Raoul interrupted this conversation by his return. He preceded Grimaud, whose still steady hands carried the plateau with one glass and a bottle of the Duc’s favourite wine. On seeing his old protégé, the Duc uttered an exclamation of pleasure.
“Grimaud! Good evening, Grimaud!” said he; “how goes it?”
The servant bowed profoundly, as much gratified as his noble interlocutor was.
“Two old friends!” said the Duc, shaking honest Grimaud’s shoulder after a vigorous fashion; which was followed by another still more profound and delighted bow from Grimaud.
“But, what is this, Comte, only one glass?”
“I should not think of drinking with your Highness, unless your Highness permitted me,” replied Athos, with noble humility.
“Cordieu! you were right to bring only one glass, we will both drink out of it, like two brothers in arms. Begin, Comte.”
“Do me the honour,” said Athos, gently putting back the glass.
“You are a charming friend,” replied the Duc de Beaufort, who drank, and passed the goblet to his companion. “But that is not all,” continued he, “I am still thirsty, and I wish to do honour to this handsome young man who stands here. I carry good luck with me, Vicomte,” said he to Raoul; “wish for something while drinking out of my glass, and the plague stifle me if what you wish does not come to pass!” He held the goblet to Raoul, who hastily moistened his lips, and replied with the same promptitude:—
“I have wished for something, monseigneur.” His eyes sparkled with a gloomy fire, and the blood mounted to his cheeks; he terrified Athos, if only with his smile.
“And what have you wished for?” replied the Duc, sinking back into his chair, whilst with one hand he returned the bottle to Grimaud, and with the other gave him a purse.
“Will you promise me, monseigneur, to grant me what I wish for?”
“Pardieu! That is agreed upon!”
“I wished, Monsieur le Duc, to go with you to Gigelli.”
Athos became pale, and was unable to conceal his agitation. The Duc looked at his friend, as if desirous to assist him to parry this unexpected blow.
“That is very difficult, my dear Vicomte, very difficult,” added he, in a lower tone of voice.
“Pardon me, monseigneur, I have been indiscreet,” replied Raoul, in a firm voice; “but as you yourself invited me to wish—”
“To wish to leave me?” said Athos.
“Oh! monsieur, can you imagine—”
“Well! mordieu!” cried the Duc, “the young Vicomte is right! What can he do here? He will rot with grief.”
Raoul blushed, and the excitable Prince continued: “War is a distraction; we gain everything by it; we can only lose one thing by it: life;—then so much the worse!”
“That is to say, memory,” said Raoul eagerly; “and that is to say, so much the better.”
He repented of having spoken so warmly when he saw Athos rise and open the window; which was, doubtless, to conceal an emotion. Raoul sprang towards the Comte, but the latter had already overcome his emotion, and turned to the lights with a serene and impassible countenance. “Well, come,” said the Duc, “let us see! Shall he go, or shall he not? If he goes, Comte, he shall be my aide-de-camp, my son.”
“Monseigneur!” cried Raoul, bending his knee.
“Monseigneur!” cried Athos, taking the hand of the Duc; “Raoul shall do just as he likes.”
“Oh! no, monsieur, just as you like,” interrupted the young man.
“By la Corbleu!” said the Prince in his turn, “it is neither the Comte nor the Vicomte that shall have his way; it is I. I will take him away. The marine offers a superb future, my friend.”
Raoul smiled again so sadly, that this time Athos felt his heart penetrated by it, and replied to him by a severe look. Raoul comprehended it all; he recovered his calmness, and was so guarded, that not another word escaped him. The Duc at length rose, on observing the advanced hour, and said with much animation, “I am in great haste, but if I am told I have lost time in talking with a friend, I will reply I have gained a good recruit.”
“Pardon me, Monsieur le Duc,” interrupted Raoul, “do not tell the King so, for it is not the King I will serve.”
“Eh! my friend, whom then will you serve? The times are past when you might have said, ‘I belong to M. de Beaufort.’ No, nowadays, we all belong to the King, great or small. Therefore, if you serve and board my vessels, there can be nothing equivocal in it, my dear Vicomte; it will be the King you will serve.”
Athos waited with a kind of impatient joy for the reply about to be made to this embarrassing question by Raoul, the intractable enemy of the King, his rival. The father hoped that the obstacle would overcome the desire. He was thankful to M. de Beaufort, whose lightness or generous reflection had thrown an impediment in the way of the departure of a son, now his only joy. But Raoul, still firm and tranquil: “Monsieur le Duc,” replied he, “the objection you make I have already considered in my mind. I will serve on board your vessels, because you do me the honour to take me with you; but I shall there serve a more powerful master than the King, I shall serve God.”
“God! how so?” said the Duc and Athos together.
“My intention is to make profession, and become a knight of Malta,” added Bragelonne, letting fall, one by one, words more icy than the drops which fall from bare trees after the tempests of winter.
Under this blow Athos staggered, and the Prince himself was moved. Grimaud uttered a heavy groan, and let fall the bottle, which was broken without anybody paying attention to it. M. de Beaufort looked the young man in the face, and read plainly, though his eyes were cast down, the fire of resolution before which everything must give way. As to Athos, he was too well acquainted with that tender, but inflexible soul; he could not hope to make it deviate from the fatal road it had just chosen. He could only press the hand the Duc held out to him.
“Comte, I shall set off in two days for Toulon,” said M. de Beaufort. “Will you meet me at Paris, in order that I may know your determination?”
“I will have the honour of thanking you there, my Prince, for all your kindnesses,” replied the Comte.
“And be sure to bring the Vicomte with you, whether he follows me or does not follow me,” added the Duc; “he has my word, and I only ask yours.”
Having thrown a little balm upon the wound of the paternal heart, he pulled the ear of Grimaud, whose eyes sparkled more than usual, and regained his escort in the parterre. The horses, rested and refreshed, set off with spirit through this beautiful night, and soon placed a considerable distance between their master and the château.
Athos and Bragelonne were again face to face. Eleven o’clock was striking. The father and son preserved a profound silence towards each other, where an intelligent observer would have expected cries and tears. But these two men were of such a nature that all emotion plunged itself where it was lost for ever when they had resolved to confine it to their own hearts. They passed, then, silently and almost breathlessly the hour which preceded midnight. The clock, by striking, alone pointed out to them how many minutes had lasted the painful journey made by their souls in the immensity of the remembrances of the past and of the fears of the future. Athos rose first, saying, “It is late—till to-morrow.”
Raoul rose, and in his turn embraced his father. The latter held him clasped to his breast, and said in a tremulous voice, “In two days you will have left me, then—left me for ever, Raoul!”
“Monsieur,” replied the young man, “I had formed a determination, that of piercing my heart with my sword; but you would have thought that cowardly. I have renounced that determination, and therefore we must part.”
“You leave me by going, Raoul.”
“Listen to me again, monsieur, I implore you. If I do not go, I shall die here of grief and love. I know how long a time I have to live thus. Send me away quickly, monsieur, or you will see me basely die before your eyes—in your house. T
his is stronger than my will—stronger than my strength; you may plainly see that within one month I have lived thirty years, and that I approach the end of my life.”
“Then,” said Athos coldly, “you go with the intention of getting killed in Africa? Oh! tell me! do not lie!”
Raoul grew deadly pale, and remained silent for two seconds, which were to his father two hours of agony. Then, all at once: “Monsieur,” said he, “I have promised to devote myself to God. In exchange for this sacrifice which I make of my youth and my liberty, I will only ask of Him one thing, and that is to preserve me for you, because you are the only tie which attaches me to this world. God alone can give me the strength not to forget that I owe you everything, and that nothing ought to be with me before you.”
Athos embraced his son tenderly, and said:—
“You have just replied to me on the word of honour of an honest man; in two days we shall be with M. de Beaufort at Paris, and you will then do what will be proper for you to do. You are free, Raoul; adieu.”
And he slowly gained his bedroom. Raoul went down into the garden, and passed the night in the alley of limes.
56
Preparations for Departure
ATHOS LOST NO MORE time in combating this immutable resolution. He gave all his attention to preparing, during the two days the Duc had granted to him, the proper appointments for Raoul. This labour chiefly concerned Grimaud, who immediately applied himself to it with the goodwill and intelligence we know he possessed. Athos gave this worthy servant orders to take the route to Paris when the equipments should be ready; and, not to expose himself in keeping the Duc waiting, or to delay Raoul, so that the Duc should perceive his absence, he himself, the day after the visit of M. de Beaufort, set off for Paris with his son.
For the poor young man it was an emotion easily to be understood, thus to return to Paris amongst all the people who had known and loved him. Every face recalled a suffering to him who had suffered so much, to him who had loved so much, some circumstance of his love. Raoul, on approaching Paris, felt as if he were dying. Once in Paris he really existed no longer. When he reached Guiche’s residence, he was informed that Guiche was with Monsieur. Raoul took the road to the Luxembourg, and when arrived, without suspecting that he was going to the place where La Vallière had lived, he heard so much music and respired so many perfumes, he heard so much joyous laughter, and saw so many dancing shadows, that, if it had not been for a charitable woman, who perceived him so dejected and pale beneath a doorway, he would have remained there a few minutes, and then would have gone away, never to return. But, as we have said, in the first antechambers he had stopped, solely for the sake of not mixing himself with all those happy existences which he felt were moving around him in the adjacent salons. And as one of Monsieur’s servants, recognising him, had asked him if he wished to see Monsieur or Madame, Raoul had scarcely answered him, but had sunk down upon a bench near the velvet doorway, looking at a clock, which had stood for nearly an hour. The servant has passed on, and another, better acquainted with him, had come up and interrogated Raoul whether he should inform M. Guiche of his being there. This name even did not rouse the recollections of poor Raoul. The persistent servant went on to relate that Guiche had just invented a new game of lottery, and was teaching it to the ladies. Raoul, opening his large eyes, like the absent man in Theophrastus, had made no answer, but his sadness had increased by two shades. With his head hanging down, his limbs relaxed, his mouth half open for the escape of his sighs, Raoul remained, thus forgotten, in the antechamber, when all at once a lady’s robe passed, rubbing against the doors of a lateral salon which opened upon the gallery. A lady, young, pretty, and gay, scolding an officer of the household, entered by that way, and expressed herself with much vivacity. The officer replied in calm but firm sentences; it was rather a little love pet than a quarrel of courtiers, and was terminated by a kiss on the fingers of the lady. Suddenly, on perceiving Raoul, the lady became silent, and pushing away the officer: —
“Make your escape, Malicorne,” said she; “I did not think there was any one here. I shall curse you, if they have either heard or seen us!”
Malicorne hastened away. The young lady advanced behind Raoul, and stretching her joyous face over him as he lay:—
“Monsieur is a gallant man,” said she, “and no doubt—”
She here interrupted herself by uttering a cry: “Raoul!” said she, blushing.
“Mademoiselle de Montalais!” said Raoul, more pale than death.
He rose unsteadily, and tried to make his way across the slippery mosaic of the floor; but she had comprehended that savage and cruel grief; she felt that in the flight of Raoul there was an accusation, or at least a suspicion against herself. A woman, ever vigilant, she did not think she ought to let the opportunity slip of making a justification; but Raoul, though stopped by her in the middle of the gallery, did not seem disposed to surrender without a combat. He took it up in a tone so cold and embarrassed that if they had been thus surprised the whole court would have had no doubt about the proceedings of Mademoiselle de Montalais.
“Ah! monsieur,” said she, with disdain, “what you are doing is very unworthy of a gentleman. My heart inclines me to speak to you; you compromise me by a reception almost uncivil. You are wrong, monsieur; and you confound your friends with your enemies. Farewell!”
Raoul had sworn never to speak of Louise, never even to look at those who might have seen Louise; he was going into another world, that he might never meet with anything Louise had seen, or anything she had touched. But after the first shock of his pride, after having had a glimpse of Montalais, the companion of Louise—Montalais, who reminded him of the turret of Blois and the joys of youth—all his reason faded away.
“Pardon me, mademoiselle; it enters not, it cannot enter into my thoughts to be uncivil.”
“Do you wish to speak to me?” said she, with the smile of former days. “Well! come somewhere else; for here we may be surprised.”
“Oh!” said he.
She looked at the clock doubting, then, having reflected:—
“In my apartment,” said she, “we shall have an hour to ourselves.” And, taking her course, lighter than a fairy, she ran up to her chamber, followed by Raoul. Shutting the door, and placing in the hands of her camériste the mantle she had held upon her arm,—“You were seeking M. de Guiche, were you not?” said she to Raoul.
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“I will go and ask him to come up here presently, after I have spoken to you.”
“Do so, mademoiselle.”
“Are you angry with me?”
Raoul looked at her for a moment, then, casting down his eyes, “Yes,” said he.
“You think I was concerned in the plot which brought about your rupture, do you not?”
“Rupture!” said he, with bitterness. “Oh! mademoiselle, there can be no rupture where there has been no love.”
“An error,” replied Montalais; “Louise did love you.”
Raoul started.
“Not with love, I know; but she liked you, and you ought to have married her before you set out for London.”
Raoul broke into a sinister laugh, which made Montalais shudder.
“You tell me that very much at your ease, mademoiselle. Do people marry whom they like? You forget that the King then kept for himself as his mistress her of whom we are speaking.”
“Listen,” said the young woman, pressing the cold hands of Raoul in her own, “you were wrong in every way; a man of your age ought never to leave a woman of hers alone.”
“There is no longer any faith in the world, then?” said Raoul.
“No, Vicomte,” said Montalais quietly. “Nevertheless, let me tell you, that if instead of loving Louise coldly and philosophically, you had endeavoured to awaken her to love—”
“Enough, I pray you, mademoiselle,” said Raoul. “I feel that you are all, of both sexes, of a different age from me. You can laugh and you
can banter agreeably. I, mademoiselle, I loved Mademoiselle de—” Raoul could not pronounce her name,—“I loved her well; I put faith in her; now I am quits by loving her no longer.”
“Oh, Vicomte!” said Montalais, pointing to his reflection in a mirror.
“I know what you mean, mademoiselle; I am much altered, am I not? Well! do you know why? Because my face is the mirror of my heart, the inside has changed, as the outside has.”
“You are consoled, then?” said Montalais sharply.
“No, I shall never be consoled.”
“I don’t understand you, Monsieur de Bragelonne.”
“I care but little for that. I do not too well understand myself.”
“You have not even tried to speak to Louise?”
“Who! I?” exclaimed the young man, with eyes flashing fire; “I!—why do you not advise me to marry her? Perhaps the King would consent now.” And he rose from his chair full of anger.
“I see,” said Montalais, “that you are not cured, and that Louise has one enemy the more.”
“One enemy the more?”
“Yes; favourites are but little beloved at the court of France.”
“Oh! whilst she has her lover to protect her, is not that enough? She has chosen him of such a quality that her enemies cannot prevail against her.” But, stopping all at once—“And then she has you for her friend, mademoiselle,” added he, with a shade of irony, which did not glide off the cuirass.
“Who! I?—Oh, no! I am no longer one of those whom Mademoiselle de la Vallière deigns to look upon; but—”
This but, so big with menaces and storms; this but, which made the heart of Raoul beat, such griefs did it presage for her whom lately he loved so dearly; this terrible but, so significant in a woman like Montalais, was interrupted by a moderately loud noise heard by the speakers, proceeding from the alcove behind the wainscoting. Montalais turned to listen, and Raoul was already rising, when a lady entered the room quietly by the secret door, which she closed after her.
Man in the Iron Mask (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 52
