Part 18
At the other end of the same chamber, in a bed with twisted columns, closed by curtains like those which extinguished the light of the lamp, lay de Guiche, his head raised upon a double pillow, his eyes drowned in a thick fog; long, curled black hair, scattered upon the bed, adorned with their disorder the dry and pale temples of the young man.
One felt that fever was the principal hostess of this chamber.
De Guiche was dreaming. His mind followed, through the darkness, one of those delirious dreams such as God sends upon the road of death to those who are about to fall into the universe of eternity.
Two or three stains of still liquid blood spotted the parquet floor.
Manicamp mounted the steps with precipitation; only, at the threshold, he stopped, gently pushed open the door, passed his head into the chamber, and, seeing that all was quiet, he approached, on tiptoe, the great leather armchair, a specimen of furniture from the reign of Henri IV, and, seeing that the sick-nurse had naturally fallen asleep there, he woke her and begged her to step into the adjoining room.
Then, standing near the bed, he remained for a moment wondering whether he ought to wake de Guiche to tell him the good news.
But, as behind the portière he began to hear the silken rustling of robes and the panting breath of his traveling companions, as he already saw that impatient curtain lift, he drew back along the bed and followed the sick-nurse into the next room.
Then, at the very moment he disappeared, the drapery lifted and the two women entered the chamber he had just left.
She who had entered first made an imperious gesture to her companion which pinned her to a stool near the door.
Then she advanced resolutely toward the bed, made the curtains slide along the iron rod and threw their floating folds behind the headboard.
She then saw the pale face of the count; she saw his right hand, wrapped in linen dazzling with whiteness, stand out against the dark-flowered counterpane which covered part of that bed of suffering.
She shuddered on seeing a drop of blood slowly widening upon that linen.
The white chest of the young man was bare, as if the cool of the night were meant to aid his breathing. A small band bound the dressing of the wound, around which spread a bluish circle of extravasated blood.
A deep sigh escaped the mouth of the young woman. She leaned against the column of the bed, and looked through the holes of her mask at that sorrowful spectacle.
A hoarse and strident breath passed like the rattle of death through the clenched teeth of the count.
The masked lady seized the left hand of the wounded man.
That hand burned like a glowing coal.
But, at the moment the icy hand of the lady rested upon it, the effect of that cold was such that de Guiche opened his eyes and strove to re-enter life by animating his gaze.
The first thing he perceived was the phantom standing before the column of his bed.
At this sight, his eyes dilated, but without intelligence lighting there its pure spark.
Then the lady made a sign to her companion, who had remained near the door; no doubt the latter had her lesson well learned, for, in a clearly accented voice, and with no hesitation whatever, she pronounced these words:
— Monsieur le comte, Her Royal Highness Madame wished to know how you are bearing the pains of that wound and to testify to you by my mouth all the regret she feels at seeing you suffer.
At the word Madame, de Guiche made a movement; he had not yet noticed the person to whom that voice belonged.
He therefore naturally turned toward the point from which the voice came.
But, as the icy hand had not left him, he came back to gazing at that motionless phantom.
— Is it you who speak to me, madame, he asked in a weakened voice, or was there another person with you in this chamber?
— Yes, replied the phantom in a barely intelligible voice, lowering her head.
— Well! said the wounded man with effort, thank you. Tell Madame that I no longer regret dying, since she has remembered me.
At that word dying, pronounced by a dying man, the masked lady could not restrain her tears, which flowed beneath her mask and appeared upon her cheeks where the mask ceased to cover them.
De Guiche, had he been more master of his senses, would have seen them roll in brilliant pearls and fall upon his bed.
The lady, forgetting she wore a mask, raised her hand to her eyes to wipe them, and, encountering beneath her hand the irritating and cold velvet, she tore off the mask in anger and threw it upon the parquet.
At that unexpected apparition, which seemed to him to emerge from a cloud, de Guiche uttered a cry and stretched out his arms.
But all speech expired upon his lips, as all strength in his veins.
His right hand, which had followed the impulse of the will without calculating its degree of power, his right hand fell back upon the bed, and, immediately, that so white linen was reddened by a larger stain.
And, during this time, the eyes of the young man clouded over and closed as if he had begun to struggle with the untamable angel of death.
Then, after a few involuntary movements, the head was found motionless upon the pillow.
Only, from pale, it had become livid.
The lady was afraid; but, this time, contrary to habit, fear was attractive.
She leaned toward the young man, devouring with her breath that cold and discolored face, which she almost touched; then she deposited a rapid kiss upon the left hand of de Guiche, who, shaken as by an electric discharge, awoke a second time, opened wide unthinking eyes, and fell back into a profound faint.
— Come, she said to her companion, come, we cannot remain here longer; I should do some folly.
— Madame! madame! Your Highness forgets your mask, said the vigilant companion.
— Pick it up, replied her mistress, slipping distractedly down the staircase.
And, as the street door had been left ajar, the two light birds passed through that opening, and, with a light run, regained the palace.
One of the two ladies went up to the apartments of Madame, where she disappeared.
The other entered the apartment of the maids of honor, that is to say, the entresol.
Arrived at her chamber, she sat down before a table, and, without giving herself time to breathe, she began to write the following note:
"This evening, Madame went to see M. de Guiche. All goes marvelously on that side. Go on with your part, and above all burn this paper."
Then she folded the letter, giving it a long shape, and, leaving her room with caution, she crossed a corridor which led to the service of Monsieur's gentlemen.
There, she stopped before a door, under which, having knocked two sharp blows, she slipped the paper and fled.
Then, returning to her room, she made all trace of her going out and of the writing of the note disappear.
In the midst of the investigations to which she devoted herself, for the purpose we have just stated, she noticed upon the table the mask of Madame which she had brought back according to her mistress's order, but which she had forgotten to return to her.
— Oh! oh! said she, let us not forget to do tomorrow what I forgot to do today.
And she took the mask by its velvet cheek, and, feeling her thumb damp, she looked at her thumb.
It was not only damp, but reddened.
The mask had fallen upon one of those bloodstains which, we have said, spotted the parquet, and, from the black exterior, which chance had put in contact with it, the blood had passed to the interior and was staining the white batiste.
— Oh! oh! said Montalais, for our readers have no doubt already recognized her by all the maneuvers we have described, oh! oh! I shall no longer return this mask to her, it is too precious now.
And, rising, she ran to a little maplewood casket which held several objects of toilet and perfumery.
— No, not yet here, said she, such a deposit is not one to be left to chance.
Then, after a moment of silence and with a smile that belonged to her alone:
— Fair mask, added Montalais, tinged with the blood of that brave knight, you shall go to join, in the cabinet of wonders, the letters of La Vallière, those of Raoul, all that amorous collection finally which shall one day make the history of France and the history of royalty. You shall go to M. Malicorne, continued the madcap laughing, while she began to undress; to that worthy M. Malicorne, said she, blowing out her candle, who believes himself to be only master of Monsieur's apartments, and whom I make, I, archivist and historiographer of the house of Bourbon and of the best houses of the kingdom. Let him complain now, that surly Malicorne!
And she drew her curtains and fell asleep.
Chapter CLXI — The Journey
The next day, the day appointed for departure, the king, at the stroke of eleven, descended, with the queens and Madame, the great staircase to take his coach, drawn by six horses pawing the ground at the foot of the steps.
All the court awaited in the Fer-à-cheval in traveling dress; and it was a brilliant spectacle, that quantity of saddled horses, of harnessed coaches, of men and women surrounded by their officers, their valets and their pages.
The king mounted his coach accompanied by the two queens.
Madame did the same with Monsieur.
The maids of honor imitated this example and took their places, two by two, in the coaches destined for them.
The king's coach took the lead, then came that of Madame, then the others followed, according to etiquette.
The weather was hot; a light breath of air, which one might have thought strong enough in the morning to refresh the atmosphere, was soon inflamed by the sun hidden beneath the clouds, and no longer infiltrated, through that warm vapor rising from the soil, save as a burning wind which lifted a fine dust and struck the faces of the travelers eager to arrive.
Madame was the first to complain of the heat.
Monsieur answered her by throwing himself back in the coach like a man about to faint, and he drenched himself with smelling salts and scented waters, while uttering deep sighs.
Then Madame said to him in her most amiable air:
— Truly, monsieur, I thought you would have been gallant enough, with the heat there is, to leave me my coach all to myself and make the journey on horseback.
— On horseback! cried the prince with an accent of fright which showed how far he was from adhering to that strange project; on horseback! But you are not thinking of it, madame, all my skin would come off in pieces at the contact of that fire-wind.
Madame began to laugh.
— You shall take my parasol, said she.
— And the trouble of holding it? replied Monsieur with the greatest coolness. Besides, I have no horse.
— What! no horse? rejoined the princess, who, if she did not gain solitude, at least gained the pleasure of teasing; no horse? You are mistaken, monsieur, for I see yonder your favorite bay.
— My bay horse? cried the prince, attempting toward the door a movement which caused him such discomfort that he accomplished it only halfway, and hastened to resume his immobility.
— Yes, said Madame, your horse, led in hand by M. de Malicorne.
— Poor beast! replied the prince, how hot he is going to be!
And, with these words, he closed his eyes, like a dying man expiring.
Madame, for her part, stretched herself lazily in the other corner of the calash and also closed her eyes, not to sleep, but to muse at her ease.
Meanwhile the king, seated at the front of the carriage, whose back he had yielded to the two queens, experienced that keen vexation of anxious lovers who, always, without ever slaking that ardent thirst, desire the sight of the beloved object, then withdraw half-content without perceiving they have amassed a yet more ardent thirst.
The king, marching at the head as we have said, could not, from his place, perceive the coaches of the ladies and maids of honor, which came last.
He had, besides, to answer the eternal interpellations of the young queen, who, all happy to possess "her dear husband," as she said in her forgetfulness of royal etiquette, invested him with all her love, bound him with all her cares, for fear lest someone come to take him from her or lest he take it into his head to leave her.
Anne of Austria, whom nothing then occupied but the dull twinges she from time to time felt in her breast, Anne of Austria put on a cheerful face, and, though she guessed the king's impatience, maliciously prolonged his torment by unexpected resumptions of conversation, at the moment when the king, fallen back into himself, began there to caress his secret loves.
All that, little attentions on the part of the queen, teasing on the part of Anne of Austria, all that ended by seeming insupportable to the king, who knew not how to command the motions of his heart.
He first complained of the heat; it was a step toward other complaints.
But he did it with enough skill that Marie-Thérèse divined not his aim.
Taking therefore the king's words literally, she fanned Louis with her ostrich plumes.
But, the heat past, the king complained of cramps and restlessness in the legs, and as, just then, the coach stopped to change horses:
— Will you that I descend with you? asked the queen. I too have restless legs. We shall take a few steps on foot, then the coaches will rejoin us and we shall resume our places therein.
The king frowned; it is a harsh trial that the jealous wife inflicts on her unfaithful lord, who, though a prey to jealousy, observes herself with enough power not to give pretext for anger.
Nevertheless, the king could not refuse: he accepted then, descended, gave his arm to the queen, and took several steps with her, while they changed the horses.
While walking, he cast an envious glance at the courtiers who had the happiness of making the journey on horseback.
The queen soon perceived that the walk on foot pleased the king no more than the voyage in the carriage. She asked then to remount into the coach.
The king conducted her to the step, but remounted not with her. He took three steps backward and sought, in the file of coaches, to recognize that which interested him so keenly.
At the door of the sixth, appeared the white face of La Vallière.
As the king, motionless in his place, lost himself in reveries without seeing that all was ready and that they waited only for him, he heard, three paces off, a voice which respectfully addressed him. It was M. de Malicorne, in full equerry's costume, holding beneath his left arm the bridle of two horses.
— Has Your Majesty asked for a horse? said he.
— A horse! You would have one of my horses? asked the king, who tried to recognize this gentleman, whose face was not yet familiar to him.
— Sire, answered Malicorne, I have at least one horse in the service of Your Majesty.
And Malicorne indicated the bay horse of Monsieur, which Madame had noticed.
The animal was superb and royally caparisoned.
— But that is not one of my horses, monsieur? said the king.
— Sire, it is a horse from the stables of His Royal Highness. But His Royal Highness does not ride when it is so hot.
The king answered nothing, but briskly approached that horse, which was digging the earth with its foot.
Malicorne made a movement to hold the stirrup; His Majesty was already in the saddle.
Restored to gaiety by that good fortune, the king ran all smiling to the coach of the queens which awaited him, and despite the startled air of Marie-Thérèse:
— Ah! faith! said he, I found this horse and I profit by it. I was stifling in the coach. Farewell, ladies.
Then, inclining gracefully over the rounded neck of his mount, he disappeared in an instant.
Anne of Austria leaned to follow him with her eyes; he did not go far, for, arrived at the sixth coach, he made his horse bend its hocks and doffed his hat.
He saluted La Vallière, who, at sight of him, uttered a little cry of surprise, at the same time blushing with pleasure.
Montalais, who occupied the other corner of the coach, returned the king a profound salute. Then, as a woman of wit, she feigned to be very occupied with the landscape, and withdrew into the left corner.
The conversation of the king and La Vallière began like all lovers' conversations, with eloquent glances and with a few words at first empty of meaning. The king explained how he had been hot in his coach, to such a point that a horse had seemed a blessing.
— And, he added, the benefactor is a man quite intelligent, for he guessed me. Now, there remains me one desire, which is to know the name of the gentleman who so adroitly served his king, and saved him from the cruel boredom wherein he was.
Montalais, during this colloquy which, from the first words, had awakened her, Montalais had drawn near and arranged herself so as to meet the king's glance toward the end of his phrase.
It resulted that, as the king looked as much at her as at La Vallière in questioning, she could believe herself the one interrogated, and, consequently, she could answer.
She answered then:
— Sire, the horse Your Majesty rides is one of Monsieur's horses, which was led in hand by one of His Royal Highness's gentlemen.
— And what is that gentleman called, if you please, mademoiselle?
— M. de Malicorne, Sire.
The name produced its usual effect.
— Malicorne? repeated the king smiling.
— Yes, Sire, replied Aure. See, it is that cavalier who gallops here at my left.
And she indeed indicated our Malicorne, who, with a beatific air, galloped at the left door, knowing well that they spoke of him at that very moment, but not moving more upon the saddle than a deaf-mute.
— Yes, it is that cavalier, said the king; I recall his face and I shall recall his name.
And the king looked tenderly at La Vallière.
Aure had nothing more to do; she had let fall the name of Malicorne; the ground was good; there was now only to let the name grow and the event bear its fruits.
In consequence, she threw herself back into her corner with the right to make M. de Malicorne as many agreeable signs as she wished, since M. de Malicorne had had the happiness to please the king. As is well understood, Montalais did not spare herself. And Malicorne, with his fine ear and sly eye, pocketed the words:
— All goes well.
The whole accompanied by a pantomime which enclosed a semblance of a kiss.
— Alas! mademoiselle, said the king at last, see how the liberty of the country is going to cease; your service with Madame will be more strict, and we shall see you no more.
— Your Majesty loves Madame too much, answered Louise, not to come often to her; and when Your Majesty crosses the chamber...
— Ah! said the king in a tender voice which lowered by degrees, to notice is not to see, and yet it seems that should suffice for you.
Louise answered nothing; a sigh swelled her heart, but she stifled that sigh.
— You have great power over yourself, said the king.
La Vallière smiled with melancholy.
— Employ that force in loving, he continued, and I shall bless God for having given it you.
La Vallière kept silence, but raised upon the king an eye charged with love.
Then, as if devoured by that burning glance, Louis passed his hand over his brow, and, pressing his horse with his knees, made it take a few steps forward.
She, thrown back, half-closed eye, brooded with her gaze that fair cavalier, whose plumes waved in the wind: she loved his gracefully rounded arms; his fine and nervous leg, squeezing the flanks of the horse; that rounded profile, traced by beautiful curled hair, rising at times to disclose a pink and charming ear.
In fine, she loved, the poor child, and she intoxicated herself with her love. After an instant, the king returned near her.
— Oh! said he, do you not see that your silence pierces my heart! oh! mademoiselle, how pitiless you must be when you are resolved upon some rupture; then I believe you changeable... In fine, in fine, I fear that deep love which comes to me from you.
— Oh! Sire, you are mistaken, said La Vallière, when I love, it will be for all my life.
— When you love! cried the king with haughtiness. What! you do not love then?
She hid her face in her hands.
— See you, see you, said the king, that I am right to accuse you; see you that you are changeable, capricious, coquettish, perhaps; see you! oh! my God! my God!
— Oh! no, said she. Reassure yourself, Sire, no, no, no!
— Promise me then that you will always be the same for me?
— Oh! always, Sire.
— That you will have none of those harshnesses which break the heart, none of those sudden changes which would give me death?
— No! oh! no.
— Well, see, I love promises, I love to put under the guarantee of the oath, that is to say under the safeguard of God, all that interests my heart and my love. Promise me, or rather swear to me, swear to me that, if in this life that we are going to begin, a life all of sacrifices, of mysteries, of sorrows, a life all of mishaps and misunderstandings; swear to me that, if we have deceived ourselves, that, if we have misunderstood each other, that, if we have done each other wrong, and that is a crime in love, swear to me, Louise!...
She trembled to the depth of her soul; it was the first time she heard her name thus pronounced by her royal lover.
As for Louis, removing his glove, he extended his hand even into the coach.
— Swear to me, he continued, that, in all our quarrels, never, once far the one from the other, never shall we let the night pass upon a misunderstanding without a visit, or at least a message from one of us, going to bear to the other consolation and rest.
La Vallière took in her two cold hands the burning hand of her lover, and pressed it gently, until a movement of the horse, frightened by the rotation and proximity of the wheel, tore her from that happiness.
She had sworn.
— Return, Sire, said she, return near the queens; I feel a storm yonder, a storm which threatens my heart.
Louis obeyed, saluted Mlle de Montalais and departed at a gallop to rejoin the queens' coach.
In passing, he saw Monsieur who slept.
Madame, she, did not sleep.
She said to the king, at his passing:
— What a fine horse, Sire!... Is it not the bay horse of Monsieur?
As for the young queen, she said nothing but these words:
— Are you better, my dear Sire?
Chapter CLXII — Trium-Feminate
The king, once at Paris, went to the Council and worked part of the day. The queen remained at home with the queen mother, and melted in tears after taking her leave of the king.
— Ah! my mother, said she, the king loves me no more. What shall become of me, my God?
“Stories of the world, in your language.”