"And now we are alone," said the king to Saint-Aignan, "what is the name of De Guiche's adversary?" Saint-Aignan looked at the king.
"Oh! do not hesitate," said the king: "you know that I must forgive."
"De Wardes," said Saint-Aignan.
"Very good," said Louis XIV.; and then hastily retiring to his own room, added to himself, "To forgive is not to forget."
Manicamp quitted the king's apartment delighted at having succeeded so well, when, just as he reached the bottom of the staircase, and was about passing before a doorway, he felt that some one suddenly pulled him by the sleeve. He turned round and recognized Montalais, who was waiting for him in the passage, and who, in a very mysterious manner, with her body bent forward, and in a low tone of voice said to him, "Follow me, monsieur, and without any delay, if you please."
"Where to, mademoiselle?" inquired Manicamp.
"In the first place, a true knight would not have asked such a question, but would have followed me without requiring any explanation."
"Well, mademoiselle, I am quite ready to conduct myself as a true knight."
"No, it is too late, and you cannot take the credit of it. We are going to Madame's apartments, so come at once."
"Ah! ah!" said Manicamp; "lead on, then."
And he followed Montalais, who ran before him as light as Galatea.
"This time," said Manicamp, as he followed his guide, "I do not think that stories about hunting expeditions would be acceptable. We will try, however, and if need be—why, if there should be any occasion for it, we must try something else."
Montalais still ran on.
"How fatiguing it is," thought Manicamp, "to have need of one's head and legs at the same time."
At last, however, they arrived. Madame had just finished undressing, and was in a most elegantdéshabille, but it must be understood that she had changed her dress before she had any idea of being subjected to the emotions which agitated her. She was waiting with the most restless impatience, and Montalais and Manicamp found her standing near the door. At the sound of their approaching footsteps, Madame came forward to meet them. "Ah!" she said, "at last!"
"Here is M. Manicamp," replied Montalais.
Manicamp bowed with the greatest respect; Madame signed to Montalais to withdraw, and she immediately obeyed. Madame followed her with her eyes in silence until the door closed behind her, and then turning toward Manicamp, said, "What is the matter?—and is it true, as I am told, Monsieur de Manicamp, that some one is lying wounded in the chateau?"
"Yes, madame, unfortunately so—Monsieur de Guiche."
"Yes! Monsieur de Guiche," repeated the princess. "I had, in fact, heard it rumored, but not confirmed. And so, in perfect truth, it is Monsieur de Guiche who has been so unfortunate."
"M. de Guiche himself, madame."
"Are you aware, M. de Manicamp," said the princess, hastily, "that the king has the strongest antipathy to duels?"
"Perfectly so, madame; but a duel with a wild beast is not amenable to his majesty."
"Oh, you will not insult me by supposing that I should credit the absurd fable which has been reported, with what object I cannot tell, respecting M. de Guiche having been wounded by a wild boar. No, no, monsieur; the real truth is known, and, in addition to the inconvenience of his wound, M. de Guiche runs the risk of losing his liberty."
"Alas! madame, I am well aware of that, but what is to be done?"
"You have seen the king?"
"Yes, madame."
"What did you say to him?"
"I told him how M. de Guiche had beento the chase, and how a wild boar had rushed forth out of the Bois-Rochin; how M. de Guiche fired at it, and how, in fact, the furious brute dashed at De Guiche, killed his horse, and grievously wounded himself."
"And the king believed that?"
"Perfectly."
"Oh, you surprise me, Monsieur de Manicamp; you surprise me very much." And Madame walked up and down the room, casting a searching look from time to time at Manicamp, who remained motionless and impassible in the same place. At last she stopped. "And yet," she said, "every one here seems united in giving another cause for his wound."
"What cause, madame," said Manicamp, "may I be permitted, without indiscretion, to ask your highness?"
"You ask such a question? You, M. de Guiche's intimate friend, his confidant, indeed!"
"Oh, madame! the intimate friend—yes; the confidant—no; De Guiche is a man who can keep his own secrets, who has some of his own, certainly, but who never breathes a syllable about them. De Guiche is discretion itself, madame."
"Very well, then; those secrets which M. de Guiche keeps so scrupulously, I shall have the pleasure of informing you of," said the princess, almost spitefully; "for the king may possibly question you a second time, and if, on the second occasion, you were to repeat the same story to him, he possibly might not be very well satisfied with it."
"But, madame, I think your highness is mistaken with regard to the king. His majesty has been perfectly satisfied with me, I assure you."
"In that case, permit me to assure you, Monsieur de Manicamp, that only proves one thing, which is, that his majesty is very easily satisfied."
"I think your highness is mistaken in arriving at such an opinion: his majesty is well known not to be contented except with very good reasons."
"And do you suppose that he will thank you for your officious falsehood, when he will learn to-morrow that M. de Guichehad, on behalf of his friend, M. de Bragelonne, a quarrel which ended in a hostile meeting?"
"A quarrel on M. de Bragelonne's account," said Manicamp, with the most innocent expression in the world; "what does your royal highness do me the honor to tell me?"
"What is there astonishing in that? M. de Guiche is susceptible, irritable, and easily loses his temper."
"On the contrary, madame. I know M. de Guiche to be very patient, and never susceptible or irritable except upon very good grounds."
"But is not friendship a just ground?" said the princess.
"Oh, certainly, madame; and particularly for a heart like his."
"Very good: you will not deny, I suppose, that M. de Bragelonne is M. de Guiche's friend?"
"A very great friend."
"Well, then, M. de Guiche has taken M. de Bragelonne's part; and as M. de Bragelonne was absent and could not fight, he fought for him."
Manicamp began to smile, and moved his head and shoulders very slightly, as much as to say. "Oh, if you will positively have it so—"
"But speak, at all events," said the princess, out of patience: "speak!"
"I?"
"Of course; it is quite clear you are not of my opinion, and that you have something to say."
"I have only one thing to say, Madame."
"Name it."
"That I do not understand a single word of what you have just been telling me."
"What!—you do not understand a single word about M. de Guiche's quarrel with M. de Wardes!" exclaimed the princess, almost out of temper.
Manicamp remained silent.
"A quarrel," she continued, "which arose out of a conversation scandalous in its tone and purport, and more or less well founded, respecting the virtue of a certain lady."
"Ah! of a certain lady—that is quite another thing," said Manicamp.
"You begin to understand, do you not?"
"Your highness will excuse me, but I dare not—"
"You dare not," said Madame, exasperated: "very well, then, wait one moment, and I will dare."
"Madame, madame!" exclaimed Manicamp, as if in great dismay, "be careful of what you are going to say."
"It would seem, monsieur, that, if I happened to be a man, you would challenge me, notwithstanding his majesty's edicts, as Monsieur de Guiche challenged M. de Wardes: and that, too, on account of the virtue of Mademoiselle de la Valliere."
"Of Mademoiselle de la Valliere!" exclaimed Manicamp, starting backward, as if hers was the very last name he expected to hear pronounced.
"What makes you start in that manner, Monsieur de Manicamp?" said Madame ironically: "do you mean to say you would be impertinent enough to suspect that young lady's honor?"
"Madame, in the whole course of this affair there has not been the slightest question of Mademoiselle de la Valliere's honor."
"What! when two men have almost blown each other's brains out on a woman's behalf, do you mean to say she has had nothing to do with the affair, and that her name has not been called in question at all? I did not think you so good a courtier. Monsieur de Manicamp."
"Pray forgive me, madame," said the young man, "but we are very far from understanding each other. You do me the honor to speak one kind of language, while I am speaking altogether another."
"I beg your pardon, but I do not understand your meaning."
"Forgive me then: but I fancied I understood your highness to remark that De Guiche and De Wardes had fought on Mademoiselle de la Valliere's account."
"Certainly."
"On account of Mademoiselle de la Valliere, I think you said?" repeated Manicamp.
"I do not say that M. de Guiche personally took an interest in Mademoiselle de la Valliere, but I say that he did so as representing or acting on behalf of another."
"On behalf of another?"
"Come, do not always assume such a bewildered look. Does not every one here know that M. de Bragelonne is affianced to Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and that before he went on the mission with which the king intrusted him, he charged his friend M. de Guiche to watch over that interesting young lady."
"There is nothing more for me to say, then. Your highness is well informed."
"Of everything; so I beg you to understand that clearly."
Manicamp began to laugh, which almost exasperated the princess, who was not, as we know, of a very patient and enduring disposition.
"Madame," resumed the discreet Manicamp, saluting the princess, "let us bury this affair altogether in forgetfulness, for it will never be quite cleared up."
"Oh, as far as that goes, there is nothing more to do, and the information is complete. The king will learn that M. de Guiche has taken up the cause of this little adventuress, who gives herself all the airs of a grand lady; he will learn that Monsieur de Bragelonne, having nominated his friend M. de Guiche his guardian-in-ordinary of the garden of the Hesperides, the latter immediately fastened, as he was required to do, upon the Marquis de Wardes, who ventured to touch the golden apple. Moreover, you cannot pretend to deny, Monsieur Manicamp—you who know everything so well—that the king, on his side, casts a longing eye upon this famous treasure, and that he will bear no slight grudge against M. de Guiche for constituting himself the defender of it. Are you sufficiently well informed now, or do you require anything further—if so, speak, monsieur."
"No, madame, there is nothing more I wish to know."
"Learn, however for you ought toknow it, Monsieur de Manicamp—learn that his majesty's indignation will be followed by terrible consequences. In princes of a similar temperament to that of his majesty, the passion which jealousy causes sweeps down like a whirlwind."
"Which you will temper, madame."
"I!" exclaimed the princess, with a gesture of indescribable irony; "I! and by what title, may I ask?"
"Because you detect injustice, madame."
"And according to your account, then, it would be an injustice to prevent the king arranging his love affairs as he pleases."
"You will intercede, however, in M. de Guiche's favor?"
"You are mad, monsieur," said the princess, in a haughty tone of voice.
"On the contrary, I am in the most perfect possession of my senses; and I repeat, you will defend M. de Guiche before the king."
"Why should I?"
"Because the cause of M. de Guiche is your own, madame," said Manicamp, with all the ardor with which his eyes were kindled.
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean, madame, that, with respect to the defense which Monsieur de Guiche undertook in M. de Bragelonne's absence, I am surprised that your highness has not detected a pretext in La Valliere's name having been brought forward."
"A pretext? But a pretext for what?" repeated the princess, hesitatingly, for Manicamp's steady look had just revealed something of the truth to her.
"I trust, madame," said the young man, "I have said sufficient to induce your highness not to overwhelm before his majesty my poor friend, De Guiche, against whom all the malevolence of a party bitterly opposed to your own will now be directed."
"You mean, on the contrary, I suppose, that all those who have no great affection for Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and even, perhaps, a few of those who have some regard for her, will be angry with the comte?"
"Oh, madame! why will you push your obstinacy to such an extent, and refuse to open your ears and listen to the counsel of one whose devotion to you is unbounded? Must I expose myself to the risk of your displeasure—am I really to be called upon to name, contrary to my own wish, the person who was the real cause of this quarrel?"
"The person?" said Madame blushing.
"Must I," continued Manicamp, "tell you how poor De Guiche became irritated, furious, exasperated beyond all control, at the different rumors which are circulating about this person? Must I, if you persist in this willful blindness, and if respect should continue to prevent me naming her—must I, I repeat, recall to your recollection the various scenes which Monsieur had with the Duke of Buckingham, and the insinuations which were reported respecting the duke's exile? Must I remind you of the anxious care the comte always took in his efforts to please, to watch, to protect that person for whom alone he lives—for whom alone he breathes? Well! I will do so; and when I shall have made you recall all the particulars I refer to, you will perhaps understand how it happened that the comte, having lost all control over himself, and having been for some time past almost harassed to death by De Wardes, became, at the first disrespectful expression which the latter pronounced respecting the person in question, inflamed with passion, and panted only for an opportunity of revenging the affront."
The princess concealed her face in her hands. "Monsieur, monsieur!" she exclaimed; "do you know what you are saying, and to whom you are speaking?"
"Therefore, madame," pursued Manicamp, as if he had not heard the exclamations of the princess, "nothing will astonish you any longer—neither the comte's ardor in seeking the quarrel, nor his wonderful address in transferring it to a quarter foreign to your own personal interests. That latter circumstance was, indeed, a marvelous instance of tact and perfect coolness, and if the person in whose behalf the comte so fought and shed his blood does, in reality, owe some gratitude to the poor wounded sufferer, it is not on account of the blood he has shed, or for the agony he has suffered, but for the steps he has taken to preserve from comment or reflection an honor which is more precious to him than his own."
"Oh!" cried Madame, as if she had been alone, "is it possible the quarrel was on my account!"
Manicamp felt he could now breathe for a moment—and gallantly had he won the right to do so. Madame, on her side, remained for some time plunged in a painful reverie. Her agitation could be seen by her quick respiration, by her languishing looks, by the frequency with which she pressed her hand upon her heart. But, in her, coquetry was not so much a passive quality, as, on the contrary, a fire which sought for fuel to maintain itself, and which found what it required.
"If it be as you assert," she said, "the comte will have obliged two persons at the same time; for Monsieur de Bragelonne also owes a deep debt of gratitude to M. de Guiche—and with far greater reason, indeed, because everywhere, and on every occasion, Mademoiselle de la Valliere will be regarded as having been defended by this generous champion."
Manicamp perceived that there still remained some lingering doubt in the princess's heart. "A truly admirable service indeed," he said, "is the one he has rendered to Mademoiselle de la Valliere! A truly admirable service to M. de Bragelonne! The duel has created a sensation which, in some respects, casts a dishonorable suspicion upon that young girl; a sensation, indeed, which will embroil her with the vicomte. The consequence is, that De Wardes' pistol-bullet has had three results instead of one; it destroys at the same time the honor of a woman, the happiness of a man, and, perhaps, it has wounded to death one of the best gentlemen in France. Oh, madame! your logic is cold and calculating; it always condemns—it never absolves."
Manicamp's concluding words scattered to the winds the last doubt which lingered, not in Madame's heart, but in her head. She was no longer a princess full of scruples, nor a woman with her ever-returning suspicions, but one whose heart had just felt the mortal chill of a wound. "Wounded to death!" she murmured, in a faltering voice, "oh, Monsieur de Manicamp! did you not say, wounded to death?"
Manicamp returned no other answer than a deep sigh.
"And so you said that the comte is dangerously wounded?" continued the princess.
"Yes, madame; one of his hands is shattered, and he has a bullet lodged in his breast."
"Gracious heavens!" resumed the princess, with a feverish excitement, "this is horrible, Monsieur de Manicamp! a hand shattered, do you say, and a bullet in his breast? And that coward! that wretch! that assassin, De Wardes, who did it!"
Manicamp seemed overcome by a violent emotion. He had, in fact, displayed no little energy in the latter part of his speech. As for Madame, she entirely threw aside all regard for the formal observances of propriety which society imposes: for when, with her, passion spoke in accents either of anger or sympathy, nothing could any longer restrain her impulses. Madame approached Manicamp, who had sunk down upon a seat, as if his grief were a sufficiently powerful excuse for his infraction of one of the laws of etiquette. "Monsieur," she said, seizing him by the hand, "be frank with me."
Manicamp looked up.
"Is M. de Guiche in danger of death?"
"Doubly so, madame," he replied; "in the first place on account of the hemorrhage which has taken place, an artery having been injured in the hand; and next, in consequence of the wound in his breast, which may—the doctor is afraid of it, at least—have injured some vital part."
"He may die, then?"
"Die, yes, madame; and without even having had the consolation of knowing that you have been told of his devotion."
"You will tell him."
"I?"
"Yes; are you not his friend?"
"I? oh no, madame. I will only tell M. de Guiche—if, indeed, he is still in a condition to hear me—I will only tell him what I have seen—that is, your cruelty for him."
"Oh, monsieur, you will not be guilty of such barbarity!"
"Indeed, madame, I shall speak the truth, for nature is very energetic in a man of his age. The physicians are clever men, and if, by chance, the poor comte should survive his wound, I should not wish him to die of a wound of the heart, after having escaped that of the body." And Manicamp, rose, and, with an expression of profound respect, seemed to be desirous of taking leave.
"At least, monsieur," said Madame, stopping him with almost a suppliant air, "you will be kind enough to tell me in what state your wounded friend is, and who is the physician who attends him?"
"As regards the state he is in, madame, he is seriously ill; his physician is M. Valot, his majesty's private medical attendant. M. Valot is, moreover, assisted by a professional friend, to whose house M. de Guiche has been carried."
"What! he is not in the chateau?" said Madame.
"Alas, madame! the poor fellow was so ill that he could not even be conveyed hither."
"Give me the address, monsieur," said the princess, hurriedly: "I will send to inquire after him."
"Rue du Feurre: a brick-built house, with white outside blinds. The doctor's name is on the door."
"You are returning to your wounded friend. Monsieur de Manicamp?"
"Yes, madame."
"You will be able, then, to do me a service."
"I am at your highness's orders."
"Do what you intended to do; return to M. de Guiche, send away all those whom you may find there, and have the kindness yourself to go away too."
"Madame—"
"Let us waste no time in useless explanations. Accept the fact as I present it to you; see nothing in it beyond what is really there, and ask nothing further than what I tell you. I am going to send one of my ladies, perhaps two, because it is now getting late. I do not wish them to see you, or, rather, I do not wish you to see them. These are scruples which you can understand—you particularly, Monsieur de Manicamp, who seem to be capable of divining everything."
"Oh, madame, perfectly. I can even do better still: I will precede, or rather walk in advance of your attendants; it will, at the same time, be a means of showing them the way more accurately, and of protecting them if it happened any occasion might occur, though there is no probability of their needing protection."
"And by this means, then, they would be sure of entering without any difficulty, would they not?"
"Certainly, madame: for, as I should be the first to pass, I should remove any difficulties which might chance to be in the way."
"Very well; go, go, Monsieur de Manicamp, and wait at the bottom of the staircase."
"I go at once, madame."
"Stay." Manicamp paused. "When you hear the footsteps of two women descending the stairs, go out, and, without once turning round, take the road which leads to where the poor comte is lying."
"But if, by any mischance, two other persons were to descend, and I were to be mistaken?"
"You will hear one of the two clap her hands together very softly. So go."
Manicamp turned round, bowed once more, and left the room, his heart overflowing with joy. In fact, he knew very well that the presence of Madame herself would be the best balm to apply to his friend's wounds. A quarter of an hour had hardly elapsed when he heard the sound of a door being opened softly and closed with the same precaution. He listened to the light footfalls gliding down the staircase, and then heard the signal agreed upon. He immediately went out, and, faithful to his promise, bent his way, without once turning round his head, through the streets of Fontainebleau toward the doctor's dwelling.
Two women, whose figures were completely concealed by their mantles, and whose masks effectually hid the upper portion of their faces, timidly followed Manicamp's steps. On the first floor, behind curtains of red damask, the soft light of a lamp, placed upon a low table, faintly illumined the room, at the other extremity of which, on a large bedstead supported by spiral columns, around which curtains of the same color as those which deadened the rays of the lamp had been closely drawn, lay De Guiche, his head supported by pillows, his eyes looking as if the mists of death seemed gathering there; his long black hair, scattered over the pillow, set off the young man's hollowed and pale temples to great advantage. It could be easily perceived that fever was the principal occupant of that chamber. Guiche was dreaming. His wandering mind was pursuing, through gloom and mystery, one of those wild creations which delirium engenders. Two or three drops of blood, still liquid, stained the floor. Manicamp hurriedly ran up the stairs, but paused at the threshold of the door, looked into the room, and, seeing that everything was perfectly quiet, he advanced toward the foot of the large leathern armchair, a specimen of furniture of the reign of Henry IV., and seeing that the nurse, as a matter of course, had dropped off to sleep, he awoke her, and begged her to pass into the adjoining room. Then, standing by the side of the bed, he remained for a moment deliberating whether it would be better to awaken Guiche, in order to acquaint him with the good news. But as he began to hear behind the door the rustling of the silk dresses and thehurried breathing of his two companions, and as he already saw that the curtain which hung before the doorway seemed on the point of being impatiently drawn aside, he passed round the bed and followed the nurse into the next room. As soon as he had disappeared, the curtain was raised, and his two female companions entered the room he had just left. The one who entered the first made a gesture to her companion which riveted her to the spot where she stood, close to the door, and then resolutely advanced toward the bed, drew back the curtains along the iron rod, and threw them in thick folds behind the head of the bed. She gazed upon the comte's pallid face, remarked his right hand enveloped in linen whose dazzling whiteness was increased by the counterpane covered with dark leaves which was thrown across a portion of the sick couch. She shuddered as she saw a spot of blood becoming larger and larger upon the linen bandages. The young man's white chest was quite uncovered, as if the cool night air would assist his respiration. A small bandage fastened the dressings of the wound, around which a bluish circle of extravasated blood was gradually increasing in size. A deep sigh broke from her lips. She leaned against one of the columns of the bed, and gazed, through the holes in her mask, upon the harrowing spectacle before her. A hoarse harsh sigh passed like a death rattle through the comte's clenched teeth. The masked lady seized his left hand, which felt as scorching as burning coals. But at the very moment she placed her icy hand upon it, the action of the cold was such that De Guiche opened his eyes, and by a look in which revived intelligence was dawning, seemed as if struggling back again into existence. The first thing upon which he fixed his gaze was this phantom standing erect by his bedside. At that sight his eyes became dilated, but without any appearance of consciousness in them. The lady thereupon made a sign to her companion, who had remained at the door; and, in all probability, the latter had already received her lesson, for in a clear tone of voice, and without any hesitation whatever, she pronounced these words, "Monsieur le Comte, her royal highness Madame is desirous of knowing how you are able to bear your wound, and to express to you, by my lips, her great regret at seeing you suffer."
As she pronounced the word Madame, Guiche started; he had not as yet remarked the person to whom the voice belonged, and he naturally turned toward the direction whence it proceeded. But, as he felt the cold hand still resting on his own, he again turned toward the motionless figure beside him. "Was it you who spoke, madame?" he asked, in a weak voice, "or is there another person beside you in the room?"
"Yes," replied the figure, in an almost unintelligible voice, as she bent down her head.
"Well!" said the wounded man, with a great effort, "I thank you. Tell Madame that I no longer regret dying, since she has remembered me."
At this word "dying," pronounced by one whose life seemed to hang on a thread, the masked lady could not restrain her tears, which flowed under her mask, and which appeared upon her cheeks just where the mask left her face bare. If Guiche had been in fuller possession of his senses, he would have seen her tears roll like glistening pearls, and fall upon his bed. The lady, forgetting that she wore her mask, raised her hand as though to wipe her eyes, and meeting the rough velvet, she tore away her mask in anger and threw it on the floor. At the unexpected apparition before him, which seemed to issue from a cloud, Guiche uttered a cry and stretched out his arms toward her; but every word perished on his lips, and his strength seemed utterly abandoning him. His right hand, which had followed his first impulse, without calculating the amount of strength he had left, fell back again upon the bed, and immediately afterward the white linen was stained with a larger spot than before. In the meantime, the young man's eyes became dim, and closed as if he were already struggling with the angel of death: and then, after a few involuntary movements, his head fell back motionless on his pillow; from pale he had become livid. The lady was frightened; but on this occasion, contrary to what is usually the case, fear became attractive. She leaned over the young man, gazed earnestly, fixedly at his pale and cold face, which she almost touched, then imprinted a rapid kiss upon De Quiche's left hand, who, trembling as if an electric shock had passed through him, awoke a second time, opened his large eyes, incapable of recognition, and again fell into a state of complete insensibility. "Come," she said to her companion, "we must not remain here any longer; I shall be committing some folly or other."
"Madame, madame, your highness is forgetting your mask!" said her vigilant companion.
"Pick it up," replied her mistress, as she tottered almost senseless toward the staircase, and as the street-door had been left only half closed, the two women, light as birds, passed through it, and with hurried steps returned to the palace. One of them ascended toward Madame's apartments, where she disappeared; the other entered the room belonging to the maids of honor, namely, on theentresol, and having reached her own room, she sat down before a table, and without giving herself time even to breathe, wrote the following letter:
"This evening Madame has been to see M. de Guiche. Everything is going on well on this side. See that yours is the same, and do not forget to burn this paper."
"This evening Madame has been to see M. de Guiche. Everything is going on well on this side. See that yours is the same, and do not forget to burn this paper."
She then folded the letter in a long thin form, and leaving her room with every possible precaution, crossed a corridor which led to the apartments appropriated to the gentlemen attached to Monsieur's service. She stopped before a door, under which, having previously knocked twice in a short quick manner, she thrust the paper, and fled. Then, returning to her own room, she removed every trace of her having gone out, and also of having written the letter. Amid the investigations she was so diligently pursuing she perceived on the table the mask which belonged to Madame, and which, according to her mistress's directions, she had brought back, but had forgotten to restore to her. "Oh! oh!" she said, "I must not forget to do to-morrow what I have forgotten to do to-day."
And she took hold of the velvet mask by that part of it which covered the cheeks, and feeling that her thumb was wet, she looked at it. It was not only wet, but reddened. The mask had fallen upon one of the spots of blood which, we have already said, stained the floor, and from the black velvet outside, which had accidentally come into contact with it, the blood had passed through to the inside and stained the white cambric lining. "Oh! oh!" said Montalais, for doubtless our readers have already recognized her by these various maneuvers, "I shall not give her back her mask, it is far too precious now."
And rising from her seat, she ran toward a box made of maple wood, which inclosed different articles of toilet and perfumery. "No, not here," she said, "such a treasure must not be abandoned to the slightest chance of detection."
Then, after a moment's silence, and with a smile which was peculiarly her own, she added:—"Beautiful mask, stained with the blood of that brave knight, you shall go and join that collection of wonders, La Valliere's and Raoul's letters, that loving collection, indeed, which will some day or other form part of the history of France and of royalty. You shall be taken under M. Malicorne's care," said the laughing girl, as she began to undress herself, "under the protection of that worthy M. Malicorne," she said, blowing out the taper, "who thinks he was born only to become the chief usher of Monsieur's apartments, and whom I will make keeper of the records and historiographer of the house of Bourbon, and of the first houses in the kingdom. Let him grumble now, that discontented Malicorne," she added, as she drew the curtains and fell fast asleep.
The next day being agreed upon for the departure, the king, at eleven o'clock precisely, descended the grand staircase with the two queens and Madame, in order to enter his carriage drawn by six horses which were pawing the ground in impatience at the foot of the staircase. The whole court awaited the royal appearance in theFer-a-chevalcrescent, in their traveling costumes; the large number of saddled horses and carriages of ladies and gentlemen of the court, surrounded by their attendants, servants, and pages, formed a spectacle whose brilliancy could scarcely be equaled. The king entered his carriage with the two queens; Madame was in the same with Monsieur. The maids of honor followed the example, and took their seats, two by two, in the carriages destined for them. The weather was exceedingly warm, a light breeze, which, early in the morning, all had thought would have been just sufficient to cool the air, soon became fiercely heated by the rays of the sun, although it was hidden behind the clouds, and filtered through the heated vapor which rose from the ground like a scorching wind, bearing particles of fine dust against the faces of the hasty travelers. Madame was the first to complain of the heat. Monsieur's only reply was to throw himself back in the carriage, as if he were about to faint, and to inundate himself with scents and perfumes, uttering the deepest sighs all the while; whereupon Madame said to him, with her most amiable expression: "Really, monsieur, I fancied that you would have been polite enough, on account of the terrible heat, to have left me my carriage to myself, and to have performed the journey yourself on horseback."
"Ride on horseback!" cried the prince, with an accent of dismay which showed how little idea he had of adopting this strange project: "you cannot suppose such a thing, madame; my skin would peel off if I were to expose myself to such a burning air as this."
Madame began to laugh.
"You can take my parasol," she said.
"But the trouble of holding it!" replied Monsieur, with the greatest coolness; "besides, I have no horse."
"How, no horse?" replied the princess, who, if she did not obtain the solitude she required, at least obtained the amusement of teasing. "No horse! You are mistaken, monsieur; for I see your favorite bay out yonder."
"My bay horse!" exclaimed the prince, attempting to lean forward to look out of the door; but the movement he was obliged to make cost him so much trouble that he soon hastened to resume his immobility.
"Yes," said Madame: "your horse led by M. de Malicorne."
"Poor beast," replied the prince; "how warm it will soon be!"
And with these words he closed his eyes, like a man on the point of death. Madame, on her side, reclined indolently in the other corner of the carriage, and closed her eyes also, not however to sleep, but to think more at her ease. In the meantime, the king, seated in the front seat of the carriage, the back of which he had yielded up to the two queens, was a prey to that restless feverish contrariety experienced by anxious lovers, who, without being able to quench their ardent thirst, are ceaselessly desirous of seeing the loved object, and then go away partially satisfied, without perceiving that they have acquired a more burning thirst than ever. The king, whose carriage headed the procession, could not from the place he occupied perceive the carriages of the ladies and maids of honor, which followed in a line behind it. Besides, he was obliged to answer the eternal questions of the young queen, who, happy to have with her "her dear husband," as she called him in utter forgetfulness of royal etiquette, invested him with all her affection, stifled him with her attentions, afraid that some one might come to take him from her, or that he himself might suddenly take a fancy to leave her society. Anne of Austria, whom nothing at that moment occupied except the occasional sharp throbbings in her bosom, looked pleased and delighted, and although she perfectly conceived the king's impatience, tantalizingly prolonged his sufferings by unexpectedly resuming the conversation at the very moment the king, absorbed in his own reflections, began to muse over his secret attachment. Everything seemed to combine—not alone the little teasing attentions of the queen, but also the queen-mother's tantalizing interruptions—to make the king's position almost insupportable; for he knew not how to control the restless longings of his heart. At first, he complained of the heat, a complaint which was merely preliminary to other complaints, but with sufficient tact to prevent Maria Theresa guessing his real object. Understanding the king's remark literally, she began to fan him with her ostrich plumes. But the heat passed away, and the king then complained of cramps and stiffness in his legs, and as the carriages at that moment stopped to change horses, the queen said: "Shall I get out with you? I too feel tired of sitting. We can walk on a little distance, the carriage will overtake us, and we can resume our places again presently."
The king frowned: it is a hard trial a jealous woman makes her husband submit to whose fidelity she suspects, when, although herself a prey to jealousy, she watches herself so narrowly that she avoids giving any pretext for an angry feeling. The king, therefore, in the present case, could not refuse; he accepted the offer, alighted from the carriage, gave his arm to the queen, and walked up and down with her while the horses were being changed. As he walked along, he cast an envious glance upon the courtiers, who were fortunate enough to be performing the journey on horseback. The queen soon found out that the promenade she had suggested afforded the king as little pleasure as he had experienced from riding in the carriage. She accordingly expressed a wish to return to her carriage, and the king conducted her to the door, but did not get in with her. He stepped back a few paces, and looked among the file of carriages for the purpose of recognizing the one in which he took so strong an interest. At the door of the sixth carriage he saw La Valliere's fair countenance. As the king thus stood motionless, wrapped in thought, without perceiving that everything was ready, and that he alone was causing the delay, he heard a voice close beside him, addressing him in the most respectful manner. It was M. Malicorne, in a complete costume of an equerry, holding over his left arm the bridles of a couple of horses.
"Your majesty asked for a horse, I believe," he said.
"A horse? Have you one of my horses here?" inquired the king, who endeavored to remember the person who addressed him, and whose face was not as yet very familiar to him.
"Sire," replied Malicorne, "at all events I have a horse which is at your majesty's service."
And Malicorne pointed at Monsieur's bay horse, which Madame had observed. It was a beautiful creature and most royally caparisoned.
"This is not one of my horses, monsieur," said the king.
"Sire, it is a horse out of his royal highness's stable; but his royal highness does not ride when the weather is as hot as it is now."
The king did not reply, but hastily approached the horse, which stood pawing the ground with his foot. Malicorne hastened to hold the stirrup for him but the king was already in the saddle. Restored to good humor by this lucky accident, the king hastened toward the queen's carriage, where he was anxiously expected: and notwithstanding Maria-Theresa's thoughtful and preoccupied air, he said: "I have been fortunate enough to find this horse, and I intend to avail myself of it. I felt stifled in the carriage. Adieu, ladies."
Then, bending most gracefully over the arched neck of his beautiful steed, he disappeared in a second. Anne of Austria leaned forward, in order to look after him as he rode away: he did not go veryfar, for when he reached the sixth carriage, he reined in his horse suddenly and took off his hat. He saluted La Valliere, who uttered a cry of surprise as she saw him, blushing at the same time with pleasure. Montalais, who occupied the other seat in the carriage, made the king a most respectful bow. And, then, with all the tact of a woman, she pretended to be exceedingly interested in the landscape, and withdrew herself into the left-hand corner. The conversation between the king and La Valliere began, as all lovers' conversations generally do, namely, by eloquent looks and by a few words utterly void of common sense. The king explained how warm he had felt in his carriage, so much so indeed that he could almost regard the horse he then rode as a blessing thrown in his way. "And," he added, "my benefactor is an exceedingly intelligent man, for he seemed to guess my thoughts intuitively. I have now only one wish, that of learning the name of the gentleman who so cleverly assisted his king out of his dilemma, and extricated him from his cruel position."
Montalais, during this colloquy, the first words of which had awakened her attention, had slightly altered her position, and had contrived so as to meet the king's look as he finished his remark. It followed very naturally that the king looked inquiringly as much at her as at La Valliere; she had every reason to suppose that it was she who was appealed to, and consequently might be permitted to answer. She therefore said: "Sire, the horse which your majesty is riding belongs to Monsieur, and was being led by one of his royal highness's gentlemen."
"And what is that gentleman's name, may I ask, mademoiselle?"
"M. de Malicorne, sire."
The name produced its usual effect, for the king repeated it smilingly.
"Yes, sire," replied Aure. "Stay, it is that gentleman who is galloping on my left hand;" and she pointed out Malicorne, who, with a very sanctified expression, was galloping on the left side of the carriage, knowing perfectly well that they were talking of him at that verymoment, but sitting in his saddle as if were deaf and dumb.
"Yes," said the king, "that is the gentleman; I remember his face, and will not forget his name;" and the king looked tenderly at La Valliere.
Aure had now nothing further to do; she had let Malicorne's name fall; the soil was good; all that was now left to be done was to let the name take root, and the event would bear its fruit in due time. She consequently threw herself back in her corner, feeling perfectly justified in making as many agreeable signs of recognition as she liked to Malicorne, since the latter had had the happiness of pleasing the king. As it will very readily be believed, Montalais was not mistaken; and Malicorne, with his quick ear and his sly look, seemed to interpret her remark as "All goes on well," the whole being accompanied by a pantomimic action which he fancied conveyed something resembling a kiss.
"Alas! mademoiselle," said the king, after a moment's pause, "the liberty and freedom of the country is soon about to cease; your attendance upon Madame will be more strictly enforced, and we shall see each other no more."
"Your majesty is too much attached to Madame," replied Louise, "not to come and see her very frequently; and whenever your majesty may pass across the apartments—"
"Ah!" said the king, in a tender voice, which was gradually lowered in its tone, "to perceive is not to see, and yet it seems that it would be quite sufficient for you."
Louise did not answer a syllable; a sigh filled her heart almost to bursting, but she stifled it.
"You exercise a great control over yourself," said the king to Louise, who smiled upon him with a melancholy expression. "Exert the strength you have in loving fondly," he continued, "and I will bless Heaven for having bestowed it on you."
La Valliere still remained silent, but raised her eyes, brimful of affection, toward the king. Louis, as if he had been overcome by this burning glance, passed his hand across his forehead, and pressing the sides of his horse with his knees, made him bound several paces forward. La Valliere, leaning back in her carriage, with her eyes half closed, gazed fixedly upon the king, whose plumes were floating in the air; she could not but admire his graceful carriage, his delicate and nervous limbs, which pressed his horse's side, and the regular outline of his features, which his beautiful curling hair set off to great advantage, revealing occasionally his small and well-formed ear. In fact the poor girl was in love, and she reveled in her innocent affection. In a few moments the king was again by her side.
"Do you not perceive," he said, "how terribly your silence affects me? Oh! mademoiselle, how pitilessly immovable you would become if you were ever to resolve to break off all acquaintance with any one; and then too I think you changeable; in fact—in fact, I dread this deep affection which fills my whole being."
"Oh! sire, you are mistaken," said La Valliere; "if ever I love, it will be for my whole life."
"If you love, you say," exclaimed the king; "you do not love now, then." She hid her face in her hands.
"You see," said the king, "that I am right in accusing you; you must admit that you are changeable, capricious, a coquette, perhaps."
"Oh, no! sire, be perfectly satisfied on that. No, I say again; no, no!"
"Promise me, then, that for me you will always be the same."
"Oh! always, sire."
"That you will never show any of that severity which would break my heart, none of that fickleness of manner which would be worse than death to me."
"Oh! no, no."
"Very well, then! but listen. I like promises, I like to place under the guarantee of an oath, under the protection of Heaven in fact, everything which interests my heart and my affections. Promise me, or rather swear to me, that if in the life we are about to commence, a life which will be full of sacrifice, mystery, anxiety, disappointment and misunderstanding; swear to me that if we should be deceiving, or should misunderstand each other, or should be judging each other unjustly, for that indeed would be criminal in love such as ours; swear to me, Louise—"
She trembled with agitation to the very depths of her heart; it was the first time she had heard her name pronounced in that manner by her royal lover. As for the king, taking off his glove, and placing his ungloved hand within the carriage, he continued: "Swear that never in all our quarrels will we allow one night even to pass by, if any misunderstanding should arise between us, without a visit, or at least a message, from either, in order to convey consolation and repose to the other."
La Valliere took her lover's burning hand between her own icy palms, and pressed it softly, until a movement of the horse, frightened by the proximity of the wheels, obliged her to abandon her happiness. She had sworn as he wished her.
"Return, sire," she said, "return to the queen: I foresee a storm rising yonder which threatens my peace of mind."
Louis obeyed, saluted Mademoiselle de Montalais, and set off at a gallop to rejoin the queen's carriage. As he passed Monsieur's carriage, he observed that he was fast asleep, although Madame, on her part, was wide awake. As the king passed her, she said, "What a beautiful horse, sire! is it not Monsieur's bay horse?" The young queen merely remarked, "Are you better now, sire?"
On the king's arrival in Paris, he sat at the council which had been summoned, and worked for a certain portion of the day. The queen remained with the queen-mother, and burst into tears as soon as she had taken leave of the king. "Ah! madame!" she said, "the king no longer loves me! What will become of me?"
"A husband always loves his wife when she is like you," replied Anne of Austria.
"A time may come when he will love another woman instead of me."
"What do you call loving?"
"Always thinking of a person—always seeking her society."
"Do you happen to have remarked," said Anne of Austria, "that the king has ever done anything of the sort?"
"No, madame," said the young queen, hesitatingly.
"What is there to complain of, then, Marie?"
"You will admit that the king leaves me?"
"The king, my daughter, belongs to his people."
"And that is the very reason why he no longer belongs to me; and that is the reason, too, why I shall find myself, as so many queens have been before me, forsaken and forgotten, while glory and honors will be reserved for others. Oh, my mother! the king is so handsome! how often will others tell him that they love him, and how much, indeed, they must do so!"
"It is very seldom that women love the man in loving the king. But should that happen, which I doubt, you should rather wish, Marie, that such women should really love your husband. In the first place, the devoted love of a mistress is a rapid element of the dissolution of a lover's affection; and then, by dint of loving, the mistress loses all influence over her lover, whose power or wealth she does not covet, caring only for his affection. Wish, therefore, that the king should love but lightly, and that his mistress should love with all her heart."
"Oh, my mother, what power may not a deep affection exercise over him!"
"And yet you say you are abandoned?"
"Quite true, quite true; I speak absurdly. There is a feeling of anguish, however, which I can never control."
"And that is?"
"The king may make a happy choice—may find a home, with all the tender influences of home, not far from that we canoffer him—a home with children around him, the children of another woman than myself. Oh, madame! I should die if I were but to see the king's children."
"Marie, Marie," replied the queen-mother with a smile, and she took the young queen's hand in her own, "remember what I am going to say, and let it always be a consolation to you: the king cannot have a Dauphin without you."
"With this remark the queen-mother quitted her daughter-in-law, in order to meet Madame, whose arrival in the grand cabinet had just been announced by one of the pages. Madame had scarcely taken time to change her dress. Her face revealed her agitation, which betrayed a plan the execution of which occupied, while the result disturbed, her mind.
"I came to ascertain," she said, "if your majesties are suffering any fatigue from our journey."
"None at all," said the queen-mother.
"But a slight one," replied Maria-Theresa.
"I have suffered from annoyance more than from anything else," said Madame.
"What annoyance?" inquired Anne of Austria.
"The fatigue the king undergoes in riding about on horseback."
"That does the king good."
"And it was I who advised him to do it," said Maria-Theresa, turning pale.
Madame said not a word in reply; but one of those smiles which were peculiarly her own flitted for a moment across her lips, without passing over the rest of her face; then, immediately changing the conversation, she continued, "We shall find Paris precisely like the Paris we left it; the same intrigues, plots, and flirtations going on."
"Intrigues! What intrigues do you allude to?" inquired the queen-mother.
"People are talking a good deal about M. Fouquet and Madame Plessis-Belliere."
"Who makes up the number to about ten thousand," replied the queen-mother. "But what are the plots you speak of?"
"We have, it seems, certain misunderstandings with Holland to settle."
"What about?"
"Monsieur has been telling me the story of the medals."
"Oh!" exclaimed the young-queen, "you mean those medals which were struck in Holland, on which a cloud is seen passing across the sun, which is the king's device. You are wrong in calling that a plot—it is an insult."
"But so contemptible that the king can well despise it," replied the queen-mother. "Well, what are the flirtations which are alluded to? Do you mean that of Madame d'Olonne?"
"No, no; nearer ourselves than that."
"Casa de usted," murmured the queen-mother, and without moving her lips, in her daughter-in-law's ear, and also without being overheard by Madame, who thus continued: "You know the terrible news?"
"Oh, yes; M. de Guiche's wound."
"And you attribute it, I suppose, as every one else does, to an accident which happened to him while hunting?"
"Yes, of course," said both the queens together, their interest awakened.
Madame drew closer to them, as she said, in a low tone of voice, "It was a duel."
"Ah!" said Anne of Austria, in a severe tone: for in her ears the word "duel," which had been forbidden in France during the time she had reigned over it, had a strange sound.
"A most deplorable duel, which has nearly cost Monsieur two of his best friends, and the king two of his best servants."
"What was the cause of the duel?" inquired the young queen, animated by a secret instinct.
"Flirtations," repeated Madame, triumphantly. "The gentlemen in question were conversing about the virtue of a particular lady belonging to the court. One of them thought that Pallas was a very second-rate person compared to her; the other pretended that the lady in question was an imitation of Venus alluring Mars; and thereupon the two gentlemen fought as fiercely as Hector and Achilles."
"Venus alluring Mars?" said the young queen in a low tone of voice, without venturing to examine into the allegory very deeply.
"Who is the lady?" inquired Anne of Austria, abruptly. "You said, I believe, she was one of the ladies of honor?"
"Did I say so?" replied Madame.
"Yes; at least, I thought I heard you mention it."
"Are you not aware that such a woman is of ill-omen to a royal house?"
"Is it not Mademoiselle de la Valliere?" said the queen-mother.
"Yes, indeed, that plain-looking creature."
"I thought she was affianced to a gentleman who certainly is not—at least, I suppose so—either M. de Guiche or M. de Wardes?"
"Very possibly, madame."
The young queen took up a piece of tapestry, and began to unpick with an affectation of tranquillity which her trembling fingers contradicted.
"What were you saying about Venus and Mars?" pursued the queen-mother. "Is there a Mars also?"
"She boasts of that being the case."
"Did you say she boasts of it?"
"That was the cause of the duel."
"And M. de Guiche upheld the cause of Mars?"
"Yes, certainly, like the devoted servant he is."
"The devoted servant of whom?" exclaimed the young queen, forgetting her reserve in allowing her jealous feeling to escape her.
"Mars, not being able to be defended except at the expense of this Venus," replied Madame, "M. de Guiche maintained the perfect innocence of Mars, and no doubt affirmed that it was a mere boast of Venus."
"And M. de Wardes," said Anne of Austria, quietly, "spread the report that Venus was right, I suppose?"
"Oh, De Wardes," thought Madam, "you shall pay most dearly for the wound you have given that noblest—the best of men!" And she began to attack De Wardes with the greatest bitterness: thus discharging her own and De Guiche'sdebt, with the assurance that she was working the future ruin of her enemy. She said so much, in fact, that, had Manicamp been there, he would have regretted that he had shown such strong regard for his friend, inasmuch as it resulted in the ruin of his unfortunate foe.
"I see nothing in the whole affair but one cause of mischief, and that is La Valliere herself," said the queen-mother.
The young queen resumed her work with a perfect indifference of manner, while Madame listened eagerly.
"I do not yet quite understand what you said just now about the danger of coquetry," resumed Anne of Austria.
"It is quite true," Madame hastened to say, "that, if the girl had not been a coquette, Mars would not have thought at all about her."
The repetition of this word "Mars" brought a passing color on the queen's face; but she still continued her work.
"I will not permit that, in my court, gentlemen should be set against each other in this manner," said Anne of Austria, calmly. "Such manners were useful enough, perhaps, in a time when the divided nobility had no other rallying-point than mere gallantry. At that time women, whose sway was absolute and undivided, were privileged to encourage men's valor by frequent trials of their courage; but now, thank Heaven, there is but one master in France, and to him every thought of the mind, and every pulse of the body, are due. I will not allow my son to be deprived of any one of his servants." And she turned toward the young queen, saying, "What is to be done with this La Valliere?"
"La Valliere?" said the queen, apparently surprised, "I do not even know the name;" and she accompanied this remark by one of those cold, fixed smiles which are only observed on royal lips.
Madame was herself a princess great in every respect—great in intelligence, great by birth and pride; the queen's reply, however, completely astonished her, and she was obliged to pause for a moment in order to recover herself. "She is one ofmy maids of honor," she replied, with a bow.
"In that case," retorted Maria-Theresa, in the same tone, "it is your affair, my sister, and not ours."
"I beg your pardon," resumed Anne of Austria, "it is my affair, and I perfectly well understand," she pursued, addressing a look full of intelligence at Madame, "Madame's motive for saying what she has just said."
"Everything which emanates from you, Madame," said the English princess, "proceeds from the lips of Wisdom."
"If we send this girl back again to her own family," said Maria-Theresa, gently, "we must bestow a pension upon her."
"Which I will provide for out of my income," exclaimed Madame.
"No, no," interrupted Anne of Austria, "no disturbance, I beg. The king dislikes that the slightest disrespectful remark should be made of any lady. Let everything be done quite quietly. Will you have the kindness, madame, to send for this girl here; and you, my daughter, will have the goodness to retire to your own room."
The old queen's entreaties were commands, and as Maria-Theresa rose to return to her own apartments, Madame rose in order to send a page to summon La Valliere.