"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?"
"Yes. The general—I mean the Franciscan—was sent to me; and, for the purpose of conforming with the requisitions of the statutes 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 ought, therefore, to seem to possess a power of usefulness of some kind or other. 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 into me.Youobliged to receive a pension from the Jesuits?"
"No, chevalier; from Spain."
"Except as 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 the darkness.
"Yes, she has forgotten everything."
"You have, I believe, attempted to get restored to favor?"
"Yes; but, most singularly, the young king inherits the antipathy that his dear father had for me. You will, too, 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 arrive soon at the circumstance which 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."
"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 travels, 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 where the affiliated travelers had 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 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 arenot 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."
"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 upward 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, "Ifyou 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."
"Fouquet! He is more than half ruined, madame."
"So it is said, but I would 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 surintendant, according to these letters, which are signed by Mazarin, had taken thirty millions of francs from the coffers of the state. The case is a very serious one."
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 little matters as these in reserve. The day may come when they may be of service; and they can then be withdrawn from the safe custody in which they now are."
"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 I 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—"
"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, the Signor Mazarin, 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 reply 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 the art of multiplication. What excellent calculators we are! How well we could 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 could 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 it can."
"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 surintendant is unable to do."
"Oh! certainly. But tell me, do you not 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 now 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 of attack is always a weapon."
"No doubt."
"And once on friendly terms again with the queen-mother, I may be dangerous toward some persons."
"You are at perfect liberty to be 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 will be 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 Frondes, 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 the 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, thanks to a reconciliation with Anne of Austria, I will undertake that France should insist upon M. Laicques' 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 thegerms of misfortune for whoever may reveal them."
The duchesse paused and reflected for a moment, and then said, "That is more serious, I will think over it."
And, notwithstanding the profound obscurity, Aramis seemed to feel a burning glance, like a 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; good accounts make good friends."
"The suppression of your pension—"
"Forty-eight thousand francs, and that of Laicques 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.
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 the double of it, 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 is yours. 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 will 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, 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."
"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 say are 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 say it."
"Your great complaisance would seem very suspicious, at all events."
"That is quite true; but what is not less so is that which the letter contains."
"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, viper that you are!"
But the duchesse had said enough, and advanced a few steps toward the door. Aramis, however, had reserved an exposure which she did not expect—the imprecation of the slave behind the car of the conqueror. 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 and ironical look upon her pale, thin, withered cheeks—upon her dim, dull eyes—and upon her lips, which she kept carefully closed over her blackened and 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 his teeth, which were still brilliant and dazzling. The old 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.
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 toward the Rue Croix des Petits Champs, where M. Colbert resided.
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 homeward, 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, withoutfeeling 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, folded the paper in a manner peculiarly her own, 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'scalotte, 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."
"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 toward her. "Monsieur Colbert, you are the intendant of finances, and are ambitious of becoming the surintendant?"
"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 toward 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 surintendant 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 Monsieur 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 de 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?"
"You give me a very poor idea of negotiators 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 very high order of intellect, and had said to him about the cardinal what I have just now 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, you do 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 you 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 depth 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 it makes an impression upon you."
"It is because that word, madame, embraces so many things."
"It embraces the post of surintendant of finance for yourself, and a letter of exile, or the Bastille, 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.
"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 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 administrations, the army, justice itself, and commerce, are intimately connected by ties of good fellowship, which people callesprit 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."
"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 crime be to me, without the possibility of obtaining a condemnation?"
"Even if he be only suspected, M. Fouquet will lose his post of surintendant."
"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 has 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 kind 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 arise 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 Béguines 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 Béguines of Bruges; her majesty will recover, and will burn as many wax candles as she may think 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 toward the queen in some measure covers a slight personal interest for yourself."
"I have not given myself the troubleto 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 for them."
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 you 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 a good deal, the duchesse looked at him full in the face.
"You prefer your own carriage?" she said.
"I admit that I do."
"You suppose that 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, and, as I am clothed in 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 us, we are the only persons who know it; if a third had witnessed, we might as well have told the whole world of 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 already? 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; every man who feels youth, faith, love, life itself, throbbing in his heart, would prefer tears 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, re-fastening 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."
"What do you term those religious women at Bruges who cure disorders?"
"Béguines."
"Good; you are 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 gentlemen in waiting on her majesty 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 render to the intendant an account of the principal details of the business which had been transacted during the day in the sitting of the 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 to him, and burying his head in his hands for a few minutes, reflected profoundly. In the meantime, a tall, large-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 toward the master who could throw him the prey, firm toward the dogs who might possibly be disposed to dispute it with him. 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 toministers," 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 my 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 to try to read, upon Vanel's face how much actual sincerity entered into this protestation of devotion. But the counselor knew perfectly well how to sustain the weight of his look, even were it armed 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 profession, but Colbert recollected that this man, inferior to himself in every other respect, was actually his superior through the fact of his having a wife unfaithful to him. At the moment he was pitying this man's lot, Vanel coldly drew from his pocket a perfumed letter, sealed with Spanish wax, and held it toward 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 protégé, "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 the parliament."
"Oh! I am working up some returns for a friend of mine in the department of accounts, and, as I still have time left 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 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."
At these words, Vanel fixed his at once humble and dull look upon Colbert, who could hardly tell whether Vanel had 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 inviolable, for sale! Oh! oh!" said Vanel, beginning to laugh.
"Would you be afraid, then, of the post?" said Colbert, gravely.
"Afraid! no, but—"
"Nor 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. Pellisson, and others."
"Very good; if, therefore, M. Fouquet did wish to sell—"
"I could not buy it just yet, since the surintendant will only sell for ready money, and no one has a million and a half to throw 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 fully 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; he is the means whereby also he can evade the administration of justice. M. Fouquet, therefore, will be able, by stirring up the parliaments, 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-generalship can be made a very useful or 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 were to think as you do!"
"I think so, and that is quite enough; and if it should be needed, I will be your security."
"Do you forget the proverb, monseigneur?"
"What is that?"
"That he who becomes responsible for another has to pay for his responsibility."
"Let that make no difference."
Vanel rose, quite 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. Pellisson also."
"Officially so, or only by their own suggestion?"
"These were their very words: 'These parliamentary people are as proud as they are wealthy; they ought to club together two or three millions among themselves, to present to their protector and great luminary, 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 full 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 notbe 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 on 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. Pellisson. 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 surintendant."
"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! ah!" said Vanel, in a slightly altered tone.
"Is there anything in that which can possibly be objectionable to you, Monsieur Vanel?" said Colbert, coldly.
"Oh! no, no!" replied Vanel, quickly.
"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 friends, obtain an interview with the surintendant; 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 her bedroom at the Palais Royal, with Madame de Motteville and the Senora Molina. The king, who had been impatiently expected the whole day, had not made his appearance; and the queen, who had grown quite impatient, had often sent to inquire about him. The whole atmosphere of the court seemed to indicate an approaching storm; the courtiers and the ladies of the court avoided meeting in the antechambers 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 apartments, 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 politeness, as a circuitous mode of expressing that the king's conduct was making the queen and the queen-mother pine away from 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 in a mother's lips—words full of terrible significance in the mouth of a queen who, like Anne of Austria, hid many curious and dark secrets in her soul.
"Yes," said Molina, "these children! for whom every mother becomes a sacrifice."
"Yes," replied the queen; "a mother has sacrificed everything, certainly." She did not finish her phrase; for she fancied, when she raised her eyes toward the full-length portrait of the pale Louis XIII., that light had once more flashed from her husband's dull eyes, and that his nostrils were inflated by wrath. The portrait seemed animated by a living expression—speak it did not, but it seemed to menace. A profound silence succeeded the queen's last remark. La Molina began to turn over the ribbons and lace of a large work-table. Madame de Motteville, surprised at the look of mutual intelligence which had been exchanged between the confidante 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 instead. She heard nothing, however, but a very significant "hum" on the part of the Spanish duenna, who was the perfect representation of extreme 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 Vallot 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. Vallot being there, when another physician instead would cure Madame."
Madame de Motteville looked up with an air of great surprise, as she replied, "Another doctor instead of M. Vallot?—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 smelling-bottle, and immediately held it to the queen's nostrils, who inhaled it wildly for a few minutes, and murmured:
"It will hasten 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.
"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 had not always regarded that day a sad one."
"Why?"
"Because three and twenty years before, 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 lost for some minutes; but whether from recollections which arose in her mind, or from reflection, or even from sheer pain, it was of course uncertain. La Molina darted almost a furious look at Madame de Motteville, which was 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 of its meaning; 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 have become entirely suspended for a 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 and glistening tears were fast 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 wasde tropin the conversation which seemed likely to take place.
"Will Molina, alone, be sufficient for your majesty to-night?" inquired the Frenchwoman.
"Yes," replied the queen. Madame de Motteville bowed in submission, and was about to withdraw, when, suddenly, an old female attendant, dressed as if shehad 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.
"For your majesty's sufferings," the former replied.
"Who brings it?" asked Madame de Motteville, eagerly; "Monsieur Vallot?"
"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."
"Her face?"
"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 Béguines 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 toward 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 do you happen to know I am suffering?"
"Your majesty has friends in Flanders."
"Since these friends, then, have 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 concealment of the mask, and through her mysterious 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."
"I have made a vow, madame, to attend and aid all afflicted or 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."