Part 32

— How is it that you know the somewhat frivolous princess, so enamored of novelty, so sensitive to praise—though the praise should come from a blind man or a child—and yet you take fire to the point of consuming yourself? Look upon the woman, love her; for whoever has not his heart engaged elsewhere cannot behold her without loving her. But, while loving her, respect in her, first, the rank of her husband, then himself, and lastly, your own safety.

— Thank you, Raoul.

— For what?

— For this: seeing that I suffer because of this woman, you console me; you tell me all the good you think of her, and perhaps even that which you do not think.

— Oh! said Raoul, you are mistaken, de Guiche; what I think I do not always say, and then I say nothing; but when I speak, I know neither to feign nor to deceive, and whoever listens to me may believe me.

Meanwhile Madame, her neck outstretched, her ear eager, her eye dilated and seeking to see into the darkness, meanwhile Madame was avidly drinking in even the faintest breath that rustled among the branches.

— Oh! then I know her better than you do! cried de Guiche. She is not frivolous, she is vain; she is not enamored of novelty, she is without memory and without faith; she is not purely and simply sensitive to praise, but she is a coquette with refinement and cruelty. Mortally coquettish! oh! yes, I know it. See here, believe me, Bragelonne, I suffer all the torments of hell; brave as I am, passionately loving danger, I find a danger greater than my strength and my courage. But, you see, Raoul, I reserve for myself a victory that will cost her many tears.

Raoul looked at his friend, and, as the latter, almost stifled by emotion, threw back his head against the oak trunk:

— A victory! he asked; and what kind?

— What kind?

— Yes.

— One day, I will approach her; one day, I will say to her: 'I was young, I was mad with love; yet I had enough respect for you to fall at your feet and remain there, my brow in the dust, if your glances had not raised me to your hand. I thought I understood your glances, I rose, and then, without my having done you anything save love you yet more, if that were possible, then you, of your own free will, overthrew me by a caprice—heartless woman, faithless woman, loveless woman! You are not worthy, princess of the blood though you be, you are not worthy of the love of an honest man; and I punish myself with death for having loved you too well, and I die hating you.'

— Oh! cried Raoul, appalled by the accent of profound truth that pierced the young man's words, oh! I told you, de Guiche, that you were a fool.

— Yes, yes! cried de Guiche, pursuing his thought, since we have no more wars here, I will go yonder, to the North, and offer my service to the Empire, and some Hungarian, some Croat, some Turk will do me the kindness of a bullet.

De Guiche did not finish, or rather, as he was finishing, a noise made him start, which set Raoul on his feet at the same moment.

As for de Guiche, absorbed in his speech and his thought, he remained seated, his head pressed between his two hands.

The bushes opened, and a woman appeared before the two young men, pale, disordered. With one hand she parted the branches that would have struck her face, and with the other she raised the hood of the mantle that covered her shoulders.

By that moist and flaming eye, by that royal bearing, by the height of that sovereign gesture, and far more than by all that, by the beating of her heart, de Guiche recognized Madame, and, uttering a cry, he brought his hands from his temples to his eyes.

Raoul, trembling, disconcerted, rolled his hat in his hands, stammering some vague formulas of respect.

— Monsieur de Bragelonne, said the princess, will you please see if my women are not somewhere yonder in the walks or the quincunxes. And you, Monsieur le Comte, remain; I am weary, you shall give me your arm.

Thunderbolt falling at the feet of the unhappy young man would have frightened him less than that cold and severe word.

Nevertheless, as, even as he had just said, he was brave, as he had, in the depths of his heart, taken all his resolutions, de Guiche straightened up, and, seeing Bragelonne's hesitation, gave him a glance full of resignation and of supreme thanks.

Instead of answering Madame at once, he took a step toward the viscount, and, offering him the hand the princess had asked for, he pressed his friend's wholly loyal hand with a sigh, in which he seemed to give to friendship all that remained of life in the depths of his heart.

Madame waited—she so proud, she who knew not how to wait—Madame waited until that mute colloquy was ended.

Her hand, her royal hand, remained suspended in the air, and, when Raoul was gone, fell, not without emotion, though without anger, into de Guiche's.

They were alone in the midst of the dark and silent forest, and naught was heard but the step of Raoul withdrawing in haste along the shadowy paths.

Above their heads spread the thick and fragrant vault of the forest foliage, through whose rents one saw here and there a few stars shining.

Madame gently drew de Guiche some hundred paces from that indiscreet tree which had heard and let be heard so many things that evening, and, leading him to a neighboring clearing that allowed one to see to a certain distance around:

— I bring you here, said she, all a-tremble, because where we were, every word is overheard.

— Every word is overheard, you say, madame? repeated the young man mechanically.

— Yes.

— Which means? murmured de Guiche.

— Which means that I have heard all your words.

— Oh! my God! my God! this too was wanting! stammered de Guiche.

And he bowed his head as does the weary swimmer beneath the wave that engulfs him.

— Then, said she, you judge me as you said?

De Guiche grew pale, turned away his head, and answered nothing; he felt himself near to fainting.

— That is well enough, continued the princess in a voice full of sweetness; I prefer this frankness, which must wound me, to a flattery that would deceive me. So be it! according to you, Monsieur de Guiche, I am then coquettish and vile.

— Vile! cried the young man, vile, you? Oh! I certainly did not say, I certainly could not say that what is most precious in the world to me was a vile thing; no, no, I did not say that.

— A woman who sees a man perish consumed by the fire she has kindled and does not extinguish that fire is, in my view, a vile woman.

— Oh! what matters to you what I have said? resumed the count. What am I, good God! beside you, and how do you even trouble yourself whether I exist or do not exist?

— Monsieur de Guiche, you are a man as I am a woman, and, knowing you as I know you, I will not expose you to death; I change with you both conduct and character. I shall be, not frank—I always am—but true. I beseech you therefore, Monsieur le Comte, to love me no more and to forget wholly that I ever addressed to you a word or a glance.

De Guiche turned, covering Madame with a passionate glance.

— You, said he, you excuse yourself; you beseech me, you!

— Yes, doubtless; since I have done the ill, I must repair the ill. Thus, Monsieur le Comte, that is agreed. You will pardon me my frivolity, my coquetry. Do not interrupt me. I will pardon you, I, for having said that I was frivolous and coquettish, something worse, perhaps; and you will renounce your idea of death, and will preserve to your family, to the king, and to the ladies a cavalier whom all esteem and whom many cherish.

And Madame pronounced this last word with such an accent of frankness and even of tenderness, that the young man's heart seemed ready to leap from his breast.

— Oh! madame, madame!… he stammered.

— Listen yet, she continued. When you shall have renounced me, of necessity first, then to yield to my prayer, then you will judge me better, and, of that I am sure, you will replace this love—pardon the folly—by a sincere friendship which you will come offer me, and which, I swear to you, shall be cordially accepted.

De Guiche, sweat upon his brow, death in his heart, a shudder in his veins, bit his lips, stamped his foot, devoured, in a word, all his pains.

— Madame, said he, what you offer me there is impossible, and I accept not such a bargain.

— What! said Madame, you refuse my friendship?…

— No! no! not friendship, madame; I had rather die of love than live of friendship.

— Monsieur le Comte!

— Oh! madame, cried de Guiche, I am come to that supreme moment when there is no other consideration, no other respect, than the consideration and respect of an honest man toward an adored woman. Drive me away, curse me, denounce me, you will be just; I complained of you, but I complained of you so bitterly only because I love you; I told you I should die, I shall die; living, you will forget me; dead, you will not forget me, of that I am sure.

And yet she, who stood upright and all dreamy, as agitated as the young man, turned away her head a moment, as he himself had just turned it away an instant before.

Then, after a silence:

— You love me then so well? she asked.

— Oh! madly. To the point of dying of it, as you said. To the point of dying of it, whether you drive me away or whether you listen to me yet again.

— Then it is a hopeless ill, said she with a playful air, an ill that must be treated with soothing remedies. There! give me your hand… It is icy!

De Guiche knelt, pressing his mouth, not upon one, but upon both the burning hands of Madame.

— Come, love me then, said the princess, since it can be no otherwise.

And she pressed his fingers almost imperceptibly, raising him thus, half as a queen would, and half as a mistress would.

De Guiche shuddered through all his body.

Madame felt this shudder run through the young man's veins, and understood that this one truly loved.

— Your arm, count, said she, and let us return.

— Ah! madame, said the count, staggering, dazzled, a cloud of flame before his eyes. Ah! you have found a third means of killing me.

— Happily it is the longest, is it not? she replied.

And she drew him toward the quincunx.

Chapter CXX — The Correspondence of Aramis

While de Guiche's affairs, thus suddenly mended without his being able to guess the cause of that improvement, took the unhoped-for turn we have seen them take, Raoul, having understood Madame's invitation, had withdrawn so as not to disturb that explanation whose results he was far from guessing, and he had rejoined the ladies of honor scattered in the parterre.

Meanwhile the Chevalier de Lorraine, having gone up again to his chamber, was reading with surprise the letter of de Wardes, which related to him, or rather had related through the hand of his valet de chambre, the sword-thrust received at Calais and all the details of that adventure, with an invitation to communicate to de Guiche and to Monsieur what, in that event, might be particularly disagreeable to each of them.

De Wardes was especially at pains to demonstrate to the chevalier the violence of Buckingham's love for Madame, and he ended his letter by announcing that he believed this passion requited.

At the reading of that last paragraph, the chevalier shrugged his shoulders; indeed, de Wardes was far behindhand, as may have been seen.

De Wardes was still only at Buckingham.

The chevalier threw the paper over his shoulder upon a neighboring table, and, in a disdainful tone:

— Truly, said he, it is incredible; this poor de Wardes is yet a man of wit; but truly it does not appear so, so much does one grow rusty in the provinces. The devil take that simpleton, who was to write me important things and who writes me such nonsense! Instead of this paltry letter that means nothing, I might have found yonder, in the quincunxes, a pretty little intrigue that would have compromised a woman, been worth perhaps a sword-thrust to a man, and diverted Monsieur for three days.

He looked at his watch.

— Now, said he, it is too late. One in the morning: every one must be returned to the king's, where the night is being finished; come, it is a lost trail, and unless by extraordinary luck…

And, in saying these words, as if to appeal to his good star, the chevalier approached with vexation the window that looked out upon a rather solitary portion of the garden.

Straightway, and as if an evil genius had been at his orders, he perceived, returning toward the castle in company with a man, a mantle of dark-colored silk, and recognized that bearing which had struck him half an hour before.

'Ah! my God! thought he, clapping his hands, God damn me! as our friend Buckingham says, here is my mystery.'

And he sprang precipitately down the stairs in hope of arriving in time in the court to recognize the woman in the mantle and her companion.

But, on arriving at the door of the little court, he all but collided with Madame, whose radiant face appeared full of charming revelations beneath that mantle which sheltered without hiding her. Unfortunately, Madame was alone.

The chevalier understood that, since he had seen her, not five minutes before, with a gentleman, the gentleman could not be far off.

Accordingly, he scarce took time to salute the princess, while stepping aside to let her pass; then, when she had taken a few steps with the rapidity of a woman who fears to be recognized, when the chevalier saw that she was too preoccupied with herself to concern herself with him, he darted into the garden, looking rapidly on all sides and embracing as much horizon as he could in his glance.

He arrived in time: the gentleman who had accompanied Madame was still within sight; only, he was advancing rapidly toward one of the castle wings behind which he was about to disappear.

There was not a minute to lose; the chevalier sprang in pursuit, ready to slacken his pace as he drew near the unknown; but, whatever diligence he used, the unknown had turned the perron before him.

However, it was evident that, as he whom the chevalier pursued walked slowly, all pensive, and his head bowed beneath the weight of sorrow or of happiness, once the angle turned, unless he had entered by some door, the chevalier could not fail to overtake him.

This would certainly have happened had not the chevalier, at the moment he turned that angle, flung himself against two persons who were turning it themselves in the opposite direction.

The chevalier was all ready to deal roughly with those two intruders, when, raising his head, he recognized Monsieur le Surintendant.

Fouquet was accompanied by a person the chevalier saw for the first time.

This person was His Grace the Bishop of Vannes.

Stayed by the importance of the personage, and forced by decorum to make excuses where he had expected to receive them, the chevalier stepped back; and as M. Fouquet had, if not the friendship, at least the respects of every one, as the king himself, though rather his enemy than his friend, treated M. Fouquet as a considerable man, the chevalier did what the king would have done: he saluted M. Fouquet, who saluted him with a benevolent politeness, seeing that this gentleman had run against him by mischance and with no ill intent whatever.

Then, almost immediately, having recognized the Chevalier de Lorraine, he paid him some compliments which the chevalier was constrained to answer.

Short as this dialogue was, the Chevalier de Lorraine saw by degrees, with mortal displeasure, his unknown diminish and fade into the shadow.

The chevalier resigned himself, and, once resigned, returned wholly to M. Fouquet.

— Ah! monsieur, said he, you arrive very late. Much has been made here of your absence, and I have heard Monsieur wonder that, having been invited by the king, you had not come.

— The thing was impossible to me, monsieur, and, as soon as free, I arrive.

— Is Paris quiet?

— Perfectly. Paris has very well received its latest tax.

— Ah! I understand that you would wish to assure yourself of this good will before coming to take part in our festivities.

— I arrive none the less a little late. I shall therefore address myself to you, monsieur, to ask you whether the king is abroad or at the castle, whether I may see him this evening or must wait till tomorrow.

— We lost sight of the king some half-hour ago, said the chevalier.

— He will perhaps be with Madame? asked Fouquet.

— With Madame, I think not, for I have just met Madame returning by the little staircase; and unless that gentleman you crossed just now were the king in person…

And the chevalier waited, hoping thus to learn the name of him he had pursued.

But Fouquet, whether he had recognized de Guiche or not, contented himself with answering:

— No, monsieur, it was not he.

The chevalier, disappointed, saluted; but, while saluting, having cast a last glance around him and having espied M. Colbert in the midst of a group:

— See, monsieur, said he to the surintendant, yonder, beneath the trees, is some one who will inform you better than I.

— Who? asked Fouquet, whose weak sight pierced not the shadows.

— M. Colbert, answered the chevalier.

— Ah! very well. That person speaking yonder with those men bearing torches, is that M. Colbert?

— Himself. He is giving his orders for tomorrow to the masters of the illuminations.

— Thank you, monsieur.

And Fouquet made a movement of the head which indicated that he had learned all he wished to know.

For his part, the chevalier, who, quite on the contrary, had learned nothing, withdrew upon a profound salute.

Scarcely was he gone, when Fouquet, knitting his brow, fell into a deep reverie.

Aramis looked at him a moment with a kind of compassion full of sadness.

— Well, said he, you are moved at the mere name of that man. What! triumphant and joyful but now, and here you darken at the sight of that mediocre phantom. Come, monsieur, do you believe in your fortune?

— No, answered Fouquet sadly.

— And why?

— Because I am too happy at this moment, he replied in a trembling voice. Ah! my dear d'Herblay, you who are so learned, you must know the story of a certain tyrant of Samos. What can I cast into the sea to disarm the misfortune to come? Oh! I repeat to you, my friend, I am too happy! so happy that I desire nothing beyond what I have… I have climbed so high… You know my motto: Quo non ascendam? I have climbed so high, that I have only to descend. It is therefore impossible for me to believe in the progress of a fortune that is already more than human.

Aramis smiled, fixing upon Fouquet his eye so caressing and so keen.

— If I knew your happiness, said he, I might perhaps fear your disgrace; but you judge me as a true friend, that is to say, you find me good for misfortune, and that is all. That is already immense and precious, I know; but, in truth, I have good right to ask you to confide to me from time to time the happy things that befall you and in which I should share, you know, more than in those that befall myself.

— My dear prelate, said Fouquet laughing, my secrets are too profane for me to confide them to a bishop, however worldly he may be.

— Bah! in confession?

— Oh! I should blush too much if you were my confessor.

And Fouquet fell to sighing.

Aramis looked at him again, with no other manifestation of his thought than his silent smile.

— Come, said he, discretion is a great virtue.

— Silence! said Fouquet. Here is that venomous creature who has recognized me and is approaching us.

— Colbert?

— Yes; step aside, my dear d'Herblay; I would not have that boor see you with me, he would take an aversion to you.

Aramis pressed his hand.

— What have I of his friendship? said he; are you not there?

— Yes; but perhaps I shall not always be there, answered Fouquet melancholy.

— That day, if that day ever comes, said Aramis tranquilly, we shall see to doing without the friendship or to braving the aversion of M. Colbert. But tell me, dear Monsieur Fouquet, instead of conversing with that boor, as you do him the honor to call him, a conversation whose use I do not see, why do you not present yourself, if not near the king, at least near Madame?

— Near Madame? said the surintendant, distracted by his memories. Yes, doubtless, near Madame.

— You will recall, continued Aramis, that we were told of the great favor Madame has enjoyed for two or three days. It enters, I believe, into your policy and into our plans that you pay assiduous court to the friends of His Majesty. It is the means of balancing the nascent authority of M. Colbert. Present yourself then as soon as may be near Madame, and secure yourself this ally.

— But, said Fouquet, are you quite sure it is truly upon her that the king has his eyes fixed at this moment?

— If the needle had turned, it would be since this morning. You know I have my police.

— Good! I go thither this instant, and at all hazards I shall have my means of introduction: it is a magnificent pair of antique cameos set in diamonds.

— I have seen it; nothing richer or more royal.

They were interrupted at this moment by a lackey conducting a courier.

— For Monsieur le Surintendant, said this courier aloud, presenting a letter to Fouquet.

— For Monseigneur the Bishop of Vannes, said the lackey low, handing a letter to Aramis.

And, as the lackey bore a torch, he placed himself between the surintendant and the bishop, so that both might read at the same time.

At sight of the fine, close writing on the envelope, Fouquet trembled with joy; those alone who love or have loved will understand his anxiety first, then his happiness after.

He broke the seal of the letter hastily; it contained but these words:

'It is an hour since I left you; it is a century since I said to you: I love you.'

That was all.

Madame de Bellière had, in fact, left Fouquet an hour before, after having spent two days with him; and for fear lest her memory should stray too long from the heart she regretted, she sent him the courier bearing this important missive.

Fouquet kissed the letter and paid for it with a handful of gold.

As for Aramis, he read, as we have said, on his side, but with more coldness and reflection, the following note:

“Stories of the world, in your language.”