Part 25

The king first announced to Monsieur that all was pacified: that Madame had for him the greatest respect, the most sincere affection; but that she was a proud character, even suspicious, and her sensitivities must be carefully managed. Monsieur replied, in the bitter-sweet tone he usually took with his brother, that he did not well understand the sensitivities of a woman whose conduct might, in his opinion, give grounds for censure, and that if anyone had the right to be wounded, it was he, Monsieur, to whom that right belonged without dispute.

But then the king answered in a rather sharp tone that proved all the interest he took in his sister-in-law:

— Madame is above censure, thank God!

— Of others, yes, I grant, said Monsieur, but not of mine, I presume.

— Well! said the king, to you, my brother, I will say that Madame's conduct does not deserve your censure. Yes, she is no doubt a very absent-minded and very strange young woman, but one who professes the best sentiments. The English character is not always well understood in France, my brother, and the freedom of English morals sometimes astonishes those who do not know how much that freedom is enhanced by innocence.

— Ah! said Monsieur, more and more piqued, as soon as Your Majesty absolves my wife, whom I accuse, my wife is not guilty, and I have nothing to say.

— My brother, replied the king sharply, who felt the voice of conscience murmuring low in his heart that Monsieur was not entirely wrong, my brother, what I say of it and above all what I do of it, is for your happiness. I learned that you had complained of a lack of confidence or consideration on Madame's part, and I would not have your unease prolong itself any longer. It falls within my duty to oversee your household as that of the humblest of my subjects. I therefore saw with the greatest pleasure that your alarms had no foundation.

— And, continued Monsieur in an interrogative tone, fixing his eyes on his brother, that which Your Majesty has recognized for Madame, and I bow to your royal wisdom, have you also verified it for those who were the cause of the scandal of which I complain?

— You are right, my brother, said the king; I shall see to it.

These words contained an order as well as a consolation. The prince felt it and withdrew.

As for Louis, he went to find his mother; he felt that he needed an absolution more complete than the one he had just received from his brother.

Anne of Austria had not for M. de Guiche the same reasons for indulgence that she had had for Buckingham.

She saw, from his first words, that Louis was not disposed to be severe, so she was.

It was one of the good queen's habitual ruses for arriving at the truth.

But Louis was no longer at his apprenticeship: for nearly a year already he had been king. During that year, he had had time to learn to dissimulate.

Listening to Anne of Austria, so as to let her unveil all her thought, approving her only with a look and a gesture, he convinced himself, at certain deep glances, at certain skillful insinuations, that the queen, so perspicacious in matters of gallantry, had, if not guessed, at least suspected his weakness for Madame.

Of all his auxiliaries, Anne of Austria should be the most important: of all his enemies, Anne of Austria would have been the most dangerous.

Louis therefore changed his maneuver. He charged Madame, excused Monsieur, listened to what his mother said of Guiche as he had listened to what she had said of Buckingham.

Then, when he saw that she believed she had won a complete victory over him, he left her.

All the court, that is to say all the favorites and familiars, and they were numerous, since one already counted five masters, gathered in the evening for the rehearsal of the ballet.

This interval had been filled for poor de Guiche by a few visits he had received.

Among these visits, there was one he hoped for and feared with almost equal feeling. It was that of the chevalier de Lorraine. Toward three o'clock in the afternoon, the chevalier de Lorraine entered de Guiche's rooms.

His appearance was most reassuring. Monsieur, he said to de Guiche, was in charming humor, and one would not have said that the least cloud had passed over the conjugal sky.

Besides, Monsieur bore so little grudge!

Long at court, the chevalier de Lorraine had established that, of the two sons of Louis XIII, Monsieur was the one who had taken the paternal character, the floating, irresolute character; good by impulse, bad at bottom, but certainly null for his friends.

He had above all revived de Guiche by demonstrating to him that Madame would before long succeed in leading her husband, and that, consequently, he would govern Monsieur who managed to govern Madame.

To which de Guiche, full of distrust and presence of mind, had answered:

— Yes, chevalier; but I think Madame very dangerous.

— And in what way?

— In that she has seen that Monsieur is not a very passionate character toward women.

— That is true, said the chevalier de Lorraine, laughing.

— And then...

— Well?

— Well! Madame chooses the first comer to make the object of her preferences and bring her husband back through jealousy.

— Profound! profound! cried the chevalier.

— True! answered de Guiche.

And neither one nor the other said what he thought.

De Guiche, at the moment he thus attacked Madame's character, mentally begged her pardon from the bottom of his heart.

The chevalier, in admiring Guiche's depth of insight, led him blindfolded to the precipice.

De Guiche then questioned him more directly on the effect produced by the morning scene, on the even more serious effect produced by the dinner scene.

— But I have already told you that they laughed about it, replied the chevalier de Lorraine, and Monsieur first of all.

— However, ventured de Guiche, I was spoken to of a visit by the king to Madame.

— Well! precisely; Madame was the only one who did not laugh, and the king stopped by her rooms to make her laugh.

— So that?

— So that nothing is changed in the arrangements of the day.

— And the ballet is rehearsed this evening?

— Certainly.

— You are sure of it?

— Very sure.

At this moment in the conversation of the two young men, Raoul entered, his brow anxious.

On seeing him, the chevalier, who had for him, as for every noble character, a secret hatred, the chevalier rose.

— So you advise me, then?... asked de Guiche of the chevalier.

— I advise you to sleep in peace, my dear count.

— And I, de Guiche, said Raoul, will give you a quite contrary counsel.

— Which, friend?

— That of mounting your horse, and departing for one of your estates; arrived there, if you wish to follow the chevalier's advice, you will sleep there as long and as peacefully as the thing may be agreeable to you.

— How, depart? cried the chevalier, feigning surprise; and why would de Guiche depart?

— Because, and you should not be ignorant of it, you above all, because everyone already speaks of a scene that would have taken place here between Monsieur and de Guiche.

De Guiche grew pale.

— Not at all, answered the chevalier, not at all, and you have been ill informed, Monsieur de Bragelonne.

— I have been perfectly informed, on the contrary, sir, answered Raoul, and the counsel I give de Guiche is the counsel of a friend.

During this debate, de Guiche, somewhat stunned, looked alternately at each of his two counselors.

He felt within himself that a game, important for the rest of his life, was being played at that moment.

— Is it not, said the chevalier, addressing the count himself, is it not, de Guiche, that the scene was not as stormy as Monsieur le vicomte de Bragelonne seems to think, who, besides, was not there?

— Sir, insisted Raoul, stormy or not, it is not precisely of the scene itself that I speak, but of the consequences it may have. I know that Monsieur threatened; I know that Madame wept.

— Madame wept? cried de Guiche imprudently, joining his hands.

— Ah! now that, said the chevalier laughing, is a detail I ignored. You are decidedly better informed than I, Monsieur de Bragelonne.

— And it is also as being better informed than you, chevalier, that I insist that de Guiche withdraw.

— But no, no again, I regret to contradict you, Monsieur le vicomte, but this departure is useless.

— It is urgent.

— But why would he withdraw? Come now.

— But the king? the king?

— The king! cried de Guiche.

— Eh! yes, I tell you, the king takes the matter to heart.

— Bah! said the chevalier, the king loves de Guiche and above all his father; consider that, if the count departed, it would be to admit that he has done something reprehensible.

— How so?

— Doubtless, when one flees, it is that one is guilty or that one is afraid.

— Or else that one sulks, like a man accused wrongly, said Bragelonne; let us give his departure the character of sulking, nothing is easier; we will say that we both did all we could to retain him, and you at least will not lie. Come! come! de Guiche, you are innocent; today's scene must have wounded you; depart, depart, de Guiche.

— Eh! no, de Guiche, stay, said the chevalier, stay, precisely, as Monsieur de Bragelonne said, because you are innocent. Pardon me once more, vicomte; but I am of an opinion quite opposite to yours.

— Free to you, sir; but note well that the exile de Guiche imposes on himself will be a short exile. He will end it when he wishes, and, returning from a voluntary exile, he will find the smile on every lip; whereas, on the contrary, a fit of ill humor from the king may bring on a storm whose term no one would dare foresee.

The chevalier smiled.

— That is, by God! well what I want, he murmured very low, and for himself.

And at the same time he shrugged his shoulders.

This movement did not escape the count; he feared, if he quit the court, to seem to yield to a feeling of fear.

— No, no, he cried; it is decided. I stay, Bragelonne.

— Prophet am I, said Raoul sadly. Woe to you, de Guiche, woe!

— I too am a prophet, but not a prophet of woe; on the contrary, count, and I say to you: Stay, stay.

— The ballet is still rehearsed, asked de Guiche, you are sure of it?

— Perfectly sure.

— Well! you see it, Raoul, resumed de Guiche, forcing a smile; you see it, it is not a very gloomy court, very prepared for intestine wars, that a court where one dances with such assiduity. Come, admit that, Raoul.

Raoul shook his head.

— I have nothing more to say, he replied.

— But finally, asked the chevalier, curious to know from what source Raoul had drawn information of which he was forced to recognize inwardly the exactness, you say you are well informed, Monsieur le vicomte; how would you be better informed than I, who am of the most intimate of the prince?

— Sir, answered Raoul, before such a declaration, I bow. Yes, you must be perfectly informed, I recognize it, and, as a man of honor is incapable of saying other than what he knows, of speaking otherwise than he thinks, I fall silent, acknowledge myself vanquished, and leave you the field of battle.

And indeed, Raoul, like a man who seems to desire only repose, sank into a vast armchair, while the count called his servants to have himself dressed.

The chevalier felt the hour slipping by and wished to depart; but he also feared that Raoul, left alone with de Guiche, might decide him to break up the party.

He therefore used his last resource.

— Madame will be resplendent, he said; she tries on today her costume of Pomona.

— Ah! it is true, cried the count.

— Yes, yes, continued the chevalier: she has just given her orders accordingly. You know, Monsieur de Bragelonne, that it is the king who plays the Spring.

— It will be admirable, said de Guiche, and there is a reason better than all those you have given me for staying; it is that, as it is I who play Vertumnus and who dance the step with Madame, I cannot go away without an order from the king, seeing that my departure would disorganize the ballet.

— And I, said the chevalier, I play a simple aegipan; it is true that I am a poor dancer, and that I have a badly made leg. Gentlemen, farewell. Do not forget the basket of fruit you must offer Pomona, count.

— Oh! I shall forget nothing, be easy, said de Guiche, transported.

— I am quite sure he will not depart now, murmured the chevalier de Lorraine as he left.

Raoul, once the chevalier had gone, did not even try to dissuade his friend; he felt it would be lost labor.

— Count, he said to him only in his sad and melodious voice, count, you are embarking on a terrible passion. I know you; you are extreme in everything; she whom you love is so too... Well! I admit for an instant that she were to come to love you...

— Oh! never, cried de Guiche.

— Why do you say never?

— Because it would be a great misfortune for both.

— Then, dear friend, instead of regarding you as a reckless man, permit me to regard you as a fool.

— Why?

— Are you quite sure, come now, answer frankly, of desiring nothing of her whom you love?

— Oh! yes, quite sure.

— Then, love her from afar.

— How, from afar?

— Doubtless; what matters to you her presence or absence, since you desire nothing of her? Love a portrait, love a memory.

— Raoul!

— Love a shadow, an illusion, a chimera; love love, by putting a name on your reality. Ah! you turn away your head? Your valets arrive, I say no more. In good or in bad fortune, count on me, de Guiche.

— Pardieu! I do count on it.

— Well! that is all I had to tell you. Make yourself handsome, de Guiche, make yourself very handsome. Adieu!

— You will not come to the rehearsal of the ballet, vicomte?

— No, I have a visit to make in town. Embrace me, de Guiche. Adieu!

The gathering was at the king's.

The queens first, then Madame, a few chosen ladies of honor, a good number of courtiers equally chosen, preluded the exercises of the dance with conversations such as one knew how to make in those times.

None of the invited ladies had put on the festive costume, as the chevalier de Lorraine had predicted; but they spoke much of the rich and ingenious adornments designed by various painters for the Ballet of the Demi-gods. Thus were called the kings and queens of whom Fontainebleau was to be the Pantheon.

Monsieur arrived holding in his hand the design representing his character; he still had a somewhat anxious brow; his salute to the young queen and to his mother was full of courtesy and affection. He saluted Madame almost cavalierly, and pirouetted on his heels. This gesture and this coldness were remarked.

M. de Guiche compensated the princess with his glance full of flames, and Madame, it must be said, on lifting her eyelids, returned it to him with usury.

It must be said, never had de Guiche been so handsome; Madame's glance had in some sort illuminated the face of the son of the maréchal de Grammont. The king's sister-in-law felt a storm rumbling above her head; she felt also that during this day, so fertile in future events, she had, toward him who loved her with such ardor and passion, committed an injustice, if not a grave betrayal.

The moment seemed come to render account to the poor sacrificed one of this injustice of the morning. Madame's heart then spoke, and in the name of de Guiche. The count was sincerely pitied, the count therefore carried it over all.

There was no longer any question of Monsieur, of the king, of my lord of Buckingham. De Guiche at that moment reigned without rival.

However, Monsieur was also very handsome; but he could not be compared to the count. It is known, all women say it, there is always an enormous difference between the beauty of the lover and that of the husband.

Now, in the present situation, after Monsieur's exit, after that courteous and affectionate salute to the young queen and the queen mother, after that light and cavalier salute made to Madame, and of which all the courtiers had taken note, all these motives, we say, in this assembly, gave the advantage to the lover over the spouse.

Monsieur was too great a lord to notice this detail. There is nothing so efficacious as the firmly held idea of superiority for assuring the inferiority of the man who keeps that opinion of himself.

The king arrived. Everyone sought events in the glance which was beginning to move the world as the brow of thundering Jupiter.

Louis had none of his brother's sadness, he radiated.

Having examined most of the designs shown him from all sides, he gave his counsels or his criticisms and made the happy or the unfortunate with a single word.

Suddenly his eye, which smiled obliquely toward Madame, remarked the mute correspondence established between the princess and the count.

The royal lip pinched, and, when it was reopened once more to give passage to a few banal phrases:

— Mesdames, said the king, advancing toward the queens, I receive news that all is prepared according to my orders at Fontainebleau.

A murmur of satisfaction went up from the groups. The king read on every face the violent desire to receive an invitation to the festivities.

— I depart tomorrow, he added.

Profound silence in the assembly.

— And I engage, the king concluded, the persons who surround me to prepare to accompany me.

The smile illuminated every countenance. That of Monsieur alone kept its character of ill humor.

Then one saw successively defile before the king and the ladies the lords who hastened to thank His Majesty for the great honor of the invitation.

When it was de Guiche's turn:

— Ah! sir, said the king to him, I had not seen you.

The count bowed. Madame grew pale.

De Guiche was about to open his mouth to formulate his thanks.

— Count, said the king, here is the time of the second sowing. I am sure your farmers of Normandy will see you in your lands with pleasure.

And the king turned his back on the unhappy man after this brutal attack.

It was de Guiche's turn to grow pale; he made two steps toward the king, forgetting that one never speaks to His Majesty without having been questioned.

— I have perhaps misunderstood, he stammered.

The king turned his head slightly, and, with that cold and fixed gaze which plunged like an inflexible sword into the hearts of the disgraced:

— I said your lands, he repeated slowly, letting his words fall one by one.

A cold sweat rose to the count's brow, his hands opened and let fall the hat he held between his trembling fingers.

Louis sought his mother's glance, as to show her that he was master. He sought his brother's triumphant glance, as to ask him if the vengeance was to his taste.

Finally, he fixed his eyes on Madame.

The princess smiled and conversed with Mme de Noailles.

She had heard nothing, or rather had feigned to hear nothing.

The chevalier de Lorraine also looked on with one of those hostile insistences which seem to give a man's glance the power of the lever when it lifts, tears out, and flings far off the obstacle.

M. de Guiche remained alone in the king's cabinet; everyone had evaporated. Before the unhappy man's eyes danced shadows.

Suddenly he tore himself from the fixed despair that dominated him, and ran at a bound to lock himself in his rooms, where Raoul still awaited him, tenacious in his dark presentiments.

— Well? murmured the latter, seeing his friend enter bareheaded, his eye wild, his step unsteady.

— Yes, yes, it is true, yes...

And de Guiche could say no more; he fell exhausted on the cushions.

— And she?... asked Raoul.

— She! cried the unfortunate, raising toward heaven a fist clenched with anger. She!...

— What does she say?

— She says her gown becomes her well.

— What is she doing?

— She laughs.

And a fit of extravagant laughter made all the nerves of the poor exile bound. He soon fell backward; he was annihilated.

Chapter CIX — Fontainebleau

For four days, all the enchantments united in the magnificent gardens of Fontainebleau had made of this sojourn a place of delights.

M. Colbert multiplied himself... In the morning, accounts of the night's expenses; by day, programs, trials, enrollments, payments.

M. Colbert had gathered four millions, and disposed of them with a learned economy.

He was appalled at the costs to which mythology leads. Every sylvan, every dryad cost no less than a hundred livres per day. The costume came to three hundred livres.

What was burned in powder and sulfur in fireworks rose each night to a hundred thousand livres. There were besides illuminations on the banks of the water basin for thirty thousand livres per evening.

These feasts had seemed magnificent. Colbert could no longer contain himself for joy.

He saw at every moment Madame and the king go out for hunts or for receptions of fantastic personages, solemnities improvised for a fortnight and which made shine the wit of Madame and the munificence of the king.

For Madame, heroine of the feast, answered the harangues of these deputations of unknown peoples, Garamantes, Scythians, Hyperboreans, Caucasians and Patagons, who seemed to spring from the earth to come felicitate her, and to each representative of these peoples the king gave some diamond or some valuable piece of furniture.

Then the deputies compared, in more or less grotesque verse, the king to the Sun, Madame to Phoebe his sister, and one spoke no more of the queens or of Monsieur than if the king had married Madame Henriette of England and not Marie-Thérèse of Austria.

The happy couple, holding hands, pressing their fingers imperceptibly, drank in long draughts that so sweet beverage of adulation, enhanced by youth, beauty, power and love.

Each was astonished at Fontainebleau at the degree of influence Madame had so rapidly acquired over the king.

Each said low to himself that Madame was veritably the queen. And, indeed, the king proclaimed this strange truth by each of his thoughts, by each of his words and by each of his glances.

He drew his wills, he sought his inspirations in the eyes of Madame, and he intoxicated himself with his joy when Madame deigned to smile.

Madame, for her part, did she intoxicate herself with her power in seeing all the world at her feet? She could not say it herself; but what she knew, was that she formed no wish, was that she found herself perfectly happy.

It resulted from all these transpositions, whose source was in the royal will, that Monsieur, instead of being the second personage of the kingdom, had really become the third.

It was much worse than at the time when de Guiche made his guitars sound at Madame's. Then, Monsieur had at least the satisfaction of frightening him who annoyed him.

But, since the departure of the enemy chased by his alliance with the king, Monsieur had on his shoulders a yoke much heavier than before.

Each evening, Madame returned home exhausted.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”