Between Two Kings

by Lawrence Ellsworth

  Mademoiselle de Montalais and her companion watched these ceremonies attentively from their window, though they must have been quite familiar with them. They were just waiting for them to be finished so they could resume undisturbed. Once the waiters, scullions, pages, and guards had all passed, they sat back down at their table, and the sun, which for a moment had gilded those two charming faces, shone only on the flowers and the rosebush.

  “Fah!” said Montalais, resuming her position. “Madame doesn’t need my help to have her breakfast.”

  “Oh, but Montalais, you’ll be punished!” replied the younger girl, sitting down again.

  “Punished? Oh, right, I’ll be deprived of our morning ride, going down the old steps to the big old coach, which will then bounce left and right along paths so riddled with ruts that it takes a full two hours to go a league. Then we’ll return along the wall of the château under the window that once was Marie de Médicis’s, where Madame will inevitably say, ‘Can you believe that Queen Marie escaped through that, climbing down a forty-seven-foot drop!6 She, the mother of two princes and three princesses!’ If that’s to be my entertainment, I’d rather be punished by missing it every day, especially when my punishment is to stay with you and write such fascinating letters.”

  “But, Montalais! We can’t ignore our duties.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, sweetheart, when you’re largely free of them. You have all the benefits of attending Court with none of the burdens and are more truly a maid of honor to Madame than I am, since you’re here because Madame likes your father-in-law. You came into this sad château like a bird landing in a tower, sniffing the air, enjoying the flowers and pecking at the seeds, without the slightest duty to fulfill and no problems to solve. And you tell me we can’t ignore our duties! In truth, my lazy lovely, what duties do you have other than to write to the handsome Raoul? And since you’re not even doing that, it seems to me that you’re the one who’s being neglectful.”

  Louise took this seriously. She rested her chin on her hand and said earnestly, “Do you really have the heart to reproach me and accuse me of being the lucky one? You’re the one with a future, since you’re officially a member of this court. The king, if he marries, will summon Monsieur to attend him in Paris; you’ll go to all the splendid festivals, and you’ll see the king himself, who’s said to be so handsome and charming.”

  “Moreover, I’ll see Raoul, who attends on ‘Monsieur le Prince,’ ”7 Montalais added maliciously.

  “Poor Raoul!” Louise sighed.

  “Then now is the moment to write to him, chère belle. Come, start again with the famous Monsieur Raoul that so prettily decorated the sheet you tore up.” Then she handed Louise the plume, and with a charming smile, nudged her hand, which quickly traced out the designated words.

  “And now?” asked the younger girl.

  “Now write what’s on your mind, Louise,” replied Montalais.

  “How do you know something is on my mind?”

  “I know somebody is, and that’s even better—or rather, worse.”

  “You think so, Montalais?”

  “Louise, Louise, your blue eyes are as deep as the sea I saw at Boulogne last year. No, I’m wrong, for the sea is treacherous; your eyes are as deep as the azure sky above our heads.”

  “Well! Since you see so deeply into me through my eyes, tell me what I’m thinking, Montalais.”

  “First of all, you’re not thinking Monsieur Raoul, you’re thinking My Dear Raoul.… Oh, don’t blush over so little a thing! My Dear Raoul, you’d like to say, You beg me to write to you in Paris, where you are retained in the service of Monsieur le Prince. There you must be bored indeed to have to seek distraction by remembering a provincial girl.…”

  Louise rose and stopped her. “No, Montalais,” she said, smiling. “That’s not at all what I was thinking. Here, this is what I think.” And she boldly took the plume and wrote with a firm hand the following words: “I would have been very unhappy if your request for a remembrance from me hadn’t been so warm. Everything here reminds me of our first years of friendship, so quickly passed and so sweetly spent that nothing could replace their charming memory in my heart.”

  Montalais, who was watching the pen dance across the page, reading upside-down as it wrote, interrupted her with applause. “Now, that’s more like it! Here is candor, here is style, here is true heart! Show those Parisians, my dear, that Blois is still the capital of our language.”

  “He knows that, to me, Blois has been heaven,” said the younger woman.

  “That’s what I meant, and you write like an angel.”

  “I’ll finish now, Montalais.” And she continued: “You say you think of me, Monsieur Raoul, and I thank you, but I’m not surprised. I know every beat of your heart, for our hearts beat together.”

  “Whoa, there!” said Montalais. “Watch how you scatter your wool, my lamb, for there are wolves about.”

  Louise was about to reply when a horse’s galloping hoofbeats resounded from under the château’s gate.

  “What’s that?” said Montalais, rushing to the window. “A handsome cavalier, my faith!”

  “Oh! It’s Raoul!” cried Louise, who’d followed her friend, and then, turning pale, fell back beside her unfinished letter.

  “Now there’s an attentive lover, upon my word,” said Montalais, “to arrive the moment he’s beckoned.”

  “Come away from there, please!” whispered Louise urgently.

  “Fah! He doesn’t even know me. Let me go see what he’s doing here.”

  II The Messenger

  Mademoiselle de Montalais was right: the young cavalier was quite handsome. He was a young man of twenty-four or twenty-five, tall and slender, graceful and comfortable in the charming military costume of the period. His tall cavalry boots enclosed a pair of feet that Mademoiselle de Montalais wouldn’t have been ashamed of if she’d been a man. With one of his fine and sensitive hands he drew his horse to a halt in the center of the courtyard, and with the other he doffed the long-plumed hat that shaded his features, at once serious and naïve.

  The guards, at the sound of the horse, awoke and quickly stood at attention. The young man let one of them approach his saddle-bow, bowed to him, and said, in a clear and precise voice easily heard at the window where the two young ladies were hiding, “A messenger for His Royal Highness.”

  “Ah ha!” the guard said, and called out, “Officer, a messenger!” However, this brave soldier knew quite well that no officer would respond, since the only one they had was in his rooms on the far, garden side of the château, so he hastened to add, “Mon Gentilhomme, the officer is on his rounds, but in his absence we’ll inform Monsieur de Saint-Rémy,* the majordomo.”

  “Monsieur de Saint-Rémy!” repeated the cavalier, blushing.

  “You know him?”

  “But yes. Please request of him that my visit be announced to His Highness as soon as possible.”

  “The matter seems urgent,” said the guard, as if to himself, but in hopes of obtaining an answer.

  The messenger nodded.

  “In that case,” replied the guard, “I’ll go find the majordomo myself.”

  Meanwhile, the young man dismounted, while the other soldiers admired the fine horse that had brought him. The first guard came back and asked, “Your pardon, Monsieur, but your name, if you please?”

  “The Vicomte de Bragelonne, on the behalf of His Highness Monsieur le Prince de Condé.”*

  The soldier bowed respectfully, and as if the name of the victor of Rocroi and Lens8 had given him wings, leapt back up the steps to the antechamber.

  Monsieur de Bragelonne scarcely had time to tie his horse to the banister of the staircase before Monsieur de Saint-Rémy came running, out of breath, one hand supporting his bulging belly while the other pawed the air like a fisherman cleaving the waves with his oar. “What, Monsieur le Vicomte, you at Blois?” he cried. “How marvelous! Bonjour, Monsieur Raoul, bonjour!”<
br />
  “A thousand regards, Monsieur de Saint-Rémy.”

  “How happy Mademoiselle de La Vall—I mean, how happy Madame de Saint-Rémy will be to see you. But come, His Royal Highness’s breakfast, must it really be interrupted? Is the news serious?”

  “Yes and no, Monsieur de Saint-Rémy. However, any delay might be an inconvenience to His Royal Highness.”

  “If that is so, we must make do, Monsieur le Vicomte. Come. Besides, Monsieur is in a charming mood today. So, then, you bring us news?”

  “Big news, Monsieur de Saint-Rémy.”

  “And the news is good, I presume?”

  “Very good.”

  “Then quickly, quickly!” said the worthy majordomo, straightening his clothing as he went along.

  Raoul followed, hat in hand, a little nervous about the sound his spurs made as he marched through the solemn halls of the grand château.

  As soon as he vanished into the palace, the window across the courtyard was reoccupied, and an animated whispering betrayed the emotions of the two young ladies. Soon they came to a decision, and one of the heads, the brunette, disappeared from the window, leaving the other on the balcony, half-concealed by the shrubbery, attentively watching, between the boughs, the porch where Monsieur de Bragelonne had entered the palace.

  Meanwhile, the object of all this curiosity continued to follow in the footsteps of the majordomo. From ahead, the sound of servants’ quick steps, the aroma of wine and meat, and a rattling of crystal and crockery informed him that they were nearing their destination.

  The pages, valets, and officers gathered in the refectory’s antechamber welcomed the newcomer with the region’s proverbial politeness; some of them knew Raoul, and all guessed that he came from Paris. Indeed, his arrival momentarily suspended the service of breakfast, as a page who was pouring a drink for His Highness, hearing the jingle of spurs in the next room, turned like a distracted child, still pouring, not into the prince’s glass, but onto the tablecloth.

  Madame, less preoccupied than her glorious spouse, noticed the page’s distraction. “Well!” she said.

  Monsieur de Saint-Rémy took advantage of the interruption to poke his head around the door.

  “Why are you disturbing us?” said Gaston, drawing toward himself a thick slice of one of the largest salmon ever to ascend the Loire and be caught between Paimbœuf and Saint-Nazaire.

  “It’s because a messenger has arrived from Paris. But I’m sure it can wait until after Monsieur’s breakfast.”

  “From Paris!” the prince exclaimed, dropping his fork. “A messenger from Paris, you say? And who does this messenger come from?”

  “From Monsieur le Prince,” said the majordomo, using the common appellation for Monsieur de Condé.

  “A messenger from Monsieur le Prince?” said Gaston anxiously, a tone that didn’t escape the notice of his servants, redoubling their curiosity.

  Monsieur might almost have thought himself back in the days of thrilling conspiracies, when the noise of a gate unlocking made one start, when every letter opened might betray a state secret, and every message introduce a dark and complicated intrigue. Perhaps the grand name of Monsieur le Prince roused in the halls of Blois a specter of this past.

  Monsieur pushed back his plate. “Shall I ask the envoy to wait?” said Monsieur de Saint-Rémy.

  A glance from Madame stiffened Gaston’s resolve, and he replied, “No, on the contrary, have him enter at once. By the way, who is it?”

  “A local gentleman, Monsieur le Vicomte de Bragelonne.”

  “Ah, yes, very good! Show him in, Saint-Rémy, show him in.”

  And once he had uttered these words with his usual gravity, Monsieur gave his servants a certain look, and all the pages, servers, and squires left their napkins, knives, and goblets and retreated rapidly into a side chamber. This little army marched off in two files as Raoul de Bragelonne, preceded by Monsieur de Saint-Rémy, entered the refectory. The brief moment of solitude afforded him by the servants’ retreat had given Monseigneur Gaston time to assume an appropriately diplomatic expression. Rather than turn around, he waited for the majordomo to bring the messenger to a position in front of him.

  Raoul stopped in the middle of the far side of the table, midway between Monsieur and Madame, where he bowed profoundly to Monsieur, bowed humbly to Madame, and then stood and waited for Monsieur to speak to him first.

  The prince, for his part, waited until the outer doors were closed tightly, not turning to look, which would have been beneath him, but listening with both ears until he heard the click of the lock, which promised at least the appearance of privacy. Once the doors were closed, Gaston raised his eyes to the Vicomte de Bragelonne and said, “It seems you come from Paris, Monsieur?”

  “This very moment, Monseigneur.”

  “How is the king doing?”

  “His Majesty is in perfect health, Monseigneur.”

  “And my sister-in-law?”9

  “Her Majesty the Queen Mother* still suffers from the complaint in her chest but has been somewhat better for the past month.”

  “They tell me you come on the behalf of Monsieur le Prince? Surely they were mistaken.”

  “No, Monseigneur. Monsieur le Prince has charged me with bringing Your Royal Highness this letter, and I am to await a reply.” His voice trailed off in this final phrase; Raoul had been a little put off by his cold and formal reception.

  The prince forgot that he was responsible for the messenger’s confusion and bit his lip anxiously. He took the Prince de Condé’s letter with a haggard look, opened it as he might a suspicious package, and then, to read it without anyone seeing his expression as he did so, turned away.

  Madame observed all these maneuvers on the part of her august husband with an anxiety almost the equal of his own. Raoul, impassive and seemingly forgotten by his hosts, looked through the open window at the château garden and its crowded population of statues.

  “Ah!” Monsieur said suddenly, with a radiant smile. “A charming letter from Monsieur le Prince, with a pleasant surprise! Here, Madame.”

  The table was too long for the prince’s arm to reach the princess’s hand, so Raoul hastened to act as intermediary, passing the letter along with a grace that charmed the princess and won the viscount a flattering thanks.

  “You know the contents of this letter, do you not?” said Gaston to Raoul.

  “Yes, Monseigneur; Monsieur le Prince gave me the message verbally at first, then upon reflection His Highness took up the plume.”

  “It’s beautiful handwriting,” said Madame, “but I can’t make it out.”

  “Will you read it to Madame, Monsieur de Bragelonne?” said the prince.

  “Yes, Monsieur, please read it.”

  Raoul began to read, with Monsieur giving him his full attention. The letter read as follows:

  Monseigneur, the king is traveling to the Spanish frontier; from this you will understand that His Majesty’s marriage is to be finalized. The king has done me the honor to appoint me Royal Quartermaster for this journey, and as I know how happy His Majesty would be to spend a day at Blois, I dare to ask Your Royal Highness for permission to include his château on the itinerary.

  However, in the unforeseen event that this request might cause Your Royal Highness any inconvenience, I beg you to report it to me by the messenger I have sent, one of my gentlemen named the Vicomte de Bragelonne. My itinerary will depend upon the decision of Your Royal Highness, as we could choose instead to travel by way of Vendôme or Romorantin. I hope that Your Royal Highness will take my request in good part as an expression of my boundless devotion and my desire to please him.

  “Why, nothing could be more gracious,” said Madame, after carefully watching her husband’s expression during the reading of this letter. “The king, here!” she exclaimed, perhaps a bit louder than was consistent with the demands of secrecy.

  “Monsieur,” said His Highness, “you will thank Monsieur le Prince de Condé a
nd convey my gratitude for the pleasure he gives me.” Raoul bowed. “On what day will His Majesty arrive?” the prince continued.

  “The king, Monseigneur, will in all probability arrive tonight.”

  “Tonight! But how would he have known it if my answer had been other than positive?”

  “I’d been assigned, Monseigneur, to hasten back to Beaugency and give a courier an order to countermand the march, which he would bear to Monsieur le Prince.”

  “His Majesty is at Orléans, then?”

  “Closer than that, Monseigneur; His Majesty must even now be arriving at Meung.”

  “The Court accompanies him?”

  “Yes, Monseigneur.”

  “By the way, I forgot to ask for news of Monsieur le Cardinal.”

  “His Eminence appears to be in good health, Monseigneur.”

  “His nieces accompany him, no doubt?”

  “No, Monseigneur; His Eminence ordered Mesdemoiselles de Mancini to depart for Brouage. They are following the left bank of the Loire while the Court proceeds along the right bank.”

  “What? Mademoiselle Marie de Mancini* has left the Court?” asked Monsieur, whose reserve was beginning to fray.

  “Especially Mademoiselle Marie de Mancini,” replied Raoul discreetly.

  A fugitive smile, a brief vestige of his old spirit of intrigue, briefly lit the prince’s pale cheeks. “Thank you, Monsieur de Bragelonne,” said Gaston. “If you do not wish to render the prince the commission with which I charge you, which is to tell him that I am very pleased with his messenger, I will do so myself.”

  Raoul bowed to thank Monsieur for the honor the prince did him.

  Monsieur gestured to Madame, who rang a bell placed to her right. Instantly Monsieur de Saint-Rémy came in and the refectory was suddenly filled with people.

  “Messieurs,” said the prince, “His Majesty does me the honor to spend a day at Blois. I trust that my nephew the king will have no cause to regret the favor he shows to this house.”