"No."
"Since when?"
"Since the last four or five hours."
"Take care," interrupted Aramis, coldly; "I do not think you are in the full possession of your senses, my friend; collect yourself."
"I tell you," returned Fouquet, "that a little while ago, some one came to me, brought by my friends, to offer me fourteen hundred thousand francs for the appointment, and that I sold the appointment."
Aramis looked as if he had been thunder-stricken; the intelligent and mocking expression of his countenance assumed an aspect of such profound gloom and terror that it had more effect upon the surintendant that all the exclamations and speeches in the world. "You had need of money then?" he said, at last.
"Yes; to discharge a debt of honor." And, in a few words, he gave Aramis an account of Madame de la Belliere's generosity, and the manner in which he had thought it but right to discharge that act of generosity.
"Yes," said Aramis; "that is, indeed, a fine trait. What has it cost?"
"Exactly the fourteen hundred thousand francs—the price of my appointment."
"Which you received in that manner, without reflection. Oh! imprudent man."
"I have not yet received the amount, but I shall to-morrow."
"It is not yet completed, then?"
"It must be carried out, though: for I have given the goldsmith, for twelve o'clock to-morrow, an order upon my treasury, into which the purchaser's money will be paid at six or seven o'clock."
"Heaven be praised!" cried Aramis, clapping his hands together, "nothing is yet completed, since you have not been paid."
"But the goldsmith?"
"You shall receive the fourteen hundred thousand francs from me at a quarter before twelve."
"Stay a moment; it is at six o'clock, this very morning, that I am to sign."
"Oh! I will answer that you do not sign."
"I have given my word, chevalier."
"If you have given it, you will take it back again, that is all."
"Can I believe what I hear," cried Fouquet, in a most expressive tone. "Fouquet recall his word, after it has been once pledged!"
Aramis replied to the almost stern look of the minister, by a look full of anger. "Monsieur," he said, "I believe I have deserved to be called a man of honor? As a soldier, I have risked my life five hundred times; as a priest I have rendered still greater services, both to the state and to my friends. The value of a word, once passed, is estimated according to the worth of the man who gives it. So long as it is in his own keeping, it is of the purest, finest gold; when his wish to keep it has passed away, it is a two-edged sword. With that word, therefore, he defends himself as with an honorable weapon, considering that, when he disregards his word, he endangers his life, and incurs an amount of risk far greater than that which his adversary is likely to derive of profit. In such a case, monsieur, he appeals to Heaven and to justice."
Fouquet bent down his head as he replied, "I am a poor self-determined man, a true Breton born; my mind admires and fears yours. I do not say that I keep my word from a proper feeling only; I keep it, if you like, from custom, practice, what you will; but, at all events, the ordinary run of men are simple enough to admire this custom of mine, it is my sole good quality, leave me such honor as it confers."
"And so you are determined to sign the sale of the very appointment which can alone defend you against all your enemies?"
"Yes, I shall sign."
"You will deliver yourself up, then, bound hand and foot, from a false notion of honor, which the most scrupulous casuists would disdain?"
"I shall sign," repeated Fouquet.
Aramis sighed deeply, and looked all round him with the impatient gesture of a man who would gladly dash something to pieces, as a relief to his feelings. "We have still one means left," he said; "and, I trust, you will not refuse to make use of that."
"Certainly not, if it be loyal and honorable; as everything is, in fact, which you propose."
"I know nothing more loyal than the renunciation of your purchaser. Is he a friend of yours?"
"Certainly; but—"
"'But!'—if you allow me to manage the affair, I do not despair."
"Oh! you shall be absolutely master to do what you please."
"Whom are you in treaty with? What man is it?"
"I am not aware whether you know the parliament."
"Most of its members. One of the presidents, perhaps?"
"No; only a councilor of the name of Vanel."
Aramis became perfectly purple.
"Vanel," he cried, rising abruptly from his seat; "Vanel! the husband of Marguerite Vanel?"
"Exactly."
"Of your former mistress?"
"Yes, my dear fellow; she is anxious to be the wife of the procureur-general. I certainly owed poor Vanel that slight concession, and I am a gainer by it; since I, at the same time, can confer a pleasure on his wife."
Aramis walked up straight to Fouquet and took hold of his hand. "Do you know," he said, very calmly, "the name of Madame Vanel's new lover?"
"Ah! she has a new lover, then: I was not aware of it; no, I have no idea what his name is."
"His name is M. Jean Baptiste Colbert; he is surintendant of the finances; he lives in the Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs, where Madame de Chevreuse has been this evening to take him Mazarin's letters, which she wishes to sell."
"Gracious Heaven!" murmured Fouquet, passing his hand across his forehead, from which the perspiration was starting.
"You now begin to understand, do you not?"
"That I am utterly lost!—yes."
"Do you now think it worth while to be so scrupulous with regard to keeping your word?"
"Yes," said Fouquet.
"These obstinate people always contrive matters in such a way, that one cannot but admire them all the while," murmured Aramis.
Fouquet held out his hand to him, and, at the very moment, a richly ornamented tortoise-shell clock, supported by golden figures, which was standing on a console table opposite to the fireplace, struck six. The sound of a door being opened in the vestibule was heard, and Gourville came to the door of the cabinet to inquire if Fouquet would receive M. Vanel. Fouquet turned his eyes from the eyes of Aramis, and then desired that M. Vanel should be shown to him.
Vanel, who entered at this stage of the conversation, was nothing less for Aramis and Fouquet than the full stop which completes a phrase. But, for Vanel, Aramis' presence in Fouquet's cabinet had quite another signification; and, therefore, at his first step into the room he paused as he looked at the delicate yet firm features of the bishop of Vannes, and his look of astonishment soon became one of scrutinizing attention. As for Fouquet, a perfect politician, that is to say, complete master of himself, he had already, by the energy of his own resolute will, contrived to remove from his face all traces of the emotion which Aramis' revelation had occasioned. He was no longer, therefore, a man overwhelmed by misfortune and reduced to resort to expedients; he held his head proudly erect,and indicated by a gesture that Vanel could enter. He was now the first minister of the state, and in his own palace. Aramis knew the surintendant well; the delicacy of the feelings of his heart and the exalted nature of his mind could not any longer surprise him. He confined himself, then, for the moment—intending to resume later an active part in the conversation—to the performance of the difficult part of a man who looks on and listens, in order to learn and understand. Vanel was visibly overcome, and advanced into the middle of the cabinet, bowing to everything and everybody. "I am come," he said.
"You are exact, Monsieur Vanel," returned Fouquet.
"In matters of business, monseigneur," replied Vanel, "I look upon exactitude as a virtue."
"No doubt, monsieur."
"I beg your pardon," interrupted Aramis, indicating Vanel with his finger, but addressing himself to Fouquet; "this is the gentleman, I believe, who has come about the purchase of your appointment?"
"Yes, I am!" replied Vanel, astonished at the extremely haughty tone with which Aramis had put the question; "but in what way am I to address you, who do me the honor—"
"Call me monseigneur," replied Aramis, dryly. Vanel bowed.
"Come, gentlemen, a truce to these ceremonies; let us proceed to the matter itself."
"Monseigneur sees," said Vanel, "that I am waiting your pleasure."
"On the contrary, I am waiting," replied Fouquet.
"What for, may I be permitted to ask, monseigneur?"
"I thought that you had perhaps something to say."
"Oh," said Vanel to himself, "he has reflected on the matter, and I am lost." But resuming his courage, he continued, "No, monseigneur, nothing, absolutely nothing more than what I said to you yesterday, and which I am again ready to repeat to you now."
"Come, now, tell me frankly, MonsieurVanel, is not the affair rather a burdensome one for you?"
"Certainly, monseigneur; fourteen hundred thousand francs is an important sum."
"So important, indeed," said Fouquet, "that I have reflected—"
"You have been reflecting, do you say, monseigneur?" exclaimed Vanel, anxiously.
"Yes; that you might not yet be in a position to purchase."
"Oh, monseigneur!"
"Do not make yourself uneasy on that score, Monsieur Vanel; I shall not blame you for a failure in your word, which evidently may arise from inability on your part."
"Oh, yes, monseigneur, you would blame me, and you would be right in doing so," said Vanel; "for a man must either be very imprudent, or a perfect fool, to undertake engagements which he cannot keep; and I, at least, have always regarded a thing agreed upon as a thing actually carried out."
Fouquet colored, while Aramis uttered a "Hum!" of impatience.
"You would be wrong to exaggerate such notions as those, monsieur," said the surintendant; "for a man's mind is variable and full of these very excusable caprices, which are, however, sometimes estimable enough; and a man may have wished for something yesterday of which he repents to-day."
Vanel felt a cold sweat trickle down his face. "Monseigneur!" he muttered.
Aramis, who was delighted to find the surintendant carry on the debate with such clearness and precision, stood leaning his arm upon the marble top of a console, and began to play with a small gold knife, with a malachite handle. Fouquet did not hurry himself to reply; but after a moment's pause, "Come, my dear Monsieur Vanel," he said, "I will explain to you how I am situated." Vanel began to tremble.
"Yesterday I wished to sell—"
"Monseigneur did more than wish to sell, for you actually sold."
"Well, well, that may be so; but to-day I ask you the favor to restore me my word which I pledged you."
"I received your word as a perfect assurance that it would be kept."
"I know that, and that is the reason why I now entreat you; do you understand me? I entreat you to restore it to me."
Fouquet suddenly paused. The words "I entreat you," the effect of which he did not immediately perceive, seemed almost to choke him as he uttered it. Aramis, still playing with his knife, fixed a look upon Vanel which seemed as if he wished to penetrate to the innermost recesses of his heart. Vanel simply bowed as he said, "I am overcome, monseigneur, at the honor you do me to consult me upon a matter of business which is already completed; but—"
"Nay, do not saybut, dear Monsieur Vanel."
"Alas! monseigneur, you see," he said, as he opened a large pocket-book, "I have brought the money with me—the whole sum, I mean. And here, monseigneur, is the contract of sale which I have just effected of a property belonging to my wife. The order is authentic in every way, the necessary signatures have been attached to it, and it is made payable at sight; it is ready money, in fact, and, in one word, the whole affair is complete."
"My dear Monsieur Vanel, there is not a matter of business in this world, however important it may be, which cannot be postponed in order to oblige a man who, by that means, might and would be made a devoted friend."
"Certainly," said Vanel, awkwardly.
"And much more justly acquired would that friend become, Monsieur Vanel, since the value of the service he had received would have been so considerable. Well, what do you say?—what do you decide?"
Vanel preserved a perfect silence. In the meantime, Aramis had continued his close observation of the man. Vanel's narrow face, his deeply-sunk orbits, his arched eyebrows, had revealed to the bishop of Vannes the type of an avaricious and ambitious character. Aramis' method was to oppose one passion by another. He saw that Fouquet was defeated—morally subdued—and so he came to his rescue with fresh weapons in his hands. "Excuse me, monseigneur," he said, "you forget to show M. Vanel that his own interests are diametrically opposed to this renunciation of the sale."
Vanel looked at the bishop with astonishment; he had hardly expected to find an auxiliary in him. Fouquet also paused to listen to the bishop.
"Do you not see," continued Aramis, "that Mr. Vanel, in order to purchase your appointment, has been obliged to sell a property which belongs to his wife; well, that is no slight matter; for one cannot displace, as he has done, fourteen or fifteen hundred thousand francs without some considerable loss, and very serious inconvenience."
"Perfectly true," said Vanel, whose secret Aramis had, with his keen-sighted gaze, wrung from the bottom of his heart.
"Inconveniences such as these are matters of great expense and calculation, and whenever a man has money matters to deal with, the expenses are generally the very first thing thought of."
"Yes, yes," said Fouquet, who began to understand Aramis' meaning.
Vanel remained perfectly silent; he, too, had understood him. Aramis observed his coldness of manner and his silence.
"Very good," he said to himself, "you are waiting, I see, until you know the amount; but do not fear, I shall send you such a flight of crowns that you cannot but capitulate on the spot."
"We must offer M. Vanel a hundred thousand crowns at once," said Fouquet, carried away by his generous feelings.
The sum was a good one. A prince, even, would have been satisfied with such a bonus. A hundred thousand crowns at that period was the dowry of a king's daughter. Vanel, however, did not move.
"He is a perfect rascal!" thought the bishop; "well, we must offer the five hundred thousand francs at once!" and he made a sign to Fouquet accordingly.
"You seem to have spent more than that, dear Monsieur Vanel," said the surintendant. "The price of money is enormous. You must have made a great sacrifice in selling your wife's property. Well, what can I have been thinking of? I ought to have offered to sign you an order for five hundred thousand francs; and even in that case I shall feel that I am greatly indebted to you."
There was not a gleam of delight or desire on Vanel's face, which remained perfectly impassible, not a muscle of it changed in the slightest degree. Aramis cast a look almost of despair at Fouquet, and then, going straight up to Vanel and taking hold of him by the coat in a familiar manner, he said:
"Monsieur Vanel, it is neither the inconvenience nor the displacement of your money, nor the sale of your wife's property even, that you are thinking of at this moment; it is something more important still. I can well understand it; so pay particular attention to what I am going to say."
"Yes, monseigneur," Vanel replied, beginning to tremble in every limb, as the prelate's eyes seemed almost ready to devour him.
"I offer you, therefore, in the surintendant's name, not three hundred thousand livres, nor five hundred thousand, but a million. A million—do you understand me?" he added, as he shook him nervously.
"A million!" repeated Vanel, as pale as death.
"A million; in other words, at the present rate of interest, an income of seventy thousand francs!"
"Come, monsieur," said Fouquet, "you can hardly refuse that. Answer—do you accept?"
"Impossible," murmured Vanel.
Aramis bit his lips, and something like a white cloud seemed to pass over his face. The thunder behind this cloud could easily be imagined. He still kept his hold on Vanel. "You have purchased the appointment for fifteen hundred thousand francs, I think? Well; you will receive these fifteen hundred thousand francsback again; by paying M. Fouquet a visit, and shaking hands with him on the bargain, you will have become a gainer of a million and a half. You get honor and profit at the same time, Monsieur Vanel."
"I cannot do it," said Vanel, hoarsely.
"Very well," replied Aramis, who had grasped Vanel so tightly by the coat, that when he let go his hold, Vanel staggered back a few paces; "very well; one can now see clearly enough your object in coming here."
"Yes," said Fouquet, "one can easily see that."
"But—" said Vanel, attempting to stand erect before the weakness of these two men of honor.
"Does the fellow presume to speak!" said Aramis, with the tone of an emperor.
"Fellow!" repeated Vanel.
"The wretch. I meant to say," added Aramis, who had now resumed his usual self-possession. "Come, monsieur, produce your deed of sale—you have it about you, I suppose, in one of your pockets, already prepared, as an assassin holds his pistol or his dagger concealed under his cloak?"
Vanel began to mutter something.
"Enough!" cried Fouquet. "Where is this deed?"
Vanel tremblingly searched in his pockets, and as he drew out his pocket-book, a paper fell out of it, while Vanel offered the other to Fouquet. Aramis pounced upon the paper which had fallen out, as soon as he recognized the handwriting.
"I beg your pardon," said Vanel, "that is a rough draft of the deed."
"I see that very clearly," retorted Aramis, with a smile far more cutting than a lash of a whip would have been; "and what I admire most is, that this draft is in M. Colbert's handwriting. Look, monseigneur, look."
And he handed the draft to Fouquet, who recognized the truth of the fact; for, covered with erasures, with inserted words, the margins filled with additions, this deed—a living proof of Colbert's plot—had just revealed everything to its unhappy victim.
"Well!" murmured Fouquet.
Vanel, completely humiliated, seemed as if he were looking for some deep hole where he could hide himself.
"Well!" said Aramis, "if your name were not Fouquet, and if your enemy's name were not Colbert—if you had not this mean thief before you, I should say to you, 'Repudiate it;' such a proof as this absolves you from your word; but these fellows would think you were afraid; they would fear you less than they do; therefore sign the deed at once." And he held out a pen toward him.
Fouquet pressed Aramis' hand; but, instead of the deed which Vanel handed to him, he took the rough draft of it.
"No, not that paper," said Aramis, hastily; "this is the one. The other is too precious a document for you to part with."
"No, no!" replied Fouquet; "I will sign under M. Colbert's own handwriting even; and I write, 'The handwriting is approved of.'" He then signed, and said, "Here it is, Monsieur Vanel." And the latter seized the paper, laid down his money, and was about to make his escape.
"One moment," said Aramis. "Are you quite sure the exact amount is there? It ought to be counted over, Monsieur Vanel! particularly since M. Colbert makes presents of money to ladies, I see. Ah, that worthy M. Colbert is not so generous as M. Fouquet." And Aramis, spelling every word, every letter of the order to pay, distilled his wrath and his contempt, drop by drop, upon the miserable wretch, who had to submit to this torture for a quarter of an hour; he was then dismissed, not in words, but by a gesture, as one dismisses or discharges a beggar or a menial.
As soon as Vanel had gone, the minister and the prelate, their eyes fixed on each other, remained silent for a few moments.
"Well," said Aramis, the first to break the silence; "to what can that man be compared, who, at the very moment he is on the point of entering into a conflict with an enemy armed from head to foot, thirsting for his life, presents himself for the contest quite defenseless, throws down his arms, and smiles and kisses his hands to his adversary in the most gracious manner? Good faith, M. Fouquet, is a weapon which scoundrels very frequently make use of against men of honor, and it answers their purpose. Men of honor ought in their turn, also, to make use of dishonest means against such scoundrels. You would soon see how strong they would become, without ceasing to be men of honor."
"What they did would be termed the acts of a scoundrel," replied Fouquet.
"Far from that; it would be merely coquetting or playing with the truth. At all events, since you have finished with this Vanel; since you have deprived yourself of the happiness of confounding him by repudiating your word; and since you have given up, for the purpose of being used against yourself, the only weapon which can ruin you—"
"My dear friend," said Fouquet, mournfully, "you are like the teacher of philosophy whom La Fontaine was telling us about the other day: he saw a child drowning, and began to read him a lecture divided into three heads."
Aramis smiled as he said, "Philosophy—yes; teacher—yes; a drowning child—yes; but a child that can be saved—you shall see. But, first of all, let us talk about business. Did you not some time ago," he continued, as Fouquet looked at him with a bewildered air, "speak to me about an idea you had of giving a fete at Vaux?"
"Oh," said Fouquet, "that was when affairs were flourishing."
"A fete, I believe, to which the king invited himself of his own accord?"
"No, no, my dear prelate; a fete to which M. Colbert advised the king to invite himself."
"Ah—exactly; as it would be a fete of so costly a character that you would be ruined in giving it."
"Precisely so. In other times, as I said just now, I had a kind of pride in showing my enemies how inexhaustible my resources were; I felt it a point of honor to strike them with amazement, in creating millions under circumstanceswhere they had imagined nothing but bankruptcies and failures would follow. But at the present day I am arranging my accounts with the state, with the king, with myself; and I must now become a mean, stingy man; I shall be able to prove to the world that I can act or operate with my deniers as I used to do with my bags of pistoles; and from to-morrow my equipages shall be sold, my mansions mortgaged, my expenses contracted."
"From to-morrow," interrupted Aramis, quietly, "you will occupy yourself, without the slightest delay, with your fete at Vaux, which must hereafter be spoken of as one of the most magnificent productions of your most prosperous days."
"You are mad, Chevalier d'Herblay."
"I!—you do not think that."
"What do you mean then! Do you not know that a fete at Vaux, of the very simplest possible character, would cost four or five millions?"
"I do not speak of a fete of the very simplest possible character, my dear surintendant."
"But, since the fete is to be given to the king," replied Fouquet, who misunderstood Aramis' idea, "it cannot be simple."
"Just so; it ought to be on a scale of the most unbounded magnificence."
"In that case, I shall have to spend ten or twelve millions."
"You shall spend twenty, if you require it," said Aramis, in a perfectly calm voice.
"Where shall I get them?" exclaimed Fouquet.
"That is my affair, Monsieur le Surintendant; and do not be uneasy for a moment about it. The money will be placed at once at your disposal, as soon as you shall have arranged the plans of your fete."
"Chevalier! chevalier!" said Fouquet, giddy with amazement, "whither are you hurrying me?"
"Across the gulf into which you were about to fall," replied the bishop of Vannes. "Take hold of my cloak, and throw fear aside."
"Why did you not tell me that sooner, Aramis? There was a day when, with one million only, you could have saved me; while to-day—"
"While to-day, I can give you twenty," said the prelate. "Such is the case, however—the reason is very simple. On the day you speak of, I had not the million which you had need of at my disposal; while now I can easily procure the twenty millions we require."
"May Heaven hear you, and save me!"
Aramis resumed his usual smile, the expression of which was so singular. "Heaven never fails to hear me," he said.
"I abandon myself to you unreservedly," Fouquet murmured.
"No, no; I do not understand it in that manner. I am unreservedly devoted to you. Therefore, as you have the clearest, the most delicate, and the most ingenious mind of the two, you shall have entire control over the fete, even to the very smallest details. Only—"
"Only?" said Fouquet, as a man accustomed to understand and appreciate the value of a parenthesis.
"Well, then, leaving the entire invention of the details to you, I shall reserve to myself a general superintendence over the execution."
"In what way?"
"I mean, that you will make of me, on that day, a major-domo, a sort of inspector-general, or factotum—something between a captain of the guard and manager or steward. I will look after the people, and will keep the keys of the doors. You will give your orders, of course; but will give them to no one but to me. They will pass through my lips, to reach those for whom they are intended—you understand?"
"No, I am very far from understanding."
"But you agree?"
"Of course, of course, my friend."
"That is all I care about, then. Thanks; and now go and prepare your list of invitations."
"Whom shall I invite?"
"Every one."
Our readers will have observed in this story, the adventures of the new and of the past generation being detailed, as it were, side by side. To the former, the reflection of the glory of earlier years, the experience of the bitter things of this world; to the former, also, that peace which takes possession of the heart, and that healing of the scars which were formerly deep and painful wounds. To the latter, the conflicts of love and vanity; bitter disappointments and ineffable delights; life instead of memory. If, therefore, any variety has been presented to the reader in the different episodes of this tale, it is to be attributed to the numerous shades of color which are presented on this double palette, where two pictures are seen side by side, mingling and harmonizing their severe and pleasing tones. The repose of the emotions of the one is found in the bosom of the emotions of the other. After having talked reason with older heads, one loves to talk nonsense with youth. Therefore, if the threads of this story do not seem very intimately to connect the chapter we are now writing with that we have just written, we do not intend to give ourselves any more thought or trouble about it than Ruysdael took in painting an autumn sky, after having finished a spring-time scene. We wish our readers to do as much, and to resume Raoul de Bragelonne's story at the very place where our last sketch left him.
In a state of frenzy and dismay, or rather without power or will of his own—without knowing what to do—he fled heedlessly away after the scene in La Valliere's room. The king, Montalais, Louise, that chamber, that strange exclusion, Louise's grief, Montalais's terror, the king's wrath—all seemed to indicate some misfortune. But what? He had arrived from London because he had been told of the existence of a danger; and almost on his arrival this appearance of danger was manifest. Was not this sufficient for a lover? Certainly it was; but it was insufficient for a pure and upright heart such as his. And yet Raoul did not seek for explanations in the very quarter where all jealous or less timid lovers would have done. He did not go straightway to his mistress, and say, "Louise, is it true that you love me no longer? Is it true that you love another?" Full of courage, full of friendship as he was full of love; a religious observer of his word, and believing blindly the words of others, Raoul said within himself, "Guiche wrote to put me on my guard; Guiche knows something; I will go and ask Guiche what he knows, and tell him what I have seen." The journey was not a long one. Guiche, who had been brought, from Fontainebleau to Paris within the last two days, was beginning to recover from his wound, and to walk about a little in his room. He uttered a cry of joy as he saw Raoul, earnest in his friendship, enter his apartment. Raoul, too, had not been able to refrain from exclaiming aloud, when he saw De Guiche so pale, so thin, so melancholy. A very few words, and a simple gesture which De Guiche made to put aside Raoul's arm, were sufficient to inform the latter of the truth.
"Ah! so it is," said Raoul, seating himself beside his friend: "one loves and dies."
"No, no, not dies," replied Guiche, smiling, "since I am now recovering, and since, too, I can press you in my arms."
"Ah! I understand."
"And I understand you, too. You fancy I am unhappy, Raoul?"
"Alas!"
"No; I am the happiest of men. My body suffers, but not my mind or my heart. If you only knew—Oh! I am, indeed, the very happiest of men."
"So much the better," replied Raoul; "so much the better, provided it lasts."
"It is over. I have had enough happiness to last me to my dying day, Raoul."
"I have no doubt you have had; but she—"
"Listen; I love her, because—but you are not listening to me."
"I beg your pardon."
"Your mind is preoccupied."
"Yes; your health, in the first place—"
"It is not that, I know."
"My dear friend, you would be wrong, I think, to ask me any questions—you, of all persons in the world;" and he laid so much weight upon the "you," that he completely enlightened his friend upon the nature of the evil, and the difficulty of remedying it.
"You say that, Raoul, on account of what I wrote to you."
"Certainly. We will talk over that matter a little when you shall have finished telling me of all your own pleasures and pains."
"My dear friend. I am entirely at your service now."
"Thank you; I have hurried, I have flown here; I came here in half the time the government couriers usually take. Now, tell me, my dear friend, what did you want."
"Nothing whatever, but to make you come."
"Well, then, I am here."
"All is quite right, then."
"There must have been something else, I suppose?"
"No, indeed."
"De Guiche!"
"Upon my honor!"
"You cannot possibly have crushed all my hopes so violently, or have exposed me to being disgraced by the king for my return, which is in disobedience of his orders—you cannot, I say, have planted jealousy in my heart, merely to say to me, 'It is all right, be perfectly easy!'"
"I do not say to you, Raoul, 'Be perfectly easy;' but pray understand me; I never will, nor can I, indeed, tell you anything else."
"What sort of a person do you take me for?"
"What do you mean?"
"If you know anything, why conceal it from me? If you do not know anything, why did you write so warningly?"
"True, true, I was very wrong, and Iregret having done so, Raoul. It seems nothing to write to a friend and say 'Come;' but to have this friend face to face, to feel him tremble, and breathlessly and anxiously wait to hear what one hardly dare tell him, is very different."
"Dare! I have courage enough, if you have not," exclaimed Raoul, in despair.
"See how unjust you are, and how soon you forget you have to do with a poor wounded fellow such as your unhappy friend is. So, calm yourself, Raoul. I said to you, 'Come'—you are here, so ask me nothing further."
"Your object in telling me to come was your hope that I should see with my own eyes, was it not? Nay, do not hesitate, for I have seen all."
"Oh!" exclaimed De Guiche.
"Or at least I thought—"
"There now, you see you are not sure. But if you have any doubt, my poor friend, what remains for me to do?"
"I saw Louise much agitated—Montalais in a state of bewilderment—the king—"
"The king?"
"Yes. You turn your head aside. The danger is there, the evil is there; tell me, is it not so, is it not the king?"
"I say nothing."
"Oh! you say a thousand upon a thousand times more than nothing. Give me facts, for pity's sake, give me proofs. My friend, the only friend I have, speak—tell me all. My heart is crushed, wounded to death; I am dying from despair."
"If that really be so, as I see it is, indeed, dear Raoul," replied De Guiche, "you relieve me from my difficulty, and I will tell you all, perfectly sure that I can tell you nothing but what is consoling, compared to the despair from which I now see you suffering."
"Go on—go on; I am listening."
"Well, then, I can only tell you what you can learn from every person you meet."
"From every one, do you say? It is talked about, then?"
"Before you say people talk about it, learn what it is that people can talk about. I assure you solemnly that people only talk about what may, in truth, be very innocent; perhaps a walk—"
"Ah! a walk with the king?"
"Yes, certainly, a walk with the king; and I believe the king has already very frequently before taken walks with ladies, without, on that account—"
"You would not have written to me, shall I say again, if there had been nothing unusual in this promenade."
"I know that while the storm lasted, it would have been far better if the king had taken shelter somewhere else, than to have remained with his head uncovered before La Valliere; but the king is so very courteous and polite."
"Oh! De Guiche, De Guiche, you are killing me!"
"Do not let us talk any more, then."
"Nay; let us continue. This walk was followed by others, I suppose?"
"No—I mean yes; there was the adventure of the oak, I think. But I know nothing about the matter at all." Raoul rose; De Guiche endeavored to imitate him, notwithstanding his weakness. "Well, I will not add another word; I have said either too much or not enough. Let others give you further information if they will, or if they can; my duty was to warn you, and that I have done. Watch over your own affairs now yourself."
"Question others! Alas; you are no true friend to speak to me in that manner," said the young man, in utter distress. "The first man I may meet may be evilly disposed or a fool; if the former, he will tell me a lie to make me suffer more than I now do; if the latter, he will do far worse still. Ah! De Guiche, De Guiche, before two hours are over, I shall have been told ten falsehoods, and shall have as many duels on my hands. Save me, then; is it not best to know the whole misfortune?"
"But I know nothing, I tell you; I was wounded, attacked by fever; my senses were gone, and I have only a very faint recollection of it all. But there is no reason why we should search very far, when the very man we want is close at hand. Is not D'Artagnan your friend?"
"Oh! true, true."
"Go to him, then. He will be able to throw some light on the subject." At this moment a lackey entered the room. "What is it?" said De Guiche.
"Some one is waiting for monseigneur in the Cabinet des Porcelaines."
"Very well. Will you excuse me, my dear Raoul? I am so proud since I have been able to walk again."
"I would offer you my arm, De Guiche, if I did not guess that the person in question is a lady."
"I believe so," said De Guiche, smiling, as he quitted Raoul.
Raoul remained motionless, absorbed in his grief, overwhelmed, like the miner upon whom a vault has just fallen in, wounded, his life-blood welling fast, his thoughts confused, endeavors to recover himself, and to save his life and to preserve his reason. A few minutes were all Raoul needed to dissipate the bewildering sensations which had been occasioned by these two revelations. He had already recovered the thread of his ideas, when, suddenly, through the door, he fancied he recognized Montalais's voice in the Cabinet des Porcelaines. "She!" he cried. "Yes; it is indeed her voice! She will be able to tell me the whole truth; but shall I question her here? She conceals herself even from me; she is coming no doubt from Madame. I will see her in her own apartment. She will explain her alarm, her flight, the strange manner in which I was driven out; she will tell me all that—after M. d'Artagnan, who knows everything, shall have given me fresh strength and courage. Madame, a coquette, I fear, and yet a coquette who is herself in love, has her moments of kindness; a coquette who is as capricious and uncertain as life or death, but who tells De Guiche that he is the happiest of men. He at least is lying on roses." And so he hastily quitted the comte's apartments, and reproaching himself as he went for having talked of nothing but his own affairs to De Guiche, he arrived at D'Artagnan's quarters.
The captain was sitting buried in his leathern armchair, his spur fixed in the floor, his sword between his legs, and was occupied in reading a great number of letters, as he twisted his mustache. D'Artagnan uttered a welcome full of pleasure when he perceived his friend's son. "Raoul, my boy," he said, "by what lucky accident does it happen that the king has recalled you?"
These words did not sound over agreeably in the young man's ears, who, as he seated himself, replied, "Upon my word, I cannot tell you; all that I know is that I have come back."
"Hum!" said D'Artagnan, folding up his letters and directing a look full of meaning at him; "what do you say, my boy? that the king has not recalled you, and that you have returned? I do not understand that at all."
Raoul was already pale enough, and he began to turn his hat round and round in his hand.
"What the deuce is the matter that you look as you do, and what makes you so dumb?" said the captain. "Do people assume that sort of airs in England? I have been in England, and came back again as lively as a chaffinch. Will you not say something?"
"I have too much to say."
"Ah! ah! how is your father?"
"Forgive me, my dear friend, I was going to ask you that?"
D'Artagnan increased the sharpness of his penetrating gaze, which no secret was capable of resisting. "You are unhappy about something," he said.
"I am, indeed; and you know very well what, Monsieur d'Artagnan."
"I?"
"Of course. Nay, do not pretend to be astonished."
"I am not pretending to be astonished, my friend."
"Dear captain, I know very well that in all trials offinesse, as well as in all trials of strength, I shall be beaten byyou. You can see that at the present moment I am an idiot, a perfect fool. I have neither head nor arm; do not despise, but help me. In two words, I am the most wretched of living beings."
"Oh! oh! why that?" inquired D'Artagnan, unbuckling his belt and softening the ruggedness of his smile.
"Because Mademoiselle de la Valliere is deceiving me."
"She is deceiving you," said D'Artagnan, not a muscle of whose face had moved; "those are big words. Who makes use of them?"
"Every one."
"Ah! if every one says so, there must be some truth in it. I begin to believe there is fire when I see the smoke. It is ridiculous, perhaps, but so it is."
"Therefore you do believe?" exclaimed Bragelonne, quickly.
"I never mix myself up in affairs of that kind; you know that very well."
"What! not for a friend, for a son!"
"Exactly. If you were a stranger, I should tell you—I should tellyounothing at all. How is Porthos, do you know?"
"Monsieur," cried Raoul, pressing D'Artagnan's hand, "I entreat you in the name of the friendship you have vowed to my father!"
"The deuce take it, you are really ill—from curiosity."
"No; it is not from curiosity, it is from love."
"Good. Another grand word. If you were really in love, my dear Raoul, you would be very different."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that if you were so deeply in love that I could believe I was addressing myself to your heart—but it is impossible."
"I tell you I love Louise to distraction."
D'Artagnan could read to the very bottom of the young man's heart.
"Impossible, I tell you," he said. "You are like all young men; you are not in love, you are out of your senses."
"Well! suppose it were only that?"
"No sensible man ever succeeded in making much of a brain when the head was turned. I have completely lost my senses in the same way a hundred times in my life. You would listen to me, but you would not hear me; you would hear, but you would not understand me; you would understand, but you would not obey me."
"Oh! try, try."
"I go far. Even if I were unfortunate enough to know something, and foolish enough to communicate it to you—— You are my friend, you say?"
"Indeed, yes."
"Very good. I should quarrel with you. You would never forgive me for having destroyed your illusion, as people say of love affairs."
"Monsieur d'Artagnan, you know all; and yet you plunge me in perplexity and despair, in death itself."
"There, there, now."
"I never complain, as you know; but as Heaven and my father would never forgive me for blowing out my brains, I will go and get the first person I meet to give me the information which you withhold; I will tell him he lies, and—"
"And you would kill him. And a fine affair that would be. So much the better. What should I care for it. Kill any one you please, my boy, if it can give you any pleasure. It is exactly like the man with the toothache who keeps on saying, 'Oh! what torture I am suffering. I could bite a piece of iron in half.' My answer always is, 'Bite, my friend, bite; the tooth will remain all the same.'"
"I shall not kill any one, monsieur," said Raoul, gloomily.
"Yes, yes! you now assume a different tone; instead of killing, you will get killed yourself, I suppose you mean? Very fine, indeed! How much I should regret you! Of course I should go about all day, saying, 'Ah! what a fine stupid fellow that Bragelonne was! as great a stupid as I ever met with. I have passed my whole life almost in teaching him how to hold and use his sword properly, and the silly fellow has got himself spitted like a lark.' Go, then, Raoul, go and get yourself disposed of, if you like. I hardly know who can have taught you logic, but deuce take me if your father has not been regularly robbed of his money by whoever did so."
Raoul buried his face in his hands, murmuring, "No, no; I have not a single friend in the world."
"Oh! bah!" said D'Artagnan.
"I meet with nothing but raillery or indifference."
"Idle fancies, monsieur. I do not laugh at you, although I am a Gascon. And, as for being indifferent, if I were so, I should have sent you about your business a quarter of an hour ago, for you would make a man who was out of his senses with delight as dull as possible, and would be the death of one who was only out of spirits. How now, young man! do you wish me to disgust you with the girl you are attached to, and to teach you to execrate the whole sex who constitute the honor and happiness of human life?"
"Oh! tell me, monsieur, and I will bless you."
"Do you think, my dear fellow, that I can have crammed into my brain all about the carpenter, and the painter, and the staircase, and a hundred other similar tales of the same kind?"
"A carpenter! what do you mean?"
"Upon my word, I don't know; some one told me there was a carpenter who made an opening through a certain flooring."
"In La Valliere's room?"
"Oh! I don't know where."
"In the king's apartment, perhaps?"
"Of course, if it were in the king's apartment, I should tell you, I suppose."
"In whose room, then?"
"I have told you for the last hour that I know nothing of the whole affair."
"But the painter, then? the portrait—"
"It seems that the king wished to have the portrait of one of the ladies belonging to the court."
"La Valliere's?"
"Why, you seem to have only that name in your mouth. Who spoke to you of La Valliere?"
"If it be not her portrait, then, why do you suppose it would concern me?"
"I do not suppose it will concern you. But you ask me all sorts of questions, andI answer you. You positively will learn all the scandal of the affair, and I tell you—make the best you can of it."
Raoul struck his forehead with his hand in utter despair. "It will kill me!" he said.
"So you have said already."
"Yes, you're right," and he made a step or two as if he were going to leave.
"Where are you going?"
"To look for some one who will tell me the truth."
"Who is that?"
"A woman."
"Mademoiselle de la Valliere herself, I suppose you mean?" said D'Artagnan, with a smile. "Ah! a famous idea that! You wish to be consoled by some one, and you will be so at once. She will tell you nothing ill of herself, of course. So be off."
"You are mistaken, monsieur," replied Raoul; "the woman I mean will tell me all the evil she possibly can."
"You allude to Montalais, I suppose—her friend; a woman who, on that account, will exaggerate all that is either bad or good in the matter. Do not talk to Montalais, my good fellow."
"You have some reason for wishing me not to talk with Montalais?"
"Well, I admit it. And, in point of fact, why should I play with you as a cat does with a poor mouse? You distress me, you do indeed. And if I wish you not to speak to Montalais just now, it is because you will be betraying your secret, and people will take advantage of it. Wait, if you can."
"I cannot."
"So much the worse. Why, you see, Raoul, if I had an idea—but I have not got one."
"Promise that you will pity me, my friend, that is all I need, and leave me to get out of the affair by myself."
"Oh! yes, indeed, in order that you may get deeper into the mire! A capital idea, truly! go and sit down at that table and take a pen in your hand."
"What for?"
"To write to ask Montalais to give you an interview."
"Ah!" said Raoul, snatching eagerlyat the pen which the captain held out to him.
Suddenly the door opened, and one of the musketeers, approaching D'Artagnan, said, "Captain, Mademoiselle de Montalais is here, and wishes to speak to you."
"To me?" murmured D'Artagnan. "Ask her to come in; I shall soon see," he said to himself, "whether she wishes to speak to me or not."
The cunning captain was quite right in his suspicions; for as soon as Montalais entered, she exclaimed, "Oh, monsieur! monsieur! I beg your pardon, Monsieur d'Artagnan."
"Oh! I forgive you, mademoiselle," said D'Artagnan; "I know that, at my age, those who are looking for me generally need me for something or another."
"I was looking for M. de Bragelonne," replied Montalais.
"How very fortunate that is; he was looking for you, too. Raoul, will you accompany Mademoiselle de Montalais?"
"Oh! certainly."
"Go along, then," he said, as he gently pushed Raoul out of the cabinet; and then, taking hold of Montalais's hand, he said in a low voice, "Be kind toward him; spare him, and spare her, too, if you can."
"Ah!" she said, in the same tone of voice, "it is not I who am going to speak to him."
"Who, then?"
"It is Madame who has sent for him."
"Very good," cried D'Artagnan, "it is Madame, is it? In an hour's time, then, the poor fellow will be cured."
"Or else dead," said Montalais, in a voice full of compassion. "Adieu, Monsieur d'Artagnan," she said; and she ran to join Raoul, who was waiting for her at a little distance from the door, very much puzzled and uneasy at the dialogue, which promised no good augury for him.
Lovers are very tender toward everything which concerns the person they are in love with. Raoul no sooner found himself alone with Montalais than he kissed her hand with rapture. "There, there," said the young girl sadly, "you are throwing your kisses away; I will guarantee that they will not bring you back any interest."
"How so?—Why?—Will you explain to me, my dear Aure?"
"Madame will explain everything to you. I am going to take you to her apartments."
"What!"
"Silence! and throw aside your wild and savage looks. The windows here have eyes, the walls have ears. Have the kindness not to look at me any longer; be good enough to speak to me aloud of the rain, of the fine weather, and of the charms of England."
"At all events—" interrupted Raoul.
"I tell you, I warn you, that wherever it may be, I know not now, Madame is sure to have eyes and ears open. I am not very desirous, you can easily believe, to be dismissed or thrown into the Bastille. Let us talk, I tell you, or rather, do not let us talk at all."
Raoul clenched his hands, and tried to assume the look and gait of a man of courage, it is true, but of a man of courage on his way to the torture. Montalais, glancing in every direction, walking along with an easy swinging gait, and holding up her head pertly in the air, preceded him to Madame's apartments, where he was at once introduced. "Well," he thought, "this day will pass away without my learning anything. Guiche showed too much consideration for my feelings; he had no doubt come to an understanding with Madame, and both of them, by a friendly plot, agreed to postpone the solution of the problem. Why have I not a determined inveterate enemy—that serpent, De Wardes, for instance; that he would bite is very likely: but I should not hesitate any more. To hesitate, to doubt—better by far to die."
The next moment Raoul was in Madame's presence. Henrietta, more charming than ever, was half lying, half reclining in her armchair, her little feet upon an embroidered velvet cushion; she was playing with a little kitten with long silky fur, which was biting her fingers and hanging by the lace of her collar.
Madame seemed plunged in deep thought, so deep, indeed, that it required both Montalais and Raoul's voice to disturb her from her reverie.
"Your highness sent for me?" repeated Raoul.
Madame shook her head, as if she were just awakening, and then said, "Good-morning, Monsieur de Bragelonne; yes, I sent for you; so you have returned from England?"
"Yes, madame, and am at your royal highness's commands."
"Thank you; leave us, Montalais;" and the latter immediately left the room.
"You have a few minutes to give me, Monsieur de Bragelonne, have you not?"
"My very life is at your royal highness's disposal," Raoul returned, with respect, guessing that there was something serious in all these outward courtesies of Madame; nor was he displeased, indeed, to observe the seriousness of her manner, feeling persuaded that there was some sort of affinity between Madame's sentiments and his own. In fact, every one at court of any perception at all knew perfectly well the capricious fancy and absurd despotism of the princess's singular character. Madame had been flattered beyond all bounds by the king's attentions; she had made herself talked about; she had inspired the queen with that mortal jealousy which is the gnawing worm at the root of every woman's happiness; Madame in a word, in her attempts to cure a wounded pride, had found that her heart had become deeply and passionately attached. We know what Madame had done to recall Raoul, who had been sent out of the way by Louis XIV. Raoul did not know of her letter to Charles II., although D'Artagnan had guessed its contents. Who will undertake to account for that seemingly inexplicable mixture of love and vanity, that passionate tenderness of feeling, that prodigious duplicity of conduct? No one can, indeed; noteven the bad angel who kindles the love of coquetry in the heart of woman. "Monsieur de Bragelonne," said the princess, after a moment's pause, "have you returned satisfied?"
Bragelonne looked at Madame Henrietta, and seeing how pale she was, not alone from what she was keeping back, but also from what she was burning to say, said: "Satisfied! what is there for me to be satisfied or dissatisfied about, madame?"
"But what are those things with which a man of your age and of your appearance is usually either satisfied or dissatisfied?"
"How eager she is," thought Raoul, almost terrified; "what is it that she is going to breathe into my heart?" and then, frightened at what she might possibly be going to tell him, and wishing to put off the opportunity of having everything explained which he had hitherto so ardently wished for, yet had dreaded so much, he replied, "I left behind me, madame, a dear friend in good health, and on my return I find him very ill."
"You refer to M. de Guiche," replied Madame Henrietta, with the most imperturbable self-possession; "I have heard he is a very dear friend of yours."
"He is indeed, madame."
"Well, it is quite true he has been wounded; but he is better now. Oh! M. de Guiche is not to be pitied," she said hurriedly; and then, recovering herself, added, "But has he anything to complain of? Has he complained of anything? Is there any cause of grief or sorrow that we are not acquainted with?"
"I allude only to his wound, madame."
"So much the better, then, for, in other respects, M. de Guiche seems to be very happy; he is always in very high spirits. I am sure that you, Monsieur de Bragelonne, would far prefer to be, like him, wounded only in the body ... for what, indeed, is such a wound, after all!"
Raoul started. "Alas!" he said to himself, "she is returning to it."
"What did you say?" she inquired.
"I did not say anything, madame."
"You did not say anything; you disapprove of my observation, then? you are perfectly satisfied, I suppose?"
Raoul approached closer to her. "Madame," he said, "your royal highness wishes to say something to me, and your instinctive kindness and generosity of disposition induce you to be careful and considerate as to your manner of conveying it. Will your royal highness throw this kind forbearance aside? I am able to bear everything; and I am listening."
"Ah!" replied Henrietta, "what do you understand, then?"
"That which your royal highness wishes me to understand," said Raoul, trembling, notwithstanding his command over himself, as he pronounced these words.
"In point of fact," murmured the princess ... "it seems cruel, but since I have begun—"
"Yes, madame, since your highness has deigned to begin, will you deign to finish—"
Henrietta rose hurriedly, and walked a few paces up and down the room. "What did M. de Guiche tell you?" she said, suddenly.
"Nothing, madame."
"Nothing! Did he say nothing? Ah! how well I recognize him in that."
"No doubt he wished to spare me."
"And that is what friends call friendship. But surely. Monsieur d'Artagnan, whom you have just left, must have told you."
"No more than Guiche, madame."
Henrietta made a gesture full of impatience, as she said, "At least, you know all that the court has known!"
"I know nothing at all, madame."
"Not the scene in the storm?"
"No, madame."
"Not the tete-à-tete in the forest?"
"No, madame."
"Nor the flight to Chaillot?"
Raoul, whose head drooped like flower which has been cut down by the sickle, made an almost superhuman effort to smile, as he replied with the greatest gentleness: "I have had the honor to tell your royal highness that I am absolutely ignorant of everything, that I am a poor unremembered outcast, who has this moment arrived from England. There have been so many stormy waves between myself and those whom I left behind me here, that the rumor of none of the circumstances your highness refers to, has been able to reach me."
Henrietta was affected by his extreme pallor, his gentleness, and his great courage. The principal feeling in her heart at that moment was an eager desire to hear the nature of the remembrance which the poor lover retained of her who had made him suffer so much. "Monsieur de Bragelonne," she said, "that which your friends have refused to do, I will do for you, whom I like and esteem very much. I will be your friend on this occasion. You hold your head high, as a man of honor should do; and I should regret that you should have to bow it down under ridicule, and in a few days, it may be, under contempt."
"Ah!" exclaimed Raoul, perfectly livid. "It is as bad as that, then?"
"If you do not know," said the princess, "I see that you guess; you were affianced, I believe, to Mademoiselle de la Valliere?"
"Yes, madame."
"By that right, then, you deserve to be warned about her, as some day or another I shall be obliged to dismiss Mademoiselle de la Valliere from my service—"
"Dismiss La Valliere!" cried Bragelonne.
"Of course. Do you suppose that I shall always be accessible to the tears and protestations of the king. No, no; my house shall no longer be made a convenience for such practices; but you tremble, you cannot stand—"
"No, madame, no," said Bragelonne, making an effort over himself; "I thought I should have died just now, that was all. Your royal highness did me the honor to say that the king wept and implored you—"
"Yes, but in vain," returned the princess; who then related to Raoul the scene that took place at Chaillot, and the king's despair on his return; she told him of his indulgence to herself, and the terrible word with which the outraged princess, the humiliated coquette, had dashed aside the royal anger.
Raoul stood with his head bent down.
"What do you think of it all?" she said.
"The king loves her," he replied.
"But you seem to think she does not love him!"
"Alas, madame, I am thinking of the time when she loved me."
Henrietta was for a moment struck with admiration at this sublime disbelief; and then, shrugging her shoulders, she said, "You do not believe me, I see. How deeply you must love her, and you doubt if she loves the king?"
"I do, until I have a proof of it. Forgive me, madame, but she has given me her word; and her mind and heart are too upright to tell a falsehood."
"You require a proof! Be it so. Come with me, then."