Part 6
— You remind me that I had a dream last night... Ah! my dreams are good... I sleep so little.
— What dream?... Are you in pain?
— No, said the queen, stifling, with admirable constancy, the torture of a new shooting pain in her breast. I dreamed that the king won the bracelets.
— The king?
— You are going to ask me what the king can do with bracelets, are you not?
— That is true.
— And yet you would add that it would be most fortunate if the king won, for, having those bracelets, he would be forced to give them to someone.
— To give them back to you, for instance.
— In which case, I would give them away immediately; for you do not suppose, said the queen laughing, that I put these bracelets up for lottery out of embarrassment. It is to give them away without causing jealousy; but, if chance were not willing to relieve me of my trouble, well! I would correct chance... I know well to whom I would offer the bracelets.
These words were accompanied by so expressive a smile, that Madame was obliged to repay it with a kiss of thanks.
— But, added Anne of Austria, do you not know as well as I that the king would not give the bracelets back to me if he won them?
— He would give them to the queen, then.
— No; for the same reason that would prevent him from giving them back to me; seeing that, if I had wished to give them to the queen, I had no need of him for that.
Madame cast a sidelong glance at the bracelets, which, in their case, scintillated upon a neighboring console.
— How beautiful they are! she said with a sigh. Eh! but, said Madame, are we not forgetting that the dream of Your Majesty is but a dream.
— I should be much astonished, replied Anne of Austria, if my dream were deceptive; that has rarely happened to me.
— Then you may be a prophet.
— I told you, my daughter, that I almost never dream; but it is so strange a coincidence, that of this dream with my ideas! It fits so well into my plans!
— What plans?
— This one, for example, that you will win the bracelets.
— Then it will not be the king.
— Oh! said Anne of Austria, there is not so very far from His Majesty's heart to your heart... to you who are his beloved sister... There is not, I say, so very far, that one could say the dream is a liar. See the fair chances for you; count them well.
— I am counting them.
— First, that of the dream. If the king wins, it is certain that he will give you the bracelets.
— I admit that for one.
— If you win them, you have them.
— Naturally; that is still admissible.
— Finally, if Monsieur were to win them!
— Oh! said Madame laughing heartily, he would give them to the Chevalier de Lorraine.
Anne of Austria began to laugh like her daughter-in-law, that is to say, so heartily, that her pain returned and made her turn pale amid the fit of hilarity.
— What is the matter? said Madame, frightened.
— Nothing, nothing, a stitch in the side... I laughed too much... We were at the fourth chance.
— Oh! that one, I do not see it.
— Pardon me, I did not exclude myself from the winners, and, if I win, you may be sure of me.
— Thank you! Thank you! cried Madame.
— I hope you are thus favored, and that now the dream begins to take on the solid contours of reality.
— Truly, you give me hope and confidence, said Madame, and the bracelets thus won will be a hundred times more precious to me.
— Until this evening, then!
— Until this evening!
And the princesses parted.
Anne of Austria, after leaving her daughter-in-law, said to herself, examining the bracelets:
"They are indeed precious, since by them, this evening, I shall have conciliated a heart at the same time that I shall have divined a secret."
Then, turning toward her deserted alcove:
— Is that how you would have played, my poor Chevreuse? she said to the emptiness... Yes, would you not?
And, like a perfume of former days, all her youth, all her wild imagination, all her happiness came back to her with the echo of that invocation.
Chapter CXXXIX — The Lottery
In the evening, at eight o'clock, everyone was assembled at the queen mother's.
Anne of Austria, in full ceremonial dress, beautiful with the remains of her beauty and with all the resources that coquetry can place in skilled hands, was hiding, or rather trying to hide from that crowd of young courtiers who surrounded her and still admired her, thanks to the plans we have indicated in the preceding chapter, the already visible ravages of that suffering to which she was to succumb a few years later.
Madame, almost as coquettish as Anne of Austria, and the queen, simple and natural, as always, were seated at her sides and vied for her favor.
The ladies of honor, gathered in a body of troops to resist with more force, and consequently with more success, the malicious remarks that the young men made about them, lent one another, as does a square battalion, the mutual support of a good guard and a good riposte.
Montalais, skilled in this skirmishing warfare, protected the whole line by the rolling fire she directed upon the enemy.
De Saint-Aignan, in despair at the rigor, insolent from being so obstinate, of Mlle de Tonnay-Charente, tried to turn his back on her; but, vanquished by the irresistible brilliance of the beautiful girl's two great eyes, he came back every instant to consecrate his defeat by new submissions, to which Mlle de Tonnay-Charente never failed to reply with new impertinences.
De Saint-Aignan knew not to which saint to vow himself.
La Vallière had not a court, but the beginnings of courtiers.
De Saint-Aignan, hoping by this maneuver to draw the eyes of Athénaïs toward him, had come to salute the young girl with a respect which, in some backward minds, had given rise to the belief in a wish to counterbalance Athénaïs with Louise.
But those were they who had neither seen nor heard tell of the scene of the rain. Only, as the majority was already informed, and well informed, her declared favor had attracted to her the most clever as well as the most foolish of the Court.
The first, because they said, some like Montaigne: "What do I know?"
The others, because they said like Rabelais: "Perhaps?"
The greatest number had followed those, as in hunts five or six skilled hounds alone follow the scent of the beast, while all the rest of the pack follows only the scent of the hounds.
The ladies and the queen examined the dresses of their daughters and of their ladies of honor, as well as those of the other ladies; and they deigned to forget that they were queens in order to remember that they were women.
That is to say, they tore apart mercilessly every petticoat, as Molière would have said.
The eyes of the two princesses fell simultaneously upon La Vallière who, as we have said, was much surrounded at that moment. Madame was without pity.
— Truly, she said, leaning toward the queen mother, if fate were just, it would favor that poor little La Vallière.
— That is not possible, said the queen mother smiling.
— How so?
— There are but two hundred tickets, so that everyone could not be put on the list.
— She is not on it then?
— No.
— What a pity! She might have won them and sold them.
— Sell them? cried the queen.
— Yes, that would have made her a dowry, and she would not have been obliged to marry without a trousseau, as will probably happen.
— Ah bah! really? Poor little thing! said the queen mother, has she not any dresses?
And she pronounced these words as a woman who has never been able to know what mediocrity was.
— Why, look: I believe, God forgive me, that she has the same skirt this evening that she had this morning on the walk, and that she was able to keep it, thanks to the care the king took to shelter her from the rain.
At the very moment Madame pronounced these words, the king entered.
The two princesses would perhaps not have noticed this arrival, so occupied were they in slandering. But Madame suddenly saw La Vallière, who was standing opposite the gallery, grow troubled and say a few words to the courtiers surrounding her; these at once drew back. This movement brought Madame's eyes back to the door. At that moment, the captain of the guards announced the king.
At this announcement, La Vallière, who until then had kept her eyes fixed on the gallery, suddenly lowered them.
The king entered.
He was dressed with a magnificence full of taste, and was talking with Monsieur and the Duke of Roquelaure, who held, Monsieur on his right, the Duke of Roquelaure on his left.
The king first advanced toward the queens, whom he saluted with gracious respect. He took his mother's hand, which he kissed, addressed a few compliments to Madame on the elegance of her dress, and began to make the round of the assembly.
La Vallière was saluted like the others, no more, no less than the others.
Then His Majesty returned to his mother and his wife.
When the courtiers saw that the king had addressed but a banal phrase to this young girl so sought after in the morning, they at once drew a conclusion from this coldness.
This conclusion was that the king had had a caprice, but that this caprice was already vanished.
However, one thing ought to have been remarked, which was, that, near La Vallière, among the courtiers, was M. Fouquet, whose respectful politeness served as a support to the young girl, amid the different emotions that visibly agitated her.
M. Fouquet was preparing, besides, to talk more intimately with Mlle de La Vallière, when M. Colbert approached, and, after having made his reverence to Fouquet, in all the rules of the most respectful politeness, he appeared decided to establish himself near La Vallière to strike up a conversation with her. Fouquet immediately left the place. All this maneuver was devoured with the eyes by Montalais and by Malicorne, who passed their observations back and forth to one another.
De Guiche, placed in a window embrasure, saw only Madame. But, as Madame, on her side, frequently stopped her gaze upon La Vallière, de Guiche's eyes, guided by Madame's eyes, turned from time to time also upon the young girl.
La Vallière instinctively felt the weight of all these gazes grow heavy upon her, charged, some with interest, others with envy. She had, to compensate for this suffering, neither a word of interest from her companions, nor a look of love from the king.
Also, what the poor child suffered, none could express. The queen mother had the guéridon brought forward on which were the lottery tickets, two hundred in number, and begged Mme de Motteville to read the list of the chosen.
It goes without saying that this list was drawn up according to the laws of etiquette: the king came first, then the queen mother, then the queen, then Monsieur, then Madame, and so on.
Hearts palpitated at this reading. There were well three hundred guests at the queen's. Each asked himself if his name should shine among the privileged names.
The king listened with as much attention as the others. The last name pronounced, he saw that La Vallière had not been put on the list.
Everyone, besides, could remark this omission.
The king blushed as when a contradiction assailed him.
La Vallière, sweet and resigned, showed nothing.
During the whole reading, the king had not taken his eyes from her; the young girl expanded under this happy influence which she felt shining around her, too joyful and too pure as she was for a thought other than of love to penetrate her mind or her heart.
Paying for this touching self-abnegation by the duration of his attention, the king showed his mistress that he understood its extent and its delicacy.
The list closed, all the faces of women omitted or forgotten let themselves fall into disappointment.
Malicorne also was forgotten among the number of men and his grimace clearly said to Montalais, also forgotten:
"Shall we not arrange matters with fortune so that she does not forget us, she?"
"Oh! but indeed we shall," replied the intelligent smile of Mlle Aure.
The tickets were distributed to each according to his number.
The king received his first, then the queen mother, then Monsieur, then the queen and Madame, and so on.
Then, Anne of Austria opened a Spanish leather bag, in which were two hundred numbers engraved on mother-of-pearl balls, and presented the bag, quite open, to the youngest of her ladies of honor for her to take a ball.
The waiting, amid all these slow preparations, was more that of avidity than that of curiosity.
De Saint-Aignan leaned to the ear of Mlle de Tonnay-Charente:
— Since we each have a number, mademoiselle, he said to her, let us unite our two chances. The bracelet to you, if I win; to me, if you win, a single look from your beautiful eyes?
— Not at all, said Athénaïs, the bracelet to you, if you win it. Each for himself.
— You are pitiless, said de Saint-Aignan, and I shall punish you with a quatrain:
_Belle Iris, to my vows..._ _You are too rebellious._
— Silence! said Athénaïs, you are going to keep me from hearing the winning number.
— Number 1, said the young girl who had drawn the mother-of-pearl ball from the Spanish leather bag.
— The king! cried the queen mother.
— The king has won, repeated the queen joyfully.
— Oh! the king! your dream! said Madame, all joyful, to the ear of Anne of Austria.
The king showed no satisfaction.
He only thanked fortune for what she did for him by addressing a little bow to the young girl who had been chosen as the mandatary of the swift goddess.
Then, receiving from the hands of Anne of Austria, amid the murmurs of covetousness of the whole assembly, the case which enclosed the bracelets:
— Are these bracelets then really beautiful? he said.
— Look at them, said Anne of Austria, and judge for yourself.
The king looked at them.
— Yes, he said, and there, indeed, is an admirable medallion. What finish.
— What finish! repeated Madame.
Queen Marie-Thérèse easily saw at first glance that the king would not offer her the bracelets; but, as he did not appear either to be thinking the least in the world of offering them to Madame, she held herself satisfied, or nearly so.
The king sat down.
The most familiar among the courtiers came successively to admire closely the marvel, which soon, with the king's permission, passed from hand to hand.
At once all, connoisseurs or not, exclaimed in surprise and overwhelmed the king with congratulations.
There was, in fact, reason for all to admire; the brilliants for these, the engraving for those.
The ladies manifestly showed their impatience to see such a treasure monopolized by the gentlemen.
— Gentlemen, gentlemen, said the king, to whom nothing escaped, one would say, truly, that you are wearing bracelets like the Sabines: do pass them a bit to the ladies, who seem to me with good reason to have the pretension of knowing more about them than you.
These words seemed to Madame the beginning of a decision she was awaiting.
She drew, besides, this blessed belief from the eyes of the queen mother.
The courtier who held them at the moment when the king threw this observation into the midst of the general agitation hastened to deposit the bracelets in the hands of Queen Marie-Thérèse, who, knowing well, poor woman! that they were not intended for her, scarcely looked at them and passed them almost at once to Madame.
The latter and, more particularly than she even, Monsieur gave the bracelets a long look of covetousness.
Then she passed the jewels to the ladies her neighbors, pronouncing this single word, but with an accent that was worth a long phrase:
— Magnificent!
The ladies, who had received the bracelets from the hands of Madame, took the time that suited them to examine them, then they set them circulating by pushing them to the right.
During this time, the king was conversing tranquilly with de Guiche and Fouquet.
He let them talk rather than listened.
Accustomed to certain turns of phrase, his ear, like that of all men who exercise over other men an uncontested superiority, took from discourses scattered here and there only the indispensable word that merits a reply.
As for his attention, it was elsewhere.
It wandered with his eyes.
Mlle de Tonnay-Charente was the last of the ladies inscribed for the tickets, and, as if she had taken rank according to her inscription on the list, she had after her only Montalais and La Vallière.
When the bracelets arrived at these last two, one seemed no longer to concern oneself with them.
The humility of the hands that momentarily handled these jewels took from them all their importance.
Which did not prevent Montalais from thrilling with joy, envy and cupidity at the sight of these beautiful stones, even more than at this magnificent workmanship.
It is evident that, put to the test between pecuniary value and artistic beauty, Montalais would without hesitation have preferred the diamonds to the cameos.
Also had she great difficulty in passing them to her companion La Vallière. La Vallière attached to the jewels a nearly indifferent gaze.
— Oh! how rich these bracelets are! how magnificent these bracelets are! cried Montalais; and you do not marvel at them, Louise? But, truly, are you not then a woman?
— Yes indeed, answered the young girl with an accent of adorable melancholy. But why desire what cannot belong to us?
The king, his head bent forward, listened to what the young girl was about to say.
Scarcely had the vibration of that voice struck his ear, than he rose all radiant, and, crossing the whole circle to go from his place to La Vallière:
— Mademoiselle, he said, you are mistaken, you are a woman, and every woman has a right to a woman's jewels.
— Oh! Sire, said La Vallière, Your Majesty does not then wish absolutely to believe in my modesty?
— I believe you have all the virtues, mademoiselle, frankness as well as the others; I therefore adjure you to say frankly what you think of these bracelets.
— That they are beautiful, Sire, and that they can be offered only to a queen.
— That ravishes me that your opinion is such, mademoiselle; the bracelets are yours, and the king prays you to accept them.
And as, with a movement that resembled fright, La Vallière vividly held out the case to the king, the king gently pushed back with his hand the trembling hand of La Vallière.
A silence of astonishment, more funereal than a silence of death, reigned in the assembly. And yet, one had not, on the side of the queens, heard what he had said, nor understood what he had done.
A charitable friend charged herself with spreading the news. It was Tonnay-Charente, to whom Madame had made a sign to approach.
— Ah! my God! cried Tonnay-Charente, is she not lucky, that La Vallière! the king has just given her the bracelets.
Madame bit her lips with such force, that the blood appeared on the surface of the skin.
The young queen looked alternately at La Vallière and at Madame and began to laugh.
Anne of Austria rested her chin upon her beautiful white hand, and remained long absorbed by a suspicion that gnawed at her mind and by an atrocious pain that gnawed at her heart.
De Guiche, seeing Madame grow pale, divining what made her pale, de Guiche precipitately left the assembly and disappeared. Malicorne was then able to slip up to Montalais, and, under cover of the general tumult of conversations:
— Aure, he said to her, you have near you our fortune and our future.
— Yes, she answered.
And she tenderly embraced La Vallière, whom inwardly she was tempted to strangle.
Chapter CXL — Malaga
During all this long and violent debate of court ambitions against heart's loves, one of our characters, the least to be neglected perhaps, was much neglected, much forgotten, much unhappy.
Indeed, d'Artagnan, d'Artagnan, for one must name him by his name so that one recalls he existed, d'Artagnan had absolutely nothing to do in this brilliant and frivolous world. After having followed the king for two days at Fontainebleau, and having looked at all the pastoral plays and all the heroi-comic disguisings of his sovereign, the musketeer had felt that this did not suffice to fill his life.
Accosted at every instant by people who said to him: "How do you find this dress becomes me, Monsieur d'Artagnan?" he answered them in his placid and railing voice: "But I find you as well dressed as the finest ape at the Saint-Laurent fair."
It was a compliment as d'Artagnan made them when he did not wish to make another: willing or unwilling, one had therefore to content oneself with it.
And, when they asked him: "Monsieur d'Artagnan, how do you dress yourself this evening?" he answered: "I shall undress."
Which made even the ladies laugh.
But, after two days passed thus, the musketeer seeing that nothing serious was stirring beneath all this, and that the king had completely, or at least appeared to have completely forgotten Paris, Saint-Mandé and Belle-Île; that M. Colbert was dreaming of lanterns and fireworks; that the ladies had at least a month's worth of glances to return and to give; d'Artagnan asked the king for a leave of absence for family affairs.
At the moment when d'Artagnan made this request, the king was going to bed, broken from having danced.
— You wish to leave me, Monsieur d'Artagnan? he asked with a surprised air.
Louis XIV never understood that one should separate from him when one could have the signal honor of remaining near him.
— Sire, said d'Artagnan, I leave you because I am of no use to you. Ah! if I could hold the balancing-pole for you, while you dance, that would be another thing.
— But, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, gravely answered the king, one dances without a balancing-pole.
— Ah! well, said the musketeer continuing his imperceptible irony, well, I did not know, I!
— You have not then seen me dance? asked the king.
— Yes; but I believed it would go ever from stronger to stronger. I was mistaken: all the more reason for me to withdraw. Sire, I repeat, you have no need of me; besides, if His Majesty had need of me, he would know where to find me.
— Very well, said the king.
And he granted the leave.
We shall therefore not seek d'Artagnan at Fontainebleau, that would be useless; but, with the permission of our readers, we shall find him again on the rue des Lombards, at the _Golden Pestle_, at the home of our venerable friend Planchet.
It is eight o'clock in the evening, it is warm, a single window is open, that of a room on the entresol.
A perfume of groceries, mixed with the less exotic but more penetrating perfume of the mud of the street, rises to the musketeer's nostrils.
D'Artagnan, lying on an immense chair with a flat back, his legs, not stretched out, but resting on a stool, forms the most obtuse angle that can be seen.
The eye, so fine and so mobile usually, is fixed, almost veiled, and has taken for invariable object the little corner of blue sky that one glimpses behind the tearing of the chimneys; there is just enough blue to put a patch on one of the sacks of lentils or of beans that form the principal furnishing of the shop on the ground floor.
“Stories of the world, in your language.”