Part 28

— Well! the true motive is that Buckingham recommended this young man to me, and said: 'Sire, I begin by renouncing Miss Graffton in favour of the Vicomte de Bragelonne; do likewise.'

— Oh! he is a worthy gentleman, indeed, is the Duke.

— Come, very well; now work yourself up over Buckingham. It seems you mean to damn me today.

At that moment, there was a scratch at the door.

— Who dares disturb us? cried Charles with impatience.

— Truly, Sire, said Stewart, that is a 'who dares' of the supremest conceit, and, to punish you for it...

She went herself to open the door.

— Ah! it is a messenger from France, said Miss Stewart.

— A messenger from France! cried Charles; from my sister, perhaps?

— Yes, Sire, said the usher, and an extraordinary messenger.

— Enter, enter, said Charles.

The courier entered.

— You have a letter from Madame the Duchess of Orleans? asked the King.

— Yes, Sire, replied the courier, and so urgent that I took only twenty-six hours to bring it to Your Majesty, and even then I lost three quarters of an hour at Calais.

— That zeal shall be recognised, said the King.

And he opened the letter.

Then, bursting into loud laughter:

— Truly, he cried, I understand nothing of it any more.

And he read the letter a second time.

Miss Stewart affected a manner full of reserve, and restrained her eager curiosity.

— Francis, said the King to his valet, have this brave lad refreshed and put to bed, and let him, on waking tomorrow, find at his bedside a small bag of fifty louis.

— Sire!

— Go, my friend, go! My sister was right to recommend diligence to you; it is pressing.

And he fell to laughing louder than ever.

The messenger, the valet de chambre, and Miss Stewart herself knew not what countenance to keep.

— Ah! said the King, throwing himself back in his armchair, and when I think that you killed... how many horses?

— Two.

— Two horses to bring this news! That is well; go, my friend, go.

The courier went out with the valet de chambre.

Charles II went to the window, which he opened, and, leaning outward:

— Duke! he cried, Duke of Buckingham, my dear Buckingham, come!

The Duke hastened to come; but, arrived at the threshold of the door, and perceiving Miss Stewart, he hesitated to enter.

— Come in, and close the door, Duke.

The Duke obeyed, and, seeing the King in such joyful humour, approached smiling.

— Well! my dear Duke, how do you stand with your Frenchman?

— Why, on his side, I am in the purest despair, Sire.

— And why?

— Because this adorable Miss Graffton wishes to marry him, and he will not.

— But this Frenchman is then but a boor! cried Miss Stewart; let him say yes, or let him say no, and have done.

— But, said Buckingham gravely, you know, or should know, madam, that M. de Bragelonne loves elsewhere.

— Then, said the King coming to the aid of Miss Stewart, nothing simpler; let him say no.

— Oh! it is that I proved to him he was wrong not to say yes!

— You confessed to him, then, that his La Vallière was deceiving him?

— My faith! yes, plainly.

— And what did he do?

— He gave a bound as if to clear the strait.

— At last, said Miss Stewart, he did something: faith, he is lucky.

— But, continued Buckingham, I stopped him: I set him against Miss Mary, and I hope well that now he will not depart, as he had manifested the intention.

— He manifested the intention of departing? cried the King.

— For an instant, I doubted any human power was capable of stopping him; but Miss Mary's eyes are fixed upon him: he will stay.

— Well! that is where you are deceived, Buckingham, said the King, bursting into laughter; this unhappy man is predestined.

— Predestined to what?

— To be deceived, which is nothing; but to see it, which is much.

— At a distance, and with Miss Graffton's help, the blow shall be parried.

— Why, not at all; there shall be neither distance nor Miss Graffton's help. Bragelonne will set off for Paris within an hour.

Buckingham started, Miss Stewart opened wide her eyes.

— But, Sire, Your Majesty knows well it is impossible, said the Duke.

— That is to say, my dear Buckingham, that it is impossible, now, for the contrary to happen.

— Sire, picture to yourself this young man is a lion.

— I grant it, Villiers.

— And that his anger is terrible.

— I do not say no, dear friend.

— If he sees his misfortune near at hand, so much the worse for the author of his misfortune.

— Be it so; but what would you have me do?

— Were it the King, cried Buckingham, I would not answer for him!

— Oh! the King has musketeers to guard him, said Charles tranquilly; I know that, I who did waiting at his antechamber at Blois. He has M. d'Artagnan. Pest! there is a guardian! I would put up with, see you, twenty angers like those of your Bragelonne, if I had four guardians like M. d'Artagnan.

— Oh! but that Your Majesty, who is so good, reflect, said Buckingham.

— Here, said Charles II, presenting the letter to the Duke, read, and answer yourself. In my place, what would you do?

Buckingham slowly took Madame's letter, and read these words, trembling with emotion:

'For you, for me, for the honour and safety of all, send M. de Bragelonne back to France immediately.

'Your devoted sister,

'Henriette.'

— What say you to that, Villiers?

— My faith! Sire, I say nothing, replied the Duke, stupefied.

— Is it you, now, said the King with affectation, who would advise me not to obey my sister when she speaks to me with such urgency?

— Oh! no, no, Sire, and yet...

— You have not read the postscript, Villiers; it is under the fold, and had escaped me at first myself: read.

The Duke raised, in fact, a fold that hid this line.

'A thousand remembrances to those who love me.'

The Duke's paling brow bent toward the earth; the sheet trembled in his fingers, as if the paper had changed into a thick lead.

The King waited a moment, and, seeing Buckingham remain mute:

— Let him follow his destiny, as we follow ours, continued the King; each suffers his passion in this world: I have had mine, I have had those of my kin, I have borne a double cross. To the devil with cares, now! Go, Villiers, go fetch me this gentleman.

The Duke opened the latticed door of the cabinet, and, showing the King Raoul and Mary who walked side by side:

— Oh! Sire, said he, what cruelty to this poor Miss Graffton!

— Come, come, call, said Charles II, frowning his black brows; is everyone sentimental here? Good: there is Miss Stewart wiping her eyes, now. Accursed Frenchman, go!

The Duke called Raoul, and, going to take Miss Graffton's hand, he led her before the King's cabinet.

— M. de Bragelonne, said Charles II, did you not ask me, the day before yesterday, permission to return to Paris?

— Yes, Sire, replied Raoul, whom this beginning at first bewildered.

— Well! my dear Vicomte, I refused, I believe?

— Yes, Sire.

— And you bore me a grudge?

— No, Sire; for Your Majesty refused, certainly, for excellent reasons; Your Majesty is too wise and too good not to do well all that you do.

— I alleged to you, I believe, this reason, that the King of France had not recalled you?

— Yes, Sire, you did indeed answer me thus.

— Well! I have reflected, M. de Bragelonne; if the King, in fact, has not fixed your return, he has recommended me to make your stay in England agreeable; now, since you asked me to depart, it is that the stay in England was not agreeable to you?

— I did not say that, Sire.

— No; but your request signified at least, said the King, that another stay would be more agreeable to you than this one.

At this moment, Raoul turned toward the door against the jamb of which Miss Graffton was leaning, pale and undone.

Her other arm rested on Buckingham's arm.

— You do not answer, Charles pursued; the French proverb is positive: 'Who says nothing consents.' Well! M. de Bragelonne, I find myself in a position to satisfy you; you may, when you will, depart for France, I authorise you to do so.

— Sire!... cried Raoul.

— Oh! murmured Mary, clutching Buckingham's arm.

— You may be at Dover this evening, continued the King; the tide rises at two in the morning.

Raoul, stupefied, stammered a few words which held the middle between thanks and excuse.

— I say adieu then, M. de Bragelonne, and wish you all manner of prosperity, said the King, rising; you will do me the pleasure of keeping, in memory of me, this diamond, which I destined for a wedding basket.

Miss Graffton seemed near fainting.

Raoul received the diamond; in receiving it, he felt his knees tremble.

He addressed some compliments to the King, some compliments to Miss Stewart, and sought Buckingham to say adieu.

The King profited by this moment to disappear.

Raoul found the Duke occupied in reviving Miss Graffton's courage.

— Tell him to stay, miss, I beg you, murmured Buckingham.

— I tell him to go, replied Miss Graffton, reviving; I am not of those women who have more pride than heart; if he is loved in France, let him return to France, and let him bless me, who shall have counselled him to go seek his happiness. If, on the contrary, he is no longer loved, let him come back, I shall love him still, and his misfortune shall not have diminished him in my eyes. There is in the arms of my house that which God has graven in my heart: Habenti parum, egenti cuncta. 'To the rich little, to the poor all.'

— I doubt, friend, said Buckingham, that you will find yonder the equivalent of what you leave here.

— I believe, or at least I hope, said Raoul with a dark air, that what I love is worthy of me; but, if it be true that I have an unworthy love, as you have tried to make me understand, Monsieur le Duc, I shall tear it from my heart, though I tear my heart with the love.

Mary Graffton raised her eyes upon him with an expression of indefinable pity.

Raoul smiled sadly.

— Mademoiselle, said he, the diamond the King gives me was destined for you, allow me to offer it to you; if I marry in France, you will send it back to me; if I do not marry, keep it.

And, bowing, he withdrew.

'What can he mean?' thought Buckingham, while Raoul respectfully pressed Miss Mary's icy hand.

Miss Mary understood the look Buckingham fixed upon her.

— If it were a betrothal ring, said she, I would not accept it.

— Yet you offer him to return to you.

— Oh! Duke, cried the young girl with sobs, a woman like me is never taken for consolation by a man like him.

— Then you think he will not return.

— Never, said Miss Graffton in a strangled voice.

— Well! I tell you, I, that he will find his happiness destroyed yonder, his betrothed lost... his honour even tarnished... What then shall remain to him that is worth your love? oh! say, Mary, you who know yourself!

Miss Graffton placed her white hand on Buckingham's arm, and, while Raoul fled down the lime-tree walk with vertiginous rapidity, she sang in a dying voice these verses from Romeo and Juliet:

It is to depart and live, Or stay and die.

When she finished the last word, Raoul had disappeared. Miss Graffton went home, paler and more silent than a shadow.

Buckingham profited by the courier who had brought the letter to the King to write to Madame and to the Comte de Guiche.

The King had spoken true. At two in the morning, the tide was high, and Raoul embarked for France.

Chapter CLXXVIII — Saint-Aignan Follows Malicorne's Advice

The King supervised this portrait of La Vallière with a care that came as much from the desire to see it lifelike as from the design of making the portrait last long.

He must have been seen following the brush, awaiting the completion of a plane or the result of a tint, and counselling the painter as to various modifications to which the latter consented with a respectful felicity.

Then, when the painter, following Malicorne's advice, had lingered a little, when Saint-Aignan had a small absence, he must have been seen, and no one saw them, those silences full of meaning, which united in a sigh two souls much disposed to understand each other and much desirous of calm and meditation.

Then the minutes flowed by as if by magic. The King drew near his mistress and came to burn her with the fire of his gaze, with the contact of his breath.

If a noise was heard in the antechamber, if the painter arrived, if Saint-Aignan returned with excuses, the King began to speak, La Vallière to answer him precipitately, and their eyes told Saint-Aignan that, during his absence, they had lived a century.

In a word, Malicorne, that philosopher without meaning to be, had known how to give the King appetite in abundance and desire in the certainty of possession.

That which La Vallière dreaded did not come to pass.

No one guessed that, in the course of the day, she went out two or three hours from her rooms. She feigned an irregular health. Those who presented themselves at her door knocked before entering. Malicorne, the man of ingenious inventions, had imagined an acoustic mechanism by which La Vallière, in Saint-Aignan's apartment, was warned of the visits paid in the chamber she ordinarily inhabited.

Thus, without going out, without having confidantes, she returned to her rooms, baffling by a perhaps late appearance, but which nevertheless victoriously combated all the suspicions of the most hardened sceptics.

Malicorne had asked Saint-Aignan for news of the morrow. Saint-Aignan had been forced to confess that this quarter-hour of liberty gave the King a most joyful humour.

— We must double the dose, replied Malicorne, but imperceptibly; wait until it is desired.

It was so well desired that, one evening, the fourth day, at the moment when the painter was packing up without Saint-Aignan having returned, Saint-Aignan entered and saw upon La Vallière's face a shadow of annoyance she had not been able to dissimulate. The King was less secret, he testified his vexation by a very significant shrug of the shoulders. La Vallière blushed, then.

'Good!' cried Saint-Aignan in his thought, 'M. Malicorne will be delighted this evening.'

Indeed, Malicorne was delighted that evening.

— It is quite evident, said he to the Count, that Mlle de La Vallière hoped you would linger at least ten minutes.

— And the King half an hour, dear M. Malicorne.

— You would be a bad servant of the King, replied the latter, if you refused that half-hour of satisfaction to His Majesty.

— But the painter? objected Saint-Aignan.

— I take charge of him, said Malicorne; only, let me take counsel of faces and circumstances; those are my magic operations, and, when sorcerers take with the astrolabe the height of the sun, the moon, and their constellations, I content myself with seeing whether the eyes are ringed with black, or whether the mouth describes the convex arc or the concave arc.

— Observe, then!

— Have no fear.

And the cunning Malicorne had all leisure to observe.

For, that very evening, the King went to Madame's with the queens, and made so gloomy a face, uttered such rough sighs, looked at La Vallière with such dying eyes, that Malicorne said to Montalais that evening:

— Till tomorrow!

And he went to find the painter in his house in the Rue des Jardins-Saint-Paul, to beg him to put off the session for two days.

Saint-Aignan was not at home, when La Vallière, already familiar with the lower floor, raised the parquet and descended.

The King, as usual, awaited her on the stairs, and held a bouquet in his hand; seeing her, he took her in his arms.

La Vallière, all moved, looked around her, and, seeing only the King, did not complain. They sat down.

Louis, lying near the cushions on which she rested, and his head inclined upon his mistress's knees, placed there as in an asylum whence he could not be banished, looked at her, and, as if the moment had come when nothing could interpose itself any longer between those two souls, she, for her part, began to devour him with her gaze.

Then, from her eyes so soft, so pure, there escaped a forever springing flame whose rays went to seek the heart of her royal lover to warm it first and then devour it.

Inflamed by the contact of trembling knees, quivering with happiness when Louise's hand descended upon his hair, the King grew numb in that felicity, and ever expected to see the painter or Saint-Aignan enter.

In that painful foreboding, he sometimes strove to flee the seduction that infiltrated his veins, he called for the sleep of heart and sense, he repelled the all-ready reality, to run after the shadow.

But the door opened neither for Saint-Aignan nor for the painter; but the tapestries did not even tremble. A silence of mystery and voluptuousness lulled even the birds in their gilded cage.

The King, vanquished, turned his head and pressed his burning mouth into La Vallière's two joined hands; she lost her reason, and pressed upon her lover's lips her two convulsive hands.

Louis rolled, staggering, to his knees, and, as La Vallière had not moved her head, the King's brow found itself level with the young woman's lips, who, in her ecstasy, grazed with a furtive and dying kiss the perfumed hair that caressed her cheeks.

The King seized her in his arms, and, without her resisting, they exchanged that first kiss, that ardent kiss which changes love into a delirium.

Neither the painter nor Saint-Aignan returned that day.

A sort of heavy and sweet intoxication, which refreshed the senses and let circulate like a slow poison a sleep in the veins, that impalpable sleep, languid as happy life, fell, like a cloud, between the past life and the life to come of the two lovers.

In the bosom of that sleep full of dreams, a continuous noise on the upper floor at first alarmed La Vallière, but without quite waking her.

However, as this noise continued, as it made itself understood, as it recalled reality to the young woman drunk with illusion, she rose all affrighted, beautiful in her disorder, saying:

— Someone awaits me up there. Louis! Louis, do you not hear?

— Eh! are you not she whom I await? said the King tenderly. Let the others await you henceforth.

But she, gently shaking her head:

— Hidden happiness!... said she with two great tears, hidden power... My pride must be silent as my heart.

The noise began again.

— I hear Montalais's voice, said she.

And she climbed precipitately the stairs.

The King climbed with her, unable to decide to leave her and covering with kisses her hand and the hem of her robe.

— Yes, yes, repeated La Vallière, half her body already passed through the trap, yes, Montalais's voice that calls; something important must have arrived.

— Go then, dear love, said the King, and return quickly.

— Oh! not today. Adieu! adieu!

And she bent down once more to kiss her lover, then she slipped away.

Montalais awaited her indeed, all agitated, all pale.

— Quick, quick, said she, he is coming up.

— Who? who is coming up?

— Him! I had foreseen it.

— But who then, him? you are killing me!

— Raoul, murmured Montalais.

— I, yes, I, said a joyful voice on the last steps of the great staircase.

La Vallière uttered a terrible cry and fell backward.

— Here I am, here I am, dear Louise, said Raoul, running up. Oh! I knew well, I, that you still loved me.

La Vallière made a gesture of fright, another of malediction; she strove to speak and could utter but a single word:

— No, no! said she.

And she fell into Montalais's arms, murmuring:

— Do not approach me!

Montalais signed to Raoul, who, petrified on the threshold, did not even seek to take a step further into the chamber.

Then, casting her eyes toward the screen:

— Oh! said she, the imprudent one! the trap is not even closed!

And she advanced toward the angle of the chamber to close first the screen, and then, behind the screen, the trap.

But from that trap leapt the King, who had heard La Vallière's cry and came to her aid.

He knelt before her, overwhelming Montalais with questions who was beginning to lose her head.

But, at the moment the King fell to his knees, a cry of pain was heard on the square and the noise of a step in the corridor. The King wished to run to see who had uttered that cry, to recognise who made that noise of step.

Montalais sought to hold him back, but in vain.

The King, leaving La Vallière, went toward the door; but Raoul was already far, so that the King saw but a sort of shadow turning the angle of the corridor.

Chapter CLXXIX — Two Old Friends

While each thought of his own affairs at Court, a man was making his way mysteriously behind the Place de Grève, into a house already known to us for having seen it, one riot day, besieged by d'Artagnan.

This house had its principal entrance by the Place Baudoyer.

Fairly large, surrounded by gardens, enclosed in the Rue Saint-Jean by hardware shops which shielded it from curious gazes, it was enclosed in that triple rampart of stone, noise, and verdure, like a perfumed mummy in its triple box.

The man of whom we speak walked with a assured step, though he was no longer of the first youth. At the sight of his wall-coloured cloak and his long sword, which lifted that cloak, none could have recognised the seeker of adventure; and if one had well consulted that hooked moustache turned up, that fine and smooth skin which appeared under the sombrero, how not to believe that the adventures must be gallant?

Indeed, scarcely had the cavalier entered the house than eight o'clock sounded at Saint-Gervais.

And, ten minutes after, a lady, followed by an armed lackey, came to knock at the same door, which an old servant opened to her at once.

This lady raised her veil on entering. She was no longer a beauty, but she was still a woman; she was no longer young; but she was still brisk and of a fine presence. She hid, under a rich and tasteful toilette, an age which Ninon de Lenclos alone confronted smiling.

Scarcely was she in the vestibule than the cavalier, whose features we have but sketched, came to her, extending his hand.

— Dear Duchess, said he. Good day.

— Good day, my dear Aramis, replied the Duchess.

He led her to an elegantly furnished salon, whose high windows were purpling with the last fires of day tempered by the black summits of some firs.

Both sat side by side.

Neither the one nor the other had the thought to ask for light, and buried themselves thus in the shadow as they would have wished to bury each other in oblivion.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”