Part 36

Raoul, who was drooping like a flower cut down by the sickle, made superhuman efforts to smile, and replied with exquisite gentleness:

— I had the honor of telling Your Royal Highness that I know absolutely nothing. I am a poor forgotten soul who has just arrived from England; between the people here and myself there were so many noisy waves that the sound of all the things of which Your Highness speaks could not reach my ear.

Henriette was moved by that pallor, that meekness, that courage. The dominant feeling of her heart at that moment was a keen desire to hear from the poor lover the memory of her who was thus making him suffer.

— Monsieur de Bragelonne, she said, what your friends would not do, I wish to do for you, whom I esteem and whom I love. It is I who shall be your friend. You carry your head here like an honest man, and I will not have you bow it beneath ridicule; in a week's time they would say beneath contempt.

— Ah! said Raoul, livid, is it already come to that?

— If you do not know, said the princess, I see that you guess; you were the betrothed of Mlle de La Vallière, were you not?

— Yes, madame.

— By that title, I owe you a warning; since, from one day to the next, I shall dismiss Mlle de La Vallière from my household...

— Dismiss La Vallière! cried Bragelonne.

— Doubtless. Do you believe I shall always heed the tears and lamentations of the king? No, no, my house shall not longer be convenient for such practices; but you are swaying!

— No, madame, pardon, said Bragelonne, making an effort; I thought I was about to die, that is all. Your Royal Highness was doing me the honor of telling me that the king had wept, had pleaded.

— Yes, but in vain.

And she related to Raoul the scene at Chaillot and the king's despair upon his return; she related her own indulgence, and the terrible word with which the outraged princess, the humiliated coquette, had overthrown the royal anger.

Raoul bowed his head.

— What do you think of it? she said.

— The king loves her! he replied.

— But you seem to say that she does not love him.

— Alas! I am still thinking of the time when she loved me, madame.

Henriette felt for a moment an admiration for that sublime incredulity; then, shrugging her shoulders:

— You do not believe me! she said. Oh! how you love her, you! and you doubt that she loves the king, she?

— Until proof. Pardon, I have her word, you see, and she is a noble maiden.

— Proof?... Well, so be it; come!

Chapter CXCII — A House Call

The princess, preceding Raoul, led him across the courtyard toward the building inhabited by La Vallière, and, mounting the staircase that Raoul had mounted that very morning, she stopped at the door of the chamber where the young man, in his turn, had been so strangely received by Montalais.

The moment was well chosen to accomplish the design conceived by Madame Henriette: the château was empty; the king, the courtiers, and the ladies had gone to Saint-Germain. Madame Henriette alone, knowing of Bragelonne's return and thinking of the use she might make of that return, had pleaded indisposition, and had remained.

Madame was therefore certain to find empty both the chamber of La Vallière and the apartment of Saint-Aignan. She drew a double key from her pocket, and opened the door of her lady-in-waiting.

Bragelonne's gaze plunged into that chamber, which he recognized, and the impression made upon him by the sight of that chamber was one of the first torments that awaited him.

The princess looked at him, and her practiced eye could see what was passing in the young man's heart.

— You asked me for proofs, she said; do not be surprised, then, if I give you some. Now, if you do not believe yourself courageous enough to bear them, there is yet time; let us withdraw.

— Thank you, madame, said Bragelonne; but I came to be convinced. You promised to convince me; convince me.

— Enter, then, said Madame, and close the door behind you.

Bragelonne obeyed, and turned toward the princess, questioning her with his eyes.

— You know where you are? asked Madame Henriette.

— But everything leads me to believe, madame, that I am in the chamber of Mlle de La Vallière?

— You are.

— But I would observe to Your Highness that this chamber is a chamber, and is not a proof.

— Wait.

The princess moved toward the foot of the bed, folded back the screen, and, bending toward the floor:

— Here, she said, stoop down and lift this trapdoor yourself.

— This trapdoor? cried Raoul in surprise, for d'Artagnan's words were beginning to come back to his memory, and he remembered that d'Artagnan had vaguely pronounced that word.

And Raoul searched with his eyes, but in vain, for a crack that might indicate an opening or a ring to help lift some portion of the flooring.

— Ah! it is true! said Madame Henriette, laughing; I forgot the hidden spring: the fourth board of the floor; press where the wood forms a knot. There is the instruction. Press yourself, vicomte, press, it is here.

Raoul, pale as a dead man, pressed his thumb on the indicated spot and, indeed, at that very instant, the spring gave way and the trapdoor lifted of its own accord.

— It is very ingenious, said the princess, and one sees that the architect foresaw that it would be a small hand that would have to make use of this spring: see how this trapdoor opens all by itself?

— A staircase! cried Raoul.

— Yes, and very elegant even, said Madame Henriette. See, vicomte, this staircase has a rail intended to protect from falling the delicate persons who might venture to descend it, which is why I dare risk it. Come, follow me, vicomte, follow me.

— But, before following you, madame, where does this staircase lead?

— Ah! it is true, I forgot to tell you.

— I am listening, madame, said Raoul, scarcely breathing.

— You perhaps know that M. de Saint-Aignan formerly lived almost door to door with the king?

— Yes, madame, I know it; it was so before my departure and, more than once, I had the honor of visiting him at his former lodgings.

— Well! he has obtained from the king to exchange that convenient and fine apartment you knew him to have for the two small chambers to which this staircase leads, and which form a lodging twice as small and ten times farther from that of the king, whose neighborhood, however, is not disdained in general by the gentlemen of the Court.

— Very well, madame, replied Raoul; but continue, I pray you, for I do not yet understand.

— Well! it happened, by chance, continued the princess, that this lodging of M. de Saint-Aignan is situated below those of my ladies, and particularly below that of La Vallière.

— But to what end this trapdoor and this staircase?

— Why! I know not. Will you that we descend to M. de Saint-Aignan? Perhaps we shall find there the explanation of the enigma.

And Madame set the example by descending herself.

Raoul followed her, sighing.

Each step that creaked beneath Bragelonne's feet made him penetrate one pace farther into that mysterious apartment, which still held the sighs of La Vallière, and the sweetest perfumes of her person.

Bragelonne recognized, in absorbing the air through his panting breaths, that the young girl must have passed that way.

Then, after those emanations, invisible but certain proofs, came the flowers she loved, the books she had chosen. Had Raoul retained a single doubt, he would have lost it at that secret harmony of tastes and of alliances of the mind with the use of the objects that accompany life. La Vallière was for Bragelonne in living presence in the furniture, in the choice of stuffs, in the very reflections of the floor.

Mute and crushed, he had nothing more to learn, and followed his pitiless conductress only as the patient follows the executioner.

Madame, cruel as a delicate and nervous woman, spared him no detail.

But, it must be said, despite the sort of apathy into which he had fallen, none of those details, had it stood alone, would have escaped Raoul. The happiness of the woman he loves, when that happiness comes from a rival, is a torture for a jealous man. But, for a jealous man such as Raoul was, for that heart which for the first time was imbibing gall, the happiness of Louise was an ignominious death, the death of body and soul.

He guessed all: the hands that had clasped, the faces drawn near that had wedded one another before the mirrors, a sort of vow so sweet for lovers who see themselves twice over, so as the better to engrave the picture in their memory.

He guessed the invisible kiss beneath the thick portières falling freed from their ties. He translated into feverish pains the eloquence of the daybeds, buried in their shadow.

That luxury, that research full of intoxication, that minute care to spare the beloved object all displeasure, or to cause her a gracious surprise; that power of love multiplied by royal power, struck Raoul with a mortal blow. Oh! if there is an alleviation to the piercing pains of jealousy, it is the inferiority of the man preferred to you: whereas, on the contrary, if there is a hell within hell, a nameless torture in the tongue, it is the omnipotence of a god placed at the disposal of a rival, with youth, beauty, grace. In such moments, God Himself seems to have taken part against the disdained lover.

A last pain was reserved for poor Raoul: Madame Henriette lifted a silk curtain, and, behind the curtain, he caught sight of the portrait of La Vallière.

Not only the portrait of La Vallière, but of La Vallière young, beautiful, joyous, breathing in life through every pore, because at eighteen, life is love.

— Louise! murmured Bragelonne, Louise! Is it then true? Oh! you never loved me, for never did you look at me thus.

And it seemed to him that his heart had just been wrung in his breast.

Madame Henriette looked at him, almost envious of that pain, though she well knew she had nothing to envy, and that she was loved by Guiche as La Vallière was loved by Bragelonne.

Raoul surprised that glance of Madame Henriette.

— Oh! pardon, pardon, said he; I should be more master of myself, I know, finding myself face to face with you, madame. But, may the Lord, God of heaven and earth, never strike you with the blow that reaches me at this moment! For you are a woman, and doubtless you could not bear such a pain. Pardon me, I am but a poor gentleman, whereas you, you are of the race of the happy, of the all-powerful, of the chosen...

— Monsieur de Bragelonne, replied Henriette, a heart like yours deserves the care and regard of a queen's heart. I am your friend, monsieur; thus I would not have your whole life poisoned by perfidy and soiled by ridicule. It is I who, braver than all your pretended friends, M. de Guiche excepted, brought you back from London; it is I who furnish you the painful but necessary proofs which shall be your cure, if you are a courageous lover and not a weeping Amadis. Do not thank me: pity me even, and serve the king no less well.

Raoul smiled with bitterness.

— Ah! it is true, said he, I forgot this: the king is my master.

— Your liberty is at stake! your life is at stake!

A clear and penetrating glance from Raoul taught Madame Henriette that she was mistaken, and that her last argument was not of those that could touch that young man.

— Take care, Monsieur de Bragelonne, said she; but, in not weighing all your actions, you would throw into anger a prince disposed to fly beyond the bounds of reason; you would throw into grief your friends and your family; bow, submit, cure yourself.

— Thank you, madame, said he. I appreciate the counsel Your Highness gives me, and shall try to follow it; but, one last word, I pray you.

— Speak.

— Is it an indiscretion to ask you the secret of this staircase, of this trapdoor, of this portrait, a secret you have discovered?

— Oh! nothing simpler; I have, for reasons of surveillance, the duplicates of the keys of my ladies; it seemed strange to me that La Vallière should shut herself in so often; it seemed strange to me that M. de Saint-Aignan should change his lodgings; it seemed strange to me that the king should come so daily to see M. de Saint-Aignan, so far advanced as the latter was in his friendship; finally, it seemed strange to me that so many things should have come to pass since your absence, that the habits of the Court were changed thereby. I will not be played by the king, I will not serve as a cloak to his loves; for, after La Vallière who weeps, he will have Montalais who laughs, Tonnay-Charente who sings; that is no role worthy of me. I lifted the scruples of my friendship, I discovered the secret... I wound you; once again, excuse me, but I had a duty to fulfill; it is finished, you are warned; the storm will come, shield yourself.

— You conclude something, however, madame, replied Bragelonne firmly; for you do not suppose that I shall accept in silence the shame I undergo and the treason done me.

— You will take in this matter the course that suits you, Monsieur Raoul. Only, do not tell the source from which you hold the truth; that is all I ask of you, that is the only price I exact for the service I have rendered you.

— Fear nothing, madame, said Bragelonne with a bitter smile.

— I, for my part, won over the locksmith whom the lovers had engaged in their interests. You may very well have done as I did, is that not so?

— Yes, madame. Your Royal Highness gives me no counsel and imposes no reserve but that of not compromising you?

— No other.

— I therefore beg Your Royal Highness to grant me a minute's stay here.

— Without me?

— Oh! no, madame. It matters little; what I have to do, I can do before you. I ask you a minute to write a word to someone.

— That is risky, Monsieur de Bragelonne. Take care!

— No one can know if Your Royal Highness has done me the honor of conducting me here. Besides, I sign the letter I write.

— Do so, monsieur.

Raoul had already drawn his tablets and rapidly traced these words upon a blank leaf:

"Monsieur le Comte,

"Do not be surprised to find here this paper signed by me, before one of my friends, whom I shall send presently to your house, shall have had the honor of explaining to you the object of my visit.

"Vicomte Raoul de Bragelonne."

He rolled the leaf, slipped it into the lock of the door communicating with the chamber of the two lovers, and, well assured that this paper was so visible that de Saint-Aignan must see it on returning, he rejoined the princess, already arrived at the top of the staircase.

Upon the landing, they parted: Raoul affecting to thank His Highness, Henriette pitying or feigning to pity with all her heart the unhappy man she had just condemned to so horrible a torture.

— Oh! said she, seeing him withdraw pale and with bloodshot eyes; oh! had I known, I would have hidden the truth from that poor young man.

Chapter CXCIII — Porthos's Method

The multiplicity of characters we have introduced into this long history is such that each is obliged to appear only in his turn and according to the needs of the narrative. It results therefrom that our readers have not had the occasion to meet our friend Porthos since his return from Fontainebleau.

The honors he had received from the king had not changed the placid and affectionate character of the respectable seigneur; only, he held his head higher than was his wont, and something majestic revealed itself in his bearing, since he had received the favor of dining at the king's table. His Majesty's dining room had produced a certain effect upon Porthos. The lord of Bracieux and Pierrefonds loved to recall that, during that memorable dinner, many servants and a good number of officers, being behind the guests, gave a fine air to the meal and furnished the room.

Porthos promised himself to confer some dignity upon M. Mouston, to establish a hierarchy among the rest of his people, and to create for himself a military household; which was not unusual among the great captains, seeing that, in the previous century, one remarked this luxury among MM. de Tréville, de Schomberg, de La Vieuville, not to speak of MM. de Richelieu, de Condé, and Bouillon-Turenne.

He, Porthos, friend of the king and of M. Fouquet, baron, engineer, etc., why should he not enjoy all the amenities attached to great wealth and great merit?

Somewhat forsaken by Aramis, who, as we know, occupied himself much with M. Fouquet, somewhat neglected, by reason of duty, by d'Artagnan, surfeited with Trüchen and with Planchet, Porthos surprised himself dreaming without quite knowing why; but to whoever might have said to him: "Is something lacking to you, Porthos?" he would assuredly have replied: "Yes."

After one of those dinners during which Porthos tried to recall all the details of the royal dinner, half-joyous by reason of the good wine, half-sad by reason of ambitious thoughts, Porthos was yielding to a beginning of siesta, when his valet de chambre came to warn him that M. de Bragelonne wished to speak with him.

Porthos passed into the adjoining room, where he found his young friend in the disposition we know.

Raoul came to press Porthos's hand, who, surprised at his gravity, offered him a seat.

— Dear Monsieur du Vallon, said Raoul, I have a service to ask of you.

— That falls marvelously, my young friend, replied Porthos. Eight thousand livres were sent to me this morning from Pierrefonds, and, if it is money you have need of...

— No, it is not money; thank you, my excellent friend.

— So much the worse! I have always heard it said that that is the rarest of services, but the easiest to render. That saying struck me; I love to cite the sayings that strike me.

— You have a heart as good as your mind is sound.

— You are too good. You will dine, perhaps?

— Oh! no, I have no appetite.

— Eh! what an awful country England is?

— Not too much; but...

— You see, if one did not find there the excellent fish and fine meat that are there, it would be unbearable.

— Yes... I came...

— I am listening. Permit me only to refresh myself. One eats salted food in Paris. Pah!

And Porthos had a bottle of Champagne brought to him.

Then, having filled Raoul's glass before his own, he drank a large draught, and, satisfied, resumed:

— I needed that to hear you without distraction. Here I am wholly yours. What do you ask, dear Raoul? what do you desire?

— Tell me your opinion on quarrels, my dear friend.

— My opinion?... Let us see, develop your idea a little, replied Porthos, scratching his forehead.

— I mean: are you of a good disposition when there is a disagreement between your friends and strangers?

— Oh! of an excellent disposition, as always.

— Very well; but what do you do then?

— When my friends have quarrels, I have a principle.

— Which?

— It is that lost time is irreparable, and that one never arranges a matter so well as when one still has the heat of the dispute.

— Ah! indeed, is that your principle?

— Absolutely. Thus, as soon as the quarrel is engaged, I put the parties face to face.

— Indeed?

— You understand that, in this way, it is impossible that a matter should not be arranged.

— I should have thought, said Raoul in astonishment, that, taken thus, a matter should, on the contrary...

— Not in the least. Consider that I have had, in my life, something like a hundred eighty to a hundred ninety settled duels, not counting sword-drawings and chance encounters.

— That is a fine number, said Raoul, smiling in spite of himself.

— Oh! it is nothing; I am so gentle!... D'Artagnan counts his duels by the hundreds. It is true he is hard and biting, I have often repeated it to him.

— Thus, resumed Raoul, you ordinarily arrange the matters your friends confide to you?

— There is no instance where I have not ended by arranging one, said Porthos with meekness and a confidence that made Raoul leap.

— But, said he, are the arrangements at least honorable?

— Oh! I answer for it; and, on this subject, I am going to explain my other principle to you. Once my friend has entrusted me with his quarrel, here is how I proceed: I go find his adversary on the spot; I arm myself with a politeness and a coolness which are de rigueur in such circumstance.

— It is to that, said Raoul with bitterness, that you owe arranging matters so well and so surely?

— I believe so. I go then find the adversary and I say to him: "Monsieur, it is impossible that you do not understand to what point you have outraged my friend."

Raoul frowned.

— Sometimes, often even, pursued Porthos, my friend has not been offended at all; he even offended first: you judge if my speech is adroit.

And Porthos burst out laughing.

"Decidedly," Raoul said to himself while the formidable thunder of that hilarity resounded, "decidedly I am unlucky. Guiche gives me the cold shoulder, d'Artagnan mocks me, Porthos is soft: none will arrange this matter in my way. And I who addressed myself to Porthos to find a sword instead of a reasoning!... Ah! what bad luck!"

Porthos recovered, and continued:

— I have therefore, by a single word, put the adversary in the wrong.

— That depends, said Raoul distractedly.

— Not at all, it is certain. I have put him in the wrong; it is at this moment that I deploy all my courtesy, to arrive at the happy issue of my plan. I advance then with an affable air, and, taking the adversary's hand...

— Oh! said Raoul impatiently.

— "Monsieur," I say to him, "now that you are convinced of the offense, we are assured of the reparation. Between my friend and you, it is henceforth an exchange of gracious proceedings. In consequence, I am charged to give you the length of my friend's sword."

— Eh? said Raoul.

— Wait!... "The length of my friend's sword. I have a horse below; my friend is at such a place, who awaits impatiently your amiable presence; I take you away; we pick up your witness on the way, the matter is arranged."

— And, said Raoul, pale with vexation, you reconcile the two adversaries on the field?

— What? interrupted Porthos. Reconcile? what for?

— You say the matter is arranged...

— Doubtless, since my friend awaits.

— Well! what! if he awaits...

— Well! if he awaits, it is to stretch his legs. The adversary, on the contrary, is still all stiff from the horse; they align, and my friend kills the adversary. That is finished.

— Ah! he kills him? cried Raoul.

— Pardieu! said Porthos, do I ever take for friends people who get themselves killed? I have a hundred and one friends, at the head of whom are M. your father, Aramis and d'Artagnan, all very much alive people, I believe!

— Oh! my dear baron, exclaimed Raoul in the excess of his joy.

— You approve my method, then? said the giant.

— I approve it so well that I shall have recourse to it today, without delay, this very instant. You are the man I sought.

— Good! here I am; you wish to fight?

— Absolutely.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”