“And everything commences as well as ends,” said the captain of the dogs, with a coarse laugh.
“Ah!” said d’Artagnan a second time—he burned to know, but dignity would not allow him to interrogate people below him,—“there is something beginning, then, it appears?”
The captain gave him a significant wink; but d’Artagnan was unwilling to learn anything from this man.
“Shall we see the King early?” asked he of the falconer.
“At seven o’clock, monsieur, I shall fly the birds.”
“Who comes with the King? How is Madame? How is the Queen?”
“Better, monsieur.”
“Has she been ill, then?”
“Monsieur, since the last chagrin she had, Her Majesty has been unwell.”
“What chagrin? You need not fancy your news is old. I am but just returned.”
“It appears that the Queen, a little neglected since the death of her mother-in-law, complained to the King, who replied to her,—‘Do I not sleep with you every night, madame? What more do you want?’ ”
“Ah!” said d’Artagnan,—“poor woman! She must heartily hate Mademoiselle de la Vallière.”
“Oh, no! not Mademoiselle de la Vallière,” replied the falconer.
“Who then—?” The horn interrupted this conversation. It summoned the dogs and the hawks. The falconer and his companion set off immediately, leaving d‘Artagnan alone in the midst of the suspended sentence. The King appeared at a distance, surrounded by ladies and horsemen. All the troop advanced in beautiful order, at a foot’s pace, the horns of various sorts animating the dogs and the horses. It was a movement, a noise, a mirage of light, of which nothing now can give an idea, unless it be the fictitious splendour or false majesty of a theatrical spectacle. D’Artagnan, with an eye a little weakened, distinguished behind the group three carriages. The first was intended for the Queen; it was empty. D’Artagnan, who did not see Mademoiselle de la Vallière by the King’s side, on looking about for her, saw her in the second carriage. She was alone with two of her women, who seemed as dull as their mistress. On the left hand of the King, upon a high-spirited horse, restrained by a bold and skilful hand, shone a lady of the most dazzling beauty. The King smiled upon her, and she smiled upon the King. Loud laughter followed every word she spoke.
“I must know that woman,” thought the musketeer; “who can she be?” And he stooped towards his friend the falconer, to whom he addressed the question he had put to himself. The falconer was about to reply, when the King, perceiving d’Artagnan, “Ah, Comte?” said he, “you are returned, then! why have I not seen you?”
“Sire,” replied the Captain, “because your Majesty was asleep when I arrived; and not awake when I resumed my duties this morning.”
“Still the same!” said Louis in a loud voice, denoting satisfaction. “Take some rest, Comte; I command you to do so. You will dine with me to-day.”
A murmur of admiration surrounded d‘Artagnan like an immense caress. Every one was eager to salute him. Dining with the King was an honour His Majesty was not so prodigal of as Henry IV had been. The King passed a few steps in advance, and d’Artagnan found himself in the midst of a fresh group, among whom shone Colbert.
“Good day, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the minister, with affable politeness; “have you had a pleasant journey?”
“Yes, monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, bowing to the neck of his horse.
“I heard the King invite you to his table for this evening,” continued the minister; “you will meet an old friend there.”
“An old friend of mine?” asked d’Artagnan, plunging painfully into the dark waves of the past, which had swallowed up for him so many friendships and so many hatreds.
“M. le Duc d’ Alméda, who is arrived this morning from Spain.”
“The Duc d‘Alméda?” said d’Artagnan, reflecting in vain.
“I!” said an old man, white as snow, sitting bent in his carriage, which he caused to be thrown open to make room for the musketeer.
“Aramis!” cried d’Artagnan, struck with perfect stupor. And he left, inert as it was, the thin arm of the old nobleman hanging round his neck.
Colbert, after having observed them in silence for a minute, put his horse forward, and left the two old friends together.
“And so,” said the musketeer, taking the arm of Aramis, “you the exile, the rebel, are again in France!”
“Ah! and I shall dine with you at the King’s table,” said Aramis, smiling. “Yes; will you not ask yourself what is the use of fidelity in this world? Stop! let us allow poor La Vallière’s carriage to pass. Look, how uneasy she is! How her eye, dimmed with tears, follows the King, who is riding on horseback yonder!”
“With whom?”
“With Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, now become Madame de Montespan,” replied Aramis.
“She is jealous; is she then deserted?”
“Not quite yet, but it will not be long.”
They chatted together, while following the sport, and Aramis’s coachman drove them so cleverly that they got up at the moment when the falcon, attacking the bird, beat him down, and fell upon him. The King alighted, Madame de Montespan followed his example. They were in front of an isolated chapel, concealed by large trees, already despoiled of their leaves by the first winds of autumn. Behind this chapel was an enclosure, closed by a latticed gate. The falcon had beat down his prey in the enclosure belonging to this little chapel, and the King was desirous of going in to take the first feather, according to custom. The cortège formed a circle round the building and the hedges, too small to receive so many. D’Artagnan held back Aramis by the arm, as he was about, like the rest, to alight from his carriage, and in a hoarse, broken voice, “Do you know, Aramis,” said he, “whither chance has conducted us?”
“No,” replied the Duc.
“Here repose people I have known,” said d’Artagnan, much agitated.
Aramis, without divining anything, and with a trembling step, penetrated into the chapel by a little door which d’Artagnan opened for him. “Where are they buried?” said he.
“There, in the enclosure. There is a cross, you see, under that little cypress. The little cypress is planted over their tomb; don’t go to it; the King is going that way; the heron has fallen just there.”
Aramis stopped and concealed himself in the shade. They then saw, without being seen, the pale face of La Vallière, who, neglected in her carriage, had at first looked on, with a melancholy heart, from the door, and then, carried away by jealousy, she had advanced into the chapel, whence, leaning against a pillar, she contemplated in the enclosure the King smiling and making signs to Madame de Montespan to approach, as there was nothing to be afraid of. Madame de Montespan complied; she took the hand the King held out to her, and he, plucking out the first feather from the heron, which the falconer had strangled, placed it in the hat of his beautiful companion. She, smiling in her turn, kissed the hand tenderly which made her this present. The King blushed with pleasure; he looked at Madame de Montespan with all the fire of love.
“What will you give me in exchange?” said he.
She broke off a little branch of cypress and offered it to the King, who looked intoxicated with hope.
“Humph!” said Aramis to d’Artagnan; “the present is but a sad one, for that cypress shades a tomb.”
“Yes, and the tomb is that of Raoul de Bragelonne,” said d’Artagnan aloud; “of Raoul, who sleeps under that cross with his father.”
A groan resounded behind them. They saw a woman fall fainting to the ground. Mademoiselle de la Vallière had seen all, and heard all.
“Poor woman!” muttered d’Artagnan, as he helped the attendants to carry back to her carriage her who from that time was to suffer.
That evening d’Artagnan was seated at the King’s table, near M. Colbert and M. le Duc d’ Alméda. The King was very gay. He paid a thousand little attentions to the Queen, a thousand kindnesses to M
adame, seated at his left hand, and very sad. It might have been supposed to be that calm time when the King used to watch the eyes of his mother for the avowal or disavowal of what he had just done.
Of mistresses there was no question at this dinner. The King addressed Aramis two or three times, calling him M. l‘Ambassadeur, which increased the surprise already felt by d’Artagnan at seeing his friend the rebel so marvellously well received at court.
The King, on rising from table, gave his hand to the Queen, and made a sign to Colbert, whose eye watched that of his master. Colbert took d‘Artagnan and Aramis on one side. The King began to chat with his sister, whilst Monsieur, very uneasy, entertained the Queen with a preoccupied air, without ceasing to watch his wife and brother from the corner of his eye. The conversation between Aramis, d’Artagnan, and Colbert, turned upon indifferent subjects. They spoke of preceding ministers; Colbert related the feats of Mazarin, and required those of Richelieu to be related to him. D’Artagnan could not overcome his surprise at finding this man, with heavy eyebrows and a low forehead, contain so much sound knowledge and cheerful spirits. Aramis was astonished at that lightness of character which permitted a serious man to retard with advantage the moment for a more important conversation, to which nobody made any allusion, although all three interlocutors felt the imminence of it. It was very plain from the embarrassed appearance of Monsieur, how much the conversation of the King and Madame annoyed him. The eyes of Madame were almost red; was she going to complain? Was she going to commit a little scandal in open court? The King took her on one side, and in a tone so tender that it must have reminded the Princess of the time when she was loved for herself,—
“Sister,” said he, “why do I see tears in those beautiful eyes?”
“Why—sire—” said she.
“Monsieur is jealous, is he not, sister?”
She looked towards Monsieur, an infallible sign that they were talking about him.
“Yes,” said she.
“Listen to me,” said the King; “if your friends compromise you, it is not Monsieur’s fault.”
He spoke these words with so much kindness, that Madame, encouraged, she, who had had so many griefs for so long a time, was near bursting, so full was her heart.
“Come, come, dear little sister,” said the King, “tell me your griefs; by the word of a brother, I pity them; by the word of a King, I will terminate them.”
She raised her fine eyes, and in a melancholy tone,—
“It is not my friends who compromise me,” said she; “they are either absent or concealed; they have been brought into disgrace with your Majesty; they, so devoted, so good, so loyal!”
“You say this on account of Guiche, whom I have exiled, at the desire of Monsieur?”
“And who, since that unjust exile, has endeavoured to get himself killed every day!”
“Unjust, do you say, sister?”
“So unjust, that if I had not had the respect mixed with friendship that I have always entertained for your Majesty—”
“Well?”
“Well! I would have asked my brother Charles,ao upon whom I can always—”
The King started. “What then?”
“I would have asked him to have represented to you that Monsieur and his favourite, M. le Chevalier de Lorraine, ought not with impunity to constitute themselves the executioners of my honour and my happiness.”
“The Chevalier de Lorraine,” said the King; “that dismal face?”
“Is my mortal enemy. Whilst that man lives in my household, where Monsieur retains him and delegates his powers to him, I shall be the most miserable woman in this kingdom.”
“So,” said the King slowly, “you call your brother of England a better friend than I am?”
“Actions speak for themselves, sire.”
“And you would prefer going to ask assistance there.”
“To my own country!” said she, with pride; “yes, sire.”
“You are the grandchild of Henry IV as well as myself, my friend. Cousin and brother-in-law, does not that amount pretty well to the title of brother-germain?”ap
“Then,” said Henrietta, “act!”
“Let us form an alliance.”
“Begin.”
“I have, you say, unjustly exiled Guiche.”
“Oh! yes,” said she, blushing.
“Guiche shall return.”
“So far, well.”
“And now you say that I am wrong in having in your household the Chevalier de Lorraine, who gives Monsieur ill-advice respecting you.”
“Remember well what I tell you, sire; the Chevalier de Lorraine some day—Observe, if ever I come to an ill end, I beforehand accuse the Chevalier de Lorraine; he has a soul capable of any crime.”
“The Chevalier de Lorraine shall no longer annoy you—I promise you that.”
“Then that will be a true preliminary of alliance, sire—I sign; but since you have done your part, tell me what shall be mine.”
“Instead of embroiling me with your brother Charles, you must make him my more intimate friend than ever.”
“That is very easy.”
“Oh! not quite so much so as you may think, for, in ordinary friendship people embrace or exercise hospitality, and that only costs a kiss or a return—easy expenses; but in political friendship—”
“Ah! it’s a political friendship, is it?”
“Yes, my sister; and then, instead of embraces and feasts, it is soldiers, it is soldiers all living and well equipped, that we must serve up to our friend; vessels we must offer, all armed with cannon and stored with provisions. It hence results that we have not always our coffers in a fit state to form such friendships.”
“Ah! you are quite right,” said Madame; “the coffers of the King of England have been very sonorous for some time.”
“But you, my sister, who have so much influence over your brother, you can obtain more than an ambassador could ever obtain.”
“To the effect that I must go to London, my dear brother.”
“I have thought so,” replied the King eagerly; “and I have said to myself that such a voyage would do your spirits good.”
“Only,” interrupted Madame, “it is possible I should fail. The King of England has dangerous counsellors.”
“Counsellors, do you say?”
“Precisely. If, by chance, your Majesty had any intention—I am only supposing so—of asking Charles II his alliance for a war—”
“For a war?”
“Yes; well! then the counsellors of the King, who are to the number of seven—Mademoiselle Stewart, Mademoiselle Wells, Mademoiselle Gwyn, Miss Orchay, Mademoiselle Zunga, Miss Davies, and the proud Countess of Castlemaine—will represent to the King that war costs a great deal of money; that it is better to give balls and suppers at Hampton Court than to equip vessels of the line at Portsmouth and Greenwich.”
“And then your negotiation will fail?”
“Oh! those ladies cause all negotiations to fail that they don’t make themselves.”
“Do you know the idea that has struck me, sister?”
“No; tell me what it is.”
“It is that by searching well around you, you might perhaps find a female counsellor to take with you to your brother whose eloquence might paralyse the ill-will of the seven others”.
“That is really an idea, sire, and I will search.”
“You will find what you want.”
“I hope so.”
“A pretty person is necessary; an agreeable face is better than an ugly one, is it not?”
“Most assuredly.”
“An animated, lively, audacious character.”
“Certainly.”
“Nobility; that is, enough to enable her to approach the King without awkwardness; little enough, so as not to trouble herself about the dignity of her race.”
“Quite just.”
“And who knows a little English.”
“Mon Dieu! why, some
one,” cried Madame, “like Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, for instance!”
“Oh! why, yes!” said Louis XIV; “you have found—it is you who have found, my sister.”
“I will take her; she will have no cause to complain, I suppose.
“Oh! no; I will name her séductrice plénipotentiaire at once, and will add the dowry to the title.”
“That is well.”
“I fancy you already on your road, my dear little sister, and consoled for all your griefs.”
“I will go, on two conditions. The first is, that I shall know what I am negotiating about.”
“This is it. The Dutch, you know, insult me daily in their gazettes, and by their republican attitude. I don’t like republics.”
“That may easily be conceived, sire.”
“I see with pain that these kings of the sea—they call themselves so—keep trade from France in the Indies, and that their vessels will soon occupy all the ports of Europe. Such a power is too near me, sister.”
“They are your allies, nevertheless.”
“That is why they were wrong in having the medal you have heard of struck; a medal which represents Holland stopping the sun as Joshua did, with this legend, The sun has stopped before me. There is not much fraternity in that, is there?”
“I thought you had forgotten that miserable affair.”
“I never forget anything, my sister. And if my true friends, such as your brother Charles, are willing to second me—” The Princess remained pensively silent.
“Listen to me; there is the empire of the seas to be shared,” said Louis XIV “For this partition, which England submits to, could I not represent the second party as well as the Dutch?”
“We have Mademoiselle de Kéroualle to treat that question,” replied Madame.
“Your second condition for going, if you please, sister?”
“The consent of Monsieur, my husband.”
“You shall have it.”
“Then consider me gone, my brother.”
On hearing these words, Louis XIV turned round towards the corner of the room in which d’Artagnan, Colbert, and Aramis stood, and made an affirmative sign to his minister. Colbert then broke the conversation at the point it happened to be at, and said to Aramis,—
Man in the Iron Mask (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 78
