitude; he turned round, perceived the young girl, and walked forward to meet the companion whom his happy destiny had thrown in his way.
“I have been sent to you, monsieur,” said Mary Grafton; “will you take care of me?”
“To whom is my gratitude due, for so great a happiness?” inquired Raoul.
“To the Duke of Buckingham,” replied Mary, affecting a gayety she did not really feel.
“To the Duke of Buckingham, do you say?—he who so passionately seeks your charming society! Am I really to believe you are serious, mademoiselle?” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 229 | “To the Duke of Buckingham,” replied Mary, affecting a gayety she did not really feel.
“To the Duke of Buckingham, do you say?—he who so passionately seeks your charming society! Am I really to believe you are serious, mademoiselle?”
“The fact is, monsieur, you perceive, that everything seems to conspire to make us pass the best, or rather the longest, part of our days together. Yesterday it was the king who desired me to beg you to seat yourself next to me at dinner; to-day, it is the Duke of Buckingham who begs me to come and place myself near you on this seat.”
“And he has gone away in order to leave us together?” asked Raoul, with some embarrassment.
“Look yonder, at the turning of that path; he is just out of sight, with Miss Stewart. Are these polite attentions usual in France, monsieur le vicomte?”
“I cannot very precisely say what people do in France, mademoiselle, for I can hardly be called a Frenchman. I have resided in many countries, and almost always as a soldier; and then, I have spent a long period of my life in the country. I am almost a savage.”
“You do not like your residence in England, I fear.”
“I scarcely know,” said Raoul, inattentively, and sighing deeply at the same time.
“What! you do not know?”
“Forgive me,” said Raoul, shaking his head, and collecting his thoughts, “I did not hear you.”
“Oh!” said the young girl, sighing in her turn, “how wrong the duke was to send me here!”
“Wrong!” said Raoul, “perhaps so; for I am but a rude, uncouth companion, and my society annoys you. The duke did, indeed, very wrong to send you.”
“It is precisely,” replied Mary Grafton, in a clear, calm voice, “because your society does not annoy me, that the duke was wrong to send me to you.”
It was now Raoul’s turn to blush. “But,” he resumed, “how happens it that the Duke of Buckingham should send you to me; and why did you come? the duke loves you, and you love him.”
“No,” replied Mary, seriously, “the duke does not love me, because he is in love with the Duchesse d’Orleans; and, as for myself, I have no affection for the duke.”
Raoul looked at the young lady with astonishment.
“Are you a friend of the Duke of Buckingham?” she inquired.
“The duke has honored me by calling me so ever since we met in France.”
“You are simple acquaintances, then?”
“No; for the duke is the most intimate friend of one whom I regard as a brother.”
“The Duc de Guiche?”
“Yes.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 230 | “The duke has honored me by calling me so ever since we met in France.”
“You are simple acquaintances, then?”
“No; for the duke is the most intimate friend of one whom I regard as a brother.”
“The Duc de Guiche?”
“Yes.”
“He who is in love with Madame la Duchesse d’Orleans?”
“Oh! What is that you are saying?”
“And who loves him in return,” continued the young girl, quietly.
Raoul bent down his head, and Mary Grafton, sighing deeply, continued, “They are very happy. But, leave me, Monsieur de Bragelonne, for the Duke of Buckingham has given you a very troublesome commission in offering me as a companion for your promenade. Your heart is elsewhere, and it is with the greatest difficulty you can be charitable enough to lend me your attention. Confess truly; it would be unfair on your part, vicomte, not to admit it.”
“Madame, I do confess it.”
She looked at him steadily. He was so noble and so handsome in his bearing, his eyes revealed so much gentleness, candor, and resolution, that the idea could not possibly enter her mind that he was either rudely discourteous, or a mere simpleton. She only perceived, clearly enough, that he loved another woman, and not herself, with the whole strength of his heart. “Ah! I now understand you,” she said; “you have left your heart behind you in France.” Raoul bowed. “The duke is aware of your affection?”
“No one knows it,” replied Raoul.
“Why, therefore, do you tell me? Nay, answer me.”
“I cannot.”
“It is for me, then, to anticipate an explanation; you do not wish to tell me anything, because you are now convinced that I do not love the duke; because you see that I possibly might have loved you; because you are a gentleman of noble and delicate sentiments; and because, instead of accepting, even were it for the mere amusement of the passing hour, a hand which is almost pressed upon you; and because, instead of meeting my smiles with a smiling lip, you, who are young, have preferred to tell me, whom men have called beautiful, ‘My heart is over the sea—it is in France.’ For this, I thank you, Monsieur de Bragelonne; you are, indeed, a noble-hearted, noble-minded man, and I regard you all the more for it, as a friend only. And now let us cease speaking of myself, and talk of your own affairs. Forget that I have ever spoken to you of myself, tell me why you are sad, and why you have become more than usually so during these past four days?” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 231 | Raoul was deeply and sensibly moved by these sweet and melancholy tones; and as he could not, at the moment, find a word to say, the young girl again came to his assistance.
“Pity me,” she said. “My mother was born in France, and I can truly affirm that I, too, am French in blood, as well as in feeling; but the leaden atmosphere and characteristic gloom of England seem to weigh upon me. Sometimes my dreams are golden-hued and full of wonderful enjoyments, when suddenly a mist rises and overspreads my fancy, blotting them out forever. Such, indeed, is the case at the present moment. Forgive me; I have now said enough on that subject; give me your hand, and relate your griefs to me as a friend.”
“You say you are French in heart and soul?”
“Yes, not only, I repeat it, that my mother was French, but, further, as my father, a friend of King Charles I., was exiled in France, I, during the trial of that prince, as well as during the Protector’s life, was brought up in Paris; at the Restoration of King Charles II., my poor father returned to England, where he died almost immediately afterwards; and then the king created me a duchess, and has dowered me according to my rank.
“Have you any relations in France?” Raoul inquired, with the deepest interest.
“I have a sister there, my senior by seven or eight years, who was married in France, and was early left a widow; her name is Madame de Belliere. Do you know her?” she added, observing Raoul start suddenly.
“I have heard her name.”
“She, too, loves with her whole heart; and her last letters inform me she is happy, and her affection is, I conclude, returned. I told you, Monsieur de Bragelonne, that although I possess half of her nature, I do not share her happiness. But let us now speak of yourself; whom do you love in France?”
“A young girl, as soft and pure as a lily.”
“But if she loves you, why are you sad?”
“I have been told that she ceases to love me.”
“You do not believe it, I trust?”
“He who wrote me so does not sign his letter.”
“An anonymous denunciation! some treachery, be assured,” said Miss Grafton.
“Stay,” said Raoul, showing the young girl a letter which he had read over a thousand times; she took it from his hand and read as follows: |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 232 | “He who wrote me so does not sign his letter.”
“An anonymous denunciation! some treachery, be assured,” said Miss Grafton.
“Stay,” said Raoul, showing the young girl a letter which he had read over a thousand times; she took it from his hand and read as follows:
“VICOMTE,—You are perfectly right to amuse yourself yonder with the lovely faces of Charles II.‘s court, for at Louis XIV.‘s court, the castle in which your affections are enshrined is being besieged. Stay in London altogether, poor vicomte, or return without delay to Paris.”
“There is no signature,” said Miss Mary.
“None.”
“Believe it not, then.”
“Very good; but here is a second letter, from my friend De Guiche, which says, ‘I am lying here wounded and ill. Return, Raoul, oh, return!’”
“What do you intend doing?” inquired the young girl, with a feeling of oppression at her heart.
“My intention, as soon as I received this letter, was immediately to take my leave of the king.”
“When did you receive it?”
“The day before yesterday.”
“It is dated Fontainebleau.”
“A singular circumstance, do you not think, for the court is now at Paris? At all events, I would have set off; but when I mentioned my intention to the king, he began to laugh, and said to me, ‘How comes it, monsieur l’amassadeur, that you think of leaving? Has your sovereign recalled you?’ I colored, naturally enough, for I was confused by the question; for the fact is, the king himself sent me here, and I have received no order to return.”
Mary frowned in deep thought, and said, “Do you remain, then?”
“I must, mademoiselle.”
“Do you ever receive any letters from her to whom you are so devoted?”
“Never.”
“Never, do you say? Does she not love you, then?”
“At least, she has not written to me since my departure, although she used occasionally to write to me before. I trust she may have been prevented.”
“Hush! the duke is coming.”
And Buckingham at that moment was seen at the end of the walk, approaching towards them, alone and smiling; he advanced slowly, and held out his hands to them both. “Have you arrived at an understanding?” he said.
“About what?”
“About whatever might render you happy, dear Mary, and make Raoul less miserable.”
“I do not understand you, my lord,” said Raoul.
“That is my view of the subject, Miss Mary; do you wish me to mention it before M. de Bragelonne?” he added, with a smile.
“If you mean,” replied the young girl, haughtily, “that I was not indisposed to love M. de Bragelonne, that is useless, for I have told him so myself.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 233 | “If you mean,” replied the young girl, haughtily, “that I was not indisposed to love M. de Bragelonne, that is useless, for I have told him so myself.”
Buckingham reflected for a moment, and, without seeming in any way discountenanced, as she expected, he said: “My reason for leaving you with M. de Bragelonne was, that I thoroughly knew your refined delicacy of feeling, no less than the perfect loyalty of your mind and heart, and I hoped that M. de Bragelonne’s cure might be effected by the hands of a physician such as you are.”
“But, my lord, before you spoke of M. de Bragelonne’s heart, you spoke to me of your own. Do you mean to effect the cure of two hearts at the same time?”
“Perfectly true, madame; but you will do me the justice to admit that I have long discontinued a useless pursuit, acknowledging that my own wound is incurable.”
“My lord,” said Mary, collecting herself for a moment before she spoke, “M. de Bragelonne is happy, for he loves and is beloved. He has no need of such a physician as I can be.”
“M. de Bragelonne,” said Buckingham, “is on the very eve of experiencing a serious misfortune, and he has greater need than ever of sympathy and affection.”
“Explain yourself, my lord,” inquired Raoul, anxiously.
“No; gradually I will explain myself; but, if you desire it, I can tell Miss Grafton what you may not listen to yourself.”
“My lord, you are putting me to the torture; you know something you wish to conceal from me?”
“I know that Miss Mary Grafton is the most charming object that a heart ill at ease could possibly meet with in its way through life.”
“I have already told you that the Vicomte de Bragelonne loves elsewhere,” said the young girl.
“He is wrong, then.”
“Do you assume to know, my lord, that I am wrong?”
“Yes.”
“Whom is it that he loves, then?” exclaimed the young girl.
“He loves a lady who is unworthy of him,” said Buckingham, with that calm, collected manner peculiar to Englishmen.
Miss Grafton uttered a cry, which, together with the remark that Buckingham had that moment made, spread over De Bragelonne’s features a deadly paleness, arising from the sudden surprise, and also from a vague fear of impending misfortune. “My lord,” he exclaimed, “you have just pronounced words which compel me, without a moment’s delay, to seek their explanation in Paris.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 234 | “You will remain here,” said Buckingham, “because you have no right to leave; and no one has the right to quit the service of the king for that of any woman, even were she as worthy of being loved as Mary Grafton is.”
“You will tell me all, then?”
“I will, on condition that you will remain.”
“I will remain, if you will promise to speak openly and without reserve.”
Thus far had their conversation proceeded, and Buckingham, in all probability, was on the point of revealing, not indeed all that had taken place, but at least all he was aware of, when one of the king’s attendants appeared at the end of the terrace, and advanced towards the summer-house where the king was sitting with Lucy Stewart. A courier followed him, covered with dust from head to foot, and who seemed as if he had but a few moments before dismounted from his horse.
“The courier from France! Madame’s courier!” exclaimed Raoul, recognizing the princess’s livery; and while the attendant and the courier advanced towards the king, Buckingham and Miss Grafton exchanged a look full of intelligence with each other.
Charles II. was busily engaged in proving, or in endeavoring to prove, to Miss Stewart that she was the only person for whom he cared at all, and consequently was avowing to her an affection similar to that which his ancestor Henry IV. had entertained for Gabrielle. Unfortunately for Charles II., he had hit upon an unlucky day, the very day Miss Stewart had taken it into her head to make him jealous, and therefore, instead of being touched by his offer, as the king had hoped, she laughed heartily.
“Oh! sire, sire,” she cried, laughing all the while; “if I were to be unfortunate enough to ask you for a proof of the affection you possess, how easy it would be to see that you are telling a falsehood.”
“Nay, listen to me,” said Charles, “you know my cartoons by Raphael; you know whether I care for them or not; the whole world envies me their possession, as you well know also; my father commissioned Van Dyck to purchase them. Would you like me to send them to your house this very day?”
“Oh, no!” replied the young girl; “pray keep them yourself, sire; my house is far too small to accommodate such visitors.”
“In that case you shall have Hampton Court to put the cartoons in.”
“Be less generous, sire, and learn to love a little while longer, that is all I have to ask you.”
“I shall never cease to love you; is not that enough?”
“You are smiling, sire.”
“Do you wish me to weep?” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 235 | “Be less generous, sire, and learn to love a little while longer, that is all I have to ask you.”
“I shall never cease to love you; is not that enough?”
“You are smiling, sire.”
“Do you wish me to weep?”
“No; but I should like to see you a little more melancholy.”
“Thank Heaven, I have been so long enough; fourteen years of exile, poverty, and misery, I think I may well regard it as a debt discharged; besides, melancholy makes people look so plain.”
“Far from that—for look at the young Frenchman.”
“What! the Vicomte de Bragelonne? are you smitten too? By Heaven, they will all grow mad over him one after the other; but he, on the contrary, has a reason for being melancholy.”
“Why so?”
“Oh, indeed! you wish me to betray state secrets, do you?”
“If I wish it, you must do so, for you told me you were quite ready to do everything I wished.”
“Well, then, he is bored in his own country. Does that satisfy you?”
“Bored?”
“Yes, a proof that he is a simpleton; I allow him to fall in love with Miss Mary Grafton, and he feels bored. Can you believe it?”
“Very good; it seems, then, that if you were to find Miss Lucy Stewart indifferent to you, you would console yourself by falling in love with Miss Mary Grafton.”
“I don’t say that; in the first place, you know that Mary Grafton does not care for me; besides, a man can only console himself for a lost affection by the discovery of a new one. Again, however, I repeat, the question is not of myself, but of that young man. One might almost be tempted to call the girl he has left behind him a Helen—a Helen before the little ceremony she went through with Paris, of course.”
“He has left some one, then?”
“That is to say, some one has left him.”
“Poor fellow! so much the worse!”
“Why do you mean by ‘so much the worse’?”
“Why not? why did he leave?”
“Do you think it was of his own wish or will that he left?”
“Was he obliged to leave, then?”
“He left Paris under orders, my dear Stewart; and prepare to be surprised—by express orders of the king.”
“Ah! I begin to see, now.”
“At least say nothing at all about it.”
“You know very well that I am just as discreet as anybody else. And so the king sent him away?”
“Yes.”
“And during his absence he takes his sweetheart from him?”
“Yes; and, will you believe it? the silly fellow, instead of thanking the king, is making himself miserable.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 236 | “You know very well that I am just as discreet as anybody else. And so the king sent him away?”
“Yes.”
“And during his absence he takes his sweetheart from him?”
“Yes; and, will you believe it? the silly fellow, instead of thanking the king, is making himself miserable.”
“What! thank the king for depriving him of the woman he loves! Really, sire, yours is a most ungallant speech.”
“But, pray understand me. If she whom the king had run off with was either a Miss Grafton or a Miss Stewart, I should not be of his opinion; nay, I should even think him not half wretched enough; but she is a little, thin, lame thing. Deuce take such fidelity as that! Surely, one can hardly understand how a man can refuse a girl who is rich for one who is poverty itself—a girl who loves him for one who deceives and betrays him.”
“Do you think that Mary seriously wishes to please the vicomte, sire?”
“I do, indeed.”
“Very good! the vicomte will settle down in England, for Mary has a clear head, and when she fixes her mind upon anything, she does so thoroughly.”
“Take care, my dear Miss Stewart; if the vicomte has any idea of adopting our country, he has not long to do so, for it was only the day before yesterday that he again asked me for permission to leave.”
“Which you refused him, I suppose?”
“I should think so, indeed; my royal brother is far too anxious for his absence; and, for myself, my amour propre is enlisted on his side, for I will never have it said that I had held out as a bait to this young man the noblest and gentlest creature in England—”
“You are very gallant, sire,” said Miss Stewart, with a pretty pout.
“I do not allude to Miss Stewart, for she is worthy of a king’s devotion; and since she has captivated me I trust that no one else will be caught by her; I say, therefore, finally, that the attention I have shown this young man will not have been thrown away; he will stay with us here, he will marry here, or I am very much mistaken.”
“And I hope that when he is once married and settled, instead of being angry with your majesty, he will be grateful to you, for every one tries his utmost to please him; even the Duke of Buckingham, whose brilliancy, which is incredible, seems to pale before that of this young Frenchman.”
“Including Miss Stewart even, who calls him the most finished gentleman she ever saw.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 237 | “Including Miss Stewart even, who calls him the most finished gentleman she ever saw.”
“Stay, sire; you have spoken quite enough, and quite highly enough, of Miss Grafton, to overlook what I may have said about De Bragelonne. But, by the by, sire, your kindness for some time past astonishes me: you think of those who are absent, you forgive those who have done you a wrong, in fact, you are as nearly as possible, perfect. How does it happen—”
“It is because you allow yourself to be loved,” he said, beginning to laugh.
“Oh! there must be some other reason.”
“Well, I am doing all I can to oblige my brother, Louis XIV.”
“Nay, I must have another reason.”
“Well, then, the true motive is that Buckingham strongly recommended the young man to me, saying: ‘Sire, I begin by yielding up all claim to Miss Grafton; I pray you follow my example.’”
“The duke is, indeed, a true gentleman.”
“Oh! of course, of course; it is Buckingham’s turn now, I suppose, to turn your head. You seem determined to cross me in everything to-day.”
At this moment some one rapped at the door.
“Who is it who presumes to interrupt us?” exclaimed Charles, impatiently.
“Really, sire, you are extremely vain with your ‘who is it who presumes?’ and in order to punish you for it—”
She went to the door and opened it.
“It is a courier from France,” said Miss Stewart.
“A courier from France!” exclaimed Charles; “from my sister, perhaps?”
“Yes, sire,” said the usher, “a special messenger.”
“Let him come in at once,” said Charles.
“You have a letter for me,” said the king to the courier as he entered, “from the Duchess of Orleans?”
“Yes, sire,” replied the courier, “and so urgent in its nature that I have only been twenty-six hours in bringing it to your majesty, and yet I lost three-quarters of an hour at Calais.”
“Your zeal shall not be forgotten,” said the king, as he opened the letter. When he had read it he burst out laughing, and exclaimed, “Upon my word, I am at a loss to understand anything about it.” He then read the letter a second time, Miss Stewart assuming a manner marked by the greatest reserve, and doing her utmost to restrain her ardent curiosity.
“Francis,” said the king to his valet, “see that this excellent fellow is well taken care of and sleeps soundly, and that on waking to-morrow he finds a purse of fifty sovereigns by his bedside.”
“Sire!” said the courier, amazed. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 238 | “Francis,” said the king to his valet, “see that this excellent fellow is well taken care of and sleeps soundly, and that on waking to-morrow he finds a purse of fifty sovereigns by his bedside.”
“Sire!” said the courier, amazed.
“Begone, begone; my sister was perfectly right in desiring you to use the utmost diligence; the affair was most pressing.” And he again began to laugh louder than ever. The courier, the valet, and Miss Stewart hardly knew what sort of countenance to assume. “Ah!” said the king, throwing himself back in his armchair: “When I think that you have knocked up—how many horses?”
“Two!”
“Two horses to bring this intelligence to me. That will do, you can leave us now.”
The courier retired with the valet. Charles went to the window, which he opened, and leaning forward, called out—“Duke! Buckingham! come here, there’s a good fellow.”
The duke hurried to him, in obedience to the summons; but when he reached the door, and perceived Miss Stewart, he hesitated to enter.
“Come in, and shut the door,” said the king. The duke obeyed; and, perceiving in what an excellent humor the king was, he advanced, smiling, towards him. “Well, my dear duke, how do you get on with your Frenchman?”
“Sire, I am in the most perfect state of utter despair about him.”
“Why so?”
“Because charming Miss Grafton is willing to marry him, but he is unwilling.”
“Why, he is a perfect Boeotian!” cried Miss Stewart. “Let him say either ‘Yes,’ or No,’ and let the affair end.”
“But,” said Buckingham, seriously, “you know, or you ought to know, madame, that M. de Bragelonne is in love in another direction.”
“In that case,” said the king, coming to Miss Stewart’s help, “nothing is easier; let him say ‘No,’ then.”
“Very true; and I have proved to him he was wrong not to say ‘Yes.’”
“You told him candidly, I suppose, that La Valliere was deceiving him?”
“Yes, without the slightest reserve; and, as soon as I had done so, he gave a start, as if he were going to clear the Channel at a bound.”
“At all events,” said Miss Stewart, “he has done something; and a very good thing too, upon my word.”
“But,” said Buckingham, “I stopped him; I have left him and Miss Mary in conversation together, and I sincerely trust that now he will not leave, as he seemed to have an idea of doing.”
“An idea of leaving England?” cried the king.
“I, at one moment, hardly thought that any human power could have prevented him; but Miss Mary’s eyes are now bent fully on him, and he will remain.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 239 | “An idea of leaving England?” cried the king.
“I, at one moment, hardly thought that any human power could have prevented him; but Miss Mary’s eyes are now bent fully on him, and he will remain.”
“Well, that is the very thing which deceives you, Buckingham,” said the king, with a peal of laughter; “the poor fellow is predestined.”
“Predestined to what?”
“If it were to be simply deceived, that is nothing; but, to look at him, it is a great deal.”
“At a distance, and with Miss Grafton’s aid, the blow will be warded off.”
“Far from it, far from it; neither distance nor Miss Grafton’s help will be of the slightest avail. Bragelonne will set off for Paris within an hour’s time.”
Buckingham started, and Miss Stewart opened her eyes very wide in astonishment.
“But, sire,” said the duke, “your majesty knows that it is impossible.”
“That is to say, my dear Buckingham, that it is impossible until it happens.”
“Do not forget, sire, that the young man is a perfect lion, and that his wrath is terrible.”
“I don’t deny it, my dear duke.”
“And that if he sees that his misfortune is certain, so much the worse for the author of it.”
“I don’t deny it; but what the deuce am I to do?”
“Were it the king himself,” cried Buckingham, “I would not answer for him.”
“Oh, the king has his musketeers to take care of him,” said Charles, quietly; “I know that perfectly well, for I was kept dancing attendance in his ante-chamber at Blois. He has M. d’Artagnan, and what better guardian could the king have than M. d’Artagnan? I should make myself perfectly easy with twenty storms of passion, such as Bragelonne might display, if I had four guardians like D’Artagnan.”
“But I entreat your majesty, who is so good and kind, to reflect a little.”
“Stay,” said Charles II., presenting the letter to the duke, “read, and answer yourself what you would do in my place.”
Buckingham slowly took hold of Madame’s letter, and trembling with emotion, read the following words:
“For your own sake, for mine, for the honor and safety of every one, send M. de Bragelonne back to France immediately. Your devoted sister, HENRIETTA.”
“Well, Villiers, what do you say?”
“Really, sire, I have nothing to say,” replied the duke, stupefied.
“Nay, would you, of all persons,” said the king, artfully, “advise me not to listen to my sister when she writes so urgently?”
“Oh, no, no, sire; and yet—” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 240 | “Well, Villiers, what do you say?”
“Really, sire, I have nothing to say,” replied the duke, stupefied.
“Nay, would you, of all persons,” said the king, artfully, “advise me not to listen to my sister when she writes so urgently?”
“Oh, no, no, sire; and yet—”
“You have not read the postscript, Villiers; it is under the fold of the letter, and escaped me at first; read it.” And as the duke turned down a fold of the letter, he read:
“A thousand kind remembrances to those who love me.”
The duke’s head sank gradually on his breast; the paper trembled in his fingers, as if it had been changed to lead. The king paused for a moment, and, seeing that Buckingham did not speak, “He must follow his destiny, as we ours,” continued the king; “every man has his own share of grief in this world; I have had my own,—I have had that of others who belong to me,—and have thus had a double weight of woe to endure!—But the deuce take all my cares now! Go, and bring our friend here, Villiers.”
The duke opened the trellised door of the summer-house, and pointing at Raoul and Mary, who were walking together side by side, said, “What a cruel blow, sire, for poor Miss Grafton!”
“Nonsense; call him,” said Charles II., knitting his black brows together; “every one seems to be sentimental here. There, look at Miss Stewart, who is wiping her eyes,—now deuce take the French fellow!”
The duke called to Raoul, and taking Miss Grafton by the hand, he led her towards the king.
“Monsieur de Bragelonne,” said Charles II., “did you not ask me the day before yesterday for permission to return to Paris?”
“Yes, sire,” replied Raoul, greatly puzzled by this address.
“And I refused you, I think?”
“Yes, sire.”
“For which you were angry with me?”
“No, sire; your majesty had no doubt excellent reasons for withholding it; for you are so wise and so good that everything you do is well done.”
“I alleged, I believe, as a reason, that the king of France had not recalled you?”
“Yes, sire, that was the reason you assigned.”
“Well, M. de Bragelonne, I have reflected over the matter since; if the king did not, in fact, fix your return, he begged me to render your sojourn in England as agreeable as possible; since, however, you ask my permission to return, it is because your longer residence in England is no longer agreeable to you.”
“I do not say that, sire.”
“No, but your request, at least,” said the king, “signified that another place of residence would be more agreeable to you than this.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 241 | “I do not say that, sire.”
“No, but your request, at least,” said the king, “signified that another place of residence would be more agreeable to you than this.”
At this moment Raoul turned towards the door, against which Miss Grafton was leaning, pale and sorrow-stricken; her other hand was passed through the duke’s arm.
“You do not reply,” pursued Charles; “the proverb is plain enough, that ‘silence gives consent.’ Very good, Monsieur de Bragelonne; I am now in a position to satisfy you; whenever you please, therefore, you can leave for Paris, for which you have my authority.”
“Sire!” exclaimed Raoul, while Mary stifled an exclamation of grief which rose to her lips, unconsciously pressing Buckingham’s arm.
“You can be at Dover this evening,” continued the king, “the tide serves at two o’clock in the morning.”
Raoul, astounded, stammered out a few broken sentences, which equally answered the purpose both of thanks and of excuse.
“I therefore bid you adieu, Monsieur de Bragelonne, and wish you every sort of prosperity,” said the king, rising; “you will confer a pleasure on me by keeping this diamond in remembrance of me; I had intended it as a marriage gift.”
Miss Grafton felt her limbs almost giving way; and, as Raoul received the ring from the king’s hand, he, too, felt his strength and courage failing him. He addressed a few respectful words to the king, a passing compliment to Miss Stewart, and looked for Buckingham to bid him adieu. The king profited by this moment to disappear. Raoul found the duke engaged in endeavoring to encourage Miss Grafton.
“Tell him to remain, I implore you!” said Buckingham to Mary.
“No, I will tell him to go,” replied Miss Grafton, with returning animation; “I am not one of those women who have more pride than heart; if she whom he loves is in France, let him return thither and bless me for having advised him to go and seek his happiness there. If, on the contrary, she shall have ceased to love him, let him come back here again; I shall still love him, and his unhappiness will not have lessened him in my regard. In the arms of my house you will find that which Heaven has engraven on my heart—Habenti parum, egenti cuncta. ‘To the rich is accorded little, to the poor everything.’”
“I do not believe, Bragelonne, that you will find yonder the equivalent of what you leave behind you here.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 242 | “I do not believe, Bragelonne, that you will find yonder the equivalent of what you leave behind you here.”
“I think, or at least hope,” said Raoul, with a gloomy air, “that she whom I love is worthy of my affection; but if it be true she is unworthy of me, as you have endeavored to make me believe, I will tear her image from my heart, duke, even if my heart breaks in the attempt.”
Mary Grafton gazed upon him with an expression of the most indefinable pity, and Raoul returned her look with a sweet, sorrowful smile, saying, “Mademoiselle, the diamond which the king has given me was destined for you,—give me leave to offer it for your acceptance: if I marry in France, you will send it me back; if I do not marry, keep it.” And he bowed and left her.
“What does he mean?” thought Buckingham, while Raoul pressed Mary’s icy hand with marks of the most reverential respect.
Mary understood the look that Buckingham fixed upon her.
“If it were a wedding-ring, I would not accept it,” she said.
“And yet you were willing to ask him to return to you.”
“Oh! duke,” cried the young girl in heart-broken accents, “a woman such as I am is never accepted as a consolation by a man like him.”
“You do not think he will return, then?”
“Never,” said Miss Grafton, in a choking voice.
“And I grieve to tell you, Mary, that he will find yonder his happiness destroyed, his mistress lost to him. His honor even has not escaped. What will be left him, then, Mary, equal to your affection? Answer, Mary, you who know yourself so well.”
Miss Grafton placed her white hand on Buckingham’s arm, and, while Raoul was hurrying away with headlong speed, she repeated in dying accents the line from Romeo and Juliet:
“I must be gone and live, or stay and die.”
As she finished the last word, Raoul disappeared. Miss Grafton returned to her own apartments, paler than death. Buckingham availed himself of the arrival of the courier, who had brought the letter to the king, to write to Madame and to the Comte de Guiche. The king had not been mistaken, for at two in the morning the tide was at full flood, and Raoul had embarked for France. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 243 | The king most assiduously followed the progress which was made in La Valliere’s portrait; and did so with a care and attention arising as much from a desire that it should resemble her as from the wish that the painter should prolong the period of its completion as much as possible. It was amusing to observe him follow the artist’s brush, awaiting the completion of a particular plan, or the result of a combination of colors, and suggesting various modifications to the painter, which the latter consented to adopt with the most respectful docility. And again, when the artist, following Malicorne’s advice, was a little late in arriving, and when Saint-Aignan had been obliged to be absent for some time, it was interesting to observe, though no one witnessed them, those moments of silence full of deep expression, which united in one sigh two souls most disposed to understand each other, and who by no means objected to the quiet meditation they enjoyed together. The minutes flew rapidly by, as if on wings, and as the king drew closer to Louise and bent his burning gaze upon her, a noise was suddenly heard in the ante-room. It was the artist, who had just arrived; Saint-Aignan, too, had returned, full of apologies; and the king began to talk and La Valliere to answer him very hurriedly, their eyes revealing to Saint-Aignan that they had enjoyed a century of happiness during his absence. In a word, Malicorne, philosopher that he was, though he knew it not, had learned how to inspire the king with an appetite in the midst of plenty, and with desire in the assurance of possession. La Valliere’s fears of interruption had never been realized, and no one imagined she was absent from her apartment two or three hours every day; she pretended that her health was very uncertain; those who went to her room always knocked before entering, and Malicorne, the man of so many ingenious inventions, had constructed an acoustic piece of mechanism, by means of which La Valliere, when in Saint-Aignan’s apartment, was always forewarned of any visits which were paid to the room she usually inhabited. In this manner, therefore, without leaving her room, and having no confidante, she was able to return to her apartment, thus removing by her appearance, a little tardy perhaps, the suspicions of the most determined skeptics. Malicorne having asked Saint-Aignan the next morning what news he had to report, the latter was obliged to confess that the quarter of an hour’s liberty had made the king in most excellent humor. “We must double the dose,” replied Malicorne, “but by insensible degrees; wait until they seem to wish it.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 244 | They were so desirous for it, however, that on the evening of the fourth day, at the moment when the painter was packing up his implements, during Saint-Aignan’s continued absence, Saint-Aignan on his return noticed upon La Valliere’s face a shade of disappointment and vexation, which she could not conceal. The king was less reserved, and exhibited his annoyance by a very significant shrug of the shoulders, at which La Valliere could not help blushing. “Very good!” thought Saint-Aignan to himself; “M. Malicorne will be delighted this evening;” as he, in fact, was, when it was reported to him.
“It is very evident,” he remarked to the comte, “that Mademoiselle de la Valliere hoped that you would be at least ten minutes later.”
“And the king that I should be half an hour later, dear Monsieur Malicorne.”
“You would show but very indifferent devotion to the king,” replied the latter, “if you were to refuse his majesty that half-hour’s satisfaction.”
“But the painter,” objected Saint-Aignan.
“I will take care of him,” said Malicorne, “only I must study faces and circumstances a little better before I act; those are my magical inventions and contrivances; and while sorcerers are enabled by means of their astrolabe to take the altitude of the sun, moon, and stars, I am satisfied merely by looking into people’s faces, in order to see if their eyes are encircled with dark lines, and if the mouth describes a convex or concave arc.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 245 |
And the cunning Malicorne had every opportunity of watching narrowly and closely, for the very same evening the king accompanied the queen to Madame’s apartments, and made himself so remarked by his serious face and his deep sigh, and looked at La Valliere with such a languishing expression, that Malicorne said to Montalais during the evening: “To-morrow.” And he went off to the painter’s house in the street of the Jardins Saint-Paul to request him to postpone the next sitting for a couple of days. Saint-Aignan was not within, when La Valliere, who was now quite familiar with the lower story, lifted up the trap-door and descended. The king, as usual was waiting for her on the staircase, and held a bouquet in his hand; as soon as he saw her, he clasped her tenderly in his arms. La Valliere, much moved at the action, looked around the room, but as she saw the king was alone, she did not complain of it. They sat down, the king reclining near the cushions on which Louise was seated, with his head supported by her knees, placed there as in an asylum whence no one could banish him; he gazed ardently upon her, and as if the moment had arrived when nothing could interpose between their two hearts; she, too, gazed with similar passion upon him, and from her eyes, so softly pure, emanated a flame, whose rays first kindled and then inflamed the heart of the king, who, trembling with happiness as Louise’s hand rested on his head, grew giddy from excess of joy, and momentarily awaited either the painter’s or Saint-Aignan’s return to break the sweet illusion. But the door remained closed, and neither Saint-Aignan nor the painter appeared, nor did the hangings even move. A deep mysterious silence reigned in the room—a silence which seemed to influence even the song-birds in their gilded prisons. The king, completely overcome, turned round his head and buried his burning lips in La Valliere’s hands, who, herself faint, with excess of emotion, pressed her trembling hands against her lover’s lips. Louis threw himself upon his knees, and as La Valliere did not move her head, the king’s forehead being within reach of her lips, she furtively passed her lips across the perfumed locks which caressed her cheeks. The king seized her in his arms, and, unable to resist the temptation, they exchanged their first kiss, that burning kiss, which changes love into delirium. Suddenly, a noise upon the upper floor was heard, which had, in fact, continued, though it had remained unnoticed, for some time; it had at last aroused La Valliere’s attention, though but slowly so. As the noise, however, continued, as it forced itself upon the attention, and recalled the poor girl from her dreams of happiness to the sad realities of life, she rose in a state of utter bewilderment, though beautiful in her disorder, saying: |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 246 | “Some one is waiting for me above. Louis, Louis, do you not hear?”
“Well! and am I not waiting for you, also?” said the king, with infinite tenderness of tone. “Let others henceforth wait for you.”
But she gently shook her head, as she replied: “Happiness hidden... power concealed... my pride should be as silent as my heart.”
The noise was again resumed.
“I hear Montalais’s voice,” she said, and she hurried up the staircase; the king followed her, unable to let her leave his sight, and covering her hand with his kisses. “Yes, yes,” repeated La Valliere, who had passed half-way through the opening. “Yes, it is Montalais who is calling me; something important must have happened.”
“Go then, dearest love,” said the king, “but return quickly.”
“No, no, not to-day, sire! Adieu! adieu!” she said, as she stooped down once more to embrace her lover—and escaped. Montalais was, in fact, waiting for her, very pale and agitated.
“Quick, quick! he is coming,” she said.
“Who—who is coming?”
“Raoul,” murmured Montalais.
“It is I—I,” said a joyous voice, upon the last steps of the grand staircase.
La Valliere uttered a terrible shriek and threw herself back.
“I am here, dear Louise,” said Raoul, running towards her. “I knew but too well that you had not ceased to love me.”
La Valliere with a gesture, partly of extreme terror, and partly as if invoking a blessing, attempted to speak, but could not articulate one word. “No, no!” she said, as she fell into Montalais’s arms, murmuring, “Do not touch me, do not come near me.”
Montalais made a sign to Raoul, who stood almost petrified at the door, and did not even attempt to advance another step into the room. Then, looking towards the side of the room where the screen was, she exclaimed: “Imprudent girl, she has not even closed the trap-door.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 247 | Montalais made a sign to Raoul, who stood almost petrified at the door, and did not even attempt to advance another step into the room. Then, looking towards the side of the room where the screen was, she exclaimed: “Imprudent girl, she has not even closed the trap-door.”
And she advanced towards the corner of the room to close the screen, and also, behind the screen, the trap-door. But suddenly the king, who had heard Louise’s exclamation, darted through the opening, and hurried forward to her assistance. He threw himself on his knees before her, as he overwhelmed Montalais with questions, who hardly knew where she was. At the moment, however, when the king threw himself on his knees, a cry of utter despair rang through the corridor, accompanied by the sound of retreating footsteps. The king wished to see who had uttered the cry and whose were the footsteps he had heard; and it was in vain that Montalais sought to retain him, for Louis, quitting his hold of La Valliere, hurried towards the door, too late, however, for Raoul was already at a distance, and the king only beheld a shadow that quickly vanished in the silent corridor. 8 |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 248 | Whilst every one at court was busily engaged with his own affairs, a man mysteriously took up his post behind the Place de Greve, in the house which we once saw besieged by D’Artagnan on the occasion of the emeute. The principal entrance of the house was in the Place Baudoyer; it was tolerably large, surrounded by gardens, inclosed in the Rue Saint-Jean by the shops of toolmakers, which protected it from prying looks, and was walled in by a triple rampart of stone, noise, and verdure, like an embalmed mummy in its triple coffin. The man we have just alluded to walked along with a firm step, although he was no longer in his early prime. His dark cloak and long sword plainly revealed one who seemed in search of adventures; and, judging from his curling mustache, his fine smooth skin, which could be seen beneath his sombrero, it would not have been difficult to pronounce that gallantry had not a little share in his adventures. In fact, hardly had the cavalier entered the house, when the clock struck eight; and ten minutes afterwards a lady, followed by a servant armed to the teeth, approached and knocked at the same door, which an old woman immediately opened for her. The lady raised her veil as she entered; though no longer beautiful or young, she was still active and of an imposing carriage. She concealed, beneath a rich toilette and the most exquisite taste, an age which Ninon de l’Enclos alone could have smiled at with impunity. Hardly had she reached the vestibule, when the cavalier, whose features we have only roughly sketched, advanced towards her, holding out his hand.
“Good day, my dear duchesse,” he said.
“How do you do, my dear Aramis?” replied the duchesse.
He led her to a most elegantly furnished apartment, on whose high windows were reflected the expiring rays of the setting sun, which filtered gaudily through the dark green needles of the adjacent firs. They sat down side by side. Neither of them thought of asking for additional light in the room, and they buried themselves as it were in the shadow, as if they wished to bury themselves in forgetfulness.
“Chevalier,” said the duchesse, “you have never given me a single sign of life since our interview at Fontainebleau, and I confess that your presence there on the day of the Franciscan’s death, and your initiation in certain secrets, caused me the liveliest astonishment I ever experienced in my whole life.”
“I can explain my presence there to you, as well as my initiation,” said Aramis. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 249 | “I can explain my presence there to you, as well as my initiation,” said Aramis.
“But let us, first of all,” said the duchess, “talk a little of ourselves, for our friendship is by no means of recent date.”
“Yes, madame: and if Heaven wills it, we shall continue to be friends, I will not say for a long time, but forever.”
“That is quite certain, chevalier, and my visit is a proof of it.”
“Our interests, duchess, are no longer the same as they used to be,” said Aramis, smiling without apprehension in the growing gloom by which the room was overcast, for it could not reveal that his smile was less agreeable and not so bright as formerly.
“No, chevalier, at the present day we have other interests. Every period of life brings its own; and, as we now understand each other in conversing, as perfectly as we formerly did without saying a word, let us talk, if you like.”
“I am at your orders, duchesse. Ah! I beg your pardon, how did you obtain my address, and what was your object?”
“You ask me why? I have told you. Curiosity in the first place. I wished to know what you could have to do with the Franciscan, with whom I had certain business transactions, and who died so singularly. You know that on the occasion of our interview at Fontainebleau, in the cemetery, at the foot of the grave so recently closed, we were both so much overcome by our emotions that we omitted to confide to each other what we may have to say.”
“Yes, madame.”
“Well, then, I had no sooner left you than I repented, and have ever since been most anxious to ascertain the truth. You know that Madame de Longueville and myself are almost one, I suppose?”
“I was not aware,” said Aramis, discreetly.
“I remembered, therefore,” continued the duchesse, “that neither of us said anything to the other in the cemetery; that you did not speak of the relationship in which you stood to the Franciscan, whose burial you superintended, and that I did not refer to the position in which I stood to him; all which seemed very unworthy of two such old friends as ourselves, and I have sought an opportunity of an interview with you in order to give you some information that I have recently acquired, and to assure you that Marie Michon, now no more, has left behind her one who has preserved her recollection of events.”
Aramis bowed over the duchess’s hand, and pressed his lips upon it. “You must have had some trouble to find me again,” he said. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 250 | Aramis bowed over the duchess’s hand, and pressed his lips upon it. “You must have had some trouble to find me again,” he said.
“Yes,” she answered, annoyed to find the subject taking a turn which Aramis wished to give it; “but I knew you were a friend of M. Fouquet’s, and so I inquired in that direction.”
“A friend! oh!” exclaimed the chevalier, “I can hardly pretend to be that. A poor priest who has been favored by a generous protector, and whose heart is full of gratitude and devotion, is all that I pretend to be to M. Fouquet.”
“He made you a bishop?”
“Yes, duchesse.”
“A very good retiring pension for so handsome a musketeer.”
“Yes; in the same way that political intrigue is for yourself,” thought Aramis. “And so,” he added, “you inquired after me at M. Fouquet’s?”
“Easily enough. You had been to Fontainebleau with him, and had undertaken a voyage to your diocese, which is Belle-Ile-en-Mer, I believe.”
“No, madame,” said Aramis. “My diocese is Vannes.”
“I meant that. I only thought that Belle-Ile-en-Mer—”
“Is a property belonging to M. Fouquet, nothing more.”
“Ah! I had been told that Belle-Isle was fortified; besides, I know how great the military knowledge is you possess.”
“I have forgotten everything of the kind since I entered the Church,” said Aramis, annoyed.
“Suffice it to know that I learned you had returned from Vannes, and I sent off to one of our friends, M. le Comte de la Fere, who is discretion itself, in order to ascertain it, but he answered that he was not aware of your address.”
“So like Athos,” thought the bishop; “the really good man never changes.”
“Well, then, you know that I cannot venture to show myself here, and that the queen-mother has always some grievance or other against me.”
“Yes, indeed, and I am surprised at it.”
“Oh! there are various reasons for it. But, to continue, being obliged to conceal myself, I was fortunate enough to meet with M. d’Artagnan, who was formerly one of your old friends, I believe?”
“A friend of mine still, duchesse.”
“He gave me certain information, and sent me to M. Baisemeaux, the governor of the Bastile.”
Aramis was somewhat agitated at this remark, and a light flashed from his eyes in the darkness of the room, which he could not conceal from his keen-sighted friend. “M. de Baisemeaux!” he said, “why did D’Artagnan send you to M. de Baisemeaux?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“What can this possibly mean?” said the bishop, summoning all the resources of his mind to his aid, in order to carry on the combat in a befitting manner. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 251 | “I cannot tell you.”
“What can this possibly mean?” said the bishop, summoning all the resources of his mind to his aid, in order to carry on the combat in a befitting manner.
“M. de Baisemeaux is greatly indebted to you, D’Artagnan told me.”
“True, he is so.”
“And the address of a creditor is as easily ascertained as that of a debtor.”
“Very true; and so Baisemeaux indicated to you—”
“Saint-Mande, where I forwarded a letter to you.”
“Which I have in my hand, and which is most precious to me,” said Aramis, “because I am indebted to it for the pleasure of seeing you here.” The duchesse, satisfied at having successfully overcome the various difficulties of so delicate an explanation, began to breathe freely again, which Aramis, however, could not succeed in doing. “We had got as far as your visit to M. Baisemeaux, I believe?”
“Nay,” she said, laughing, “farther than that.”
“In that case we must have been speaking about the grudge you have against the queen-mother.”
“Further still,” she returned, “further still; we were talking of the connection—”
“Which existed between you and the Franciscan,” said Aramis, interrupting her eagerly, “well, I am listening to you very attentively.”
“It is easily explained,” returned the duchesse. “You know that I am living at Brussels with M. de Laicques?”
“I heard so.”
“You know that my children have ruined and stripped me of everything.”
“How terrible, dear duchesse.”
“Terrible indeed; this obliged me to resort to some means of obtaining a livelihood, and, particularly, to avoid vegetating for the remainder of my existence. I had old hatreds to turn to account, old friendships to make use of; I no longer had either credit or protectors.”
“You, who had extended protection towards so many persons,” said Aramis, softly.
“It is always the case, chevalier. Well, at the present time I am in the habit of seeing the king of Spain very frequently.”
“Ah!”
“Who has just nominated a general of the Jesuits, according to the usual custom.”
“Is it usual, indeed?”
“Were you not aware of it?”
“I beg your pardon; I was inattentive.”
“You must be aware of that—you who were on such good terms with the Franciscan.”
“With the general of the Jesuits, you mean?”
“Exactly. Well, then, I have seen the king of Spain, who wished to do me a service, but was unable. He gave me recommendations, however, to Flanders, both for myself and for Laicques too; and conferred a pension on me out of the funds belonging to the order.”
“Of Jesuits?” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 252 | “Exactly. Well, then, I have seen the king of Spain, who wished to do me a service, but was unable. He gave me recommendations, however, to Flanders, both for myself and for Laicques too; and conferred a pension on me out of the funds belonging to the order.”
“Of Jesuits?”
“Yes. The general—I mean the Franciscan—was sent to me; and, for the purpose of conforming with the requisitions of the statues of the order, and of entitling me to the pension, I was reputed to be in a position to render certain services. You are aware that that is the rule?”
“No, I did not know it,” said Aramis.
Madame de Chevreuse paused to look at Aramis, but it was perfectly dark. “Well, such is the rule, however,” she resumed. “I had, therefore, to appear to possess a power of usefulness of some kind or other, and I proposed to travel for the order, and I was placed on the list of affiliated travelers. You understand it was a formality, by means of which I received my pension, which was very convenient for me.”
“Good heavens! duchesse, what you tell me is like a dagger-thrust. You obliged to receive a pension from the Jesuits?”
“No, chevalier! from Spain.”
“Except for a conscientious scruple, duchesse, you will admit that it is pretty nearly the same thing.”
“No, not at all.”
“But surely of your magnificent fortune there must remain—”
“Dampierre is all that remains.”
“And that is handsome enough.”
“Yes; but Dampierre is burdened, mortgaged, and almost fallen to ruin, like its owner.”
“And can the queen-mother know and see all that, without shedding a tear?” said Aramis, with a penetrating look, which encountered nothing but darkness.
“Yes. She has forgotten everything.”
“You, I believe, attempted to get restored to favor?”
“Yes; but, most singularly, the young king inherits the antipathy his dear father had for me. You will, perhaps, tell me that I am indeed a woman to be hated, and that I am no longer one who can be loved.”
“Dear duchesse, pray come quickly to the cause that brought you here; for I think we can be of service to each other.”
“Such has been my own thought. I came to Fontainebleau with a double object in view. In the first place, I was summoned there by the Franciscan whom you knew. By the by, how did you know him?—for I have told you my story, and have not yet heard yours.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 253 | “Such has been my own thought. I came to Fontainebleau with a double object in view. In the first place, I was summoned there by the Franciscan whom you knew. By the by, how did you know him?—for I have told you my story, and have not yet heard yours.”
“I knew him in a very natural way, duchesse. I studied theology with him at Parma. We became fast friends; and it happened, from time to time, that business, or travel, or war, separated us from each other.”
“You were, of course, aware that he was the general of the Jesuits?”
“I suspected it.”
“But by what extraordinary chance did it happen that you were at the hotel when the affiliated travelers met together?”
“Oh!” said Aramis, in a calm voice, “it was the merest chance in the world. I was going to Fontainebleau to see M. Fouquet, for the purpose of obtaining an audience of the king. I was passing by, unknown; I saw the poor dying monk in the road, and recognized him immediately. You know the rest—he died in my arms.”
“Yes; but bequeathing to you so vast a power that you issue your sovereign orders and directions like a monarch.”
“He certainly did leave me a few commissions to settle.”
“And what for me?”
“I have told you—a sum of twelve thousand livres was to be paid to you. I thought I had given you the necessary signature to enable you to receive it. Did you not get the money?”
“Oh! yes, yes. You give your orders, I am informed, with so much mystery, and such a majestic presence, that it is generally believed you are the successor of the defunct chief.”
Aramis colored impatiently, and the duchesse continued: “I have obtained my information,” she said, “from the king of Spain himself; and he cleared up some of my doubts on the point. Every general of the Jesuits is nominated by him, and must be a Spaniard, according to the statutes of the order. You are not a Spaniard, nor have you been nominated by the king of Spain.”
Aramis did not reply to this remark, except to say, “You see, duchesse, how greatly you were mistaken, since the king of Spain told you that.”
“Yes, my dear Aramis; but there was something else which I have been thinking of.”
“What is that?”
“You know, I believe, something about most things, and it occurred to me that you know the Spanish language.”
“Every Frenchman who has been actively engaged in the Fronde knows Spanish.”
“You have lived in Flanders?”
“Three years.”
“And have stayed at Madrid?”
“Fifteen months.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 254 | “What is that?”
“You know, I believe, something about most things, and it occurred to me that you know the Spanish language.”
“Every Frenchman who has been actively engaged in the Fronde knows Spanish.”
“You have lived in Flanders?”
“Three years.”
“And have stayed at Madrid?”
“Fifteen months.”
“You are in a position, then, to become a naturalized Spaniard, when you like.”
“Really?” said Aramis, with a frankness which deceived the duchesse.
“Undoubtedly. Two years’ residence and an acquaintance with the language are indispensable. You have upwards of four years—more than double the time necessary.”
“What are you driving at, duchesse?”
“At this—I am on good terms with the king of Spain.”
“And I am not on bad terms,” thought Aramis to himself.
“Shall I ask the king,” continued the duchesse, “to confer the succession to the Franciscan’s post upon you?”
“Oh, duchesse!”
“You have it already, perhaps?” she said.
“No, upon my honor.”
“Very well, then, I can render you that service.”
“Why did you not render the same service to M. de Laicques, duchesse? He is a very talented man, and one you love, besides.”
“Yes, no doubt; but, at all events, putting Laicques aside, will you have it?”
“No, I thank you, duchesse.”
She paused. “He is nominated,” she thought; and then resumed aloud, “If you refuse me in this manner, it is not very encouraging for me, supposing I should have something to ask of you.”
“Oh! ask, pray, ask.”
“Ask! I cannot do so, if you have not the power to grant what I want.”
“However limited my power and ability, ask all the same.”
“I need a sum of money, to restore Dampierre.”
“Ah!” replied Aramis, coldly—“money? Well, duchesse, how much would you require?”
“Oh! a tolerably round sum.”
“So much the worse—you know I am not rich.”
“No, no; but the order is—and if you had been the general—”
“You know I am not the general, I think.”
“In that case, you have a friend who must be very wealthy—M. Fouquet.”
“M. Fouquet! He is more than half ruined, madame.”
“So it is said, but I did not believe it.”
“Why, duchesse?”
“Because I have, or rather Laicques has, certain letters in his possession from Cardinal Mazarin, which establish the existence of very strange accounts.”
“What accounts?”
“Relative to various sums of money borrowed and disposed of. I cannot very distinctly remember what they are; but they establish the fact that the superintendent, according to these letters, which are signed by Mazarin, had taken thirteen millions of francs from the coffers of the state. The case is a very serious one.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 255 | Aramis clenched his hands in anxiety and apprehension. “Is it possible,” he said, “that you have such letters as you speak of, and have not communicated them to M. Fouquet?”
“Ah!” replied the duchesse, “I keep such trifling matters as these in reserve. The day may come when they will be of service; and they can be withdrawn from the safe custody in which they now remain.”
“And that day has arrived?” said Aramis.
“Yes.”
“And you are going to show those letters to M. Fouquet?”
“I prefer to talk about them with you, instead.”
“You must be in sad want of money, my poor friend, to think of such things as these—you, too, who held M. de Mazarin’s prose effusions in such indifferent esteem.”
“The fact is, I am in want of money.”
“And then,” continued Aramis, in cold accents, “it must have been very distressing to you to be obliged to have recourse to such a means. It is cruel.”
“Oh! if had wished to do harm instead of good,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “instead of asking the general of the order, or M. Fouquet, for the five hundred thousand francs I require, I—”
“Five hundred thousand francs!”
“Yes; no more. Do you think it much? I require at least as much as that to restore Dampierre.”
“Yes, madame.”
“I say, therefore, that instead of asking for this amount, I should have gone to see my old friend the queen-mother; the letters from her husband, Signor Mazarini, would have served me as an introduction, and I should have begged this mere trifle of her, saying to her, ‘I wish, madame, to have the honor of receiving you at Dampierre. Permit me to put Dampierre in a fit state for that purpose.’”
Aramis did not return a single word. “Well,” she said, “what are you thinking about?”
“I am making certain additions,” said Aramis.
“And M. Fouquet subtractions. I, on the other hand, am trying my hand at the art of multiplication. What excellent calculators we all three are! How well we might understand one another!”
“Will you allow me to reflect?” said Aramis.
“No, for with such an opening between people like ourselves, ‘yes’ or ‘no’ is the only answer, and that an immediate one.”
“It is a snare,” thought the bishop; “it is impossible that Anne of Austria would listen to such a woman as this.”
“Well?” said the duchesse.
“Well, madame, I should be very much astonished if M. Fouquet had five hundred thousand francs at his disposal at the present moment.”
“It is no use speaking of it, then,” said the duchesse, “and Dampierre must get restored how best it may.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 256 | “Well?” said the duchesse.
“Well, madame, I should be very much astonished if M. Fouquet had five hundred thousand francs at his disposal at the present moment.”
“It is no use speaking of it, then,” said the duchesse, “and Dampierre must get restored how best it may.”
“Oh! you are not embarrassed to such an extent as that, I suppose.”
“No; I am never embarrassed.”
“And the queen,” continued the bishop, “will certainly do for you what the superintendent is unable to do?”
“Oh! certainly. But tell me, do you think it would be better that I should speak, myself, to M. Fouquet about these letters?”
“Nay, duchesse, you will do precisely whatever you please in that respect. M. Fouquet either feels or does not feel himself to be guilty; if he really be so, I know he is proud enough not to confess it; if he be not so, he will be exceedingly offended at your menace.”
“As usual, you reason like an angel,” said the duchesse, as she rose from her seat.
“And so, you are now going to denounce M. Fouquet to the queen,” said Aramis.
“‘Denounce!’ Oh! what a disagreeable word. I shall not ‘denounce’ my dear friend; you know matters of policy too well to be ignorant how easily these affairs are arranged. I shall merely side against M. Fouquet, and nothing more; and, in a war of party against party, a weapon is always a weapon.”
“No doubt.”
“And once on friendly terms again with the queen-mother, I may be dangerous towards some persons.”
“You are at liberty to prove so, duchesse.”
“A liberty of which I shall avail myself.”
“You are not ignorant, I suppose, duchesse, that M. Fouquet is on the best terms with the king of Spain.”
“I suppose so.”
“If, therefore, you begin a party warfare against M. Fouquet, he will reply in the same way; for he, too, is at perfect liberty to do so, is he not?”
“Oh! certainly.”
“And as he is on good terms with Spain, he will make use of that friendship as a weapon of attack.”
“You mean, that he is, naturally, on good terms with the general of the order of the Jesuits, my dear Aramis.”
“That may be the case, duchesse.”
“And that, consequently, the pension I have been receiving from the order will be stopped.”
“I am greatly afraid it might be.”
“Well; I must contrive to console myself in the best way I can; for after Richelieu, after the Fronde, after exile, what is there left for Madame de Chevreuse to be afraid of?”
“The pension, you are aware, is forty-eight thousand francs.”
“Alas! I am quite aware of it.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 257 | “Well; I must contrive to console myself in the best way I can; for after Richelieu, after the Fronde, after exile, what is there left for Madame de Chevreuse to be afraid of?”
“The pension, you are aware, is forty-eight thousand francs.”
“Alas! I am quite aware of it.”
“Moreover, in party contests, you know, the friends of one’s enemy do not escape.”
“Ah! you mean that poor Laicques will have to suffer.”
“I am afraid it is almost inevitable, duchesse.”
“Oh! he only receives twelve thousand francs pension.”
“Yes, but the king of Spain has some influence left; advised by M. Fouquet, he might get M. Laicques shut up in prison for a little while.”
“I am not very nervous on that point, my dear friend; because, once reconciled with Anne of Austria, I will undertake that France would insist upon M. Laicques’s liberation.”
“True. In that case, you will have something else to apprehend.”
“What can that be?” said the duchesse, pretending to be surprised and terrified.
“You will learn; indeed, you must know it already, that having once been an affiliated member of the order, it is not easy to leave it; for the secrets that any particular member may have acquired are unwholesome, and carry with them the germs of misfortune for whosoever may reveal them.”
The duchesse paused and reflected for a moment, and then said, “That is more serious: I will think it over.”
And notwithstanding the profound obscurity, Aramis seemed to feel a basilisk glance, like a white-hot iron, escape from his friend’s eyes, and plunge into his heart.
“Let us recapitulate,” said Aramis, determined to keep himself on his guard, and gliding his hand into his breast where he had a dagger concealed.
“Exactly, let us recapitulate; short accounts make long friends.”
“The suppression of your pension—”
“Forty-eight thousand francs, and that of Laicques’s twelve, make together sixty thousand francs; that is what you mean, I suppose?”
“Precisely; and I was trying to find out what would be your equivalent for that.”
“Five hundred thousand francs, which I shall get from the queen.”
“Or, which you will not get.”
“I know a means of procuring them,” said the duchesse, thoughtlessly. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 258 | “Precisely; and I was trying to find out what would be your equivalent for that.”
“Five hundred thousand francs, which I shall get from the queen.”
“Or, which you will not get.”
“I know a means of procuring them,” said the duchesse, thoughtlessly.
This remark made the chevalier prick up his ears; and from the moment his adversary had committed this error, his mind was so thoroughly on its guard, that he seemed every moment to gain the advantage more and more; and she, consequently, to lose it. “I will admit, for argument’s sake, that you obtain the money,” he resumed; “you will lose twice as much, having a hundred thousand francs’ pension to receive instead of sixty thousand, and that for a period of ten years.”
“Not so, for I shall only be subjected to this reduction of my income during the period of M. Fouquet’s remaining in power, a period which I estimate at two months.”
“Ah!” said Aramis.
“I am frank, you see.”
“I thank you for it, duchesse; but you would be wrong to suppose that after M. Fouquet’s disgrace the order would resume the payment of your pension.”
“I know a means of making the order pay, as I know a means of forcing the queen-mother to concede what I require.”
“In that case, duchesse, we are all obliged to strike our flags to you. The victory is yours, and the triumph also. Be clement, I entreat you.”
“But is it possible,” resumed the duchesse, without taking notice of the irony, “that you really draw back from a miserable sum of five hundred thousand francs, when it is a question of sparing you—I mean your friend—I beg your pardon, I ought rather to say your protector—the disagreeable consequences which a party contest produces?”
“Duchesse, I tell you why; supposing the five hundred thousand francs were to be given you, M. Laicques will require his share, which will be another five hundred thousand francs, I presume? and then, after M. de Laicques’s and your own portions have been arranged, the portions which your children, your poor pensioners, and various other persons will require, will start up as fresh claims, and these letters, however compromising they may be in their nature, are not worth from three to four millions. Can you have forgotten the queen of France’s diamonds?—they were surely worth more than these bits of waste paper signed by Mazarin, and yet their recovery did not cost a fourth part of what you ask for yourself.”
“Yes, that is true; but the merchant values his goods at his own price, and it is for the purchaser to buy or refuse.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 259 | “Yes, that is true; but the merchant values his goods at his own price, and it is for the purchaser to buy or refuse.”
“Stay a moment, duchesse; would you like me to tell you why I will not buy your letters?”
“Pray tell me.”
“Because the letters you claim to be Mazarin’s are false.”
“What an absurdity.”
“I have no doubt of it, for it would, to say the least, be very singular, that after you had quarreled with the queen through M. Mazarin’s means, you should have kept up any intimate acquaintance with the latter; it would look as if you had been acting as a spy; and upon my word, I do not like to make use of the word.”
“Oh! pray do.”
“You great complacence would seem suspicions, at all events.”
“That is quite true; but the contents of the letters are even more so.”
“I pledge you my word, duchesse, that you will not be able to make use of it with the queen.”
“Oh! yes, indeed; I can make use of everything with the queen.”
“Very good,” thought Aramis. “Croak on, old owl—hiss, beldame-viper.”
But the duchesse had said enough, and advanced a few steps towards the door. Aramis, however, had reserved one exposure which she did not expect.
He rang the bell, candles immediately appeared in the adjoining room, and the bishop found himself completely encircled by lights, which shone upon the worn, haggard face of the duchesse, revealing every feature but too clearly. Aramis fixed a long ironical look upon her pale, thin, withered cheeks—her dim, dull eyes—and upon her lips, which she kept carefully closed over her discolored scanty teeth. He, however, had thrown himself into a graceful attitude, with his haughty and intelligent head thrown back; he smiled so as to reveal teeth still brilliant and dazzling. The antiquated coquette understood the trick that had been played her. She was standing immediately before a large mirror, in which her decrepitude, so carefully concealed, was only made more manifest. And, thereupon, without even saluting Aramis, who bowed with the ease and grace of the musketeer of early days, she hurried away with trembling steps, which her very precipitation only the more impeded. Aramis sprang across the room, like a zephyr, to lead her to the door. Madame de Chevreuse made a sign to her servant, who resumed his musket, and she left the house where such tender friends had not been able to understand each other only because they had understood each other too well. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 260 | Aramis had been perfectly correct in his supposition; for hardly had she left the house in the Place Baudoyer than Madame de Chevreuse proceeded homeward. She was doubtless afraid of being followed, and by this means thought she might succeed in throwing those who might be following her off their guard; but scarcely had she arrived within the door of the hotel, and hardly had assured herself that no one who could cause her any uneasiness was on her track, when she opened the door of the garden, leading into another street, and hurried towards the Rue Croix des Petits-Champs, where M. Colbert resided. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 261 |
We have already said that evening, or rather night, had closed in; it was a dark, thick night, besides; Paris had once more sunk into its calm, quiescent state, enshrouding alike within its indulgent mantle the high-born duchesse carrying out her political intrigue, and the simple citizen’s wife, who, having been detained late by a supper in the city, was making her way slowly homewards, hanging on the arm of a lover, by the shortest possible route. Madame de Chevreuse had been too well accustomed to nocturnal political intrigues to be ignorant that a minister never denies himself, even at his own private residence, to any young and beautiful woman who may chance to object to the dust and confusion of a public office, or to old women, as full of experience as of years, who dislike the indiscreet echo of official residences. A valet received the duchesse under the peristyle, and received her, it must be admitted, with some indifference of manner; he intimated, after having looked at her face, that it was hardly at such an hour that one so advanced in years as herself could be permitted to disturb Monsieur Colbert’s important occupations. But Madame de Chevreuse, without looking or appearing to be annoyed, wrote her name upon a leaf of her tablets—a name which had but too frequently sounded so disagreeably in the ears of Louis XIII. and of the great cardinal. She wrote her name in the large, ill-formed characters of the higher classes of that period, handed it to the valet, without uttering a word, but with so haughty and imperious a gesture, that the fellow, well accustomed to judge of people from their manners and appearance, perceived at once the quality of the person before him, bowed his head, and ran to M. Colbert’s room. The minister could not control a sudden exclamation as he opened the paper; and the valet, gathering from it the interest with which his master regarded the mysterious visitor, returned as fast as he could to beg the duchesse to follow him. She ascended to the first floor of the beautiful new house very slowly, rested herself on the landing-place, in order not to enter the apartment out of breath, and appeared before M. Colbert, who, with his own hands, held both the folding doors open. The duchesse paused at the threshold, for the purpose of well studying the character of the man with whom she was about to converse. At the first glance, the round, large, heavy head, thick brows, and ill-favored features of Colbert, who wore, thrust low down on his head, a cap like a priest’s calotte, seemed to indicate that but little difficulty was likely to be met with in her negotiations with him, but also that she was to expect as little interest in the discussion of particulars; for there was scarcely any indication that the rough and uncouth nature of the man was susceptible to the impulses of a refined revenge, or of an exalted ambition. But when, on closer inspection, the duchesse perceived the small, piercingly black eyes, the longitudinal wrinkles of his high and massive forehead, the imperceptible twitching of the lips, on which were apparent traces of rough good-humor, Madame de Chevreuse altered her opinion of him, and felt she could say to herself: “I have found the man I want.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 262 | “What is the subject, madame, which procures me the honor of a visit from you?” he inquired.
“The need I have of you, monsieur,” returned the duchesse, “as well as that which you have of me.”
“I am delighted, madame, with the first portion of your sentence; but, as far as the second portion is concerned—”
Madame de Chevreuse sat down in the armchair which M. Colbert advanced towards her. “Monsieur Colbert, you are the intendant of finances, and are ambitious of becoming the superintendent?”
“Madame!”
“Nay, do not deny it; that would only unnecessarily prolong our conversation, and that is useless.”
“And yet, madame, however well-disposed and inclined to show politeness I may be towards a lady of your position and merit, nothing will make me confess that I have ever entertained the idea of supplanting my superior.”
“I said nothing about supplanting, Monsieur Colbert. Could I accidentally have made use of that word? I hardly think that likely. The word ‘replace’ is less aggressive in its signification, and more grammatically suitable, as M. de Voiture would say. I presume, therefore, that you are ambitious of replacing M. Fouquet.”
“M. Fouquet’s fortune, madame, enables him to withstand all attempts. The superintendent in this age plays the part of the Colossus of Rhodes; the vessels pass beneath him and do not overthrow him.”
“I ought to have availed myself precisely of that very comparison. It is true, M. Fouquet plays the part of the Colossus of Rhodes; but I remember to have heard it said by M. Conrart, a member of the academy, I believe, that when the Colossus of Rhodes fell from its lofty position, the merchant who had cast it down—a merchant, nothing more, M. Colbert—loaded four hundred camels with the ruins. A merchant! and that is considerably less than an intendant of finances.”
“Madame, I can assure you that I shall never overthrow M. Fouquet.”
“Very good, Monsieur Colbert, since you persist in showing so much sensitiveness with me, as if you were ignorant that I am Madame de Chevreuse, and also that I am somewhat advanced in years; in other words, that you have to do with a woman who has had political dealings with the Cardinal Richelieu, and who has no time to lose; as, I repeat, you do not hesitate to commit such an imprudence, I shall go and find others who are more intelligent and more desirous of making their fortunes.”
“How, madame, how?” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 263 | “How, madame, how?”
“You give me a very poor idea of negotiations of the present day. I assure you that if, in my earlier days, a woman had gone to M. de Cinq-Mars, who was not, moreover, a man of a very high order of intellect, and had said to him about the cardinal what I have just said to you of M. Fouquet, M. de Cinq-Mars would by this time have already set actively to work.”
“Nay, madame, show a little indulgence, I entreat you.”
“Well, then, do you really consent to replace M. Fouquet?”
“Certainly, I do, if the king dismisses M. Fouquet.”
“Again, a word too much; it is quite evident that, if you have not yet succeeded in driving M. Fouquet from his post, it is because you have not been able to do so. Therefore, I should be the greatest simpleton possible if, in coming to you, I did not bring the very thing you require.”
“I am distressed to be obliged to persist, madame,” said Colbert, after a silence which enabled the duchesse to sound the depths of his dissimulation, “but I must warn you that, for the last six years, denunciation after denunciation has been made against M. Fouquet, and he has remained unshaken and unaffected by them.”
“There is a time for everything, Monsieur Colbert; those who were the authors of those denunciations were not called Madame de Chevreuse, and they had no proofs equal to the six letters from M. de Mazarin which establish the offense in question.”
“The offense!”
“The crime, if you like it better.”
“The crime! committed by M. Fouquet!”
“Nothing less. It is rather strange, M. Colbert, but your face, which just now was cold and indifferent, is now positively the very reverse.”
“A crime!”
“I am delighted to see that it makes an impression upon you.”
“It is because that word, madame, embraces so many things.”
“It embraces the post of superintendent of finance for yourself, and a letter of exile, or the Bastile, for M. Fouquet.”
“Forgive me, madame la duchesse, but it is almost impossible that M. Fouquet can be exiled; to be imprisoned or disgraced, that is already a great deal.”
“Oh, I am perfectly aware of what I am saying,” returned Madame de Chevreuse, coldly. “I do not live at such a distance from Paris as not to know what takes place there. The king does not like M. Fouquet, and he would willingly sacrifice M. Fouquet if an opportunity were only given him.”
“It must be a good one, though.”
“Good enough, and one I estimate to be worth five hundred thousand francs.”
“In what way?” said Colbert. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 264 | “It must be a good one, though.”
“Good enough, and one I estimate to be worth five hundred thousand francs.”
“In what way?” said Colbert.
“I mean, monsieur, that holding this opportunity in my own hands, I will not allow it to be transferred to yours except for a sum of five hundred thousand francs.”
“I understand you perfectly, madame. But since you have fixed a price for the sale, let me now see the value of the articles to be sold.”
“Oh, a mere trifle; six letters, as I have already told you, from M. de Mazarin; and the autographs will most assuredly not be regarded as too highly priced, if they establish, in an irrefutable manner, that M. Fouquet has embezzled large sums of money from the treasury and appropriated them to his own purposes.”
“In an irrefutable manner, do you say?” observed Colbert, whose eyes sparkled with delight.
“Perfectly so; would you like to read the letters?”
“With all my heart! Copies, of course?”
“Of course, the copies,” said the duchesse, as she drew from her bosom a small packet of papers flattened by her velvet bodice. “Read,” she said.
Colbert eagerly snatched the papers and devoured them. “Excellent!” he said.
“It is clear enough, is it not?”
“Yes, madame, yes; M. Mazarin must have handed the money to M. Fouquet, who must have kept it for his own purposes; but the question is, what money?”
“Exactly,—what money; if we come to terms I will join to these six letters a seventh, which will supply you with the fullest particulars.”
Colbert reflected. “And the originals of these letters?”
“A useless question to ask; exactly as if I were to ask you, Monsieur Colbert, whether the money-bags you will give me will be full or empty.”
“Very good, madame.”
“Is it concluded?”
“No; for there is one circumstance to which neither of us has given any attention.”
“Name it!”
“M. Fouquet can be utterly ruined, under the legal circumstances you have detailed, only by means of legal proceedings.”
“Well?”
“A public scandal, for instance; and yet neither the legal proceedings nor the scandal can be commenced against him.”
“Why not?”
“Because he is procureur-general of the parliament; because, too, in France, all public administrators, the army, justice itself, and commerce, are intimately connected by ties of good-fellowship, which people call esprit de corps. In such a case, madame, the parliament will never permit its chief to be dragged before a public tribunal; and never, even if he be dragged there by royal authority, never, I say, will he be condemned.”
“Well, Monsieur Colbert, I do not see what I have to do with that.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 265 | “Well, Monsieur Colbert, I do not see what I have to do with that.”
“I am aware of that, madame; but I have to do with it, and it consequently diminishes the value of what you have brought to show me. What good can a proof of a crime be to me, without the possibility of obtaining a condemnation?”
“Even if he be only suspected, M. Fouquet will lose his post of superintendent.”
“Is that all?” exclaimed Colbert, whose dark, gloomy features were momentarily lighted up by an expression of hate and vengeance.
“Ah! ah! Monsieur Colbert,” said the duchesse, “forgive me, but I did not think you were so impressionable. Very good; in that case, since you need more than I have to give you, there is no occasion to speak of the matter at all.”
“Yes, madame, we will go on talking of it; only, as the value of your commodities had decreased, you must lower your pretensions.”
“You are bargaining, then?”
“Every man who wishes to deal loyally is obliged to do so.”
“How much will you offer me?”
“Two hundred thousand francs,” said Colbert.
The duchesse laughed in his face, and then said, suddenly, “Wait a moment, I have another arrangement to propose; will you give me three hundred thousand francs?”
“No, no.”
“Oh, you can either accept or refuse my terms; besides, that is not all.”
“More still! you are becoming too impracticable to deal with, madame.”
“Less so than you think, perhaps, for it is not money I am going to ask you for.”
“What is it, then?”
“A service; you know that I have always been most affectionately attached to the queen, and I am desirous of having an interview with her majesty.”
“With the queen?”
“Yes, Monsieur Colbert, with the queen, who is, I admit, no longer my friend, and who has ceased to be so for a long time past, but who may again become so if the opportunity be only given her.”
“Her majesty has ceased to receive any one, madame. She is a great sufferer, and you may be aware that the paroxysms of her disease occur with greater frequency than ever.”
“That is the very reason why I wish to have an interview with her majesty; for in Flanders there is a great variety of these kinds of complaints.”
“What, cancers—a fearful, incurable disorder?” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 266 | “That is the very reason why I wish to have an interview with her majesty; for in Flanders there is a great variety of these kinds of complaints.”
“What, cancers—a fearful, incurable disorder?”
“Do not believe that, Monsieur Colbert. The Flemish peasant is somewhat a man of nature, and his companion for life is not alone a wife, but a female laborer also; for while he is smoking his pipe, the woman works: it is she who draws the water from the well; she who loads the mule or the ass, and even bears herself a portion of the burden. Taking but little care of herself, she gets knocked about first in one direction, and then in another, and very often is beaten by her husband, and cancers frequently rise from contusions.”
“True, true,” said Colbert.
“The Flemish women do not die the sooner on that account. When they are great sufferers from this disease they go in search of remedies, and the Beguines of Bruges are excellent doctors for every kind of disease. They have precious waters of one sort or another; specifics of various kinds; and they give a bottle of it and a wax candle to the sufferer, whereby the priests are gainers, and Heaven is served by the disposal of both their wares. I will take the queen some of this holy water, which I will procure from the Beguines of Bruges; her majesty will recover, and will burn as many wax candles as she may see fit. You see, Monsieur Colbert, to prevent my seeing the queen is almost as bad as committing the crime of regicide.”
“You are undoubtedly, madame la duchesse, a woman of exceedingly great abilities, and I am more than astounded at their display; still I cannot but suppose that this charitable consideration towards the queen in some measure covers a slight personal interest for yourself.”
“I have not given myself the trouble to conceal it, that I am aware of, Monsieur Colbert. You said, I believe, that I had a slight personal interest? On the contrary, it is a very great interest, and I will prove it to you, by resuming what I was saying. If you procure me a personal interview with her majesty, I will be satisfied with the three hundred thousand francs I have claimed; if not, I shall keep my letters, unless, indeed, you give me, on the spot, five hundred thousand francs.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 267 | And rising from her seat with this decisive remark, the old duchesse plunged M. Colbert into a disagreeable perplexity. To bargain any further was out of the question; and not to bargain was to pay a great deal too dearly for them. “Madame,” he said, “I shall have the pleasure of handing over a hundred thousand crowns; but how shall I get the actual letters themselves?”
“In the simplest manner in the world, my dear Monsieur Colbert—whom will you trust?”
The financier began to laugh, silently, so that his large eyebrows went up and down like the wings of a bat, upon the deep lines of his yellow forehead. “No one,” he said.
“You surely will make an exception in your own favor, Monsieur Colbert?”
“In what way, madame?”
“I mean that, if you would take the trouble to accompany me to the place where the letters are, they would be delivered into your own hands, and you would be able to verify and check them.”
“Quite true.”
“You would bring the hundred thousand crowns with you at the same time, for I, too, do not trust any one.”
Colbert colored to the tips of his ears. Like all eminent men in the art of figures, he was of an insolent and mathematical probity. “I will take with me, madame,” he said, “two orders for the amount agreed upon, payable at my treasury. Will that satisfy you?”
“Would that the orders on your treasury were for two millions, monsieur l’intendant! I shall have the pleasure of showing you the way, then?”
“Allow me to order my carriage?”
“I have a carriage below, monsieur.”
Colbert coughed like an irresolute man. He imagined, for a moment, that the proposition of the duchesse was a snare; that perhaps some one was waiting at the door; and that she whose secret had just been sold to Colbert for a hundred thousand crowns, had already offered it to Fouquet for the same sum. As he still hesitated, the duchesse looked at him full in the face.
“You prefer your own carriage?” she said.
“I admit I do.”
“You suppose I am going to lead you into a snare or trap of some sort or other?”
“Madame la duchesse, you have the character of being somewhat inconsiderate at times, as I am reputed a sober, solemn character, a jest or practical joke might compromise me.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 268 | “You suppose I am going to lead you into a snare or trap of some sort or other?”
“Madame la duchesse, you have the character of being somewhat inconsiderate at times, as I am reputed a sober, solemn character, a jest or practical joke might compromise me.”
“Yes; the fact is, you are afraid. Well, then, take your own carriage, as many servants as you like, only think well of what I am going to say. What we two may arrange between ourselves, we are the only persons who will know—if a third person is present we might as well tell the whole world about it. After all, I do not make a point of it; my carriage shall follow yours, and I shall be satisfied to accompany you in your own carriage to the queen.”
“To the queen?”
“Have you forgotten that already? Is it possible that one of the clauses of the agreement of so much importance to me, can have escaped you so soon? How trifling it seems to you, indeed; if I had known it I should have asked double what I have done.”
“I have reflected, madame, and I shall not accompany you.”
“Really—and why not?”
“Because I have the most perfect confidence in you.”
“You overpower me. But—provided I receive the hundred thousand crowns?”
“Here they are, madame,” said Colbert, scribbling a few lines on a piece of paper, which he handed to the duchesse, adding, “You are paid.”
“The trait is a fine one, Monsieur Colbert, and I will reward you for it,” she said, beginning to laugh.
Madame de Chevreuse’s laugh was a very sinister sound; a man with youth, faith, love, life itself, throbbing in his heart, would prefer a sob to such a lamentable laugh. The duchesse opened the front of her dress and drew forth from her bosom, somewhat less white than it once had been, a small packet of papers, tied with a flame-colored ribbon, and, still laughing, she said, “There, Monsieur Colbert, are the originals of Cardinal Mazarin’s letters; they are now your own property,” she added, refastening the body of her dress; “your fortune is secured. And now accompany me to the queen.”
“No, madame; if you are again about to run the chance of her majesty’s displeasure, and it were known at the Palais Royal that I had been the means of introducing you there, the queen would never forgive me while she lived. No; there are certain persons at the palace who are devoted to me, who will procure you an admission without my being compromised.”
“Just as you please, provided I enter.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 269 | “Just as you please, provided I enter.”
“What do you term those religious women at Bruges who cure disorders?”
“Beguines.”
“Good; are you one?”
“As you please,—but I must soon cease to be one.”
“That is your affair.”
“Excuse me, but I do not wish to be exposed to a refusal.”
“That is again your own affair, madame. I am going to give directions to the head valet of the gentleman in waiting on the queen to allow admission to a Beguine, who brings an effectual remedy for her majesty’s sufferings. You are the bearer of my letter, you will undertake to be provided with the remedy, and will give every explanation on the subject. I admit a knowledge of a Beguine, but I deny all knowledge of Madame de Chevreuse. Here, madame, then, is your letter of introduction.”
Colbert handed the duchesse the letter, and gently drew aside the chair behind which she was standing; Madame de Chevreuse, with a very slight bow, immediately left the room. Colbert, who had recognized Mazarin’s handwriting, and had counted the letters, rang to summon his secretary, whom he enjoined to go in immediate search of M. Vanel, a counselor of the parliament. The secretary replied that, according to his usual practice, M. Vanel had just that moment entered the house, in order to give the intendant an account of the principal details of the business which had been transacted during the day in parliament. Colbert approached one of the lamps, read the letters of the deceased cardinal over again, smiled repeatedly as he recognized the great value of the papers Madame de Chevreuse had just delivered—and burying his head in his hands for a few minutes, reflected profoundly. In the meantime, a tall, loosely-made man entered the room; his spare, thin face, steady look, and hooked nose, as he entered Colbert’s cabinet, with a modest assurance of manner, revealed a character at once supple and decided,—supple towards the master who could throw him the prey, firm towards the dogs who might possibly be disposed to dispute its possession. M. Vanel carried a voluminous bundle of papers under his arm, and placed it on the desk on which Colbert was leaning both his elbows, as he supported his head.
“Good day, M. Vanel,” said the latter, rousing himself from his meditation.
“Good day, monseigneur,” said Vanel, naturally.
“You should say monsieur, and not monseigneur,” replied Colbert, gently.
“We give the title of monseigneur to ministers,” returned Vanel, with extreme self-possession, “and you are a minister.”
“Not yet.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 270 | “Good day, M. Vanel,” said the latter, rousing himself from his meditation.
“Good day, monseigneur,” said Vanel, naturally.
“You should say monsieur, and not monseigneur,” replied Colbert, gently.
“We give the title of monseigneur to ministers,” returned Vanel, with extreme self-possession, “and you are a minister.”
“Not yet.”
“You are so in point of fact, and I call you monseigneur accordingly; besides you are seigneur for me, and that is sufficient; if you dislike my calling you monseigneur before others, allow me, at least, to call you so in private.”
Colbert raised his head as if to read, or try to read, upon Vanel’s face how much or how little sincerity entered into this protestation of devotion. But the counselor knew perfectly well how to sustain the weight of such a look, even backed with the full authority of the title he had conferred. Colbert sighed; he could not read anything in Vanel’s face, and Vanel might possibly be honest in his professions, but Colbert recollected that this man, inferior to himself in every other respect, was actually his master in virtue of the fact of his having a wife. As he was pitying this man’s lot, Vanel coldly drew from his pocket a perfumed letter, sealed with Spanish wax, and held it towards Colbert, saying, “A letter from my wife, monseigneur.”
Colbert coughed, took, opened and read the letter, and then put it carefully away in his pocket, while Vanel turned over the leaves of the papers he had brought with him with an unmoved and unconcerned air. “Vanel,” he said suddenly to his protege, “you are a hard-working man, I know; would twelve hours’ daily labor frighten you?”
“I work fifteen hours every day.”
“Impossible. A counselor need not work more than three hours a day in parliament.”
“Oh! I am working up some returns for a friend of mine in the department of accounts, and, as I still have spare time on my hands, I am studying Hebrew.”
“Your reputation stands high in the parliament, Vanel.”
“I believe so, monseigneur.”
“You must not grow rusty in your post of counselor.”
“What must I do to avoid it?”
“Purchase a high place. Mean and low ambitions are very difficult to satisfy.”
“Small purses are the most difficult ones to fill, monseigneur.”
“What post have you in view?” said Colbert.
“I see none—not one.”
“There is one, certainly, but one need be almost the king himself to be able to buy it without inconvenience; and the king will not be inclined, I suppose, to purchase the post of procureur-general.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 271 | “What post have you in view?” said Colbert.
“I see none—not one.”
“There is one, certainly, but one need be almost the king himself to be able to buy it without inconvenience; and the king will not be inclined, I suppose, to purchase the post of procureur-general.”
At these words, Vanel fixed his peculiar, humble, dull look upon Colbert, who could hardly tell whether Vanel comprehended him or not. “Why do you speak to me, monseigneur,” said Vanel, “of the post of procureur-general to the parliament; I know no other post than the one M. Fouquet fills.”
“Exactly so, my dear counselor.”
“You are not over fastidious, monseigneur; but before the post can be bought, it must be offered for sale.”
“I believe, Monsieur Vanel, that it will be for sale before long.”
“For sale! What! M. Fouquet’s post of procureur-general?”
“So it is said.”
“The post which renders him so perfectly invincible, for sale! Ha, ha!” said Vanel, beginning to laugh.
“Would you be afraid, then, of the post?” said Colbert, gravely.
“Afraid! no; but—”
“Are you desirous of obtaining it?”
“You are laughing at me, monseigneur,” replied Vanel. “Is it likely that a counselor of the parliament would not be desirous of becoming procureur-general?”
“Well, Monsieur Vanel, since I tell you that the post, as report goes, will be shortly for sale—”
“I cannot help repeating, monseigneur, that it is impossible; a man never throws away the buckler, behind which he maintains his honor, his fortune, his very life.”
“There are certain men mad enough, Vanel, to fancy themselves out of the reach of all mischances.”
“Yes, monseigneur; but such men never commit their mad acts for the advantage of the poor Vanels of the world.”
“Why not?”
“For the very reason that those Vanels are poor.”
“It is true that M. Fouquet’s post might cost a good round sum. What would you bid for it, Monsieur Vanel?”
“Everything I am worth.”
“Which means?”
“Three or four hundred thousand francs.”
“And the post is worth—”
“A million and a half, at the very lowest. I know persons who have offered one million seven hundred thousand francs, without being able to persuade M. Fouquet to sell. Besides, supposing it were to happen that M. Fouquet wished to sell, which I do not believe, in spite of what I have been told—”
“Ah! you have heard something about it, then; who told you?”
“M. de Gourville, M. Pelisson, and others.”
“Very good; if, therefore, M. Fouquet did wish to sell—”
“I could not buy it just yet, since the superintendent will only sell for ready money, and no one has a million and a half to put down at once.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 272 | “M. de Gourville, M. Pelisson, and others.”
“Very good; if, therefore, M. Fouquet did wish to sell—”
“I could not buy it just yet, since the superintendent will only sell for ready money, and no one has a million and a half to put down at once.”
Colbert suddenly interrupted the counselor by an imperious gesture; he had begun to meditate. Observing his superior’s serious attitude, and his perseverance in continuing the conversation on this subject, Vanel awaited the solution without venturing to precipitate it.
“Explain to me the privileges which this post confers.”
“The right of impeaching every French subject who is not a prince of the blood; the right of quashing all proceedings taken against any Frenchman, who is neither king nor prince. The procureur-general is the king’s right hand to punish the guilty; the office is the means whereby also he can evade the administration of justice. M. Fouquet, therefore, would be able, by stirring up parliament, to maintain himself even against the king; and the king could as easily, by humoring M. Fouquet, get his edicts registered in spite of every opposition and objection. The procureur-general can be made a very useful or a very dangerous instrument.”
“Vanel, would you like to be procureur-general?” said Colbert, suddenly, softening both his look and his voice.
“I!” exclaimed the latter; “I have already had the honor to represent to you that I want about eleven hundred thousand francs to make up the amount.”
“Borrow that sum from your friends.”
“I have no friends richer than myself.”
“You are an honest and honorable man, Vanel.”
“Ah! monseigneur, if the world would only think as you do!”
“I think so, and that is quite enough; and if it should be needed, I will be your security.”
“Do not forget the proverb, monseigneur.”
“What is it?”
“That he who becomes responsible for another has to pay for his fancy.”
“Let that make no difference.”
Vanel rose, bewildered by this offer which had been so suddenly and unexpectedly made to him. “You are not trifling with me, monseigneur?” he said.
“Stay; you say that M. Gourville has spoken to you about M. Fouquet’s post?”
“Yes; and M. Pelisson, also.”
“Officially so, or only through their own suggestion?”
“These were their very words: ‘The parliament members are as proud as they are wealthy; they ought to club together two or three millions among themselves, to present to their protector and leader, M. Fouquet.’”
“And what did you reply?”
“I said that, for my own part, I would give ten thousand francs if necessary.”
“Ah! you like M. Fouquet, then!” exclaimed Colbert, with a look of hatred. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 273 | “And what did you reply?”
“I said that, for my own part, I would give ten thousand francs if necessary.”
“Ah! you like M. Fouquet, then!” exclaimed Colbert, with a look of hatred.
“No; but M. Fouquet is our chief. He is in debt—is on the high road to ruin; and we ought to save the honor of the body of which we are members.”
“Exactly; and that explains why M. Fouquet will be always safe and sound, so long as he occupies his present post,” replied Colbert.
“Thereupon,” said Vanel, “M. Gourville added, ‘If we were to do anything out of charity to M. Fouquet, it could not be otherwise than most humiliating to him; and he would be sure to refuse it. Let the parliament subscribe among themselves to purchase, in a proper manner, the post of procureur-general; in that case, all would go well; the honor of our body would be saved, and M. Fouquet’s pride spared.’”
“That is an opening.”
“I considered it so, monseigneur.”
“Well, Monsieur Vanel, you will go at once, and find out either M. Gourville or M. Pelisson. Do you know any other friend of M. Fouquet?”
“I know M. de la Fontaine very well.”
“La Fontaine, the rhymester?”
“Yes; he used to write verses to my wife, when M. Fouquet was one of our friends.”
“Go to him, then, and try and procure an interview with the superintendent.”
“Willingly—but the sum itself?”
“On the day and hour you arrange to settle the matter, Monsieur Vanel, you shall be supplied with the money, so do not make yourself uneasy on that account.”
“Monseigneur, such munificence! You eclipse kings even—you surpass M. Fouquet himself.”
“Stay a moment—do not let us mistake each other: I do not make you a present of fourteen hundred thousand francs, Monsieur Vanel; for I have children to provide for—but I will lend you that sum.”
“Ask whatever interest, whatever security you please, monseigneur; I am quite ready. And when all your requisitions are satisfied, I will still repeat, that you surpass kings and M. Fouquet in munificence. What conditions do you impose?”
“The repayment in eight years, and a mortgage upon the appointment itself.”
“Certainly. Is that all?”
“Wait a moment. I reserve to myself the right of purchasing the post from you at one hundred and fifty thousand francs profit for yourself, if, in your mode of filling the office, you do not follow out a line of conduct in conformity with the interests of the king and with my projects.”
“Ah-h!” said Vanel, in an altered tone.
“Is there anything in that which can possibly be objectionable to you, Monsieur Vanel?” said Colbert, coldly. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 274 | “Ah-h!” said Vanel, in an altered tone.
“Is there anything in that which can possibly be objectionable to you, Monsieur Vanel?” said Colbert, coldly.
“Oh! no, no,” replied Vanel, nervously.
“Very good. We will sign an agreement to that effect whenever you like. And now go as quickly as you can to M. Fouquet’s friend, obtain an interview with the superintendent; do not be too difficult in making whatever concessions may be required of you; and when once the arrangements are all made—”
“I will press him to sign.”
“Be most careful to do nothing of the kind; do not speak of signatures with M. Fouquet, nor of deeds, nor even ask him to pass his word. Understand this: otherwise you will lose everything. All you have to do is to get M. Fouquet to give you his hand on the matter. Go, go.”
The queen-mother was in the bedroom at the Palais Royal, with Madame de Motteville and Senora Molina. King Louis, who had been impatiently expected the whole day, had not made his appearance; and the queen, who was growing impatient, had often sent to inquire about him. The moral atmosphere of the court seemed to indicate an approaching storm; the courtiers and the ladies of the court avoided meeting in the ante-chambers and the corridors in order not to converse on compromising subjects. Monsieur had joined the king early in the morning for a hunting-party; Madame remained in her own apartment, cool and distant to every one; and the queen-mother, after she had said her prayers in Latin, talked of domestic matters with her two friends in pure Castilian. Madame de Motteville, who understood the language perfectly, answered her in French. When the three ladies had exhausted every form of dissimulation and of politeness, as a circuitous mode of expressing that the king’s conduct was making the queen and the queen-mother pine away through sheer grief and vexation, and when, in the most guarded and polished phrases, they had fulminated every variety of imprecation against Mademoiselle de la Valliere, the queen-mother terminated her attack by an exclamation indicative of her own reflections and character. “Estos hijos!” said she to Molina—which means, “These children!” words full of meaning on a mother’s lips—words full of terrible significance in the mouth of a queen who, like Anne of Austria, hid many curious secrets in her soul.
“Yes,” said Molina, “children, children! for whom every mother becomes a sacrifice.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 275 | “Yes,” said Molina, “children, children! for whom every mother becomes a sacrifice.”
“Yes,” replied the queen; “a mother sacrifices everything, certainly.” She did not finish her phrase; for she fancied, when she raised her eyes towards the full-length portrait of the pale Louis XIII., that light once more flashed from her husband’s dull eyes, and his nostrils grew livid with wrath. The portrait seemed animated by a living expression—speak it did not, but it seemed to threaten. A profound silence succeeded the queen’s last remark. La Molina began to turn over ribbons and laces on a large work-table. Madame de Motteville, surprised at the look of mutual intelligence which had been exchanged between the confidant and her mistress, cast down her eyes like a discreet woman, and pretending to be observant of nothing that was passing, listened with the utmost attention to every word. She heard nothing, however, but a very insignificant “hum” on the part of the Spanish duenna, who was the incarnation of caution—and a profound sigh on that of the queen. She looked up immediately.
“You are suffering?” she said.
“No, Motteville, no; why do you say that?”
“Your majesty almost groaned just now.”
“You are right; I did sigh, in truth.”
“Monsieur Valot is not far off; I believe he is in Madame’s apartment.”
“Why is he with Madame?”
“Madame is troubled with nervous attacks.”
“A very fine disorder, indeed! There is little good in M. Valot being there, when a very different physician would quickly cure Madame.”
Madame de Motteville looked up with an air of great surprise, as she replied, “Another doctor instead of M. Valot?—whom do you mean?”
“Occupation, Motteville, occupation. If any one is really ill, it is my poor daughter.”
“And your majesty, too.”
“Less so this evening, though.”
“Do not believe that too confidently, madame,” said De Motteville. And, as if to justify her caution, a sharp, acute pain seized the queen, who turned deadly pale, and threw herself back in the chair, with every symptom of a sudden fainting fit. Molina ran to a richly gilded tortoise-shell cabinet, from which she took a large rock-crystal bottle of scented salts, and held it to the queen’s nostrils, who inhaled it wildly for a few minutes, and murmured:
“It is hastening my death—but Heaven’s will be done!”
“Your majesty’s death is not so near at hand,” added Molina, replacing the smelling-bottle in the cabinet.
“Does your majesty feel better now?” inquired Madame de Motteville.
“Much better,” returned the queen, placing her finger on her lips, to impose silence on her favorite.
“It is very strange,” remarked Madame de Motteville, after a pause.
“What is strange?” said the queen. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 276 | “Does your majesty feel better now?” inquired Madame de Motteville.
“Much better,” returned the queen, placing her finger on her lips, to impose silence on her favorite.
“It is very strange,” remarked Madame de Motteville, after a pause.
“What is strange?” said the queen.
“Does your majesty remember the day when this pain attacked you for the first time?”
“I remember only that it was a grievously sad day for me, Motteville.”
“But your majesty did not always regard that day as a sad one.”
“Why?”
“Because three and twenty years ago, on that very day, his present majesty, your own glorious son, was born at the very same hour.”
The queen uttered a loud cry, buried her face in her hands, and seemed utterly prostrated for some minutes; but whether from recollections which arose in her mind, or from reflection, or even with sheer pain, was doubtful. La Molina darted a look at Madame de Motteville, so full of bitter reproach, that the poor woman, perfectly ignorant of its meaning, was in her own exculpation on the point of asking an explanation, when, suddenly, Anne of Austria arose and said, “Yes, the 5th of September; my sorrow began on the 5th of September. The greatest joy, one day; the deepest sorrow the next;—the sorrow,” she added, “the bitter expiation of a too excessive joy.”
And, from that moment, Anne of Austria, whose memory and reason seemed to be suspended for the time, remained impenetrable, with vacant look, mind almost wandering, and hands hanging heavily down, as if life had almost departed.
“We must put her to bed,” said La Molina.
“Presently, Molina.”
“Let us leave the queen alone,” added the Spanish attendant.
Madame de Motteville rose; large tears were rolling down the queen’s pallid face; and Molina, having observed this sign of weakness, fixed her black vigilant eyes upon her.
“Yes, yes,” replied the queen. “Leave us, Motteville; go.”
The word “us” produced a disagreeable effect upon the ears of the French favorite; for it signified that an interchange of secrets, or of revelations of the past, was about to be made, and that one person was de trop in the conversation which seemed likely to take place.
“Will Molina, alone, be sufficient for your majesty to-night?” inquired the French woman.
“Yes,” replied the queen. Madame de Motteville bowed in submission, and was about to withdraw, when suddenly an old female attendant, dressed as if she had belonged to the Spanish court of the year 1620, opened the door, and surprised the queen in her tears. “The remedy!” she cried, delightedly, to the queen, as she unceremoniously approached the group.
“What remedy?” said Anne of Austria. |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 277 | “What remedy?” said Anne of Austria.
“For your majesty’s sufferings,” the former replied.
“Who brings it?” asked Madame de Motteville, eagerly; “Monsieur Valot?”
“No; a lady from Flanders.”
“From Flanders? Is she Spanish?” inquired the queen.
“I don’t know.”
“Who sent her?”
“M. Colbert.”
“Her name?”
“She did not mention it.”
“Her position in life?”
“She will answer that herself.”
“Who is she?”
“She is masked.”
“Go, Molina; go and see!” cried the queen.
“It is needless,” suddenly replied a voice, at once firm and gentle in its tone, which proceeded from the other side of the tapestry hangings; a voice which made the attendants start, and the queen tremble excessively. At the same moment, a masked female appeared through the hangings, and, before the queen could speak a syllable she added, “I am connected with the order of the Beguines of Bruges, and do, indeed, bring with me the remedy which is certain to effect a cure of your majesty’s complaint.” No one uttered a sound, and the Beguine did not move a step.
“Speak,” said the queen.
“I will, when we are alone,” was the answer.
Anne of Austria looked at her attendants, who immediately withdrew. The Beguine, thereupon, advanced a few steps towards the queen, and bowed reverently before her. The queen gazed with increasing mistrust at this woman, who, in her turn, fixed a pair of brilliant eyes upon her, through her mask.
“The queen of France must, indeed, be very ill,” said Anne of Austria, “if it is known at the Beguinage of Bruges that she stands in need of being cured.”
“Your majesty is not irremediably ill.”
“But tell me how you happen to know I am suffering?”
“Your majesty has friends in Flanders.”
“Since these friends, then, sent you, mention their names.”
“Impossible, madame, since your majesty’s memory has not been awakened by your heart.”
Anne of Austria looked up, endeavoring to discover through the mysterious mask, and this ambiguous language, the name of her companion, who expressed herself with such familiarity and freedom; then, suddenly, wearied by a curiosity which wounded every feeling of pride in her nature, she said, “You are ignorant, perhaps, that royal personages are never spoken to with the face masked.”
“Deign to excuse me, madame,” replied the Beguine, humbly.
“I cannot excuse you. I may, possibly, forgive you, if you throw your mask aside.” |
Louise_de_la_Valliere_-_Alexandre_Dumas | 31 | 278 | “Deign to excuse me, madame,” replied the Beguine, humbly.
“I cannot excuse you. I may, possibly, forgive you, if you throw your mask aside.”
“I have made a vow, madame, to attend and aid all afflicted and suffering persons, without ever permitting them to behold my face. I might have been able to administer some relief to your body and to your mind, too; but since your majesty forbids me, I will take my leave. Adieu, madame, adieu!”
These words were uttered with a harmony of tone and respect of manner that disarmed the queen of all anger and suspicion, but did not remove her feeling of curiosity. “You are right,” she said; “it ill-becomes those who are suffering to reject the means of relief Heaven sends them. Speak, then; and may you, indeed, be able, as you assert, to administer relief to my body—”
“Let us first speak a little of the mind, if you please,” said the Beguine—“of the mind, which, I am sure, must also suffer.”
“My mind?”
“There are cancers so insidious in their nature that their very pulsations cannot be felt. Such cancers, madame, leave the ivory whiteness of the skin unblemished, and putrefy not the firm, fair flesh, with their blue tints; the physician who bends over the patient’s chest hears not, though he listens, the insatiable teeth of the disease grinding onward through the muscles, and the blood flows freely on; the knife has never been able to destroy, and rarely, even temporarily, to disarm the rage of these mortal scourges,—their home is in the mind, which they corrupt,—they gnaw the whole heart until it breaks. Such, madame, are the cancers fatal to queens; are you, too, free from their scourge?”
Anne slowly raised her arm, dazzling in its perfect whiteness, and pure in its rounded outlines as it was in the time of her earlier days.
“The evils to which you allude,” she said, “are the condition of the lives of the high in rank upon earth, to whom Heaven has imparted mind. When those evils become too heavy to be borne, Heaven lightens their burdens by penitence and confession. Thus, only, we lay down our burden and the secrets that oppress us. But, forget not that the same gracious Heaven, in its mercy, apportions to their trials the strength of the feeble creatures of its hand; and my strength has enabled me to bear my burden. For the secrets of others, the silence of Heaven is more than sufficient; for my own secrets, that of my confessor is enough.”
“You are as courageous, madame, I see, as ever, against your enemies. You do not acknowledge your confidence in your friends?” |
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