Part 12

She made it quite evident; for, suddenly broaching the subject:

— Well! said she, have you nothing to say to me?

He thought she had guessed his thought; he thought so; those who love are made thus; they are credulous and blind like poets or prophets; he thought that she knew the desire he had to see her, and the subject of that desire.

— Yes, indeed, madam, said he, and I find it very strange.

— The matter of the bracelets, she cried eagerly, is it not?

— Yes, madam.

— You believe the king is in love? Tell me.

De Guiche looked at her long; she lowered her eyes beneath that gaze which reached to the heart.

— I believe, said he, that the king may have had the design of tormenting someone here; otherwise the king would not show himself so attentive as he is; he would not risk compromising, for mere amusement, a young girl hitherto above reproach.

— Indeed! that shameless creature? said the princess aloud.

— I can assure Your Royal Highness, said de Guiche with a respectful firmness, that Mlle de La Vallière is loved by a man who ought to be respected, for he is a gentleman.

— Oh! Bragelonne, perhaps?

— My friend. Yes, madam.

— Well! even if he were your friend, what matter to the king?

— The king knows that Bragelonne is betrothed to Mlle de La Vallière; and, as Raoul has served the king bravely, the king will not go about causing an irreparable misfortune.

Madame broke into laughter that produced a painful impression upon de Guiche.

— I repeat to you, madam, that I do not believe the king in love with La Vallière, and the proof that I do not believe it is that I wished to ask you whose self-love His Majesty may be seeking to pique on this occasion. You who know the whole Court will help me find it all the more surely, since it is said everywhere that Your Royal Highness is very intimate with the king.

Madame bit her lips, and, for want of good reasons, she turned the conversation aside.

— Prove to me, said she, fixing upon him one of those glances in which the soul seems to pass wholly, prove to me that you sought to question me, I who sent for you.

De Guiche gravely drew from his tablets what he had written, and showed it.

— Sympathy, said she.

— Yes, said the count with an insurmountable tenderness, yes, sympathy; but, I, I have explained to you how and why I sought you out; you, madam, still owe me the reason why you summoned me to you.

— That is true.

And she hesitated.

— These bracelets will drive me mad, said she suddenly.

— You expected that the king should offer them to you? replied de Guiche.

— Why not?

— But before you, madam, before you his sister-in-law, had not the king the queen?

— Before La Vallière, cried the princess, wounded, had he not me? had he not the whole Court?

— I assure you, madam, said the count respectfully, that if you were heard speaking thus, if your red eyes were seen, and, God forgive me! that tear rising to your lashes; oh! yes! everyone would say that Your Royal Highness is jealous.

— Jealous! said the princess with haughtiness; jealous of La Vallière?

She expected to make de Guiche bend with that haughty gesture and superb tone.

— Jealous of La Vallière, yes, madam, he bravely repeated.

— I believe, sir, stammered she, that you are permitting yourself to insult me?

— I do not think so, madam, replied the count, somewhat agitated, but resolved to subdue that fiery anger.

— Leave! said the princess at the height of exasperation, so much did the coldness and silent respect of de Guiche turn to gall and rage within her.

De Guiche stepped back a pace, made his bow slowly, rose again white as his ruffles, and, in a slightly altered voice:

— It was hardly worth my hurrying hither, said he, only to undergo this unjust disgrace.

And he turned his back without haste.

He had not taken five steps, when Madame sprang like a tigress after him, seized him by the sleeve, and, turning him round:

— What you affect as respect, said she, trembling with fury, is more insulting than insult. Come, insult me, but at least speak!

— And you, madam, said the count gently, drawing his sword, pierce my heart, but do not make me die by inches.

At the look he fixed upon her, a look stamped with love, with resolution, with despair even, she understood that a man, apparently so calm, would run his sword through his breast if she added a word.

She snatched the blade from his hands, and, pressing his arm with a delirium that might pass for tenderness:

— Count, said she, spare me. You see that I suffer, and you have no pity.

Tears, the last crisis of that fit, choked her voice. De Guiche, seeing her weep, took her in his arms and carried her to her armchair; for a moment longer she suffocated.

— Why, he murmured at her knees, do you not confess your troubles to me? Do you love someone? Tell me? I shall die of it, but only after I have relieved you, consoled you, served you even.

— Oh! you love me thus! replied she, vanquished.

— I love you to that degree, yes, madam.

And she gave him both her hands.

— I love, indeed, she murmured so low that none could have heard.

He heard.

— The king? said he.

She gently shook her head, and her smile was like those clearings of clouds through which, after the storm, one believes one sees paradise open.

— But, she added, there are other passions in a noble heart. Love is poetry; but the life of that heart is pride. Count, I was born upon the throne, I am proud and jealous of my rank. Why does the king bring indignities near him?

— Again! said the count; there you are maltreating that poor girl who will be the wife of my friend.

— You are simple enough to believe that, are you?

— If I did not believe it, said he, very pale, Bragelonne would be warned tomorrow; yes, if I suspected that this poor La Vallière had forgotten the oaths she made to Raoul. But no, it would be cowardly to betray the secret of a woman; it would be a crime to disturb the peace of a friend.

— You believe, said the princess with a savage burst of laughter, that ignorance is happiness?

— I believe it, replied he.

— Prove it! prove it then! said she eagerly.

— It is easy: madam, it is said throughout the Court that the king loved you and that you loved the king.

— Well? said she, breathing painfully.

— Well! suppose Raoul, my friend, had come to tell me: 'Yes, the king loves Madame; yes, the king has touched the heart of Madame,' I might perhaps have killed Raoul!

— It would have required, said the princess with that obstinacy of women who feel themselves impregnable, that M. de Bragelonne should have had proofs in order to speak to you thus.

— Be that as it may, answered de Guiche sighing, not having been warned, I have examined nothing, and today my ignorance has saved my life.

— You would carry it to selfishness and coldness, said Madame, that you would leave that unhappy young man to continue loving La Vallière?

— Until the day when La Vallière is revealed to me as guilty, yes, madam.

— But the bracelets?

— Eh! madam, since you expected to receive them from the king, what could I have said?

The argument was vigorous; the princess was crushed by it. She rose no more from that moment.

But, as her soul was full of nobleness, as her mind was ardently intelligent, she understood all the delicacy of de Guiche.

She read clearly in his heart that he suspected the king of loving La Vallière, and would not make use of that vulgar expedient which consists in ruining a rival in a woman's mind by giving her the assurance, the certainty, that this rival courts another woman.

She divined that he suspected La Vallière, and that, to leave her time to reform, to avoid losing her forever, he reserved for himself a direct step or some clearer observations.

She read, in a word, so much real greatness, so much generosity in the heart of her lover, that she felt her own catch fire at contact with so pure a flame.

De Guiche, in remaining, despite the fear of displeasing, a man of consequence and devotion, grew to the stature of a hero, and reduced her to the state of a jealous and mean woman.

She loved him so tenderly for it, that she could not forbear giving him a token of it.

— There are many wasted words, said she, taking his hand. Suspicions, anxieties, distrusts, pains, I believe we have uttered all those names.

— Alas! yes, madam.

— Erase them from your heart as I banish them from mine. Count, whether this La Vallière loves the king or loves him not, whether the king loves La Vallière or loves her not, let us, from this moment, make a distinction in our two roles. You open your eyes wide; I wager you do not understand me?

— You are so quick, madam, that I always tremble to displease you.

— See how he trembles, the handsome frightened one! said she with a charm full of playfulness. Yes, sir, I have two roles to play. I am the king's sister, the sister-in-law of his wife. By that title, must I not occupy myself with the intrigues of the household? Your advice?

— As little as possible, madam.

— Agreed, but it is a question of dignity; next, I am Monsieur's wife.

De Guiche sighed.

— Which, said she tenderly, should exhort you always to speak to me with the most sovereign respect.

— Oh! cried he, falling at her feet, which he kissed like those of a divinity.

— Truly, she murmured, I believe I have yet another role. I had forgotten it.

— Which? which?

— I am a woman, said she still lower. I love.

He rose. She opened her arms to him; their lips met.

A step sounded behind the tapestry. Montalais knocked.

— What is it, mademoiselle? said Madame.

— They are looking for M. de Guiche, answered Montalais, who had all the time in the world to see the disorder of the actors of those four roles, for constantly de Guiche had heroically also played his.

Chapter CL — Montalais and Malicorne

Montalais was right. M. de Guiche, summoned everywhere, was very much exposed, by the very multiplication of affairs, to answering nowhere.

Also, such is the force of weak situations, that Madame, despite her wounded pride, despite her inner anger, could reproach nothing, momentarily at least, to Montalais, who had just so audaciously violated the quasi-royal order that had kept her away.

De Guiche also lost his head, or, rather, let us say it, de Guiche had lost his head before Montalais's arrival; for scarcely had he heard the young girl's voice than, without taking leave of Madame, as even the simplest politeness required between equals, he fled with burning heart and wild head, leaving the princess with one hand raised making him a gesture of farewell. That is because de Guiche could have said, as Chérubin said a century later, that he carried away upon his lips happiness for an eternity.

Montalais therefore found the two lovers in great disorder: there was disorder in him who fled, disorder in her who remained.

Also the young girl murmured, while casting an inquiring glance around her:

— I believe that, this time, I know as much as the most curious woman could desire to know.

Madame was so embarrassed by that inquisitive glance, that, as if she had heard Montalais's aside, she did not say a single word to her lady of honour, and, lowering her eyes, re-entered her bedchamber.

Seeing which, Montalais listened.

Then she heard Madame bolt the door of her room.

From that moment she understood that she had her night to herself, and, making toward that door which had just closed a rather disrespectful gesture, which meant: 'Good night, princess!' she went down to rejoin Malicorne, much occupied for the moment in following with his eye a courier, all dusty, who was coming out of the Count of Guiche's house.

Montalais understood that Malicorne was accomplishing some work of importance; she let him strain his eyes and stretch his neck, and, when Malicorne had returned to his natural posture, she merely tapped him on the shoulder.

— Well! said Montalais, what is new?

— M. de Guiche loves Madame, said Malicorne.

— Fine news! I know something fresher, myself.

— And what do you know?

— It is that Madame loves M. de Guiche.

— The one was the consequence of the other.

— Not always, my fine sir.

— Would that axiom be aimed at me?

— Persons present are always excepted.

— Thank you, said Malicorne. And on the other side? continued he, questioning.

— The king wished this evening, after the lottery, to see Mlle de La Vallière.

— Well! did he see her?

— Not at all.

— How, not at all?

— The door was shut.

— So that?...

— So that the king went back like a simple thief who forgot his tools.

— Good.

— And on the third side? asked Montalais.

— The courier arriving at M. de Guiche's is sent by M. de Bragelonne.

— Good! said Montalais, clapping her hands.

— Why, good?

— Because here is occupation. If we are bored now, we shall be in misfortune.

— It is important to divide the labour, said Malicorne, so as to make no confusion.

— Nothing simpler, replied Montalais. Three intrigues a little well-stoked, a little well-conducted, give, one with another, and at the lowest reckoning, three notes a day.

— Oh! cried Malicorne, shrugging his shoulders, you are not thinking, my dear, three notes in a day is good for bourgeois sentiments. A musketeer in service, a little girl in a convent, exchanging the note daily by the top of the ladder or by the hole made in the wall. In one note lies all the poetry of those poor little hearts. But with us... Oh! how little you know the Land of Tenderness royal, my dear.

— Come, conclude, said Montalais, impatient. Someone may come.

— Conclude! I am only at the narration. I still have three points.

— Truly, he will be the death of me, with his Flemish phlegm! cried Montalais.

— And you, you will drive me mad with your Italian vivacities. I was telling you then that our lovers will write each other volumes, but where do you mean to get?

— To this, that none of our ladies can keep the letters she will receive.

— Without any doubt.

— That M. de Guiche will not dare keep his either.

— That is probable.

— Well! I will keep all that, myself.

— That is precisely what is impossible, said Malicorne.

— And why so?

— Because you are not at home; because your room is shared with La Vallière and you; because visits and searches are rather willingly practised in a lady of honour's room; because I greatly fear the queen, jealous like a Spaniard, the queen mother, jealous like two Spaniards, and, finally, Madame jealous like ten Spaniards.

— You forget someone.

— Who?

— Monsieur.

— I was speaking only of the women. Let us number then. Monsieur, No. 1.

— No. 2, de Guiche.

— No. 3, the Vicomte de Bragelonne.

— No. 4, and the king.

— The king?

— Certainly, the king, who will be not only more jealous, but also more powerful than everyone. Ah! my dear!

— After?

— Into what a hornet's nest have you thrust yourself!

— Not deep enough yet, if you will follow me there.

— Certainly I will follow you there. However...

— However?...

— While there is yet time, I think it would be prudent to turn back.

— And I, on the contrary, think that the most prudent is to put ourselves at the head of all those intrigues at the first stroke.

— You will not be equal to it.

— With you, I could manage ten. It is my element, you see. I was made to live at Court, as the salamander is made to live in the flames.

— Your comparison does not reassure me in the least, dear friend. I have heard say by very learned scholars, first that there are no salamanders, and that, were there any, they would be perfectly grilled, they would be perfectly roasted on coming out of the fire.

— Your scholars may be very learned in matters of salamanders. Now, your scholars will not tell you this, that I tell you, me: Aure de Montalais is called to be, before a month, the first diplomat of the Court of France!

— Be it so, but on condition that I shall be the second.

— It is agreed: offensive and defensive alliance, of course.

— Only, beware of the letters.

— I will hand them to you as they are handed to me.

— What shall we say to the king, of Madame?

— That Madame still loves the king.

— What shall we say to Madame, of the king?

— That she would be very much in the wrong not to humour him.

— What shall we say to La Vallière, of Madame?

— Whatever we wish: La Vallière is ours.

— Ours?

— Doubly.

— How so?

— By the Vicomte de Bragelonne, first.

— Explain yourself.

— You do not forget, I hope, that M. de Bragelonne wrote many letters to Mlle de La Vallière?

— I forget nothing.

— Those letters, it was I who received them, it was I who hid them.

— And, consequently, it is you who have them?

— Always.

— Where, here?

— Oh! not at all. I have them at Blois, in the little room you know.

— Little cherished room, little amorous room, antechamber of the palace I shall have you inhabit one day. But, pardon, you say all those letters are in that little room?

— Yes.

— Did you not put them in a casket?

— Doubtless, in the same casket where I put the letters I received from you, and where I laid mine when your affairs or your pleasures kept you from the rendezvous.

— Ah! very well, said Malicorne.

— Why that satisfaction?

— Because I see the possibility of not running to Blois after the letters. I have them here.

— You brought back the casket?

— It was dear to me, coming from you.

— Take care of it, at least; the casket contains originals that will have great value later.

— I know that well, zounds! and that is precisely why I laugh, and with all my heart too.

— Now, a last word.

— Why a last one?

— Do we need auxiliaries?

— None.

— Valets, maids?

— Bad, detestable! You will give the letters, you will receive them. Oh! no pride; otherwise, M. Malicorne and Mlle Aure, not doing their business themselves, will have to resolve to see it done by others.

— You are right; but what is happening at M. de Guiche's?

— Nothing; he is opening his window.

— Let us disappear.

And both disappeared; the conspiracy was knit.

The window which had just opened was, in fact, that of the Count of Guiche.

But, as the ignorant might have thought, it was not merely to try to see the shadow of Madame through her curtains that he placed himself at that window, and his preoccupation was not wholly amorous.

He had just, as we have said, received a courier; that courier had been sent him by Bragelonne. Bragelonne had written to de Guiche.

The latter had read and reread the letter, which had made a deep impression upon him.

— Strange! strange! he murmured. By what powerful means does destiny drag people toward their goal?

And, leaving the window to draw nearer the light, he read a third time that letter, whose lines burned at once his mind and his eyes.

'Calais.

'My dear Count,

I found at Calais M. de Wardes, who was grievously wounded in an affair with M. de Buckingham.

He is a brave man, as you know, is de Wardes, but spiteful and wicked.

He spoke to me of you, for whom, he says, his heart has much inclination; of Madame, whom he finds beautiful and amiable.

He has guessed your love for the person you know.

He also spoke to me of a person I love, and testified the liveliest interest in me, pitying me greatly, all with obscurities that alarmed me at first, but that I ended by taking for the results of his habits of mystery.

Here is the fact:

He would have received news from the Court. You understand that it is only through M. de Lorraine.

There is talk, say his news, of a change having occurred in the king's affection.

You know whom that concerns.

Next, said his news again, there is talk of a lady of honour who gives subject for slander.

Those vague phrases did not permit me to sleep. I have deplored since yesterday that my upright and weak character, despite a certain obstinacy, left me without reply to those insinuations.

In a word, M. de Wardes was leaving for Paris; I did not delay his departure with explanations; and then it seemed harsh to me, I confess, to put to the question a man whose wounds are scarcely closed.

Briefly, he left by short stages, leaving, he said, to assist at the curious spectacle the Court cannot fail to offer before long.

He added to those words certain congratulations, then certain condolences. I understood the one no more than the other. I was stunned by my thoughts and by a distrust of that man, a distrust, you know better than anyone, that I have never been able to overcome.

But, he gone, my mind opened.

It is impossible that a character like de Wardes's should not have infiltrated somewhat of his wickedness into the relations we had together.

It is therefore impossible that, in all the mysterious words de Wardes said to me, there is not a mysterious sense of which I may make the application to myself or to whom you know.

Forced as I was to leave promptly to obey the king, I had not the idea of running after M. de Wardes to obtain the explanation of his reticences; but I send you a courier and write you this letter, which will expose all my doubts to you. You are me: I thought, you will act.

M. de Wardes will arrive shortly: learn what he meant to say, if you do not already know.

Moreover M. de Wardes claimed that M. de Buckingham had left Paris, loaded with favours by Madame; that is an affair which would have immediately put the sword in my hand, were it not for the necessity in which I believe myself to be of putting the king's service before every quarrel.

Burn this letter, which Olivain will deliver to you.

Who says Olivain, says perfect safety.

Be pleased, I pray you, my dear count, to recall me to the memory of Mlle de La Vallière, whose hands I kiss respectfully.

You, I embrace.

Vicomte de Bragelonne.

P.S.— If anything grave should happen, all must be foreseen, dear friend, send me a courier with this single word: 'Come,' and I shall be in Paris, thirty-six hours after your letter received.

De Guiche sighed, folded the letter a third time, and, instead of burning it, as Raoul had recommended, he put it back in his pocket.

He needed to read it and reread it yet again.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”