“You are mad, Chevalier d’Herblay.”
“I!—you do not think that.”
“What do you mean, then? Do you not know that a fête at Vaux, of the very simplest possible character, would cost four or five millions?”
“I do not speak of a fete of the very simplest possible character, my dear Surintendant.”
“But, since the fete is to be given to the King,” replied Fouquet, who misunderstood Aramis’s idea, “it cannot be simple.”
“Just so; it ought to be on a scale of the most unbounded magnificence.”
“In that case, I shall have to spend ten or twelve millions.”
“You shall spend twenty if you require it,” said Aramis, in a perfectly calm voice.
“Where shall I get them?” exclaimed Fouquet.
“That is my affair, Monsieur le Surintendant; and do not be uneasy for a moment about it. The money will be placed at once at your disposal, as soon as you shall have arranged the plans of your fête.”
“Chevalier! Chevalier!” said Fouquet, giddy with amazement, “whither are you hurrying me?”
“Across the gulf into which you were about to fall,” replied the Bishop of Vannes. “Take hold of my cloak, and throw fear aside.”
“Why did you not tell me that sooner, Aramis? There was a day when, with one million only, you could have saved me, whilst to-day—”
“Whilst to-day, I can give you twenty,” said the prelate. “Such is the case, however—the reason is very simple. On the day you speak of, I had not the million which you had need of at my disposal; whilst now I can easily procure the twenty million we require.”
“May Heaven hear you, and save me!”
Aramis resumed his usual smile, the expression of which was so singular. “Heaven never fails to hear me,” he said.
“I abandon myself to you unreservedly,” Fouquet murmured.
“No, no; I do not understand it in that manner. I am unreservedly devoted to you. Therefore, as you have the clearest, the most delicate, and the most ingenious mind of the two, you shall have entire control over the fête, even to the very smallest details. Only—”
“Only?” said Fouquet, as a man accustomed to understand and appreciate the value of a parenthesis.
“Well, then, leaving the entire invention of the details to you, I shall reserve to myself a general superintendence over the execution.”
“In what way?”
“I mean that you will make of me, on that day, a majordomo, a sort of inspector-general, or factotum—something between a captain of the guard and manager or steward. I will look after the people, and will keep the keys of the doors. You will give your orders, of course; but will give them to no one but to me; they will pass through my lips, to reach those for whom they are intended—you understand?”
“No, I am very far from understanding.”
“But you agree?”
“Of course, of course, my friend.”
“That is all I care about, then, thanks, and now go and prepare your list of invitations.”
“Whom shall I invite?”
“Every one.”
11
In Which the Author Thinks It Is Now Time to Return to the Vicomte de Bragelonne
OUR READERS WILL HAVE observed in this story, the adventures of the new and of the past generation being detailed, as it were, side by side. To the former, the reflection of the glory of earlier years, the experience of the bitter things of this world; to the former, also, that peace which takes possession of the heart, and that healing of the scars which were formerly deep and painful wounds. To the latter, the conflicts of love and vanity; bitter disappointments, and ineffable delights; life instead of memory. If, therefore, any variety has been presented to the reader in the different episodes of this tale, it is to be attributed to the numerous shades of colour which are presented on this double palette, where two pictures are seen side by side, mingling and harmonising their severe and pleasing tones. The repose of the emotions of the one is found in the bosom of the emotions of the other. After having talked reason with older heads, one loves to talk nonsense with youth. Therefore, if the threads of this story do not seem very intimately to connect the chapter we are now writing with that we have just written, we do not intend to give ourselves any more thought or trouble about it than Ruysdaël took in painting an autumn sky, after having finished a spring-time scene. We wish our readers to do as much, and to resume Raoul de Bragelonne’s story at the very place where our last sketch left him.
In a state of frenzy and dismay, or rather without power or will of his own—without knowing what to do—he fled heedlessly away, after the scene in La Vallière’s room. The King, Montalais,m Louise, that chamber, that strange exclusion, Louise’s grief, Montalais’s terror, the King’s wrath-all seemed to indicate some misfortune. But what? He had arrived from London because he had been told of the existence of a danger ; and almost on his arrival, this appearance of danger was manifest. Was not this sufficient for a lover? Certainly it was; but it was insufficient for a pure and upright heart such as his. And yet Raoul did not seek for explanations in the very quarter where all jealous or less timid lovers would have done. He did not go straightway to his mistress and say, “Louise, is it true that you love me no longer? Is it true that you love another?” Full of courage, full of friendship as he was full of love; a religious observer of his word, and believing blindly the word of others, Raoul said within himself, “Guichen wrote to put me on my guard; Guiche knows something; I will go and ask Guiche what he knows, and tell him what I have seen.” The journey was not a long one. Guiche, who had been brought from Fontainebleau to Paris within the last two days, was beginning to recover from his wound, and to walk about a little in his room. He uttered a cry of joy as he saw Raoul, earnest in his friendship, enter his apartment. Raoul, too, had not been able to refrain from exclaiming aloud, when he saw de Guiche, so pale, so thin, so melancholy. A very few words, and a simple gesture which de Guiche made to put aside Raoul’s arm, were sufficient to inform the latter of the truth.
“Ah! so it is,” said Raoul, seating himself beside his friend; “one loves and dies.”
“No, no, not dies,” replied de Guiche smiling, “since I am now recovering, and since, too, I can press you in my arms.”
“Ah! I understand.”
“And I understand you, too. You fancy I am unhappy, Raoul?”
“Alas! ”
“No; I am the happiest of men. My body suffers, but not my mind or my heart. If you only knew——Oh! I am, indeed, the very happiest of men.”
“So much the better,” replied Raoul; “so much the better, provided it lasts.”
“It is over. I have had enough happiness to last me to my dying day, Raoul.”
“I have no doubt you have had; but she—”
“Listen; I love her because—but you are not listening to me.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Your mind is preoccupied.”
“Yes; your health, in the first place—”
“It is not that, I know.”
“My dear friend, you would be wrong, I think, to ask me any questions—you of all persons in the world.” And he laid so much weight upon the “you” that he completely enlightened his friend upon the nature of the evil, and the difficulty of remedying it.
“You say that, Raoul, on account of what I wrote to you.”
“Certainly. We will talk over that matter a little, when you shall have finished telling me of all your own pleasures and pains.”
“My dear friend, I am entirely at your service now.”
“Thank you; I have hurried, I have flown here; I came here in half the time the Government couriers usually take. Now, tell me, my dear friend, what did you want?”
“Nothing whatever, but to make you come.”
“Well, then, I am here.”
“All is quite right, then.”
“There must have been something else, I suppose?”
“No, indeed.”
“De Guiche!”
“Upon my honour! ”
“You cannot possibly have crushed all my hopes so violently, or have exposed me to being disgraced by the King for my return, which is in disobedience of his orders—you cannot, I say, have planted jealousy in my heart, merely to say to me, ‘It is all right, be perfectly easy.”’
“I do not say to you, Raoul, ‘Be perfectly easy,’ but pray understand me; I never will, nor can I, indeed, tell you anything else.”
“What sort of person do you take me for?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you know anything, why conceal it from me? If you do not know anything, why did you write so warningly?”
“True, true, I was very wrong, and I regret having done so, Raoul. It seems nothing to write to a friend and say ‘Come,’ but to have this friend face to face, to feel him tremble, and breathlessly and anxiously wait to hear what one hardly dare tell him, is very different.”
“Dare! I have courage enough, if you have not,” exclaimed Raoul, in despair.
“See how unjust you are, and how soon you forget you have to do with a poor wounded fellow such as your unhappy friend is. So, calm yourself, Raoul. I said to you, ‘Come,’—you are here, so ask me nothing further.”
“Your object in telling me to come was your hope that I should see with my own eyes, was it not? Nay, do not hesitate, for I have seen all.”
“Oh!” exclaimed de Guiche.
“Or at least, I thought—”
“There now, you see you are not sure. But if you have any doubt, my poor friend, what remains for me to do?”
“I saw Louise much agitated—Montalais in a state of bewilderment—the King—”
“The King?”
“Yes. You turn your head aside. The danger is there, the evil is there; tell me, is it not so, is it not the King?”
“I say nothing.”
“Oh! you say a thousand upon a thousand times more than nothing. Give me facts, for pity’s sake, give me proofs. My friend, the only friend I have, speak—tell me all. My heart is crushed, wounded to death; I am dying of despair.”
“If that really be so, as I see it is indeed, dear Raoul,” replied de Guiche, “you relieve me from my difficulty, and I will tell you all, perfectly sure that I can tell you nothing but what is consoling, compared to the despair from which I now see you suffering.”
“Go on,—go on; I am listening.”
“Well, then, I can only tell you what you can learn from every person you meet.”
“From every one, do you say? It is talked about, then?”
“Before you say people talk about it, learn what it is that people can talk about. I assure you solemnly, that people only talk about what may, in truth, be very innocent; perhaps a walk—”
“Ah! a walk with the King?”
“Yes, certainly, a walk with the King; and I believe the King has already very frequently before taken walks with ladies, without, on that account—”
“You would not have written to me, shall I say again, if there had been nothing unusual in this promenade.”
“I know that while the storm lasted, it would have been far better if the King had taken shelter somewhere else, than to have remained with his head uncovered before La Vallière; but the King is so very courteous and polite.”
“Oh! de Guiche, de Guiche, you are killing me!”
“Do not let us talk any more, then.”
“Nay; let us continue. This walk was followed by others, I suppose?”
“No—I mean yes; there was the adventure of the oak, I think. But I know nothing about the matter at all.” Raoul rose; de Guiche endeavoured to imitate him, notwithstanding his weakness. “Well, I will not add another word; I have said either too much or not enough. Let others give you further information if they will, or if they can; my duty was to warn you, and that I have done. Watch over your own affairs now, yourself.”
“Question others! Alas! you are no true friend to speak to me in that manner,” said the young man in utter distress. “The first man I may meet may be either evilly disposed or a fool; if the former, he will tell me a lie to make me suffer more than I now do; if the latter, he will do far worse still. Ah! de Guiche, de Guiche, before two hours are over, I shall have been told ten falsehoods, and shall have as many duels on my hands. Save me then; is it not best to know the whole misfortune?”
“But I know nothing, I tell you; I was wounded, attacked by fever; my senses were gone, and I have only a very faint recollection of it all. But there is no reason why we should search very far, when the very man we want is close at hand. Is not d’Artagnan your friend?”
“Oh! true, true.”
“Go to him, then. He will be able to throw some light on the subject.” At this moment a lackey entered the room. “What is it?” said de Guiche.
“Some one is waiting for monseigneur in the Cabinet des Porcelaines.”
“Very well. Will you excuse me, my dear Raoul? I am so proud since I have been able to walk again.”
“I would offer you my arm, de Guiche, if I did not guess that the person in question is a lady.”
“I believe so,” said de Guiche, smiling, as he quitted Raoul.
Raoul remained motionless, absorbed in his grief, overwhelmed, like the miner upon whom a vault has just fallen in, who, wounded, his life-blood welling fast, his thoughts confused, endeavours to recover himself, to save his life and to preserve his reason. A few minutes were all that Raoul needed to dissipate the bewildering sensations which had been occasioned by these two revelations. He had already recovered the thread of his ideas, when, suddenly, through the door, he fancied he recognised Montalais’s voice in the Cabinet des Porcelaines. “She!” he cried. “Yes, it is indeed her voice! She will be able to tell me the whole truth; but shall I question her here? She conceals herself even from me; she is coming no doubt from Madame. I will see her in her own apartment. She will explain her alarm, her flight, the strange manner in which I was driven out; she will tell me all that—after M. d‘Artagnan, who knows everything, shall have given me fresh courage and strength. Madame, a coquette I fear, and yet a coquette who is herself in love, has her moments of kindness; a coquette who is as capricious and uncertain as life or death, but who tells de Guiche that he is the happiest of men. He at least is lying on roses.” And so he hastily quitted the Comte’s apartments, and reproaching himself as he went for having talked of nothing but his own affairs to de Guiche, he arrived at d’Artagnan’s quarters.
12
Bragelonne Continues His Inquiries
THE CAPTAIN WAS SITTING buried in his leather armchair, his spur fixed in the floor, his sword between his legs, and was occupied in reading a great number of letters, as he twisted his moustache. D’Artagnan uttered a welcome full of pleasure when he perceived his friend’s son. “Raoul, my boy,” he said, “by what lucky accident does it happen that the King has recalled you?”
These words did not sound over agreeably in the young man’s ears, who, as he seated himself, replied, “Upon my word, I cannot tell you; all I know is that I have come back.”
“Hum!” said d’Artagnan, folding up his letters and directing a look full of meaning at him; “what do you say, my boy? that the King has not recalled you, and that you have returned? I do not understand that at all.”
Raoul was already pale enough, and he began to turn his hat round and round in his hand.
“What the deuce is the matter that you look as you do, and what makes you so dumb?” said the Captain. “Do people assume that sort of airs in England? I have been in England and have come back again as lively as a chaffinch. Will you not say something?”
“I have too much to say.”
“Ah! ah! how is your father?”
“Forgive me, my dear friend, I was going to ask you that.”
D’Artagnan increased the sharpness of his penetrating gaze which no secret was capable of resisting.
“You are unhappy about something,” he said.
“I am, indeed; and you know very well what, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“I?”
“Of course. Nay, do not pretend to be astonished.”
“I am not pretending to be astonished, my friend.”
“Dear Captain, I know very well that in all trials of finesse, as well as in all trials of strength, I shall be beaten by you. You can see that at the present moment I am an idiot, a perfect fool. I have neither head nor arm; do not despise, but help me. In two words, I am the most wretched of living beings.”
“Oh! oh! why that?” inquired d’Artagnan, unbuckling his belt and softening the ruggedness of his smile.
“Because Mademoiselle de la Vallière is deceiving me.”
“She is deceiving you,” said d’Artagnan, not a muscle of whose face had moved; “those are big words. Who makes use of them?”
“Every one.”
“Ah! if every one says so, there must be some truth in it. I begin to believe there is fire when I see the smoke. It is ridiculous, perhaps, but so it is.”
“Therefore you do believe?” exclaimed Bragelonne, quickly.
“I never mix myself up in affairs of that kind; you know that very well.”
“What! not for a friend, for a son!”
“Exactly.—If you were a stranger, I should tell you—I should tell you nothing at all. How is Porthos, do you know?”
“Monsieur,” cried Raoul, pressing d’Artagnan’s hand, “I entreat you in the name of the friendship you have vowed to my father! ”
“The deuce take it, you are really ill—from curiosity.”
“No, it is not from curiosity, it is from love.”
“Good. Another grand word. If you were really in love, my dear Raoul, you would be very different.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that if you were really so deeply in love that I could believe I was addressing myself to your heart—but it is impossible.”
Man in the Iron Mask (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 13
