LIBRARY 
 
 ANNEX 
 
 2 
 
.CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
3 1924 083 881 460 
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 MAR-S-^HOa^ 
 
 -^BJ36i$HS90r 
 
 CAYLORD 
 
 PRINTCDIN U S.J 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis bool< is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924083881460 
 
TEN YEARS LATER 
 
 By ALEXANDRE DUMAS 
 
 Author of "The Three Guardsmen," "Twenty Years After," 
 "TheVicomte de Bragelonne," "The Count of Monte Cristo," 
 
 etc, etc. 
 
 A. L. BURT COMPANY, .^t ^ ^ 
 ^ ^ jf^~ PUBLISHERS. NEW YORK 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 OHAPTEK I. 
 
 IN WHICH D'AKTAGNAN FINISHES BY AT LENGTH PLACIKG 
 HIS HANDS UPON HIS CAPTAIN'S COMMISSION. 
 
 The reader guesses beforehand whom the usher an- 
 nounced in announcing the messenger from Bretagne. This 
 messenger was easily recognized. It was D'Artagnan, his 
 clothes dusty, his face inflamed, his hair dripping with 
 sweat, his legs stiff; he lifted his feet painfully the height 
 of each step, upon which resounded the ring of his bloody 
 spurs. He perceiTed in the doorway he was passing 
 through the surintendant coming out. Fouquet bowed 
 with a smile to him who, an hour before, was bringing him 
 ruin and death. D'Artagnan found in his goodness of heart 
 and in his inexhaustible vigor of body, enough presence of 
 mind to remember the kind reception of this man; he bowed 
 then, also, much more from benevolence and compassion 
 than from respect. He felt upon his lips the word which 
 had so many times been repeated to the Due de Guise, 
 "Fly." But to pronounce that word would have been to 
 betray his cause; to speak that word in the cabinet of the 
 king, and before an usher, would have been to ruin himself 
 gratuitously, and could save nobody. D'Artagnan then 
 contented himself with bowing to Fouquet, and entered 
 At this moment the king floated between the joy the last 
 words of Fouquet had given him and his pleasure at the 
 return of D'Artagnan. Without being a courtier, D'Ar- 
 tagnan had a glance as sure and as rapid as if he had been 
 one. He read, on his entrance, devouring humiliation on 
 the countenance of Colbert. He even heard the king say 
 these words to him : 
 
 '■'Ah! Monsieur Colbert, you have then nine hundred 
 thousand livres at the intendance?" 
 
 Gqlh^xtf sijflQQated, bowed, bwt made no reply, All thii 
 
8 TEN TEAKS LATEE. 
 
 scene entered into the mind of D'Artagnan, by the eyes 
 and ears, a* once. The first word of Louis to his mus- 
 keteer, as if he wished it to be in opposition to what he was 
 saying at the moment, was a kind "good-day." The second 
 was to send away Colbert. The latter left the king's cabi- 
 net, livid and tottering, while D'Artagnan twisted up the 
 ends of his mustache. 
 
 "I love to see one of my servants in this disorder," said 
 the king, admiring the martial stains upon the clothes of 
 his envoy. 
 
 "I thought, sire, my presence at the Louvre was suf- 
 ficiently urgent to excuse my presenting myself thus before 
 you." 
 
 "You bring me great news, then, monsieur?" 
 
 "Sire, the thing is this, in two words; Belle Isle is forti- 
 fied, admirably fortified. Belle Isle has a double enceinte, a 
 citadel, two detached forts; its ports contain three corsairs, 
 and the side batteries only wait for their cannon." 
 
 "I know all that, monsieur," replied the king. 
 
 "What! your majesty knows all that?" replied the mus- 
 keteer, stupefied. 
 
 "I have the plan of the fortifications of Belle Isle," said 
 the king. 
 
 "Your majesty has the plan?" 
 
 "Here it is.'' 
 
 "It is really it, sire; and I saw a similar one on the spot." 
 The brow of D'Artagnan became clouded. "Ah! I un- 
 derstand all. Your majesty has not trusted to me alone, 
 but has sent some other person," said he, in a reproachful 
 tone. 
 
 "Of what importance is the manner, monsieur, in w:hich 
 I have learned what I know, so that I do know it?" 
 
 "Sire, sire," said the musketeer, without seeking even to 
 conceal his dissatisfaction; "but I must be permitted to say 
 to your majesty that it is not worth while to make me use 
 such speed, to risk twenty times the breaking of my neck, 
 to salute me on my arrival with such intelligence. Sire, 
 when people are not trusted, or are deemed insufficient, 
 they should not be employed." And D'Artagnan, with a 
 movement perfectly military, stamped with his foot, and 
 left upon the floor dust stained with blood. The king 
 looked at him, inwardly enjoying his first triumph. 
 
 "Monsieur," said he, at the expiration of a minute, "not 
 only is Belle Isle known to me, but, still further. Belle Isle 
 is mine." 
 
TEN TEARS tATER. 3 
 
 "That is well! that is -well, sire; I ask no more," replied 
 D'Artagnan. "My discharge." 
 
 "What! your discharge?" 
 
 "Without doubt. I am too proud to eat the bread of the 
 king without gaining it, or rather, by gaining it badly. 
 My discharge, sire!" 
 
 "Oh! oh!" 
 
 "I ask for my discharge, or I shall take it." 
 
 "You are angry, monsieur?" 
 
 "I have reason, mordioux! I am thirty-two hours in the 
 saddle; I ride night and day; I perform prodigies of- speed; 
 I arrive stiff as the corpse of a man who has been hung, and 
 another arrives before me! Come, sire, I am a fool! My 
 discharge, sire!" 
 
 "Monsieur d'Artagnan," said Louis, leaning his white 
 hand upon the dusty arm of the musketeer, "what I tell 
 you will not at all affect that which I promised you. A 
 word given, a word should be kept." And the king, going 
 straight to his table, opened a drawer, and took out a folded 
 paper. 
 
 "Here is your commission of captain of musketeers; you 
 have won it. Monsieur d'Artagnan." 
 
 D'Artagnan opened the paper eagerly, and looked at it 
 twice. He could scarcely believe his eyes. 
 
 "And this commission is given you," continued the king, 
 "not only on account of your journey to Belle Isle, but, 
 moreover, for your brave intervention at the Place de 
 GrSve. There, likewise, you served me valiantly." 
 , "Ah! ah!" said D'Artagnan, without his own command 
 being able to prevent a certain redness mounting to his 
 eyes; "you know that also, sire?" 
 
 "Yes, I know it." 
 
 The king possessed a piercing glance and an infallible 
 judgment, when it was his object to read a conscience.- 
 "You have something to say," said he to the musketeer, 
 "something to say which you do not say. Come, speak 
 freely, monsieur; you know that I told you, once for all, 
 that you are to be quite frank with me." 
 
 "Well, sire, what I have to say is this, that I would prefer 
 being made captain of musketeers for having charged a 
 battery at the head of my company or taken a city, than for 
 causing two wretches to be hung." 
 
 '"s that quite true that you tell me?" 
 And why should your majesty suspect me of dissimula^ 
 -rfion, I ask?" 
 
4 TEjN YKAKS LiATEB. 
 
 "Because I know you well, monsieur; you cannot repnnt 
 of having drawn your sword for me." 
 
 "Well, in that your majesty is deceived, and greatly. 
 Yes, I do repent of having drawn my sword, on account of 
 the results that action produced; the poor men who wure 
 hung, sire, were neither your enemies nor mine, and tl ey 
 could not defend themselves." 
 
 The king preserved silence for a moment. "And ycur 
 companion, Monsieur d'Artagnan, does he partake of yctr. 
 repentance?" 
 i "My companion?" 
 
 "Yes. You were not alone, I have been told." 
 
 "Alone, where?" 
 
 "At the Place de Gr^ve." 
 
 "No, sire, no," said D'Artagnan, blushing at the idea 
 that the king might have a suspicion that he, D'Artagnan, 
 had wished to engross to himself all the glory that belonged 
 to Eaoul; "no, mordioux! and, as your majesty says, I had 
 a companion, and a good companion, too." 
 
 "A young man?" 
 
 "Yes, sire, a young man. Oh! your majesty must accept 
 my compliments; you are as well informed of things out-of- 
 doors as with things within. It is Monsieur Colbert who 
 makes all these fine reports to the king." 
 
 "Monsieur Colbert had said nothing but good of you. 
 Monsieur d'Artagnan, and he would have met with a bad 
 reception if he had come to tell me anything else." 
 
 "That is fortunate." 
 
 "But he also said much good of that young man." 
 
 "And with justice," said the musketeer. 
 
 "In short, it appears that this young man is a brave," 
 said Louis, in order to sharpen the sentiment which he mis- 
 took for envy. 
 
 "A brave! Yes, sire," repeated D'Artagnan, delighted 
 on his part to direct the king's attention to EaouL 
 
 "Do you not know his name?" 
 
 "Well, I think " 
 
 "You know him then?" 
 
 "I have known him nearly twenty-five years, sire." 
 
 "Why, he is scarcely twenty-five years old!" cried the 
 king. 
 
 "Well, sire; I have known him ever since his birth, that 
 is all." 
 
 "Do you affirm that?" 
 
 "Sire," said B'Artagnan, "your majesty questions me 
 
■rEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 with a mistrust in which I recognize another character than 
 your own. Monsieur Colbert, who has so well informed 
 you, has he not forgotten to tell you that this young man is 
 the son of my most intimate friend?" 
 
 "The Vicomte de Bragelonne is?" 
 
 "Certainly, sire. The father of the Vicomte de Brage- 
 lonne is Monsieur le Comte de la Fere, who so powerfully 
 assisted in the restoration of King Charles II. Bragelonne 
 is of a valiant race, sire." 
 
 "Then he is the son of that nobleman who came to me, 
 or rather, to Monsieur Mazarin, on the part of King Charles 
 II., to offer me his alliance?" 
 
 "Exactly, sire." 
 
 "And the Comte de la Fere is a brave, say you?" 
 
 "Sire, he is a man who has drawn his sword more times 
 for the king, your father, than there are, at present, days 
 in the happy life of your majesty." 
 
 It was Louis XIV. who now bit his lips in his turn. 
 
 "That is well. Monsieur d'Artagnan, very well! And 
 Monsieur le Comte de la Fere is your friend, say you?" 
 
 "For about forty years^-yes, sire. Your majesty may see 
 that I do not speak to you of yesterday." 
 
 "Should you be glad to see this young man. Monsieur 
 d'Artagnan?" 
 
 "Delighted, sire." 
 
 The king touched his bell, and an usher appeared. 
 
 "Call Monsieur de Bragelonne," said the king. 
 
 "Ah! ah! he is here?" said D'Artagnan. 
 
 "He is on guard to-day at the Louvre, with the company 
 of the gentlemen of Monsieur le Prince." 
 
 The king had scarcely ceased speaking, when Eaoul pre- 
 sented himself, and, on seeing D'Artagnan, smiled on him 
 with that charming smile which is only found upon the lips 
 of youth. 
 
 "Come, come," said D'Artagnan familiarly, to Eaoul, 
 "the king will allow you to embrace me; only tell his 
 majesty you thank him." 
 
 Eaoul bowed so gracefully that Louis, to whom all 
 superior qualities were pleasing when they did not affect 
 anything against his own, admired his beauty, strength, 
 and modesty. 
 
 "Monsieur," said the king, addressing Eaoul, "I have 
 asked Monsieur le Prince to be kind enough to give you up 
 to me. I have received his reply, and you belong to me 
 from this morning. Monsieur le Prince was a good master, 
 but I hope you will not lose bvthe change." 
 
6 TEN TEARS LATEli 
 
 "Yes, yes, Eaoul, be satisfied; the king has some good in 
 him," said D'Artagnan, who had fathomed the character oi 
 Louis, and who played with his self-love, within certain 
 limits; always observing, be it understood, the proprieties, 
 and flattering, even when he appeared to be bantering. 
 
 "Sire," said Bragelonne, with a voice soft and musical, 
 and with the natural and easy elocution he inherited from 
 his father — "sire, it is not from to-day that I belong to your 
 majesty." 
 
 "Oh! no, I know," said the king; "you mean your enter- 
 prise of the Greve. That day you were truly mine, mon- 
 sieur." 
 
 "Sire, it is not of that day I would speak; it would not 
 become me to refer to so paltry a service in the presence of 
 such a man as Monsieur d'Artagnan. I would speak of a 
 circumstance which created an epoch in my life, and which 
 consecrated me, from the age of sixteen, to the devoted 
 service of your majesty." 
 
 "Ah! ah!" said the king, "what is that circumstance? 
 Tell me, monsieur." 
 
 "This is it, sire. When I was setting out on my first 
 campaign, that is to say, to join the army of Monsieur le 
 Prince, Monsieur le Oomte de la Fere came to conduct me 
 as far as St. Denis, where the remains of King Louis XIII. 
 wait, upon the lowest steps of the funereal basilique, a suc- 
 cessor, whom God will not send him, I hope, for many 
 years. Then he made me swear upon the ashes of our mas- 
 ters, to serve royalty represented by you — incarnate in you, 
 sire — to serve it in word, in thought, and in action. I 
 swore, and God and the dead were witnesses to my oath. 
 During ten years, sire, I have not so often as I desired had 
 occasion to keep it. I am a soldier of your majesty, and 
 nothing else; and, on calling me nearer to you, I do not 
 change my master, I only change my garrison." 
 
 Eaoul was silent, and bowed. Louis still listened after 
 he had done speaking. 
 
 " Mordioux!" cried D'Artagnan, "that is well spoken! is 
 it not, your majesty? A good race! a noble race!" 
 
 "Yes," murmured the agitated king, without, however^ 
 daring to manifest his emotion, for it had ho other cause 
 than the contact with a nature eminently aristocratic. 
 "Yes, monsieur, you say truly; wherever you were, you 
 were the king's. But in changing your garrison, believe 
 me, you' will find an advancement of which you are worthy." 
 
 Raoul saw that there stopned what the iing had to say to 
 
TEN TEAKS 1:,ATBR. 7 
 
 bim; and with that perfect tact which characterized his re- 
 fined nature, he bowed and retired. 
 
 "Is there anything else, monsieur, of which you have to 
 inform me?" said the king, when he found himself again 
 alone with D'Artagnan. 
 
 "Yes, sire; and I kept that news for the last, for it is 
 sad, and will clothe European royalty in mourning." 
 
 "What do you tell me?" 
 
 "Sire, in passing through Blois, a word, a sad word, 
 vohoed from the palace, struck my ear." 
 
 "In truth, you terrify me. Monsieur d'Artagnan." 
 
 "Sire, this word was pronounced to me by a piqueur who 
 wore a crape on his arm. 
 
 "My uncle, Gaston of Orleans, perhaps?" 
 
 "Sire, he has rendered his last sigh." 
 
 "And I was not warned of it!" cried the king, whose 
 royal susceptibility saw an insult in the absence of this in- 
 telligence. 
 
 "Oh, do not be angry, sire," said D'Artagnan; "neither 
 the couriers of Paris nor the couriers of the whole world 
 can travel with your servant; the courier from Blois will not 
 be here these two hours, and he rides well, I assure you, 
 seeing that I only passed him on the other side of Orleans." 
 
 "My uncle Gaston/' murmured Louis, pressing his hand 
 to his brow, and comprising in those three words all that 
 his memory recalled of that name of opposite sentiments. 
 
 "Eh! yes, sire, it is thus," said D'Artagnan, philosophic- 
 ally replying to the royal thought — "it is thus the past flies 
 away." 
 
 "That is true, monsieur, that is true; but there remains 
 for us, thank God, the future; and we will try to make it 
 not too dark." 
 
 "I feel confidence in your majesty on that head," said 
 D'Artagnan, bowing; "and now " 
 
 "You are right, monsieur; I had forgotten the hundred 
 leagues you have just ridden. Go, monsieur; take care of 
 one of the best of soldiers, and when you have reposed a 
 little, come and place yourself at my orders." 
 
 "Sire, absent or present, I always am so." 
 
 D'Artagnan bowed and retired. Then, as if he had only 
 come from Pontainebleau, he quickly traversed the Louvre 
 to rejoin Bragelonne. 
 
8 TEN TEAE8 LATER. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 A LOVER AND A MISTRESS. 
 
 While the wax-lights were burning in the castle of Blois, 
 around the inanimate body of Gaston of Orleans, that last 
 representative of the past; while the bourgeois of the city 
 were making his epitaph, which was far from being a 
 panegyric; while madame the dowager, no longer remem- 
 bering that in her young days she had loyed that senseless 
 corpse to such a degree as to fly the paternal palace for his 
 sake, was making, within twenty paces of the funeral apart- 
 ment, her little calculations of interest and her little sacri- 
 fices of pride, other interests and other prides were in agita- 
 tion m all the parts of the castle into which a living soul 
 could penetrate. Neither the lugubrious sounds of the 
 bells, nor the voices of the chanters, nor the splendor of the 
 wax-lights through the windows, nor the preparations for 
 the funeral, had the power to divert the attention of two 
 persons, placed at a window of the interior court — a window 
 that we are acquainted with, and which lightened a cham- 
 ber forming part of what were called the little apartments. 
 For the rest, a Joyous beam of the sun, for the sun appeared 
 to care very little for the loss France had just suffered — a 
 sunbeam, we say, descended upon them, drawing perfumes 
 from the neighboring flowers, and animating the walls 
 themselves. These two persons, so occupied, not by the 
 death of the duke, but by the conversation which was the 
 consequence of that death, these two persons were a young 
 woman and a young man. The latter personage, a man of 
 from twenty-five to twenty-six years of age, with a mien 
 sometimes lively and sometimes dull, making good use of 
 two immensely large eyes shaded with long eyelashes, was 
 short of stature and brown of skin; he smiled with an enor- 
 mous but well-furnished mouth, and his pointed chin, which 
 appeared to enjoy a mobility which nature does not ordi- 
 narily grant to that portion of the countenance, leaned from 
 time to time very lovingly toward his interlocutrix, who, we 
 must say, did not always draw back so rapidly as strict pro- 
 
 Eriety had a right to require. The young girl — we know 
 er, for we have already seen her at that very same window 
 by the light of that same sun — the young girl presented a 
 singular mixture of slyness and reflection; she was charming 
 Vhen she laughed^ beautiful when she became serious; but, 
 
TEN" TEARS LATER, 9 
 
 let us hasten to say, she was more frequently charming than 
 beautiful. The two persons appeared to have attained the cul- 
 minating point of a discussion, half-bantering, half-serious. 
 
 '"Xow, Monsieur Malicorne," said the young girl, "does 
 it, at length, please you that we should talk reasonably?" 
 
 ■'You believe that that is very easy. Mademoiselle Aure," 
 replied the young man. 
 
 "To do what we like, when we can only do what we are 
 able " 
 
 "GoodI" said the young man; "there she is bewildered 
 in her phrases." 
 
 "Who, I?" 
 
 "Yes, you; leave that lawyers' logic, my dear." 
 
 "Another impossibility." 
 
 "Clerk, I am Mademoiselle de Montalais." 
 
 "Demoiselle, I am Monsieur Malicorne." 
 
 "Alas, I know it well, and you overwhelm me by dis- 
 tance; so I will say no more to you." 
 
 "Well, but, no, I don't overwhelm you; say what you 
 have to tell me — say it, I insist upon it." 
 
 "Well, I obey you." 
 
 "That is truly fortunate." 
 
 "Monsieur is dead." 
 
 "Ah, peste! there's news! And where do you come from, 
 to be able to tell us that?" 
 
 "I come from Orleans, mademoiselle." 
 
 "And is that all the news you bring?" 
 
 "Ah, no; I am come to tell you that Madame Henrietta 
 of England is coming to marry his majesty's brother." 
 
 "Indeed, Malicorne, you are insupportable with your news 
 of the last century. Now, mind, if you persist in this bad 
 habit of laughing at people, I will have you turned out." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 \ "Yes; for really you exasperate me." 
 
 "There, there! Patience, mademoiselle." 
 
 "You want to make yourself of consequence; I know well 
 enough why. Go!" 
 
 "Tell me, and I will answer you frankly, yes, if the thing 
 be true." 
 
 "You know that I am anxious to have that commission of 
 lady of honor, which I have been foolish enough to ask of 
 you, and you do not use your credit." 
 
 "Who, I?" Malicorne cast down his eyes, joined his 
 hands, and assumed his sullen air. "And what credit can 
 the poor clerk of a procureur have, pray?" 
 
10 TEH TEARS LATER. 
 
 "Your father has not twenty thousand livres a year for 
 nothing. Monsieur Malicorne." 
 
 "A provincial fortune, Mademoiselle de Montalais." 
 
 "Your father is not in the secrets of Monsieur le Prince 
 for nothing." 
 
 "An advantage which is confined to lending monseigneur 
 money." 
 
 "In a word, you are not the most cunning young fellow 
 in the province for nothing." 
 
 "You flatter mel" 
 
 "Who, I?" 
 
 "Yes, you." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 "Since I maintain that J have no credit, and you main- 
 tain I have." 
 
 "Well, then, my commission?" 
 
 "Well, your commission?" 
 . "Shall I have it, or shall I not?" 
 
 "You shall have it." 
 
 "Ay, but when?" 
 
 "When you like." 
 
 "Where is it, then?" 
 
 "In my pocket." 
 
 "How! in your pocket?" 
 
 "Yes." And, with a smile, Malicorne drew from hit 
 pocket a letter, upon which Montalais seized as a prey, and 
 which she read with avidity. As she read, her face bright- 
 ened. 
 
 "Malicorne," cried she, after having read it, "in truth, 
 you are a good lad." 
 
 "What for, mademoiselle?" 
 
 "Because you might have been paid for this commission, 
 and you have not." And she burst into a loud laugh, 
 thinking to put the clerk out of countenance; but Mali- 
 corne sustained the attack bravely. 
 
 "I do not understand you," said he. It was now Monta- 
 lais who was disconcerted in her turn. "I have declared my 
 sentiments to you," continued Malicorne. "You have told 
 me three times, laughing all the while, that you did not 
 love me; you have embraced me once without laughing, 
 and that is all I want." 
 
 "All?" said the proud and coquettish Montalais, in a 
 tone through which wounded pride was visible. 
 
 "Absolutely all, mademoiselle," replied Malicorne. 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 11 
 
 And this monosyllable indicated as much anger as the 
 young man might have expected gratitude. He shook his 
 head quietly. 
 
 "Listen.. Montalais," said he, without heeding whether 
 that familiarity pleased his mistress or not; "let us not dis- 
 pute about it." 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 "Because, during the year which I have known you, you 
 might have had me turned out-of-doors twenty times if I 
 did not please you." 
 
 "Indeed; and on what account should I have had you 
 turned out?" 
 
 "Because I had been sufi&ciently impertinent for that." 
 
 "Oh, that!— yes, that's true." 
 
 "You see plainly that you are forced to avow it," said 
 Malicorne. 
 
 "Monsieur Malicorne!" 
 
 "Don't let us be angry; if you hare retained me, then it 
 has not been without cause." 
 
 "It is not, at least, because I love you," cried Montalais. 
 
 "Granted. I will even say that, at ihis moment, I am 
 certain that you execrate me." 
 
 "Oh, you have never spoken so truly." 
 
 ""Well, on my part, I detest you." 
 
 "Ah, I take the act." 
 
 "Take it. You find me brutal and foolish; on my part, I 
 Snd you with a harsh voice and your face distorted with 
 anger. At this moment you would allow yourself to be 
 thrown out of that window rather than allow me to kiss the 
 tip of your finger; I would precipitate myself from the top 
 of the balcony rather than touch the hem of your robe. 
 But in five minutes you will love me, and I shall adore you 
 Oh, it is just so." 
 
 "I doubt it." 
 
 "And I swear it." 
 
 "Coxcomb!" 
 
 "And then, that is not the true reason. You stand in 
 need of me, sure, and I of you. When it pleases you to be 
 gay, I make you laugh; when it suits me to be loving, I 
 look at you. I have given you a commission of lady of 
 honor which you wished for; you will give me, presently, 
 something I wish for." 
 
 "I will?" 
 
 "Yes, you will; but at this moment, my dear Aure, I de- 
 clare to you that I wish for absolutely nothing; so be at 
 ease." 
 
13 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "You are a frightful man, Malicorne. I was gomg to re- 
 joice at getting this commission, and thus you take away all 
 my joy." 
 
 "Good! there is no time lost; you will rejoice when I am 
 gone." 
 
 "Go, then; and after " 
 
 "So be it; but, in the first place, a piece of advice." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Eesume your good humor, you are ugly when you pout." 
 
 "Coarse!" 
 
 "Come, let us tell our truths to each other, while we are 
 about it." 
 
 "Oh, Malicorne! Bad-hearted man!" 
 
 "Oh, Montalais! Ungrateful girl!" 
 
 The young man leaned with his elbow upon the window- 
 frame; Montalais took a book and opened it. Malicorne 
 stood up, brushed his hat with his sleeve, smoothed down 
 "his black pourpoint; Montalais, though pretending to read, 
 looked at him out of the corner of her eye. 
 
 "Good!" cried she, quite furious; "he has assumed his 
 respectful air — and he will pout for a week." 
 
 "A fortnight, mademoiselle," said Malicorne, bowing. 
 
 Montalais lifted up her little doubled fist. "Monster!" 
 said she; "oh, that I were a man!" 
 
 "What would you do to me?" 
 
 "I would strangle you." 
 
 "Ah! very well, then," said Malicorne; "I believe I begin 
 to desire something." 
 
 "And what do you desire. Monsieur Demon? That I 
 should lose my soul from anger?" 
 
 Malicorne was rolling his hat respectfully between his fin- 
 gers; but all at once he let fall his hat, seized the young 
 girl by the two shoulders, pulled her toward him, and ap- 
 plied to her lips two other very warm lips for a man pre ■ 
 tending to so much indiiference. Aure would have cried 
 out, but the cry was stifled in the kiss. Nervous and ap- 
 parently angry, the young girl pushed Malicorne against the 
 wall. 
 
 "Good!" said Malicorne philosophically, "that's enough 
 for six weeks. Adieu, mademoiselle; accept my very hum- 
 ble salutation." And he made three steps toward the door. 
 
 "Well! no, you shall not go!" cried Montalais, stamping 
 with her little foot. "Stay where you are! I order you!" 
 
 "You order me?" 
 ; "Yes; ani I not mistress?'' 
 
TEN" TEARS LATEK. 13 
 
 "Of my heart and soul, without doubt." 
 
 "A pretty property! ma foi! The soul is silly and the 
 heart dry." 
 
 "Beware, Montalais, I know you," said Malicorne; "you 
 are going to fall in love with your humble servant." 
 
 "Well, yes!" said she, hanging round his neck with 
 childish indolence rather than with loving abandonment, 
 "Well, yes! for I must thank you at least." 
 
 "And for what?" 
 
 "For the commission; is it not my whole future?" 
 
 "And all mine." 
 
 Montalais looked at him. 
 
 "It is frightful," said she, "that one can never guess 
 whether you are speaking seriously or not." 
 
 "I cannot speak more seriously. I was going to Paris — 
 you were going there — we are going there." 
 
 "And so it was for that motive only you have served me; 
 selfish fellow!" 
 
 "What would you have me say, Aure? I cannot live 
 without you." 
 
 "Well! in truth, it is just so with me; you are, neverthe- 
 less, it must be confessed, a very bad-hearted young man." 
 
 "Aure, my dear Aure, take care! If you take to calling 
 names again, you know the effect they produce upon me, 
 and I shall adore you." And so saying, Malicorne drew the 
 young girl a second time toward him. But at that instant 
 a step resounded on the staircase. The young people were 
 so close that they would have been surprised in the arms of 
 each other, if Montalais had not violently pushed Malicorne, 
 with his back against the door, just then opening. A loud 
 cry, followed by angry reproaches, immediately resounded. 
 It was Mme. de St. Remy who uttered the cry and proffered 
 the, angry words. The unlucky Malicorne almost crushed 
 her between the wall and the door she was coming in at. 
 
 "It is again that good-for-nothing!" cried the old lady. 
 "Always here!" 
 
 "Ah, madame!" replied Malicorne, in a respectful tone, 
 "it is eight long days since I was here." 
 
14 TEN YEARS LATEE. 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 IX WHICH WE AT LENGTH SEE THE TRUE HEROINE OF 
 THIS HISTORY APPEAR. 
 
 Behind Mme. de St. Eemy came up Mile, de la Valliere. 
 She heard the explosion of maternal anger, and as she di- 
 vined the cause of it, she entered the chamber trembling, 
 and perceived the unlucky Malicorne, whose woeful counte- f 
 nance might have softened or set laughing whoever might ^ 
 have observed it coolly. He had promptly intrenched him- . 
 self behind a large chair, as if to avoid the first attacks of 
 Mme. de St. Eemy; he had no hopes of prevailing with 
 words, for she spoke louder than he, and without stopping; 
 but he reckoned upon the eloquence of his gestures. The 
 old lady would neither listen to nor see anything. Mali- 
 corne had long been one of her antipathies; but her anger 
 was too great not to overflow from Malicorne on to his ac- 
 complice. Montalais had her turn. 
 
 "And you, mademoiselle; and you, may you not be cer- 
 tain I shall inform madame of what is going on in the 
 apartment of one of her ladies of honor?" 
 
 "Oh, dear mother!" cried Mile, de la Valliere, "for 
 mercy's sake, spare " 
 
 "Hold your tongue, mademoiselle, and do not uselessly 
 trouble yourself to intercede for unworthy subjects. That 
 a young maid of honor like you should be subjected to a 
 bad example is, certes, a misfortune great enough; but that 
 you should sanction it by your indulgence is what I will not 
 allow." 
 
 "But in truth," said Montalais, rebelling again, "I do 
 not know under what pretense you treat me thus. I am 
 doing no harm, I suppose?" 
 
 "And that great good-for-nothing, mademoiselle," re- 
 sumed Mme. de St. Eemy, pointing to Malicorne, "is he 
 here to do any good, I ask you?" 
 
 "He is neither here for good nor harm, madame; he 
 comes to see me, that is all." 
 
 "It is all very well! all very well!" said the old lady. 
 "Her royal highness shall be informed of it, and she will 
 judge." 
 
 "At all events, I do not see why," replied Montalais, "it 
 should be forbidden that Monsieur Malicorne should hava 
 intentions toward me, if his intentions are honorable." 
 
TEK YEA14S tATER. 15 
 
 "Honorable intentions with such a face!" cried Mme. de 
 St. Eemy. 
 
 "I thank you in the name of my face, madame," said 
 Malicorne. 
 
 "Come, my daughter, come," continued Mme. de St. 
 Eemy; "we will go and inform madame that at the very 
 moment she is weeping for her husband, at the moment 
 when we are all weeping for a master in this old castle of 
 Blois, the abode of grief, there are people who amuse them- 
 selves with rejoicing." 
 
 "Oh!" cried both the accused with one voice. 
 
 "A maid of honor! a maid of honor!" cried the old lady, 
 lifting her hands toward heaven. 
 
 "Well, it is that in which you are mistaken, madame," 
 said Montalais, highly exasperated; "I am no longer a maid 
 of honor, of madame's, at least." 
 
 "Have you given in your resignation, mademoiselle? 
 That is well; I cannot but applaud such a determination, 
 and I do applaud it." 
 
 "I did not give in my resignation, madame; I have taken 
 another service, that is all." 
 
 "In the bourgeoisie or in the robe?" asked Mme. de St. 
 Eemy disdainfully. 
 
 "Please to learn, madame, that I am not a girl to serve 
 either bourgeoises or robines; and that instead of the miser- 
 able court at which you vegetate, I am going to reside in a 
 court almost royal." 
 
 "Ah! ah! a royal court," said Mme. de St. Eemy, forc- 
 ing a laugh; "a royal court! What think you of that, my 
 daughter?" 
 
 And she turned round toward Mile, de la Valliere, whom 
 she would by main force have dragged away from Montalais, 
 and who, instead of obeying the impulse of Mme. de St. 
 Eemy, looked first at her mother and then at Montalais 
 with her beautiful, conciliatory eyes. 
 
 "I did not say a royal court, madame," replied Monta- 
 lais; "because Madame Henrietta of England, who is about 
 to become the wife of S. A. E. Monsieur, is not a queen. I 
 said, almost royal, and I spoke correctly, since she will be 
 sister-in-law to the king." 
 
 A thunderbolt falling upon the castle of Blois would not 
 have astonished Mme. de St. Eemy as did the last sentence 
 of Montalais. 
 
 "What do you say of Son Altasse Eoyale Madame Henri- 
 etta?" stammered out the old lady. 
 
16 TEK YEARS tATEK. 
 
 "I say I am going to belong to her household, as maid of 
 honor; that is what I say." 
 
 "As maid of honor!" cried, at the same time, Mme. de 
 St, Eemy, with despair, and Mile, de la Valliere with de- 
 light. 
 
 "Yes, madame, as maid of honor." 
 
 The old lady's head sank down as if the blow had been 
 too severe for her. But, almost immediately recovering 
 herself, she launched a last projectile at her adversary. 
 
 "Oh! oh!" saidshej "Ihaveheardof many of these sorts of 
 promises beforehand, which often lead people to flatter them- 
 selves with wild hopes, and, at the last moment, when the 
 time comes to keep the promises, and have the hopes real- 
 ized, they are surprised to see the great credit upon which 
 they reckoned reduced to smoke." 
 
 "Oh, madame, the credit of my protector is incontestable, 
 and his promises are as good as acts." 
 
 "And would it be indiscreet to ask you the name of this 
 powerful protector?" 
 
 "Oh! mon Dieu! no! It is that gentleman there," said 
 Montalais, pointing to Malicorne, who, during this scene, 
 had preserved the most imperturbable coolness and the 
 most comic dignity. 
 
 "Monsieur!" cried Mme. de St. Eemy, with an explosion 
 of hilarity, "monsieur is your protector! Is the man whose 
 credit is so powerful, and whose promises are as good as 
 acts. Monsieur Malicorne!" Malicorne bowed. As to Mon- 
 talais, as her sole reply, she drew the brevet from her pocket, 
 and showed it to the old lady. 
 
 "Here is the brevet," said she. 
 
 At once all was over. As soon as she had cast a rapid 
 glance over this fortunate brevet, the good lady clasped her 
 hands, an unspeakable expression of envy and despair con- 
 tracted her countenance, and she was obliged to sit down to 
 avoid fainting. Montalais was not malicious enough to re- 
 joice extravagantly at her victory, or to overwhelm the con- 
 quered enemy, particularly when that enemy was the mother 
 of her friend; she used, then, but did not abuse, her tri- 
 umph. Malicorne was less generous; he assumed noble 
 poses in his fauteuil, and stretched himself out with a fa- 
 miliarity which, two hours earlier, would have drawn upon 
 him threats of a caning. 
 
 "Maid of honor to the young madame!" repeated Mme. 
 de St. Remy, still but half-convinced. 
 
TEN YEAES LATER. 17 
 
 "Yes, madame, and through the protection of Monsieur 
 Malicorne, moreover." 
 
 "It is incredible!" repeated the old lady; "is it not in- 
 credible, Louise?" But Louise did not reply; she was 
 leaning, thoughtful, almost afflicted; passing one hand over 
 her beautiful brow, she sighed heavily. 
 
 "Well, but, monsieur," said Mme. de St. Eemy, all at 
 once, "how did you manage to obtain this post?" 
 
 "I asked for it, madame." 
 
 "Of whom?" • 
 
 "One of my friends." 
 / "And have you friends sufficiently powerful at court to 
 give you such proofs of their credit?" 
 
 '''Dame! it appears so." 
 
 "And may one ask the name of these friends?" 
 
 "I did not say I had many friends, madame, I said I had 
 one friend." 
 
 "And that friend is called?" 
 
 "Pestel madame, you go too far! When one has a friend 
 as powerful as mine, we do not publish his name in that 
 fashion, in open day. in order that he may be stolen from 
 us." 
 
 "You are right, monsieur, to be silent as to that name; 
 for I think it would be pretty difficult for you to tell it." 
 
 "At all events," said Montalais, "if the friend does not 
 exist, the brevet does exist, and that cuts short the ques- 
 tion." 
 
 "Then, I conceive," said Mme. de St. Eemy, with ths 
 gracious smile of a cat who is going to scratch, "when 1 
 found monsieur here just now " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "He brought you the brevet." 
 
 "Exactly, madame; you have guessed rightly." 
 
 "Well, then, nothing can be more moral or proper." 
 
 "1 think so, madame." 
 
 "And I have been wrong, as it appears, in reproaching 
 you, mademoiselle." 
 
 "Very wrong, madame; but I am so accustomed to you? 
 reproaches that I pardon you these." 
 
 In that case, let us be gone, Louise; we have nothing to 
 do but to retire. Well!" 
 
 "Madame," said La Valliere, "did you speak?" 
 
 "You do not appear to listen, my child." 
 
 "No, madame, I was thinking," 
 
 "About what?'- 
 
18 TEN TEARS La'JEU. 
 
 "A thousand things." 
 
 "You bear me no ill-will, at least, Louise?" cried Monta« 
 lais, pressing her hand. 
 
 "And why should I, my dear Aure?" replied the girl, in 
 J, voice soft as a flute. 
 
 ''"Dame!" resumed Mme. de St. Remyj "if she did bear 
 you a little ill-will, poor girl, she could not be much 
 blamed." 
 
 "And why should she bear me ill-will, goo(? God?" 
 
 "It appears to me that she is of as good a familvj and as 
 pretty as you." 
 
 "Mother! mother!" cried Louise. 
 
 "Prettier a hundred times, madame — not of a better fam- 
 ily; but that does not tell me why Loaise should bear me 
 ill-will." 
 
 "Do you think it will be very amusing for her to be bur- 
 ied alive at Blois, when you are going to shine at Paris?" 
 
 "But, madame, it is not I who prevents Louise following 
 me thither; on the contrary, I should certainly be most 
 happy if she came there." 
 
 "But it appears that Monsieur Malicorne, who is all- 
 powerful at court " 
 
 "Ah! so much the worse, madame," said Malicorne; 
 "every one for himself in this poor world." 
 
 "Malicorne! Malicorne!" said Montalais. Then stooping 
 toward the young man: 
 
 "Occupy Madame de St. Eemy, either in disputing with 
 her, or making it up with her; I must speak to Louise." 
 And, at the same time, a soft pressure of the hand recom- 
 pensed Malicorne for his future obedience. Malicorne went 
 grumbling toward Mme. de St. Eemy, while Montalais said 
 to her friend, throwing one arm around her neck: 
 
 "What is the matter? Say! Is it true that you would 
 not love me if I were to shine, as your mother says?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" said the young girl, with difficulty restraining 
 her tears; "on the contrary, I rejoice at your good fortune." 
 
 "Rejoice! why, one would say you are ready to cry!" 
 
 "Do people never weep but from envy?" 
 
 "Oh! yes, I understand; I am going to Paris; and that 
 word Paris recalls to your mind a certain cavalier " 
 
 "Aure!" 
 
 "A certain cavalier who formerly lived near Blois, and 
 who now resides at Paris." 
 
 "In truth, I know not what ails me, but T feel stifled." 
 
 "Waep, then, weep, as you cannot give me a smilel" 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 19 
 
 Louise raised her sweet face, which the tears, rolling 
 down one after the other, illumined like diamonds. 
 
 "Come, confess," said Montalais. 
 
 [|What shall I confess?" 
 
 "What makes you weep; people don't weep without a 
 cause. I am your friend; whatever you would wish me to 
 do, I will do. Malicorne is more powerful than you think. 
 Do you wish to go to Paris?" 
 
 "Alas!" sighed Louise. 
 
 "Do you wish to come to Paris?" 
 
 "To remain here alone, in this old castle, I who have en- 
 joyed the delightful habit of listening to your songs, of 
 pressing your hand, of running about the park with you. 
 Oh! how I shall be ennuyee! how quickly I shall die!" 
 
 "Do you wish to come to Paris?" 
 
 Louise breathed another sigh. 
 
 "You do not answer me." 
 
 "What would you that I should answer you?" 
 
 "Yes or no; that is not very difficult, I think." 
 
 "Oh! you are very fortunate, Montalais!" 
 
 "That is to say you would like to be in my place." 
 
 Louise was silent. 
 
 "Little obstinate thing!" said Montalais; "did ever any 
 one keep her secrets from her friend thus? But confess 
 that you would like to come to Paris; confess that you are 
 dying with the wish to see Eaoul again?" 
 
 "I cannot confess that." 
 
 "Then you are wrong." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "Because — Do you see this brevet?" 
 
 "To be sure I do." 
 
 "Well, I would have made you have a similar one." 
 
 "By whose means?" 
 
 "Malicorne's." 
 
 "Aure, do you tell the truth? Is that possible?" 
 
 "Dame! Malicoroe is there; and what he has done for me 
 he must be sure to do for you." 
 
 Malicorne had heard his name pronounced twice; he was 
 delighted at having an opportunity of coming to a conclu- 
 sion with Mme. de St. Eemy, and he turned round: 
 
 "What is the question, mademoiselle?" 
 
 "Come hither, Malicorne," said Montalais, with an impe- 
 rious gesture. 
 
 Malicorne obeyed. 
 
 "A brevet like thi^" said Montalais. 
 
20 TEH YEARS LATER. 
 
 "How SO?" 
 
 "A brevet like this; that is plain enough." 
 
 "But " 
 
 "I want one — I must have one!" 
 
 "Oh! oh! you must have one?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It is impossible, is it not. Monsieur Malicorne?" said 
 Louise, with her sweet soft voice. 
 
 "Dame! if it is for you, mademoiselle " 
 
 "For me. Yes, Monsieur Malicorne, it would be for me." 
 
 "And if Mademoiselle de Montalais asks it at the same 
 time " 
 
 "Mademoiselle de Montalais does not ask it, she requires 
 it." 
 
 "Well, we will endeavor to obey you, mademoiselle." 
 
 "And you will have her named?" 
 
 "We will try." 
 
 "No evasive reply. Louise de la Valliere shall he maid 
 of honor to Madame Henrietta within a week." 
 
 "How you talk!" 
 
 "Within a week, or else " 
 
 "Well, or else?" 
 
 "You may take back your brevet. Monsieur Malicorne; I 
 will not leave my friend." 
 
 "Dear Montalais!" 
 
 "That is right. Keep your brevet; Mademoiselle de la 
 Valliere shall be a maid cf honor." 
 
 "Is that true?" 
 
 "Quite true." 
 
 "I may then hope to go to Paris?" 
 
 "Depend upon it." 
 
 "Oh! Monsieur Malicorne, what gratitude!" cried Louise, 
 clapping her hands, and bounding with joy. 
 ) "Little dissembler!" said Montalais, "try again to make 
 me believe you are not in love with Eaoul." 
 
 Louise blushed like a rose in June, but instead of reply- 
 ing, she ran and embraced her mother. "Madame," said 
 she, "do you know that Monsieur Malicorne is going to 
 have me appointed maid of honor?" 
 
 "Monsieur Malicorne is a prince in disguise," replied the 
 old lady; "he is all-powerful, seemingly." 
 
 "Should you also like to be maid ©f honor?" aslsed Mali- 
 corne of Mme. de St. Eemy. "While I am about it, I 
 might as well get everybody appointed." 
 
 And upon that he went away, leaving the poor lady quita 
 disconcerted, as Tallemont des Reaux would say. 
 
TEK YEARS LATER. 21 
 
 'Humph!" murmured Malicorne, as he descended the 
 stairs. "Humph! there is another note of a thousand li- 
 vres that will cost me; but I must get through as well as I 
 can; my friend Manicamp does nothing for nothing." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MALICORNE AND MAKICAMP. 
 
 The introduction of these two new personages into this 
 history, and that mysterious affinity of names and senti- 
 ments, merit some attention on the part of the historian 
 and the reader. We will then enter into some details con- 
 cerning M. Malicorne and M. Manicamp. Malicorne, we 
 know, had made the journey to Orleans in search of the 
 brevet destined for Mile, de Montalais, the arrival of which 
 had produced such a strong feeling at the castle of Blois. 
 At that moment M. de Manicamp was at Orleans. A sin- 
 gular personage was this M. de Manicamp; a very intelli- 
 gent young fellow, always poor, always needy, although he 
 dipped his hand freely into the purse of M. le Comte de 
 Guiche, one of the best-furnished purses of the period. M. 
 le Comte de Guiche had had, as the companion of his boy- 
 hood, this De Manicamp, a poor gentleman, vassal-born, of 
 the house of Grammont. M. de Manicamp, with his acute- 
 ness,.had created himself a revenue in the opulent family 
 of the celebrated marechal. From his infancy he had, by a 
 calculation much above his age, lent his name and his com- 
 plaisance to the follies of the Comte de Guiche. If his 
 noble companion had stolen some fruit destined for Mme, 
 la Margchale, if he had broken a mirror, or put out a dog's 
 eye, Manicamp declared himself guilty of the crime com- 
 ,mitted, and received the punishment, which was not made 
 the more mild for falling upon the innocent. But this was 
 the way in which this system of abnegation was paid for; 
 instead of wearing such mean habiliments as his paternal 
 fortunes entitled him to, he was able to appear brilliant, 
 superb, like a young noble of fifty thousand livres a year. 
 It was not that hi was mean in character or humble in spirit; 
 no, he was a philosopher, or rather, he had the indififer 
 ence, the apathy, the extravagance which banish from man 
 every feeling of the hierarchical world. His sole ambition 
 was to spend money. But in this respect the worthy M. de 
 Manicamp was a gulf. Three or four times every year he 
 
23 TEN 
 
 
 drained the Comte de Guiche, and when the Comte do 
 Guiche was thoroughly drained, when he had turned out his 
 pockets and his purse before him, when he declared that it 
 would be at least a fortnight before paternal munificence 
 would refill those pockets and that purse, De Manicamp lost 
 all his energy; he went to bed, remained there, ate nothing, 
 and sold his handsome clothes, under the pretense that, re. 
 maining in bed, he did not want them. During this pros- 
 tration of mind and strength, the purse of the Comte de 
 Guiche was getting full again, and when once filled, over- 
 flowed into that of De Manicamp, who bought new clothes, 
 dressed himself again, and recommenced the same life he 
 had followed before. This mania of selling his new clothes 
 for a quarter of what they were worth had rendered our 
 hero sufficiently celebrated in Orleans, a city where, in gen- 
 eral, we should be puzzled to say why he came to pass his 
 days of penitence. Provincial debauches, petits maiires of 
 six hundred livres a year, shared the fragments of his 
 opulence. 
 
 Among the admirers of these splendid toilets> our friend 
 Malicorne was conspicuous; he was the son of a syndic of the 
 city, of whom M. de Conde, always needy as a De Oonde, 
 often borrowed money at enormous interest. M. Malicorne 
 kept the! paternal money-chest; that is to say, that in those 
 times of easy morals, he had made for himself, by following 
 the example of his father, and lending at high interest for 
 short terms, a revenue of eighteen hundred livres, without 
 reckoning six hundred other livres furnished by the generos- 
 ity of the syndic, so that Malicorne was the king of the gay 
 youth of Orleans, having two thousand four hundred livres 
 to scatter, squander, and waste on follies of every kind. 
 But, quite contrary to Manicamp, Malicorne was terribly 
 ambitious. He loved from ambition; he spent money from 
 ambition; and he would have ruined himself from ambition. 
 Malicorne had determined to rise, at whatever price it 
 might cost, and for this, at whatever price it did cost, he 
 had given himself a mistress and a friend. The mistress. 
 Mile, de Montalais, was cruel, as regarded the last favors of 
 love; but she was of a noble family, and that was sufficient 
 for Malicorne. The friend had no friendship, but he was 
 the favorite of the Comte de Guiche, himself the friend of 
 Monsieur, the king's brother, and that was sufficient for 
 Malicorne. Only, in the chapter of charges. Mile, de Mon- 
 talais cost per an.: Ribbons, gloves, and sweets, a thousand 
 Uvres. Da Manicamp cost-— mp] .ey lent, never returned— 
 
TEiT YEAES LATER. 23 
 
 from twelve to fifteen hundred livres fer an. So that there 
 was nothing left for Malicorne. Ah! yes, we are mistaken; 
 there was left the paternal strong-box. He employed a 
 mode of proceeding upon which he preserved the most pro- 
 found secrecy, and which consisted in advancing to himself, 
 from the cofEers of the syndic, half a dozen years, that is to 
 say, fifteen thousand livres, swearing to himself — observe, 
 quite to himself — to repay this deficiency as soon as an 
 opportunity should present itself. The opportunity was 
 expected to be the concession of a good post in the house- 
 hold of Monsieur, when that household would be established 
 at the period of his marriage. This period was arrived, and 
 the household was about to be established. A good post in 
 the family of a prince of the blood, when it is given by the 
 credit and on the recommendation of a friend like the' 
 Comte de Guiche, is worth at least twelve thousand livres 
 per an.; and by the means which M. Malicorne had taken 
 to make his revenues fructify, twelve thousand livres might 
 rise to twenty thousand. Then, when once an incumbent 
 of this post, he would marry Mile, de Montalais. Mile, de 
 Montalais, of a family which the woman's side ennobles, 
 not only would be dowered, but would ennoble Malicorne. 
 But, in order that Mile, de Montalais, who had not a large 
 patrimonial fortune, although an only daughter, should be 
 suitably dowered, it was necessary that she should belong to 
 some great princess as prodigal as the dowager madame was 
 covetous. And in order that the wife should not be on one 
 side while the husband was on the other, a situation which 
 presents serious inconveniences, particularly with characters 
 like those of the future consorts — Malicorne had imagined 
 the idea of making the central point of union the household 
 of Monsieur,^ the king's brother. Mile, de Montalais would 
 be maid of honor to madame; M. Malicorne would be officer 
 to Monsieur; 
 
 It is plain the plan was formed by a clear head; it is plain 
 also that it had been bravely executed. Malicorne had 
 asked Manicamp to ask a brevet of maid of honor of the 
 Comte de Guiche; and the Comte de Guiche had asked this 
 brevet of Monsieur, who had signed it without hesitation. 
 The moral plan of Malicorne — for we may well suppose 
 that the combinations of a mind as active as his were not 
 confined to the present, but extended to the future — the 
 moral plan of Malicorne, we say, was this: To obtain en- 
 trance into the household of Mme. Henrietta for a woman 
 devoted to himself, who was intelligent, young, han^goioe. 
 
24 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 and intriguing; to learn, by means of this woman, all the 
 feminine secrets of the young household; while he, Mali- 
 come, and his friend, Manicamp, should, between them, 
 know all the male secrets of the young community. It was 
 by these means that a rapid and splendid fortune might be 
 acquired at one and the same time. Malicorne was a vile 
 name; he who bore it had too much wit to conceal this 
 truth from himself; but an estate might be purchased; and 
 Malicorne of some place, or even De Malicorne itself, quite 
 short, would sound nobly in the ear. 
 
 It was not improbable that a most aristocratic origin might 
 be found for this name of Malicorne. Might it not come 
 from some estate where a bull with mortal horns had caused 
 some great misfortune and baptized the soil with the blood 
 it had spilled? Certes, this plan presented itself bristling 
 with difficulties; but the greatest of all was Mile, de Mon- 
 talais herself. Capricious, variable, close, giddy, free, 
 prudish, a virgin armed with claws, Brigone stained with 
 grapes, she sometimes overturned, with a single dash of her 
 white fingers, or with a single puff from her laughing lips, 
 the edifice which had employed the patience of Malicorne a 
 month to establish. 
 
 Love apart, Malicorne was happy; but this love, which 
 he could not help feeling, he had the strength to conceal 
 with care; persuaded that at the least relaxing of the ties 
 by which he had bound his Protean female, the demon 
 would overthrow him and laugh at him. He humbled his 
 mistress by disdaining her. Burning with desire, when she 
 advanced to tempt him, he had the art to appear ice, per- 
 suaded that if he opened his arms she would run away 
 laughing at him. On her side, Montalais believed she did 
 not love Malicorne; while, on the contrary, she did love 
 him. Malicorne repeated to her so often his protestation of 
 indifference that she finished sometimes by believing him; 
 and then she believed she detested Malicorne. If she tried 
 to bring him back by coquetry, Malicorne played the 
 coquette better than she could. But what made Montalais 
 hold to Malicorne in an indissoluble fashion was, that Mali- 
 corne was always come cram full of fresh news from the 
 court and the city; it was that Malicorne always brought to 
 Blois a fashion, a secret, or a perfume; it was that Malicorne 
 never asked for a meeting, but, on the contrary, required 
 to be supplicated to receive the favors he burned to obtain. 
 On her side, Montalais was no miser with stories. By her 
 means Malicorne learned all that passed at Blois in tho 
 
TBK YEARS LATER. 25 
 
 family of the dowager madame; and he related to Manicamp 
 tales that made him ready to die with laughing, which the 
 latter, out of idleness, took ready-made to M. de Guiche, 
 who carried them to Monsieur. 
 
 Such, in two words, was the woof of petty interests and 
 petty conspiracies which united Blois with Orleans, and 
 Orleans with Paris; and which was about to bring into 
 the last-named city, where she was to produce so great a 
 revolution, the poor little La Valliere, who was far from 
 suspecting, as she returned joyfully, leaning on the arm 
 of her mother, for what a strange future she was re- 
 served. As to the good man, Malicorne — we speak of the 
 syndic of Orleans — he did not see more clearly into the 
 present than others did into the future; and had no sus- 
 picion as he walked, every day, between three and five 
 o'clock, after his dinner, upon the Place St. Catherine, in 
 his gray coat, cut after the fashion of Louis XIII. , and his 
 cloth shoes with great knots of ribbon, that it was he who 
 paid for all those bursts of laughter, all those stolen kisses, 
 all those whisperings, all that ribbonry, and all those bub- 
 ble projects which formed a chain of forty-five leagues in 
 length, from the Palais of Blois to the Palais Royal. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MAKICAMP AND MALICORNE. 
 
 Malicorne, then, left Blois, as we have said, and went 
 to find his friend Manicamp, then in temporary retreat in 
 the city of Orleans. It was just at the moment when that 
 young nobleman was employed in selling the last piece of 
 decent clothing he had left. He had, a fortnight before, 
 extorted from the Comte de Guiche a hundred pistoles, all 
 he had, to assist in equipping him properly to go and meet 
 madame on her arrival at Havre. He had drawn from 
 Malicorne, three days before, fifty pistoles, the price of the 
 brevet obtained for Montalais. He had then no expecta- 
 tion from anything else, having exhausted all his resources, 
 with the exception of -selling a handsome suit of cloth and 
 satin, all embroidered and laced with gold, which had been 
 the admiration of the court. But to be able to sell this 
 suit, the last he had left — as we have been forced to confess 
 to the reader — Manicamp had been obliged to take to his 
 bed. No more fire, no more pocket-money, no more walk- 
 
26 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 ing-money, nothing but sleep to take the place of repasts, 
 companies, and balls. It has been said, "He who sleeps, 
 dines;" but it has not been said, "He who sleeps, plays," 
 or, "He who sleeps, dances." Manicamp, reduced to this 
 extremity of neither playing nor dancing, for a week at 
 least, was, consequently, very sad; he was expecting a 
 asurer, and saw Malicorne enter. A cry of distress escaped 
 him. 
 
 "Eh! what!" said he, in a tone which nothing can de- 
 scribe, "is that you again, dear friend?" 
 
 "Humph! you are very polite!" said Malicorne. 
 
 "Ay, but look you, I was expecting money, and, instead 
 of the money, I see you come." 
 
 "And suppose I brought you some money?" 
 
 "Oh! then it is quite another thing. You are very wel- 
 come, my dear friend." 
 
 And he held out his hand, not for the hand of Malicorne, 
 but for the purse. Malicorne pretended to be mistaken, 
 and gave him his hand. 
 
 "And the money?" said Manicamp. 
 
 "My dear friend, if you wish to have it, earn it." 
 
 "What must be done for it?" 
 
 "Earn it, parileu!" 
 
 "And after what fashion?" 
 
 "Oh! that is rather trying, I warn you." 
 
 "The devil!" 
 
 "You must get out of bed, and go immediately to Mon- 
 sieur le Comte de Guiche." 
 
 "I get up!" said Manicamp, stretching himself in his 
 bed voluptuously, "oh, no, thank you!" 
 
 "You have then sold all your clothes?" 
 
 "No; I have one suit left, the handsomest even; but I 
 expect a purchaser." 
 
 "And the chausses?" 
 
 "Well, if you look, you can see them on that chair." 
 
 "Very well; since you have some chausses and a pourpoint 
 left, put your legs into the first and your back into the 
 other, have a horse saddled, and set off." 
 
 "Not I." 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 "Morbleu! don't you know, then, that Monsieur de Guiche 
 Is at Etampes?" 
 
 "No; I thought he was at Paris; you will then only have 
 fifteen leagues to go, instead of thirty." 
 
 "You are a wonderfully clever^ fellow. If I were to ride 
 
Ten tears later. 37 
 
 rifteen leagues in these clothes they would never be fit to 
 put on again; and, instead of selling them for thirty pis- 
 toles, I should be obliged to take fifteen." 
 
 "Sell them for what you like, but I must have a second 
 commission of maid of honor." 
 
 "Good! For whom? Is Montalais doubled, then?" 
 
 "Vile fellow! It is you who are doubled. You swallow 
 up two fortunes — mine and that of Monsieur le Comte de 
 Guiche." 
 
 "You should say that of Monsieur le Comte de Guiche 
 and yours." 
 
 "That is true; honor where it is due; but I return to my 
 brevet." 
 
 "And you are wrong." 
 
 "Prove me that." 
 
 "My friend, there will onljr be twelve maids of honor for 
 madame; I have already obtained for you what twelve hun- 
 dred women are trying for, and for that I was forced to em- 
 ploy my diplomacy." 
 
 "Oh! yes, I know you have been quite heroic, my dear 
 friend." 
 
 "We know what we are about," said Manicamp. 
 
 "To whom do you tell that? When I am king, I promise 
 you one thing." 
 
 "What? To call you Malicorne I. ?" 
 
 "No; to make you surintendant of my finances; but that 
 is not the question now." 
 
 "Unfortunately." 
 
 "The present affair is to procure for me a second place of 
 maid of honor." 
 
 "My friend, if you were to promise me heaven, I would 
 not disturb myself at this moment." 
 
 Malicorne chinked the money in his pocket. 
 
 "There are twenty pistoles here," said Malicorne. 
 
 "And what would you do with twenty pistoles, mon 
 Dieii!" 
 
 "Well," said Malicorne a little angrily, "suppose I were 
 only to add them to the five hundred you already owe me?" 
 
 "You are right," replied Manicamp, stretching out hif 
 hand again, "and in that point of view I can accept them. 
 Give them to me." 
 
 "An instant. What the devil! it is not only holding out 
 your hand that will do; if I give you the twenty pistoles 
 shall I have my brevet?" 
 
 "To be sure you shall," 
 
38 TEN YEARS LATERc 
 
 "Soon?" 
 
 "To-day." 
 
 "Oh! take care. Monsieur de Manicamp; you undertake 
 much, and I do not ask that. Thirty leagues in a day is 
 too much, you would kill yourself." 
 
 "I think nothing impossible when obliging a friend." 
 
 "You are quite heroic." 
 
 "Where are the twenty pistoles?" 
 
 "Here they are," said Malicorne, showing them. 
 
 "That's well." 
 
 "Yes, but my dear Monsieur Manicamp, you would con- 
 sume them in nothing but post-horses." 
 
 "No, no; make yourself easy on that head." 
 
 "Pardon me. Why, it is fifteen leagues from this plact 
 to Etampes." 
 
 "Fourteen." 
 
 "Well, fourteen be it; fourteen leagues make seven posts; 
 at twenty sous the post, seven livi'es; seven livres the 
 courier, fourteen; as many for coming back, twenty-eight; 
 as much for bed and supper, that makes sixty of the livres 
 which this complaisance would cost you." 
 
 Manicamp stretched himself like a serpent in his bed, 
 and fixing his two great eyes upon Malicorne, "You are 
 right," said he; "I could not return before to-morrow;" 
 and he took the twenty pistoles. 
 
 "Now, then, be ofi!" 
 
 "Well, as I cannot be back before to-morrow, we have 
 time." 
 
 "Time for what?" 
 
 "Time for play." 
 
 "What do you wish to play with?" 
 
 "Your twenty pistoles, pardieul" 
 
 "No; you always win." 
 
 "I will wager them, then." 
 
 "Against what?" 
 
 "Against twenty others." 
 
 "And what will be the object of the wager?" 
 
 "This: We have said it was fourteen leagues to go to 
 Etampes?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And fourteen leagues back?" 
 
 "Doubtless." 
 
 "Well, for these twenty-eight leagues you cannot allow 
 less than fourteen hours?" 
 
 "That is agreed." 
 
TEK TEARS LATER. 29 
 
 "One hour to find the Oomte de Guiche." 
 
 ]'Go on." 
 
 "And an hour to persuade him to write a letter to Mod- 
 sieur." 
 
 "Just so." 
 
 "Sixteen hours in all?" 
 
 "You reckon as well as Monsieur Colbert." 
 
 "It is now twelve o'clock." 
 
 "Half-past." 
 
 "Hein! you have a handsome watch." 
 
 "What were you saying?" said Malicorne, putting his 
 watch quickly back into his fob. 
 
 "Ah! true; I was offering to lay you twenty pistoles 
 against these you have lent me that you will have the Comte 
 de Guiche's letter in " 
 
 "How soon?" 
 
 "In eight hours." 
 
 "Have you a winged horse, then?"' 
 
 "That is no matter. Will you lay?" 
 
 "I shall have the comte's letter in eight hours?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "In hand?" 
 
 "In hand." 
 
 "Well, be it so; I lay," said Malicorne, curious to know 
 how this seller of clothes would get through. 
 
 "Is it agreed?" 
 
 "It is." 
 
 "Pass me the pen, ink, and paper." 
 
 "Here they are." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 Manicamp raised himself up with a sigh, and leaning on 
 his left elbow, he, in his best hand, traced the following 
 lines: 
 
 "An order for a, place of maid of honor to madame, which 
 Monsieur le Comte de Guiche will take upon him to obtain 
 at sight. Db Manicamp." 
 
 This painful task accomplished, he laid himself down in 
 bed again. 
 
 "Well?" asked Malicorne, "what does this mean?" 
 
 "That means that if you are in a hurry to have the letter 
 from the Comte de Guiche for Monsieur, I have won my 
 wager." 
 
 %ow the devil is that?" 
 
30 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "That is transparent enough, I think; you take that 
 paper." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "And you set out instead of me." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "You put your horses to their best speed," 
 
 "Good!" 
 
 "In six hours you will be at Etampes; in seven hours you 
 have the letter from the comte, and I shall have won my 
 wager without stirring from my bed, which suits me, and 
 you, too, at the same time, I am very sure." 
 
 "Decidedly, Manicamp, you are a great man." 
 
 "Hein! I know that." 
 
 "I am to start, then, for Etampes?" 
 
 "Directly." 
 
 "I am to go to the Comte de Guiche with this order?'* 
 
 "He will give you a similar one for Monsieur." 
 
 "Monsieur will approve?" 
 
 "Instantly." 
 
 "And I shall have my brevet?" 
 
 "You will." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "Well, I hope I behave genteelly." 
 
 "Adorably." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "You do as you please, then, with the Comte de Guiche, 
 Malicorne?" 
 
 "Except making money of him — everything." 
 
 "Diable! the exception is annoying; but then, instead of 
 asking him for money, you were to ask " 
 
 "What?"_ 
 
 "Something important." 
 
 "What do you call important?" 
 
 "Well, suppose one of your friends asked you to render 
 him a service?" 
 
 "I would not render it to him." 
 
 "Selfish fe]low!" 
 
 "Or, at least, I would ask him what service he would 
 render me in exchange." 
 
 "Ah! that, perhaps, is fair. Well, that friend speaks to 
 you." 
 
 "What, you, Malicorne?" 
 
 "Yes; it is I." 
 
 "Ah! ah! you are rich, then?" 
 
 "I have still fifty pistoles left." 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. ol 
 
 "Exactly the sum I want. Where are those fifty pis- 
 toles?" 
 
 "Here," said Malicorne, slapping his pocket. 
 
 "Then speak, my friend; what do you want?" 
 
 Malicorne took up the pen, ink, and paper again, and 
 presented them all to Manicamp. 
 
 "Write," said he. 
 
 "Dictate." 
 
 "An order for a place in the household of Monsieur." 
 
 "Oh!" said Manicamp, laying down the pen, "a place in 
 the household of Monsieur for fifty pistoles?" 
 
 "You mistook me, my friend; you did not hear plainly." 
 
 "What did you say, then?" 
 
 "I said five hundred." 
 
 "And the five hundred?" 
 
 "Here they are." 
 
 Manicamp devoured the rouleau with his eyes; but this 
 time Malicorne held it at a distance. 
 
 "Eh! what do you say to that? Five hundred pistoles." 
 
 "I say it is for nothing, my friend," said Manicamp, tak- 
 ing up the pen again, "and you will wear out my credit. 
 Dictate." 
 
 Malicorne continued: 
 
 "Which my friend the Comte de Guiche will obtain for 
 my friend Malicorne." 
 
 "That's it," said Manicamp. 
 
 "Pardon me, you have forgotten to sign." 
 
 "Ah! that is true." 
 
 "The five hundred pistoles?" 
 
 "Here are two hundred and fifty of them." 
 
 "And the other two hundred and fifty?" 
 
 "When I shall be in possession of my place." 
 
 Manicamp made a face. 
 
 "In that case, give me the recommendation back again." 
 
 "What to do?" 
 
 "To add two words to it." 
 
 "Two words?" 
 
 "Yes, two words only." 
 
 "What are they?" 
 
 "In haste." 
 
 Malicorne returned the recommendation; Manicamp 
 added the words. 
 
 "Good!" said Malicorne, taking back the paper. 
 
 Manicamp began to count the pistoles. 
 
 "They want twenty," said he. 
 
32 TEN YEARS LATEH. 
 
 "How SO?" 
 
 "The twenty I have won." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "By laying that you would have the letter from the Comte 
 de Guiche in eight hours." 
 
 "Ah! that's fair;" and he gave him the twenty pistoles. 
 
 Manicamp began to take up his gold by handfuls, and 
 pour it down in cascades upon his bed. 
 
 "This second place," murmured Malieorne, while drying 
 his paper, "which, at the first glance, appears to cost me 
 more than the first, but " 
 
 He stopped, took up the pen in his turn, and wrote to 
 Montalais: 
 
 "Mademoiselle: Announce to your friend that her 
 commission will not be long before it arrives; I am setting 
 out to get it signed; that will be twenty-eight leagues I 
 shall have gone for the love of you." 
 
 Then, with his demon's smile, taking up the interrupted 
 sentence: 
 
 "This place," said he, "at the first glance, appears to 
 cost more than the first; but the benefit will be, I hope, in 
 proportion with the expense, and Mademoiselle de la Val- 
 liere will bring me back more than Mademoiselle de Mon- 
 talais, or else — or else my name is not Malieorne. Pare- 
 well, Manicamp," and he left the room. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE COURTTARD OF THE HOTEL GEAMMONT. 
 
 0^ Malicorne's arrival at Orleans he was informed that 
 the Comte de Guiche had just set out for Paris. Malieorne 
 rested himself for a couple of hours, and then prepared to 
 continue his journey. He reached Paris during the night, 
 and alighted at a small hotel, where, in his previous journeys 
 to the capital, he had been accustomed to put up, and at 
 eight o'clock the next morning he presented himself at the 
 H6tel Grammont. Malieorne arrived just in time, for the 
 Count de Guiche was on the point of taking leave of Mon- 
 sieur before setting out for Havre, where the principal 
 members of the French nobility had gone to await madame's 
 arrival from England. Malieorne pronounced the name of 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 33 
 
 Manicamp, and was immediately admitted. He found the 
 Comte de Gniche in the courtyard of the Hotel Grammont, 
 inspecting his horses, which his trainers and equerries were 
 passing in review before him. The count, in the presence 
 of his tradespeople and of his servants, was engaged in 
 praising or blaming, as the case seemed to deserve, the ap- 
 pointments, horses, and harness which were being submitted 
 to him, when, in the midst of this important occupation, 
 the name of Manicamp was announced. 
 
 "Manicamp!" he exclaimed; "let him enter, by alL 
 means." 
 
 And he advanced a few steps toward the door. 
 
 Malicorne slipped through the half-open door, and look- 
 ing at the Comte de Guiche, who was surprised to see a face 
 which he did not recognize, instead of the one he expected, 
 said: 
 
 "Forgive me. Monsieur le Comte, but I believe a mistake 
 has been made. Monsieur Manicamp himself was announced 
 to you, instead of which it is only an envoy from him." 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed De Guiche coldly; "and what do you 
 bring me?" 
 
 "A letter. Monsieur le Comte." 
 
 Malicorne handed him the first document, and narrowly 
 watched the comte's face, who, as hg read it, began to 
 laugh. 
 
 "What!" he exclaimed, "another maid of honor? Are 
 all the maids of honor in Prance, then, under his protec- 
 tion?" 
 
 Malicorne bowed. 
 
 "Why does he not come himself?" he inquired. 
 
 "He is confined to his bed." 
 
 "The deuce! he has no money, then, I suppose?" said 
 De Guiche, shrugging his shoulders. "What does he do 
 with his money?" 
 
 Malicorne made a movement to indicate that upon this^ 
 subject he was as ignorant as the comte himself. 
 
 "Why does he not make use of his credit, then?" con- 
 tinued De Guiche. 
 
 "With regard to that, I think " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "That Manicamp has credit with no one but yourself, 
 Monsieur le Comte." 
 
 "He will not be at Havre, then?" 
 
 Whereupon Malicorne made another movement. 
 
 "But every one will be there." 
 
34 TEST YEARS LATER. 
 
 "I trust, Monsieur le Comte, that he will not neglect so 
 excellent an opportunity." 
 
 "He should be at Paris by this time." 
 
 "He will take the direct road, then, to make up for lost 
 time." 
 
 "Where is he now?" 
 
 "At Orleans." 
 
 "Monsieur," said De Guiche, "you seem to me a man of 
 very good taste." 
 
 Malicorne wore Manicamp's clothes. He bowed in re- 
 turn, saying: 
 
 "You do me a very great honor, Monsieur le Comte." 
 
 "Whom have I the pleasure of addressing?" 
 
 "My name is Malicorne, monsieur." 
 
 "Monsieur de Malicorne, what do you think of these 
 pistol-holsters?" 
 
 Malicorne was a man of great readiness, and immediately 
 understood the position of affairs. Besides, the "de" 
 which had been prefixed to his name raised him to the 
 rank of the person with whom he was conversing. He 
 looked at the holsters with the air of a connoisseur, and 
 said, without hesitation: 
 
 "Somewhat heavy, monsieur." 
 
 "You see," said De Guiche to the saddler, "this gentle- 
 man, who understands these matters well, thinks the holsters 
 heavy, a complaint I had already made." 
 
 The saddler was full of excuses. 
 
 "What do you think," asked De Guiche, "of this horse 
 which I have just purchased?" 
 
 "To look at it, it seems perfect. Monsieur le Comte; but 
 I must mount it before I give you my opinion." 
 
 "Do so. Monsieur de Malicorne, and ride him round the 
 court two or three times." 
 
 The courtyard of the hotel was so arranged that when- 
 ever there was any occasion for it, it could be used as a 
 riding-school. Malicorne, with perfect ease, arranged the 
 bridle and snafBe-reins, placed his left hand on the horse's 
 mane, and, with his foot in the stirrup, raised himself and 
 seated himself in the saddle. At first he made the horse 
 walk the whole circuit of the courtyard at a foot-pace; next 
 at a trot; lastly at a gallop. He then drew up close to the 
 count, dismounted, and threw the bridle to a groom stand- 
 ing by. 
 
 "Well," said the comte, "what do you think of it. Mon- 
 sieur de Malicorne?" 
 
TEN" TEARS LATER. 35 
 
 "This horse, Monsieur le Comte, is of the Mecklenburg 
 breed. In looking whether the bit suited his mouth, I saw- 
 that he was rising seven, the very age when the training of 
 a horse intended for a charger should commence. The 
 forehand is light. A horse that holds its head high, it is 
 said, never tires his rider's hand. The withers are rather 
 low. The drooping of the hind-quarters would almost 
 make me doubt the purity of its German breed, and I think 
 there is English Llood in him. He stands well on his legs, 
 but he trots high, and may cut himself, which requires at- 
 tention to be paid to his shoeing. He is tractable; and as I' 
 made him turn round and change his feet, I found him 
 quick and ready in doing so." 
 
 "Well said. Monsieur de Malicorne!" exclaimed the 
 comte. "You are a Judge of horses, I perceive;" then, turn- 
 ing toward him again, he continued: "You are most becom- 
 ingljr dressed. Monsieur de Malicorne. That is not a 
 provincial cut, I presume. Such a style of dress is not to 
 be met with at Tours or Orleans." 
 
 "No, Monsieur le Comte; my clothes were made at 
 Paris." 
 
 "There is no doubt of that. But let us resume our own 
 affair. Manicamp wishes for the appointment of a second 
 maid of honor." 
 
 "You perceive what he has written, Monsieur le Comte." 
 
 "For whom was the first appointment?" 
 
 Malicorne felt the color rise in his face as he answered 
 hurriedly: 
 
 "A charming maid of honor. Mademoiselle de Montalais." 
 
 "Ah, ah! you are acquainted with her?" 
 
 "We are affianced, or nearly so." 
 
 "That is quite another thing, then — a thousand compli- 
 ments!" exclaimed De Guiche, upon whose lips a courtier's 
 jest was already flitting, but to whom the word "affianced," 
 addressed by Malicorne with respect to Mile, de Montalais, 
 recalled the respect due to women. 
 
 "And for whom is the second appointment destined?" 
 asked De Guiche; "is it for any one to whom Manicamp 
 may happen to be affianced? In that case, I pity her, poor 
 girl! for she will have a sad fellow for a husband in him." 
 
 "No, Monsieur le Comte; the second appointment is for 
 Mademoiselle la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere." 
 
 "Unknown," said De Guiche. 
 
 "Unknown? yes, monsieur." said Malicorne, smiling in 
 his turn. 
 
36 TEK YEARS LATER. 
 
 "Very good. I will speak to Monsieur about it. By the 
 bye, she is of gentle birth?" 
 
 "She belongs to a very good family, and is maid of honor 
 to madame." 
 
 "That's well. Will you accompany me to Monsieur?" 
 
 "Most certainly, if I may be permitted the honor." 
 
 "Have you your carriage?" 
 
 "No; I came here on horseback." 
 
 "Dressed as you are?" 
 
 "No, monsieur; I posted from Orleans, and I changed 
 imy traveling-suit for the one I have on, in order to present 
 'myself to you." 
 
 "True, you already told me you had come from Orleans;" 
 saying which he crumpled Manicamp's letter in his hand, 
 and thrust it in his pocket. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Malicorne timidly; "but I do 
 not think you have read all." 
 
 "Not read all, do you say?" 
 
 "No; there were two letters in the same envelope." 
 
 "Oh, oh! are you sure?" 
 
 "Quite sure." 
 
 "Let us look, then," said the comte, as- he opened the 
 letter again. 
 
 "Ah! you are right," he said, opening the paper which 
 he had not yet read. 
 
 "I suspected it," he continued, "another application for 
 an appointment under Monsieur. This Manicamp is a com- 
 plete gulf — he is carrying on a trade in it." 
 
 "No, Monsieur le Comte; he wishes to make a present of 
 it." 
 
 "To whom?" 
 
 "To myself, monsieur." 
 
 "Why did you not say so at once, my dear Monsieur Mau- 
 vaisecorne?" 
 
 "Malicorne, Monsieur le Comte." 
 
 "Forgive me; it is the Latin which bothers me — that 
 terrible habit of etymologies. Why the deuce are young 
 men of family taught Latin? Mala and mauvaise — you un- 
 derstand it is the same thing. You will forgive me, I trust. 
 Monsieur de Malicorne." 
 
 "Your kindness affects me much, monsieur; but it is a 
 reason why I should make you acquainted with one circum- 
 stance without any delay." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "That I was not born a gentleman. I am not without 
 
TEN- TEAKS LATER. S"? 
 
 courage, and not altogether deficient in ability; but my 
 name is Malicorne simply." 
 
 "You appear to me, monsieur," exclaimed the comte, 
 looking at the astute face of his companion, "to be a most 
 agreeable man. Your face pleases me, Monsieur Malicorne; 
 and you must possess some indisputably excellent qualities 
 to have pleased that egotistical Manicamp. Be candid, and 
 tell me whether you are not some saint descended upon the 
 earth." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "For the simple reason that he makes you a present of 
 anything. Did you not say that he intended to make you a 
 present of some appointment in the king's household?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon, comte; but, if I succeed in obtaining 
 the appointment, you, and not he, will have bestowed it on 
 me." 
 
 "Besides, he will not have given it to you for nothing, I 
 suppose. Stay, I have it; there is a Malicorne at Orleans 
 who lends money to the prince." 
 
 "I think that must be my father, monsieur." 
 
 "Ah! the prince has the father, and that terrible devourer 
 of a Manicamp has the son. Take care, monsieur; I know 
 him. He will fleece you completely." 
 
 "The only difference is, that I lend without interest/' 
 said Malicorne, smiling. 
 
 "I was correct in saying you were either a saint or very 
 much resembled one. Monsieur Malicorne, you shall have 
 the post you want, or I will forfeit my name." 
 
 "Ah! Monsieur le Comte, what a debt of gratitude shall 
 I not owe you!" said Malicorne, transported. 
 
 "Let us go to the prince, my dear Monsieur Malicorne." 
 
 And De Guiche proceeded toward the door, desiring Mali- 
 corne to follow him. At the very moment they were about 
 to cross the threshold a young man appeared on the other 
 side. He was from twenty-four to twenty-five years of age, 
 of pale complexion, bright eyes, and brown hair and eye- 
 brows. 
 
 "Good-day!" he said suddenly, almost pushing De 
 Guiche back into the courtyard again. 
 
 "Is that you, De Wardes? What! and booted, spurred, 
 and whip in hand, too?" 
 
 "The most befitting costume for a man about to set off 
 for Havre. There will be no one left in Paris to-morrow." 
 
 And hereupon he saluted Malicorne with great ceremony, 
 whose handsome dress gave him the appearance of a prince 
 in rank. 
 
38 TEN TEARS LATEK. 
 
 "Monsieur Malicorne," said De Gtiiohe to his friend. 
 
 De Wardes bowed. 
 
 "Monsieur de Wardes," said De Guiche to Malicorne, 
 who bowed in return. "By the bye, De Wardes," continued 
 De Guiche, "you who are so well acquainted with these mat- 
 ters, can you tell us, probably, what appointments are still 
 vacant at the court; or, rather, in the prince's household?" 
 
 "In the prince's household," said De Wardes, looking up 
 with an air of consideration, "let me see — the appointment 
 of the master of the horse is vacant, I believe." 
 
 "Oh," said Malicorne, "there is no question of such a 
 post as that, monsieur; my ambition is not nearly so ex- 
 alted." 
 
 De Wardes had a more penetrating observation than De 
 Guiche, and understood Malicorne immediately. 
 
 "The fact is," he said, looking at him from head to foot, 
 "a man must be either a duke or a peer to fill that post." 
 
 "All I solicit," said Malicorne, "is a very humble ap- 
 pointment; I am of little importance, and I do not rank 
 myseif above my position." 
 
 "Monsieur Malicorne, whom you see here," said De 
 Guiche to De Wardes, "is a very excellent fellow, whose 
 only misfortune is that of not being of gentle birth. As far 
 as I am concerned, you know, I attach little value to those 
 who have gentle birth alone to boast of." 
 
 "Assuredly," said De Wardes; "but will you allow me to 
 remark, my dear comte, that, without rank of some sort, 
 one can hardly hope to belong to his royal highness' house- 
 hold?" 
 
 "You are right," said the comte; "the etiquette is very 
 strict with regard to such matters. The deuce! we never 
 thought of that." 
 
 "Alas! a sad misfortune for me. Monsieur le Comte," 
 said Malicorne, changing color slightly. 
 
 "Yet not without remedy, I hope," returned De Guiche.' 
 
 "The remedy is found easily enough," exclaimed De 
 Wardes; "you can be created a gentleman. His eminence 
 the Cardinal Mazarin did nothing else from morning till 
 night." 
 
 "Hush, hush, De Wardes!" said the comte; "no jests of 
 that kind; it ill becomes us to turn such matters into ridi- 
 cule.. Letters of nobility, it is true, are purchasable; but 
 that is a sufficient misfortune without the nobles themselves 
 laughing at it." 
 
 . "Upon my word, De Guiche, vou're quite a Puritan, as 
 the English say, "- 
 
TEUr YEARS tATEE. 39 
 
 At this moment the Vicomte de Bragelonne was an- 
 nounced by one of the servants in the courtyard, in pre- 
 cisely the same manner as he woukl have done in a room. 
 
 "Come here, my dear Raoul. What! you, too, booted 
 and spurred? You are setting off, tlien?" 
 
 Bragelonne approached the group of young men, and 
 saluted them with that quiet and serious manner which was 
 peculiar to him. His salutation was principally addressed 
 to De Wardes, with whom he was unacquainted, and whose 
 features, on his perceiving Kaoul, had assumed a strange 
 sternness of expression. 
 
 "I have come, De Guiche," he said, "to ask your com- 
 panionship. We set off for Havre, I presume." 
 
 "This is admirable — this is delightful. We shall have a 
 capital journey. Monsieur Malicorne, Monsieur Brage- 
 lonne — ah! Monsieur de Wardes, let me present you." 
 
 The young men saluted each other in a restrained manner. 
 Their two natures seemed, from the very beginning, dis- 
 posed to take exception to one another. De Wardes was 
 pliant, subtle and full of dissimulation; Eaoul was calm, 
 grave, andupright. 
 
 "Decide between us— between De Wardes and myself, 
 Eaoul." 
 
 "Upon what subject?" 
 
 "Upon the subject of noble birth." 
 
 "Who can be better informed on that subject than a De 
 Grammont?" 
 
 "No compliments; it is your opinion I ask." 
 • "At least, inform me of the subject under discussion." 
 
 "De Wardes asserts that the distribution of titles is 
 abused; I, on the contrary, maintain that a title is useless 
 as regards the man on whom it is bestowed." 
 
 "And yoii are correct," said Bragelonne quietly. 
 
 "But, Monsieur le Vicomte," interrupted De Wardes, 
 with a kind of obstinacy, "I affirm that it is I who am 
 correct." 
 (■ "What was your opinion, monsieur?" 
 
 "I was saying that everything is done in France at the 
 present moment to humiliate men of family." 
 
 "And by whom?" 
 
 "By the king himself. He surrounds himself with peo- 
 ple who cannot show four quarterings." 
 
 "Nonsense," said De Guiche; "where could you possibly 
 have seen that, De Wardes?" 
 
 "One example will suffice," he returned, directing his 
 Ippk fuUj upon Eapul 
 
40 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "Stat J it, then." 
 
 "Do you know who has Just been nominated captain-gen- 
 eral of the musketeers — an appointment more valuable than 
 a peerage; for it gives precedence over all the marechals of 
 Prance?" 
 
 Raoul's color mounted in his face; for he saw the object 
 De Wardes had in view. "No; who has been appointed? 
 In any case it must have been very recently, for the appoint- 
 ment was vacant eight days ago; a proof of which is, that 
 the king refused Monsieur, who solicited the post for one of 
 his protege.s." 
 
 "Well, the king refused it to Monsieur's protege, in 
 order to bestow it upon the Chevalier d'Artagnan, a younger 
 brother of some Gascon family, who has been training his 
 sword in the antechambers during the last thirty years." 
 
 "Forgive me if I interrupt you," said Raoul, darting a 
 glance full of severity at De Wardes; "but you give me the 
 impression of being unacquainted with the gentleman of 
 whom you are speaking." 
 
 "I unacquainted with Monsieur d'Artagnan? Can you 
 tell me, monsieur, who does know him?" 
 
 "Those who know him, monsieur," replied Eaoul, with 
 etill greater calmness and sternness of manner, "are in the 
 ftabit oi' saying that if he is not as good a gentleman as the 
 king — which is not his fault — he is the equal of all the kings 
 of the earth in courage and loyalty. Such is my opinion, 
 monsieur; and I thank Heaven I have known Monsieur 
 d'Artagnan from my birth." 
 
 De Wardes was about to reply when De Guiche inter- 
 rupted him. 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 THE PORTRilT OF MADAME. 
 
 The discussion was becoming full of bitterness. De 
 Guiche perfectly understood the whole matter, for there was 
 in Bragelonne's look something distinctively hostile, while 
 in that of De Wardes there was something like a determina- 
 tion to offend. Without inquiring into the different feel- 
 ings which actuated his two friends, De Guiche resolved to 
 ward off the blow which he felt was on the point of being 
 dealt by one of them, and perhaps by both. "Gentlemen," 
 he said, "we must take our leave of one another; I must 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 41 
 
 pay a visit to Monsieur. You, De Wardes, will accompany 
 me to the Louvre, and you, Eaoul, will remain here master 
 of the house; and as all that is done here is under your ad- 
 vice, you will bestow the last glance upon my preparations 
 for departure." 
 
 Raoul, with the air of one who neither seeks nor fears a 
 quarrel, bowed his head in token of assent, and seated him- 
 self upon a bench in the sun. "That is well," said De 
 Guiche, "remain where you are, Eaoul, and tell them to 
 show you the two horses I have just purchased; you will 
 gire me your opinion, for I only bought them on condition 
 that you ratified the purchase. By the bye, I have to beg 
 your pardon for having omitted to inquire after the Comte 
 de la Fere." While pronouncing these latter words, he 
 closely observed De "Wardes, in order to perceive what effect 
 the name of Eaoul's father would produce upon him. 
 
 "I thank you," answered the young man, "the count is 
 very well." A gleam of deep hatred passed into De Wardes' 
 eyes. De Guiche, who appeared not to notice the forebod- 
 ing expression, went up to Eaoul, and grasping him by the 
 hand, said: 
 
 "It is agreed, then, Bragelonne, that you will rejoin us in 
 the courtyard of the Palais Royal?" He then signed to De 
 Wardes to follow him, who had been engaged in balancing 
 himself first on one foot, then on the other. "We are go- 
 ing," said he; "come. Monsieur Malicorne." This name 
 made Eaoul start; for it seemed that he had already heard 
 it pronounced before, but he could not remember on what 
 occasion. While trying to do so, half-dreamily, yet half- 
 irritated at his conversation with De Wardes, the three 
 young men were on their way toward the Palais Eoyal, 
 where Monsieur was residing. Malicorne learned two 
 things; the first, that the young men had something to say 
 to one another; and the second, that he ought not to walk 
 in the same line with them; and therefore he walked be- 
 hind. "Are you mad?" said De Guiche to his companion, 
 as soon as they had left the H6tel Grammont; "you attack 
 Monsieur d'Artagnan, and that, too, before Raoul." 
 
 "Well," said De Wardes, "what then?" 
 
 "What do you mean by 'what then?' " 
 
 "Certainly, is there any prohibition against attacking 
 Monsieur d'Artagnan?" 
 
 "But you know very well that Monsieur d'Artagnan was 
 one of those celebrated and terrible four men who were 
 called the musketeers." 
 
4S T'EN YEAi^S LATER. 
 
 "That they may be; but I do not perceive why, on that 
 account, I should be forbidden to hate Monsieur d'Artag- 
 nan." 
 
 "What cause has he given you?" 
 "Me! personally, none." 
 "Why hate him, therefore?" 
 "Ask my dead father that question." 
 "Eeally, my dear De Wardes,you surprise me. Monsieur 
 d'Artagnan is not one to leave unsettled any enmity he 
 may have to arrange, without completely clearing his ac- 
 count. Your father, I have heard, on his side, carried mat- 
 ters with a high hand. Moreover, there are no enmities so 
 bitter which cannot be washed away by blood, by a good 
 sword-thrust loyally given." 
 
 "Listen to me, my dear De Guiche, this inveterate dis- 
 like existed between my father and Monsieur d'Artagnan, 
 and when I was quite a child he acquainted me with the 
 reason for it, and, as forming part of my inheritance, Tre- 
 gard it as a particular legacy bestowed upon me." 
 
 "And does this hatred concern Monsieur d'Artagnan 
 alone?" 
 
 "As for that. Monsieur d'Artagnan was too intimately as- 
 sociated with his three friends, that some portion of the 
 full measure of my hatred for him should not fall to their 
 lot, and that hatred is of such a nature that, whenever the 
 opportunity occurs, they shall have no occasion to complain 
 01 their portion." 
 
 De Guiche had kept his eyes fixed on De Wardes, and 
 shuddered at the bitter manner in which the young man 
 smiled. Something like a presentiment flashed across his 
 mind; he knew that the time had passed &yfa,j tor grands 
 coups entre gentilsliommes; but that the feeling of hatred 
 treasured up in the mind, instead of being diffused abroad, 
 was still hatred all the same; that a smile was sometimes as 
 full of meaning as a threat; and, in a word, that to the 
 fathers who had hated with their hearts and fought with 
 their arms would now succeed the sons, who, themselves 
 also, would indeed hate with their hearts, but would no 
 longer encounter their enemies, save by the means of in- 
 trigue or treachery. As, therefore, it certainly was not 
 Eaoul whom he could suspect either of intrigue or treach- 
 ery, it was on Raoul's account that De Guiche trembled. 
 However, while these gloomy forebodings cast a shade of 
 anxiety over De Guiche's countenance, De Wardes had 
 resumed the entire mastery over himself. 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 43 
 
 "At all events," he observed, "I have no personal ill-will 
 toward Monsieur de Bragelonne; I do not know him even." 
 
 "In any case," said De Guiche, with a certain amount of 
 severity in his tone of voice, "do not forget one circum- 
 stance, that Eaoul is my most intimate friend;" a remark 
 at which De Wardes bowed. 
 
 The conversation terminated there, although De Guiche 
 tried his utmost to draw out his secret from him; but, 
 doubtless, De Wardes had determined to say nothing fur- 
 ther, and he remained impenetrable. De Guiche, there- 
 fore, promised himself a more satisfactory result with 
 Eaoul. In the meantime, they had reached the Palais 
 Eoyal, which was surrounded by a crowd of lookers-on. 
 The household belonging to Monsieur awaited his orders to 
 mount their horses, in order to form part of the escort of 
 the embassadors, to whom had been intrusted the care of 
 bringing the young princess to Paris. The brilliant display 
 of horses, arms, and rich liveries afforded some compensa- 
 tion in those times, thanks to the kindly feelings of the 
 people, and to the traditions of deep devotion to their 
 sovereigns, for the enormous expenses charged upon the 
 taxes. Mazarin had said: "Let them sing, provided they 
 pay;" while Louis XIV. 's remark was, "Let them look." 
 Sight had replaced the voice; the people could still look, but 
 they could no longer sing. De Guiche left De Wardes and 
 Malicorne at the bottom of the grand staircase, while he 
 himself, who shared the favor and good graces of Monsieur 
 with the Chevalier de Lorraine, who always smiled at him 
 most affectionately, while he could not endure him, went 
 straight tq the prince's apartments, whom he found engaged 
 in admiring himself in a glass, and in putting rouge on his 
 face. In a corner of the cabinet the Chevalier de Lorraine 
 was extended full length upon some cushions, having Just 
 had his long hair curled, with which he was playing in the 
 same manner a woman would have done. The prince 
 turned round as the count entered, and perceiving who it 
 was, said: "Ah! is that you, Guiche: come here and tell me 
 the truth." 
 
 "You know, my lord, it is one of my defects to speak the 
 truth." 
 
 "You will hardly believe, De Guiche, how that wicked 
 chevalier has annoyed me." 
 
 The chevalier shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Well, he pretends," continued the prince, "that Made- 
 moiselle Henrietta is better looiing as a woman than I aia 
 as a zaau." 
 
44 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "Do not forget, my lord," said De Giiiche, frowniug 
 slightly, "you require me to speak the truth?" 
 
 "Certainly," said the prince tremblingly. 
 
 "Well, and I shall tell it you." 
 / "Do not be in a hurry, Guiche," exclaimed the prince, 
 "you have plenty of time; look at me attentively, and try 
 and recollect madame. Besides, her portrait is here. Look 
 at it." And he held out to him a miniature of the finest 
 possible execution. De Guiche took it, and looked at it for 
 a long time attentively. 
 
 ~ "Upon my honor, my lord, this is indeed a most lovely 
 'face." 
 
 "But look at me, count, look at me," said the prince, en- 
 deavoring to direct upon himself the attention of the count, 
 who was completely absorbed in contemplation of the 
 portrait. 
 
 "It is wonderful," murmured Guiche. 
 
 "Eeally, one would almost imagine you had never seen 
 this girl before." 
 
 "It is true, my lord, I have seen her, but it is five years 
 ago; there is a great difierence between a child twelve years 
 old and a young girl of seventeen." 
 
 "Well, what is your opinion?" 
 
 "My opinion is that the portrait must be flattered, my 
 lord." 
 
 "Of that," said the prince triumphantly, "there can be 
 no doTibt; but let us suppose that it is not flattered, what 
 would your opinion be?" 
 
 "My lord, your highness is exceedingly happy to hare so 
 charming a bride." 
 
 "Very well, that is your opinion of her, but of me?" 
 
 "My opinion, my lord, is, that you are far too handsome 
 for a man." 
 
 The Chevalier de Lorraine burst out laughing. The prince 
 understood how severe toward himself this opinion of the 
 Comte de Guiche was, and he looked somewhat displeased, 
 saying, "My friends are not overindulgent." De Guiche 
 looked at the portrait again, and, after lengthened contem- 
 plation, returned it with apparent unwillingness, saying, 
 "Most decidedly, my lord, I should rather prefer to look 
 ten times at your highness than to look at madame onc« 
 again." 
 
 It seemed as if the chevalier had detected some mystery 
 in these words which were incomprehensible to the prince, 
 for he exclaimed: "Verv well, get married yourself." Mou-' 
 
TEK YEARS LATEE. 45 
 
 sieiir continued rouging himself, and when he had finished 
 looked at the portrait again, once more turned to admire 
 himself in the glass', and smiled, and no doubt was satisfied 
 with the comparison. "You are very kind to have come," 
 he said to Guiche, "I feared you would leave without bid- 
 ding me adieu." 
 
 "Your highness knows me too well to believe me capable 
 of so great a disrespect." 
 
 "Besides, I suppose you have something to ask from me 
 before leaving Paris?" 
 
 "Your highness has indeed guessed correctly, for I have 
 a request to make." 
 
 "Very good, what is it?" 
 
 The Chevalier de Lorraine immediately displayed the 
 greatest attention, for he regarded every favor conferred 
 upon another as a robbery committed against himself. 
 And, as Guiche hesitated, the prince said: "If it be money, 
 nothing could be more fortunate, for I am in funds; the 
 surintendant of the finances has sent me five hundred 
 thousand pistoles." 
 
 "I thank your highness; but it is not an affair of money." 
 
 "What is it, then? Tell me." 
 
 "The appointment of a maid of honor." 
 
 "Oh! oh! Guiche, what a protector you have become of 
 young ladies," said the prince; "you never speak of any 
 one else now." 
 
 The Chevalier de Lorraine smiled, for he knew very well 
 'that nothing displeased the prince more than to show any 
 interest in ladies. "My lord," said the comte, "it is not I 
 who am directly interested in the lady of whom I have just 
 spoken; I am acting on behalf of one of my friends." 
 
 "Ah! that is different. What is the name of the young 
 lady in whom your friend is interested?" 
 
 "Mademoiselle de la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere; she 
 is already maid of honor to the dowager princess." 
 
 "Why, she is lame," said the Chevalier de Lorraine, 
 stretching himself on his cushions. 
 
 "Lame," repeated the prince, "and madame to have her 
 constantly before her eyes? Most certainly not; it may be 
 dangerous for her when in an interesting condition." The 
 Chevalier de Lorraine burst out laughing. 
 
 "Chevalier," said Guiche, "your conduct is ungenerous ; 
 while I am soliciting a favor, you do me all the mischief you 
 can." 
 
 "Forgive me, comte/' said the Chevalier de Lorraine, 
 
46 TEK YEARS LATER. 
 
 somewhat uneasy at the tone in ^yhich Guiche had made his 
 remark, "but I had no intention of doing so, and I begin to 
 believe that I have mistaken one young lady for another." 
 
 "There is no doubt of it, monsieur; and I do not hesitate 
 to declare that such is the case." 
 
 "Do you attach much importance to it, Guiche?" in- 
 quired the prince. 
 
 "I do, my lord." 
 
 "Well, you shall have it; but ask me for no more appoint- 
 ments, for there are none to give away." 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed the chevalier, "midday already; that 
 is the hour fixed for the departure." 
 
 "You dismiss me, monsieur?" inquired Guiche. 
 
 "Keally, comte, you treat me very ill to-day," replied 
 the chevalier. 
 
 "For heaven's sake, comte, for heaven's sake, chevalier," 
 said Monsieur, "do you not see how you are distressing me?" 
 
 "My signature?" said Guiche. 
 
 "Take a blank appointment from that drawer, and give it 
 to me." Guiche handed the prince the document indi- 
 cated, and at the same time presented him with a pen al- 
 ready dipped in ink; whereupon the prince signed. 
 "Here," he said, returning him the appointment; "but I 
 give it on one condition." 
 
 "Name it." 
 
 "That you will make friends with the chevalier." 
 
 "Willingly," said Guiche. And he held out his hand to 
 the chevalier with an indifference amounting to contempt. 
 
 "Adieu, comte," said the chevalier, without seeming in 
 any way to have noticed the comte's slight; "adieu, and 
 bring us back a princess who will not talk with her own 
 portrait too much." 
 
 "Yes, set off and lose no time. By the bye, who accom.. 
 panies you?" 
 
 "Bragelonne and De Wardes." 
 
 "Both excellent and fearless companions." 
 
 "Too fearless," said the chevalier; "endeavor to bring 
 them both back, comte." 
 
 "Bad heart, bad heart," murmured De Guiche; "he 
 scents mischief everywhere, and sooner than anything else " 
 And taking leave of the prince, he quitted the apartment. 
 As soon as he reached the vestibule he waved in the air the 
 paper which the prince had signed. Malicorne hurried for- 
 ward, and received it trembling with delight. When, how- 
 ever, he held it in his hand, Guiche observed that he still 
 awaited something further 
 
TEK TEARS lATER. 4'}' 
 
 "Patience, monsieur," he said; "the Chevalier de Lor- 
 raine was there, and I feared an utter failure if I asked too 
 much at once. "Wait until I return. Adieu." 
 
 "Adieu, Monsieur le Comte; a thousand thanks," said 
 Malicorne. 
 
 "Send Manicamp to me. By the way, monsieur, is it 
 true that Mademoiselle de la Valliere is lame?" As he said 
 this a horse drew up behind him, and on turning round he 
 noticed that Bragelonne, who had just at that moment en- 
 tered the courtj-ard, turned suddenly pale. The poor lover 
 had heard the remark, which, however, was not the case with 
 Malicorne, for he was already beyond the reach of the 
 comte 's voice. 
 
 _ "Why is Louise's name spoken of here?" said Eaoul to 
 himself; "oh! let not De Wardes, who stands smiling yon- 
 der, even say a word about her in my presence." 
 
 "Now, gentlemen," exclaimed the Comte de Guiche, 
 "prepare to start." 
 
 At this moment the prince, who had completed his toilet, 
 appeared at the window, and was immediately saluted by 
 the acclamations of all who composed the escort, and ten 
 minutes afterward banners, scarfs, and feathers were flut- 
 tering and waving in the air, as the cavalcade galloped away 
 
 CHAPTEE VIIL 
 
 HAVRE. 
 
 This brilliant and animated company, the members of 
 which were inspired by various feelings, arrived at Havre 
 four days after their departure from Paris. It was about 
 five o'clock in the afternoon, and no intelligence had yet 
 been received of madame. They were soon engaged in 
 quest of apartments; but the greatest confusion immedi- 
 ately ensued among the masters, and violent quarrels among 
 their attendants. In the midst of this disorder the Comte 
 de Guiche fancied he recognized Manicamp. It was, in- 
 deed, Manicamp himself; but as Malicorne had taken 
 possession of his very best costume, he had not been able to 
 get any other than a suit of violet velvet trimmed with 
 silver. Guiche recognized him as much by his dress as by 
 his features, for he had very frequently seen Manicamp in 
 this violet suit, which was his last resource. Manicamp pre- 
 sented himself to the comte under an arch of torches. 
 
48 TEK TEARS LATER. 
 
 which set fire to, rather than illuminated, the gate by which 
 Havre is entered, and which is situated close to the tower 
 of Francis I. The comte, remarking the woe-begone ex- 
 pression of Manicamp's face, could not resist laughing. 
 "Well, my poor Manicamp," he exclaimed, "how violet you 
 look; are you in mourning?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Manicamp; "I am in mourning." 
 ' "For whom, or for what?" 
 
 "For my blue-and-gold suit, which has disappeared, and 
 in place of which I could find nothing but this; and I was 
 even obliged to economize, from compulsion, in order to 
 get possession of it." 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
 "It is singular you should be astonished at that, since you 
 leave me without any money." 
 
 "At all events, here you are, and that is the principal 
 thing." 
 
 "By the most horrible roads." 
 
 "Where are you lodging?" 
 
 "Lodging?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I am not lodging anywhere." 
 
 De Guiche began to laugh. "Well," S9,id he, "where do 
 you intend to lodge?" 
 
 "In the same place you do." 
 
 "But I don't know." 
 
 "What do you mean by saying you don't know?" 
 
 "Certainly, how is it likely I should know where I should 
 stay?" 
 
 "Have you not retained a hotel?" 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "Yes, you or the prince." 
 
 "Neither of us has thought of it. Havre is of consider- 
 able size, I suppose; and provided I can get a stable for a 
 dozen horses and a suitable house in a good quarter " 
 
 "Certainly, there are some very excellent houses." 
 
 "Well, then " 
 
 "But not for us." 
 
 "What do you mean by saying not for us? For whom, 
 then?" 
 
 "For the English, of course." 
 
 "For the English?" 
 
 "Yes; the houses are all taken." 
 
 "By whom?" 
 
 "By the Duke of Buckingham." 
 
TEK TEAKS LATEK. 49 
 
 "I beg your pardon!" said Guichej -whose attention this 
 name had awakened. 
 
 "Yes, by the Duke of Buckingham. His grace has been 
 preceded by a courier, who arrived here three days ago, and 
 immediately retained all the houses fit for habitation which 
 the town possesses." 
 
 "Come, come, Manicamp, let us understand each other." 
 
 "Well, what I have told you is clear enough, it seems to 
 me." 
 
 "But surely Buckingham does not occupy the whole of 
 Havre?" 
 
 "He certainly does not occupy it, since he has not yet 
 arrived; but when once disembarked, he will occupy it." 
 
 "Oh! oh!" 
 
 "It is quite clear you are not acquainted with the Eng- 
 lish; they have a perfect rage for monopolizing every- 
 thing." 
 
 "That may be; but a man who has the whole of one 
 house is satisfied with it, and does not require two." 
 
 "Yes, but two men?" 
 
 "Be it so; for two men, two houses, or four, or six, or 
 ten, if you like; but there are a hundred houses at Havre." 
 
 "Yes, and all the hundred are let." 
 
 "Impossible!" 
 
 "What an obstinate fellow you are! I tell you Bucking- 
 ham has hired all the houses surrounding the one which the 
 queen dowager of England and the princess, her daughter, 
 will inhabit." 
 
 "He is singular enough, indeed," said De Wardes, caress- 
 ing his horse's neck. 
 
 "Such is the case, however, monsieur." 
 
 "You are quite sure of it. Monsieur de Manicamp?" and 
 as he put this question he looked slyly at De Guiche, as 
 though to interrogate him upon the degree of confidence to 
 be placed in his friend's state of mind. During this dis- 
 cussion the night had closed in, and the torches, pages, at- 
 tendants, squires, horses, and carriages blocked up the 
 gate and the open place. The torches were reflected in the 
 channel which the rising tide was gradually filling, while 
 on the other side of the jetty might be noticed groups of 
 curious lookers-on, consisting of sailors and townspeople, 
 who seemed anxious to miss nothing of the spectacle. Amid 
 all this hesitation of purpose, Bragelonne, as though a per- 
 fect stranger to the scene, remained on his horse somewhat 
 in the rear ol (SrwieJie, and wateJied tiie rays gf light re* 
 
50 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 fleeted in the water, inhaling with rapture the sea lireozos, 
 and listening to the waves which noisily broke upon the 
 shore and on the beach, dashing the spray into the air with 
 a noise which echoed in the distance. "But," exclaimed 
 De Guiche, "what is Buckingham's motive for providing 
 such a supply of lodgings?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," said De Wardes; "what reason has he?" 
 
 "A very excellent one," replied Manicamp. 
 
 "You know what it is, then?" 
 
 "I fancy I do." 
 
 "Tell us, then." 
 
 "Bend your head down toward me." 
 
 "What! can it not be said except in secrecy?" 
 
 "You shall Judge of that yourself." 
 
 "Very well." De Guiche bent down. 
 
 "Love," said Manicamp. 
 
 "1 do not understand you at all." 
 
 "Say, rather, you cannot understand me yet." 
 
 "Explain yourself." 
 
 "Very well; it is quite certain, count, that his royal high- 
 ness will be the most unfortunate of husbands." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "The Duke of Buckingham " 
 
 "It is a name of ill-omen to princes of the house of 
 France." 
 
 "And so the duke is madly in love with madame, so the 
 rumor runs, and will have no one approach near her but 
 himself." 
 
 De Guiche colored. "Thank you, thank you," said he 
 to Manicamp, grasping his hand. Then, recovering him- 
 self, added: "Whatever you do, Manicamp, be careful that 
 this project of Buckingham is not made known to any 
 Frenchman here; for, if so, swords will be unsheathed in 
 this country which do not fear the English steel." 
 
 "But after all," said Manicamp, "I have had no satis- 
 factory proof given me of the love in question, and it may 
 be no more than a mere idle tale." 
 
 "No, no," said De Guiche; "it must be the truth;" and 
 despite his command over himself he clinched his teeth. 
 
 "Well," said Manicamp, "after all, what does it matter 
 to you? What does it matter to me whether the prince is 
 to be what the late king was? Buckingham the father for 
 the queen, Buckingham the son for the young princess." 
 
 "Manicamp! Manicamp!" 
 
 "It is a fact, or at least, everybody says so." 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 51 
 
 "Silencer' said the count. 
 
 "But why silence?" said De Wardes; "it is a highly 
 creditable circumstance for the French nation. Are not 
 you of my opinion. Monsieur de Bragelonne?" 
 
 "To what circumstance do you allude?" inquired De 
 Bragelonne, with an abstracted air. 
 
 "That the English should render homage to the beauty 
 of our queens and our princesses." 
 
 "Forgive me, but I have not been paying attention to 
 what has passed; will you oblige me by explaining?" 
 
 "There is no doubt it was necessary that Buckingham the 
 father should come to Paris in order that his majesty King 
 Louis XIII. should perceive that his wife was one of the 
 most beautiful women of the French court; and it seems 
 necessary, at the present time, that Buckingham the son 
 should consecrate, by the devotion of his worship, the 
 beauty of a princess who has French blood in her veins. 
 The fact of having inspired a passion on the other side of 
 the Channel will henceforth confer a title to beauty on its 
 object." 
 
 "Sir," replied De Bragelonne, "I do not like to hear 
 such matters treated so lightly. Gentlemen as we are 
 should be careful guardians of the honor of our queens and 
 our princesses. If we jest at them what will our servants 
 do?" 
 
 "How am I to understand that?" said De Wardes, whose 
 ears tingled at the remark. 
 
 "In any way you choose, monsieur," replied De Brage- 
 lonne coldly. 
 
 "Bragelonne, Bragelonne!" murmured De Guiche. 
 
 "Monsieur de Wardes," exclaimed Manicamp, noticing 
 that the young man had spurred his horse close to the side 
 , of Eaoul. 
 
 "Gentlemen, gentlemen," said De Guiche, "do not set 
 such an example in public, in the street, too. De Wardes, 
 you are wrong." 
 
 "Wrong? In what way, may I ask you?" 
 
 "You are wrong, monsieur, because you are always speak- 
 ing ill of some one or something," replied Kaoul, with 
 undisturbed composure. 
 
 "Be indulgent, Eaoul," said De Guiche, in an undertone. 
 
 "Pray do not think of fighting, gentlemen," said Mani- 
 camp, "before you have rested yourselves; for in that case 
 you will not be able to do much." 
 
 "Come," said De Guiche, "forward, gentlemen!" and. 
 
52 TEN" IJSAKB LAlijK. 
 
 breaking through the horses and attendants, he cleared the 
 way for himself toward the center of the square, through 
 the crowd, followed by the whole cavalcade. A large gate- 
 way looking out upon a courtyard was open; Guiche entered 
 the courtyard, and Bragelonue, De Wardes, Manicamp, and 
 three or four other gentlemen, followed him. A sort of 
 council of war was held, and the means to be employed for 
 saving the dignity of the embassy were deliberated upon. 
 Bragelonne was of opinion that the right of priority should 
 be respected, while De Wardes suggested that the town 
 should be sacked. This latter proposition appeared to 
 Manicamp rather rash, he proposing, instead, that they 
 should first rest themselves. This was the wisest thing to 
 do, but, unhappily, to follow his advice two things only 
 were wanting, namely, a house and beds. De Guiche re- 
 flected for awhile, and then said, aloud: 
 
 "Let him who loves me follow me!" 
 
 "The attendants also?" inquired a page who had ap- 
 proached the group. 
 
 "Every one," exclaimed the impetuous young man. 
 "Manicamp, show us the way to the house destined for her 
 royal highness' residence." 
 
 Without in any way divining the count's project his 
 friends followed him, accompanied by a crowd of people, 
 whose acclamations and delight seemed a happy omen for 
 the success of the project with which they were yet unac- 
 quainted. The wind was blowing loudly from the harbor, 
 and moaning in fitful gusts. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AT SEA. 
 
 The following day was somewhat calmer, although the 
 wind still continued to blow. The sun had, however, risen 
 through a bank of reddened clouds, tingeing with its crim- 
 son rays the crests of the black waves. Watch was im- 
 patiently kept from the different lookouts. Toward eleven 
 o'clock in the morning a ship, with sails full set, was 
 signaled as in view; two others followed at the distance of 
 about half a knot. They approached like arrows shot from 
 the bow of a skillful archer; and yet the sea ran so high 
 that their speed was as nothing compared to the rolling of 
 the billows in which the vessels were plunging first in one 
 
TEN TEAKS LATEE. 53 
 
 direction and then in another. The English fleet was soon 
 recognized by the lines of the ships, and by the color of 
 their pennants; the one which had the princess on board 
 and carried the admiral's flag preceded the others. 
 
 The rumor now spead that the princess was arriving. 
 The whole French court ran to the harbor, while the quays 
 and jetties were soon covered by crowds of people. Two 
 hours afterward the other vessels had overtaken the flag- 
 ship, and the three, not venturing perhaps to enter the nar- 
 row entrance of the harbor, cast anchor between Havre and 
 La Heve. When the maneuver had been completed the 
 vessel which bore the admiral saluted France by twelve dis- 
 charges of cannon, which were returned, discharge for dis- 
 charge, from Fort Francis I. Immediately afterward a 
 hundred boats were launched — they were covered with the 
 richest stufEs, and destined for the conveyance of the differ- 
 ent members of the French nobility toward the vessels at 
 anchor. But when it was observed that even inside the 
 harbor the boats were tossed to and fro, and that beyond 
 the jetty the waves rose mountains high, dashing upon the 
 shore with a terrible uproar, it will readily be believed that 
 not one of those frail boats would be able with safety to 
 reach a fourth part of the distance between the shore and 
 the vessels at anchor. A pilot-boat, however, notwith- 
 standing the wind and the sea, was getting ready to leave 
 the harbor for the purpose of placing itself at the admiral's 
 orders. 
 
 De Guiche, who had been looking among the different 
 boats for one stronger than the others, which might offer a 
 chance of reaching the English vessels, perceiving the pilot- 
 boat getting ready to start, said to Eaoul: 
 
 "Do you not think, Eaoul, that intelligent and vigorous 
 men, as we are, ought to be ashamed to retreat before the 
 brute strength of wind and waves?" 
 
 "That is precisely the very reflection I was silently mak- 
 ing to myself," replied Bragelonne. 
 
 "Shall we get into that boat, then, and push off? Will 
 you come, De Wardes?" 
 
 "Take care, or you will get drowned," said Manicamp. 
 
 "And for no purpose," said De Wardes, "for, with the 
 wind •d^d against you, as it will be, you will never reach 
 the Vessels." 
 
 "You refuse, then?" 
 
 "Assuredly I do; I would willingly risk and lose my life 
 iu m ^ngounter against men/' he said, glancing at Brage- 
 
54 TEST TEAES LATER. 
 
 lonne, "but as to fighting with oars against waves, I have 
 no taste for that!" 
 
 "And for myself," said Manicamp, "even were I to suc- 
 ceed in reaching the ships, I should not be indifferent to 
 the loss of the only good dress which I have left — salt-water 
 would splash and spoil it." 
 
 "You, then, refuse also?" exclaimed De Guiche. 
 
 "Decidedly I do; I beg you to understand that most 
 distinctly." 
 
 "But," exclaimed De Guiche, look, De Wardes — look, 
 Manicamp — look yonder, the princesses are looking at us 
 from the poop of the admiral's vessel." 
 
 "An additional reason, my dear fellow, why we should 
 not make ourselves ridiculous by taking a bath while they 
 are looking on." 
 
 "Is that your last word, Manicamp?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And then yours, De Wardes?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then I go alone." 
 
 "Not so," said Eaoul, "for I shall accompany you; I 
 thought it was understood we should do so." 
 
 The fact is, that Eaoul, uninfluenced by any devotion, 
 measuring the risk they would run, saw how imminent the 
 danger was, but he willingly allowed himself to accept a 
 peril which De Wardes had declined. 
 
 The boat was about to set ofE when De Guiche called to 
 the pilot. 
 
 "Stay," said he; "we want two places in your boat;" 
 and wrapping five or six pistoles in paper, he threw them 
 from the quay into the boat. 
 
 "It seems you are not afraid of salt-water, yoTing gentle- 
 men." 
 
 "We are afraid of nothing," replied De Guiche. 
 
 "Come along, then." 
 
 The pilot approached the side of the boat, and the two 
 young men, one after the other, with equal vivacity, jumped 
 into the boat. 
 
 "Courage, my men," said De Guiche; "I have twenty 
 pistoles left in this purse, and as soon as we reach the 
 admiral's vessel they shall be yours." 
 
 The sailors bent themselves to their oars, and the boat 
 bounded over the crest of the waves. The interest taken 
 in this hazardous expedition was universal; thewliolc popu- 
 lation of Havre hurried toward the jetties, and every look 
 
TEN TEAKS LATER. 65 
 
 was directed toward the little bark; at one moment it re- 
 mained suspended upon the crest of the foaming waves, 
 then suddenly glided downward toward the bottom of a 
 roaring abyss, where it seemed utterly lost within it. At- 
 the expiration of an hour's struggling with the waves it 
 reached the spot where the admiral's vessel was anchored, 
 and from the side of which two boats had already been dis- 
 patched toward their aid. Upon the quarter-deck of the 
 flag-ship, sheltered by a canopy of velvet and ermine, which 
 was suspended by stout supports, Mme. Henrietta, the 
 queen dowager, and the young princess — with the admiral, 
 the Duke of Norfolk, standing beside them — watched with 
 alarm this slender bark, at one moment carried to the 
 heavens, and the next buried beneath the waves, and 
 against whose dark sail the noble figures of the two French 
 noblemen stood forth in relief like two luminous appari- 
 tions. The crew, leaning against the bulwarks, and cling- 
 ing to the shrouds, cheered the courage of the two daring 
 young men, the skill of the pilot, and the strength of the 
 sailors. They were received at the side of the vessel by a 
 shout of triumph. The Duke of Norfolk, a handsome 
 young man, from twenty-six to twenty-eight years of age, 
 advanced to meet them. De Guiche and Bragelonne lightly 
 mounted the ladder on the starboard side, and, conducted 
 by the Duke of Norfolk, who resumed his place near them, 
 they approached to offer their homage to the princesses. Ke- 
 spect, and yet more, a certain apprehension, for which he 
 could not account, had hitherto restrained the Comte de 
 Guiche from looking at madame attentively, who, however, 
 had observed him immediately, and had asked her mother: 
 "Is not that Monsieur in the boat yonder?" 
 Mme. Henrietta, who knew Monsieur better than her 
 daughter did, smiled at the mistake her vanity had led her 
 into, and had answered: 
 
 "No; it is only Monsieur de Guiche, his favorite." 
 The princess, at this reply, had been obliged to check an 
 instinctive tenderness of feeling which the courage dis- 
 played by the count had awakened. At the very moment 
 the princess had put this question to her mother, De Guiche 
 had, at last, summoned courage to raise his eyes toward her, 
 and could compare the original with the portrait he had so 
 lately seen. No sooner had he remarked her pale face, her 
 eyes so full of animation, her beautiful nut-brown hair, her 
 expressive lips, and her every gesture, which, while betoken- 
 ing her ro^al descent, s§eined to thank and to encourage 
 
56 TEN TEAES LATER. 
 
 him at one and the same time, than he was, for a moment, 
 so overcome that, had it not been for Eaoul, on whose arm 
 he leaned, he would have fallen. His friend's amazed look, 
 and the encouraging gesture of the queen, restored Guiche 
 to his self-possession. In a few words he explained his mis- 
 sion, explained in what way he had become the envoy of his 
 royal highness; and saluted, according to their rank and 
 the reception they gave him, the admiral and several of the 
 English noblemen who were grouped around the princesses. 
 
 Eaoul was then presented, and was most graciously re- 
 ceived; the share that the Comte de la Fere had had in the 
 restoration of Charles II. was known to all; and, more than 
 that, it was the comte who had been charged with the nego- 
 tiation of the marriage, by means of which the granddaugh- 
 ter of Henry IV. was now returning to France. Raoul 
 spoke English perfectly, and constituted himself his 
 friend's interpreter with the young English noblemen, who 
 were indifferently acquainted with the French language. 
 At this moment a young man came forward, of extremely 
 handsome features, and whose dress and arms were remark- 
 able for their extravagance of material. He approached the 
 princesses, who were engaged in conversation with the Duke 
 of Norfolk, and, in a voice which ill concealed his impa- 
 tience, said: 
 
 "It is time now to disembark, your royal highness." 
 
 The younger of the princesses rose from her seat at this 
 remark, and was about to take the hand which the young 
 nobleman had extended to her, with an eagerness which 
 arose from a variety of motives, when the admiral advanced 
 between them, observing: 
 
 "A moment, if you please, my lord; it is not possible for 
 ladies to disembark just now, the sea is too rough; it is 
 probable the wind may abate toward four o'clock, and the 
 landing will not be effected, therefore, until this evening." 
 , "Allow me to observe, my lord," said Buckingham, with 
 an irritation of manner which he did not seek to disguise, 
 "you detain these ladies, and you have no right to do so. 
 One of them, unhappily, now belongs to France, and you 
 perceive that France claims them by the voice of her em- 
 bassadors;" and at the same moment he indicated Eaoul 
 and Guiche, whom he saluted. 
 
 "I cannot suppose that these gentlemen intend to expose 
 the lives of their royal highnesses," replied the admiral. 
 
 "These gentlemen," retorted Buckingham, "arrived here 
 safely, notwithstanding the wind; allow me to believe that 
 
TJfiN YEARS LATER. 
 
 57 
 
 the danger will not be greater for their royal highnesses 
 when the wind will be in their favor." 
 
 "These gentlemen have shown how great their courage 
 is," said the admiral. "You may have observed that there 
 was a great number of persons on shore who did not venture 
 to accompany them. Moreover, the desire which they had 
 to show their respect with the least possible delay to madame 
 and her illustrious mother induced them to confront the 
 sea, which is very tempestuous to-day, even for sailors. 
 These gentlemen, however, whom I recommend as an ex- 
 ample for my officers to follow, can hardly be so for these 
 ladies." 
 
 Madame glanced at the Comte de Guiche, and perceived 
 that his face was burning with confusion. This look had 
 escaped Buckingham, who had eyes for nothing but watch- 
 ing Norfolk, of whom he was evidently very jealous, and 
 seemed anxious to remove the princesses from the deck of 
 a vessel where the admiral reigned supreme. 
 
 "In that case," returned Buckingham, "I appeal to 
 madame herself." 
 
 "And I, my lord," retorted the admiral, "I apjieal to my 
 own conscience, and to my own sense of responsibility. I 
 have undertaken to convey madame safely and soundly to 
 France, and I shall keep my promise." 
 
 "Yet, sir — " continued Buckingham. 
 
 "My lord, permit me to remind you that I command 
 here." 
 
 "Are you aware what you are saying, my lord?" replied 
 Buckingham haughtily. 
 
 "Perfectly so; I therefore repeat it: I alone command 
 here; all yield obedience to me; the sea and the winds, the 
 ships and men, too." 
 
 This remark was made in a dignified and authoritative 
 manner. Eaoul observed its effect upon Buckingham, who 
 trembled from head to foot, and leaned against one of the 
 poles of the tent to prevent himself falling; his eyes became 
 suffused with blood, and the hand which he did not need 
 for his support wandered toward the hilt of his sword. 
 
 "My lord," said the queen, "permit me to observe that I 
 agree in every particular with the Duke of Norfolk; if the 
 heavens, instead of being clouded, as they are at the present 
 moment, were perfectly serene and propitious, we can afford 
 to bestow a few hours upon the officer who has conducted 
 us so successfully, and with such extreme attention, to the 
 French coast, where he is to take leave of us." 
 
68 TEK TEARS LATES. 
 
 Buckingham, instead of replying, seemed to seek counsel 
 from the expression of madame's face. She, however, half- 
 concealed beneath the thick curtains of the velvet and gold 
 which sheltered her, had not listened to the discussion, hav- 
 ing been occupied in watching the Comte de Guiclie, who 
 was conversing with Eaoul. This was a fresh misfortune 
 for Buckingham, who fancied he perceived in Mme. Henri- 
 etta's look a deeper feeling than that of curiosity. He with- 
 drew, almost tottering in his gait, and nearly stumbled ' 
 against the mainmast of the ship. 
 
 "The duke has not acquired a steady footing yet," said 
 the queen-mother, in French, "and that may possibly be his 
 reason for wishing to find himself on firm land again." 
 
 The young man overheard this remark, turned suddenly 
 
 Eale, and, letting his hands fall in great discouragement by 
 is side, drew aside, mingling in one sigh his old affection and 
 his new hatreds. The admiral, however, without taking any 
 further notice of the duke's ill-humor, led the princesses into 
 the quarter-deck cabin, where dinner had been served with a 
 magnificence worthy in every respect of his guests. The 
 admiral seated himself at the right hand of the princess, 
 and placed the Comte de Guiche on her left. This was the 
 place Buckingham usually occupied; and when he entered 
 the cabin, how profound was his unhappiness to see himself 
 banished by etiquette from the presence of the sovereign to 
 whom he owed respect, to a position inferior to that which, 
 by his rank, he was entitled to occupy. De Guiche, on the 
 other hand, paler still, perhaps from happiness, than his 
 rival was from anger, seated himself tremblingly next the 
 princess, whose silken robe, as it lightly touched him, 
 caused a tremor of mingled regret and happiness to pass 
 through his whole frame. The repast finished, Bucking- 
 ham darted forward to hand Mme. Henrietta from the 
 table; but this time it was De Guiche's turn to give the 
 duke a lesson. I 
 
 "Have the goodness, my lord, from this moment," said 
 he, "not to'interpose between her royal highness and my- 
 self. From this moment, indeed, her royal highness be- 
 longs to France, and when her royal highness honors me by 
 touching my hand, it is the hand of His Eoyal Highness 
 Monsieur, the brother of the King of France, that she 
 touches." 
 
 And saying this, he presented his hand to Mme. Henri- 
 etta with so marked a timidity, and, at the same time, with 
 a nobleness of mien so intrepid, '^hat a murmur of admira- 
 
TEN YEAES LATBK. 59 
 
 tion rose from the English, while a groan of despair escaped 
 from Buckingham's lips. Kaoul, who loved, comprehended 
 it all. He fixed upon his friend one of those profound 
 looks which a friend or a mother can alone extend, either 
 as a protector or guardian, over the child or the friend 
 about to stray from the right path. Toward two o'clock in 
 the afternoon the sun shone forth, the wind subsided, the 
 sea became smooth as a crystal mirror, and the fog, which 
 had shrouded the coast, disappeared like a veil withdrawn 
 from before it. The smiling hills of France then appeared 
 to the view, with their numerous white houses, rendered 
 more conspicuous by the bright green of the trees or the 
 clear blue sky. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE TENTS. 
 
 The admiral, as has been seen, had determined to pay 
 no further attention to Buckingham's threatening glances 
 and fits of passion. In fact, from the moment they had left 
 England, he had gradually and quietly accustomed himself 
 to it. De Guiche had not yet in any way remarked the 
 animosity which appeared to influence that young nobleman 
 against him, but he felt instinctively that there could be no 
 sympathy between himself and the favorite of Charles II. 
 The queen-mother, with greater experience and calmer 
 judgment, perceived the exact position of affairs, and, as 
 she discerned its danger, was prepared to meet it, whenever 
 the proper moment should arrive. Quiet had been every- 
 where restored, except in Buckingham's heart; he, in his 
 impatience, addressed himself to the princess, in a low tone 
 of voice: 
 
 "For heaven's sake, madame, I implore you to hasten 
 your disembarkation. Do you not perceive how that inso- 
 lent Duke of Norfolk is killing me with his attentions and 
 devotions to you?" 
 
 Henrietta heard this remark; she smiled, and without 
 turning her head toward him, but giving only to the tone 
 of her voice that inflection of gentle reproach and languid 
 impertinence which coquetry so well knows how to assume, 
 she murmured: 
 
 "I have already told you, my lord, that you must have 
 taken leave of your senses." 
 
60 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 Not a single detail escaped Eaoul's attention; he had 
 heard both Buckingham's entreaty and the princess' reply- 
 he had remarked Buckingham retire, had heard his deep 
 sigh, and saw him pass his hand across his face. He under- 
 stood everything, and trembled as he reflected on the posi- 
 tion of affairs, and the state of the minds of those about 
 him. At last the admiral, with studied delay, gave the last 
 directions for the departure of the boats. Buckingham 
 heard the directions given with such an exhibition of de- 
 light that a stranger would almost have imagined the 
 young man's reason was affected. As the Duke of Norfolk 
 gave his orders, a large boat or barge, decked with ilags, 
 and capable of holding about twenty rowers and fifteen pas- 
 sengers, was slowly lowered from the side of the admiral's 
 vessel. The barge was carpeted with velvet and decorated 
 with coverings embroidered with the arms of England, and 
 with garlands of flowers; for, at that time, signs and par- 
 ables were cultivated freely enough. No sooner was the 
 boat afloat, and the rowers, with oars uplifted, awaiting, 
 like soldiers presenting arms, the embarkation of ' the 
 princess, than Buckingham ran forward to the ladder in 
 order to take his place in the boat. His progress was, how- 
 ever, arrested by the queen. 
 
 "My lord," she said, "it is hardly becoming that you 
 should allow my daughter and myself to land without hav- 
 ing previously ascertained that our apartments are properly 
 prepared. I beg your lordship to be good enough to pre- 
 cede us ashore, and to give directions that everything be in 
 proper order on our arrival." 
 
 This was a fresh disappointment for the duke, and still 
 more so since it was so unexpected. He hesitated, colored 
 violently, but could not reply. He had thought he might 
 be able to keep near madame during the passage to the 
 shore, and, by this means, to enjoy to the very last moment 
 the brief period which fortune still reserved for him. Thd 
 order, however, was explicit; and the admiral, who heard it 
 given, immediately called out: 
 
 "Launch the ship's gig!" 
 
 His directions were executed with that celerity which 
 distinguishes every maneuver on board a man-of-war. 
 
 Buckingham, in utter helplessness, cast a look of despair 
 at the princess, of supplication toward the queen, and di- 
 rected a glance full of anger toward the admiral. The; 
 princess pretended not to notice him, while the queen 
 tlimed aside her head, and the admiral laughed outright, 
 
T£K YEAfeS LATER. 61 
 
 at the sound of which Buckingham seemed ready to spring 
 upon him. The queen-mother rose^ and with a tone of 
 authority, said: 
 
 "Pray set off, sir." 
 
 The young duke hesitated, looked around him, and with 
 a last effort, half-choked by contending emotions, said: 
 
 "And you, gentlemen. Monsieur de Guiche and Monsieur 
 de Bragelonne, do not you accompany me?" 
 
 De Guiche bowed and said: 
 
 "Both Monsieur de Bragelonne and myself await her 
 majesty's orders; whatever may be the commands she im- 
 poses on us, we shall obey them." 
 
 Saying this, he looked toward the princess, who cast down 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Your grace will remember," said the queen, "that 
 Monsieur de Guiche is here to represent Monsieur; it is he 
 who will do the honors of France, as you have done those of 
 England; his presence cannot be dispensed with; besides, 
 we owe him this slight favor for the courage he displayed 
 in venturing to seek us in such terrible weather." 
 
 Buckingham opened his lips, as if he were about to speak, 
 but, whether thoughts or expressions failed him, not a syl- 
 lable escaped them, and turning away, as though he were 
 out of his mind, he leaped from the vessel into the boat. 
 The sailors were just in time to catch hold of him to steady 
 themselves; for his weight and the rebound had almost 
 upset the boat. 
 
 "His grace cannot be in his senses," said the admiral, 
 aloud, to Eaoul. 
 
 "I am uneasy on his grace's account," replied Brage- 
 lonne. 
 
 "While the boat was advancing toward the shore the 
 duke kept his eyes immovably fixed upon the admiral's 
 ship, like a miser torn away from his coffers, or like a 
 mother separated from her child, about to be led away to 
 death. No one, however, acknowledged his signals, his 
 gesticulations, or his pitiful gestures. In very anguish of 
 mind he sank down in the boat, burying his hands in his 
 hair, while the boat, impelled by the exertions of the 
 thoughtless sailors, flew over the waves. On his arrival he 
 was in such a state of apathy that, had he not been received 
 at the harbor by the messenger whom he had directed to 
 precede him, he would hardly have been able to ask his 
 way. Having once, however, reached the house which had 
 been set apart for him, he shut himself up, like Achilles in 
 
^2 TEN- TEARS tATER. 
 
 his tent. The barge bearing the princesses quitted the ad- 
 miral's vessel at the very moment Buckingham had landed. 
 It was followed by another boat filled with oflScers, courtiers, 
 and zealous friends. Great numbers of the inhabitants of 
 Havre, having embarked in fishing-boats and boats of every 
 description, set ofE to meet the royal barge. The cannon 
 from the forts fired salutes, which were returned by the ' 
 flag-ship and the two other vessels, and the flashes from the 
 open mouths of the cannon floated in white vapors over the 
 waves, and then disappeared in the clear blue sky. 
 
 The princess landed at the steps of the quay. Bands of 
 gay music greeted her arrival, and accompanied her every 
 step she took. During the time she was passing through 
 the center of the town, and treading beneath her delicate " 
 feet the richest carpets and the gayest flowers, which had 
 been strewn upon the ground, De Guiche and Eaoul, escap- 
 ing from their English friends, hurried through the town 
 and hastened rapidly toward the place intended for the 
 residence of madame. 
 
 "Let us hurry forward," said Eaoul to De Guiche, "for, if 
 I read Buckingham's character aright, he will create some 
 disturbance when he learns the result of our deliberations 
 yesterday." 
 
 "Never fear," said De Guiche, "De Wardes is there, who 
 is determination itself, while Manicamp is the very personi- 
 flcation of gentleness." 
 
 De Guiche was not, however, the less diligent on that ac- 
 count, and five minutes afterward they were in sight of the 
 Hotel de Ville. The first thing which struck them was the 
 number of people assembled in front of the square. 
 
 "Excellent!" said De Guiche; "our apartments, I see, are 
 prepared." 
 
 In fact, in front of the Hotel de Ville, upon the wide open 
 space before it, eight tents had been raised, surmounted by 
 the flags of France and England united. The hotel was 
 surrounded by tents, as by a girdle of variegated colors; ten 
 pages and a dozen mounted troopers, who had been given 
 to the embassadors for an escort, mounted guard before the 
 tents. It had a singularly curious effect, almost fairy -like 
 in its appearance. These tents had been constructed dur- 
 ing the night-time. Fitted up, within and without, with ' 
 the richest materials that De Guiche had been able to pro- 
 cure in Havre, they completely encircled the Hotel de Ville, 
 The only passage which led to the steps of the hotel, and 
 which was not inclosed by the silken barricade, was guardcid 
 
TEN TEAES LATER. fi3 
 
 by two tents, resembling two pavilions, the doorways of 
 both of which opened toward the entrance. These two 
 tents were destined for De Guiche and Eaoul; in whose ab- 
 sence they were intended to be occupied, that of De Guiche 
 by De Wardes, and that of Eaoul by Manicamp. Surround- 
 ing these two tents and the six others, a hundred officers, 
 gentlemen, and pages, dazzling in their display of silk and 
 gold, thronged like bees around a hive. Every one of them, 
 their swords by their sides, was ready to obey the slightest 
 sign either of De Guiche or Bragelonne, the two leaders of 
 the embassy. 
 
 At the very moment the two young men appeared at the 
 end of one of the streets leading to the square they per- 
 ceived, crossing the square at full gallop, a young man on 
 horseback, and whose costume was of surprising richness. 
 He pushed hastily through the crowd of curious lookers-on, 
 and, at the sight of these unexpected erections, uttered a 
 cry of anger and dismay. It was Buckingham, who had 
 awakened from his stupor, in order to adorn himself with a 
 costume perfectly dazzling from its beauty, and to await 
 the arrival of the princess and the queen-mother at the 
 H6tel de Ville. At the entrance to the tents the soldiers 
 barred his passage, and his further progress was arrested. 
 Buckingham, completely infuriated, raised his whip; but 
 his arm was seized by a couple of the officers. Of the two 
 guardians of the tent only one was there. De Wardes was 
 in the interior of the H6tel de Ville, engaged in attending 
 to the execution of some orders given by De Guiche. At 
 the noise made by Buckingham Manicamp, who was indo- 
 lently reclining upon the cushions at the doorway of one 
 of the two tents, rose with his usual indifference, and, per- 
 ceiving that the disturbance continued, made his appear- 
 ance from underneath the curtains. 
 
 "What is the matter?" he said, in a gentle tone of voice, ■ 
 "and who is it making this disturbance?" 
 
 It so happened that at the moment he began to speak 
 silence had just been restored, and although his voice was 
 very soft and gentle in its tone, every one heard his ques- 
 tion. Buckingham turned round and looked at the tall, 
 thin figure, and the listless expression of countenance of his 
 questioner. Probably the personal appearance of Mani- 
 camp, who was dressed very plainly, did not inspire him', 
 nth much respect, for he replied disdainfully: 
 
 "Who may you be, monsieur?" 
 
 Manicamp, leaning on the arm of a gigantic trooper, as 
 
64 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 firm as the pillar of a cathedral, replied, in his usual tran- 
 quil tone of voice: 
 
 "And you, monsieur?" 
 
 "I, monsieur, am His Grace the Duke of Buckingham; I 
 iiave hired all the houses which surround the H6tel de 
 Ville, where I have business to transact; and as these 
 houses are let, they belong to me, and as I hired them in 
 order to preserve the right of free access to the H6tel de 
 Ville, you are not justified in preventing me passing to it." 
 
 "But who prevents you passing, monsieur?" inquired 
 Manicamp. 
 
 "Your sentinels." 
 
 "Because you wish to pass on horseback, and orders have 
 been given to let only persons on foot pass." 
 
 "No one has any right to give orders here, except my- 
 self," said Buckingham. 
 
 "On what grounds?" inquired Manicamp, with his soft 
 tone. "Will you do me the favor to explain this enigma to 
 me?" 
 
 "Because, as I have already told you, I have hired all the 
 houses looking on the square." 
 
 "We are very well aware of that, since nothing but the 
 square itself has been left for us." 
 
 "You are mistaken, monsieur; the square belongs to me, 
 as well as the houses in it." 
 
 "Forgive me, monsieur, but you are mistaken there. In 
 our country, we say the highway belongs to the king, there- 
 fore this square is his majesty's; and, consequently, as we 
 are the king's ambassadors, the square belongs to us." 
 
 "I have already asked you who you are, monsieur," ex- 
 claimed Buckingham, exasperated at the coolness of his 
 interlocutor. 
 
 "My name is Manicamp," replied the young man, in a 
 voice whose tones were as harmonious and sweet as the notes 
 of an iEolian harp. 
 
 Buckingham shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and 
 said: 
 
 "When I hired these houses which surround the H6tel de 
 Ville the square was unoccupied; these barracks obstruct 
 my sight; let them be removed." 
 
 A hoarse and angry murmur ran through the crowd of 
 listeners at these words. De Guiche arrived at this mo- 
 ment; he pushed through the crowd which separated him 
 from Buckingham, and, followed by Eaoul, arrived on the 
 scene of action from one side just as De Wardes arrived 
 from the otker. 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 65 
 
 "Pardon me^ my lord; but if you have any complaint to 
 make have the goodness to address it to me, inasmuch as 
 it was I who supplied the plans for the construction of 
 these tents." 
 
 "Moreover, I w^uld beg you to observe, monsieur, that the 
 term 'barrack' is objected to," added Manicamp graciously. 
 
 "You were saying, monsieur — " continued De Guiche. 
 
 "I was saying. Monsieur le Comte," resumed Bucking- 
 ham, in a tone of anger more marked than ever, although 
 in some measure moderated by the presence of an equal, "/ 
 was saying that it is impossible these tents can remain wherbl 
 they are." 
 
 "Impossible!" exclaimed De Guiche, "and for what rea- 
 son?" 
 
 "Because I object to them." 
 
 A movement of impatience escaped De Guiche, but a 
 warning glance from Eaoul restrained him. 
 
 "You should the less object to them, monsieur, on ac- 
 count of the abuse of priority you have permitted yourself 
 to exercise." 
 
 "Abuse!" 
 
 "Most assuredly. You commission a messenger, who 
 hires in your name the whole of the town of Havre, without 
 considering the members of the French court, who would 
 be sure to arrive here to meet madame. Your grace will 
 admit that this is hardly friendly conduct in the representa- 
 tive of a friendly nation." 
 
 "The right of possession belongs to him who is first on 
 the spot." 
 
 "Not in France, monsieur." 
 
 "Why not in France?" 
 
 "Because France is a country where politeness is ob- 
 served." 
 
 "Which means?" exclaimed Buckingham, in so violent a 
 manner that those who were present drew back, expecting 
 an immediate collision. 
 
 "Which means, monsieur," replied De Guiche, turning 
 pale, "that I have caused these tents to be raised as habita- 
 tions for myself and my friends, as a shelter for the ambas- 
 sadors of France, as the only place of refuge which your 
 exactions have left us in the town; and that I, and those 
 who are with me, shall rsmain in them, at least until an 
 authority more powerful, and particularly more supreme, 
 '•than your own shall dismiss me from them." 
 
 "In other words, until we are ejected, as the lawyere 
 eaj," observ&i ManicaiPD blandly. 
 
66 TEK TEAKS LATER. 
 
 "I Know an authority, monsieur, which I trust will be 
 such as you wish for," said Buckingham, placing his hand 
 on his sword. 
 
 At this moment, and as the goddess of Discord, inflaming 
 all minds, was about to direct their swords against each 
 other, Eaoul gently placed his hand on Buckingham's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "One word, my lord," he said. 
 
 "My right, my right, first of all!" exclaimed the fiery 
 young man. 
 
 "It is precisely upon that point I wish to have the honor 
 of addressing a word to you." 
 
 "Very well, monsieur; but let your remarks be brief." 
 
 "One question is all I ask; you can hardly expect me to 
 be briefer." 
 
 "Speak, monsieur; I am listening." 
 
 "Are you, or is the Duke of Orleans, going to marry the 
 granddaughter of Henry IV.?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" exclaimed Buckingham, retreat- 
 ing a few steps, quite bewildered. 
 
 "Have the goodness to answer me," persisted Eaoul 
 tranquilly. 
 
 "Do you mean to ridicule me, monsieur?" inquired Buck- 
 ingham. 
 
 "Your question is a sufficient answer for me. You ad- 
 mit, then, that it is not you who are going to marry the 
 princess?" 
 
 "You know it perfectly well, monsieur, I should imagine." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, but your conduct has been such as 
 to leave it not altogether certain." 
 
 "Proceed, monsieur; what do you mean to convey?" 
 
 Eaoul approached the duke. 
 I "Are you aware, my lord," he said, lowering his voice, 
 f 'that your extravagances very much resemble the excesses 
 of jealousy? These jealous fits, with respect to any woman, 
 are not becoming in one who is neither her lover nor her 
 husband; and I am sure you will admit that my remark ap- 
 plies with still greater force when the lady in question is a 
 princess of royal blood." 
 
 "Monsieur," exclaimed Buckingham, "do you mean to 
 insult Madame Henrietta?" 
 
 "Be careful, my lord," replied Bragelonne coldly, "for 
 it is you who insult her. A little while since, when on 
 board the admiral's ship, you wearied the queen and ex- 
 hausted the admiral's patience. I was observing, my lord; 
 
TEN TEAfiS LATER. Gf 
 
 and at first I concluded you were not in possession of your 
 senses, but I have since surmised the real character of your 
 madness." 
 
 "Monsieur!" exclaimed Buckingham. 
 
 "One moment more, for I have yet another word to add. 
 I trust I am the only one of my companions who has guessed 
 
 "Are you aware, monsieur," said Buckingham, trembling 
 with mingled feelings of anger and uneasiness, "are you 
 aware that you are holding a language toward me which 
 requires to be checked?" t 
 
 "Weigh your words well, my lord," said Raoul haugh- 
 tily; "my nature is not such that its vivacities need check- 
 ing; while you, on the contrary, are descended from a race 
 whose passions are suspected by all true Frenchmen; I 
 repeat, therefore, for the second time, be careful." 
 
 "Careful of what, may I ask? Do you presume to 
 threaten me?" 
 
 "I am the son of the Comte de la Fere, my lord, and I 
 never threaten, because I strike first. Therefore, under- 
 stand me well, the threat that I hold out to you is this " 
 
 Buckingham clinched his hands, but Eaoul continued, as 
 though he had not observed the movement. 
 
 "At the very first word, beyond the respect and defer- 
 ence due to her royal highness, which you permit yourself 
 to use toward her — Be patient, my lord, for I am per- 
 iectly so." 
 
 "You?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly. So long asmadame remained on English 
 territory, I held my peace; but from the very moment she 
 stepped on French ground, and now that we have received 
 her in the name of the prince, I warn you that at the first 
 mark of disrespect which you, in your insane attachment, 
 shall exhibit toward the royal house of France, I shall have 
 one of two courses to follow: either I declare, in the pres- 
 tmce of every one, the madness with which you are now 
 rtfEected, and I get you ignominiously dismissed to England; 
 iir, if you prefer it, I will run my dagger through your 
 i hroat in the presence of all here. This second alternative 
 teems to me the least disagreeable, and I think I shall hold 
 to it." 
 
 Buckingham had become paler than the lace collar around 
 his neck. 
 
 "Monsieur de Bragelonne," he said, "is it, indeed, a 
 gentleman who is speaking to me?" 
 
68 TEK YEARS LATER. 
 
 "Yes; only the gentleman is speaking to a madman. 
 Get cured^ my lord^ and he will hold quite another language 
 to you." 
 
 "But, Monsieur de Bragelonne," murmured the duke, in 
 a voice half -choked, and putting his hand to his neck, "do 
 you not see I am dying?" 
 
 "If your death were to take place at this moment, my 
 lord," replied Eaoul, with unruffled composure, "I should 
 indeed regard it as a great happiness, for this circum- 
 stance would prevent all kinds of evil remarks; not alone 
 .about yourself, but also about those illustrious persons whom 
 your devotion is compromising in so absurd a manner." 
 
 "You are right, you are right," said the young man. 
 almost beside himself. "Yes, yes; better to die than to 
 sufEer as I do at this moment." 
 
 And he grasped a beautiful dagger, the handle of which 
 was inlaid with precious stones, and which he half drew 
 from his breast. 
 
 Eaoul thrust his hand aside. 
 
 "Be careful what you do," he said; "if you do not kill 
 yourself, you commit a ridiculous action; and if you were 
 to kill yourself, you sprinkle blood upon the nuptial robe of 
 the Princess of England." 
 
 Buckingham remained a minute gasping for breath; dur- 
 ing this interval his lips quivered, his fingers worked con- 
 vulsively, and his eyes wandered as though in delirium. 
 Then suddenly he said: 
 
 "Monsieur de Bragelonne, I know nowhere a nobler mind 
 than yours; you are, indeed, a worthy son of the most per- 
 fect gentleman that ever lived. Keep your tents." 
 
 And he threw his arms round Eaoul's neck. All who 
 were present, astounded at this conduct, which was such as 
 they could hardly have expected considering the violence 
 of the one adversary and the determination of the other, 
 began immediately to clap their hands, and a thousand 
 cheers and joyful shouts arose from all sides. De Guiche, 
 in his turn, embraced Buckingham, somewhat against his 
 inclination; but, at all events, he did embrace him. This 
 was the signal for French and English to do the same; and 
 they who, until that moment, had looked at each other with 
 restless uncertainty, fraternized on the spot. In the mean- 
 time, the procession of the princess arrived, and had it not 
 been for Bragelonne, two armies would have been engaged 
 together in conflict, and blood have been shed upon the 
 flowers with which the ground was covered. At the appear- 
 
TEN YEARS LATEE. 69 
 
 aiice, however, of the banners borne at the head of the 
 procession, quiet was restored. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 CoisTCORD had returned to resume its place amid the tents. 
 English and French rivaled each other in their devotion 
 and courteous attention to the two illustrious travelers. 
 The English forwarded to the French baskets of flowers, of 
 which they had made a plentiful provision to greet the ar- 
 rival of the young princess; the French in return invited 
 the English to a supper, which was to be given the next 
 day. Congratulations were poured in upon the princess 
 everywhere during her journey. Prom the respect paid her 
 on all sides, she seemed like a queen; and from the adora- 
 tion with which she was treated by some two or three, she 
 seemed like an object of worship. The queen-mother gave 
 the French the most afEectionate reception. France was 
 her native country, and she had suffered too much unhap- 
 piness in England for England to have made her forget 
 France. She taught her daughter, then, by her own affec- 
 tion for it, that love for a country where they had both been 
 hospitably received, and where a brilliant future was being 
 opened before them. After the public entry was over, and 
 the spectators in the streets had somewhat dispersed, and the 
 sound of the music and cheering of the crowd could be heard 
 only in the distance, when the night had closed in, wrap- 
 ping, with its star-covered mantle, the sea, the harbor, the 
 town, and surrounding country, De Guiche, still excited by 
 the great event of the day, returned to his tent and seated 
 himself upon one of the stools with so profound an expres- 
 sion of distress that Bragelonne kept his eyes fixed on him 
 .until he heard him sigh, and then he approached him. The 
 count had thrown himself back on his seat, leaning his 
 'shoulders against the partition of the tent, and remained 
 thus, his face buried in his hands, and with heaving chest 
 and restless limbs. 
 
 "You are suffering?" asked Eaoul. 
 
 "Cruelly." 
 
 "Bodily, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes, bodily." 
 
 "This has, indeed, been a harassing day," continued the 
 young mau, his ey^s fixed upon his friend- 
 
70 TEK TEAKS LATER 
 
 "Yes; a night's rest will restore me." 
 
 ■•Shall I leave you?" 
 
 "No; I wish to talk to you." 
 
 "You shall not speak to me, Guiche, lentil you have first 
 answered me my questions." 
 
 "Proceed, then." 
 
 "You will be frank with me?" 
 
 "As I always am." 
 
 "Can you imagine why Buckingham has been so violent?"^ 
 
 "I suspect why." 
 
 "Because he is in love with madame, is it not?" 
 
 "One could almost swear to it, to see him." 
 
 "You are mistaken; there is nothing of the kind." 
 
 "It is you who are mistaken, Eaoul; I have read his dis- 
 tress in his eyes, in his every gesture and action the whole 
 day." 
 
 "You are a poet, my dear count, and find subjects for 
 your muse everywhere." 
 
 "I can perceive love clearly enough." 
 
 "Where it does not exist?" 
 
 "Nay, where it does exist." 
 
 •'Do you not think you are deceiving yourself, Guiche?" 
 
 "I am convinced of what I say," said the count. 
 
 "Now, inform me, count," said Eaoul, fixing a penetrat- 
 ing look upon him, "what has happened to render you so 
 clear-sighted ?" 
 
 Guiche hesitated for a moment, and then answered: 
 
 "Self-love, I suppose." 
 
 "Self-love is a very long word, Guiche." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean that, generally, you are less out of spirits than 
 seems to be the case this evening." 
 
 "I am fatigued." 
 
 "Listen to me, dear Guiche; we have been campaigners 
 together; we have been on horseback for eighteen hours at ' 
 a time, and our horses, even dying from fatigue, or from 
 sheer exhaustion, or hunger, have fallen beneath us, and 
 yet we have laughed at our mishaps. Believe me, it is not 
 fatigue which saddens you to-night." 
 
 "It is annoyance, then." 
 
 "What annoyance?" 
 
 "That of this evening." 
 
 "The mad conduct of the Duke of Buckingham, do you 
 mean?" 
 
 "Of course; is it not vexatious for us, the representatives 
 
TEN TEARS LATEB. 71 
 
 of our sovereign master, to witness the devotion of an Eng- 
 lishman to our future mistress, the second lady in point of 
 rank in the kingdom?" 
 
 "Yes, you're right; hut I do not think any danger is to 
 be apprehended from Buckingham." 
 
 "No; still he is intrusive. Did he not, on his arrival 
 here, almost succeed in creating a disturbance between the 
 English and ourselves; and, had it not been for you, for 
 your admirable prudence, for your singular decision of 
 character, swords would have been drawn in the very streets 
 of the town." 
 
 "You observe, however, that he has changed." 
 
 "Yes, certainly; but it is that which amazes me so much. 
 You spoke to him in a low tone of voice; what did you say 
 to him? You think he loves her; you admit that such a 
 passion does not give way readily. He does not love her, 
 then!" 
 
 De Guiche pronounced the latter words with so marked 
 an expression that Raoul raised his head. The noble char- 
 acter of the young man's countenance expressed a displeas- 
 ure which could easily ba read. 
 
 "What I said to him, count," replied Eaoul, "I will re- 
 peat to you. Listen to me. I said, 'You are regarding 
 with wistful feelings, and with most injurious desire, the 
 sister of your prince — -her to whom you are not affianced, 
 who is not, who can never be anything to you; you are out- 
 raging those who, like ourselves, have come to seek a young 
 girl to lead her to her husband.' " 
 
 "You spoke to him in that manner?" asked Guiche, 
 coloring. 
 
 "In those very terms; I even added more. 'How would 
 you regard us,' I said, 'if you were to perceive among us a 
 man mad enough, disloyal enough, to entertain other than 
 sentiments of the most perfect respect for a princess who is 
 the destined wife of our master?' " 
 
 These words were so applicable to De Guiche that he 
 turned pale, and, overcome by a sudden agitation, was 
 barely able to stretch out one hand mechanically toward 
 Eaoul, as he covered his eyes and face with the other. 
 
 "But," continued Eaoul, not interrupted by this move- 
 ment of his friend, "Heaven be praised, the French, who are 
 pronounced to be thoughtless and indiscreet, reckless even, 
 are capable of bringing a calm and sound judgment to bear 
 on matters of such high importance. I added even more, 
 for I «aid: 'Learn, my lord, that we gentlemen of EraoQQ 
 
72 TEN TBi.ES LATEE. 
 
 devote ourselves to our sovereigns by sacrificing for them 
 our afEections, as well as our fortunes and our lives; and 
 whenever it may chance to happen that the tempter suggests 
 one of those vile thoughts which set the heart on fire, we 
 extinguish that flame, even were it done by shedding our 
 blood for the purpose. Thus it is that the honor of three 
 persons is saved: our country's, our master's, and our own. 
 It is thus that we acli, your grace; it is thus that every man 
 of honor ought to act.' In this manner, my dear Guiche,'' 
 continued Eaoul, "I addressed the Duke of Buckingham; 
 and -he admitted and resigned himself unresistingly to my 
 arguments." 
 
 De Gruiche, who had hitherto sat leaning forward while 
 Eaoul was speaking, drew himself up, his eyes glancing 
 proudly; he seized Kaoul's hand; his face, which had been 
 as cold as ice, seemed on fire. 
 
 "And you spoke right well," he said, in a voice half- 
 choked; "you are indeed a friend, Eaoul. And now; I 
 entreat you, leave me to myself." 
 
 "Do you wish it?" 
 
 "Yes; I need repose. Many things have agitated me to- 
 day, both in mind and body; when you return to-morrow I 
 shall no longer be the same man." 
 
 "I leave you, then," said Eaoul, as he withdrew. The 
 count advanced a step toward his friend and pressed him 
 warmly in his arms. But in this friendly pressure Eaoul 
 could detect the nervous agitation of a great internal con- 
 flict. 
 
 The night was clear, starlight, and splendid; the tempest 
 had passed away, and the warmth of the sun had restored 
 life, peace, and security everywhere. A few light, fleecy 
 clouds were floating in the heavens, and indicated from their 
 appearance a continuance of beautiful weather, tempered 
 by a gentle breeze from the east. Upon the large square in 
 front of the hotel the large shadows of the tents, inter- 
 sected by the brillant moonbeams, formed, as it were, a 
 huge mosaic of black and white flag-stones. Soon, how- 
 ever, the whole town was wrapped in slumber; a feeble 
 light still glimmered in madame's apartment, which looked 
 out upon the square, and the soft rays from the expiring 
 lamp seemed to be the image of the calm sleep of a young 
 girl, hardly yet sensible of existence, and in whom the flame 
 of life sinks down as sleep steals over the body. Bruge- 
 lonne quitted the tent with the slow and measured step of 
 a man curious to observe^ but anxious pot to be seen. ShoJ 
 
TfiN TEARS LAtilft. 78 
 
 tered behind the thick curtains of his own tent, embracing 
 with a glance the whole square, he noticed that, after a few 
 moments' pause, the curtains of De Guiche's tent were 
 agitated, and then drawn partially aside. Behind them he 
 could perceive the shadow of De Guiche, his eyes glistening 
 in the obscurity, fastened ardently upon the princess' ait- 
 ting apartment, which was partially lighted by the lamp 
 '.n the inner room. That soft light which illumined the 
 windows was the count's star. The fervent aspirations of 
 his nature could be read in his eyes. Eaoul, concealed in 
 the shadow, divined the many passionate thoughts which 
 established, between the tent of the young ambassador and 
 tlie balcony of the princess, a mysterious and magical bond 
 of sympathy — a bond created by thoughts imprinted with so 
 much strength and persistence of will that they certainly 
 besought that happy and loving dreams might alight upon 
 the perfumed couch, which the count, with the eyes of his 
 soul, devoured so eagerly. But De Guiche and Eaoul were 
 not the only watchers. The window of one of the houses 
 looking on the square was opened, too, the window of the 
 house where Buckingham resided. By the aid of the rays 
 of light which issued from this latter window the profile of 
 the duke could be distinctly seen, as he indolently reclined 
 upon the balcony with its velvet hangings; he also was 
 breathing in the direction of the princess' apartment his 
 prayers and the wild visions of his love. 
 
 Bragelonne could not resist smiling, as, thinking of ma- 
 dame, he said to himself: 
 
 "Hers is, indeed, a heart well besieged;" and then added 
 compassionately, as he thought of Monsieur, "and he is a 
 husband well threatened, too; it is a good thing for him 
 that he is a prince of such high rank, and that he has an 
 army to win for him that which is his own." 
 
 Bragelonne watched for some time the conduct of the two 
 lovers, listened to the loud and uncivil slumbers of Mani- 
 camp. who snored as imperiously as though he had his blue- 
 and-gold, instead of his violet suit, and then turned toward 
 the night breeze which bore toward him, he seemed to 
 think, the distant song of the nightingale; and, after hav- 
 ing laid in a due provision of melancholy, another nocturnal 
 malady, he retired to rest, thinking that with regard to his 
 own love afEair, perhaps four or six eyes, quite as ardent as 
 those of De Guiche and Buckingham, were coveting his 
 own idol in the chateau at Blois. 
 
 "And Mademoiselle de Montalais is by no means a very 
 safe garrison," said he to bi^elf, as he sighed aloud. 
 
74 TEK TEARS LATER. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 FROM HAVRE TO PARIS. 
 
 The next day the fetes took place, accompanied by all 
 the pomp and animation which the resources of the town 
 and the natural disposition of men's minds could supply. 
 During the last few hours spent in Havre every prepara- 
 tion for the departure had been made. After madame had 
 taken leave of the English fleet, and once again had 
 saluted the country in saluting its flags, she entered the 
 carriage prepared for her, surrounded by a brilliant escort. 
 De Guiche had hoped that the Duke of Buckingham would 
 accompany the admiral to England; but Buckmgham suc- 
 ceeded in demonstrating to the queen that there would be 
 great impropriety in allowing madame to proceed to Paris 
 almost entirely alone. As soon as it had been settled that 
 Buckingham was to accompany madame the young duke 
 selected a court of gen'.lemen and officers to form part of 
 his own suite, so th. t it was almost an army which pro- 
 ceeded toward Paris, scattering gold, and exciting the live- 
 liest demonstrations as they passed through the different 
 towns and villages on the route. The weather was verj 
 fine. France is a beautiful country, especially along the 
 route by which the procession passed. Spring cast its flow- 
 ers and its perfumed foliage upon their path. Normandy, 
 with its vast variety of vegetation, its blue skies and silvei 
 rivers, displayed itself in all the loveliness of a paradise foi 
 the new sister of the king. Fetes and brilliant displays re- 
 ceived them everywhere along the line of march. De 
 Guiche and Buckingham forgot everything; De Guiche, in 
 his anxiety to prevent any fresh attempts on the part of 
 the duke, and Buckingham, in his desire to awaken in the 
 heart of the princess a softer remembrance of the country, 
 to which the recollection of many happy days belonged. 
 But, alas! the poor duke could perceive that the image of 
 that country so cherished by himself became, from day to 
 day, more and more effaced in madame's mind, in exact pro- 
 portion as her affection for Prance became more deeply 
 engraved on her heart. In fact, it was not difficult to per- 
 ceive that his most devoted attention awakened no acknowl- 
 edgment, and that the grace with which he rode one of his 
 most fiery horses was thrown away, for it was only casually 
 and by the merest accident that the princess' eyes were 
 turned toward him. In vain did he try, in order to fiz 
 
TEIT TEARS LATER. 7S 
 
 upon himself one of those looks, which were thrown care- 
 lessly around, or bestowed elsewhere, to produce from the 
 animal he rode its greatest display of strength, speed, tem- 
 per, and address; in vain did he, by exciting his horse 
 almost to madness, spur him, at the risk of dashing himself 
 in pieces against the trees or of rolling in the ditches, over 
 the gates and barriers which they passed, or down the steep 
 declivities of the hills. Madame, whose attention had been 
 aroused by the noise, turned her head for a moment to ob- 
 serve the cause of it, and then, slightly smiling, again 
 turned round to her faithful guardians, Eaoul and De 
 Guiche, who were quietly riding at her carriage doors. 
 Buckingham felt himself a prey to all the tortures of 
 jealousy; an unknown, unheard-of anguish glided into his 
 veins and laid siege to his heart; and then, as if to show 
 that he knew the folly of his conduct, and that he wished 
 to correct, by the humblest submission, his flights of ab- 
 surdity, he mastered his horse, and compelled him, reeking 
 with sweat and flecked with foam, to champ his bit close 
 beside the carriage, amid the crowd of courtiers. Occa- 
 sionally he obtained a word from madame as a recompense, 
 and yet this word seemed almost a reproach to him. 
 
 "That is well, my lord," she said; "now you are reasona- 
 ble." 
 
 Or, from Eaoul: 
 
 "Your grace is killing your horse." 
 
 Buckingham listened patiently to Eaoul's remarks, for 
 he instinctively felt, without having had any proof that 
 such was the case, that Eaoul checked the display of De 
 G niche's feelings, and that, had it not been for Eaoul, some 
 mad act or proceeding, either of the count or of Bucking- 
 ham himself, would have brought about an open rupture 
 or a disturbance, and perhaps even exile itself. From the 
 moment of that excited conversation which the two young 
 men had had in front of the tents at Havre, when Eaoul 
 had made the duke perceive the impropriety of his conduct, 
 Buckingham had felt himself attracted toward Eaoul almost 
 in spite of himself. He often entered into conversation 
 with him, and it was nearly always to talk to him either of 
 his father or of D'Artagnan, their mutual friend, in whose 
 praise Buckingham was nearly as enthusiastic as Eaoul. 
 Eaoul endeavored, as much as possible, to make the conver- 
 sation turn upon this subject in De Wardes' presence, who 
 had, during the whole journey, been exceedingly annoyed 
 at the superior position taken by Bragelonne, and especially 
 
76 "' TElf TEARS LATEB. 
 
 by his influence over De Guiche. De "Wardes had that 
 keen and observant penetration which all evil natures pos- 
 sess; he had immediately remarked De Guiche's melancholy, 
 and the nature of his regard for the princess. Instead, 
 however, of treating the subject with the same reserve 
 which Eaoul had practiced; instead of regarding with that 
 respect, which was their due, the obligations and duties of 
 society, De Wardes resolutely attacked in the count that 
 ever-sounding chord of juvenile audacity and egotistical 
 pride. It happened one evening, during a halt at Nantes, 
 that while De Guiche and De Wardes were leaning against 
 a barrier, engaged in conversation, Buckingham and Eaoul 
 were also talking together as they walked up and down. 
 Manicamp was engaged in devotional attentions to the prin- 
 cesses, who already treated him without any reserve, on 
 account of his versatile fancy, his frank courtesy of man- 
 ner, and conciliatory disposition. 
 
 "Confess," said De Wardes, "that you are really ill, and 
 that your pedagogue of a friend has not succeeded in cur- 
 ing you." 
 
 "I do not understand you," said the count. 
 
 "And yet it is easy enough; you are dying for love." 
 
 "You are mad, De Wardes." 
 
 "Madness it would be, I admit, if madame were really in- 
 different to your martyrdom; but she takes so much notice 
 of it, observes it to such an extent, that she compromises 
 herself, and I tremble lest, on our arrival at Paris, Monsieur 
 de Bragelonne may not denounce both of you." 
 
 "For shame, De Wardes, again attacking De Bragelonne!" 
 
 "Come, come! a truce to child's play," replied the 
 count's evil genius, in an undertone; "you know as well as 
 I do what I mean. Besides, you must have observed how 
 the princess' glance softens as she looks at you; you can 
 tell, by the very inflection of her voice, what pleasure she 
 takes in listening to you, and can feel how thoroughly she 
 appreciates the verses you recite to her. You cannot deny, 
 too, that every morning she tells you how indifEerently she 
 slept the previous night." 
 
 "True, De Wardes, quite true; but what good is there in 
 your telling me all that?" 
 
 "Is it not important to know the exact position of affairs?" 
 
 "No, no; not when I am a witness of things which are 
 enough to drive one mad." 
 
 "Stay, stay," said De Wardes; "look, she calls you — do 
 you understand? Profit by the occasion, for your pedagogue 
 u not here." , 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. • . 
 
 De Guiche could not resist, an invincible attraction drew 
 him toward the princess. De Wardes smiled as he saw him 
 withdraw. 
 
 ''You are mistaken, monsieur," said Eaoul, suddenly 
 stepping across the barrier against which the previous 
 moment the two friends had been leaning, "the pedagogue 
 is here, and has overheard you." 
 
 De Wardes, at the sound of Eaoul's voice, which he 
 recognized without having occasion to look at him, half 
 drew his sword. 
 
 'Tut up your sword," said Eaoul; "you know perfectly 
 well that, until our journey is at an end, every demonstra- 
 tion of that nature is useless. Why do you distill into the 
 heart of the man you term your friend all the bitterness 
 which infects your own? As regards myself, you wish to 
 arouse a feeling of deep dislike against a man of honor — my 
 father's friend, and my own; and as for the count, you wish 
 him to love one who is destined for your master. Eeally, mon- 
 sieur, I should regard you as a coward, and a traitor, too, if 
 I did not, with greater justice, regard you as a madman." 
 
 "Monsieur," exclaimed De Wardes, exasperated, "I was 
 deceived, I find, in terming you a pedagogue. The tone 
 you assume, and the style which is peculiarly your own, is 
 that of a Jesuit, and not of a gentleman. Discontinue, I 
 beg, whenever I am present, this style I complain of, and 
 the tone also. I hate Monsieur d'Artagnan because he was 
 guilty of a cowardly act toward my father." 
 
 "You lie, monsieur!" said Eaoul coolly. 
 
 "You give me the lie, monsieur?" exclaimed De Wardes. 
 
 "Why not, if what you assert be untrue?" 
 
 "You give me the lie, and do not draw your sword?" 
 
 "I have resolved, monsieur, not to kill you until ma- 
 dame shall have been delivered' up into her husband's 
 hands." 
 
 "Kill me? Believe me, monsieur, your schoolmaster's 
 rod does not kill so easily." 
 
 "No," replied Eaoul sternly; "but Monsieur d'Artag- 
 nan's sword kills; and not only do I possess his sword, but 
 he has himself taught me how to use it; and with that 
 sword, when a befitting time arrives, I shall avenge his 
 name — a name you have so dishonored." 
 
 "Take care, monsieur!" exclaimed De Wardes; "if you 
 do not immediately give me satisfaction I will avail myself 
 of every means to revenge myself." 
 
 "Indeed, monsieur," said Buckingham, suddenly appear- 
 
78 TEN" TEAKs LATEE. 
 
 ing upon the scene of action, "that is a threat which sounds 
 like assassination, and would, therefore, ill become a gen- 
 tleman." 
 
 "What did you say, my lord?" said De Wardes, turning 
 round toward him. 
 
 "I said, monsieur, that the words you have just spoken 
 are displeasing to my English ears." 
 
 "Very well, monsieur; if what you say is true," exclaimed 
 De Wardes, thoroughly incensed, "I shall at least find in 
 you one who will not escape me. Understand my words as . 
 you like." ; 
 
 "I understand them in the manner they cannot but be 
 understood," replied Buckingham, with that haughty tone 
 which characterized him, and which, even in ordinary con- 
 versation, gave a tone of defiance to everything he said: 
 "Monsieur de Bragelonne is my friend; you insult Monsieur 
 de Bragelonne, and you shall give me satisfaction for that 
 insult." 
 
 De Wardes cast a look upon De Bragelonne, who, faith- 
 ful to the character he had assumed, remained calm and 
 unmoved, even after the duke's defiance. 
 
 "It would seem that I did not insult Monsieur de Brage- 
 lonne, since Monsieur de Bragelonne, who carries a sword 
 by his side, does not consider himself insulted." 
 
 "At all events, you insult some one." 
 ' "Yes, I insulted Monsieur d'Artagnan," resumed De 
 Wardes, who had observed that this was the only means of 
 stinging Eaoul, so as to awaken his anger. 
 
 "That, then," said Buckingham, "is another matter." 
 
 "Precisely so," said De Wardes; "it is the province of 
 Monsieur d'Artagnan's friends to defend him." 
 
 "I am entirely of your opinion," replied the duke, who 
 had regained all his indifference of manner; "if Monsieur 
 de Bragelonne were oflEended, I could not reasonably be ex- 
 pected to espouse his quarrel, since he is himself here; but 
 when you say that it is a quarrel of Monsieur d'Artag- 
 nan " 
 
 "You will, of course, leave me to deal with the matter," 
 said De Wardes. 
 
 "Nay, the very contrary, for I draw my sword," said 
 _ Buckingham, unsheathing it as he spoke; "for if Monsieur 
 d'Artagnan injured your father, he rendered, or, at least, 
 did all that he could to render, a great service to mine." 
 
 De Wardes seemed thundertsruck. 
 
 "Monsieur d'Artagnan," continued Buckingham, "is 
 
TEN TEAES LATER. 79 
 
 the bravest gentleman I know. I shall be delighted, as I 
 owe him many personal obligations, to settle tLem with 
 you, by crossing my sword with yours." 
 
 At the same moment Buckingham drew his sword grace- 
 fully from its scabbard, saluted Kaoul, and put himself on 
 guard. 
 
 De Wardes advanced a step to meet him. 
 
 "Stay, gentlemen," said Eaoul, advancing toward them 
 and placing his own sword between the combatants, "the 
 aiJair is hardly worth the trouble of blood being shed almost 
 in the presence of the princess. Monsieur de Wardes 
 speaks ill of Monsieur d'Artagnan, with whom he is not 
 even acquainted." 
 
 "What, monsieur," said De Wardes, setting his teeth 
 hard together, and resting the point of his sword on the toe 
 of his boot, "do you assert that I do not know Monsieur 
 d'Artagnan?" 
 
 "Certainly not; you do not know him," replied Eaoul 
 coldly, "and you are even not aware where he is to be 
 found." 
 
 "Not know where he is?" 
 
 "Such must be the case, since you fix your quarrel with 
 him upon strangers, instead of seeking Monsieur d'Artag- 
 nan where he is to be found." 
 
 De Wardes turned pale. 
 
 "Well, monsieur," continued Eaoul, "I will tell you 
 where Monsieur d'Artagnan is; he is now in Paris; when 
 on duty he is to be met with at the Louvre — when not so, 
 in the Eue des Lombards. Monsieur d'Artagnan can be 
 easily discovered at either of those two places. Having, 
 therefore, as you assert, so many causes of complaint against 
 him, you do not show your courage in not seeking him out, 
 to afford him an opportunity of giving you that satisfac- 
 tion you seem to ask of every one but of himself." 
 
 De Wardes passed his hand across his forehead, which 
 was covered with perspiration. 
 
 "For shame. Monsieur de Wardes! so quarrelsome a dis- 
 position is hardly becoming after the publication of the 
 edicts against duels. Pray think of that; the king will be 
 incensed at our disobedience, particularly at such a time; 
 and his majesty will be in the right." 
 
 "Mere excuses," murmured De Wardes; "mere pretexts." 
 
 "Eeally, my dear Monsieur de Wardes," resumed Eaoul, 
 "such remarks are the merest idle talk; you know very well 
 that the Duke of Buckingham is a man of undoubted 
 
80 TEN- TEAHS 
 
 Jj-fV^ AJXlia 
 
 courage, who has already foughb ten duels, and will proba- 
 bly tight eleven. His name alone is significant enough. As 
 far as I am concerned, you are well aware that I can fight 
 also. I fought at Sens, at Bleneau, at the Dunes in front 
 of the artillery, a hundred paces in front of the line, while 
 you — 1 say this parenthetically — were a hundred paces be- 
 hind it. True it is that on that occasion there were by far 
 too great a concourse of persons present for your courage 
 to be observed, and on that account, perhaps, you did not 
 reveal it; while here, it would be a display, and would ex- 
 cite reJiark — you wish that others should talk about you, 
 in what manner you do not care. Do not depend upon 
 me, Monsieur de Wardes, to assist you in your designs, for 
 I shall certainly not afford you that pleasure." 
 
 "Sensibly observed," said Buckingham, putting up hig 
 sword, "and I ask your forgiveness. Monsieur de Brage- 
 lonne, for having allowed myself to yield to a first impulse." 
 
 De Wardes, however, on the contrary, perfectly furious, 
 bounded forward and raised his sword threateningly against 
 Eaoul, who had scarcely time to put himself in a posture of 
 defense. 
 
 "Take care, monsieur," said Bragelonne tranquilly, "or 
 you will put out one of my eyes." 
 
 "You will not fight, then?" said De "Wardes. 
 
 "Not at this moment; but this I promise to do, imme- 
 diately on our arrival at Paris; I will conduct you to Mon- 
 sieur d'Artagnan, to whom you shall detail all the causes of 
 complaint you ' have against him. Monsieur d'Artagnan 
 will solicit the king's permission to measure swords with 
 you. The king will yield his consent, and when you shall 
 have received the sword-thrust in due course, you will con- 
 sider, in a calmer frame of mind, the precepts of the Gospel 
 which enjoin forgetfulness of injuries." 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed De Wardes, furious at this imperturba- 
 ble coolness, "one can clearly see you are half a bastard. 
 Monsieur de Bragelonne." 
 
 Eaoul became as pale as death; his eyes flashed like light- 
 ning, and made De Wardes fall back. Buckingham also, 
 who had perceived their expression, threw himself between 
 the two adversaries, whom he had expected to see precipi- 
 tate themselves on each other. De Wardes had reserved 
 this injury for the last; he clasped his sword tight in his 
 hand, and awaited the encounter. 
 
 "You are right, monsieur," said Eaoul, mastering his 
 emotion, "I am only acquainted with my father's name; 
 
TEN YBABS LATER. 81 
 
 but I know too well that the Comte de la Fere is too up- 
 right and honorable a man to allow me to fear for a single 
 moment that there is, as you seem to say, any stain upon 
 my birth. My ignorance, therefore, of my mother's name 
 is a misfortune for me, and not a reproach. You are de- 
 ficient in loyalty of conduct; you are wanting in courtesy 
 in reproaching me with misfortune. It matters little, how- 
 ever, the insult has been given, and I consider myself in- 
 sulted accordingly. It is quite understood, then, that after 
 you shall have received satisfaction from Monsieur d'Ar 
 tagnan, you will settle your quarrel with me." 
 
 "I admire your prudence, monsieur," replied De Wardes, 
 with a bitter smile; "a little while ago you promised me a 
 sword-thrust from Monsieur d'Artagnan, and now, after I 
 shall have received his, you offer me one from yourself." 
 
 "Do not disturb yourself," replied Eaoul, with concen- 
 trated anger; "in all affairs of that nature Monsieur d'Ar- 
 tagnan is exceedingly skillful, and I will beg him as a favor 
 to treat you as he did your father; in other words, to spare 
 your life at least, so as to leave me the pleasure, after your 
 recovery, of killing you outright; for you have a bad heart, 
 Monsieur de Wardes, and in very truth, too many precau- 
 tions cannot be taken against you." 
 
 "I shall take my precautions against you," said De 
 Wardes; "be assured of it." 
 
 "Allow me, monsieur," said Buckingham, "to translate 
 your remark by a piece of advice I am about to give Mon- 
 sieur de Bragelonne; Monsieur de Bragelonne, wear a 
 cuirass." 
 
 De Wardes clinched his hands. 
 
 "Ah!" said he, "you two gentlemen intend to wait until 
 you have taken that precaution before you measure your 
 swords against mine." 
 
 "Very well, monsieur," said Eaoul, "since you positively 
 will have it so; let us settle the affair now." « 
 
 And drawing his sword, he advanced toward De Wardes. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" said Buckingham. 
 
 "Be easy," said Eaoul; "it will not be very long." 
 
 De Wardes placed himself on his guard; their swords 
 crossed. De Wardes flew upon Eaoul with such impetuosity 
 that at the first clashing of the steel blades Buckingham 
 clearly saw that Eaoul was only trifling with his adver- 
 sary. Buckingham stepped aside, and watched the strug- 
 gle. Eaoul was as calm as if he were handling a foil, 
 uistead of a swordj having retreated a step, he parried three 
 
82 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 or four fierce thrusts -which De Wardes made at him, caught 
 the sword of the latter within his own, sending it flying 
 twenty paces the other side of the barrier. Then, as De 
 Wardes stood disarmed and astounded at his defeat, Raoul 
 sheathed his sword, seized him by the collar and the waist- 
 band, and hurled him also to the other end of the barrier, 
 trembling and mad with rage. 
 
 "We shall meet again," murmured De Wardes, rising 
 from the ground and picking up his sword. 
 
 "I have done nothing for the last hour," said Eaoul, 
 "but say the same thing." 
 
 Then, turning toward the duke, he said: 
 
 "I entreat you to be silent about this affair; lam ashamed 
 to have gone so far, but my anger carried me away, and I 
 ask your forgiveness for it; forget it, too." 
 
 "Dear viscount," said the duke, pressing within his own 
 the vigorous and valiant hand of his companion, "allow me, 
 on the contrary, to remember it, and to look after your 
 safety; that man is dangerous; he will kill you." 
 
 "My father," replied Eaoul, "lived for twenty years 
 under the menace of a much more formidable enemy, and 
 he still lives." 
 
 "Your father had good friends, viscount." 
 
 "Yes," sighed Kaoul, "such friends, indeed, that none 
 are now left like them." 
 
 "Do not say that, I beg, at the very moment I offer you 
 my friendship;" and Buckingham opened his arms to em- 
 brace Eaoul, who delightedly received the proffered alliance. 
 "In my family," added Buckingham, "you are aware. Mon- 
 sieur de Bragelonne, that we die to save those we love." 
 
 "I know it well, duke," replied Eaoul. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 AIT ACCOUNT OF WHAT THE CHEVALIER DE LOERAXlirB 
 THOUGHT OF MADAME. 
 
 Nothing further interrupted the journey. Under a pre- 
 text which was little remarked, M. de Wardes went forward in 
 advance of the others. He took Manicamp with him, for his 
 e(juable and dreamy disposition acted as a counterpoise to 
 his own. It is a subject of remark, that quarrelsome and 
 restless characters invariably seek the companionship of 
 gentle, timorous dispositions, as if the former sought, i» 
 
tEJSr TEARS LATER, 83 
 
 the contrast, a repose for their own ill-humor, and the lat- 
 ter a protection against their own weakness. Buckingham 
 and Bragelonne, admitting De Guiche into their friendship, 
 joined, in concert with him, the praises of the princess dur- 
 ing the whole of the journey. Bragelonne had, however, 
 insisted that their three voices should be in concert, instead 
 of singing in solo parts, as De Guiche and his rival seemed 
 to have acquired a dangerous habit of doing. This style of 
 harmony pleased the queen-mother exceedingly, but it was 
 n,ot, perhaps, so agreeable to the young princess, who was 
 an incarnation of coquetry, and who, witnout any fear as 
 far as her own voice was concerned, sought opportunities of 
 so perilously distinguishing herself. She possessed one of 
 those fearless and incautious dispositions which find gratifi- 
 oation in an excess of sensitiveness of feeling, and for whom, 
 also, danger has a certain fascination. And so her glances, 
 her smiles, her toilet, an inexhaustible armory of weapons 
 of offense, were showered down upon the three young men 
 with overwhelming force; and from her well-stored arsenal 
 issued glances, kindly recognitions, and a thousand other 
 little charming attentions which were intended to strike at 
 long range the gentlemen who formed the escort, the 
 townspeople, the officers of the different cities she passed 
 through, pages, populace, and servants; it was wholesale 
 slaughter, a general devastation. By the time madame 
 arrived at Paris, she had reduced to slavery about a hundred 
 thousand lovers, and brought in her train to Paris half a 
 dozen men who were almost mad about her, and two who 
 were quite out of their minds. Kaoul was the only person 
 who divined the power of this woman's attraction, and, as 
 his heart was already engaged, he arrived in the capital full 
 of indifference and distrust. Occasionally, during the 
 journey, he conversed with the Queen of England respect- 
 ing the power of fascination which madame possessed, and 
 the mother, whom so many misfortunes and deceptions had 
 taught experience, replied: 
 
 "Henrietta was sure to be illustrious in one way or an- 
 other, whether born in a palace or born in obscurity; for 
 she is a woman of great imagination, capricious, and self- 
 willed." 
 
 De Wardes and Manicamp, in their character of couriers, 
 had announced the princess' arrival. The procession was 
 met at Nanterre by a brilliant escort of cavaliers and car- 
 riages. It was Monsieur himself, who, followed by the 
 Chevalier de Lorraine and by his favorites, the latter being 
 
84 TEN TEAKS LATER. 
 
 themselves followed by a portion of the king's military 
 household, had arrived to meet his aflfianced bride. At St. 
 Germain the princess and her mother had changed their 
 heavy traveling-carriage, somewhat impaired by the jour- 
 ney, for a light, richly decorated chariot drawn by six 
 horses with white-and-gold harness. Seated in this open 
 carriage, as though upon a throne, and beneath a parasol of 
 embroidered silk, fringed with feathers, sat the young and 
 lovely princess, on whose beaming face were reflected the 
 softened rose-tints which suited her delicat'j skin to perfec- 
 tion. Monsieur, on reaching the carriage, was struck by 
 her beauty; he showed his admiration in so marked a man- 
 ner that the Chevalier de Lorraine shrugged his shoulders 
 as he listened to his compliments, while Buckingham and 
 De Guiche were almost heart-broken. After the usual 
 courtesies had been rendered, and the ceremony completed, 
 the procession slowly resumed the road to Paris. The pre- 
 sentations had been carelessly made, and Buckingham, with 
 the rest of the English gentlemen, had been introduced to 
 Monsieur, from whom they had received but a very indiffer- 
 ent attention. But, during their progress, as he observed 
 that the duke devoted himself with his accustomed earnest- 
 ness to the carriage door, he asked the Chevaliez: de Lor- 
 raine, his inseparable companion: 
 
 "Who is that cavalier?" 
 
 "He was presented to your highness a short time since; 
 it is the handsome Duke of Buckingham." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I remember." 
 
 "Madame's knight," added the favorite, with an inflec- 
 tion of the voice which envious minds can alone give to the 
 simplest phrases. 
 
 "What do you say?" replied the prince. 
 
 "I said 'madame's knight.' " 
 
 "Has she a recognized knight, then?" 
 
 "One would think you can judge of that for yourself; 
 look, only, how they are laughing and flirting. All thre» 
 of them." 
 
 "What do you mean by all three?" 
 
 "Do you not sec that be Guiche is one of the party?" 
 
 "Yes, I see. But what does that prove?" 
 
 "That madame has two admirers instead of one." 
 
 "You poison everything, viper!" 
 
 "I poison nothing. Ah! your royal highness' mind is 
 very perverted. The honors of the kingdom of France are 
 being paid to your wife, and you are not satisfied." 
 
TEN yeaks later. 85 
 
 The Duke of Orleans dreaded the satirical humor of the 
 Chevalier de Lorraine whenever he found it reached a cer- 
 tain degree of bitterness, and he changed the conversation 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Ihe princess is pretty/' said he very negligently, as if 
 h« were speaking of a stranger. 
 
 "Yes," replied the chevalier, in the same tone. 
 
 "You say yes' like a 'no.' She has very beautiful black 
 eyes." 
 
 "Yes, but small." 
 
 "That is so, but they are brilliant. She has a good 
 fig.ure." 
 
 "Her figure is a little spoiled, my lord." 
 
 "I do not deny it. She has a noble appearance." 
 
 "Yes, but her face is thin." 
 
 "I thought her teeth beautiful." 
 
 "They can easily be seen, for her mouth is large enough. 
 Decidedly, I was wrong, my lord; you are certainly hand- 
 somer than your wife." 
 
 "But do you think me as handsome as Buckingham?" 
 
 "Certainly; and he thinks so, too; for, look, my lord, he 
 is redoubling his attentions to madame to prevent your 
 effacing the impression he has made." 
 
 Monsieur made a movement of impatience, but as he 
 noticed a smile of triumph pass across the chevalier's lips, 
 he drew up his horse to a foot-pace. 
 
 "Why," said he, "should I occupy myself any longer 
 about my cousin? Do I not already know her? Were we 
 not brought up together? Did I not see her at the Louvre 
 when she was quite a child?" 
 
 "A great change has taken place in her since then, prince. 
 At the period you allude to she was somewhat less brilliant, 
 and somewhat less proud, too. One evening, particularly, 
 you may remember, my lord, the king refused to dance with 
 her, because he thought her plain and badly dressed." 
 
 These words made the Duke of Orleans frown. It was by 
 no means flattering for him to marry a princess of whom, 
 when young, the king had not thought much. He might 
 probably have replied, but at this moment De Guiche 
 quitted the carriage to join the prince. He had remarked 
 the prince and the chevalier together, and full of anxious 
 attention; he seemed to try and guess the nature of the 
 remarks which they had just exchanged. The chevalier, 
 ■whether he had some treacherous object in view, or from 
 jjnprndence, did not take the trouble to dissimulate. 
 
86 TEK TEARS LATER. 
 
 "Count," he said, "you're a man of excellent taste." 
 
 "Thank you for the compliment," replied De Guiche; 
 "but why do you say that?" 
 
 "Well, I appeal to his highness." 
 
 "No doubt of it," said Monsieur; "and Guiche knows 
 perfectly well that I regard him as a most finished cavalier." 
 
 "Well, since that is decided, I resume. You nave been 
 in the princess' society, count, for the last eight days, have 
 you not?" 
 
 "Yes," replied De Guiche, coloring in spite of himself. 
 
 "Well, then, tell us frankly, what do you think of her 
 personal appearance?" 
 
 "Of her personal appearance?" returned De Guiche, 
 stupefied. 
 
 "Yes; of her appearance, of her mind, of herself, in 
 fact." 
 
 Astounded by this question, De Guiche hesitated an- 
 swering. 
 
 "Come, come, De Guiche," resumed the chevalier laugh- 
 ingly, "tell us your opinion frankly; the prince commands 
 it." , 
 
 "Yes, yes," said the prince; "be frank." 
 
 De Guiche stammered out a few unintelligible words. 
 
 "I am perfectly well aware," returned Monsieur, "that 
 the subject is a delicate one, but you know you can tell me 
 everything. What do you think, of her?" 
 
 In order to avoid betraying his real thoughts, De Guiche 
 had recourse to the only defense which a man taken by sur- 
 prise really has, and accordingly told an untruth. 
 
 "I do not find madame," he said, "either good or bad 
 looking, yet rather good than bad looking." 
 
 "What! count," exclaimed the chevalier, "you who went 
 into such ecstasies and uttered so many exclamations at the 
 sight of her portrait." 
 
 De Guiche colored violently. Very fortunately, his 
 horse, which was slightly restive, enabled him by a sudden 
 plunge to conceal his agitation. 
 
 "What portrait?" he murmured. Joining them again. 
 
 The chevalier had not taken his eyes off him. 
 
 "Yes, the portrait. Was not the miniature a good like- 
 ness?" 
 
 "I do not remember. I have forgotten the portrait; it 
 has quite escaped my recollection." 
 
 "And yet it made a very marked impression upon you," 
 
 §aid the chevalierr 
 
TEK TEAKS LATER. 87 
 
 "Thai! is not unlikely." 
 
 "Is she clever, at all events?" inquired the duke. 
 
 "I believe so, my lord." 
 
 "Is Monsieur de Buckingham so, too?" said the chevalier. 
 
 "I do not know." 
 
 "My own opinion is, that he must be," replied the cheva- 
 lier; "for he makes madame laugh, and she seems to take 
 no little pleasure in his society, which never happens to a 
 clever woman when in the company of a simpleton." 
 _ "Of course, then, he must be clever," said De Guiche 
 simply. 
 
 At this moment Eaoul opportunely arrived, seeing how 
 De Guiche was pressed by his dangerous, questioner, to 
 whom he addressed a remark, and so changed the conversa- 
 tion. The entree was brilliant and joyous. 
 
 The king, in honor of his brother, had directed that the 
 festivities should be oh a scale of the greatest magnificence. 
 Madame and her mother alighted at the Louvre, where, 
 during their exile, they had so gloomily submitted to 
 obscurity, misery, and privations of every description. 
 That palace, which had been so inhospitable a residence for 
 the unhappy daughter of Henry IV., the naked walls, the 
 sunken floorings, the ceilings covered with cowbebs, the 
 vast but broken chimney-places, the cold hearths on which 
 the charity extended to them by parliament had hardly 
 permitted a fire to glow, was completely altered in appear- 
 ance. The richest hangings and the thickest carpets, glis- 
 tening flagstones, and pictures, with their richly gilded 
 frames; in every direction could ba seen candelabras, mir- 
 rors, and furniture and fittings of the most sumptuous 
 character; in every direction also were guards of the proud- 
 est military bearing with floating plumes, crowds of attend- 
 ants and coi:^rtiers in the antechambers and upon the stair- 
 cases. In the courtyards, where the grass had formerly 
 been accustomed to grow, as if the ungrateful Mazarin had 
 thought it a good idea to let the Parisians perceive that 
 solitude and disorder were, with misery and despair, the 
 proper accompaniments of a fallen monarchy; the immense 
 courtyards, formerly silent and desolate, were now thronged 
 with courtiers whose horses were pacing and prancing to and 
 fro. The carriages were filled with young and beautiful 
 women, who awaited the opportunity of saluting, as she 
 passed, the daughter of that daughter of France, who, dur- 
 ing her widowhood and exile, had sometimes gone without 
 jvood for her fire, or bread for her table, whom the meanest 
 
88 TEK TEARS LATER. 
 
 attendants at the chateau had treated with indifference and 
 contempt. And so Mme. Henrietta once more returned to 
 the Louvre, with her heart more swollen with grief and 
 bitter recollections than her daughter, whose disposition 
 was fickle and forgetful, returned to it with triumph and 
 delight. She knew but too well that present brilliant recep- 
 tion was paid to the happy mother of a king restored to his 
 throne, and that throne second to none in Europe, while 
 the worse than indifferent reception she had before met 
 with was paid to her, the daughter of Henry IV., as a 
 bunishment for having been unhappy. After the princesses 
 had been installed in their apartments and had rested them- 
 selves, the gentlemen who had formed their escort having, 
 in like manner, recovered from their fatigue, they resumed 
 their accustomed habits and occupations. Eaoul began by 
 setting off to see his father, who had left for Blois. He 
 then tried to see M. d'Artagnan, who, however, being en- 
 gaged in the organization of a military household for the 
 king, could not be found anywhere. Bragelonne next 
 sought out De Guiche, but the comte was occupied in a 
 long conference with his tailors and with Manicamp, which 
 consumed his whole time. With the Duke of Buckingham 
 he fared still worse, for the duke was purchasing horses 
 after horses, diamonds upon diamonds. He monopolized 
 every embroiderer, jeweler, and tailor that Paris could boast 
 of. Between De Guiche and himself a vigorous contest 
 ensued, invariably a most courteous one, in which, in order 
 to insure success, the duke was ready to spend a million; 
 while the Marechal de Grammont had only allowed his son 
 sixty thousand francs. So Buckingham laughed and spent 
 his money. Guiche groaned in despair, and would have 
 shown it more violently, had it not been for the advice De 
 Bragelonne gave him. 
 
 "A million!" repeated De Guiche daily; "I must submit. 
 Why will not the marechal advance me a portion of my 
 patrimony?" 
 
 "Because you will throw it away," said Eaoul. 
 
 "What can that matter to him? If I am to die of it, I 
 shall die of it, and then I shall need nothing further." 
 
 "But what need is there to die?" said Eaoul. 
 
 "I do not wish to be conquered in elegance by an English- 
 man." 
 
 "My dear comte," said Manicamp, "elegance is not a 
 costly commodity, it is only a very difficult one." 
 
 "Yes, but difficult things cost a good deal of money, and 
 I have only got sixty thausand francs." 
 
TEK TEARS LATER. 89 
 
 "A very embarrassing state of things, truly," said De 
 Wardes; "spend as much as Buckingham; there is only 
 nine liundred and forty thousand francs difference." 
 
 "Where am I to find them?" 
 
 "Get into debt." 
 
 "I am so already." 
 
 "A greater reason for getting further." 
 
 Advice like this resulted in De Guiche becoming excited 
 to such an extent that he committed extravagances where 
 'Buckingham only incurred expenses. The rumor of this 
 extravagant profuseness delighted the hearts of all the shop- 
 keepers in Paris; from the hotel of the Duke of Bucking- 
 ham to that of the Comte de Grammont nothing but won- 
 ders was dreamed of. While all this was going on madame 
 was resting herself, and Bragelonne was engaged in writing 
 to Mile, de la Valliere. He had already dispatched four 
 letters, and not an answer to any one of them had been re- 
 ceived, when, on the very morning fixed for the niarriage 
 ceremony, which was to take place in the chapel at the 
 Palais Eoyal, Eaoul, who was dressing, heard his valet an- 
 nounce M. de Malicornje. 
 
 "What can this Malicorne want with me?" thought 
 Raoul; and then said to his valet, "Let him wait." 
 
 "It is a gentleman from Blois," said the valet. 
 
 "Admit him at once," said Eaoul eagerly. 
 
 Malicorne entered as brilliant as a star, and wearing a 
 superb sword at his side. After having saluted Raoul most 
 gracefully, he said: 
 
 "Monsieur de Bragelonne, I am the bearer of a thousand 
 compliments from a lady to you." 
 
 Eaoul colored. 
 
 "Prom a lady," said he — "from a lady of Blois?" 
 
 "Yes, monsieur; from Mademoiselle de Montalais." 
 
 "Thank you, monsieur; I recollect you now," said Eaoul. 
 '^''And what does Mademoiselle de Montalais require of me?" 
 
 Malicorne drew four letters from his pocket, which he 
 offered to Eaoul. 
 
 "My own letters! is it possible?" he said, turning pale; 
 "my letters, and the seals unbroken?" 
 
 "Monsieur, your letters did not find, at Blois, the person 
 to whom they were addressed, and so they are now returned 
 to you." 
 
 "Mademoiselle de la Valliere has left Blois, then?" ex- 
 claimed Eaoul. 
 
 "Eight days ago," 
 
80 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "Where is she, then?" 
 
 "At Paris." 
 
 "How was it known that these letters were from me?" 
 
 "Madmoiselle de Montalais recognized your handwriting 
 and your seal," said Malicorne. 
 
 Eaoul colored and smiled. 
 
 "Mademoiselle de Montalais is exceedingly amiable," he 
 »aid; "she is always kind and charming." 
 
 "Always, monsieur." 
 
 "Surely she could give me some precise information about 
 Mademoiselle de la valliere. I could never find her in this 
 immense city." 
 
 Malicorne drew another packet from his pocket. 
 
 "You may possibly find in this letter what you are 
 Anxious to learn." 
 
 Eaoul hurriedly broke the seal. The writing was that of 
 Mile. Aure, and inclosed were these words: 
 
 "Paris, Palais Eoyal. The day of the nuptial blessing." 
 
 "What does this mean?" inquired Eaoul of Malicorne; 
 "you probably know." 
 
 "I do, monsieur." 
 
 "For pity's sake, tell me, then!" 
 
 "Impossible, monsieur." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "Because Mademoiselle Aure has forbidden me to do so." 
 
 Eaoul looked at his strange companion, and remained 
 silent. 
 
 "At least, tell me whether it is fortunate or unfortunate." 
 
 "That you will see." 
 
 "You are very severe in your reservations." 
 
 "Will you grant me a favor, monsieur?" said Malicorne. 
 
 "In exchange for that you refuse me?" 
 
 "Precisely." , 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "I have the greatest desire to see the ceremony, and I 
 have no ticket to admit me, in spite of all the steps I have 
 taken to secure one. Could you get me admitted?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Do me this kindness, then, I entreat." 
 
 "Most willingly, monsieur; come with me." 
 
 "I am exceedingly indebted to you, monsieur," said 
 Malicorne. 
 
 "I thought you were a friend of Monsieur de Manicamp?" 
 
TEN TEARS LATEE. 91 
 
 "I am, monsieur; but this morning I was with him as he 
 ■w-as dressing, and I let a bottle of blacking fall over 
 his new dress, and he flew at me with his sword in his hand, 
 so that I was obliged to make my escape. That is the 
 reason I could not ask him for a ticket; he would have 
 killed me." 
 
 "I can believe it," said Eaoul. "I know Manicamp is 
 capable of killing a man who has been unfortunate enough 
 to commit the crime you have to reproach yourself with in 
 his eyes, but I will repair the mischief as far as you are con- 
 cerned; I will but fasten my cloak, and shall then be ready 
 to serve you, not only as a guide, but as an introducer also. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE SURPRISE OF MME. DE MONTALAIS. 
 
 Madame's marriage was celebrated in the chapel of the 
 Palais Royal, in the presence of a crowd of courtiers, who 
 had been most scrupulously selected. However, notwith- 
 standing the marked favor which an invitation indicated, 
 Raoul, faithful to his promise to Malicorne, who was so 
 anxious to witness the ceremony, obtained admission for 
 him. After he had fulfilled this engagement, Raoul ap- 
 proached De Guiche, who, as if in contrast with his magnifi- 
 cent costume, exhibited a countenance so utterly cast down 
 by intense grief that the Duke of Buckingham was the 
 only one present who could contend with him as far as 
 extreme pallor and dejection were concerned. 
 
 "Take care, count," said Raoul, approaching his friend, 
 and preparing to support him at the moment the archbishop 
 blessed the married couple. In fact, the Prince of Conde 
 was attentively scrutinizing these two images of desolation, 
 standing like caryatides at either side of the nave of the 
 church. The count, consequently, kept a mote careful 
 watch over himself. 
 
 At the termination of the ceremony the king and queen 
 passed onward toward the grand reception-room, where 
 madame and her suite were to be presented to them. It 
 was remarked that the king, who had seemed more than 
 surprised at his sister-in-law's appearance, was most flatter- 
 ing in his compliments to her. Again, it was remarked 
 that the queen-mother, fixing a long and thoughtful gaze 
 upon Buckingham, leaned toward Mme. da Motteville as 
 
92 TEN" YEARS LATER. 
 
 though to ask her, "Do you not see how much he resembles 
 his father?" and finally it was remarked that Monsieur 
 watched everybody, and seemed very discontented. After 
 the rece]rtion of the princess and ambassadors, iMonsieur 
 solicited the king's permission to jjresent to him as well as 
 to madame the persons belonging to their aew household. 
 
 "Are you aware, vicomte," inquired the Prince de Conde, 
 of Eaoul, "whether the household has been selected by a 
 person of taste, and whether there are any faces worth 
 looking at?"' 
 
 "I have not the slightest idea, monseigneur," replied 
 Eaoul. 
 
 "You affect ignorance, surely." 
 
 "In what way, monseigneur?" 
 
 "You are a friend of De Guiche, who is one of the friends 
 of the prince." 
 
 "That may be so, monseigneur; but the matter having 
 no interest whatever for me, I never questioned De Guiche 
 on the subject; and Do Guiche, on his part, never having 
 been questioned, has not communicated any particulars to 
 me." 
 
 "But Manicamp?" 
 
 "It is true I saw Manicamp at Havre, and during the 
 journey here, but I was very careful to be as little inquisi- 
 tive toward him as I had been toward De Guiche. Besides, 
 is it likely that Manicamp should know anything of such 
 matters, for he is a person of only secondary importance?" 
 
 "My dear vicomte, do you not know better than that?" 
 said the prince. "Why, it is these persons of secondary 
 importance who, on such occasions, have all the influence; 
 and the truth is, that nearly everything has been done 
 through Manicamp's presentations to De Guiche, and 
 through De Guiche to Monsieur." 
 
 "I assure you, monseigneur, I was completely ignorant of 
 that," said Eaoul, "and what your highness does me the 
 honor to impart is perfectly new to me." 
 
 "I will most readily believe you, although it seems in- 
 credible; besides, Ave shall not have long to wait. See, the 
 flying squadron is advancing, as good Queen Catherine use 
 to say. Ah! ah! what pretty faces!" 
 
 A bevy of young girls at this moment entered the salon, 
 conducted by Mme. de Navailles, and to Manicamp's credit 
 be it said, if, indeed, he had taken that part in their selec- 
 tion which the Prince de Conde had assigned him, it was a 
 display calculated to dazzle those, Avho, like the prince. 
 
TEN- YEARS lATER. 93 
 
 could appreciate every character and style of beauty. A 
 young, fair-complexioned girl, from twenty to twenty- 
 one years of age, and whose large blue eyes flashed, as 
 she opened them, in the most dazzling manner, walked at 
 the head of the band and was the first presented. 
 
 "Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente," said Mme. de 
 Navailles to Monsieur, who, as he saluted his wife, repeated: 
 
 "Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente." 
 
 "Ah! ah!" said the Prince de Oond6 to Eaoul, "she 
 seems tolerable enough." 
 
 "Yes," said Eaoul, "but has a somewhat haughty style." 
 
 "Bah! we know these airs very well, vicomte; three 
 months hence she will be tame enough. But look! that, 
 indeed, is a pretty face." 
 
 "Yes," said Eaoul, "and one I am acquainted with." 
 
 "Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais," said Mme. de 
 Navailles. 
 
 The name and Christian name were carefully repeated by 
 Monsieur. 
 
 "Great heavens!" exclaimed Eaoul, fixing his bewildered 
 gaze upon the entrance doorway. 
 
 "What's the matter?" inquired the prince; "was it 
 Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais who made you utter such 
 a 'Great heavens!' " 
 
 "No, monseigneur, no," replied Eaoul, pale and trem- 
 bling. 
 
 "Well, then, if it be not Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais, 
 it is that pretty blonde who follows her. What beautiful 
 eyes! She is rather thin, but has fascinations without 
 number." 
 
 "Mademoiselle de la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere," said 
 Mme. de Navailles; and, as this name resounded through 
 his whole being, a cloud seemed to rise from his breast to 
 his eyes, so that he neither saw nor heard anything more; 
 and the prince, finding him nothing more than a mere echo 
 which remained silent under his railleries, moved forward 
 to inspect somewhat closer the beautiful girls whom his first 
 glance had already particularized. 
 
 "Louise here! Louise a maid of honor to madame!" mur- 
 mured Eaoul; and his eyes, which did not suffice to satisfy 
 his reason, wandered from Louise to Montalais. 
 
 The latter had already emancipated herself "from her 
 assumed timidity, which she only needed for the presenta- 
 tion and for her reverences. 
 
 Mile, de Montalais, from the corner of the room to which 
 
94 TEN fEAtis Later. 
 
 she had retired, was looking with no slight confidence at 
 the different persons present; and, having discovered Kaoul, 
 she amused herself with the profound astonishment which 
 her own and her friend's presence there had caused the un- 
 happy lover. Her merry and malicious look, which Eaoul 
 tried to avoid meeting, and yet which he sought inquiringly 
 from time to time, placed Eaoul on the rack. As for 
 Louise, whether from natural timidity, or from any other 
 reason for which Eaoul could not account, she kept her 
 eyes constantly cast down, and intimidated, dazzled, and 
 with impeded respiration, she withdrew herself as much as 
 possible aside, unaffected even by the knocks which Monta- 
 lais gave her with her elbow. The whole scene was a per- 
 fect enigma for Eaoul, the key to which he would have 
 given anything to obtain. But no one was there who could 
 assist him, not even Malicorne, who, a little uneasy at find- 
 ing himself in the presence of so many persons of good 
 birth, and not a little discouraged by Montalais' bantering 
 glances, had described a circle, and by degrees had suc- 
 ceeded in getting a few paces from the prince, behind the 
 group of maids of honor, and nearly within reach of Mile. 
 Aure's voice, she being the planet around which he, her 
 attendant satellite, seemed compelled to gravitate. As he 
 recovered his self-possession Eaoul fancied he recognized 
 voices on his right hand which were familiar to him, and he 
 perceived De Wardes, De Guiche, and the Chevalier de Lor- 
 raine, conversing together. It is true they were talking in 
 tones so low that the sound of their words could hardly be 
 heard in the vast apartment. To speak in that manner 
 from any particular place without bending down, or turning 
 round, or looking at the person with whom one might be 
 engaged in conversation, is a talent which cannot be imme- 
 diately acquired in perfection by newcomers. A long study 
 is needed for such conversations, which, without a look, 
 gesture, or movement of the head, seemed like the conver- 
 sation of a group of statues. In fact, in the king's and 
 queen's grand assemblies, while their majesties were speak- 
 ing, and while every one present seemed to be listening with 
 the most profound silence, some of these noiseless conversa- 
 tions took place, in which adulation was not the prevailing 
 feature. But Eaoul was one among others exceedingly 
 clever in this art, so much a matter of etiquette, that from 
 the movement of the lips he was often able to guess the 
 sense of the words. 
 
 "Who is that Montalais?" inquired De Wardes, "and 
 
TEK TEARS tATEE. 95 
 
 that La Valliere? What country-town have we had sent 
 here?" 
 
 "Montalais?" said the chevalier. "Oh, I know her; she 
 IS a good sort of a girl, whom we shall find amusing enough. 
 La Valliere is a charming girl, slightly lame." 
 
 "Ah, bah!" said De Wardes. 
 
 "Do not be absurd, De Wardes, there are some very 
 characteristic and ingenious Latin axioms upon lame ladies." 
 
 "Gentlemen, gentlemen," said De Guiche, looking at 
 Eaoul with uneasiness, "be a little careful, I entreat you." 
 
 But the uneasiness of the count, iti appearance, at least, 
 was not needed. Eaoul had preserved the firmest and most 
 indifferent countenance, although he had not lost a word 
 that had passed. He seemed to keep an account of the 
 insolence and license of the two speakers in order to settle 
 matters v,'ith them at the earliest opportunity. 
 
 De Wardes seemed to guess what was passing in his mind, 
 and continued: 
 
 "Who are these young ladies' lovers?" 
 
 "Montalais' lover?" said the chevalier. 
 
 "Yes, Montalais first." 
 
 "You, I, or De Guiche — whoever likes, in fact." 
 
 "And the other?" 
 
 "Mademoiselle de la Valliere?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Take care, gentlemen," exclaimed De Guiche, anxious 
 to put a stop to De Wardes' reply; "take care, madame is 
 listening to us." 
 
 Eaoul thrust his hand up to the wrist in his justau-corps 
 coat in great agitation. But the very malignity which he 
 saw was excited against these poor girls made him take a 
 serious resolution. 
 
 "Poor Louise," he thought, "has come here only with 
 an honorable object in view, and under honorable protec- 
 tion; and I must learn what that object is which she has in 
 view, and who it is that protects her." 
 
 And following Malicorne's maneuver, he made his way to- 
 ward a group of the maids of honor. The presentations 
 Boon terminated. The king, who had done nothing but 
 look at and admire madame, shortly afterward left the re- 
 ception-room accompanied by the two queens. The Cheva- 
 lier de Lorraine resumed his place beside Monsieur, and, as 
 he accompanied him, insinuated a few drops of the poison 
 which he had collected during the last hour, while looking 
 at some of the faces in the court, and suspecting that 
 
96 TEK YEARS LATER. 
 
 ■ some of their hearts might be happy. A few of the persons 
 present followed the king as he quitted the apartment; but 
 such of the courtiers as assumed an independence of char- 
 acter^ and professed a gallantry of disposition, began to 
 approach the ladies of the court. The prince paid his com- 
 pliments to Mile, de Tonnay-Charente, Buciiingham de- 
 voted himself to Mme. Ohalais and to Mile, de Lafayette, 
 whom madame had already distinguished by her notice, 
 and whom she held in high regard. As for the Oomte de 
 Guiche, who had abandoned Monsieur as soon as he could 
 approach madame alone, he conversed, with great anima- 
 tion, with Mme. de Valentinois, and with Miles, de Oregny 
 and de Chdtillon. 
 
 Amid these varied political and amorous interests, Mali- 
 corne was anxious to gain Montalais' attention; but the 
 latter preferred talking with Eaoul, even if it were only to 
 amuse herself with his numerous questions and his surprise. 
 Eaoul had gone direct to Mile, de la Valliere, and had 
 saluted her with the profoundest respect, at which Louise 
 blushed, and could not say a word. Montalais, however, 
 hurried to her assistance. 
 
 "Well, Monsieur le Vicomte, here we are, you see.'^ 
 
 "I do, indeed, see you," said Eaoul, smiling, "and it is 
 exactly because you are here that I wish to ask for some 
 explanation." 
 
 Malicorne approached the group with his most fascinat- 
 ing smile. 
 
 "Go away, Malicorne; really, you are exceedingly indis- 
 creet." 
 
 At this remark Malicorne bit his lips and retired a few 
 steps, without making any reply. His smile, however, 
 changed its expression, and from its former frankness, be- 
 came mocking in its expression. 
 
 "You wished for an explanation. Monsieur Eaoul?" in- 
 quired Montalais. 
 
 "It is surely, worth one, I think; Mademoiselle de la 
 Valliere a maid of honor to madame!" 
 
 "Why should not she be a maid of honor, as well as 
 myself?" inquired Montalais. 
 
 "Pray, accept my compliments, young ladies," said 
 Eaoul, who fancied he perceived they were not disposed to 
 answer him in a direct manner. 
 
 "Your remark was not made in a very complimentary 
 manner, vicomte." 
 
 "Mine?" 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 97 
 
 "Certainly; I appeal to Louise." 
 
 "Monsieur de Bragelonne probably thinks the position is 
 above my condition," said Louise hesitatingly. 
 
 "Assuredly not," replied Eaoul eagerly; "you know very 
 well that such is not my feeling; were you called upon to 
 occupy a queen's throne, I should not be surprised; how 
 mucli greater reason, then, such a position as this? The 
 only circumstance which amazes me is, that I should have 
 learned it to-day, and that only by mere accident." 
 
 "That is true,"' replied Montalais, with her usual giddi- 
 ness; "you know nothing about it, and there is no reason 
 why you should. Monsieur de Bragelonne had written 
 several letters to you, but your mother was the only person 
 who remained behind at Blois, and it was necessary to pre- 
 vent these letters falling into her hands; I intercepted 
 them, and returned them to Monsieur Eaoul, so that he be- 
 lieved you were still at Blois while you were here in Paris, 
 and had no idea whatever, indeed, how high you had risen 
 in rank." 
 
 "Did you not inform Monsieur Eaoul, as I begged you to 
 do?" 
 
 "Why should I? To give him an opportunity of making 
 some of his severe remarks and moral reflections, and to 
 undo what we had so much trouble in getting done?" 
 
 "Certainly not." 
 
 "Am I so very severe, then?" said Eaoul inquiringly. 
 
 "Besides," said Montalais, "it is sufficient to say that it 
 suited me. I was about setting off for Paris; you were 
 away; Louise was weeping her eyes out; interpret that as 
 you please; I begged a friend, a protector of mine, who had 
 obtained the appointment for me, to solicit one for Louise; 
 the appointment arrived. Louise left in order to get her 
 costume prepared; as I had my own ready, I remained be- 
 hind; I received your letters, and returned them to you, 
 adding a few words, promising you a surprise. Your sur- 
 prise IS before you, monsieur, and seems to be a fair one 
 enough; you have nothing more to ask. Come, Monsieur 
 Malicorne, it is now time to leave these young people to- 
 gether; they have many things to talk about; give me your 
 hand; I trust that you appreciate the honor which is con- 
 ferred upon you. Monsieur Malicorne." 
 
 "Forgive me," said Eaoul, arresting the giddy girl, and 
 giving to his voice n intonation the gravity of which con- 
 trasted with that of Montalais; "forgive me, but may I in- 
 quire the name of the protector you speak of — for if protec- 
 
98 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 tion be extended toward you, Mademoiselle Montalaia, and 
 for which, indeed, so many reasons exist," added Eaoul, 
 bowing, •'! do not see that the same reasons exist why 
 Mademoiselle de la Valliere should be similarly protected." 
 
 "But, Monsieur Eaoul," said Louise innocently, "there 
 is no difference in the matter, and I do not see why I should 
 not tell it you myself; it was Monsieur Malicorne who 
 obtained it for me." 
 
 Eaoul remained for a moment almost stupelSed, asking 
 himself if they were trifling with him; he then turned 
 round to interrogate Malicorne, but he had been hurried 
 away by Montalais, and was already at some distance from 
 them. Mile, de la Valliere attempted to follow her friend, 
 but Eaoul, with gentle authority, detained her. 
 
 "Louise, one word only, I beg." 
 
 "But, Monsieur Eaoul," said Louise, blushing, "we are 
 alone. Every one has left. They will become anxious, and 
 will be looking for us." 
 
 "Fear nothing," said the young man, smiling, "we are 
 neither of sufficient importance for our absence to be re- 
 marked." 
 
 "But I have my duty to perform. Monsieur Eaoul." 
 
 "Do not be alarmed, I am acquainted with the usages of 
 the court; you will not be on duty until to-morrow; a few 
 minutes are at your disposal, which will enable you to give 
 me the information I am about to have the' honor to ask 
 you." 
 
 "How serious you are. Monsieur Eaoul!" said Louise. 
 
 "Because the circumstance is a serious one. Are you 
 listening?" 
 
 "I am listening; I would only repeat, monsieur, that wa 
 are quite alone." 
 
 "You are right," said Eaoul; and, offering her his hand, 
 he led the young girl into the gallery adjoining the recep- 
 tion-room, the windows of which looked out upon the court- 
 yard. Every one hurried toward the middle window, which 
 had a balcony outside, from which all the details of the 
 slow and formal preparations for departure could be seen. 
 Eaoul opened one of the side windows, and then, being 
 alone with Louise, said to her: 
 
 "You know, Louise, that from my childhood I have re- 
 garded you as my sister, as one who has been the coufidnate 
 of all my troubles, to whom I have intrusted all my hopes." 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur Eaoul," she answered softly; "yes. 
 Monsieur Eaoul, I know that." 
 
TEN TEARS lATEK. 99 
 
 "You used, on your side, to show the same friendship 
 toward me, and had the same confidence in me. Why have 
 you not, on this occasion, been my friend, and why have 
 you shown a suspicion of me?" 
 
 Mile, de la Valliere did not answer. 
 
 "I had thought you loved me," said Eaoul, whose voice 
 became more and more agitated; "I had thought that you 
 had consented to all the plans which we had, together, laid 
 down for our own happiness, at the time when we wandered 
 up and down the large walks of Cour-Cheverny, and under 
 the avenue of poplar-trees leading to Blois. You do not 
 answer me, Louise." 
 
 "Is it possible," he inquired, breathing with difiBculty, 
 "that you no longer love me?" 
 
 "I did not say so," replied Louise softly. 
 
 "Oh! tell me the truth, I implore you; all my hopes in 
 life are centered in you; I chose you for your gentle and 
 simple tastes. Do not suffer yourself to be dazzled, Louise, 
 now that you are in the midst of a court where all that is 
 pure becomes corrupt — where all that is young soon grows 
 old. Louise, close your ears, so as not to hear what may 
 be said; shut your eyes, so as not to see the examples 
 before you; shut your lips, that you may not inhale the 
 corrupting influences about you. Without falsehood or 
 subterfuge, Louise, am I to believe what Mademoiselle de 
 Montalais stated? Louise, did you come to Paris because I 
 was no longer at Blois?" 
 
 La Valliere blushed and concealed her face in he»" hands. 
 
 "Yes, it was so, then!" exclaimed Eaoul delightedly; 
 *'that was, then, your reason for coming here. I love you 
 as I never yet loved you. Thanks, Louise, for this de- 
 Totedness; but measures must be taken to place you beyond 
 all insult, to secure you from every harm; Louise, a maid 
 of honor, in the court of a young princess in these times of 
 freedom of manners and inconstant affections — a maid of 
 honor is placed as an object of attack, without having any 
 means of defense afforded her; this state of things cannot 
 continue; you must be married in order to be respected." 
 
 "Married?" 
 
 "Yes, there is my hand, Louise; will you place your 
 hand within it?" 
 
 "But your father?" 
 
 "My father leaves me perfectly free." 
 
 "Yet " 
 
 "I understand your scruples, Louise; I will consult my 
 father." 
 
100 TEN YEABS LATER. 
 
 "Eeflect, Monsieur Eaoul; wait." 
 
 "Wait? It is impossible; reflect, Louise, when you are 
 concerned, it would be insulting to you; give me your hand, 
 dear Louise, I am my own master; my father will consent, 
 I know; give me your hand, do not keep me waiting thus; 
 one word in answer, one word only; if not, I shall begin to 
 think that in order to change you forever nothing more 
 was needed than a single step in the palace, a single breath 
 of favor, a smile from the queen, a single look from the 
 king." 
 
 ,1 Eaoul had no sooner pronounced this latter word than 
 'La Valliere became as pale as death, no doubt from her fear 
 at seeing the young man excite himself. With a movement 
 as rapid as thought, she placed both her hands in those of 
 Eaoul, and then fled without adding a syllable; disappeared 
 without casting a look behind her. Eaoul felt his whole 
 frame tremble at the contact of hei hand; he received the 
 compact as a solemn compact wrung by affection from her 
 child-like timidity. 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 THE CONSENT OF ATHOS. 
 
 Eaoul had quitted the Palais Eoyal full of ideas which 
 admitted of no delay in their execution. He mounted his 
 horse in the courtyard, and followed the road to Blois, 
 while the marriage festivities of Monsieur and the Princess 
 of England were being celebrated with great animation by 
 the courtiers, but to the great despair of De Guiche and 
 Buckingham. Eaoul lost no time on the road, and in six- 
 teen hours he arrived at Blois. As he traveled along he 
 arranged his arguments in the best manner. Fever also is 
 an argument that cannot be answered, and Eaoul had an 
 attack of fever. Athos was in his study, making some 
 additions to his memoirs, when Eaoul entered, accompanied 
 Dy Grimaud. Keen-sighted and penetrating, a mere glance 
 at his son told him that something extraordinary had 
 befallen him. 
 
 "You seem to have come on some matter of great impor- 
 tance," said he to Eaoul, after he had embraced him, and 
 pointing to a seat. 
 
 "Yes, monsieur," replied the young man; "and I entreat 
 
TEN TEAKS LATER. 101 
 
 .Toil to give me that same kind attention which has never 
 yet failed me." 
 
 ''Speak, Eaoul." 
 
 "I present the case to you, monsieur, free from all pref- 
 ace, for that would be unworthy of you. Madmeoiselle de 
 la Valliere is in Paris as one of madame's maids of honor. 
 I have pondered deeply on the matter; I love Madmeoiselle 
 de la Valliere above everything; and it is not proper to 
 leave her in a position where her reputation, her virtue 
 even, may be exposed. It is my wish, therefore, to marry 
 her, monsieur, and I have come to solicit your consent to 
 my marriage." 
 
 While this communication was being made to him Athos 
 had maintained the profoundest silence and reserve. Eaoul, 
 who had begun his address with an assumption of self- 
 possession, finished it by allowing a manifest emotion to 
 escape him at every word. Athos fixed upon Bragelonne a 
 searching look, overshadowed indeed by a slight sadness. 
 
 "You have reflected well upon it?" he inquired. 
 
 "Yes, monsieur." 
 
 "I believe you have already been made acquainted with 
 my views respecting this alliance?" 
 
 "Yes, monsieur," replied Eaoul, in a low tone of voice; 
 "but you added that if I persisted " 
 
 "You do insist, then?" 
 
 Bragelonne stammered out an almost unintelligible assent. 
 
 "Your passion," continued Athos tranquilly, "must, 
 indeed, be very great, since, notwithstanding my dislike to 
 this union, you persist in wishing it." 
 
 Eaoul passed his trembling hand across his forehead to 
 remove the perspiration which had collected there. Athos 
 looked at him, and his heart was touched by pity for him. 
 He then rose, and said: 
 
 "It is no matter; my own personal feelings are indiffer- 
 ent, since yours are concerned; you need my assistance, I 
 am ready to give it; tell me what you want." 
 
 "Your kind indulgence, first of all, monsieur," said 
 Eaoul, taking hold of his hand. 
 
 "You have mistaken my feelings, Eaoul. I have more 
 than mere indulgence for you in my heart." 
 
 Eaoul kissed as devotedly as a lover could have done the 
 hand he held in his own. 
 
 "Come, come," said Athos, "I am quite ready; what do 
 you wish me to sign?" 
 
 "Nothing whatever, monsieur; only it would be very kind, 
 
102 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 if you would take the trouble to write to the king, to whom 
 I belong, and solicit his majesty's permission for me to 
 marry Mademoiselle de la Valliere." 
 
 "Well thought, Kaoul; after, or rather, before mvself. 
 you have a master to consult, that master being the Isin^; 
 it is loyal in you to submit yourself voluntarily to this 
 double proof; I will grant your request without delay, 
 Eaoul." 
 
 The count approached the window, and, leaning out, 
 called to Grimaud, who showed his head from an arbor 
 covoered with jasmine, which he was occupied in trimming. 
 
 "My horses, Grimaud," continued the count. 
 
 "Why this order, monsieur?" inquired Eaoul. 
 
 "We shall set off in a few hours." 
 
 "Whither?" 
 
 "For Paris." 
 
 "Paris, monsieur?" 
 
 "Is not the king at Paris?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Well, ought we not to go there?" 
 
 "Yes, monsieur," said Eaoul, almost alarmed by this 
 kind condescension. "I do not ask you to put yourself to 
 such inconvenience, and a letter merely " 
 
 "You mistake my position, Eaoul; it is not respectful 
 that a simple gentleman, such as I am, should write to his 
 sovereign. I wish to speak, and I ought to speak, to the 
 king, and I will do so. We will go together, Eaoul." 
 
 "You overpower me with your kindness, monsieur." 
 
 "How do you think his majesty is affected?" 
 
 "Toward me, monsieur?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Excellently well disposed." 
 
 "You know that to be so?" continued the count, 
 
 "The king has himself told me so." 
 
 "On what occasion?" 
 
 "Upon the recommendation of Monsieur d'Artagnan, I 
 believe, and on account of an affair in the Place de Gr^ve, 
 when I had the honor to draw my sword in the king's serv- 
 ice. I have reason to believe that, vanity apart, I stand 
 well with his majesty." 
 
 "So much the better." 
 
 "But I entreat you, monsieur," pursued Eaoul, "not to 
 maintain toward me your present gra've and serious manner. 
 Do not make me bitterly regret having listened to a feeling 
 stronger than anything else." 
 
TEK TEAES LATER. 103 
 
 'That is the second time you have said so, Eaoul; it was 
 quite unnecessary; you require my formal consent, and you 
 have it. We need talk no more on the subject, therefore. 
 Come and see my new plantations, Eaoul." 
 _ The voung man knew very well that, after the expres- 
 sion of his father's wish, no opportunity of discussion was 
 left him. He bowed his head, and followed his father into 
 the garden. Athos slowly pointed out to him the grafts, 
 the cuttings, and the avenues he was planting. This per- 
 fect repose of manner disconcerted Eaoul extremely; the 
 affection with which his own heart was filled seemed so 
 great that the whole world could hardly contain it. How, 
 then, could his father's heart remain void, and closed to its 
 influence? Bragelonne therefore, collecting all his courage, 
 suddenly exclaimed: 
 
 "It is impossible, monsieur, you can have any reason to 
 reject Mademoiselle de la Valliere; in Heaven's name, she 
 is so good, so gentle and pure, that your mind, so perfect 
 in its penetration, ought to appreciate her accordingly. 
 Does any secret repugnance, or any hereditary dislike, exist 
 between you and her family?" 
 
 "Look, Eaoul, at that beautiful lily of the valley," said 
 Athos; "observe how the shade and the damp situation suit 
 it, particularly the shadow which that sycamore-tree casts 
 over it, so that the warmth, and not the blazing heat of 
 the sun, filters through its branches." 
 
 Eaoul stopped, bit his lips, and then, with the blood 
 mantling in his face, he said courageously: 
 
 "One word of explanation, I beg, monsieur. You cannot 
 forget that your son is a man." 
 
 "In that case," replied Athos, drawing himself up with 
 sternness, "prove to me that you are a man, for you do not 
 show yourself to be a son. I begged you to wait the oppor- 
 tunity of forming an illustrions alliance. I should have 
 obtained a wife for you from the first ranks of the rich 
 nobility. I wish you to be distinguished by the splendor 
 which glory and fortune confer, for nobility of descent you 
 have already." 
 
 "Monsieur," exclaimed Eaoul, carried away by a first im- 
 pulse, "I was reproached the other day for not knowing 
 who my mother was." ^ 
 
 Athos turned pale; then, knitting his brows like the 
 greatest of the heathen deities: 
 
 "I am waiting to learn the reply you made/' he 4?- 
 mWi^^d, in an imperious manner, 
 
104 TElf TEARS LATER. 
 
 "Forgive me! oh, forgive me!" murmured the young 
 man, sinking at once from the lofty tone he had assumed. 
 
 "What was your reply, monsieur?" inquired the count, 
 stamping his feet upon the ground. 
 
 "Monsieur, my sword was in my hand immediately, my 
 adversary placed himself on guard, I struck his sword over 
 the palisade, and threw him after it." 
 
 "Why did you suffer him to live?" 
 
 "The king has prohibited dueling, and at that moment 
 I was an ambassador of the king." 
 
 "Very well," said Athos; "but the greater reason I should 
 see his majesty." 
 
 "What do you intend to ask him?" 
 
 "Authority to draw my sword against the man who has 
 inflicted this injury upon me." 
 
 "If I did not act as I ought to have done, I beg you to 
 forgive me." 
 
 "Did I reproach you, Eaoul?" 
 
 "Still, the permission you are going to ask from the 
 king?" 
 
 "I will implore his majesty to sign your marriage-con- 
 tract, but on one condition." 
 
 "Are conditions necessary with me, monsieur? Com- 
 mand, and you shall be obeyed." 
 
 "On one condition, I repeat," continued Athos; "that 
 you tell me the name of the man who spoke of your mother 
 in that way." 
 
 "What need is there that you should know his name? 
 The offense was directed against myself, and the permission 
 once obtained from his majesty, to revenge it is my affair." 
 
 "Tell me his name, monsieur." 
 
 "I will not allow you to expose yourself." 
 
 "Do you take me for a Don Diego? His name, I say." 
 
 "You insist upon it?" 
 
 "I demand it." 
 
 "The Vicomte de Wardes." \ 
 
 "Very well," said Athos tranquilly; "I know him.' 
 But our horses are ready, I see; and, instead of delaying 
 our departure for a couple of hours, we will set pff at once. 
 Come, monsieur," 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 105 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MONSIEUR BECOMES JEALOUS OF THE DUKE OF BUCKING- 
 HAM. 
 
 While the Comte de la Fere was proceeding on his way 
 to Paris, accompanied by Raoul, the Palais Eoyal was the 
 theater wherein a scene of what Molifire would have called 
 excellent comedy was being performed. Four days had 
 elapsed since his marriage, and Monsieur, having break- 
 fasted very hurriedly, passed into his antechamber, frown- 
 ing and out of temper. The repast had not been over- 
 agreeable. JVIadame had had breakfast served in her own 
 appartment, and Monsieur had breakfasted almost alone; 
 the Chevalier de Lorraine and Manicamp were the only 
 persons present at the meal, which had lasted three-quarters 
 of an hour without a single syllable having been uttered. 
 Manicamp, who was less intimate with his royal highness 
 than the Chevalier de Lorraine, vainly endeavored to de- 
 tect, from the expression of the prince's face, what had 
 made him so ill-humored. The Chevalier de Lorraine, who 
 had no occasion to speculate about anything, inasmuch as 
 he knew all, ate his breakfast with that extraordinary appe- 
 tite which the troubles of one's friends afford us, and en- 
 joyed at the same time both the ill-humor of Monsieur and 
 the vexation of Manicamp. He seemed delighted, while he 
 went on eating, to detain the prince, who was very im- 
 patient to move, still at table. Monsieur at times repented 
 the ascendency which he had permitted the Chevalier de 
 Lorraine to acquire over him, and which exempted the 
 latter from any observance of etiquette toward him. Mon- 
 sieur was now in one of those moods, but he dreaded as 
 much as he liked the chevalier, and contented himself with 
 indulging his anger without betraying it. Every now and 
 then Monsieur raised his eyes to the ceiling, then lowered 
 them toward the slices of pdte which the chevalier was 
 attacking; and finally, not venturing to betray his anger, 
 he gesticulated in a manner which Harlequin might have 
 envied. At last, however. Monsieur could control himself 
 no longer, and at the dessert, rising from the table in ex- 
 cessive wrath, as we have related, he left the Chevalier de 
 Lorraine to finish his breakfast as he pleased. Seeing Mon- 
 sieur rise from the table, Manicamp, napkin in hand, rose 
 also. Monsieur ran rather than walked toward the ante- 
 chamber, where, noticing an usher in attendance, he gave 
 
106 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 him some directions in a low tone of voice. Then, turning 
 back again, but avoiding passing through the breakfast 
 apartment, he crossed several rooms, with the intention of 
 seeking the queen-mother in her oratory, where she usually 
 remained. 
 
 It was about ten o'clock in the morning. Anne of Austria 
 was engaged in writing as Monsieur entered. The quepn- 
 mother was extremely attached to her son, for he was hand- 
 some in person and amiable in disposition. He was, in fact, 
 more affectionate, and, it might be, more effeminate than 
 the king. He pleased his mother by those trifling sym- 
 pathizing attentions which all women are glad to receive. 
 Anne of Austria, who would have been rejoiced to have had 
 a daughter, almost found in this, her favorite son, the atten- 
 tions, solicitude, and playful manners of a child of twelve 
 years of age. All the time he passed with his mother he 
 employed in admiring her arms, in giving his opinion upon 
 her cosmetics, and recipes for compounding essences, in 
 which she was very particular; and then, too, he kissed her 
 hands and eyes in the most endearing and childlike manner, 
 and had always some sweetmeats to offer her, or some new 
 style of dress to recommend. Anne of Austria loved the 
 king, or, rather, the regal power in her eldest son; Louis 
 XIV. represented legitimacy by divine right. With the 
 king, her character was that of the queen-mother; with 
 Philip she was simply the mother. The latter knew that, 
 of all places of refuge, a mother's heart is the most com- 
 passionate and surest. When quite a child he always fleid 
 there for refuge when he and his brother quarreled, often, 
 after having struck him, which constituted the crime of 
 high treason on his part, after certain engagements with 
 hands and nails, in which the king and his rebellious sub- 
 ject indulged in their night-dresses respecting the right to a 
 disputed bed, having their servant Laporte as umpire — 
 Philip, the conqueror, but terrified at his victory, used to 
 flee to his mother^ to obtain reinforcements from her, or, 
 at least, the assurance of a forgiveness, which Louis XIV. 
 granted with difficulty, and after an interval. Anne, from 
 this habit of peaceable intervention, had succeeded in 
 arranging the different disputes of both her sons, and in 
 sharing, at the same time, all their secrets. The king, 
 somewhat jealous of that maternal solicitude which wa» 
 bestowed particularly upon his brother, felt disposed to 
 show toward Anne of Austria more submission and attach 
 ment than his character really possessed. Anne of Austria 
 
TEN TEAES LATER. 107 
 
 bad adopted this line of conduct especially toward the 
 young queen. In this manner she ruled with almost 
 despotic sway over the royal household, and she was already 
 preparing all her batteries to rule with the same absolute' 
 authority over the household of her second son. Anne ex- 
 perienced almost a feeling of pride whenever she saw any 
 one enter her apartment with woe-begone looks, pale cheeks, 
 or red eyes, gathering from appearances that assistance was 
 required either by the weakest or by the most rebellious. 
 She was writing, we have said, when Monsieur entered her 
 oratory, not with red eyes or pale cheeks, but restless, ant 
 of temper, and annoyed. With an absent air he kissed his 
 mother's arms, and sat himself down before receiving her 
 permission to do so. Considering the strict rules of 
 etiquette established at the court of Anne of Austria, this 
 forgetfulness of customary respect was a sign of preoccupa- 
 tion, especially on Philip's part, who, of his own accord, 
 observed a respect toward her of a somewhat exaggerated 
 character. If, therefore, he so notoriously failed with 
 regard to such principles of respect, there must surely be a 
 serious cause for it. 
 
 "What is the matter, Philip?" inquired Anne of Austria, 
 turning toward her son. 
 
 "A great many things," murmured the prince, in a dole- 
 ful tone of voice. 
 
 "You look like a man who has a great deal to do," said 
 the queen, laying down her pen. 
 
 Philip frowned, but did not reply. 
 ' "Among the various subjects which occupy your mind," 
 said Anne of Austria, "there must surely be one which 
 occupies it more than others." 
 
 "One, indeed, has occupied me more than any other." 
 
 "Well, what is it? I am listening." 
 
 Philip opened his mouth as if to express all the troubles 
 his mind was filled with, and which he seemed to be wait- 
 ing only for an opportunity to declare what they were. 
 But he suddenly became silent, and a sigh alone expressed 
 all that his heart was filled with. 
 
 "Come, Philip, show a little firmness," said the queen- 
 mother. "When one has to complain of anything it is 
 generally an individual who is the cause of it. Am I not 
 right?" 
 
 "I do not say no, madame." 
 
 "Whom do you wish to speak about? Come, take 
 courage." .«. ■ -^ » . 
 
1C8 TEN" YEARS LATER. 
 
 "In fact, madame, what I might possibly have to say 
 must be kept a perfect secret; for when a lady is in the 
 case " 
 
 "Ah! you're speaking of madame, then?" inquired the 
 queen-mother, with a feeling of the liveliest curiosity. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, then, if you wish to speak of madame, do not 
 hesitate to do so. I am your mother, and she is no more 
 than a stranger to me. Yet, as she is my daughter-in-law, 
 be assured I shall be interested, even were it for your own 
 isake alone, in hearing all you may have to say about her." 
 
 "Pray tell me, madame," in your turn, whether you have 
 not remarked something?" 
 
 "Something! Philip! Your words almost frighten me, 
 from their want of meaning. What do you mean by some- 
 thing?" 
 
 "Madame is pretty, certainly." 
 
 "No doubt of it." 
 
 "Yet not altogether beautiful." 
 
 "No; but as she grows older she will probably become 
 very strikingly beautiful. You must have remarked the 
 change which a few years have already made in her. Hei 
 beauty will improve more and more; she is now only sixteen 
 years of age. At iifteen I was, myself, very thin; but even 
 as she is at present, madame is very pretty." 
 
 "And, consequently, others may have remarked it." 
 
 "Undoubtedly, for a woman of ordinary rank is remarked, 
 and with still greater reason a princess." 
 
 "She has been well brought up, I suppose?" 
 
 "Madame Henrietta, her mother, is a woman somewhat 
 cold in her manner, slightly pretentious, but full of noble 
 thoughts. The princess' education may have been neg- 
 lected, but her principles I believe to be good. Such, at 
 least, was the opinion I formed of her when she resided in 
 France; but she afterward returned to England, and I am 
 'ignorant what may have occurred there." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Simply that there are some heads naturally giddy, which 
 are easily turned by prosperity." 
 
 ''That is the very word, madame. I think the princess 
 rather giddy." 
 
 "We must not exaggerate, Philip; she is clever and witty, 
 and has a certain amount of coquetry very natural in a 
 young woman; but this defect is, in persons of high rank 
 and position, a great advantage at a court. A princess who 
 
TEK YEARS LATER. 109 
 
 IS tinged with coquetry usually forms a brilliant court 
 around her; her smile stimulates luxury, and arouses wit, 
 and even courage; the nobles, too, fight better for a prince 
 whose wife is beautiful." 
 
 "Thank you extremely, madame,"said Philip, with some 
 temper; "you really have drawn some very alarming pic- 
 tures for me." 
 
 "In what respect?" asked the queen, with pretended 
 simplicity. 
 
 "You know, madame," said Philip dolefully, "whether 
 I had or had not a very great dislike to getting married." ( 
 
 "Now, indeed, you alarm me. You have some serious 
 cause of complaint against madame." 
 
 "I do not precisely say it is serious." 
 
 "In that case, then, throw aside your present mournful 
 looks. If you show yourself to others in your present state, 
 people will take you for a very unhappy husband." 
 
 "The fact is," replied Philip, "I am not altogether satis- 
 fied as a husband, and I shall be glad that others should 
 know it." 
 
 "For shame, Philip." 
 
 "Well, then, madame, I will tell you frankly that I do 
 not understand the life I am required to lead." 
 
 "Explain yourself." 
 
 "My wife does not seem to belong to me; she is always 
 leaving me for some reason or another. In the mornings 
 there are visits, correspondences, and toilets; in the even- 
 ings, balls and concerts." 
 
 "You are jealous, Philip." 
 
 "I? Heaven forbid. Let others act the part of a jealous 
 husband, not I; but I am annoyed." 
 
 "All those things you reproach your wife with are per- 
 fectly innocent, and, so long as you have nothing of greater 
 importance — Yet, listen: without being very blamable, a 
 woman can excite a good deal of uneasiness; certain visitors 
 may be received, certain preferences shown, which expose 
 young women to remark, and which are enough to drive out 
 of their senses even those husbands who are least disposed 
 to be jealous." 
 
 "Ah! now we are coming to the real point at last, and 
 not without some difficulty, too. You speak of frequent 
 visits and certain preferences — very good; for the last hour 
 we have been beating about the bush, and at last you have 
 broached the true question." 
 
 "This is more serious than I thought. Is it possible, 
 
110 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 then, that madame can have given you grounds for these 
 complaints against her?" 
 
 "Precisely so." 
 
 "What, your wife, married only four days ago, prefer 
 some other person to yourself! Take care, Philip, you ex- 
 aggerate your grievances; in wishing to prove everything, 
 you prove nothing." 
 
 The prince, bewildered by his mother's serious manner, 
 wished to reply, but he could only stammer out some unin- 
 telligible words. 
 
 "You draw back, then?" said Anne of Austria. "I pre- 
 fer that, as it is an acknowledgment of your mistake." 
 
 "No!" exclaimed Philip, "I do not draw back, and I 
 will prove all I asserted. I spoke of preference and of 
 visits, did I not? Well, listen to them." 
 
 Anne of Austria prepared herself to listen with that love 
 of gossip which the best woman living and the best mother, 
 were she a queen even, always finds in being mixed up with 
 the petty squabbles of a household. 
 
 "Well," said Philip, "tell me one thing." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "Why does my wife retain an English court about her?" 
 said Philip, as he crossed his arms and looked his mother 
 steadily in the face, as if he were convinced that she could 
 not answer the question. 
 
 "For a very simple reason," returned Anne of Austria; 
 "because the English are her countrymen, because they 
 have expended large sums in order to accompany her to 
 France, and because it would be hardly polite — not good 
 policy, certainly— to dismiss abruptly those members of the 
 English nobility who have not shrunk from any devotion or 
 from any sacrifice." 
 
 "A wonderful sacrifice, indeed," returned Philip, "to 
 desert a wretched country to come to a beautiful one, where 
 a greater eiiect can be produced for one crown than can be 
 procured elsewhere for four! Extraordinary devotion, 
 really, to travel a hundred leagues in company with' a woman 
 one is in love with?" 
 
 "In love, Philip! think what you are saying. Who is in 
 love with madame?" 
 
 "The handsome Duke of Buckingham. Perhaps you will 
 defend him as well?" 
 
 Anne of Austria blushed and smiled at the same time. 
 The name of the Duke of Buckingham recalled certain 
 recollections to her of a tender and melancholy nature. 
 
TEN- fEAllS LATER. Ill 
 
 "The Duke of Buckingham?" she murmured. 
 
 "Yes; one of those feather-bed soldiers " 
 
 "The Buckinghams are loyal and brave," said Anne of 
 Austria courageously. 
 
 "This is too bad; my own mother takes the part of my 
 wife's lover against me!" exclaimed Philip, incensed to 
 such an extent that his weak organization was affected 
 almost to tears. 
 
 "Philip, my son," exclaimed Anne of Austria, "such an 
 expression is unworthy of you. Your wife has no lover; 
 and, had she one, it would not be the Duke of Buckingham. 
 The members of that family, I repeat, are loyal and dis- 
 creet, and the rights of hospitality are sure to be respected 
 by them." 
 
 "The Duke of Buckingham is an Englishman, madame," 
 said Philip; "and may I ask if the English so very reli- 
 giously respect what belongs to princes of France?" 
 
 Anne blushed a second time, and turned aside under the 
 pretext of taking her pen from her desk again, but really 
 to conceal her blushes from her son. 
 
 "Really, Philip," she said, "you seem to discover expres- 
 sions for the purpose of embarrassing me, and your anger 
 blinds you while it alarms me; reflect a little." 
 
 "There is no need of reflection, madame, for I see vrith 
 my own eyes." 
 
 "Well, and what do you see?" 
 
 "That Buckingham never quits my wife. He presumes 
 to make presents to her, and she ventures to accept them. 
 Yesterday she was talking about sachets a la violette; well, 
 our French perfumers, you know very well, madame, for 
 you have over and over again asked for it without success — 
 our French perfumers, I say, have never been able to pro- 
 cure this scent. The duke, however, wore about him a 
 sachet a la violette, and I am sure that the one my wife has 
 came from him." 
 
 "Indeed, monsieur," said Anne of Austria, "you build 
 your pyramids upon needle points. Be careful. What 
 harm, I ask you, can there be in a man giving to his coun- 
 trywoman a recipe for a new essence? These strange ideas, 
 I protest, painfully recall your father to me; he who so 
 frequently and so unjustly made me suffer." 
 
 "The Duke of Buckingham's father was probably more 
 reserved and more respectful than his son," said Philip 
 thoughtlessly, not perceiving how deeply he had wounded 
 bis mother's feelings. 
 
112 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 The queen turned pale, and pressed her clinched hand 
 upon her bosom; but, recovering herself immediately, she 
 said: 
 
 "You came here with some intention or another, I sup- 
 pose?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 "I came, madame, intending to complain energetically, 
 and to inform you that I will not submit to anything from 
 the Duke of Buckingham." 
 
 "What do you intend to do, then?" 
 
 "I shall complain to the king." 
 
 "And what do you expect the king to reply?" 
 
 "Very well, then," said Monsieur, with an expression of 
 stern determination on his countenance, which offered a 
 singular contrast to its usual gentleness. "Very well. I 
 will right myself." 
 
 "What do you call righting yourself?" inquired Anne of 
 Austria, in alarm. 
 
 "I will have the Duke of Buckingham quit the princess, 
 I will have him quit France, and I will see that my wishes 
 are intimated to him." 
 
 "You will intimate nothing of the kind, Philip," said the 
 queen; "for if you act in that manner, and violate hospital- 
 ity to that extent, I wilJ invoke the severity of the king 
 against you." 
 
 "Do you threaten me, madame?" exclaimed Philip, in 
 tears; "do you threaten me in the midst of my complaints?" 
 
 "I do not threaten you; I do but place an obstacle in the 
 path of your hasty anger. I maintain that, to adopt toward 
 the Duke of Buckingham, or any other Englishman, any 
 rigorous measure — to take even a discourteous step toward 
 him, would be to hurry Prance and England into the sad- 
 dest variances. Can it be possible that a prince of the 
 blood, the brother of the King of Prance, does not know 
 how to hide an injury, even did it exist in reality, where 
 political necessity requires it?" 
 
 Philip made a movement. 
 
 "Besides," continued the queen, "the injury is neither 
 true nor possible, and it is merely a matter of silly jealousy." 
 
 "Madame, I know what I know." 
 
 "Whatever you may know, I can only advise you to be 
 patient." 
 
 "I am not patient by disposition, madame." 
 
 The queen rose, ful) of severity, and with an icy, cere- 
 monious manner. • " 
 
TEK TEARS LATER. 113 
 
 "Explain what you really require, monsieur," she said. 
 
 "I do not require anything, madame; I simply express 
 wkat I desire. If the Duke of Buckingham does not, of his 
 own accord, discontinue his visits to my apartments, I shall 
 forbid him an entrance." 
 
 "That is a point you will refer to the king," said Anne of 
 Austria, her heart swelling as she spoke, and her voice 
 trembling with emotion. 
 
 "But, madame," exclaimed Philip, striking his hands to- 
 gether, "act as my mother and not as the queen, since I 
 speak to you as a son; it is simply a matter of a few minutes' 
 conversation between the duke and myself." 
 
 "It is that conversation that I forbid," said the queen, 
 resuming her authority, "because it is unworthy of you." 
 
 "Be it so; I shall not appear in the matter, but I shall 
 intimate my will to madame." 
 
 "Oh!" said the queen-mother, with a melancholy arising 
 from reflection, "never tyrannize over a wife — never behave 
 too haughtily or imperiously toward yours. A woman, un- 
 willingly convinced, is unconvinced." 
 
 "What is to be done, then? I will consult my friends 
 about it." 
 
 "Yes, your hypocritical advisers, the Chevalier de Lor- 
 raine — your De Wardes. Intrust the conduct of the affair 
 to me. You wish the Duke of Buckingham to leave, do 
 you not?" 
 
 "As soon as possible, madame." 
 
 "Send the duke to me, then; smile upon your wife, be- 
 have to her, to the king, to every one, as usual. But follow 
 no advice but mine. Alas! I too well know what a house- 
 hold is which is troubled by advisers." 
 
 "You shall be obeyed, madame." 
 
 "And you will be satisfied at the result. Send the duke 
 to me." 
 
 "That will not be difficult." 
 
 "Where do you suppose him to be?" 
 
 "At my wife's door, whose levee he is probably awaiting." 
 
 "Very well," said Anne of Austria calmly. "Be good 
 enough to tell the duke that I beg him to come and see 
 me." 
 
 Philip kissed his mother's hand, and set off to find the 
 Duke of Buckingham. 
 
114: TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 CHAPTEE XVII. 
 
 FOREVER. 
 
 The Duke of Buckingham, obedient to the queen- 
 mother's invitation, presented himself in her apartments 
 half an hour after the departure of the Due d'Orleans. 
 "When his name was announced by the gentleman-usher in 
 attendance, the queen, who was sitting with her elbow rest- 
 ing on a table, and her head buried in her hands, rose, and 
 smilingly received the graceful and respectful salutation 
 which the duke addressed to her. Anne of Austria was 
 still beautiful. It is well known that at her then somewhat 
 advanced age her long auburn hair, perfectly formed hands, 
 and bright ruby lips were still the admiration of all who 
 saw her. On the present occasion, abandoned entirely to a 
 remembrance which evoked all the past in her heart, she 
 was as beautiful as in the days of her youth, when her 
 palace was open to the visits of the Duke of Buckingham's 
 father, then a young and impassioned man, as well as an 
 unfortunate one, who lived but for her alone, and who died 
 with her name upon his lips. Anne of Austria fixed upon 
 Buckingham a look so tender in its expression that it de- 
 noted not alone the indulgence of maternal affection, but a 
 gentleness of expression like the coquetry of a woman who 
 loves. 
 
 "Your majesty," said Buckingham respectfully, "desired 
 to speak to me." 
 
 "Yes, duke," said the queen, in English; "will you be 
 good enough to sit down?" 
 
 The favor which Anne of Austria thus extended to the 
 young man, and the welcome sound of the language of a 
 country from which the duke had been estranged since his 
 stay in France, deeply affected him. He immediately con- 
 jectured that the queen had a request to make of him. 
 After having abandoned the few first moments to the irre- 
 pressible emotions she experienced, the queen resumed the 
 smiling air with which she had received him. 
 
 "What do you think of France?" she said, in French. 
 
 "It is a lovely country, madame," replied the duke. 
 
 "Had you ever seen it before?" 
 
 "Once only, madame." 
 
 "But, like all true Englishmen, you prefer England?" 
 
 "I prefer my own native land to France," replied the 
 duke; "but if your majesty were to ask me which of the 
 
*to YEARS LATES. 115 
 
 two cities, London or Paris, I should prefer as a residence, 
 I should reply, Paris." 
 
 Anne of Austria observed the ardent manner with which 
 these words had been pronounced. 
 
 "I am told, my lord, you have rich possessions in your 
 own country, and that you live in a splendid and time- 
 honored palace." 
 
 "It was my father's residence," replied Buckingham, 
 casting down his eyes. 
 
 "Those are indeed great advantages and souvenirs," re- 
 plied the queen, alluding, in spite of herself, to recollec- 
 tions from which it is impossible voluntarily to detach one's 
 
 "In fact," said the duke, yielding to the melancholy in- 
 fluence of this opening conversation, "sensitive persons live 
 as much in the past or the future as in the present." 
 
 "That is very true," said the queen, in a low tone of 
 voice. "It follows, then, my lord," she added, "that you, 
 who are a man of feeling, will soon quit France in order to 
 shut yourself up with your wealth and your relics of the 
 past." 
 
 Buckingham raised his head, and said: 
 
 "I think not, madame." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "On the contrary, I think of leaving England in order to 
 take up my residence in France." 
 
 It was now Anne of Austria's turn to exhibit surprise. 
 
 "Why?" she said. "Are you not in favor with the new 
 king?" 
 
 "Perfectly so, madame, for his majesty's kindness to me 
 is unbounded." 
 
 "It cannot be," said the queen, "because your fortune 
 has diminished, for it is said to be enormous." 
 
 "My fortune, madame, has never been more thriving." 
 
 "There is some secret cause, then?" 
 
 "No, madame," said Buckingham eagerly; "there is 
 nothing secret in my reason for this determination. I like 
 the residence in France; I like a court so distinguished by 
 its refinement and courtesy; I like the amusements, some- 
 what serious in their nature, which are not the amusements 
 of my own country, and which are met with in France." 
 
 Anne of Austria smiled shrewdly. 
 
 "Amusements of a serious nature?" she said. "Has 
 your grace well reflected on their seriousness?" 
 
 The duke hesitated. 
 
116 TEK TEARS LATER. 
 
 "There is no amusement so serious," continued the 
 queen, '"as should prevent a man of your rank '' 
 
 "Your majesty seems to insist greatly on that point/' 
 interrupted the duke 
 
 "Do you think so, my lord?" 
 
 "If your majesty will forgive me for saying so, it is the 
 second time you have vaunted the attractions of England 
 at the expense of the delight which all experience who live 
 in France." 
 
 Anne of Austria approached the young man, and placing 
 her beautiful hand upon his shoulder, which trembled at the 
 touch, said: 
 
 "Believe me, monsieur, nothing can equal a residence in 
 one's own native country. I have very frequently had occa- 
 sion to regret Spain. I have lived long, my lord, very long 
 for a woman, and I confess to you that not a year has passed 
 that I have not regretted Spain." 
 
 "Not one year, madame?" said the young duke coldly. 
 "Not one of those years when you reigned Queen of Beauty 
 — as you still are, indeed?" 
 
 "A truce to flattery, duke, for I am old enough to be 
 your mother." 
 
 She emphasized these latter words in a manner and with 
 a gentleness which penetrated Buckingham's heart. 
 
 "Yes," she said; "I am old enough to be your mother; 
 and for this reason I will give you a word of advice." 
 
 "That advice being that I should return to London?" 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes, my lord." 
 
 The duke clasped his hands with a terrified gesture, 
 which could not fail of its effect upon the queen, already 
 disposed to softer feelings by the tenderness of her own 
 .recollections. 
 / "It must be so," added the queen. 
 
 "What!" he again exclaimed, "am I seriously told that 
 I must leave — that I must exile myself — that I am to flee at 
 once?" 
 
 "Exile yourself, did you say? One would fancy France 
 was your native country." 
 
 "Madame, the country of those who love is the country 
 of those whom they love." 
 
 "Not another word, my lord; you forget whom you are 
 addressing." 
 
 Buckingham threw himself on his knees. 
 
 "Madame, you are the source of intelligence, of goodness. 
 
TEN TEAKS LATEK. 117 
 
 and of compassion; you are the first person in this kingdom, 
 not only by your rank, but the first person in the world on 
 account of your angelic attributes. I have said nothing, 
 madame. Have I, indeed, said anything for which you 
 could answer me by such a cruel remark? Can I have be- 
 trayed myself?" 
 
 "You have betrayed yourself," said the queen, in a low 
 tone of voice. 
 
 "I have said nothing — I know nothing." 
 
 "You forget you have spoken and thought in the presence 
 of a woman; and besides ■" 
 
 "Besides," said the duke, "no one knows you are listen- 
 ing to me." 
 
 "On the contrary, it is known; you have all the defects 
 and all the qualities of youth." 
 
 "I have been betrayed or denounced, then!" 
 
 "By whom?" 
 
 "By those who, at Havre, had, with infernal perspicacity, 
 read my heart like an open book." 
 
 "I do not know whom you mean." 
 
 "Monsieur de Bragelonne, for instance." 
 
 "I know the name without being acquainted with the 
 person to whom it belongs. Monsieur de Bragelonne has 
 said nothing." 
 
 "Who can it be, then? If any one, madame, had had 
 the boldness to notice in me that which I do not myself 
 wish to behold " 
 
 "What would you do duke?" 
 
 "There are secrets which kill those who discover them." 
 
 "He, then, who has discovered your secret, madman that 
 you are, still lives; and, what is more, you will not slay 
 him, for he is armed on all sides; he is a husband, a jealous 
 man — he is the second gentleman in France — he is my son, 
 the Due d' Orleans." 
 
 The duke turned pale as death. 
 
 "You are very cruel, madame," he said. 
 
 "You see, Buckingham," said Anne of Austria sadly, 
 "how you pass from one extreme to another, and fight with 
 shadows, when it would seem so easy to remain at peace 
 with yourself." 
 
 "If we fight, madame, we die on the field of battle," re- 
 plied the young man gently, abandoning himself to the 
 most gloomy depression. Anne ran toward him and took 
 him by the hand. 
 
 "Villiers," she said, in English, with a vehemence ol! 
 
118 TEN- TEARS LATER. 
 
 tone which nothing could resist, "what is it j-oii ask? Do 
 you ask a mother to sacrifice her son — a queen to consent to 
 the dishonor of her house? Child that you are, do not 
 think of it. What! in order to spare your tears am I to 
 commit these two crimes? Villiers, you speak of the dead; 
 the dead, at least, were full of respect and submission; they 
 resigned themselves to an order of exile; they carried their 
 despair away with them in their hearts, like a priceless pos- 
 session, because the despair was caused by the woman they 
 loved, and because death, thus deceptive, was like a gift or 
 a favor conferred upon them." 
 
 Buckingham rose, his features distorted, and his hands 
 pressed against his heart. 
 
 "You are right, madame," he said, "but those of whom 
 you speak had received their order of exile from the lips of 
 the one whom they loved; they were not driven away; they 
 were entreated to leave, and were not laughed at." 
 
 "No," murmured Anne of Austria, "they were not for- 
 gotten. But who says you are driven away, or that you are 
 exiled? Who says that your devotion will not be remem- 
 bered? I do not speak on any one's behalf but my own, 
 when I tell you to leave. Do me this kindness — grant me 
 this favor; let me, for thife also, be indebted to one of your 
 name." 
 
 "It is for your sake, then, madame?" 
 
 "For mine alone." 
 
 "No one whom I shall leave behind me will venture to 
 mock — no prince even who shall say, 'I required it.' " 
 
 "Listen to me, duke;" and hereupon the dignified fea- 
 tures of the queen assumed a solemn expression. "I swear 
 to you that no one commands in this matter but myself. I 
 swear to you that not only shall no one either laugh or 
 boast in any way, but no one even shall fail in the respect 
 due to your rank. Eely upon me, duke, as I rely upon 
 you." 
 
 "You do not explain yourself, madame; my heart is full 
 of bitterness, and I am in utter despair; no consolation, 
 however gentle and affectionate, can afford me relief." 
 
 "Do you remember your mother, duke?" replied the 
 queen, with a winning smile. 
 
 "Very slightly, madame; yet I remember how she used to 
 cover me with her caresses and her tears whenever I wept." 
 
 "Villiers," murmured the queen, passing her arm round 
 the young man's neck, "look upon me as your mother, ancj 
 bejieve that no one shall ever m^ke my son weep." 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 119 
 
 "I thank you, madame," said the young man, affected 
 and almost suffocated by his emotion. "I feel there is 
 indeed still room in my heart for a gentler and nobler 
 sentiment than love." 
 
 The queen-mother looked at him and pressed his hand. 
 
 "Go," she said. 
 
 "When must I leave? Command me." 
 
 "At any time that may suit you, my lord," resumed the 
 queen. "You will choose your own day of departure. In- 
 stead, however, of setting off to-day, as you would doubtless 
 wish to do, or to-morrow, as others may have expected, 
 leave the day after to-morrow, in the evening; but announce 
 to-day that it is your wish to leave." 
 
 "My wish?" murmured the young duke. 
 
 "Yes, duke." 
 
 "And shall I never return to France?" 
 
 Anne of Austria reflected for a moment, seemingly ab- 
 sorbed in sad and serious thought. "It would be a consola-, 
 tion for me," she said, "if you were to return on the day 
 when I shall be carried to my final resting-place at St. 
 Denis, beside the king, my husband." 
 
 "Madame, you are goodness itself; the tide of prosperity 
 is setting in on you; your cup brims over with happiness, 
 and many long years are yet before you." 
 
 "In that case, you will not come for some time, then," 
 said the queen, endeavoring to smile. 
 
 "I shall not return," said Buckingham, "young as I am. 
 Death does not reckon my years; it is impartial; some die 
 young, others live on to old age." 
 
 "I will not allow any sorrowful ideas, duke. Let me 
 comfort you; return in two years. I perceive from your 
 face that the very ideas which sadden you so much now will 
 have disappeared before six months shall have passed, and 
 will be all dead and forgotten in the period of absence I 
 have assigned you." 
 
 "I think you judged me better a little while since, ma- 
 dame," replied the young man, "when you said that time 
 is powerless against members of the family of Buckingham." 
 
 "Silence," said the cfueen, kissing the duke upon the 
 forehead with an affection she could not restrain. "Go, 
 go; spare me, and f6rget yourself no longer. I am the 
 queen; you are the subject of the King of England; King 
 Charles awaits your return. Adieu, Villiers — farewell." 
 
 "Forever!" replied the young man; and he fled, endeav- 
 oring to master Vs emotion, 
 
120 TEW TEARS LATER. 
 
 Anne leaned her head upon her hands, and then, looking 
 at herself in the glass, murmured: 
 
 "It has been truly said that a woman is always young, 
 and that the age of twenty years always lies concealed in 
 some secret corner of the heart." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ifKING LOUIS XIV. DOES NOT THINK MLLE. DE LA VALLIERH 
 EITHER RICH ENOUGH OR PRETTY ENOUGH FOB A GEN- 
 TLEMAN OF THE RANK OF THE VICOMTB PE BRAGE- 
 LONNE. 
 
 Raoul and the Comte de la Fere reached Paris the even- 
 ing of the same day on which Buckingham had had the con- 
 versation with the queen-mother. The count had scarcely 
 arrived, when, through Eaoul, he solicited an audience of 
 the king. 
 
 His majesty had passed a portion of the morning in look- 
 ing over, with madame and the ladies of the court, various 
 goods of Lyons manufacture, of which he had made his 
 sister-in-law a present. A court dinner had succeeded, 
 then cards, and afterward, according to his usu^l custom, 
 the king, leaving the card-tables at eight o'clock, passed 
 into the cabinet in order to work with M. Colbert and M. 
 Fouquet. Raoul entered the antechamber at the very 
 moment the two ministers quitted it, and the king, perceiv- 
 ing him through the half -closed door, said: 
 
 "What do you want. Monsieur de Bragelonne?" 
 
 The young man approached: 
 
 "An audience, sire," he replied, "for the Comte de la 
 Fere, who has just arrived from Blois, and is most anxioua 
 to have an interview with your majesty." 
 
 "I have an hour to spare between cards and my supper/-' 
 said the king. "Is the Comte de la Fere ready?" 
 
 "He is below, and awaits your majesty's commands." 
 
 "Let him come at once," said the king; and iive minutes 
 afterward Athos entered the presence of Louis XIV. 
 
 He was received by the king with that gracious kindness 
 of manner which Louis, with a tact beyond his years, re- 
 served for the purpose of gaining those who were not to be 
 conquered by ordinary favors. 
 
 "Let me hope, comte," said the king, "that you have 
 come to ask me for something." 
 
TEK YEAftS LAtEft. l3l 
 
 "I will not conceal from your majesty," replied the 
 comte, "that I am indeed come for that purpose." 
 
 "That is well, then," said the king joyously. 
 
 "It is not for myself, sire." 
 
 "So much the worse; but at least, I will do for your 
 protege what you refuse to permit me to do for you." 
 
 "Your majesty encourages me. I have come to speak on 
 behalf of the Vicomte de Bragelonne." 
 
 "It is the same as if you spoke on your own behalf, 
 comte." 
 
 "Not altogether so, sire. I am desirous of obtaining 
 from your majesty that which I cannot do for myself. The 
 vicomte thinks of marrying." 
 
 "He is still very young; but that does not matter. He 
 is an eminently distinguished man. I will choose a wife for 
 him." 
 
 "He has already chosen one, sire, and only awaits your 
 majesty's consent." 
 
 "It is only a question, then, of signing the marriage con- 
 tract?" 
 
 Athos bowed. 
 
 "Has he chosen a wife whose fortune and position accord 
 with your own views?" 
 
 Athos hesitated for a moment. 
 
 "His affianced wife is of good birth, but has no fortune." 
 
 "That is a misfortune which we can remedy." 
 
 "You overwhelm me with gratitude, sire; but your 
 majesty will permit me to offer a remark." 
 
 "Do so, comte." 
 
 "Your majesty seems to intimate an intention of giving 
 a marriage portion to this young girl." 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "I should regret, sire, if ^he step I have taken toward 
 your majesty should be attended by this result." 
 
 "No false "delicacy, comte. What is the bride's name?" 
 ,; "Mademoiselle la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere," said 
 Athos coldly, ; 
 
 "I seem to know that name," said the king, as if reflect- 
 ing; "there was a Marquis de la Valliere." 
 
 "Yes, sire; it is his daughter." 
 
 "But he died, and his widow married again Monsieur de 
 St. Eemy, I think, stf/ward of the dowager madame's house- 
 hold." 
 
 "Your majesty is correctly informed." 
 
 "More than that, the young lady has lately become one 
 of the princess' maids of honoj " 
 
122 TEN" TEAES LATER. 
 
 "Your majesty is better acquainted with her history than 
 I am." 
 
 The ting again reflected, and glancing at the comte's 
 anxious countenance, said: 
 
 "The young lady does not seem to me to be very pretty, 
 comte." 
 
 "I am not quite sure," replied Athos. . 
 
 "I have seen her, but she did not strike me as being so." 
 
 "She seems to be a good and modest girl, but has little 
 beauty, sire." 
 
 "Beautiful fair hair, however," 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "And her blue eyes are tolerably good." 
 
 "Yes, sire." 
 
 "With regard to beauty, then, the match is but an ordi- 
 nary one. Now for the money side of the question." 
 
 "Fifteen to twenty thousand francs dowry at the very 
 outside, sire; the lovers are disinterested enough; for my- 
 self, I care little for money." 
 
 "For superfluity, you mean; but a needful amount is of 
 importance. With fifteen thousand francs, without landed 
 property, a woman cannot live at court. We will make up 
 the deficiency; I will do it for De Bragelonne." 
 
 The king again remarked the coldness with which Athos 
 received the remark. 
 
 "Let us pass from the question of money to that of rank," 
 said Louis XIV. ; "the daughter of the Marquis de la Val- 
 liere, that is well enough; but there is that excellent St. 
 Semy, who somewhat damages the credit of the family; 
 and you, comte, are rather particular, I believe, about your 
 own family." 
 
 "Sire, I no longer hold to anything but my devotion to 
 your majesty." i 
 
 The king again paused. 
 
 "A moment, comte. You have surprised me in no little 
 degree from the beginning of your conversation. You 
 came to ask me to authorize a marriage, and you seem 
 greatly disturbed in having to make the request. Nay, par- 
 don me, comte, but I am rarely deceived, young as I am; 
 for while with some persons I place my friendship at the 
 disposal of my understanding, with others I call my distrust 
 to my aid, by which my discernment is increased. I repeat, 
 that you do not prefer your request as though you wished 
 its success." 
 
 "Well, sire, that is true." 
 
TEK TEARS LATER. 133 
 
 "I do not understand you, then; refuse." 
 
 "Nay, sire; I love Do Bragelonne with my whole heart; 
 he is smitten with Mademoiselle de la Valliere; he weaves 
 dreams of bliss for the future; I am not one who is willing 
 to destroy the illusions of youth. This marriage is objec- 
 tionable to me, but I implore your majesty to consent to it 
 forthwith, and thus make Raoul happy." 
 
 "Tell me, compte, is she in love with him?" 
 
 "If your majesty requires me to speak candidly, I do not 
 believe in Mademoiselle de la Valliere's afEection; the de-' 
 light at being at court, the honor of being in the service of 
 madame, counteract in her head whatever affection she may 
 happen to have in her heart; it is a marriage similar to 
 many others which already exist at court; but De Brage- 
 lonne wishes it, and let it be so." 
 
 "And yet you do not resemble those easy -tempered fathers 
 who make slaves of themselves for their children," said the 
 king. 
 
 "I am determined enough against the viciously disposed, 
 but not so against men of upright character. Raoul is 
 suffering, and is in great distress of ,mind; his disposition, 
 naturally light and cheerful, has become gloomy and melan- 
 choly. I do not wish to deprive your majesty of the serv- 
 ices he may be able to render." 
 
 "I understand you," said the king; "and what is more, 
 1 understand your heart, too, comte." 
 
 "There is no occasion, therefore," replied the comte, "to 
 tell your majesty that my object is to make these children, 
 or rather, Raoul, happy." 
 
 "And I, too, as much as yourself, comte, wish to secure 
 Monsieur de Bragelonne's happiness." 
 
 "I only await your majesty's signature. Raoul will have 
 the honor of presenting himself before your majesty to 
 receive your consent." 
 
 "You are mistaken, comte," said the king firmly; "I 
 have just said that I desire to secure Monsieur de Brage- 
 lonne's happiness, and for the present moment, therefore, 
 I oppose his marriage." 
 
 "But, sire," exclaimed Athos, "your majesty has 
 promised." 
 
 "Not so, comte; I did not promise you, for it is opposed 
 to my own views." 
 
 "I appreciate all your majesty's considerate and generous 
 intentions in my behalf; but I take the liberty of recalling 
 to you that I undertook to approach your majesty as an 
 ambassador." 
 
124 TEN" YEARS LATER. 
 
 "An ambassador, comte, frequently asks, but does not 
 always obtain what he asks." 
 
 "But, sire, it will be such a blow for De Bragelonne." 
 
 "My hand shall deal the blow; I will speak to the 
 vicomte." 
 
 "Love, sir, is overwhelming in its might." 
 
 "Love can be resisted, comte; I myself can assure you of 
 that." 
 
 , "When one has the soul of a king — your own, for 
 instance, sire." 
 
 "Do not make yourself uneasy on the subject. I have 
 certain views for De Bragelonne; I do not say that he shall 
 not marry Mademoiselle de la Valliere, but I do not wish 
 him to marry so young; I do not wish him to marry her 
 until she has acquired a fortune; and he, on his side, no 
 less deserves my favor, such as I wish to confer upon him. 
 In a word, comte, I wish them to wait." 
 
 "Yet once more, sire." 
 
 "Comte, you told me you came to request a favor." 
 
 "Assuredly, sire." 
 
 "Grant me one, then, instead; let us speak no longer 
 upon this matter. It is probable that before long war may 
 be declared; I require men about me who are unfettered. 
 I should hesitate to send under a fire a married man, or a 
 father of a family; I should hesitate also, on De Brage- 
 lonne's account, to endow with a fortune, without some 
 sound reason for it, a young girl, a perfect stranger; such 
 an act would sow jealousy among my nobility." 
 
 Athos bowed, and remained silent. 
 
 "Is that all you had to ask me?" added Louis XIV. 
 
 "Absolutely all, sire; and I take my leave of yoMr 
 majesty. Is it, however, necessary that I should inform 
 Kaoul?" 
 
 "Spare yourself the trouble and annoyance. Tell the 
 vicomte that at my levee to-morrow morning I will speak 
 to him; I shall expect you this evening, comte, to join my/ 
 card-table." 
 
 "I am in traveling costume, sire." 
 
 "A day will come, I hope, when you will leave me no 
 more. Before long, comte, the monarchy will be established 
 in such a manner as to enable me to offer a worthy hospital^ 
 ity to all men of your merit." 
 
 "Provided, sire, a monarch reigns truly great in the' 
 hearts of his subjects, the palace he inhabits matters little, 
 since he is worshiped in a temple." 
 
TEN- tEARS LATER. 125 
 
 With these words Athos left the cabinet, and found De 
 -Bragelonne, who awaited his return. 
 
 "Well, monsieur?" said the young man. 
 
 "The king, Eaoul, is well disposed toward us both; not, 
 perhaps, in the sense you suppose, but he is kind, and 
 generously disposed for our house." 
 
 "You have bad news to communicate to me, monsieur," 
 said the young man, turning very pale. 
 
 "The king will himself inform you to-morrow morning 
 that it is not bad news." 
 
 "The king has not signed, however?" 
 
 "The king wishes himself to settle the terms of the con- 
 tract, and he desires to make it so grand that he requires 
 time for it. Throw the blame rather on your own impa- 
 tience than on the king's good feeling toward you." 
 
 Eaoul, in utter consternation, both on account of his 
 knowledge of the count's frankness as well as of his tact, 
 remained plunged in a dull, heavy stupor. 
 
 "Will you not go with me to my lodgings?" said Athos. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, monsieur; I will follow you," he 
 stammered out, following Athos down the staircase. 
 
 "Since I am here," said Athos suddenly, "cannot I see 
 Monsieur d'Artagnan?" 
 
 "Shall I show you his apartments?" said De Bragelonne. 
 
 "Do so." 
 
 "It is on the other staircase." 
 
 They altered their course, but as they reached the land- 
 ing of the grand staircase Eaoul perceived a servant in the 
 Comte de Guiche's livery, who ran toward him as soon as 
 he heard his voice. 
 
 "What is it?" said Eaoul. 
 
 "This note, monsieur. My master heard of your return, 
 and wrote to you without delay; I have been seeking you 
 for the last hour." 
 
 Eaoul approached Athos as he unsealed the letter, saying: 
 
 "With your permission, monsieur." 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Dear Eaoul," said the Comte de Guiche, "I have an 
 affair in hand which requires immediate attention; I know 
 you have returned; come to me as soon as possible." 
 
 Hardly had he finished reading it when a servant in the 
 livery of the Duke of Buckingham, turning out of the gal- 
 lery, recognized Eaoul, and approached him respectfully 
 saying: 
 
 "From his grace, monsieur," 
 
136 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "Well, Eaoul, as I see you are already as busy as a general 
 of an army, I shall leave you, and will find Monsieur d'Ar- 
 tagnan myself." 
 
 "You will excuse me, I trust," said Eaoul. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I excuse you; adieu, Eaoul. You will find me 
 at my apartments until to-morrow; during the day I may 
 set out for Blois, unless 1 have orders to the contrary." 
 
 "I shall present my respects to you to-morrow, monsieur." 
 
 When Athos had left, Eaoul opened Buckingham's letter. 
 
 "Monsieur de Bragelonne," said the duke, "you are, of 
 all the Frenchmen I have known, the one with whom I am 
 most pleased; I am about to put your friendship to the 
 proof. I have received a certain message, written in very 
 good French. As I am an Englishman, I am afraid of not 
 comprehending it very clearly. The letter has a good name 
 attached to it, and that is all I can tell you. Will you be 
 good enough to come and see me? for I am told you have 
 arrived from Blois. Your devoted, 
 
 "ViLLiEKS, Duke of Buckingham." 
 
 "I am going now to see your master," said Eaoul to De 
 Guiche's servant as he dismissed him; "and I shall be with 
 the Duke of Buckingham in an hour," he added, dismiss- 
 ing with these words the duke's messenger. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 SWORD-THEUSTS IH THE WATER, 
 
 Raoul, on betaking himself to De Guiche, found him 
 conversing with De Wardes and Manicamp. De Wardes, 
 since the affair of the barricade, had treated Eaoul as a 
 stranger. It might have been imagined that nothing at all 
 had passed between them; only they behaved as if they 
 were not acquainted. As Eaoul entered, De Guiche walked 
 up to him, and Eaoul, as he grasped his friend's hand, 
 glanced rapidly at his two young companions, hoping to be 
 able to read on their faces what was passing in their minds. 
 De Wardes was cold and impenetrable, and Manicamp 
 seemed absorbed in the contemplation of some tritaming to 
 his dress. De Guiche led Eaoul to an adjoining cabinet, 
 and made him sit down, saying: 
 
 "How well you look!" 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 127 
 
 sir 
 
 /That is singular," replied Eaoul, "for I am far from 
 being in good spirits." 
 
 "It is your case, then, Raoul, as it is my own, that your 
 love affair does not progress satisfactorily." 
 
 "So much the better, oomte, as far as you are concerned; 
 the worst news, that indeed which would distress me most 
 of all, would be good news." 
 
 "In that case, do not distress yourself, for not only am 
 I very unhappy, but what is more, I see others about me 
 who are happy." 
 
 "Really, I do not understand you," replied Eaoul; "ex- ? 
 plain yourself." ! 
 
 "You will soon learn. I have tried, but in vain, to over- 
 come the feeling which you saw dawn in me, increase in me, 
 and take such entire possession of my whole being. I have 
 summoned all your advice and all my own strength to my 
 aid. I have well weighed the unfortunate affair in which I 
 have embarked; I have sounded its depths; that it is an 
 abyss, I am well aware, but it matters little, for / shall pur- 
 sue my own course." 
 
 "This is madness, De Guiche; you cannot advance an- 
 other step without risking your own ruin to-day, perhaps 
 your life to-morrow." 
 
 ""Whatever may happen, I have done with reflections. 
 Listen." 
 
 "And you hope to succeed; you believe that madame will 
 love you?" 
 
 "Eaoul, I believe nothing; I hope, because hope exists in 
 man, and never abandons him till he dies." 
 
 "But, admitting that you obtain the happiness you covet, 
 even then you are more certainly lost than if you had 
 failed in obtaining it." 
 
 "I beseech you, Eaoul, not to interrupt me any more; 
 you could never convince me, for I tell you beforehand I 
 do not wish to be convinced; I have gone so far that I can- 
 not recede; I have suffered so much that death itself would 
 be a boon. I no longer love to madness, Eaoul, I am in a 
 perfect rage of Jealousy." 
 
 Eaoul struck both his hands together with an expression 
 resembling anger. 
 
 "Well?" said he. 
 
 "Well or ill, matters little. This is what I claim from 
 you, my friend, my almost brother. During the last three 
 (lays madame has been living in a perfect intoxication of 
 gayety. On the first day I dared not look at her; I hated 
 
128 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 her for not having been as nnhappy as myself. The next 
 day I conld not bear her out of my sight; and she, Raoul — 
 at least I thought I remarked it— she looked at me, if not 
 with pity, at least with gentleness. But between her looks 
 and mine a shadow intervened; another's smile invited her 
 smile. Beside her horse another's always gallops, which is 
 not mine; in her ear another's caressing voice, not mine, un- 
 ceasingly vibrates. Eaoul, for three days past my brain has 
 been on fire; fire courses through my veins. That shadow 
 must be driven away, that smile must be quenched, that 
 voice must be silenced." 
 
 "You wish Monsieur's death?" exclaimed Eaoul. 
 
 "No, no; I am not jealous of the husband; I am jealous 
 of the lover." 
 
 "Of the lover?" said Raoul. 
 
 "Have you not observed it, you who were formerly so 
 keen-sighted?" 
 
 "Are you jealous of the Duke of Buckingham?" 
 
 "To the very death!" 
 
 "Again jealous?" 
 
 "This time the aifair will be easy to arrange between us; 
 I have taken the initiative, and have sent him a letter." 
 
 "It was you, then, who wrote to him?" 
 
 "How do you know that?" 
 
 "I know it, because he told me so. Look at this;" and 
 he handed to De Guiche the letter which he had received 
 nearly at the same moment as his own. De Guiche read it 
 eagerly, and said: 
 
 "He is a brave man, and more than that, a gallant man." 
 
 "Most certainly, the duke is a gallant man; I need not 
 ask if you wrote to him in a similar style." 
 
 "I will show you my letter when you call on him on my 
 behalf." 
 
 "But that is almost out of the question." 
 
 ••■'What is?" 
 
 "That I should call on him for that purpose." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "The duke consults me as you do." 
 
 "I suppose you will give me the preference. Listen to 
 me, Eaoul; I wish you to tell his grace — it is a very simple 
 matter — that to-day, to-morrow, the following day, or any 
 other day he may choose, I wish to meet him at Yincennes." 
 
 "Reflect, De Guiche." 
 
 "I thought I had already said that I had reflected." 
 
 "The duke is a stranger here; he is on a mission which 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 139 
 
 renders his person inviolable. . . . Vincennes is close 
 to the Bastile.'" 
 
 "The consequences concern me." 
 
 "But the motive for this meeting. What motive do you 
 wish me to assign?" 
 
 "Be perfectly easy on that score; he will not ask any. 
 The duke must be as sick of me as I am of him. I implore 
 you, therefore, to seek the duke, and if it is necessary to 
 entreat him to accept my offer, I will do so." ' 
 
 "That is useless. The duke has already informed me 
 that he wishes to speak to me. The duke is now playing 
 cards with the king. Let us both go there. I will draw 
 him aside in the gallery; you will remain aloof. Two words 
 will be sufficient." 
 
 "That is well arranged. I shall take De Wardes to keep 
 me in countenance." 
 
 "Why not Manicamp? De Wardes can rejoin us at any 
 time; we can leave him here." 
 
 "Yes, that is true." 
 
 "He knows nothing?" 
 
 "Positively nothing. You continue still on an unfriendly 
 footing, then?" 
 
 "Has he not told you anything?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 ''I do not like the man, and, as I never liked him, the 
 result is, that I am on no worse terms with him to-day than 
 I was yesterday." 
 
 "Let us go, then." 
 
 The four descended the stairs. De Quiche's carriage was 
 waiting at the door, and took them to the Palais Eoyal. 
 As they were going along Eaoul was engaged in framing 
 some scheme. The sole depository of two secrets, he did 
 not despair of concluding some arrangement between the 
 two parties. He knew the influence he exercised over 
 Buckingham, and the ascendency he had acquired over De 
 Guiche, and affairs did not look utterly despairing to him. 
 On their arrival in the gallery, dazzling with the blaze of 
 light, where the most beautiful and illustrious women of 
 the court moved to and fro, like stars in their atmosphere 
 of light, Eaoul could not prevent himself for a moment 
 forgetting De Guiche, in order to seek out Louise, who, 
 amid her companions, like a dove completely fascinated, 
 gazed long and fixedly upon the royal circle, which glittered 
 with jewels and gold. All the members of it were standing, 
 the king alone being seated. Eaoul perceived Buckingham, 
 
130 TEK TEAES LATER. 
 
 who was standing a few paces from Monsieur, in a group of 
 French and English, who were admiring his haughty car- 
 riage and the incomparable magnificence of his costume. 
 Some few of the older courtiers remembered having seen 
 the father, and their remembrance was in no way prejudicial 
 to the son. 
 
 Buckingham was conversing with Fouquet, who was talk- 
 ing with him aloud of Belle-Isle. 
 
 "I cannot speak to him at present," said Eaoul. 
 
 "Wait, then, and choose your opportunity, but finish 
 everything speedily. I am on thorns." 
 
 "See, our deliverer approaches," said Eaoul, perceiving 
 D'Artagnan, who, magnificently dressed in his new uniform 
 of captain of the musketeers, had just made his victorious 
 entry in the gallery; and he advanced toward D'Artagnan. 
 
 "The Comte de la Fere has been looking for you, cheva- 
 lier," said Eaoul. 
 
 "Yes," replied D'Artagnan; "I have just left him." 
 
 "I though b you would have passed a portion of the even- 
 ing together." 
 
 "We have arranged to meet again." 
 
 As he answered Eaoul his absent looks were directed on 
 all sides, as if seeking some one in the crowd, or looking 
 for something in the room. Suddenly his gaze became 
 fixed, like that of an eagle on its prey. Eaoul followed the 
 direction of his glance, and noticed that De Guiche and 
 D'Artagnan saluted each other, but he could not distinguish 
 at whom the captain's inquiring and haughty glance was 
 directed. 
 
 "Chevalier," said Eaoul, "there is no one here but your- 
 self who can render me a service." 
 
 "What is it, my dear vicomte?" 
 
 "It is simply to go and interrupt the Duke of Bucking- 
 ham, to whom I wish to say two words, and, as the duke is 
 conversing with Monsieur Fouquet, you understand that it 
 would not do for me to throw myself into the middle of the 
 conversation." 
 
 "Ah! ah! is Monsieur Fouquet there?" inquired D'Ar- 
 tagnan. 
 
 "Do you not see him?" 
 
 "Yes, now I do. But do you think I have a greater right 
 than you have?" 
 
 "You are a far more important personage." 
 
 "Yes, you're right; I am captain of the musketeers; I 
 have had the post promised me so long, and have enjoyed 
 
TEN- TEARS lATES. l3l 
 
 its dignity for so brief a period, that I am always forgetting 
 my dignity." 
 
 "You will do me this service, will you not?" 
 
 "Monsieur Pouquet — the deuce!" 
 
 "Are you not on good terms with him?" 
 
 "It is rather he who may not be on good terms with me; 
 however, since it must be done some day or another " 
 
 "Stay; I think he is looking at you; or is it likely that it 
 might be " 
 
 "No, no; don't deceive yourself; it is indeed me for 
 whom this honor is intended." 
 
 "The opportunity is a good one, then." 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 "Pray, go!" 
 
 "Well, I will." 
 
 De Guiche had not removed his eyes from Eaoul, who 
 made a sign to him that all was arranged. D'Artagnan 
 walked straight up to the group, and civilly saluted M. 
 Pouquet as well as the others. 
 
 "Good-evening, Monsieur d'Artagnan; we were speaking 
 of Belle-Isle," said Pouquet, with that usage of society, 
 and that perfect knowledge of the language of looks, which 
 require half a lifetime thoroughly to acquire, and which 
 some persons, notwithstanding all their study, never attain. 
 
 "OfBelle-Isle-en-Mer! Ah! ah!" said D'Artagnan. "It 
 belongs to you, I believe, Monsieur Pouquet?" 
 
 "Monsieur Pouquet has just told me that he had pre- 
 sented it to the king," said Buckingham. 
 
 "Do you know Belle-Isle, chevalier?" inquired Pouquet. 
 
 "I have only been there once," replied D'Artagnan, with 
 readiness and good-humor. 
 
 "Did you remain there long?" 
 
 "Scarcely a day." 
 
 "Did you see much of it while you were there?" 
 
 "All that could be seen in a day." 
 
 "A great deal can be seen with observation, as keen aS( 
 yours," said Pouquet; at which D'Artagnan bowed. 
 
 During this Eaoul made a sign to Buckingham. 
 
 "Monsieur Pouquet," said Buckingham, "I leave the 
 captain with you; he is more learned than I am in bastions, 
 and scarps, and counter-scarps, and I will join one of my 
 friends, who has just beckoned to me." 
 
 Saying this, Buckingham disengaged himself from the 
 group, and advanced toward Eaoul, stopping for a moment 
 at the table where the queen-mother, the young queen, and 
 +.I1B Irincr were nlavinff tosrether* 
 
133 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "Now, Eaoul," said De Guiche, "there he is; be firm 
 and quick." 
 
 Buckingham, having made some complimentary remark 
 to madame, continued his way toward K;ioul, who advanced 
 to meet him, while De Guiche remained in his place, though 
 he followed him with his eyes. The maneuver was so 
 arranged that the young men met in an open space which 
 was left vacant, between the group of players and the gal- 
 lery, where they walked, stopping now and then for the 
 purpose of saying a few words to some of the graver cour- 
 tiers who were talking there. At the moment when the 
 •'two lines were about to unite, they were broken by a third. 
 It was Monsieur who advanced toward the Duke of Buck- 
 ingham. Monsieur had his most engaging smile on his red 
 ftnd perfumed lips. 
 
 "My dear duke," said he, with the most affectionate 
 politeness, '-is it really true what I have just been told?" 
 
 Buckingham turned round; he had not noticed Monsieur 
 approach, but had merely heard his voice. He started, in 
 epite of his command over himself, and a slight pallor over- 
 spread his face. 
 
 "Monseigneur," fie asked, "what has been told you that 
 surprises you so much.^" 
 
 "That which throws me into despair, and will, in truth, 
 be a real cause of mourning tor the whole court." 
 
 "Your highness is very kind, for I perceive that you 
 allude to my departure." ' 
 
 "Precisely." 
 
 Guiche had overheard the conversation from where he 
 was standing, and started in his turn. 
 
 "His departure," ne murmured. "What does he say?" 
 
 Philip continued with the same gracious air: 
 
 "I can easily conceive, monsieur, why the King of Great 
 Britain recalls you; we all know that 'King Charles II., who 
 appreciates true gentlemen, cannot dispense with you. 
 But it cannot be supposed we can let you go without great 
 regret; and I beg you to receive the expression of my own." 
 
 "Believe me, monseigneur," said the duke, "that if I 
 quit the Court of France " 
 
 "It is because you are recalled; but if you should suppose 
 thatthe expression of my own wish on the subject might 
 possibly have some influence with the king, I will gladly 
 volunteer to entreat His Majesty Charles II. to leave you 
 with us a little while longer." 
 
 "1 am overwhelmed, monseigneur, by so much kindness," 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 133 
 
 replied Buckingham; "but I have received positive com- 
 mands. My residence in France was limited; I have pro- 
 longed it at the risk of displeasing my gracious sovereign. 
 It is only this very day that I recollected I ought to have 
 set o& four days ago." 
 
 "Indeed," said Monsieur. 
 
 "Yes; but," added Buckingham, raising his voice in such 
 a manner that the princess could hear him — "but I resemble 
 that dweller in the East, who turned mad, and remained so 
 for several days, owing to a delightful dream that he had 
 had, and who one day awoke, if not completely cured, in 
 some respects rational at least. The Court of Prance has 
 its intoxicating properties, which are not unlike this dream, 
 my lord; but at last I wake and leave it. I shall be unable, 
 therefore, to prolong my residence as your highness has so 
 kindly invited me." 
 
 "When do you leave?" inquired Philip, with an expres- 
 sion full of interest. 
 
 "To-morrow, monseigneur. My carriages have been 
 ready for three days past." 
 
 The Due d'Orleans made a movement of the head, which 
 seemed to signify, "Since you are determined, duke, there 
 is nothing to be said." Buckingham returned the gesture, 
 concealing under a smile a contraction of his heart, and 
 then Monsieur moved away in the same direction by which 
 he had approached. At the same moment, however, De 
 Guiche advanced from the opposite direction. Eaoul feared 
 that the impatient young man might possibly make the 
 proposition himself, and hurried forward before him. 
 
 "No, no, Eaoul, all is useless now," said Guiche, holding 
 both his hands toward the duke, and leading him himself 
 behind a column. "Forgive me, duke, for what I wrote to 
 you; I was mad. Give me back my letter." 
 
 "It is true," said the duke, "you cannot owe me a 
 grudge any longer now." 
 
 "Forgive me, duke; my friendship, my lasting friendship 
 is yours." 
 
 "There is certainly no reason why you should bear me 
 any ill-will from the moment I leave her never to see her 
 again," 
 
 Eaoul heard these words, and comprehending that his 
 presence was now useless between the two young men, who 
 had now only friendly words to exchange, withdrew a few 
 paces; a movement which brought him closer to De Wardes, 
 who was conversing with the Chevalier de Lorraine respect- 
 ing the departure of Buckingham. 
 
134. TEK TEARS LATER. 
 
 "A wise retreat," said De Wardes. 
 
 "Why so?"' 
 
 "Because the dear duke saves a sword-thrust by it." 
 
 At which reply both began to laugh. 
 
 Eaoul, indignant, turned round frowningly, flushed with 
 anger and his lip curling with disdain. The Chevalier de 
 Lorraine turned away upon his heel, but De Wardes re- 
 mained firm and waited. 
 
 "You will not break yourself of the habit," said Eaoul 
 to De Wardes, "of insulting the absent; yesterday it was 
 Monsieur d'Artagnan, to-day it is the Duke of Bucking- 
 ham." 
 
 "You know very well, monsieur," return De Wardes, 
 "that I sometimes insult those who are present." 
 
 De Wardes touched Eaoul, their shoulders met, their 
 faces were bent toward each other, as if mutually to inflame 
 each other by the iire of their breath and of their anger. It 
 could be seen that the one was at the height of his anger, 
 the other at the end of his patience. Suddenly a voice was 
 heard behind them full of grace and courtesy, saying: 
 
 "I believe I heard my name pronounced." 
 
 They turned round and saw D'Artagnan, who, with a 
 smiling eye and a cheerful face, had just placed his hand 
 on De Wardes' shoulder. Eaoul stepped back to make 
 room for the musketeer. De Wardes trembled from head 
 to foot, turned pale, but did not move. D'Artagnan, still 
 with the same smile, took the place which Eaoul abandoned 
 to him. 
 
 "Thank you, my dear Eaoul," he said. "Monsieur de 
 Wardes, I wish to talk with you. Do not leave us, Eaoul; 
 every one can hear what I have to say to Monsieur de 
 Wardes." 
 
 His smile immediately faded away, and his glance be- 
 came cold and sharp as a sword. 
 
 "I am at your orders, monsieur," said De Wardes. 
 
 "For a very long time," resumed D'Artagnan, "I have 
 sought an opportunity of conversing with you; to-day is the 
 first time I have found it. The place is badly chosen, I 
 admit, but you will, perhaps, have the goodness to accom- 
 pany me to my apartments, which are on the staircase at 
 the end of this gallery." 
 
 "I follow you, monsieur," said De Wardes. 
 
 "Are you alone here?" said D'Artagnan. 
 
 "No; I have Monsieur Manicamp and Monsieur de 
 Guiche, two of my friends.^' 
 
TEN" TEARS LATER. 135 
 
 "That's well," said D'Artagnan; "bnt two persoHS are 
 not suificient; you will be able to find a few others, I trust." 
 
 "Certainly," said the young man, who did not know the 
 object D'Artagnan had in view. "As many as you please." 
 
 "Are they friends. °" 
 
 "Yes, monsieur." 
 
 "Real friends?" 
 
 "No doubt of it." 
 
 "Very well; get a good supply, then. Do yoi; come, too^ 
 Eaoul; bring Monsieur de Guiche and the Duke of Buck- 
 ingham." 
 
 ''What a disturbance," replied De Wardes, attempting to 
 smile. The captain slightly signed to him with his hand, 
 as though to recommend him to be patient, and then led 
 the way to his apartments. 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 SWORD-THRUSTS IN THE "WATER (CONCLUDED). 
 
 D'Artagnan's apartment was not unoccupied; for the 
 Comte de la Fere, seated in the recess of a window, awaited 
 him. 
 
 "Well," said he to D'Artagnan, as he saw him enter. 
 
 "Well," said the latter, "Monsieur de Wardes has done 
 me the honor to pay me a visit, in company with some of 
 his own friends, as well as of ours." In fact, behind the 
 musketeer appeared De Wardes and Manicamp, followed by 
 De Guiche and Buckingham, who looked surprised, not 
 knowing what was expected of them. Eaoul was accom- 
 panied by two or three gentlemen; and, as he entered, 
 glanced round the room, and perceiving the comte, he went 
 and placed himself by his side. D'Artagnan received his 
 visitors with all the courtesy he was capable of; he preserved 
 his unmoved and unconcerned look. All the persons pres- 
 tent were men of distinction, occupying posts of honor and 
 credit at the court. After he had apologized to each of 
 them for any inconvenience he might have put them to, hb 
 turned toward De Wardes, who, in spite of his great self- 
 command, could not prevent his face hetraying some sur- 
 prise mingled with not a little uneasiness. 
 
 "Now, monsieur," said D'Artagnan, "since we are no 
 longer within the precincts of the king's palace, and since 
 we can speak out "vyithout failing in respect to propriety, I 
 
136 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 will inform you why I have taken the liberty to request you 
 to visit me here, and why I have invited these gentlemen to 
 be present at the same time. My frieiad, the Comte de la 
 Fere, has acquainted me with the injurious reports you are 
 spreading about myself. You have stated that you regard 
 me as your mortal enemy, because I was, so you affirm, that 
 of your father." 
 
 "Perfectly true, monsieur; I have said so," replied D9 
 Wardes, whose pallid face became slightly tinged with color. 
 
 "You accuse me, therefore, of a crime, or a fault, or of 
 some mean and cowardly act. Have the goodness to state 
 your charge against me in precise terms." 
 
 "In the presence of witnesses?" 
 
 "Most certainly in the presence of witnesses, and you see 
 I have selected them as being experienced in affairs of 
 honor." 
 
 "You do not appreciate my delicacy, monsieur. I have 
 accused you, it is true; but I have kept the nature of the 
 accusation a perfect secret. I have not entered into any 
 details; but have rested satisfied by expressing my hatred 
 in the presence of those on whom a duty was almost im- 
 posed to acquaint you with it. You have not taken the 
 discreetness I have shown into consideration, although you 
 were interested in remaining silent. I can hardly recognize 
 your habitual prudence in that. Monsieur d'Artagnan." 
 
 D'Artagnan, who was quietly biting the corner of his 
 mustache, said: 
 
 "I have already had the honor to beg you to state the 
 particulars of the grievances you say you have against me." 
 
 "Aloud?" 
 
 "Certainly, aloud." 
 
 "In that case I will speak." 
 
 "Speak, monsieur," said D'Artagnan, bowing; "we are 
 iill listening to you." 
 
 "Well, monsieur, it is not a question of a personal injury 
 toward myself, but of one toward my father." 
 
 "That you have already stated." 
 
 "Yes; but there ar« certain subjects which are only 
 approached with great hesitation." 
 
 "If that hesitation, in your case, really does exist, I 
 entreat you to overcome it." 
 
 "Even if it refer to a disgraceful action?" 
 
 "Yes; in every and any case." 
 
 Those who were present at this scene had at first looked 
 g^t one another with a good deal of uneasiness. They were 
 
TEK TEA^S LATEE^ 137 
 
 reassured, however, when they saw that D'Artagnan mani- 
 fested no emotion whatever. De Wardes still maintained 
 the same unbroken silence. 
 
 "Speak, monsieur," said the musketeer; "you see you 
 are keeping us waiting." 
 
 "Listen, then: My father loved a woman of noble birth, 
 and this woman loved my father." 
 
 D'Artagnan and Athos exchanged looks. De Wardes 
 continued: 
 
 "Monsieur d'Artagnan found some letters which indicated 
 a rendezvous, substituted himself, under disguise, for the 
 person who was expected, and took advantage of the dark- 
 ness." 
 
 "That is perfectly true," said D'Artagnan. 
 
 A slight murmur was heard from those present. 
 
 "Yes, I was guilty of that dishonorable action. You 
 should have added, monsieur, since you are so impartial, 
 that, at the period when the circumstance which you have 
 Just related happened, I was not twenty-one years of age." 
 
 "The action is not the less shameful on that account," 
 said De Wardes; "and it is quite sufficient for a gentleman 
 to have attained the age of reason, to avoid committing any 
 act of indelicacy." 
 
 A renewed murmur was heard, but this time of astonish- 
 ment, and almost of doubt. 
 
 "It was a most shameful deception, I admit," said D'Ar- 
 tagnan, "and I have not waited for Monsieur de Wardes' 
 reproaches to reproach myself for it, and very bitterly, too. 
 Age has, however, made me more reasonable, and, above 
 all, more upright; and this injury has been atoned for by a 
 long and lasting regret. But I appeal to you, gentlemen; 
 this affair took place in 1626, at a period, happily for your- 
 , selves, known to you by tradition only, at a period when 
 love was not overscrupulous, when consciences did not dis- 
 till, as in the present day, poison and bitterness. We were 
 young soldiers, always fighting, or being attacked, our 
 swords always in our hands, or at least ready to be drawn 
 from their sheaths. Death then always stared us in the 
 face, war hardened us, and the cardinal pressed us sorely. 
 I have repented of it, and, more than that — I still repent 
 it. Monsieur de Wardes." 
 
 "I can well understand that, monsieur, for the action 
 itself needed repentance; but you were not the less the 
 cause of that lady's disgrace. She of whom you have been 
 speiiking, covered with shame, borne down by the affront 
 
138 TEN TEARS tATE6. 
 
 you had wrought upon her, fled, quitted France, and no 
 one ever knew what became of her." 
 
 "Stay," said the Comte de la Fere, stretching his hand 
 toward De Wardes, with a peculiar smile upon his face, 
 "you are mistaken; she was seen, and there are persons 
 even now present, who, having often heard her spoken of, 
 will easily recognize her by the description I am about to 
 give. She was about twenty-five years of age, slender in 
 form, of a pale complexion, and fair-haired; she was mar- 
 ried in England." 
 
 "Married?" exclaimed De "Wardes. 
 
 "So, you were not aware she was married? You see, we 
 are far better informed than yourself. Do you happen to 
 know she was usually styled 'my lady,' without the addi- 
 tion of any name to that description?" 
 
 "Yes, I know that." 
 
 "Good heavens!" murmured Buckingham. 
 
 "Very well, monsieur. That woman, who came from 
 England, returned to England after having thrice attempted 
 Monsieur d'Artagnan's life. That was but just, you will 
 say, since Monsieur d'Artagnan had insulted her. But 
 that which was not Just was that, when in England, thia 
 woman, by her seductions, completely enslaved a young 
 man in the service of Lord Winter, by name Felton. You 
 change color, my lord," said Athos, turning to the Duke 
 of Buckingham, "and your eyes kindle with anger and sor- 
 row. Let your grace finish the recital, then, and tell Mon- 
 sieur de Wardes who this woman was who placed the knife 
 in the/hand of your father's murderer." 
 
 A cry escaped from the lips of all present. The young 
 duke passed his handkerchief across his forehead, which was 
 covered with perspiration. A dead silence ensued among 
 the spectators. 
 
 "You see. Monsieur de Wardes," said D'Artagnan, whom 
 this recital had impressed more and more, as his own recol- 
 lection revived as Athos spoke, "you see that my crime did 
 not cause the destruction of any one's soul, and that the 
 soul in question may fairly be considered to have been alto- 
 gether lost before my regret. It is, however, an act of con- 
 science on my part. Now this matter is settled, therefore, 
 it remains for me to ask, with the greatest humility, your 
 forgiveness for this shameless action, as most certainly I 
 should have asked it of your father, if he were still alive, 
 and if I had met him after my return to Franco, subsequent 
 to the death of King Charles I." 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 139 
 
 "That is too much, Monsieur d'Artagnan," exclaimed 
 many voices, witli animation. 
 
 "No, gentlemen," said the captain. "And now. Mon- 
 sieur de Wardes, I hope all is finished between us, and that 
 you will have no further occasion to speak ill of me again. 
 Do you consider it completely settled?" 
 
 De Wardes bowed, and muttered to himself inarticulately. 
 
 "I trust also," said D'Artagnan, approaching the young 
 man closely, "that you will no longer speak ill of any one, 
 as it seems you have the unfortunate habit of doing; for a 
 man so puritanically conscientious as you are, who ca^ 
 reproach an old soldier for a youthful freak thirty-five 
 years after it has happened, will allow me to ask whether 
 you, who advocate such excessive purity of conscience, will 
 undertake, on your side, to do nothing contrary either to 
 conscience or a principle of honor. And now, listen atten- 
 tively to what I am going to say. Monsieur de Wardes, in 
 conclusion. Take care that no tale, with which your name 
 may be associated, reaches my ear." 
 
 "Monsieur," said De Wardes, "it is useless threatening 
 to no purpose." 
 
 "I have not yet finished. Monsieur de Wardes; and you 
 must listen to me still further." 
 
 The circle of listeners, full of eager curiosity, drew closer 
 together. 
 
 "You spoke just now of the honor of a woman, and of 
 the honor of your father. We were glad to hear you speak 
 in that manner; for it is pleasing to think that such a senti- 
 ment of delicacy and rectitude, and which did not exist, it 
 seems, in our minds, lives in our children; and it is delight- 
 ful, too, to see a young man, at an age when men, from 
 habit, become the destroyers of the honor of women, respect 
 and defend it." 
 
 De Wardes bit his lip and clinched his hands, evidently . 
 much disturbed to learn how this discourse, the commence- 
 ment of which was announced in so threatening a manner^ 
 would terminate. 
 
 "How did it happen, then, that you allowed yourself to 
 say to Monsieur de Bragelonne that he did not know who 
 his mother was?" 
 
 Eaoul's eye flashed, as, darting forward, he exclaimed: 
 
 "Chevalier, this is a personal affair of my own!" 
 
 At which exclamation a smile, full of malice, passed 
 across De Wardes' face. D'Artagr"" put EjiouI aside, 
 saying: 
 
140 TBN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "Do not interrupt me, young man." And looking at 
 De AVardes in an authoritative manner, he continued: "I 
 am now dealing with a matter which cannot be settled by 
 means of the sword. I discuss it before men of lienor, all 
 of whom have more than once had their swords in their 
 hands in affairs of honor. I selected them expressly. These 
 gentlemen well know that every secret for which men fight 
 ceases to be a secret. I again put my question to Monsieur 
 de Wardes. What was the subject of conversation when 
 you offended this young man, in offending his father and . 
 mother at the same time?" 
 
 "It seems to me," returned De Wardes, "that liberty of 
 speech is allowed, when it is ready to be supported by every 
 means which a man of courage has at his disposal." 
 
 "Tell me what the means are by which a man of courage 
 can sustain a slanderous expression." 
 
 "The sword." 
 
 "You fail, not only in logic, in your argument, but in 
 religion and honor. You expose the lives of many others, 
 without referring to your own, which seems to be full of 
 hazard. Besides, fashions pass away, monsieur, and the 
 fashion of dueling has passed away, without referring in 
 any way to the edicts of his majesty, which forbid it. 
 Therefore, in order to be consistent with your own chival- 
 rous notions, you will at once apologize to Monsieur de 
 Bragelonne; you will tell him how much you regret having 
 spoken so lightly, and that the nobility and purity of his 
 race are inscribed, not in his heart alone, but, still more, in 
 every action of his life. You will do and say this. Monsieur 
 de Wardes, as I, an old officer, did and said just now to 
 your boy's mustache." 
 
 "And if I refuse?" inquired De Wardes. 
 
 "In that case the result will be " 
 
 "That which you think you will prevent," said De 
 Wardes, laughing; "the result will be that your conciliatory 
 address will end in a violation of the king's prohibition." 
 
 "Not so," said the captain; "you are quite mistaken." 
 
 "What will be the result, then?" 
 
 "The result will be that I shall go to the king, with whom 
 I am on tolerably good terms, to whom I have been happy 
 enough to render certain services, dating from a period 
 when you were not born, and who, at my request, has just 
 sent me an order blank for Monsieur Baisemeaux de Mou- 
 tlezun, governor of the Bastile; and I shall say to the king: 
 'Sire, a man has cowardly insulted Monsieur de Bragelonua 
 
TEK YEARS LATEE. 141 
 
 in insnlting his mother; I have written this man's name 
 Upon the lettre de cachet which yonr majesty has been kind 
 enough to give me, so that Monsieur de Wardes is in the 
 Bastile for three years.' " 
 
 And D'Artagnan, drawing the order signed by the king 
 from his pocket, held it toward De Wardes. Kemarking 
 that the ^oung man was not quite convinced, and received 
 the warning as an idle threat, he shrugged his shoulders, 
 and walked leisurely toward the table upon which lay a 
 writing-case and a pen, the length of which would have 
 terrified the topographical Porthos. De Wardes then saw 
 that nothing could well be more seriously intended than 
 the threat in question, for the Bastile, even at that period, 
 was already held in dread. He advanced a step toward 
 Eaoul, and, in almost unintelligible voice, said: 
 
 "I offer my apologies in the terms which Monsieur d'Ar- 
 tagnan Just now dictated, and which I am forced to make 
 to you." 
 
 "One moment, monsieur," said the musketeer, with the 
 greatest tranquillity, "you mistake the terms of the apology. 
 I did not say, 'and which I am forced to make;' I said, 
 'and which my conscience induces me to make.' This lat- 
 ter expression, believe me, is better than the former, and it 
 will be far preferable, since it will be the most truthful 
 expression of your own sentiments." 
 
 "I subscribe to it," said De Wardes; "but admit, gentle- 
 men, that a thrust of a sword through the body, as was the 
 custom formerly, was far better than tyranny like this." 
 
 "No, monsieur," replied Buckingham; "for the sword- 
 thrust, when received, was no indication that a particular 
 person was right or wrong; it only showed tha^ he was 
 more or less skillful in the use of the weapon." 
 
 "Monsieur!" exclaimed De Wardes. 
 
 "There, now," interrupted D'Artagnan, "you are going 
 to say something very rude, and I am rendering you a. 
 service in stopping you in time." 
 
 "Is that all, monsieur?" inquired De Wardes. 
 
 "Absolutely everything," replied D'Artagnan; "and 
 these gentlemen, as well as myself, are quite satisfied with 
 you." 
 
 "Believe me, monsieur, that your reconciliations are not 
 Buccessfu'.." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "Because, as we are now about to separate, I wuld wager 
 
142 TEK TEAKS LATER. 
 
 that Monsieur de Bragelonne and myself are greatef 
 enemies than ever." 
 
 "You are deceived, monsieur, as far as I am concerned," 
 returned Raoul; "for I do not retain the slightest animos- 
 ity in my heart against you." 
 
 This last blow overwhelmed De Wardes; he cast his eyes 
 around him like a man utterly bewildered. D'Artagnan 
 saluted most courteously the gentlemen who had been 
 present at the explanation; and every one, on leaving the 
 room, shook hands with him; but not one hand was held 
 out toward De Wardes. 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed the young man, abandoning himself to 
 the rage which consumed him, "can I not find some one on 
 whom to wreak my vengeance?" 
 
 "You can, monsieur, for I am here," whispered a voice 
 full of menace, in his ear. 
 
 De Wardes turned round, and saw the Duke of Bucking- 
 ham, who, having probably remained behind with that in- 
 tention, had just approached him. 
 
 "You, monsieur?" exclaimed De Wardes. 
 
 "Yes, I! I am no subject of the King of France; I am 
 not going to remain on the territory, since I am about set- 
 ting ofE for England. I have accumulated in my heart such 
 a mass of despair and rage that I, too, like yourself, need 
 to revenge myself upon some one. I approve Monsieur 
 d'Artagnau's principles extremely, but I am not bound to 
 apply them to you. I am an Englishman, and, in my turn, 
 I propose to you what you proposed to others to no purpose. 
 Since you, therefore, are so terribly incensed, take me as a 
 remedy. In thirty-four hours' time I shall be at Calais. 
 Come with me; the journey will appear shorter if together 
 than if alone. We will fight, when we get there, upon the 
 sands which are covered by the rising tide, and which form 
 part of the French territory during six hours of the day, 
 but belong to the territory of heaven during the other six." 
 
 "I accept willingly," said De Wardes. 
 I "I assure you," said the duke, "that if you kill me you 
 will be rendering me an infinite service." 
 
 "I will do my utmost to be agreeable to you, duke," said 
 De Wardes. 
 
 "It is agreed, then, that I carry you off with me?" 
 
 "I shall be at your commands. I required some real 
 danger and some mortal risk to run to tranquilize me." 
 
 "In that case, I think you have met with what you are 
 looking for. Farewell. Monsieur de Wardes; to-morrow 
 
TEK YEARS lATEE. 143 
 
 morning my valet will tell you the exact hour of departure; 
 we can travel together like two excellent friends. I gener- 
 ally travel as fast as I can. Adieu." 
 
 Buckingham saluted De Wardes, and returned toward 
 the king's apartments; De Wardes, irritated beyond meas- 
 ure, left the Palais Royal, and hurried through the streets 
 homeward to the house where he lodged. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 BAISEMEAUX DE MONTLEZUN. 
 
 Aftee the rather severe lesson administered to De 
 Wardes, Athos and D'Artagnan together descended the 
 staircase which led to the courtyard of the Palais Royal. 
 
 "You perceive," said Athos to D'Artagnan, "that Raoul 
 cannot, sooner or later, avoid a duel with De Wardes, for 
 De Wardes is as brave as he is vicious and wicked." 
 
 "I know these fellows well," replied D'Artagnan; "I 
 have had an afEair with the father. I assure you that, al- 
 though all that time I had good muscles and a sort of brute 
 courage — I assure you the father did me some mischief. 
 But you should have seen how I fought it out with him. 
 Ah, Athos, such encounters never take place in these times. 
 I had a hand which could never remain at rest, a hand like 
 quicksilver — you knew its quality, for you have seen me at 
 work. My sword was no longer a piece of steel; it was a 
 serpent which assumed every form and every length, seek- 
 ing where it might thrust its head; in other words, where 
 it might fix its bite. I advanced half a dozen paces, then, 
 three, and then, body to body, I pressed my antagonist 
 closely, then I darted back again ten paces. No human 
 power could resist that ferocious ardor. Well, De Wardes, 
 the father, with the bravery of his race, with his dogged 
 courage, occupied a good deal of my time; and my fingers, 
 at the end of the engagement, were, I well remember, tired 
 enough." 
 
 "It is, then, as I said," resumed Athos, "the ^on will 
 always be looking out for Eaoul, and will end by meeting 
 him; and Raoul can easily be found when he is sought for." 
 
 "Agreed; but Eaoul calculates well; he bears no grudge 
 against De Wardes — he has said so; he will wait until he is 
 provoked, and in that case his position is a good one. The 
 king will not be able to get out of temper about the matter; 
 
144 TEN" TEAKS iiAXisi;. 
 
 besides, we shall know how to pacify his majesty. But why 
 so full of these fears and anxieties? You don't easily get 
 alarmed." 
 
 "I will tell you what makes me anxious; Eaoul is to see 
 the king to-morrow, when his majesty will inform him of 
 his wishes respecting a certain marriage. Eaoul, loving as 
 he does, will get out of temper, and once in an angry mood, 
 if he were to meet De Wardes, the shell will explode." 
 
 "We will prevent the explosion." 
 
 "Not I," said Athos, "for I must return to Blois. All 
 this gilded elegance of the court, all these intrigues, disgust 
 me. I am no longer a young man who can make his terms 
 with the meannesses of the present day. I have read in the 
 great Book of God many things too beautiful and too com- 
 prehensive to take any interest in the little trifling phrases 
 which these men whisper among themselves when they wish 
 to deceive others. In one word, I am sick of Paris wher- 
 ever and whenever you are not with me; and as I cannot 
 have you always, I wish to return to Blois." 
 
 "How wrong you are, Athos; how you gainsay your 
 origin and the destiny of your noble nature! Men of your 
 stamp are created to continue, to the very last moment, in 
 full possession of their great faculties. Look at my sword, 
 a Spanish blade, the one I wore at Eochelle; it served me 
 for thirty years without fail; one day, in the winter, it fell 
 upon the marble floor of the Louvre and was broken. I 
 had a hunting-knife made of it which will last a hundred 
 years yet. You, Athos, with your loyalty, your frankness, 
 your cool courage, and your sound information, are the 
 very man kings need to warn and direct them. Eemain 
 here; Monsieur Pouquet will not last so long as my Spanish 
 blade." 
 
 "Is it possible," said Athos, smiling, "that my friend 
 "D'Artagnan, who, after having raised me to the skies, mak- 
 ing me an object of worship, casts me down from the top 
 of Olympus, and hurls me to the ground? I have more ex- 
 alted ambition, D'Artagnan. To be a minister — to be a 
 slave, never. Am I not still greater? I am nothing. 1 
 remember having heard you occasionally call me 'the great 
 Athos;' I defy you, therefore, if I were minister, to con- 
 tinue to bestow that title upon me. No, no; I do not yield 
 myself in this manner." 
 
 "We will not speak of it any more, then; renounce ever;r- 
 thing, even the brotherly feeling which unites us." 
 
 "It is almost cruel, what you say." 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 145 
 
 D'Artagnan pressed Athos' hand warmly. 
 
 "No, no; renounce everything without fear. Eaoul can 
 get on without you; I am at Paris." 
 
 "In that case, I shall return to Blois. We will take leave 
 of each other to-night; to-morrow at daybreak I shall be 
 on my horse again." 
 
 "You cannot return to your hotel alone; why did you 
 not bring Grimaud with you?" 
 
 "Grimaud takes his rest now; he goes to bed early, for 
 my poor old servant gets easily fatigued. He came from 
 Blois with me, and I compelled him to remain within doors 
 for if, in retracing the forty leagues which separate us from 
 Blois, he needed to draw breath even, he would die with- 
 out a murmur. But I do^'t want to lose Grimaud." 
 
 "You shall have one of my musketeers to carry a torch 
 for you. Hola! some one there," called out D'Artagnan, 
 leaning over the gilded balustrade — the heads of seven or 
 eight musketeers appeared — "I wish some gentleman who 
 is so disposed to escort the Comte de la Fere," cried D'Ar- 
 tagnan. 
 
 "Thank you for your readiness, gentlemen," said Athos; 
 "I regret to have occasion to trouble you in this manner." 
 
 "I would willingly escort the Comte de la Fere," said 
 some one, "if I had not to speak to Monsieur d'Artagnan." 
 
 "Who is that?" said D'Artagnan, looking into the 
 darkness. 
 
 "I, Monsieur d'Artagnan." 
 
 "Heaven forgive me if that is Monsieur Baisemeaux's 
 voice!" 
 
 "It is, monsieur." 
 
 "What are you doing in the courtyard, my dear 
 Baisemeaux?" 
 
 "I am waiting your orders, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan. " 
 
 "Wretch that I am," thought D'Artagnan; "true, you 
 have been told, I suppose, that some one was to be arrested, 
 and have come yourself, instead of sending an officer?" 
 
 "I came because I had occasion to speak to you." 
 
 "You did not send to me?" 
 
 "I waited until you were disengaged," said M. Baise- 
 meaux timidly. 
 
 "I leave you, D'Artagnan," said Athos. 
 
 "Not before I have presented Monsieur Baisemeaux de 
 Montlezun, the governor of the Bastile." 
 
 Baisemeaux and Athos saluted each other. ' 
 
 "Surely you must know each other?" said D'Artagnan. 
 
146 TEN TEAES LATER. 
 
 "I have an indistinct recollection of Monsieur Baise. 
 meaux," said Athos. 
 
 "You remember, my dear Baisemeaux, that king's guards- 
 man with whom we used formerly to have such delightful . 
 meetings in the cardinal's time." 
 
 "Perfectly," said Athos, taking leave of him with 
 affability. 
 
 "Monsieur le Comte de la Fere, whose nom de guerre was 
 Athos," whispered D'Artagnan to Baisemeaux. 
 
 "Yes, yes; a brave man, one of the celebrated four." 
 
 "Precisely so. But, my dear Baisemeaux, shall we talk 
 now?" 
 
 "If you please." 
 
 "In the first place, as for the orders — there are none. 
 The king does not intend to arrest the person in question." 
 
 "So much the worse," said Baisemeaux, with a sigh._ 
 
 "What do you mean by so much the worse?" exclaimed 
 D'Artagnan, laughing. 
 
 "No doubt of it," returned the governor, "my prisoners 
 are my income." 
 
 "I beg your pardon; I did not see it in that light." 
 
 "And so there are no orders," repeated Baisemeaux, with 
 a sigh. "What an admirable situation yours is, captain," 
 he continued, after a pause, "captain-lieutenant of the 
 musketeers!" 
 
 "Oh, it is good enough; but I don't see why you should 
 envy me; you, governor of the Bastile, the first castle in 
 Prance." 
 
 "I am well aware of that," said Baisemeaux, in a sorrow- 
 ful tone of voice. 
 
 "You say that like a man confessing his sins. I would 
 willingly exchange my profits for yours." 
 
 "Don't speak of profits to me, if you wish to save me the 
 bitterest anguish of mind." 
 
 "Why do you look first on one side, and then on ths 
 other, as if you were afraid of being arrested yourself, you 
 whose business it is to arrest others?" 
 
 "I was looking to see whether any one could see or listen 
 to us; it would be safer to confer more in private, if you 
 would grant me such a favor." 
 
 "Baisemeaux, you seem to forget we are acquaintances of 
 thirty-five years' standing. Don't assume such sanctified 
 airs; make yourself quite comfortable; I don't eat governors 
 of the Bastile raw." 
 "Heaven be praised!" 
 
TEN TEARS lATEE. U? 
 
 "Come into the courtyard with me; it's a 'beautiful 
 moonlight night; we will walk up and down, arm in arm, 
 under the trees, while you tell me your pitiful tale." 
 
 He drew the doleful governor into the courtyard, took 
 him by the arm, as he had said, and in his rough, good- 
 humored way, cried: 
 
 "Out with it; rattle away, Baisemeaux; what have you 
 got to say?" 
 
 "It's a long story." 
 
 "You prefer your own lamentations, then; my opinion is, 
 it will be longer than ever. I'll wager you are making fifty 
 thousand francs out of your pigeons in the Bastile." 
 
 "Would to Heaven that were the case, Monsieur 
 d'Artagnan!" 
 
 "You surprise me, Baisemeaux; just look at yourself, 
 •vous faif.es I'homme cotitrit. I should like to show you your 
 face in a glass, and you would see how plump and florid- 
 looking you are, as fat and round as a cheese, with eyes 
 like lighted coals; and if it were not for that ugly wrinkle 
 you try to cultivate on your forehead, you would hardly 
 look fifty years old, and you are sixty, if I am not mistaken." 
 
 "All quite true." 
 
 "Of course I knew it was true, as true as the fifty thou- 
 sand francs profit you make;" at which remark Baisemeaux 
 stamped on the ground. 
 
 "Well, well," said D'Artagnan, "I will run up your ac- 
 count for you; you were captain of Monsieur Mazarin's 
 guards; and twelve thousand francs a year would in twelve 
 years amount to one hundred and forty-four thousand 
 francs." 
 
 "Twelve thousand francs! Are you mad!" cried Baise- 
 meaux; "the old miser gave me no more than six thousand, 
 and the expenses of the post amounted to six thousand five 
 hundred. Monsieur Colbert, who deducted the other six 
 thousand francs, condescended to allow me to take fifty 
 pistoles as a gratification; so that, if it were not for my 
 little estate at Montlezun, which brings me in twelve thou- 
 sand francs a year, I could not have met my engagements." 
 
 "Well, then, how about the fifty thousand francs from 
 the Bastile? There, I trust, you are boarded and lodged, 
 and get your six thousand francs salary besides." 
 
 "Admitted." 
 
 "Whether the year be good or bad, there are fifty pris- 
 oners, who, on an average, bring you in a thousand fra-ncs a 
 year each." 
 
148 TEST TEAES LATKK. 
 
 "I don't deny it." 
 
 "Well, there is at once an income of fifty thousand 
 francs; you have held the post three years, and must have 
 received in that time one hundred and fifty thousand 
 francs." 
 
 "Yon forget one circumstance, dear Monsieur d'Ar- 
 tagnan." 
 
 "AVhat is that?" 
 
 "That while you received your appointment as captain 
 from the king himself, I received mine as governor from 
 Messrs. Tremblay and Louviere." 
 
 "Quite right, and Tremblay was not a man to let you 
 have the post for nothing." 
 
 "Nor was Louviere either; the result was, that I gave 
 seventy-five thousand francs to Tremblay as his share." 
 
 "Very agreeable, that! and to Louviere?" 
 
 "The same." ' 
 
 "Money down?" 
 
 "No; that would have been impossible. The king did 
 not wish, or, rather. Monsieur Mazarin did not wish, to 
 have the appearance of removing those two gentlemen, who 
 had sprung from the barricades; he permitted them, there- 
 fore, to make certain extravagant conditions for their 
 retirement." 
 
 "What are those conditions?" 
 
 "Tremble! — three years' income for the good-will." 
 
 "The deuce! so that the hundred and fifty thousand 
 francs have passed into their hands?" 
 
 "Precisely so." 
 
 "And beyond that?" 
 
 "A sum of one hundred and fifty thousand francs, or 
 fifteen thousand pistoles, whichever you please, in three 
 payments." 
 
 "Exorbitant enough." 
 
 "Yes, but that is not all." 
 
 "What besides?" 
 
 "In default of the fulfillment by me of any one of those 
 conditions, those gentlemen enter upon their functions 
 again. The king has been induced to sign that." 
 
 "It is enormous, incredible!" 
 
 "Such is the fact, however." 
 
 "I do indeed pity you, Baisemeaux. But why, in the 
 name of fortune, did Monsieur Mazarin grant you this pre- 
 tended favor? It v^ould have been far better to have 
 refused you altogether." 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 149 
 
 "Certainly; but he was strongly persuaded to do so by 
 my protector." 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 "One of your own friends, indeed; Monsieur d'Herblay." 
 
 "Monsieur d'Herblay! Aramis?" 
 
 "Just so; he has been very kind toward me." 
 
 "Kind! to make you enter into such a bargain." 
 _ "Listen. I wished to leave the cardinal's service. Mon- 
 sieur d'Herblay spoke on my behalf to Louviere and Trem- 
 blay — they objected; I wished to have the appointment very 
 much, for I knew what it could be made to produce; in my 
 distress I confided in Monsieur d'Herblay, and he ofEered 
 to become my surety for the different payments." 
 
 "You astound me! Aramis become your surety?" 
 
 "Like a man of honor; he procured the signature; Trem- 
 blay and Louviere resigned their appointments; I have paid 
 every year twenty-five thousand francs to these two gentle- 
 men; on the 31st of May, every year. Monsieur d'Herblay 
 himself comes to the Bastile, and brings me five thousand 
 pistoles to distribute between my crocodiles." 
 
 "You owe Aramis one hundred and fifty thousand francs, 
 then?" 
 
 "That is the very thing which is the cause of my despair, 
 for I only owe him one hundred thousand." 
 
 "I don't quite understand you." 
 
 "He has been only two years. To-day, however, is the 
 31st of May, and he has not been yet, and to-morrow, at mid- 
 day, the payment falls due; if, therefore, I don't pay to- 
 morrow, those gentlemen can, by the terms of the contract, 
 break off the bargain; I shall be stripped of everything; I 
 shall have worked for three years, and given two hundred 
 and fifty thousand francs for nothing, absolutely for noth- 
 ing at all, dear Monsieur d'Artagnan." 
 
 "This is very strange," murmured D'Artagnan. 
 
 "You can now imagine that I may well have wrinkles on 
 ■my forehead; can you not?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed!" 
 
 "And you can imagine, too, that notwithstanding I may 
 be as round as a cheese, with a complexion like an apple, 
 and my eyes like coals on fire, I may almost be afraid that 
 I shall not have a cheese or an apple left me to eat, and 
 that I shall only have my eyes left me to weep with." 
 
 "It is really a very grievous affair." 
 
 "I have come to you. Monsieur d'Artagnan, for you are 
 the only one who can get me out of my trouble, " 
 
150 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "In wbat way?" 
 
 "'You are acquainted with the Abbe d'Herblay, and you 
 know that he is somewhat mysterious." 
 "Yes." 
 "Well, you can, perhaps, give me the address of his 
 
 f)resbytery, for I have been to Noisy-le-Sec, and he is no 
 onger there." 
 
 "I should think not, indeed. He is Bishop of Vannes." 
 
 "What! Vannes in Bretagne?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The little man began to tear his hair, saying: 
 
 "How can I get to "Vannes from here by midday to- 
 morrow? I am a lost man." 
 
 "Your despair quite distresses me." 
 
 "Vannes! Vannes!" cried Baisemeaux. 
 
 "But listen; a bishop is not always a resident. Monsieur 
 d'Herblay may not possibly be so far away as you fear." 
 
 "Pray, tell me his address." 
 
 "I really don't know it." 
 
 "In that case, I am utterly lost. I will go and throw 
 myself at the king's feet." 
 
 "But, Baisemeaux, I can hardly believe what you tell me; 
 besides, since the I3astile is capable of producing fifty 
 thousand francs a year, why have you not tried to screw one 
 hundred thousand out of it?" 
 
 "Because I am an honest man, Monsieur d'Artagnan, 
 and because my prisoners are fed lilse potentates." 
 
 "Well, you're in a fair way to get out of your difficulties; 
 give yourself a good attack of indigestion with your excel- 
 lent living, and put yourself out of the way between this 
 and midday to-morrow." 
 
 "How can you be hard-hearted enough to laugh?" 
 
 "Nay, you really afflict me. Come, Baisemeaux, if you 
 can pledge me your word of honor, do so, that you will not 
 open your lips to any one about what I am going to say to 
 you." 
 
 "Never, never!" 
 
 "You wish to put your hand on Aramis?" 
 
 "At any cost." 
 
 "Well, go and see where Monsieur Pouquet is." 
 
 "Why, what connection can there be " 
 
 "How stupid you are! Don't you know that Vannes is 
 in the diocese of Belle-Isle, or Belle-Isle in the diocese of 
 Vannes? Belle-Isle belongs to Monsieur Pouquet, and 
 Monsieur Pouquet nominated Monsieur d'Herblav to that 
 ^ighwrio." 
 
TEN TEARS LATEE. 151 
 
 "I see, I see! You restore me to life again." 
 
 "So much the better. Go and tell Monsieur Fouquet 
 very simply that you wish to speak to Monsieur d'Herblay." 
 
 "Of course, of course!" exclaimed Baisemeaux de- 
 lightedly. 
 
 "But," said D'Artagnan, checking him by a severe look, 
 "your word of honor." 
 
 "I give you my sacred word of honor," replied the little 
 man, about to set ofi running. 
 
 "Where are you going?" 
 
 "To Monsieur Fouquet's house." 
 
 "It is useless doing bhat; Monsieur Fouquet is playing at 
 cards with the king. All you can do is to pay Monsieur 
 Fouquet a visit early to-morrow morning." 
 
 "I will do so. Thank you." 
 
 "Good luck attend you," said D'Artagnan. 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "This is a strange affair!" murmured D'Artagnan, as he 
 slowly ascended the staircase after he had left Baisemeaux. 
 "What possible interest can Aramis have in obliging Baise- 
 meaux in this manner? Well, I suppose we shall learn 
 some day or another." 
 
 CHAPTEE XXII. 
 
 THE king's CAED-TABLE. 
 
 Fouquet was present, as D'Artagnan had said, at the 
 king's card-table. It seemed as if Buckingham's departure 
 had shed a balm upon all the ulcerated hearts of the pre- 
 vious evening. Monsieur, radiant with delight, made a 
 thousand affectionate signs to his mother. The Count de 
 Guiche could not separate himself from Buckingham, and 
 while playing, conversed with him upon the circumstance 
 of his projected voyage. Buckingham, thoughtful, and 
 kind in his manner, like a man who has adopted a resolu- 
 tion, listened to the count, and from time to time cast a 
 look full of regret and hopeless affliction at madame. The 
 princess, in the midst of her elation of spirits, divided her 
 attention between the king, who was playing with her. 
 Monsieur, who quietly joked her about her enormous win- 
 nings, and De Guiche, who exhibited an extravagant de- 
 light. Of Buckingham she took but little notice, for her, 
 thi3 fugitive, this exile, was now simply a remembrance. 
 
153 TEN YEAES LATEK. 
 
 and no longer a man. Light hearts are thus constituted, 
 while they themselves contiune untouched, they roughlj 
 break off with every one who may possibly interfere with 
 their little calculation of selfish comforts. Madame bad 
 received Buckingham's smiles and attentions and sighs, 
 while he was present; but what was the good of sighing, 
 smiling, and kneeling at a distance? Can one tell in what 
 direction the winds in the Channel, which toss the mighty 
 vessels to and fro, curry such sighs as these? The duke 
 (Could not conceal this change, and his heart was cruelly hurt 
 at it. Of a sensitive character, proud and susceptible of 
 deep attachment, he cursed the day on which the passion 
 had entered his heart. The looks which he cast, from time 
 to time at madame, became colder by degrees at the chill- 
 ing complexion of his thoughts. He could hardly yet 
 despair, but he was strong enough to impose silence upon 
 the tumultuous outcries of his heart. In exact proportion, 
 however, as madame suspected this change of feeling, she 
 redoubled her activity to regain the ray of light which she 
 was about to lose; her timid and indecisive mind was first 
 displayed in brilliant flashes of wit and humor. At any 
 cost, she felt that she must be remarked above everything 
 and every one, even above the king himself. And she was 
 so, for the queens, notwithstanding their dignity, and the 
 king, despite the respect which etiquette required, were all 
 eclipsed by her. The queens, stately and ceremonious, 
 were softened, and could not restrain their laughter. Mme. 
 Henrietta, the queen-mother, was dazzled by the brilliancy 
 which cast distinction upon her family, thanks to the wit 
 of the granddaughter of Henry IV. The king, so jealous, 
 as a young man and as a monarch, of the superiority of 
 those who surrounded him, could not resist admitting him- 
 self vanquished by that petulance so thoroughly French in 
 its nature, and whose energy was more than ever increased 
 by its English humor. Like a child, he was captivated by 
 'her radiant beauty, which her wit made still more so. 
 Madame's eyes flashed like lightning. Wit and humor 
 escaped from her ruby lips, like persuasion from the lips of 
 Nestor of old. The whole court, subdued by her enchant- 
 ing grace, noticed for the first time that laughter could be 
 indulged in before the greatest monarch in the world, like 
 people who merited their appellation of the wittiest and 
 most polished poeple in the world. 
 
 Madame, from that evening, achieved and enjoyed a 
 guccess capable of bewildering whomsoever it might be. 
 
TEK YEARS lATEEr "15^ 
 
 who had not been born in those elevated regions termed a 
 throne, and which, in spite of their elevation, are sheltered 
 from similar vertigoes. From that very moment Louis 
 XIV. acknowledged madame as a person who might be 
 recognized. Buckingham regarded her as a coquette de- 
 serving the crudest tortures, and De Guiche looked upon 
 her as a divinity; the courtiers as a star whose light might 
 become the focus of all favor and power. And yet Louis 
 XIV., a few years previously, had not even condescended 
 to offer his hand to that "ugly girl" for a ballet; and yet 
 Buckingham had worshiped this coquette in the humblest 
 attitude; and yet De Guiche had looked upon this divinity 
 as a mere woman; and yet the courtiers had not dared to 
 extol that star in her upward progress, fearful to displease 
 the monarch whom this star had formerly displeased. 
 
 Let us see what was taking place during this memorable 
 evening at the king's card-table. The young queen, al- 
 though Spanish by birth, and the niece of Anne of Austria, 
 loved the king, and could not conceal her affection. She 
 was a keen observer, like all women, and imperious, like 
 every queen, was sensible of madame's power, and ac- 
 quiesced in it immediately, a circumstance which induced 
 tbe young queen to raise the siege and retire to her apart- 
 ments. The king hardly paid any attention to her de- 
 parture, notwithstanding the pretended symptoms of indis- 
 position by which it was accompanied. Encouraged by the 
 rules of etiquette, which he had begun to introduce at the 
 court as an element of every position and relation of life, 
 Louis XIV. did not disturb himself; he oifered his hand to 
 madame without looking at Monsieur his brother, and led 
 the young princess to the door of her apartments. It was 
 remarked that at the threshold of the door, his majesty, 
 freed from every restraint, or less strong than the situation, 
 sighed very deeply. The ladies present — for nothing 
 escapes a woman's observation — Mile. Montalais, for in- 
 stance — did not fail to say to each other, "the king sighed," 
 and "madame sighed, too." This had been indeed the 
 case. Madame had sighed very noiselessly, but with an 
 accompaniment very far more dangerous for the king's re- 
 pose. Madame had sighed, first closing her beautiful black 
 eyes, next opening them, and then, laden as they were 
 with an indescribable mournfulness of expression, she had 
 raised them toward the king, whose face at that moment 
 had visibly heightened in color. The consequence of these 
 blushes, of these interchanged sighs, and of this royal agita- 
 
154 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 tion, was, that Montalais had committed an indiscretion, 
 ■which had certainly affected her companion, for Mile, de la 
 Valliere, less clear-sighted, perhaps, turned pale when the 
 king blushed; and her attendance being required upon 
 madame, she tremblingly followed the princess without 
 thinking of taking the gloves, which court etiquette re- 
 quired her to do. True it is that this young country girl 
 might allege as her excuse the agitation into which the king 
 seemed to be thrown, for Mile, de la Valliere, busily en- 
 gaged in closing the door, had involuntarily fixed her eyes 
 upon the king, who, as he retired backward, had his face 
 toward it. The king returned to the room where the card- 
 tables were set out. He wished to speak to the different 
 persons there, but it could easily be seen that his mind was 
 absent. He jumbled different accounts together, which 
 was taken advantage of by some of the noblemen who had 
 retained those habits since the time of M. Mazarin, he who 
 had memory, but was a good calculator. In this way, M. 
 Manicamp, with a thoughtless and absent air, for M. Mani- 
 camp was the honestest man in the world, appropriated 
 simply twenty thousand francs, which were littering the 
 table, and the ownership of which did not seem legitimately 
 to belong to any person in particular. In the same way, 
 M. de Wardes, whose head was doubtless a little bewildered 
 by the occurrences of the evening, somehow forgot to leave 
 the sixty double louis which he had won for the Duke of 
 Buckingham, and which the duke, incapable, like his 
 father, of soiling his hands with coin of any sort, had left 
 lying on the table before him. The king only recovered 
 his attention in some degree at the moment that M. Colbert, 
 who had been narrowly observant for some minutes, ap- 
 proached, and, doubtless, with great respect, yet with much 
 perseverance, whispered a counsel of some sort into the still 
 tingling ears of the king. The king, at the suggestion, 
 listened with renewed attention, and immediately looking, 
 around him, said: "Is Monsieur Fouquet no longer here?" * 
 
 "Yes, sire, I am here," replied the surintendant, who 
 was engaged with Buckingham, and approached the king, 
 who advanced a step toward him with a smiling yet negligent 
 air. "Forgive me," said Louis, "if I interrupt your con- 
 versation; but I claim your attention wherever I may 
 require your services." 
 
 "I am always at the king's service," replied Fouquet. 
 
 "And your cash-box, too," said the king, laughing with 
 a false smile. 
 
TEN TEAKS LATER. ]55 
 
 "My cash-box more than anything else," said Fouquet 
 coldly. 
 
 "The fact is, I wish to give a/e^e at Fontainebleau, to 
 keep opan house for fifteen days, and I shall require — " 
 and he stopped, glancing at Colbert. Fouquet waited with- 
 out showing discomposure; and the king resumed, answer- 
 ing Colbert's cruel smile, "Four millions of francs." 
 
 "Four millions," repeated Fouquet, bowing profoundly. 
 And his nails, buried in his bosom, were thrust into his 
 flesh, the tranquil expression of his face remaining unal= 
 tered. "When will they be required, sire?" 
 
 "Take your time — I mean — no, no; as soon as possible." 
 
 "A certain time will be necessary, sire." 
 
 "Time!" exclaimed Colbert triumphantly. 
 
 "The time, monsieur," said the surintendant, with the 
 haughtiest disdain, "simply to count the money; a million 
 only can be drawn and weighed in a day." 
 
 "Four days, then," said Colbert. 
 
 "My clerks," replied Fouquet, addressing himself to the 
 king, "will perform wonders for his majesty's service, and 
 the sum shall be ready in three days." 
 
 It was for Colbert now to turn pale. Louis looked at 
 him astonished. Fouquet withdrew without any parade or 
 weakness, smiling at his numerous friends, in whose coun- 
 tenances alone he read the sincerity of their friendship — an 
 interest partaking of compassion. Fouquet, however, should 
 not be judged by his smile, for, in reality, he felt as if he 
 had been stricken by death. IDrops of blood beneath his 
 coat stained the fine linen which covered his chest. His 
 dress concealed the blood, and his smile the rage which 
 devoured him. His domestics perceived, by the manner in 
 which he approached his carriage, that their master was not 
 in the best of humors; the result of their discernment was, 
 that his orders were executed with that exactitude of 
 maneuver which is found on board of a man-of-war, com- 
 manded during a storm by a passionate captain. The car- 
 riage, therefore, did not simply roll along, but flew. Fou- 
 quet had hardly had time to recover himself during the 
 drive; on his arrival he went at once to Aramis, who had 
 not yet retired for the night. As for Porthos, he had 
 supped very agreeably from a roast leg of mutton, two 
 pheasants, and a perfect heap of crawfish; he then directed 
 his body to be anointed with perfumed oils, in the manner 
 of the wrestlers of old; and when the anointment was com- 
 pleted he was wrapped in flannels and placed in a warm 
 
156 TEN YEAKS LATER. 
 
 bed. Aramis, as we have already said, had not retired. 
 Seated at his ease in a velvet dressing-gown, he wrote letter 
 after letter in that fine and hurried handwriting, a page of 
 which contained a quarter of a volume. The door was 
 thrown hurriedly open, and the surintendant appeared, 
 pale, agitated, and anxious. Aramis looked up: "Good- 
 evening," said he; and his searching look detected his host's 
 sadness and disordered state of mind. "Was the play as 
 good as his majesty's?" asked Aramis, as a way of begin- 
 ning the conversation. Fouquet threw himself upon a 
 couch, and then pointed to the door to the servant who had 
 followed him; when the servant had left he said: "Ex- 
 cellent." 
 
 Aramis, who had followed every movement with his eyes, 
 noticed that he stretched himself upon the cushions with a 
 sort of feverish impatience. "You have lost as usual?" 
 inquired Aramis, his pen still in his hand. 
 
 "Better than usual," replied Fouquet. 
 
 "You know how to support losses." 
 
 "Sometimes." 
 
 "What! Monsieur Fouquet a bad player!" 
 
 "There is play and play. Monsieur d'Herblay." 
 
 "How much have you lost?" inquired Aramis, with a 
 slight uneasiness. 
 
 Fouquet collected himself a moment, and then, without 
 the slightest emotion, said, "The evening has cost me four 
 millions," and a bitter laugh drowned the last vibration of 
 these words. 
 
 Aramis, who did not expect such an amount, dropped his 
 pen. "Four millions," he said; "you have lost four mil- 
 lions — impossible!" 
 
 "Monsieur Colbert held my cards for me," replied the 
 Burintendant, with a similar bitter laugh. 
 
 "Ah, now I understand; so, so, a new application for 
 funds?" 
 
 "Yes, and from the king's own lips. It is impossible to 
 destroy a man with a more charming smile. What do you 
 think of it?" 
 
 "It is clear that your ruin is the object in view." 
 
 "That is still your opinion?" 
 
 "Still. Besides, there is nothing in it which should 
 astonish you, for we have foreseen it all along." 
 
 "Yes; but I did not expect four millions." 
 
 "No doubt the amount is serious; but, after all, four mil- 
 lions are not quite the death of a man, especially when the 
 jtnan in question is Monsieur Fouuuet," 
 
TEK TEARS LATEE. 157 
 
 "My dear D'Herblay, if you knew the contents of my 
 coffers you would be less easy." 
 
 "And you promised?" 
 
 "What could I do?" 
 
 "That's true." 
 
 "The very day when I refuse, Colbert will procure it, 
 whence I know not, but he will procure the money, and I 
 shall be lost." 
 
 "There is no doubt of that. In how many days hence 
 have you promised these four millions?" 
 
 "In three days; the king seemed exceedingly pressed." 
 
 "In three days?" 
 
 "When I think," resumed Fouquet, "that just now, as I 
 passed along the streets, the people cried out, 'There is the 
 rich Monsieur Fouquet,' it is enough to turn my brain." 
 
 "Stay, monsieur, the matter is not worth the trouble," 
 said Aramis calmly, sprinkling some sand over the letter 
 he had just written. 
 
 "Suggest a remedy, then, for this evil without a remedy." 
 
 "There is only one remedy for you- — pay." 
 
 "But it is very uncertain whether I have the money. 
 Everything must be exhausted; Belle-Isle is paid for; the 
 pension has been paid; and money, since the investigation 
 of the account of those who farm the revenue, is rare. Be- 
 sides, admitting thab I pay this time, how can I do so on 
 another occasion? When kings have tasted money they 
 are like tigers who have tasted flesh, they devour every- 
 thing. The day will arrive — must arrive — when I shall 
 have to say 'Impossible, sire,' and on that very day I am a 
 lost man." 
 
 Aramis raised his shoulders slightly, saying: 
 
 "A man in your position, my lord, is only lost when he 
 wishes to be so." 
 
 "A man, whatever his position may be, cannot hope to 
 struggle against a king." 
 
 "Nonsense; when I was young I struggled successfully 
 with the Cardinal Eichelieu, who was King of France — nay 
 more, cardinal." 
 
 "Where are my armies, my troops, my treasures? I have 
 not even Belle-Isle." 
 
 "Bah! necessity is the mother of invention, and when 
 you think all is lost, something will be discovered which 
 shall save everything." 
 
 "Who will discover this wonderful something?" 
 
 "Yourself." 
 
158 TE15- YEARS LATER. 
 
 "I! I resign my office of inventor. " 
 
 "Then I will." 
 
 "Be' it so. But then, set to work without delay." 
 
 "Oh! we have time enough." 
 
 "You kill me, D'Herblay, with your calmness," said the 
 surintendant, passing his handkerchief over his face. 
 
 "Do you not remember that I one day told you not to 
 make yourself uneasy, if you possess but courage? Have 
 you any?" 
 
 "I believe so." 
 
 "Then don't make yourself uneasy." 
 
 "It is decided, then, that at the ^.ast moment you will 
 come to my assistance." 
 
 "It will only be the repayment of a debt I owe you." 
 
 "It is the vocation of financiers to anticipate the wants of 
 men such as yourself, D'Herblay." 
 
 "If obligingness is the vocation of financiers, charity is a 
 virtue of the clergy. Only, on this occasion, do you act, 
 monsieur. You are not yet sufficiently reduced, and at the 
 last moment we shall see what is to be done." 
 
 "We shall see, then, in a very short time." 
 
 "Very well. However, permit me to tell you that, per- 
 sonally, I regret exceedingly that you are at present so short 
 of money, because I was myself about to ask you for some." 
 
 "For yourself?" 
 
 "For myself, or some of my people, for mine or for ours." 
 
 "How much do you want?" 
 
 "Be easy on that score; a roundish sum, it is true, but 
 not too exorbitant." 
 
 "Tell me the amount." 
 
 "Fifty thousand francs." 
 
 "Oh! a mere nothing. Of course one has always fifty 
 thousand francs. "Why the deuce cannot that knave Col- 
 bert be as easily satisfied as you are, and I should give my- 
 self far less trouble than I do. When do you need this 
 sum?" 
 
 "To-morrow morning; but you require to know its 
 destination." 
 
 "Nay, nay, chevalier, I need no explanation." 
 
 "To-morrow is the first of June." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "One of our bonds becomes due." 
 
 "I did not know we had any bonds." 
 
 "Certainly, to-morrow we pay our last third installment." 
 
 "What third?" 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 15d 
 
 VOf the one hundred and fifty tnousand to Baisemaux. " 
 
 "Baisemaux — who is he?" 
 
 "The governor of the Bastile." 
 
 "Yes, I remember; on what grounds am I to pay one 
 hundred and fifty thousand for that man?" 
 
 "On account of the appointment which he, or rather we, 
 purchased from LouviSre and Tremblay." 
 
 "I have a very vague recollection of the whole matter." 
 
 "That is likely enough, for you have so many affairs to 
 attend to. However, I do not believe you have any affair 
 of greater importance than this one." 
 
 "Tell me, then, why we purchased this appointment." 
 
 "Why, in order to render him a service in the first place, 
 and afterward ourselves." 
 
 "Ourselves? You are joking. " 
 
 "Monseigneur, the time may come when the governor of 
 the Bastile may prove a very excellent acquaintance." 
 
 "I have not the good fortune to understand you, 
 D'Herblay." 
 
 "Monseigneur, we have our own poets, our own engineer, 
 our own architect, our own musicians, our own printer, and 
 our own painters; we needed our own governor of the Bastile." 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 "Let us not deceive ourselves, monseigneur; we are very 
 much opposed to paying the Bastile a visit," added the prel- 
 ate, displaying, beneath his pale lips, teeth tvhich were still 
 the same beautiful teeth so admired thirty years previously 
 by Marie Michon. 
 
 "And you think it is not too much to pay one hundred 
 and fifty thousand francs for that? I assure you that you 
 generally put out your money at better interest than that." 
 
 "The day will come when you will admit your mistake." 
 
 "My dear D'Herblay, the very day on which a man enters 
 the Bastile, he is no longer protected by the past." 
 
 "Yes, he is, if the bonds are perfectly regular; besides, 
 that good fellow Baisemeaux has not a courtier's heart. 1 
 am certain, my lord, that he will not remain ungrateful 
 for that money, without taking into account, I repeat, that 
 I retain the acknowledgments." 
 
 "It is a strange afiair; usury in a matter of benevolence." 
 
 "Do not mix yourself up with it, monseigneur, if there 
 be usury; it is I who practice it, and both of us reap th« 
 advantage from It — that is all." 
 
 "Some intrigue, D'Herblay?" 
 
 "I do not deny it." 
 
160 TBK TEARS LATER. 
 
 "And Baisemeaux an accomplice in it?" 
 
 "Why not? there are worse accomplices than he. May i 
 depend, then, upon the five thousand pistoles to-morrow?" 
 Do you want them this evening?" 
 
 "It would be better, for I wish to start early; poor Baise- 
 meaux will not be able to imagine what has become of me, 
 and must be upon thorns." 
 
 "You shall have the amount in an hour. Ah, D'Herblay, 
 the interest of your one hundred and fifty thousand franca 
 will never pay my four millions for me." 
 
 "Why not, monseigneur?" 
 
 "Good-night, I have business to transact with my clerks 
 before I retire." 
 
 "A good night's rest, monseigneur." 
 
 "D'Herblay, you wish that which is impossible." 
 
 "Shall I have my fifty thousand francs this evening?" 
 „ "Yes." 
 
 "Go to sleep, then, in perfect safety — it is I who tell you 
 to do so." Notwithstanding this assurance, and the tone 
 in which it was given, Fouquet left the room shaking his 
 head and heaving a sigh. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIII. 
 
 MONSIEUR BAISEMBAUX DE MONTLEZUN'S ACCOUNTS. 
 
 The clock of St. Paul's was striking seven as Aramis, on 
 horseback, dressed as a simple citizen, that is to say, in 
 colored suit, with no distinctive mark about him, except a 
 kind of hunting-knife by his side, passed before the Street 
 du Petit Muse, and stopped opposite the Street des Tourelles, 
 at the gate of the Bastile. Two sentinels were on duty at 
 the gate; they raised no difficulty about admitting Aramis, 
 who entered without dismounting, and they pointed out 
 the way he was to go by a long passage with buildings on 
 both sides. This passage led to the drawbridge, or, in 
 othej words, to the real entrance. The drawbridge was 
 down, and the duty of the day was about being entered 
 upon. The sentinel on duty at the outer guardhouse 
 stopped Aramis' further progress, asking him, in a rough 
 tone of voice, what had brought him there. Aramis ex- 
 plained, with his usual politeness, that a wish to speak to 
 M. Baisemeaux de Montlezun had occasioned his visit. 
 The first sentinel then summoned a second sentinel, sta- 
 
TEN TEAES LATER. KTx 
 
 tioned within an inner lodge, who showed his face at the 
 grating, and inspected the new arrival very attentively. 
 Aramis reiterated the expression of his wish to see the gov- 
 ernor, whereupon the sentinel called to an officer of lower 
 grade, who was walking about in a tolerably spacious court- 
 yard, and who, in his turn, on being informed of his object, 
 ran to seek one of the officers of the governor's staff. The 
 latter, after having listened to Aramis' request, begged 
 him to wait a moment, then went away a short distance, 
 but returned to ask his name. "I cannot tell it you, mon- 
 sieur," said Aramis; "I would only mention that I have 
 matters of such importance to communicate to the governor 
 that I can only rely beforehand upon one thing, that Mon- 
 sieur de Baisemeaux will be delighted to see me; nay, more 
 than that, when you shall have told him that it is the per- 
 son whom he expected on the first of June, I am convinced 
 he will hasten here himself." The officer could not possi- 
 bly believe that a man of the governor's importance should 
 put himself out for a man of so little importance as the 
 citizen-looking person on horseback. 
 
 "It happens most fortunately, monsieur," he said, "that 
 the governor is just going out, and you can perceive his 
 carriage, with the horses already harnessed, in the court- 
 yard yonder; there will be no occasion for him to come to 
 meet you, as he will see you as he passes by." Aramis 
 bowed to signify his assent; he did not wish to inspire 
 others with too exalted an opinion of himself, and therefore 
 waited patiently and in silence, leaning upon the saddle-bow 
 of his horse. Ten minutes had hardly elapsed when the 
 governor's carriage was observed to move. The governor 
 appeared at the door, got into the carriage, which imme- 
 diately prepared to start. The same ceremony was observed 
 for the governor himself as had been the case with a sus- 
 pected stranger; the sentinel at the lodge advanced as the 
 carriage was about to pass under the arch, and the governor 
 opened the carriage-door, himself setting the example of 
 obedience to orders; so that, in this way, the sentinel could 
 convince himself that none quitted the Bastile improperly. 
 The carriage rolled along under the archway, but at the 
 moment the iron gate was opened the officer approached 
 the carriage, which had been again stopped, and said some- 
 thing to the governor, who immediately put his head out of 
 the doorway, and perceived Aramis on horseback at the 
 end of the drawbridge. He immediately uttered almost a 
 ehout of delight, and got out, or rather darted out of his 
 
163 TEK TEARS LATER. 
 
 carriage, running toward Aramis, whose hands he seized, 
 making a thousand apologies. He almost kissed him. 
 
 "What a difficult matter to enter the Bastile!" said 
 Aramis. "Is it the same for those who are sent here against 
 their wills as for those who come of their own accord?" 
 
 "A thousand pardons, my lord. How delighted I am to 
 see your grace!" 
 
 "Hush! What are you thinking of, my dear Monsieur 
 Baisemeaux? what do you suppose would be thought of a 
 bishop in my present costume?" 
 
 "No, no," said Aramis; "I have five thousand pistoles in 
 the portmanteau." 
 
 The governor's countenance became so radiant that if 
 the prisoners had seen him they would have imagined some 
 prince of the blood royal had arrived. "Yes, you are right, 
 the horse shall be taken to the government house. Will 
 you get into the carriage, my dear Monsieur d'Herblay, and 
 it shall take us back to my house?" 
 
 "Get into a carriage to cross a courtyard? do you believe 
 1 am so great an invalid? No, no; we will go on foot." 
 
 Baisemeaux then offered his arm as a support, but the 
 prelate did not accept it. They arrived in this manner at 
 the government house, Baisemeaux rubbing his hands and 
 glancing at the horse from time to time, while Aramis was 
 looking at the black and bare walls. A tolerably handsome 
 vestibule, a straight staircase of white stone led to the gov- 
 ernor's apartments, who crossed the antechamber, the 
 dining-room, where breakfast was being prepared, opened 
 a small side door, and closeted himself with his guest in a 
 large cabinet, the windows of which opened obliquely upon 
 the courtyard and the stables. Baisemeaux installed the 
 prelate with that obsequious politeness of which a good 
 man, or a grateful man, alone possesses the secret. An 
 armchair, a footstool, a small table beside him, on which to 
 rest his hand; everything was prepared by the governor 
 himself. With his own hands, too, he placed upon the 
 table, with an almost religious solicitude, the bag contain- 
 ing the gold, which one of the soldiers had brought up with 
 the most respectful devotion; and the soldier having left 
 the room, Baisemeaux himself closed the door after him, 
 drew aside one of the window-curtains, and looked stead- 
 fastly at Aramis to see if the prelate required anything 
 further. "Well, my lord," he said, still standing, "of all 
 men of their word, you still continue to be the most 
 punctual." 
 
TEK TEAES LATER. 163 
 
 "In matters of business, dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, 
 exactitude is not a virtue only, but a duty as well." 
 
 "Yes, in matters of business, certainly; but what you 
 have with me is not of that character — it is a service you 
 are rendering me." 
 
 "Come, confess, dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, that, not- 
 withstanding this exactitude, you have not been without a 
 little uneasiness." 
 
 "About your health, I certainly have," stammered out 
 Baisemeaux. 
 
 "I wished to come here yesterday, but I was not able, as 
 I was too fatigued," continued Aramis. Baisemeaux 
 anxiously slipped another cushion behind his guest's back. 
 "But," continued Aramis, "I promised myself to come and 
 pay you a visit to-day, early in the morning." 
 
 "You are really very kind, my lord." 
 
 "And it was a good thing for me that I was punctual, I 
 think." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Yes, you were going out." At which latter remark 
 Baisemeaux colored, and said, "Yes, it is true I was going 
 out." 
 
 "Then I prevent you," said Aramis; whereupon the em- 
 barrassment of Baisemeaux became visibly greater. "I am 
 putting you to inconvenience," he continued, fixing a keen 
 glance upon the poor governor; "if I had known that I 
 should not have come." 
 
 "How can your lordship imagine that you could ever 
 inconvenience me?" 
 
 "Confess you were going in search of money." 
 
 "No," stammered out Baisemeaux, "no! I assure you I 
 was going to " 
 
 "Does the governor still intend to go to Monsieur Pou- 
 qnet's?" suddenly called out the major from below. Baise- 
 meaux ran to the window like a madman. 
 
 "No, no," he exclaimed, in a state of desperation; "who 
 the deuce is speaking of Monsieur Fouquet? are you drunk 
 below there? why am I interrupted when I am engaged on 
 business?" 
 
 "You were going to Monsieur Fouquet's," said Aramis, 
 biting his lips, "to Monsieur Fouquet, the abbe, or the 
 Burintendant?" 
 
 Baisemeaux almost made up his mind to tell an untruth, 
 but he could not summon courage to do so. "To the sur- 
 intendant," he said. 
 
164 TEK YEAES LATER. 
 
 "It is true, then, that you were in want of money, sine* 
 you were going to the person who gives it away?" 
 
 "I assure you, my lord " 
 
 "You are suspicious of me." 
 
 "My dear lord, it was the uncertainty and ignorance in 
 which I was as to where you were to be found." 
 
 "You would have found the money you require at Mon- 
 sieur Pouquet's, for he is a man whose hand is always open." 
 
 "I swear that I should never have ventured to ask Mon- 
 sieur Pouquet for money. I only wished to ask him for 
 your address." 
 
 "To ask Monsieur Pouquet for my address?" exclaimed 
 Aramis, opening his eyes in real astonishment. 
 
 "Yes," said Baisemeaux, greatly disturbed by the glance 
 which the prelate fixed upon him, "at Monsieur Pouquet's, 
 certainly." 
 
 "There is no harm in that, dear Monsieur Baisemeaux, 
 only I would ask, why ask my address of Monsieur Pouquet?" 
 
 "That I might write to you." 
 
 "I understand," said Aramis, smiling, "but that is not 
 what I meant; I do not ask you what you required my 
 address for, I only ask why you should go to Monsieur Pou- 
 quet for it?" 
 
 "Oh!" said Baisemeaux, "as Belle-Isle is the property of 
 Monsieur Pouquet, and as Belle-Isle is in the diocese of 
 Vannes, and as you are bishop of Vannes " 
 
 "But, my dear Baisemeaux, since you knew I was bishop 
 of Vannes, you had no occasion to ask Monsieur Pouquet 
 for my address." 
 
 "Well, monsieur," said Baisemeaux, completely at bay, "if 
 I have acted indiscreetly I beg your pardon most sincerely." 
 
 "Nonsense," observed Aramis calmly; "how can you 
 possibly have acted indiscreetly?" And while he composed 
 his face, and continued to smile cheerfully on the governor, 
 he was considering how Baisemeaux, who was not aware of 
 his address, knew, however, that Vannes was his residence. 
 "I will clear all this up," he said to himself; and then 
 speaking aloud, added, "Well, my dear governor, shall we 
 now arrange our little accounts?" 
 
 "I am at your orders, my lord; but tell me beforehand, 
 my lord, whether you will do me the honor to breakfast 
 with me as usual?" 
 
 "Very willingly indeed." 
 
 "That's well," said Baisemeaux, as he struck the bell be- 
 fore him three times 
 
TEN YEARS LATEE. 165 
 
 "What does that mean?" inquired Aramis. 
 
 "That I have some one to breakfast with me^ and that 
 preparations are to be made accordingly." 
 
 "And you rang thrice. Eeally, my dear governor, I 
 begin to think you are acting ceremoniously with me." 
 
 "No, indeed. Besides, the least I can do is to receive 
 you in the best way I can." 
 
 "But why so?" 
 
 "Because not a prince, even, could have done what you 
 have done for me." 
 
 "Nonsense! nonsense!" 
 
 "Nay, I assure you " 
 
 "Let us speak of other matters," said Aramis. "Or 
 rather, tell me how your affairs here are getting on." 
 
 "Not overwell." 
 
 "The deuce!" 
 
 "Monsieur de Mazarin was not hard enough." 
 
 "Yes, I see; you require a government full of suspicion 
 — like that of the old cardinal, for instance." 
 
 "Yes; matters went on better under him. The brother 
 of his 'gray eminence' made his fortune in it." 
 
 "Believe me, my dear governor," said Aramis, drawing 
 closer to Baisemeaux, "a young king is well worth an old 
 cardinal. Youth has its suspicions, its fits of anger, its 
 prejudices, as old age has its hatreds, its precautions, and 
 its fears. Have you paid your three years' profits to Lou- 
 viSre and to Tremblay?" 
 
 "Most certainly I have." 
 
 "So that you have nothing more to give them than the 
 fifty thousand francs which I have brought with me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Have you not saved anything, then?" 
 
 "My lord, in giving the fifty thousand francs of my own 
 to these gentlemen, I assure you that I give them every- 
 thing I gain. I told Monsieur d'Artagnan so yesterday 
 evening." 
 
 "Ah!" said Aramis, whose eyes sparkled for a moment, 
 but became immediately afterward as unmoved as before; 
 "so you have seen my old friend D'Artagnan; how was he?" 
 
 "Wonderfully well." 
 
 "And what did you say to him. Monsieur de Baisemeaux?" 
 
 "I told him," continued the governor, not perceiving his 
 own thoughtlessness — "I told him that I fed my prisoners 
 too well." 
 
 "How many have you?" inquired Aramis, in an indiffer- 
 ent tone of voice. 
 
166 TElf TEAKS LATEB. 
 
 "Sixty." 
 
 "Well, that is a tolerably round number." 
 
 "In former times, my lord, there were, during certain 
 years, as many as two hundred." 
 
 "Still, a minimum of sixty is not to be grumbled at." 
 
 "Perhaps not; for, to anybody but myself, each prisoner 
 would bring in two hundred and iifty pistoles; for instance, 
 for a prince of the blood I have fifty francs a day." 
 
 "Only you have no prince of the blood; at least, I sup- 
 pose so," said Aramis, with a slight tremor in his voice. 
 
 "No, thank Heaven! I mean, no, unfortunately." 
 
 "What do you mean by unfortunately?" 
 
 "Because my appointment would be improved by it. too. 
 fifty francs per day for a prince of the blood, thirty-six for a 
 marechal of France " 
 
 "But you have as many marechals of France, I suppose, 
 as you have princes of the blood?" 
 
 "Alas! yes; it is true that lieutenant-generals and briga- 
 diers pay twenty-six francs, and I have two of them. After 
 that come the councilors of the parliament, who bring me 
 fifteen francs, and I have six of them." 
 
 "I did not know," said Aramis, "that councilors were so 
 productive." 
 
 "Yes; but from fifteen francs I sink at once to ten francs; 
 namely, for an ordinary judge, and for an ecclesiastic." 
 
 "And you have seven, you say; an excellent affair." 
 
 "Nay, a bad one, and for this reason. How can I possibly 
 treat these poor fellows, who are of some good, at all events, 
 otherwise than as a councilor of the parliament?" 
 
 "Yes, you are right; I do not see five francs' difference 
 between them." 
 
 "You understand; if I have a fine fish, I pay four or five 
 francs for it; if I get a fine fowl, it costs me a franc and a 
 half. I fatten a good deal of poultry, but I have to buy 
 grain, and you cannot imagine the multitude of rats which 
 infest this place." 
 
 "Why not get a half a dozen cats to deal with them?" 
 
 "Cats, indeed; yes, they eat them, but I was obliged to 
 give up the idea because of the way in which they treated 
 my grain. 1 have been obliged to have some terrier dogs 
 sent me from England to kill the rats. The dogs hava 
 tremendous appetites; they eat as much as a prisoner of 
 the fifth order, without taking into account the rabbits and 
 fowls they kill." "Was Aramis really listening or not? No 
 one could have told; his downcast eyes showed the atteu- 
 
TEN- TEARS LATER. 167 
 
 tlve man, but the restless hand betrayed the man absorbed 
 in thought — Aramis was meditating. "I was saying," con- 
 tinued Baisemeaux, "that a tolerably sized fowl costs me a 
 franc and a half, and that a good-sized fish costs me four or 
 five francs. Three meals are served at the Bastile, and, as 
 the prisoners have nothing to do, are always eating, a ten- 
 franc man cost me seven francs and a half." 
 
 "But did you not say that you treated those at ten francs 
 like those at fifteen?" 
 
 "Yes, certainly." 
 
 "Very well! Then you gain seven francs and a half upon 
 those who pay you fifteen francs." 
 
 "I must compensate myself somehow," said Baisemeaux, 
 who saw how he had been caught. 
 
 "You are quite right, my dear governor; but have you 
 no prisoners below ten francs?" 
 
 "Oh, yes! we have citizens and barristers at five francs." 
 
 "And do they eat, too?" 
 
 "Not a doubt about it; only you understand that they do 
 not get fish or poultry, nor rich wines at every meal; but at 
 all events thrice a week they have a good dish at their 
 dinner." 
 
 "Really, you are quite a philanthropist, my dear gover- 
 nor, and you will ruin yourself." 
 
 "No; understand me; when the fifteen francs has not 
 eaten his fowl, or the ten francs has left his dish unfinished, 
 I send it to the five-franc prisoners; it is a feast for the 
 poor devil, and one must be charitable, you know." 
 
 "And what do you make out of your five-franc prisoners?" 
 
 "A franc and a half." 
 
 "Baisemeaux, you're an honest fellow; in honest truth I 
 say so." 
 
 "Thank you, my lord. But I feel most for the small 
 tradesmen and bailiffs' clerks, who are rated at three francs. 
 They do not often see Rhine carp or Channel sturgeon." 
 
 "But do not the five-franc gentlemen sometimes leave 
 (some scraps?" 
 
 "Oh! my lord, do not believe I am so stingy as that; I 
 delight the heart of some poor little tradesman or clerk by 
 sending him a wing of a red partridge, a slice of venison, 
 or a slice of truffled pastry, dishes which he never tasted 
 except in his dreams; these are the leavings of the twenty- 
 four-franc prisoner^; and he eats and drinks, at dessert he 
 cries 'Long live the king!' and blesses the Bastile; with n 
 couple of bottle? of champagne, which cost me five sous, ] 
 
168 TEH TEAKS LATER. 
 
 make him tipsy eyery Sunday. That class of people call 
 down blessings upon me, and are sorry to leave the prison. 
 Do you know that I have remarked, and it does me infinite 
 honor, that certain prisoners, who have been set at liberty, 
 have, almost immediately afterward, got imprisoned again? 
 Why should this be the case, unless it be to enjoy the 
 pleasures of my kitchen? It is really the fact." Aramis 
 smiled with an expression of incredulity. 
 
 "You smile," said Baisemeaux. 
 
 "I do," returned Aramis. 
 
 "I tell you that we have names which have been inscribed 
 on our books thrice in the space of two years." 
 
 "I must see it before I believe it," said Aramis. 
 
 "Well, I can show it to you, although it is prohibited to 
 communicate the register to strangers; and if you really 
 wish to see it with your own eyes " 
 
 "I should be delighted, I confess " 
 
 "Very well," said Baisemeax; and he took out of a 
 cupboard a large register. Aramis followed him most 
 anxiously with his eyes, and Baisemeaux returned, placed 
 the register upon the table, and turned over the leaves for 
 a minute, and stayed at the letter M. 
 
 "Look here," said he, " 'Martinier, January, 1659; Mar- 
 tinier, June, 1660; Martinier, March, 1661.' Mazarinades, 
 etc.; you understand it was only a pretext; people were not 
 sent to the Bastile for jokes against Monsieur Mazarin; the 
 fellow denounced himself in order to get imprisoned here." 
 
 "And what was his object?" 
 
 "None other than to return to my kitchen at three francs 
 the head." 
 
 "Three francs — poor devil!" 
 
 "The poet, my lord, belongs to the lowest scale, the same 
 style of board as the small tradesman and bailifi's clerk; 
 but I repeat, it is to these people only that I give those 
 little surprises." 
 
 Aramis mechanically turned over the leaves of the regis- 
 ter, continuing to read the names, but without appearing 
 to take any interest in the names he read. 
 
 "In 1661, you perceive," said Baisemeaux, "eighty en- 
 tries; and in 1659, eighty also." 
 
 "Ah!" said Aramis. "Seldon; I seem to know that 
 name. Was it not you who spoke to me about a certain 
 young man?" 
 
 "Yes, a poor devil of a student, who made — What do 
 you call that where two Latin verses rhyme together?" 
 
TEN TEARS LATEB. 169 
 
 "A distich." 
 
 "Yes; that is it." 
 
 "Poor fellow; for a distich.'' 
 
 "Do you not know that he made a distich against the 
 Jesuits?" 
 
 "That makes no difference; the punishment seems very 
 severe." 
 
 "Do not pity him; last year you seemed to interest your^ 
 self in him." 
 
 "Yes, I did so." 
 
 "Well, as your interest is all-powerful here, my lord, I have 
 treated him since that time as a prisoner at fifteen francs." 
 
 "The same as this one, then," said Aramis, who had con- 
 tinued turning over the leaves, and who had stopped at one 
 of the names which followed Martinier. 
 
 "Yes, the same as that one." 
 
 "Is that Marchiali an Italian?" said Aramis, pointing 
 with his finger to the name which had attracted his 
 attention. 
 
 "Hush!" said Baisemeaux. 
 
 "Why hush?" said Aramis, involuntarily clinching his 
 white hand. 
 
 "I thought I had already spoken to you about that 
 Marchiali?" 
 
 "No; it is the first time I ever heard his name pro- 
 nounced." 
 
 "That may be; but I may have spoken to you about him 
 without naming him." 
 
 "Is he an old offender?" asked Aramis, attempting to 
 smile. 
 
 "On the contrary, he is quite young." 
 
 "Is his crime, then, very heinous?" 
 
 "Unpardonable." 
 
 "Has he assassinated any one?" 
 ; "Bah!" 
 
 "An incendiary, then?" 
 
 "Bah!" 
 
 "Has he slandered any one?" 
 
 "No, no! It is he who — " and Baisemeaux approached 
 Aramis' ear, making a sort of ear-trumpet of his hands, 
 and whispered, "It is he who presumes to resemble the " 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Aramis, "I now remember you already 
 spoke about it last year to me; but the crime appeared to 
 me so slight." 
 
 "Slight, do you say?" 
 
170 TEN TEARS XATEE. 
 
 "Or, rather, so involuntary." 
 
 "My lord, it is not involuntarily that such a resemblaucfl 
 is detected." 
 
 "Well, the fact is, I had forgotten it. But, my dear 
 host," said Aramis, closing the register, "if I am not mis- 
 taken, we are summoned." 
 
 Baisemeaux took the register, hastily restored it to its 
 place in the closet, which he closed, and put the key in his 
 pocket. "Will it be agreeable to your lordship to break- 
 fast now?" said he; "for you are right in supposing that 
 breakfast was announced." 
 
 "Assuredly, my dear governor;" and they passed into the 
 dining-room. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIV. 
 
 THE BREAKFAST OF MONSIEUR DB BAISEMEAUX. 
 
 Aramis was generally temperate; but on this occasion, 
 while taking every care with regard to himself, he did 
 ample justice to Baisemeaux's breakfast, which, in every 
 respect, was most excellent. The latter, on his side, was 
 animated with the wildest gayety; the sight of the five 
 thousand pistoles, which he glanced at from time to time, 
 seemed to open his heart. Every now and then he looked 
 at Aramis with an expression of the deepest gratitude; 
 while the latter, leaning back in his chair, sipped a few 
 drops of wine from his glass, with the air of a connoisseur. 
 "Let me never hear an ill word against the fare of the 
 Bastile," said he, half-closing his eyes; "happy are the 
 prisoners who can get only half a bottle of this Burgundy 
 every day." 
 
 "All those at fifteen francs drink it," said Baisemeaux. 
 "It is very old Volnay." 
 
 "Does that poor student, Seldon, drink such good wine?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" 
 
 "I thought I heard you say he was boarded at fifteen 
 francs." 
 
 "He! no, indeed; a man who makes districts — distichs, I 
 mean — at fifteen francs! No, no! it is his neighbor who is 
 at fifteen francs." 
 
 "Which neighbor?" 
 
 "The other, the second Bertaudi^re." 
 
TEN 'tears later. 171 
 
 "Excuse me, my dear governor; but you speak a language 
 vrhich requires an apprenticeship to understand." 
 
 "Very true," said the governor. "Allow me to explain: 
 the second Bertaudiere is the person who occupies the 
 second floor of the tower of the Bertaudiere." 
 
 "So that Bertaudiere is the name of one of the towers of 
 the Bastile? The fact is, I think I recollect hearing that 
 each tower has a name of its own. Whereabouts is tlie one 
 you are speaking of?" 
 
 "Look," said Baisemeaux, going to the window. "It '..z 
 that tower to the 1 ft — the second one." 
 
 "Is the prisoner at fifteen francs there?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Since when?" 
 
 "Seven or eight years, nearly." 
 
 "What do you mean by nearly? Do you not know the 
 dates more precisely?" 
 
 "It was not in my time, dear Monsieur d'Herblay." 
 
 "But I should have thought that Louvi^re or Tremblay 
 would have told you." 
 
 "The secrets of the Bastile are never handed over with 
 the keys of the governorship of it." 
 
 "Indeed! Then the cause of his imprisonment is a mys- 
 tery — a state secret." 
 
 "Oh, no! I do not suppose it is a state secret, but a 
 secret like everything else that happens at the Bastile." 
 
 "But," said Aramis, "why do you speak more freely of 
 Seldon than of the second Bertaudiere?" 
 
 "Because, in my opinion, the crime of the man who 
 writes a distich is not so great as that of the man who 
 resembles " 
 
 "Yes, yes; I understand you. Still, do not the turn- 
 keys talk with your prisoners?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "The prisoners, I suppose, tell them they are not guilty? ' 
 
 "They are always telling them that; it is a matter of 
 course; the same song over and over again." 
 
 "But does not the resemblance you were speaking about 
 just now strike the turnkeys?" 
 
 "My dear Monsieur d'Herblay, it is only for men attached 
 to the court, as you are, to take any trouble about such 
 matters." 
 
 "You're right, you're right, my dear Monsieur Baise- 
 meaux. Let me give you another taste of this Volnay." 
 
 "Uot a taste merely, a full glass; fill yours, too." 
 
373 TEN" TEARS LATEK. 
 
 "Nay, nay! You are a musketeer still, to the vorv tips 
 of your fingers, while I have become a bishop. A taste for 
 me; a glass for yourself." 
 
 "As you please." And Aramis and the governor nodded 
 to each other as they drank their wine. "But," said 
 Aramis, looking with fixed attention at the ruby-colored 
 wine he had raised to the level of his eyes, as if he wished to 
 enjoy it with all his senses at the same moment; "but what 
 you might call a resemblance, another would not, perhaps, 
 take any notice of." 
 
 "Most certainly he would, though, if it were any one 
 who knew the person he resembles." 
 
 "I really think, dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, that it 
 can be nothing more than a resemblance of your own 
 creation." 
 
 "Upon my honor, it is not so." 
 
 "Stay," continued Aramis. "I have seen many persons 
 very like the one we are speaking of; but out of respect 
 no one ever said anything about it." 
 
 "Very likely; because there are resemblances and resem- 
 blances. This is a striking one, and if you were to see 
 him you would admit it to be so." 
 
 "If I were to see him, indeed," said Aramis, in an in- 
 different tone; "but in all probability I never shall." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because if I were even to put my foot inside one of 
 those horrible dungeons I should fancy I was buried there 
 forever." 
 
 "No, no; the cells ave very good as places to live in." 
 
 "I really do not, and cannot believe it, and that is a 
 fact." 
 
 "Pray do not speak ill of the second Bertaudi6re. It is 
 really a good room, very nicely furnished and carpeted. 
 The young fellow has by no means been unhappy there; the 
 best lodging the Bastile affords has been his. There is a 
 jhance for you." 
 
 "Nay, nay," said Aramis coldly; "you will never make 
 me believe there are any good rooms in the Bastile; and 
 as for your carpets, they exist in your imagination. I 
 should find nothing but spiders, rats, and perhaps toads, 
 too." 
 
 "Toads?" said Baisemeaux. 
 
 "Yes, in the dungeons." 
 
 "Ah! I don't- say there are not toads in the dungeons," 
 
TEN YEARS tATER. 173 
 
 replied Baisemeaux. "But — will you be convinced by your 
 own eyes?" he continuedj with sudden impulse. 
 
 "No;, certainly not." 
 - "Not even to satisfy yourself of the resemblance which 
 you deny, as you do the carpets?" 
 
 "Some spectral-looking person, a mere shadow; an un- 
 happy, dying man." 
 
 "Nothing of the kind — as brisk and vigorous a young 
 fellow as ever lived." 
 
 "Melancholy and ill-tempered, then?" 
 
 "Not at all; very gay and lively." 
 ' "Nonsense; you are joking." 
 
 "Will you follow me?" said Baisemeaux. 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "To go the round of the Bastile." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "You will then see for yourself — see with your eyes." 
 
 "But the regulations?" 
 
 "Never mind them. To-day my major has leave of 
 absence; the lieutenant is visiting the post on the bastions; 
 we are masters of the position." 
 
 "No, no, my dear governor; why, the very idea of the 
 sound of the bolts makes me shudder. You will only have 
 to forget me in the second or fourth Bertaudiere, and 
 then—" 
 
 "You are refusing an opportunity that may never present 
 itself again. Do you know that to obtain the favor I pro- 
 pose to you gratis some of the princes of the blood have 
 offered me as much as fifty thousand francs." 
 
 "Eeally! he must be worth seeing, then?" 
 
 "Forbidden fruit, my lord; forbidden fruit. You who 
 belong to the church ought to know that." 
 
 "Well, if I had any curiosity it would be to see the poor 
 author of the distich." 
 
 "Very well, we will see him too; but if I were at all 
 curious it would be about the beautiful carpeted room and 
 its lodger." 
 
 "Furniture is very commonplace; and a face with no ex- 
 pression in it offers little or no interest." 
 
 "But a boarder at fifteen francs is always interesting." 
 
 "By the bye, I forgot to ask you about that. Why fifteen 
 francs for him, and only three francs for poor Seldon?" 
 
 "The distinction made in that instance was a truly fioble 
 act, and one which displayed the king's goodness of heart 
 to great advantage '' 
 
174 TEK TEARS LATER, 
 
 "The king's, you say?" 
 
 "The cardinal's, I mean; 'this- unhappy man/ said M. 
 Mazarin, 'is destined to remain in prison forever.' " 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "Why, it seems that his crime is a lasting one; and, con- 
 sequently, his punishment ought to be so too." 
 
 "Lasting?" 
 
 "No doubt of it; unless he is fortunate enough to catch 
 the smallpox, and even that is difficult, for we never get 
 any impure air here." 
 
 "Nothing can be more ingenious than your train of 
 reasoning, my dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux. Do you, 
 however, mean to say that this unfortunate man must suffer 
 without interruption or termination?" 
 
 "I did not say he was to suffer, my lord; a fifteen-francs 
 boarder does not suffer." 
 
 "He suffers imprisonment at all events." 
 
 "No doubt; there is no help for it; but this suffering iij 
 sweetened for him. You must admit that this young fellow 
 was not born to eat all the good things be does eat; for 
 instance, such things as we have on the table now; this 
 pastry tliat has not been touched, these crawfish from the 
 river Marne, of which we have hardly taken any, and which 
 are almost as large as lobsters; all these things will at once 
 be taken to the second Bertaudiere, with a bottle of that 
 Volnay which you think so excellent. After you have seen 
 it you will believe it, I hope." 
 
 "Yes, my dear governor, certainly; but all this time you 
 are thinking only of your very happy fifteen-francs prisoner, 
 and you forget poor Seidon, my protege." 
 
 "Well, out of consideration for you it shall be a gala day 
 for him; he shall have some biscuits and preserves with this 
 small bottle of port." 
 
 "You are a good-hearted fellow; I have said so already, 
 and I repeat it, my dear Baisemeaux." 
 
 "Well, let us set off, then," said the governor, a little 
 bewildered, partly from the wine he had drunk, and partly 
 f.rom Aramis' praises. 
 
 "Do not forget that I only go to oblige you," said the 
 prelate. 
 
 "Very well; but you will thank me when you get there." 
 
 "Let us go, then." 
 
 "Wait until I have summoned the jailer," said Baise- 
 T.'ii-v.z. as he struck the bell twice; at which summons a 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 1% 
 
 man appeared. "I am going to visit the towers," said the 
 governor. "No guards, no drums, no noise at all." 
 
 "If I were not to leave my cloak here," said Aramis, pre- 
 tending to be alarmed, ' 'I should really think I was going 
 to prison on 'my own account." The Jailer preceded the 
 governor, Aramis walking on his right hand; some of the 
 soldi,ers who happened to be in the courtyard drew them- 
 selves up in line, as stiff as posts, as the governor passed 
 along. Baisemeaux led the way down several steps which 
 conducted to a sort of esplanade; thence they arrived at the 
 drawbridge, where the sentinels on duty received the gov- 
 ernor with the proper honors. The governor turned toward 
 Aramis, and, speaking in such a tone that the sentinels 
 could not lose a word he said, observed: "I hope you have 
 a good memory, monsieur?" 
 j "Why?" inquired Aramis. 
 
 "On account of your plans and your measurements, for 
 you know that no one is allowed, not architects even, to 
 enter where the prisoners are, with paper, pens, or pencils." 
 
 "Good," said Aramis to himself, it seems I am an archi- 
 tect, then? It sounds like one of D'Artagnan's Jokes, who 
 saw me acting as an engineer at Belle-Isle." Then he 
 added aloud, "Be easy on that score, monsieur; in our pro- 
 fession .a mere glance and a good memory are quite 
 sufficient." 
 
 Baisemeaux did not change countenance, and the soldiers 
 took Aramis for what he seemed to be. "Very well; we 
 will first visit La Bertaudi^re," said Baisemeaux, still in- 
 tending the sentinels to hear him. Then, turning to the 
 Jailer, he added, "you will take the opportunity of carry- 
 ing to No. 2 the few dainties I pointed out." 
 
 "Dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux," said Aramis, "you are 
 always forgetting No. 3." 
 
 "So I am," said the governor; and upon that they be- 
 gan to ascend. The number of bolts, gratings, and locks 
 for this single courtyard would have sufficed for the safety 
 of an entire city. Aramis was neither an imaginative nor a 
 sensitive man; he had been somewhat of a poet in his youth, 
 but his heart was hard and indifferent, as the heart of every 
 man of fifty-five years of age is, who has been frequently 
 and passionately attached to women in his lifetime, or 
 rather, who has been passionately loved by them. But 
 when he placed his foot upon the worn stone steps, along 
 ^hich so many unhappy wretches had passed, when he felt 
 himself impregnated, as it were, with the atmosphere of 
 
176 TEIT TEARS LATER. 
 
 those gloomy dungeons, moistened with tears, there could 
 be but little doubt he was overcome by his feelings, for his 
 head was bowed and his eyes became dim as he followed 
 Baisemeaux without uttering a syllable. 
 
 CHAPTEK XXVo 
 
 THE SECOND FLOOR OF LA BEBTAUDIERE. 
 
 Om" the second flight of stairs, whether from fatigue or 
 emotion, the breathing of the visitor began to fail him, and 
 he leaned against the wall. "Will you begin by this one?" 
 said Baisemeaux; "for since we are going to both, it mat- 
 ters very little whether we ascend from the second to the 
 third story, or descend from the third to the second." 
 
 "No, no," exclaimed Aramis eagerly, "higher, if you 
 please; the one above is the more urgent." They con- 
 tinued their ascent. "Ask the jailer for the keys?" whis- 
 Eered Aramis. Baisemeaux did so, took the keys, and 
 imself opened th door of the third room. The jailer 
 was the first to enter; he placed upon the table the provi- 
 sions, which the kind-hearted governor called dainties, and 
 then left the room. The prisoner had not stirred; Baise- 
 meaux then entered, while Aramis remained at the thresh- 
 old, from which place Le saw a youth about eighteen years 
 of age, who, raising his head at the unusual noise, jumped 
 off the bed as he perceived the governor, and clasping his 
 hands together, began to cry out, "My mother, my mother!" 
 in tones which betrayed such deep distress that Aramis, 
 despite his command over himself, felt a shudder pass 
 through his frame. "My dear boy," said Baisemeaux, en- 
 deavoring to smile, "I have brought you a diversion and an 
 extra — the one for the mind, the other for the body; this 
 gentleman has come to take your measure, and here are 
 some preserves for your dessert." 
 
 "Oh, monsieur!" exclaimed the young man, "keep me 
 in solitude for a year, let me have nothing but bread and 
 water for a year, but tell me that at the end of a year I shall 
 leave this place, tell me that at the_end of a ^ear I shall 
 then see my:mpther~againr'^' ' 
 
 *'But I have heard you say that your mother was very 
 
 !)oor, and that you were very badly lodged when you were 
 iving with her, while here — upon my word!" 
 "If she were poor, monsieur, the greater reason to restore 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 177 
 
 her only means of support to her. Badly lodged with her! 
 oh, moiisienr, every one is well lodged when he is free." 
 
 "At all events, since you yourself admit you have done 
 nothing but write that unhappy distich " 
 
 "But without any intention, I swear. Let me be pun- 
 ished — cut off the hand which wrote it, I will work with 
 the other — but restore my mother to me." 
 
 "My boy," said Baisemeaux, "you know very well that 
 it does not depend upon me; all I can do for you is to in- 
 crease your rations, give you a glass of port wine now and 
 then, slip in a biscuit for you between a couple of plates." 
 
 "Great Heaven!" exclaimed the young man, falling back- 
 ward and rolling on the ground. 
 
 Aramis, unable to bear this scene any longer, withdrew 
 as far as the landing. "Unhappy, wretched man," he 
 murmured. 
 
 "Yes, monsieur, he is indeed very wretched/' said the 
 jailer; "but it is his parents' fault." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "No doubt. Why did they let him learn Latin? Too 
 much knowledge, you see; it is that which does harm. 
 Now I, for instance, can't read or write, and therefore I am 
 not in prison." Aramis looked at the man, who seemed to 
 think that being a jailer in the Bastile was not being in 
 prison. As for Baisemeaux, noticing the little eifect pro- 
 duced by his advice and his port wine, he left the dungeon 
 quite upset. "You have forgotten to close the door," said 
 the jailer. 
 
 "So I have," said Baisemeaux; "there are the keys, do 
 you do it." 
 
 "I will solicit the pardon of that poor boy," said Aramis. 
 
 "And if you do not succeed," said Baisemeaux, "at least 
 beg that he may be transferred to the ten-franc list, by 
 which both he and 1 shall be gainers." 
 
 "If the other prisoner calls out for his mother in a similar 
 manner," said Aramis, "I prefer not to enter- at all, but 
 will take my measure from outside." 
 
 "No fear of that. Monsieur Architect, the one we are 
 now going to see is as gentle as a lamb; before he could call 
 after his mother he must open his lips, and he never says a 
 word." 
 
 "Let us go in, then," said Aramis gloomilyo 
 
 "Are you the architect of the prisons, monsieur?" said 
 the jailer. 
 
 "I am.'^ 
 
178 TEN- YEARS LATER. 
 
 "It is odd, tLeiij that you are not more accustomed to all 
 this.'-' 
 
 Aramis perceived that to avoid giving rise to any suspicions 
 he must summon all his strength of mind to his assistance, 
 BaisemeauXj who carried the keys, opened the door. "Stay 
 outside," he said to the jailer, "and wait for us at the bot- 
 tom of the steps." The jailer obeyed and withdrew. 
 
 Baisemeaux entered the first, and opened the second door 
 himself. By the light which filtered through the iron- 
 barred window could be seen a handsome young man, short 
 in stature, with closely cut hair, and a beard beginning to 
 grow; he was sitting on a stool, his elbow resting on an 
 armchair, and all the upper part of his body reclining 
 against it. His dress, thrown upon the bed, was of rich 
 black velvet, and he inhaled the fresh air which blew in 
 upon his breast through a shirt of the very finest cambric. 
 As the governor entered the young man turned his head 
 with a look full of indiiierence, and on recognizing Baise- 
 meaux he arose and saluted him courteously. But when 
 his eyes fell upon Aramis, who remained in the background, 
 the latter trembled, turned pale, and his hat, which he held 
 in his hand, fell upon the ground, as if all his muscles had 
 become relaxed at once. Baisemeaux, habituated to the 
 presence of his prisoner, did not seem to share any of the 
 sensations which Aramis experienced, but, with all the zeal 
 of a good servant, he busied himself in arranging on the 
 table the pastry and crawfish he had brought with him. 
 Occupied in this manner, he did not remark how disturbed 
 his guest had become. When he had finished, however, he 
 turned to the young prisoner and said: "You are looking 
 very well — are you so?" 
 
 "Quite well, I thank you, monsieur," replied the young 
 man. 
 
 The effect of the voice was such as almost to overpower 
 Aramis, and, notwithstanding his control over himself, he 
 advanced a few steps toward him, with his eyes wide open, 
 and his lips trembling. The movement he made was so 
 marked that Baisemeaux, notwithstanding his occupation, 
 observed it. "This gentleman is an architect, who has 
 come to examine your chimney," said Baisemeaux; "does 
 it smoke?" 
 
 "Never, monsieur.'^ 
 
 "You were saying just now," said the governor, rubbing 
 his hands together, "that it was not possible for a man to 
 be happy in prison; here, however, is one who is so. You 
 have nothing to complain of- 1 hope?" 
 
TEN TEARS LATEE. 179 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "Do you ever feel wearied?" said Aramis. 
 
 "Xever." 
 
 "Ha! ha!" said Baisemeaux, in a low tone of voice; "was 
 I right?" 
 
 "Well, my dear governor, it is impossible not to yield to 
 evidence. Is it allowed to put any question to him?" 
 
 "As many as you like." 
 
 "Very well; be good enough to ask him if he knows why 
 he is here." 
 
 "This gentleman requests me to ask you," said Baise- 
 meaux, "if you are aware of the cause of your imprison- 
 ment?" 
 " "No, monsieur," said the young man unaffectedly, "I 
 am not." 
 
 "That is hardly possible," said Aramis, carried away by 
 his feelings in spite of himself; "if you were really ignorant 
 of the cause of your detention you would be furious." 
 
 "I was so during the early days of my imprisonment." 
 
 "Why are you not so now?" 
 
 "Because I have reflected." 
 
 "That is strange," said Aramis. 
 
 "Is it not odd?" said Baisemeaux. 
 
 "May one venture to ask you, monsieur, on what you 
 have reflected?" 
 
 "I felt that as I had committed no crime Heaven could 
 not punish me." 
 
 "What is a prison, then," inquired Aramis, "if it be not 
 a punishment?" 
 
 "Alas! I cannot tell," said the young man; "all that I 
 can tell you now is the very opposite of what I felt seven 
 ^ears ago." 
 
 "To hear you converse, to witness your resignation, one 
 might almost believe that you liked your imprisonment?" 
 
 "I endure it." 
 
 "In the certainty of recovering your freedom some day, 
 1 suppose?" 
 
 "I have no certainty; hope I have, and that is all; and 
 yet I acknowledge that this hope becomes less every day." 
 
 "Still, why should you not again be free, since you have 
 already been so?" 
 
 "That is precisely the reason," replied the young man, 
 "which prevents me expecting liberty. Why should I have 
 been imprisoned at all if it had been intended to release me 
 afterward?" 
 
180 TEK YEARS LATER. 
 
 "How old are you?" 
 
 "I do not know." 
 
 "What is your name?" 
 
 "I have forgotten the name by which I was called." 
 
 "Who are your parents?" 
 
 "I never knew them." 
 
 "But those who brought you up?" 
 
 "They did not call me their son." 
 
 "Did you ever love any one before coming here?" 
 
 "I loved my nurse and my flowers." 
 
 "Was that all?" 
 
 "I also loved my valet." 
 
 "Do you regret your nurse and your valet?" 
 
 "I wept very much when they died." 
 
 "Did they die since you have been here, or before you 
 came?" 
 
 "They died the evening before I was carried ofE." 
 
 "Both at the same time?" 
 
 "Yes, both at the same time." 
 
 "In what manner were you carried oS?" 
 
 "A man came for me, directed me to get into a carriage, 
 which was closed and locked, and brought me here." 
 
 "Would you be able to recognize that man again?" 
 
 "He was masked." 
 
 "Is not this an extraordinary tale?" said Baisemeaux, in 
 a low tone of voice, to Aramis, who could hardly breathe. 
 
 "It is indeed extraordinary," he murmured. 
 
 "But what is still more extraordinary is, that he has 
 never told me so much as he has Just told you." 
 
 "Perhaps the reason may be that you have never ques- 
 tioned him," said Aramis. 
 
 "It's possible," replied Baisemeaux; "I have no curiosity. 
 •Have you looked at the room; it's a fine one, is it not?" 
 
 "Very much so." 
 
 "A carpet " 
 
 "Beautiful." 
 
 "I'll wager he had nothing like it before he came here," 
 
 "I think so, too." And then, again turning toward the 
 young man, he said: "Do you not remember to have been 
 visited at some time or another by a strange lady or gentle- 
 man?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed; thrice by a woman, who each time came 
 to the door in a carriage, and entered covered with a veil, 
 which she raised when we were together and alone." 
 
 "Do you remember that woman?" 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 181 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What did she say to you?" 
 
 The young man smiled mournfully, and then replied-. 
 "She inquired, as you have just done, if I were happy, and 
 if I were getting weary?" 
 
 "What did she do on arriving and on leaving you?" 
 
 "She pressed me in her arms, held me in her embrace, 
 and kissed me." 
 
 "Do you remember her?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 "Do you recall her features distinctly?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You would recognize her, then, if accident brought her 
 before you, or led you into her presence?" 
 
 "Most certainly." 
 
 A flush of fleeting satisfaction passed across Aramis' 
 face. At this moment Baisemeaux heard the jailer ap- 
 proaching. "Shall we leave?" he said hastily, to Aramis. 
 
 Aramis, who probably had learned all that he cared to 
 know, replied, "When you like." 
 
 The young man saw them prepare to leave, and saluted 
 them politely. Baisemeaux replied merely by a nod of the 
 head, while Aramis, with a respect arising, perhaps, from 
 the sight of such misfortune, saluted the prisoner pro- 
 foundly. They left the room, Baisemeaux closing the door 
 behind them. 
 
 "Well," said Baisemeaux as they descended the stair- 
 case, "what do you think of it all?" 
 
 "I have discovered the secret, my dear governor," he 
 said. 
 
 "Bah! what is the secret, then?" 
 
 "A murder was committed in that house." 
 
 "Nonsense." 
 ' "But attend: the valet and the nurse died the same day." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "And by poison. What do you think?" 
 
 "That it is very likely to be true." 
 
 "What! that that young man is an assassin?" 
 
 "Who said that? What makes you think that poor young 
 fellow could be an assassin?" 
 
 "The very thing I was saying. A crime was committed 
 in his house," said Aramis, "and that was quite sufiBcient; 
 perhaps he saw the criminals, and it was feared that he 
 might say something." 
 
 "The deuce! if I only thought that " 
 
182 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I would redouble the surveillance.''' 
 
 "Oh, he does not seem to wish to escape." 
 
 "You do not know what prisoners are." 
 
 "Has he any books?" 
 
 "None; they are strictly prohibited, and under Monsieui 
 de Mazarin's own hand." 
 
 "Have you the writing still?" 
 
 "Yes, my lord', would you like to look at it as you return 
 to take your cloak?" 
 
 "I should, for I like to look at autographs." 
 
 "Well, then, this one is of the most unquestionable authen- 
 ticity; there is only one erasure." 
 
 "Ah! ah! an erasure; and in what respect?" 
 
 "With respect to a figure. At first there was written: 
 'To be boarded at fifty francs.' " 
 
 "As princes of the blood, in fact?" 
 
 "But the cardinal must have seen his mistake, you under- 
 stand; for he canceled the zero, and has added a one before 
 the five. But, by the bye " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "You do not speak of the resemblance." 
 
 "I do not speak of it, dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, for 
 B very simple reason — because it does not exist." 
 
 "The deuce it doesn't." 
 
 "Or, if it does exist, it is only in your own imagination; 
 but, supposing it were to exist elsewhere, I think it would 
 be better for you not to speak about it." 
 
 "Eeally." 
 
 "The king, Louis XIV. — you understand— would be ex- 
 cessively angry with you if he were to learn that you con- 
 tributed in any way to spread the report that one of his 
 subjects has the efErontery to resemble him." 
 
 "It is true, quite true," said Baisemeaux, thoroughly 
 alarmed; "but I have not spoken of the circumstance to 
 any one but yourself, and you understand, monseigneur, 
 that I perfectly rely on your being discreet." 
 
 "Oh, be easy." 
 
 "Do you still wish to-^see the note?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 While engaged in this manner in conversation they had 
 returned to the governor's apartments. Baisemeaux took 
 from the cupboard a private register'^ like tlie one he had 
 already shown Aramis, but fastened by a lock, the key 
 YrH<ih. opened it being one of a small bunch of keys which 
 
TEST TEAKS LJiTER. 183 
 
 Baisemeaux always carried with him. Then placing tht 
 book upon the table, he opened it at the letter M. and 
 showed Aramis the following note in the column of obser- 
 vations: 
 
 "No books at any time; all linen and clothes of the finest 
 and best quality to be procured; no exercise; always the 
 same jailer; no communications with any one. Musical 
 instruments; every liberty and every indulgence which his 
 welfare may require; to be boarded at fifteen francs. Mon- 
 sieur de Baisemeaux can claim more if the fifteen francs be 
 not sufficient." 
 
 "Ah," said Baisemeaux, "now I think of it, I shall claim 
 it." 
 
 Aramis shut the book. "Yes," he said, "it is indeed 
 Monsieur de Mazarin's handwriting; I recognize it well. 
 Kow, my dear governor," he continued, as if this last com- 
 munication had exhausted his interest, "let us now turn to 
 our own little affairs." 
 
 "Well, what time for payment do you wish me to take? 
 Fix it yourself." 
 
 "There need not be any particular period fixed; give me a 
 simple acknowledgment for one hundred and fifty thousand 
 francs." 
 
 "When to be made payable?" 
 
 "When I require it. But you understand I shall only 
 wish it when you yourself do so." 
 
 "Oh, I am quite easy on that score," said Baisemeaux, 
 smiling; "but I have already given you two receipts." 
 
 "Which I now destroy," said Aramis; and, after having 
 shown the two receipts to Baisemeaux, he destroyed them. 
 Overcome by so great a mark of confidence, Baisemeaux 
 unhesitatingly wrote out an acknowledgment of a debt of 
 one hundred and fifty thousand francs, payable at the 
 pleasure of the prelate. Aramis, who had, by glancing over 
 the governor's shoulder, followed the pen as he wrote, put 
 the acknowledgment into his pocket without seeming to 
 have read it, which made Baisemeaux perfectly easy. 
 "Now," said Aramis, "you would not be angry with me if 
 I were to carry off one of your prisoners?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "In obtaining his pardon, of course. Have I not already 
 told you that I took a great interest in poor Seldon?" 
 
 "yes, quite true, you did so." 
 
184 TEK 
 
 J. i:j.d,£vo ujs.j.j]jxb* 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "That is your affair; do as you think proper. I see yon 
 have an open hand, and an arm that can reach a great way." 
 
 "Adieu, adieu." And Aramis left, carrying with him 
 the governor's blessings. 
 
 CHAPTBE XXVI. 
 
 THE TWO FEIENDS. 
 
 At the very time M. de Baisemeaux was showing Aramis 
 the prisoners in the Bastile, a carriage drew up at j\lme. de 
 Belliere's door, and, at that still early hour, a young woman 
 alighted, her head muffled in a silk hood. At the moment 
 the servants announced Mme. Vanel to Mme. de Belli^re, 
 the latter was engaged, or rather, was absorbed, in reading 
 a letter, which she hurriedly concealed. She had hardly 
 finished her morning toilet, her woman being still in the 
 next room. At the name — at the footsteps of Marguerite 
 Vanel, Mme. de Belliere ran to meet her. She fancied she 
 could detect in her friend's eye a brightness which was 
 neither that of health nor of pleasure. Marguerite em- 
 braced her, pressed her hands, and hardly allowed her time 
 to speak. "Dearest," she said, "are you forgetting me? 
 Have you quite given yourself up to the pleasures of the 
 court?" 
 
 "I have not even seen the marriage /e^es." 
 
 "What are you doing with yourself, then?" 
 
 "I am getting ready to leave for BelliSre." 
 
 "For Belliere?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You are becoming rustic in your tastes then; I delight 
 to see you so disposed. But you are pale." 
 
 "No, I am perfectly well." 
 
 "So much the better; I was becoming uneasy about you. 
 You do not know what I have been told." 
 
 "People say so many things." 
 
 "Yes, but this is very singular." 
 
 "How well you know how to excite curiosity. Marguerite." 
 
 "Well, I was afraid of vexing you." 
 
 "Never; you have yourself always admired me for my 
 evenness of temper." 
 
 "Well, then, it is said that— no, I shall never be able t(? 
 tell you." 
 
TEN" YEARS LATES. 1S5 
 
 "Do not let us talk about it, then," said Mme. de Bel- 
 liere, who detected the ill-nature -which was concealed by 
 all these prefaces, yet felt the most anxious curiosity on the 
 subject. 
 
 "Well, then, my dear marquise, it is said that for some 
 time past you no longer continue to regret Monsieur de 
 Belli^re as you used to do." 
 
 "It is an ill-natured report. Marguerite. I do regret, 
 and shall always regret my husband; but it is now two years 
 since he died. I am only twenty-eight years old, and my 
 grief at his loss ought not always to control every action 
 and thought of my life. You, Marguerite, who are the 
 model of a wife, would not believe me if I were to say so." 
 
 "Why not? Your heart is so soft and yielding," she 
 said spitefully. 
 
 "Yours is so, too. Marguerite, and yet I did not perceive 
 that you allowed yourself to be overcome by grief when your 
 heart was wounded." These words were in direct allusion 
 to Marguerite's rupture with the surintendant, and were 
 also a veiled but direct reproach made against her friend's 
 heart. 
 
 As if she only awaited this signal to discharge her shaft, 
 Marguerite exclaimed, "Well, Eliza, it is said you are in 
 love." And she looked fixedly at Mme. de Belli^re, who 
 blushed without being able to prevent it. 
 
 "Women never escape slander," replied the marquise, 
 after a moment's pause. 
 
 "No one slanders you, Eliza." 
 
 "What! people say that I am in love, and yet they do not 
 slander me!" 
 
 "In the first place, if it be true, there is no slander, but 
 simply a scandal-loving report. In the next place — for you 
 did not allow me to finish what I was saying — the public 
 does not assert that you have abandoned yourself to this 
 passion. It represents you, on the contrary, as a virtuous 
 'out loving woman, defending herself with claws and teeth, 
 shutting yourself up in your own house as in a fortress, 
 and in other respects as impenetrable as that of Danae, not- 
 withstanding Danae's tower was made of brass." 
 
 "You are witty. Marguerite," said Mme. de Belli^re 
 tremblingly. 
 
 "You always flatter me, Eliza. To be brief, however, 
 you are reported to be incorruptible and unapproachable. 
 You can decide whether people calumniate you or not; but 
 what is it you are musing about while I am speaking to 
 you?" _, 
 
18S TEN TEARS LATER, 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "Yes; you are blushing and are quite silent." 
 
 "I was trying," said the mar(juise, raising her beautiful 
 eyes brightened with an indication of approaching anger, 
 "I was trying to discover to what you could possibly have 
 alluded, you who are so learned in mythological subjects, 
 in comparing me to Danae." 
 
 "You were trying to guess that," said Marguerite, 
 laughing. 
 
 '^Yes; do you not remember that at the convent, when 
 we were solving our problems in arithmetic — ah! what I 
 have to tell you is learned also, but it is my turn— do you 
 not remember that if one of the terms were given we were 
 to find out the other? Therefore, do you guess now?" 
 
 "I cannot conjecture what you mean." 
 
 "And yet nothing is more simple." 
 
 "You pretend that I am in love, do you not?" 
 
 "So it is said." 
 
 "Very well; it is not said, I suppose, that I am in lovo 
 with an abstraction. There must surely be a name men- 
 tioned in this report." 
 
 "Certainly, a name is mentioned." 
 
 "Very well; it is not surprising, then, that I should try 
 to guess this name, since you do not tell it me." 
 
 "My dear marquise, when I saw you blush I did not 
 think you would have to spend much time in conjectures." 
 
 "It was the word Danae which you used that surprised 
 me. Danae means a shower of gold, does it not?" 
 
 "That is to say that the Jupiter of Danae changed him- 
 self into a shower of gold for her." 
 
 "My lover, then, he whom you assign me " 
 
 "I beg your pardon; I am your friend, and assign you no 
 one." 
 
 "That may be; but those who are evilly disposed toward 
 me." 
 
 "Do you wish to hear the name?" 
 
 "I have been waiting this half-hour for it." 
 
 "Well then, you shall hear it. Do not be shocked; he 
 is a man high in power." 
 
 "Good," said the marquise, as she clinched her hand? 
 like a patient at the approach of the knife. 
 
 "He is a very wealthy man," continued Marguerite; "the 
 wealthiest, it may be. In a word, it is — • — " 
 
 The marquise closed her eyes for a moment. 
 
 "It is the Duke of Buckingham," said Marguerite, burst 
 
TEN TEAKS LATER. 187 
 
 ing into laughter. The perfidiousness had been calculated 
 with extreme ability; the name that was pronounced, in- 
 stead of the name which the marquise awaited, had pre- 
 cisely the same effect upon her as the badly sharpened axes, 
 which had hacked, without destroying. Messieurs de Ohalais 
 and De Thou upon their scaffolds, had upon them. She 
 recovered herself, however, and said: 
 
 "I was perfectly right in saying you were a witty woman, 
 for you are making the time pass away most agreeably. 
 The joke is a most amusing one, for I have never seen the 
 Duke of Buckingham." 
 
 "Never!" said Marguerite, restraining her laughter. 
 
 "I have never even left my own house since the duke has 
 been at Paris." 
 
 "Oh!" resumed Mme. Vanel, stretching out her foot 
 toward a paper which was lying on the carpet near the win- 
 dow, "it is not necessary for people to see one another, 
 since they can write." 
 
 The marquise trembled, for this paper was the envelope 
 of the letter she was reading as her friend had entered, and 
 was sealed with the surintendant's arms. As she leaned 
 back on the sofa on which she was sitting Mme. Belli^re 
 covered the paper with the thick folds of her large silk 
 dress, and so concealed it. 
 
 "Come, Marguerite, tell me, is it to tell me all these 
 foolish reports that you have come to see me so early in the 
 day?" 
 
 "No; I came to see you in the first place, and to remind 
 you of those habits of our earlier days, so delightful bo re- 
 member, when we used to wander about together at Vin- 
 cennes, and, sitting beneath an oak, or in some sylvan 
 shade, used to talk of those we loved, and who loved us." 
 
 "Do you propose that we should go out together now?" 
 
 "My carriage is here, and I have three hours at my 
 disposal." 
 
 "I am not dressed yet. Marguerite; but if you wish that 
 we should talk together, we can, without going to the 
 woods of Vincennes, find in my own garden here beautiful 
 trees, shady groves, a greensward covered with daisies and 
 violets, the perfume of which can be perceived from where 
 we are sitting." 
 
 "I regret your refusal, my dear marquise, for I wanted 
 to pour out my whole heart into yours." 
 
 "I repeat it again, Marguerite, my heart is yours just as 
 much in this room, or beneath the lime-trees in the garden 
 here, as it is under the oaks in the wood yonder," 
 
188 TEN- TEAES LATER. 
 
 "It is not the same thing for me. In approaching nearer 
 to Vincennes, marquise, my ardent aspirations approach 
 nearer to that object toward whicli they have for some days 
 past been directed." The marquise suddenly raised her 
 head. "Are you surprised, then, that I am still thinking 
 of St. Mande?" 
 
 "Of St. Mande!" exclaimed Mme. de Belliere; and the 
 looks of both women met each otlier like two sWords rest- 
 less at the first time their blades were crossed. 
 
 "You, so proud, too!" said the marquise disdainfully. 
 
 "I, so proud!" replied Mme. Vanel. "Such is m/ 
 nature. I do not forgive neglect — I cannot endure infidel- 
 ity. When I leave any one who weeps at my abandonment 
 I feel induced still to lovo him ; but when others forsake me 
 and laugh at their infidelity I love distractedly." 
 
 Mme. de Belliere could not restrain an involuntary 
 movement. 
 
 "She is jealous," said Marguerite to herself. 
 
 "Then, continued the marquise, "you are quite enam- 
 ored of the Duke of Buckingham — I mean, of Monsieur 
 Fouquet?" Eliza felt the allusion, and all her blood seemed 
 to have flowed toward her heart. "And yon wished to go 
 to Vincennes — to St. Mande even?" 
 
 "I hardly know what I wished; you would have advised 
 me, perhaps." 
 
 "In what respect?" 
 
 "You have often done so." 
 
 "Most certainly I should not have done so in the present 
 instance, for I do not forgive as you do. I am less loving, 
 perhaps; but when my heart has been once wounded, it 
 remains so always." 
 
 "But Monsieur Fouquet has not wounded you," saii 
 Marquise Vanel, with the most perfect simplicity. 
 
 "You perfectly understand what I mean. Monsieur 
 Fouquet has not wounded me; I do not know him either 
 from any obligation or any injury received at his hands,/ 
 but you have reason to complain of him. You are my 
 friend, and I am afraid I should not advise you as you 
 would like." 
 
 "Ah! you are prejudging the case." 
 
 "The sighs you spoke of just now are more than 
 indications." 
 
 "You overwhelm me," said the young woman suddenly, 
 as if collecting her whole strength, like a wrestler jirepar- 
 ing for a last struggle; "you take only my evil dispositions 
 
TEN YEAES LATER. 1^0 
 
 and my weaknesbes into calculation, and do not speak of 
 the pure and generous feelings which I have- If, at this 
 moment, I feel instinctively attracted towara the surin- 
 tendant, if I even make an advance to him, and which, I 
 confess, is very probable, my motive for it is, that Monsieur 
 Fouquet's fate deeply affects me, and because he is, in my 
 opinion, one of the most unfortunate men living." 
 
 "Ah!" said the marquise, placing her hand upon her 
 heart, "something new, then, has occurred." 
 
 "Do you not know it?" 
 
 "I am utterly ignorant of everything about him," said 
 Mme. de Bellidre, with that palpitation of anguish which 
 suspends thought and speech, and even life itself. 
 
 "In the first place, then, the king's favor is entirely 
 withdrawn from Monsieur Fouquet, and conferred on Mon- 
 sieur Colbert." 
 
 "So it is stated." 
 
 "It is very clear, since the discovery of the plot of Belle- 
 Isle." 
 
 "I was told that the discovery of the fortifications there 
 had turned out to Monsieur Fouquet's honor." 
 
 Marguerite began to laugh in so cruel a manner that 
 Mme. de Belliere could at that moment have delightedly 
 plunged a dagger in her bosom. 
 
 "Dearest," continued Marguerite, "there is no longer 
 any question of Monsieur Fouquet's honor; his safety is 
 concerned. Before three days are past the ruin of the 
 surintendant will be complete." 
 
 "Stay," said the marquise, in her turn smiling; "that is 
 going a little too fast." 
 
 "I said three days, because I wish to deceive myself with 
 a hope; but most certainly the catastrophe will not extend 
 beyond twenty-four hours." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "For the simplest of all reasons— that Monsieur Fouquet 
 has no more money." 
 
 "In matters of finance, my dear Marguerite, some are 
 without money to day who to-morrow can procure millions." 
 
 "That might be Monsieur Fouquet's case when he had 
 two wealthy and clever friends who amassed money for him, 
 and wrung it from every source; but these friends are 
 dead." 
 
 "Money does not die. Marguerite; it may be concealed; 
 but it can be looked for, bought, and found." 
 
 "You see things on the bright side, and so much the 
 
190 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 better for you. It is really very unfortunate that you are 
 not the Egeria of Monsieur Fouquet; you might show him 
 the source whence he could obtain the millions which the 
 king asked him for yesterday." 
 
 "Millions!" said the marquise, in terror. 
 
 "Four — an even number." 
 
 "Infamous!" murmured Mme. de Bellifire, tortured by 
 her friend's merciless delight. 
 
 "Monsieur Fouquet, I should think, must certainly have 
 four millions," she replied courageously. 
 
 "If he has those which the king requires to-day," said 
 Marguerite, "he will not perhaps possess those which the 
 king will require in a month." 
 
 "The king will require money from him again, then?" 
 
 "No doubt; and that is my reason for saying that the 
 ruin of this poor Monsieur Fouquet is inevitable. Pride 
 will induce him to furnish the money, and when he has no 
 more he will fail." 
 
 "It is true," said the marquise tremblingly; "the plan 
 is a bold one; but tell me, does Monsieur Colbert hate 
 Monsieur Fouquet so very much?" 
 
 "I think he does not like him. Monsieur Colbert is 
 powerful; he improves on close acquaintance; he has gigan- 
 tic ideas, a strong will, and discretion; he will make great 
 strides." 
 
 "He will be surintendant?" 
 
 "It is probable. Such is the reason, my dear marquise, 
 why I felt myself impressed in favor of that poor man, who 
 once loved, nay, even adored me; and why, when I see him 
 so unfortunate, I forgive his infidelity, which I have reason 
 to believe he also regrets; and why, moreover, I should not 
 have been disinclined to afford him some consolation, or 
 some good advice; he would have understood the step I had 
 taken, and would have thought kindly of me for it. It is 
 gratifying to be loved, you know. Men value love highly 
 when they are no longer blinded by its influence." 
 
 The marquise, bewildered, and overcome by these cruel 
 attacks, whicji had been calculated with the greatest cor- 
 rectness and precision of aim, hardly knew what answer to 
 return; she even seemed to have lost all power of thought. 
 Her perfidious friend's voice had assumed the most afiec- 
 tionate tone; she spoke as a woman, but concealed the 
 instincts of a panther. 
 
 "Well," said Mme. de Belli^re, who had a vague hope 
 that Marguerite would cease to overwhelm a vanquished 
 enemy, "why do you not go and see Monsieur Fouijuet?" 
 
fEN YEAllS LATER. l&l 
 
 . "Decidedly, marquise, you have made loe reflect. No, it 
 vould be unbecoming for me to make the first advance. 
 Monsieur Fouquet no doubt loves me, but he is too proud. 
 I cannot expose myself to an affront — besides, I have 
 my husband to consider. You say nothing to me. Very 
 ■well, I shall consult Monsieur Colbert on the subject." 
 
 Marguerite rose smilingly, as though to take leave, but 
 the marquise had not the strength to imitate her. Mar- 
 guerite advanced a few paces, in order that she might con- 
 tinue to enjoy the humiliating grief in which her rival was 
 plunged, and then said suddenly: | 
 
 "You do not accompany me to the door, then?" ] 
 
 The marquise rose, pale and almost lifeless, without 
 thinking of the envelope, which had occupied her attention 
 BO greatly at the commencement of the conversation, and 
 which was revealed at the first step she took. She then 
 opened the door of her oratory, and without even turning 
 her head toward Marguerite Vanel, entered it, closing the 
 door after her. Marguerite said, or, rather muttered, a 
 few words, which Mme. de Belliere did not even hear. As 
 soon, however, as the marquise had disappeared, her envious 
 enemy, not being able to resist the desire to satisfy herself 
 that her suspicions were really founded, advanced stealthily 
 toward it like a panther, and seized the envelope. 
 
 "Ah!" she said, gnashing her teeth, "it was indeed a 
 letter from Monsieur Fouquet she was reading when I 
 arrived," and then darted out of the room. During this 
 interval, the marquise, having arrived behind the rampart, 
 as it were, of her door, felt that her strength was failing 
 her; for a moment she remained rigid, pale, and motionless 
 as a statue; and then, like a statue shaken on its base by a 
 storm of wind, she tottered and fell inanimate on the carpet. 
 The noise of the fall resounded at the same moment as the 
 rolling of Marguerite's carriage leaving the hotel was heard. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXVII. 
 
 MME. DB belliere' S PLATE. 
 
 The blow had been the more painful on account of its 
 being unexpected. It was some time before the marquise 
 recovered herself; but, once recovered, she began to reflect 
 upon the events which had been announced to her. She, 
 therefore, returned, at the risk even of losing her life in 
 
19S TEST TEARS LATER, 
 
 the way, to that train of ideas which her relentless friend! 
 had forced her to pursue. Treason, then — dark menaces 
 concealed under the semblance of public interest — such 
 were Colbert's maneuvers. A detestable delight at an 
 approaching downfall, untiring efforts to attain this object, 
 means of seduction no less wicked than the crime itself — ■ 
 such were the means which Marguerite employed. The 
 crooked atoms of Descartes triumphed; to the man without 
 compassion was united a woman without a heart. The 
 marquise perceiyed, with sorrow rather than with indigna- 
 tion, that the king was an accomplice in the plot which 
 betrayed the duplicity of Louis XIII., in his advanced age, 
 and the avarice of Mazarin at a period of life when he had 
 not had the opportunity of gorging himself with French 
 gold. The spirit of this courageous woman soon resumed 
 its energy, and was no longer interrupted by a mere indul- 
 gence in compassionate lamentations. The marquise was 
 not one to weep when action was necessary, nor to waste 
 time in bewailing a misfortune when means still existed of 
 relieving it. For some minutes she buried her face in her 
 icy hands, and then, raising her head, rang for her attend- 
 ants with a steady hand, and with a gesture betraying a 
 fixed determination of purpose. Her resolution was taken. 
 
 "Is everything prepared for my departure?" she inquired 
 of one of her female attendants who entered. 
 
 "Yes, madarae; but it was not expected that your lady- 
 ship would leave for Belli^re for the next few days." 
 
 "All my jewels and articles of value, then, are locked 
 up!"" 
 
 "Yes, madame; but nithertowe have been in the habit of 
 leaving them in Paris. Your ladyship does not generally 
 take your jewels with you into the country." 
 
 "But they are all in order, you say?" 
 
 "Yes, in your ladyship's own room." 
 
 "The gold plate?" 
 
 "In the chest." 
 
 "And the silver plate?" 
 
 "In the large oaken closet." 
 
 The marquise remained silent for a few moments, ana 
 then said calmly, "Let my goldsmith be sent for." 
 
 Her attendants quitted the room to execute the order. 
 The marquise, however, had entered her own room, and 
 Inspected her casket of jewels with the greatest attention. 
 Never, until now, had she bestowed so much attention upon 
 riches in which women take so much pride,- never, until 
 
TEN TBAES LATER. 193 
 
 nowj had she looked at her jewels, except for the purpose 
 of making a selection according to their settings or their 
 colors. On this occasion, however, she admired the size of 
 the rubies and the brilliancy of the diamonds; she grieved 
 over every blemish and every defect; she thought the gold 
 light, and the stones wretched. The goldsmith, as he 
 entered, found her thus occupied. "Monsieur Faucheux," 
 she said, "I believe you supplied me with my gold service?" 
 
 "I did, your ladyship." 
 
 "I do not remember the amount of the account." 
 
 "Of the new service, madame, or of that which Monsieur 
 de Belliere presented to you on your marriage? for I 
 furnished both." 
 
 "First of all, the new one?" 
 
 "The covers, the goblets, and the dishes, with their 
 covers, the eeau-pergne, the ice-pails, the dishes for the 
 preserves, and the tea and cofiee urns, cost your ladyship 
 sixty thousand francs." 
 
 "No more?" 
 
 "Your ladyship thought the account very high." 
 
 "Yes, yes; I remember, in fact, that it was dear; but it 
 was the workmanship, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes, madame; the designs, the chasings, and new 
 patterns." 
 
 "What proportion of the cost does the workmanship 
 form? Do not hesitate to tell me." 
 
 "A third of its value, madame." 
 
 "There is the other service, the old one, that which be- 
 longed to my husband?" 
 
 "Yes, madame; there is less workmanship in that than in 
 the other. Its intrinsic value does not exceed thirty thou- 
 sand francs." 
 
 "Thirty thousand," murmured the marquise. "But, 
 Monsieur Faucheux, there is also the service which belonged 
 to my mother; all that massive plate which I did not wish 
 to part with, on account of the associations connected with 
 it." 
 
 "Ah! madame, that would indeed be an excellent re- 
 source for those who, unlike your ladyship, might not be in 
 a position to keep their plate. In working that, one worked 
 in solid metal. But that service is no longer in fashion. 
 Its weight is its only advantage." 
 
 "That is all I care about. How much does it weigh?" 
 
 "Fifty thousand livres at the very least. I do not allude 
 to the enormous vases for the buffet, which alone weigh five 
 thousand livres, or ten thousand the two." 
 
194 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "One hundred and thirty," murmured the marquise. 
 "You are quite sure of your figures, Monsieur Faucheux?" 
 
 "Positive, madame. Besides, there is no difficulty in 
 weighing them." 
 
 "The amount is entered in my books." 
 
 "Your ladyship is extremely methodical, I am aware." 
 
 "Let us now turn to another subject," said Mme. de Bel- 
 li^re, and she opened one of her jewel-boxes. 
 
 "I recognize these emeralds," said M. Faucheux; "for it 
 was I who had the setting of them. They are the most 
 beautiful in the whole court. No, I am mistaken; Madame 
 de Chdtillon has the most beautiful set; she had them from 
 Messieurs de Guise; but your set, madame, are next." 
 
 "What are they worth?" 
 
 "Mounted?" 
 
 "No; supposing I wished to sell them." 
 
 "I know very well who would buy them," exclaimed M. 
 Faucheux. 
 
 "That is the very thing I ask. They could be purchased, 
 then?" 
 
 "All your jewels could be bought. It is well known that 
 you possess the most beautiful jewels in Paris. You are 
 not changeable in your tastes; when you make a purchase 
 it is of the very best; and what you purchase you do not 
 part with." 
 
 "What could these emeralds be sold for, then?" 
 
 "A hundred and thirty thousand francs." 
 
 The marquise wrote down upon h«r tablets the amount 
 which the jeweler mentioned. '^The ruby necklace?" she 
 said. 
 
 "Are they Balass rubies, madame?" 
 
 "Here they are." 
 
 "They are beautiful — magnificent. I did not know that 
 your ladyship had these stones." 
 
 "What is their value?" 
 
 "Two hundred thousand francs. The center one is alone 
 worth a hundred." 
 
 "I thought so," said the marquise. "As for diamonds, I 
 have them in numbers; rings, necklaces, sprigs, earrings, 
 clasps. Tell me their value, Monsieur Faucheux." 
 
 The jeweler took his magnifying-glass and scales, weighed 
 and inspected them, and then silently made his calculations. 
 "These stones," he said, "must have cost your ladyship an 
 income of forty thousand francs." 
 
 "You value them at eight hundred thousand francs." 
 
TEN YEARS tATEfi. 195 
 
 **Kearlyso." 
 
 "It is about what I imagined — but the settings are not 
 included." 
 
 "No, madame; but if I were called upon to sell or to buy, 
 I should, be satisfied with the gold of the settings alone as 
 my profit upon the transaction. I should make a good 
 twenty-five thousand francs." 
 
 "An agreeable sum." 
 
 "Very so, madame." 
 
 "Will you accept that profit, then, on condition of con- 
 verting the jewels into money?" 
 
 "But you do not intend to sell your diamonds, I suppose, 
 madame?" exclaimed the bewildered jeweler. 
 
 "Silence, Monsieur Faucheux; do not disturb yourself 
 about that; give me an answer simply. You are an honor- 
 able man, with whom my family has dealt for thirty years; 
 you have known my father and mother, whom your own 
 father and mother had served. I address you as a friend; 
 will you accept the gold of the settings in return for a sum 
 of ready money to be placed in my hands?" 
 
 "Eight hundred thousand francs! it is enormous." 
 
 "I know it." 
 
 "Impossible to find." 
 
 "Not so." 
 
 "But reflect, madame, upon the effect which will be pro- 
 duced by the sale of your jewels." 
 
 "No one need know it. You can get sets of false jewels 
 made for me, similar to the real. Do not answer a word; I 
 insist upon it. Sell them separately, sell the stones only." 
 
 "In that way it is easy. Monsieur is looking out for some 
 sets of jewels as well as single stones for madame's toilet. 
 There will be a competition for them. I can easily dispose 
 of six hundred thousand francs' worth to Monsieur. I am 
 certain yours are the most beautiful." 
 
 "When can you do so?" 
 
 "In less than three days' time." 
 
 "Very well; the remainder you will dispose of among 
 private individuals. For the present, make me out a con- 
 tract of sale, payment to be made in four days." 
 
 "I entreat you to reflect, madame; for if you force the 
 sale, you will lose a hundred thousand francs." 
 
 "If necessary, I will lose two hundred; I wish everything 
 to be settled this evening. Do you accept?" 
 
 "I do, your ladyship. I will not conceal from you that I 
 shall make fifty thousand francs by the transaction," 
 
196 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "So much the better. In what way shall I have the 
 money?" 
 
 "Either in gold, or in bills of the bank of LyonSj payable 
 at Monsieur Colbert's." 
 
 "I agree," said the marquise eagerly; "return home and 
 bring the sum in question in notes, as soon as possible." 
 
 "Yes. madame; but for Heaven's sake ' 
 
 "Not a word. Monsieur Faucheux. By the bye, I was 
 forgetting the silver plate. What is the value of that which 
 I have?" 
 , "Fiftj' thousand francs, madame." 
 
 "That makes a million," said the marquise to herself. 
 •'Monsieur Faucheux, you will take away with you both 
 the gold and silver plate. I can assign, as a pretext, that I 
 wish it remodeled for patterns more in accordance with my 
 own taste. Melt it down, and return me its value in money, 
 at once." 
 
 "It shall be done, your ladyship." 
 
 "You will be good enough to place the money in a chest, 
 and direct one of your clerks to accompany the chest, and 
 without my servants seeing him; and direct him also to 
 wait for me in .a carriage." 
 
 "In Madame de Faucheux's carriage?" said the jeweler. 
 
 "If you will allow it, and I will call for it at your house." 
 
 "Certainly, your ladyship." 
 
 "I will direct some of my servants to convey the plate to 
 your house." The marquise rang. "Let the small van be 
 placed at Monsieur Faucheux's disposal," she said. The 
 jeweler bowed and left the house, directing that the van 
 should follow him closely, saying aloud that the marquise 
 was about to have her plate melted down in order to have 
 other plate manufactured of a more modern style. Three 
 i hours afterward she went to M. Faucheux's house and re- 
 ceived from him eight hundred thousand francs in gold 
 inclosed in a chest, which one of the clerks could carry to- 
 ward Mme. Faucheux's carriage — for Mme. Faucheux kept 
 ner carriage. As the daughter of a president of accounts, 
 she had brought a marriage portion of thirty thousand 
 crowns to her husband, who was syndic of the goldsmiths. 
 These thirty thousand crowns had become very fruitful 
 during twenty years. The jeweler, though a millionaire, 
 was a modest man. He had purchased a venerable carriage, 
 built in 1648, ten years after the king's birth. This car- 
 riage, or rather, house upon wheels, excited the admiration 
 of the whole quarter in which he resided; it was covered 
 
"TEK YEARS LATER. 197 
 
 with allegorical paintings and clouds scattered over with 
 stars. The marquise entered this somewhat extraordinary 
 vehicle, sitting opposite to the clerk, who endeavored to 
 put his knees out of the way, afraid even of touching the 
 marquise's dress. It was the clerk, too, who told the 
 coachman, who was very proud of having a marquise to drive, 
 to take the road to St. Mande. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXVIII. 
 
 THE DOVTRY. 
 
 Monsieur Paucheux's horses were serviceable animals, 
 with thick knees, and legs which they had some difficulty 
 in moving. Like the carriage, they belonged to the earlier 
 part of the century. They were not as fleet, therefore, as 
 the English horses of M. Eouquet, and consequently took 
 two hours to get to St. Mand§. Their progress, it might 
 be said, was majestic. Majesty, however, precludes hurry. 
 The marquise stopped the carriage at a door well known to 
 her, although she had only seen it once, in a circumstance, 
 it will be remembered, no less painful than that which 
 brought her to it again on the present occasion. She drew 
 a key from her pocket, and inserted it in the lock, pushed 
 open the door, which noiselessly yielded to her touch, and 
 directed the clerk to carry the chest upstairs to the first 
 floor. The weight of the chest was so great that the clerk 
 was obliged to get the coachman to assist him with it. 
 They placed it in a small cabinet, anteroom, or boudoir 
 rather, adjoining the saloon where he once saw M. Fouquet 
 at the marquise's feet. Mme. de Belliere gave the coach- 
 man a louis, smiled gracefully at the clerk, and dismissed 
 them both. She closed the door after them and waited in 
 the room, alone and barricaded. There was no servant to 
 ,be seen about the rooms, but everything was prepared as 
 though some invisible genius had divined the wishes and 
 desires of the guest who was expected. The fire was laid, 
 the candles in the candelabra, refreshments upon the table, 
 books scattered .about, fresh-cut flowers in the vases. One 
 might almost have declared it to be an enchanted house. 
 The marquise lighted the candles, inhaled the perfume of 
 the flowers, sat down, and was soon plunged in profound 
 thought. Her deep musings, melancholy though they 
 were, were not untinged with a certain sweetness. Spread 
 
198 TEK TEARS LATER. 
 
 out before her was a treasure, a million wrung from her 
 fortune as a gleaner plucks the blue corn-flower from her 
 crown of flowers. She conjured up the sweetest dreams. 
 Her principal thought, and one that took precedence of all 
 others, was to devise means of leaving this money for M. 
 Fouquet without his possibly learning from whom the gift 
 had come. This idea, naturally enough, was the first to 
 present itself to her mind. But although, on reflection, it 
 appeared difiScult to carry out, she did not despair of suc- 
 cess. She would then ring to summon M. Fouquet and 
 make her escape, happier if, instead of having given a mil- 
 lion, she had herself found one. But, being there, and 
 having seen the boudoir so coquettishly decorated that it 
 might almost be said the least particle of dust had but the 
 moment before been removed by the servants; having 
 observed the drawing-room so perfectly arranged that it 
 might almost be said her presence there had driven away 
 the fairies who were its occupants, she asked herself if the 
 glance or gaze of those whom she had driven away — whether 
 spirits, fairies, elves, or human creatures — had not already 
 recognized her. To secure success, it was necessary that 
 some steps should be seriously taken, and it was necessary 
 also that the surintendant should comprehend the serious 
 position in which he was placed, in order to yield com- 
 pliance with the generous fancies of a woman; all the fasci- 
 nation of an eloquent friendship would be required to per- 
 suade him, and, should this be insufficient, the maddening 
 influence of a devoted passion, which, in its resolute deter- 
 mination to carry conviction, would not be turned aside. 
 Was not the surintendant, indeed, known for his delicacy 
 and dignity of feeling? Would he allow himself to accept 
 from any woman that of which she had stripped herself? 
 No! He would resist, and if any voice in the world could 
 overcome his resistance, it would be the voice of the woman 
 he loved. Another doubt, and that a cruel one, suggested 
 itself to Mme. de Belli^re with a sharp, acute pain, like C: 
 dagger-thrust. "Did he really love her? Would that 
 volatile mind, that inconstant heart, be likely to be fixed 
 for a moment, even were it to gaze upon an angel? Was it 
 not the same with Fouquet, notwithstanding his genius and 
 his uprightness of conduct, as with those conquerors on the 
 field of battle who shed tears when they have gained a vic- 
 tory? I must learn if it be so, and must judge that for 
 myself," wd the marquise. "Who can tell whether that 
 heart, sp ioveted, is not common in its impulses, and full 
 
TBK TEAES LATER. 199 
 
 of alloy? Who can tell if that mind, when the touchstone 
 is applied to it, will not be found of a mean and vulgar 
 character? Come, come," she said, "this is doubting and 
 hesitating too much — to the proof." She looked at the 
 timepiece. "It is now seven o'clock," she said; "he must 
 have arrived; it is the hour for signing his papers." With 
 a feverish impatience she rose and walked toward the mir- 
 ror, in which she smiled with a resolute smile of devoted- 
 ness; she touched the spring and drew out the handle of 
 the bell. Then, as if exhausted beforehand by the struggle 
 she had just undergone, she threw herself on her knees, in 
 utter abandonment, before a large couch, in which she 
 buried her face in her trembling hands. Ten minutes 
 afterward she heard the spring of the door sound. The 
 door moved upon invisible hinges, and Fouquet appeared. 
 He looked pale, and seemed bowed down by the weight of 
 some bitter reflection. He did not hurry, but simply came 
 at the summons. The preoccupation of his mind must 
 indeed have been very great, that a man, so devoted to 
 pleasure, from whom indeed pleasure was everything, should 
 obey such a summons so listlessly. The previous night, in 
 fact, fertile in melancholy ideas, had sharpened his features, 
 generally so noble in their indifEerence of expression, and 
 had traced dark lines of anxiety around his eyes. Hand- 
 some and noble he still was, and the melancholy expression 
 of his mouth, a rare expression with men, gave a new char- 
 acter to his features, by which his youth seemed to be re- 
 newed. Dressed in black, the lace in front of his chest 
 much disarranged by his feverishly restless hand, the looks 
 of the surintendant, full of dreamy reflection, were fixed 
 upon the threshold of the room which he had so frequently 
 approached in search of expected happiness. This gloomy 
 gentleness of manner, this smiling sadness of expression, 
 which had replaced his former excessive joy, produced an 
 indescribable eflect upon Mme. de Belli^re, who was regard- 
 ing him at a distance. A woman's eye can read the face of 
 the man she loves, its every feeling of pride, its every ex- 
 pression of suffering; it might almost be said that Heaven 
 has graciously granted to women, on account of their very 
 weakness, more than it has accorded to other creatures. 
 They can conceal their own feelings from a man, but from 
 them no man can conceal his. The marquise divined in a 
 single glance the whole weight of the unhappiness of the 
 surintendant. She divined a night passed without sleep, a 
 day passed in deceptions. From th^t moment ^h^ wa« firm 
 
200 TEN" TEAKS LATER. 
 
 in her own strength, and she felt that she loved Fouqnet 
 beyond everything else. She rose and approached him, 
 saying, "You wrote to me this morning to say yon were be- 
 ginning to forget me, and that I, whom you had not seen 
 lately, had no doubt ceased to think of you. I have come 
 to undeceive you, monsieur, and the more completely so, 
 because there is one thing I can read iia your eyes." 
 
 "What is that, madame?" said Fouquet, astonished. 
 
 "That you have never loved me so much as at this 
 moment; in the same manner you can read, in my present 
 steps toward you, that I have not forgotten you." 
 
 "Oh, madame!" said Fouquet, whose face was for a 
 moment lighted up by a sudden gleam of joy, "you are 
 indeed an angel, and no man can suspect you. All he can 
 do is to humble himself before you, and entreat forgiveness." 
 
 "Your forgiveness is granted, then," said the marquise, 
 Fouquet was about to throw himself upon his knees. "No, 
 no," she said, "sit here by my side. Ah! that is an evil 
 thought which has just crossed your mind." 
 
 "How do you detect it, madame?" 
 
 "By a smile which has just injured the expression of your 
 countenance. Be candid, and tell me what your thought 
 was — no secrets between friends." 
 
 "Tell me, then, madame, why have you been so harsh 
 ^hese three or four months past?" 
 
 "Harsh?" 
 
 "Yes; did you not forbid me to visit you?" 
 
 "Alas!" said Mme. de Belliere, sighing, "because your 
 visit to me was the cause of your being visited with a great 
 misfortune; because my house is watched; because the same 
 eyes which have already seen you might see you again; 
 because I think it less dangerous for you that I should come 
 here than that you should come to my house; and, lastly, 
 becausf! I know you to be already unhappy enough not to 
 wish to increase your unhappiness further." 
 
 Fouquet started, for these words recalled all the anxieties 
 connected with his office of surintendant — he who, for the 
 last few minutes, had indulged in all the wild aspirations of 
 the lover. "I unhappy?" he said, endeavoring to smile; 
 "indeed, marquise, you will almost make me believe that I 
 am so, judging from your own sadness. Are your beautiful 
 eyes raised upon me merely in pity? — I look for another ex- 
 pression from them." 
 
 "It is not I who am sad, monsieur; look in tbe mirror 
 there — it is you who are so," 
 
TEK TEARS LATER. 201 
 
 ''It is true I am somewhat pale, marquise; but it is from 
 overwork; the king yesterday required a supply of money 
 from me." 
 
 "Yes, four millions; I am aware of it." 
 
 "You know it?" exclaimed Pouquet, in a tone of sur- 
 prise; "how can you have learned it? It was after the de- 
 parture of the queen, and in the presence of one person 
 only, that the king " 
 
 "You perceive that I do know it; is not that sufficient? 
 Well, go on, monsieur; the money the king has required 
 you to supply — ■ — ■" 
 
 , "You understand, marquise, that I have been obliged to 
 procure it, then to get it counted, afterward registered — 
 altogether a long afEair. Since Monsieur de Mazarin's 
 death, financial afEairs occasion some little fatigue and em- 
 barrassment. My administration is somewhat overtaxed, 
 and this is the reason why I have not slept during the past 
 night." 
 
 "So that you have the amount?" inquired the marquise, 
 with some anxiety. 
 
 "It would indeed be strange, marquise," replied Pouquet 
 cheerfully, "if a surintendant of finances were not to have 
 a paltry four millions in his coffers." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I believe you either have, or will have, them." 
 
 "What do you mean by saying I shall have them?" 
 
 "It is not very long since you were required to furnish 
 two millions." 
 
 "On the contrary, to me it seems almost an age; but do 
 not let us talk of money matters any longer." 
 
 "On the contrary, we will continue to speak of them, for 
 that is my only reason for coming to see you." 
 
 "I am at a loss to know your meaning," said the surin- 
 tendant, whose eyes began to express an anxious curiosity. 
 
 "Tell me, monsieur, is the office of surintendant an irre- 
 movable one?" 
 
 "You surprise me, marchioness, for you speak as if you 
 had some motive or interest in putting the question." 
 
 "My reason is simple enough; I am desirous of placing 
 some money in your hands, and naturally I wish to know if 
 ion are certain of your post." 
 
 "Eeally, marquise, I am at a loss what to reply, and I 
 cannot conceiTe your meaning." 
 
 "Seriously then, dear Monsieur Pouquet, I have certain 
 funds which somewhat embarrass me. I am tired of invest- 
 ing my money in land- and am anxious to intrust a friend 
 to turn it to account ' — — => 
 
SO^ TEK TEAES LATER. 
 
 "Surely it does not press/' said M. Fouquet. 
 
 "On the contrary, it is very pressing.'" 
 
 "Very well, we will talk of that by and by." 
 
 "By and by will not do, for my money is there," returned 
 the marquise, pointing out the cofEer to the surintendant, 
 and showing him, as she opened it, the bundles of notes 
 and heaps of gold. Fouquet, who had risen from his seat 
 at the same moment as Mme. de Belli^re, remained for a 
 moment plunged in thought; then, suddenly starting back, 
 he turned pale, and sank down in his chair, concealing his 
 face in his hands. "Madame, madame," he murmured, 
 "what opinion can you have of me when you make me such 
 an offer?" 
 
 "Of you!" returned the marquise. "Tell me, rather, 
 what you yourself think of the step I have taken." 
 
 "You bring me this money for myself, and you bring it 
 because you know me to be embarrassed. Nay, do not 
 deny it, for I am sure of it. Do I not know your heart?" 
 
 "If you know my heart, then, can you not see that it is 
 my heart which I offer you." 
 
 "I have guessed rightly, then?" exclaimed Fouquet. 
 "In truth, madame, I have never yet given you the right to 
 insult me in this manner." 
 
 "Insult you," she said, turning pale, "what singular deli- 
 cacy of feeling! You tell me you love me; in the name of 
 that affection you wish me to sacrifice my reputation and 
 my honor, yet, when I offer you money, which is my own, 
 you refuse me." 
 
 "Madame, you are at liberty to preserve what you term 
 your reputation and your honor. Permit me to preserve 
 mine. Leave me to my ruin, leave me to sink beneath the 
 weight of the hatreds which surround me, beneath the 
 faults I have committed, beneath the load even of my re- 
 morse; but, for Heaven's sake, madame, do not overwhelm 
 me under this last infliction." 
 
 "A short time since. Monsieur Fouquet, you were want- 
 ing in judgment, now you are wanting in feeling." 
 
 Fouquet pressed his clinched hand upon his breast, heav- 
 ing with emotion, saying: "Overwhelm me, madame, for I 
 have nothing to reply." 
 
 "I offered you my friendship. Monsieur Fouquet." 
 
 "Yes, madame, and you limited yourself to that." 
 
 "And what I am now doing is the act of a friend." 
 
 "No doubt it is." 
 
 "And you reject this mari* oi-aae frieadship?" 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 303 
 
 "I do reject it." 
 
 "Monsieur Fouquet, look at me," said the marquise, 
 with glistening eyes, "I now offer you my love." 
 
 "Oh, madamer' exclaimed Fouquet. 
 
 "I have loved you for a long while past; women, like 
 men, have a false delicacy at times. For a long time past 
 I have loved you, but would not confess it. Well, then, 
 you have implored this love on your knees, and I have re- 
 fused you; I was blind, as you were a little while since; but 
 as it was my love that you sought, it is my love that I now 
 offer you." 
 
 "Oh, madame! you overwhelm me beneath the weight of 
 my happiness." 
 
 "Will you be happy, then, if I am yours — yours entirely?" 
 
 "It will be the supremest happiness for me," 
 
 "Take me, then. If, however, for your sake I sacrifice a 
 prejudice, do you, for mine, sactifice a scruple." 
 
 "Do not tempt me." 
 
 "Do not refuse me." 
 
 "Think seriously of what you are proposing." 
 
 "Fouquet, but one word. Let it be no, and I open this 
 door," and she pointed to the door which led into the 
 street, "and you will never see me again. Let that word 
 be yes, and I am yours entirely." 
 
 "Elise! Elise! But this coffer?" 
 
 "It contains my dowry." 
 
 "It is your ruin," exclaimed Fouquet, turning over the 
 gold and papers; "there must be a million here." 
 
 "Yes, my jewels, for which I care no longer if you do 
 not love me, and for which, equally, I care no longer if you 
 love me as I love you." 
 
 "This is too much," exclaimed Fouquet. "I yield, I 
 yield, even were it only to consecrate so much devotion. 
 I accept the dowry." 
 
 "And take the woman with it," said the marquise^, 
 throwing herself into his arms. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 LE TERRAIN DE DIEU. 
 
 During the progress of these events Buckingham and De 
 Wardes traveled in excellent companionship, and made the 
 jvurney from Paris to Calais in undisturbed harmony to- 
 
204 TEK TEARS LATER. 
 
 gether. Buckingham had hurried his departure, so thai 
 the best part of his adieus were very hastily made. His 
 visit to Monsieur and madame, to the young queen, and to 
 the queen-dowager, had been paid collectively — a precaution 
 on the part of the queen-mother which saved him the dis- 
 tress of any private conversation with Monsieur, and saved 
 him also from the danger of seeing madame again. The 
 carriages containing the luggage had already been sent on 
 beforehand, and in the evening he set ofE in his traveling 
 carriage with his attendants. 
 
 De Wardes, irritated at finding himself dragged away in 
 so abrupt a manner by this Englishman, had sought in his 
 subtle mind for some means of escaping from his fetters; 
 but no one having rendered him any assistance in this 
 respect, he was absolutely obliged, therefore, to submit to 
 the burden of his own evil thoughts and of his own caustic 
 spirit. 
 
 Such of his friends in whom he had been able to confide 
 had, in their character of wits, rallied him upon the duke's 
 superiority. Others, less brilliant, but more sensible, had 
 reminded him of the king's orders which prohibited duel- 
 ing. Others, again, and they the larger number, who, from 
 Christian charity, or national vanity, might have rendered 
 him assistance, did not care to run the risk of incurring dis- 
 grace, and would, at the best, have informed the ministers 
 of a departure which might end in a massacre on a small 
 scale. The result was that, after having fully deliberated 
 upon the matter, De Wardes packed up his luggage, took a 
 couple of horses, and, followed only by one servant, made 
 his way toward the barrier, where Buckingham's carriage 
 was to await him. 
 
 The duke received his adversary as he would have done 
 an intimate acquaintance, made room beside him on the 
 same seat with himself, offered him refreshments, and 
 spread over his knees the sable cloak which had been thrown 
 on the front seat. They then conversed of the court, with- 
 out alluding to madame; of Monsieur, without speaking of 
 domestic affairs; of the king, without speaking of his 
 brother's wife; of the queen-mother, without alluding to 
 her daughter-in-law; of the King of England, without 
 alluding to his sister-in-law; of the state of the aiJections of 
 either of the travelers, without pronouncing any name that 
 might be dangerous. In this way the journey, which was 
 performed by short stages, was most agreeable, and Buck- 
 ingham, almost a Frenchman, from his wit and his educa- 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 305 
 
 tion, was delighted at having so admirably selected his 
 traveling companion. Elegant repasts were served^ of 
 which they partook but lightly; trials of horses in the beau- 
 tiful meadows which skirted the road; coursing, for Buck- 
 ingham had his greyhounds with him; and in such and 
 other various ways did they pass away the time. The duke 
 somewhat resembled the beautiful river Seine, which in- 
 closes France a thousand times in its loving embraces, be- 
 fore deciding upon joining its waters with the ocean. In 
 quitting I'rance, it was her recently adopted daughter he 
 had brought to Paris, whom he chiefly regretted; his every 
 thought was a remembrance of her, and consequently a 
 regret. Therefore, whenever, now and then, despite his 
 command over himself, he was lost in thought, De Wardes 
 left him entirely to his musings. This delicacy might have 
 touched Buckingham, and changed his feelings toward De 
 Wardes, if the latter, while preserving silence, had shown a 
 glance less full of malice and a smile less false. Instinctive 
 dislikes, however, are relentless; nothing appeases them; a 
 few ashes may sometimes apparently distinguish them; 
 but beneath those ashes the smothered flames rage more 
 furiously. Having exhausted all the means of amusement 
 which the route offered, they arrived, as we have said, at 
 Calais, toward the end of the sixth day. The duke's at- 
 tendants had already, since the previous evening, been in 
 advance, and had chartered a boat for the purpose of join- 
 ing the yacht, which had been tacking about in sight, or 
 bore broadside on, whenever it felt its white wings wearied, 
 within two or three cannon-shots from the jetty. 
 
 The boat was destined for the transport of the duke's 
 equipages from the shore to the yacht. The horses had 
 been embarked, having been hoisted from the boat upon 
 the deck in baskets, expressly made for the purpose, and 
 wadded in such a manner that their limbs, even in the most 
 violent fits of terror or impatience, were always protected 
 by the soft support which the sides afforded, and their coats 
 were not even turned. Eight of these baskets, placed side 
 by side, filled the ship's hold. It is well known that, in 
 snort voyages, horses refuse to eat, but remain trembling 
 all the while, with the best of food before them, such as 
 they would have greatly coveted on land. By degrees the 
 duke's entire equipage was transported on board the yacht; 
 he was then informed that everything was in readiness, and 
 that they only waited for him, whenever he would be dis- 
 posed to embark with the French gentleman. For do oj)# 
 
206 TEIT YE/VES LATER. 
 
 could possibly imagine that the French gentleman Would 
 have any other accounts to settle with his grace than those 
 of friendship. Buckingham desired the captain to be told 
 to hold himself in readiness, but that, as the sea was beau- 
 tiful, and as the day promised a splendid sunset, he did not 
 intend to go on board until nightfall, and would avail him- 
 self of the evening to enjoy a walk on the strand. He 
 added also that, finding himself in such excellent com- 
 pany, he had not the least desire to hasten his embarkation. 
 
 As he said this he pointed out to those who surrounded 
 him the magnificent spectacle which the sky presented, of 
 a deep purple color in the horizon, and an amphitheater of 
 fleecy clouds ascending from the sun's disk to the zenith, 
 assuming the appearance of a range of mountains, whose 
 summits were heaped one upon another. The whole 
 amphitheater was tinged at its base by a kind of blood-like 
 foam, fading away into opal and pearl-like tints, in propor- 
 tion as the gaze was carried from the base to the summit. 
 The sea, too, was tinged with the same reflection, and upon 
 the crest of every azure wave danced a point of light, like 
 a ruby exposed to the reflection of a lamp. The mildness 
 of the evening, the sea breezes, so dear to contemplative 
 minds, a stiff breeze setting in from the east and blowing 
 in harmonious gusts; then, in the distance, the black out- 
 line of the yacht with its rigging traced upon the impurpled 
 background of the sky — while, dotting the horizon, might 
 be seen here and there vessels with their trimmed sails, 
 like the wings of a sea-gull about to plunge. The spectacle, 
 indeed, well merited admiration. A crowd of curious idlers 
 followed the richly dressed attendants, among whom they 
 mistook the intendant and the secretary for the master and 
 his friend. As for Buckingham, who dressed very simply, 
 in a gray satin vest, and doublet of violet-colored velvet, 
 wearing his hat thrust over his eyes, and without orders or 
 embroidery, he was taken no more notice of than De 
 Wardes, who was dressed in black like an attorney. 
 
 The duke's attendants had received directions to have a 
 boat in readiness at the jetty head, and to watch the em- 
 barkation of their master, without approaching him until 
 either he or his friend should summon them. "Whatever 
 may happen," he had added, laying a stress upon these 
 words, so that they might not be misunderstood. Having 
 walked a few paces upon the strand, Buckingham said to 
 De Wardes, "I think it is now time to take leave of each 
 other. The tide, you perceive, is rising; ten minutes hence 
 
TEN- fEARS tAtBtl. W 
 
 it will hcve soaked the sands where we are now walking in 
 such a manner that we shall not be able to keep our 
 footing." 
 
 "1 await your orders, my lord; but " 
 
 "But, you mean, we are still upon soil whicli is part of 
 the king's territory." 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "Well, do you see yonder a kind of little island sur- 
 rounded by a circular pool of water? the pool is increasing 
 every minute, and the isle is gradually disappearing. This 
 island, indeed, belongs to Heaven, for it is situated between 
 two seas, and is not Shown on the king's maps. Do you 
 observe it?" 
 
 "Yes; but we can hardly reach it now without getting 
 our feet wet." 
 
 "Yes; but observe that it forms an eminence tolerably 
 high, and that the tide rises on every side, leaving the top 
 free. We shall be admirably placed upon that little theater. 
 What do you think of it?" 
 
 "I shall be perfectly happy wherever I may have the 
 honor of crossing my sword with your lordship's." 
 
 "Very well, then; I am distressed to be the cause of 
 your wetting your feet. Monsieur de Wardes, but it is most 
 essential you should be able to say to the king, 'Sire, I did 
 not fight upon your majesty's territory.' Perhaps the dis- 
 tinction is somewhat subtle, but since Port Eoyal you 
 abound in subleties of expression. Do not let us complain 
 of this, however, for it makes your wit very brilliant, and 
 of a style peculiarly your own. If you do not object we 
 will hurry ourselves, for the sea, I perceive, is rising fast, 
 and night is setting in." 
 
 "My reason for not walking faster was, that I did not 
 wish to precede your grace. Are you still on dry land, my 
 lord?" 
 
 "Yes, at present I am. Look yonder; my servants are 
 afraid we should be drowned, and have converted the boat 
 into a cruiser. Do you remark how curiously it dances 
 upon the crests of the waves? But as it makes me feel 
 seasick, would you permit me to turn my back toward 
 thempi' 
 
 "You will oDserve, my lord, that in turning your back 
 to them you will have the sun full in your face." 
 
 "Oh, its rays are very feeble at this hour, and it will soon 
 disappear; do not be uneasy at that." 
 
 "As you please, my lord; it was out of consideration for 
 your lordship that I made the remarJfo" 
 
208 TEK TEARS I,ATEB. 
 
 "I am aware of that, Monsieur de Wardes, and I fully 
 appreciate your kindness. Shall we take off our doubletsi?" 
 
 "As you please, my lord." 
 
 "Do not hesitate to tell me. Monsieur de Wardes, if you 
 do not feel comfortable upon the wet sand, or if you think 
 yourself a little too close to the French territory. We 
 could fight in England, or else upon my yachb." 
 
 "We are exceedingly well placed here, my lord; only I 
 nave the honor to remark that, as the sea is rising fast, we 
 have hardly time •" 
 
 Buckingham made a sign of assent, took off his doublet 
 and threw it on the ground, a proceeding which De Wardes 
 imitated. Both their bodies, which seemed like two phan- 
 toms to those who were looking at them from the snore, 
 were thrown strongly into relief by a dark-red violet-colored 
 shadow with which the sky became overspread. 
 
 "Upon my word, your grace," said De Wardes, "we shall 
 hardly have time to begin. Do you not perceive how our 
 feet are sinking in the sand?" 
 
 "I have sunk up to the ankles," said Buckingham, 
 "without reckoning that the water is even now breaking in 
 upon us." 
 
 "It has already reached me. As soon as you please, 
 therefore, your grace," said De Wardes, who drew his 
 sword, a movement imitated by the duke. 
 
 "Monsieur de Wardes," said Buckingham, "one final 
 word. I am about to fight you because I do not like you — 
 because you have wounded me in ridiculing a certain devo- 
 tional regard I have entertained, and one which I acknowl- 
 edge that, at this moment, I still retain, and for which I 
 would willingly die. You are a bad and heartless man. 
 Monsieur de Wardes, and I will do my utmost to take your 
 life; for I feel assured that, if you survive this engagement, 
 you will in the future, work great mischief toward my friends. 
 That is all I have to remark. Monsieur de Wardes," con- 
 tinued Buckingham, as he saluted him. 
 
 "And I, my lord, have only this to reply to you: I have 
 not disliked you hitherto, but since you have divined my 
 character, I hate you, and will do all I possibly can to kill 
 you;" and De Wardes saluted Buckingham. 
 
 They crossed swords at the same moment, like two flashes 
 of lightning in a dark night. The swords seemed to seek 
 each other, guessed their position, and met. Both were 
 practiced swordsmen, and the earlier passes were without 
 any result. The night was fast closing in, and it was so 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 2U9 
 
 dark that they attacked and defended themselves almost 
 instinctively. Suddenly De Wardes felt his sword arrested, 
 he had just touched Buckingham's shoulder. The duke's 
 sword sank, as his arm was lowered. 
 
 "You are touched, my lord," said De Wardes, drawing 
 back a step or two. 
 
 "Yes, monsieur, but only slightly." 
 
 "Yet you quitted your guard." 
 
 "Only from the first effect of the cold steel; but I have 
 recovered." 
 
 "Let us go on, if your please." And disengaging his 
 sword with a sinister clashing of the blade, the duke 
 wounded the marquis in the breast. 
 
 "Touched also," he said. 
 
 "No," said De Wardes, not moving from his place. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, but, observing that your shirt was 
 stained — " said Buckingham. 
 
 "Well," said De Wardes furiously, "it is now your turn." 
 
 And, with a terrible lunge, he pierced Buckingham's arm 
 through, the sword passing between the two bones. Buck- 
 ingham feeling his right arm paralyzed, stretched out his 
 left arm, seized his sword, which was about falling from his 
 nerveless grasp, and before De Wardes could resume his 
 guard he thrust him through the breast. De Wardes tot- 
 tered, his knees gave way beneath him, and leaving his 
 sword still fixed in the duke's arm, he fell into the water, 
 which was soon crimsoned with a more genuine reflection 
 than that which it had assumed from the clouds. De 
 Wardes was not dead; he felt the terrible danger which 
 menaced him, for the sea rose fast. The duke, too, per- 
 ceived the danger also. With an effort, and an exclamation 
 of pain, he tore out the blade which remained in his arm, 
 and turning toward De Wardes, said, "Are you dead, 
 marquis?" 
 
 "No," replied De Wardes, in a voice choked by the blood 
 which rushed from his lungs to his throat, "but very near 
 it." 
 
 "Well, what is to be done; can you walk?" said Bucking- 
 ham, supporting him on his knee. 
 
 "Impossible," he replied. Then falling down again, 
 said, "Call to your people, or I shall be drowned." 
 
 "Halloo! boat there! quick! quick!" 
 
 The boat flew over the waves, but the sea rose faster than 
 
 ' the boat could approach. Buckingham saw that De Wardes 
 
 was on the point of being again covered by a wave; ho 
 
210 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 passed his left arm, safe and unwounded, round his body, 
 and raised him up. The wave ascended to his middle, but 
 could not move him. The duke immediately began to walk 
 toward the shore. He had hardly gone ten paces, when a 
 second wave, rushing onward higher, more furious, more 
 menacing than the former, struck him at the height of his 
 chest, threw him over, and buried him beneath the water. 
 At the reflux, however, the duke and De Wardes were dis- 
 covered lying on the strand. De AVardes had fainted. At 
 this moment four of the duke's sailors, who comprehended 
 the danger, threw themselves into the sea, and in a moment 
 were close beside him. Their terror was extreme when they 
 observed how their master became covered with blood, in 
 proportion as the water, with which it was impregnated, 
 flowed toward his knees and feet; they wish to carry him 
 away. 
 
 "No, no," exclaimed the duke; "take the marquis on 
 shore first." 
 
 "Death to the Frenchman!" cried the English sullenly. 
 
 "Wretched knaves!" exclaimed the duke, drawing him- 
 self up with a haughty gesture, which sprinkled them with 
 blood; "obey directly! Monsieur de Wardes on shore! 
 Monsieur de Wardes' safety to be looked to first, or I will 
 have you all hanged." 
 
 The boat had by this time reached them; the secretary 
 and intendant leaped into the sea, and approached the mar- 
 quis, who no longer showed any sign of life. 
 
 "I commit him to your care, as you value your lives," 
 said the duke. "Take Monsieur de Wardes on shore." 
 They took him in their arms, and carried him to the dry 
 sand, where the tide never rose so high. A few idlers and 
 five or six fishermen had gathered on the shore, attracted 
 by the strange spectacle of two men fighting with the water 
 up to their knees. The fishermen, observing a groujj oi 
 men approaching, carrying a wounded man, entered the 
 sea until the water was up to the middle of their bodies. 
 The English transferred the wounded man to them, at the 
 very moment the latter began to open his eyes again. The salt 
 water and the fine sand had got into his wounds, and caused 
 him the acutest pain. The duke's secretary drew out a 
 purse filled with gold from his pocket, and handed it to the 
 one among those present who appeared of most importance, 
 saying: "From my master. His Grace the Duke of Buck- 
 ingham, in order that every conceivable care may be taken 
 of the Marquis de Wardes." ^ 
 
TEir YEARS LATER. 211 
 
 Then, followed by those who had accompanied him, he 
 returned to the boat, which Buckingham had been enabled 
 to reach with the greatest difficulty, but only after he had 
 seen De Wardes out of danger. By this time it was high 
 tide; the embroidered coats and silk sashes were lost; many 
 hats, too, had been carried away by the waves. The flow of 
 the tide had borne the duke's and De Wardes' clothes to 
 the shore, and De Wardes was wrapped in the duke's 
 doublet, under the belief that it was his own, and they car- 
 ried him in their arms toward the town. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THREEFOLD LOVE. 
 
 As soon as Buckingham had gone De Guiche imagined 
 that the coast would be perfectly clear for him without any 
 interference. Monsieur, who no longer retained the slight- 
 est feeling of jealousy, and who, besides, permitted himself 
 to be monopolized by the Chevalier de Lorraine, allowed as 
 much liberty and freedom in his house as the most exact- 
 ing person could desire. The king, on his side, who had 
 conceived a strong predilection for madame's society, in- 
 vented a variety of amusements, in quick succession to one 
 another, in order to render her residence in Paris as cheer- 
 ful as possible, so that, in fact, not a day passed without a 
 ball at the Palais Royal or a reception in Monsieur's apart- 
 ments. The king had directed that Fontainebleau should 
 be prepared for the reception of the court, and every one 
 was using his utmost interest to get invited. Madame 
 led a life of incessant occupation; neither her voice nor her 
 pen was idle for a moment. The conversations with De 
 Guiche were gradually assuming a tone of interest which 
 might unmistakably be recognized as the preludes of a deep- 
 seated attachment. When eyes look languishingly while 
 the subject under discussion happens to be colors of material 
 for dresses; when a whole hour is occupied in analyzing the 
 merits and the perfume of a sachet or a flower, there are 
 words in this style of conversation which every one might 
 listen to, but there are gestures and sighs which every one 
 cannot perceive. After madame had talked for some time 
 with De Guiche she conversed with the king, who paid her 
 a visit regularly every day. They played, wrote verses, or 
 selected mottoes or emblematical devices; the spring was 
 
212 TEK TEARS LATER. 
 
 not only the spring-time of seasons, it was the youth of an 
 entire people, of which those at court were the head. The 
 king was handsome, young, and of unequaled gallantry. 
 All women were passionately loved by him, even the queen, 
 his wife. This great king was, however, more timid ancj 
 more reserved than any other person in the kingdom, to 
 such a degree, indeed, that he had not confessed his senti- 
 ments even to himself. This timidity of bearing restrained 
 him within the limits of ordinary politeness, and no woman 
 could boast of having any preference shown her beyond that 
 shown to others. It might be foretold that the day when 
 his real character would be displayed would be the dawn 
 of a new sovereignty; but as yet he had not declared him- 
 self. M. de Guiche took advantage of this, and constituted 
 himself the sovereign prince of the whole amorous court. 
 It had been reported that he was on the best of terms with 
 Mile, de Montalais; that he had been assiduously attentive to 
 Mile, de Chdtillon; but now he was not even barely civil to 
 any of the court beauties. He had eyes and ears but for one 
 person alone. In this manner, and, as it were, without de- 
 sign, he devoted himself to Monsieur, who had a great re- 
 gard for him, and kept him as much as possible in his own 
 apartments. Unsociable from natural disposition, he es- 
 tranged himself too much previous to the arrival of ma- 
 dame, but after her arrival he did not estrange himself 
 sufficiently. This conduct, which every one had observed, 
 had been particularly remarked by the evil genius of the 
 house, the Chevalier de Lorraine, for whom Monsieur ex- 
 hibited the warmest attachment, because he was of a very 
 cheerful disposition, even in his remarks most full of malice, 
 and because he was never at a loss how to make the time 
 pass away. The Chevalier de Lorraine, therefore, having 
 noticed that he was threatened with being supplanted by 
 De Guiche, resorted to strong measures. He disappeared 
 from the court, leaving Monsieur much embarrassed. The 
 first day of his disappearance Monsieur hardly inquired 
 about him, for he had De Guiche with him, and, except the 
 time devoted to conversation with madame, his days and 
 nights were rigorously devoted to the prince. On the 
 second day, however. Monsieur, finding no one near him, 
 inquired where the chevalier was. He was told that no one 
 knew. 
 
 De Guiche, after having spent the morning in selecting 
 embroideries and fringes with madame, went to console the 
 prince. But after dinner, as there were tulips and ame- 
 
TEN TEAKS LATER. 313 
 
 tliysts to look at, De Guiche returned to madame's cabinet. 
 Monsieur was left quite to himself during all the time he 
 devoted to dressing and decorating himself; he felt that he 
 was the most miserable of men, and again inquired whether 
 there was any news of the chevalier, in reply to which he 
 was told that no one knew where the chevalier was to be 
 found. Monsieur, hardly knowing in what direction to 
 inflict his weariness, went to madame's apartments dressed 
 in his morning-gown. He found a large assemblage of 
 people there, laughing and whispering in every part of the 
 room; at one end, a group of women around one of the 
 courtiers talking together amid smothered bursts of laugh- 
 ter; at the other end, Manicamp and Malicorne were being 
 pillaged by Montalais and Mile, de Tonnay-Charente, while 
 two others were standing by, laughing. In another part 
 were madame, seated upon some cushions on the floor, and 
 De Guiche, on his knees beside her, spreading out a hand- 
 ful of pearls and precious stones, while the princess, with 
 her white and slender flnger, pointed out such among them 
 as pleased her the most. Again, in another corner of the 
 room, a guitar-player was playing some of the Spanish 
 sequedillas, to which madame had taken the greatest fancy 
 ever since she had heard them sung by the young queen 
 with a melancholy expression of voice. But the songs 
 which the Spanish princess had sung with tears in her eyes 
 the young English woman was humming with a smile which 
 displayed her beautiful pearl-like teeth. The cabinet pre- 
 sented, in fact, the most perfect representation of unre- 
 strained pleasure and amusement. As he entered Monsieur 
 was struck at beholding so many persons enjoying them- 
 selves without him. He was so jealous at the sight that he 
 could not resist saying, like a child, "What! you are amus- 
 ing yourselves here, while I am sick and tired of being 
 ■alone!" 
 
 The sound of his voice was like a clap of thunder which 
 interrupts the warbling of birds under the leafy covert of 
 the trees. A dead silence ensued. De Guiche was on his 
 feet in a moment. Malicorne tried to hide himself behind 
 Montalais' dress. Manicamp stood bolt upright, and as- 
 sumed a very ceremonious demeanor. The guitar-player 
 thrust his guitar under a table, covering it with a piece of 
 carpet to conceal it from the prince's observation. Madame 
 was the only one who did not move., and, smiling at he. 
 husband, said, "Is not thiJ the hour you usually devote to 
 your toilet?" 
 
?14 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "An hour which others select, it seems, for amusing 
 themselves," replied the prince grumblingly. 
 
 This untoward remark was the signal for a general rout; 
 the women fled like a flight of terrified birds, the guitar- 
 
 gayer vanished like a shadow, Malicorne, still protected by 
 ontalais, who purposely widened out her dress, glided be- 
 hind the hanging tapestry. As for Manicamp, he went to 
 the asssistance of De Guiche, who naturally remained near 
 madame, and both of them, with the princess herself, 
 courageously sustained the attack. The comte was too 
 happy to bear malice against the husband; but Monsieur 
 bore a grudge against his wife. Nothing was wanting but 
 a quarrel; he sought it, and the hurried departure of the 
 crowd, which had been so joyous before he arrived, and was 
 so disturbed by his entrance, furnished him with a pretext. 
 "Why do they run away at the sight of me ?" he inquired, in 
 a supercilious tone; to which remark madame replied, "That, 
 whenever the master of the house made his appearance, the 
 family kept aloof out of respect." As she said this she 
 made so funny and so pretty a grimace that De Guiche and 
 Manicamp could not control themselves; they burst into a 
 
 Seal of laughter; madame followed their example, and even 
 [onsieur himself could not resist it, and he was obliged to 
 sit down, as for laughing he could scarcely keep his equilib- 
 rium. However, he very soon left off, but his anger had 
 increased. He was still more furious from having 
 allowed himself to laugh than from having seen others 
 laugh. He looked at Manicamp steadily, not venturing to 
 show his anger toward De Guiche; but, at a sign which dis- 
 played no little amount of annoyance, Manicamp and De 
 Guiche left the room, so that madame, left alone, began 
 sadly to pick up her pearls, no longer laughing, and speak- 
 ing still less. 
 
 I am very happy," said the duke, "to find myself treated 
 as a stranger here, madame;" and he left the room in a 
 passion. On his way out he met Montalais, who was in 
 attendance in the anteroom. "It is very agreeable to pay 
 you a visit here, but outside the door." 
 
 Montalais made a very low obeisance. "I do not quite 
 understand what your royal highness does me the honor to 
 say." 
 
 "I say that when you are all laughing together in ma- 
 dame's apartment, he is an unwelcome visitor who does not 
 remain outside." 
 
 "Your royal highness does not think, and does not speak 
 eo» of yourself." 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 316 
 
 "On the contrary,, it is on my own account that I do speak 
 .ud think. I have no reason, certainly, to flatter myself 
 about the receptions I meet with here at any time. How is 
 it that, on the very day there is music and a little society 
 in madame's apartments — in my own apartments, indeed, 
 for they are mine — on the very day that I wish to amuse 
 myself a little in my turn, every one runs away? Are they 
 afraid to see me, that they all took to flight as soon as I ap- 
 peared? Is there anything wrong, then, going on in my 
 absence?" 
 
 "Yet nothing has been done to-day, monseigneur, which 
 is not done every day." 
 
 "What! do they laugh like that every day?" 
 
 ""Why, yes, monseigneur." 
 
 "The same group of people and the same scraping going 
 on every day?" 
 
 "The guitar, monseigneur, was introduced to-day; but 
 when we have no guitars, we have violins and flutes; women 
 get wearied without music." 
 
 "The deuce! and the men?" 
 
 "What men, monseigneur?" 
 
 "Monsieur de Guiche, Monsieur de Manicamp, and the 
 others." 
 
 "They all belong to your highness' household." 
 
 "Yes, yes, you're right," said the prince, as he returned 
 to his own apartments, full of thought. He threw himself 
 into the largest of his armchairs, without looking at him- 
 self in the glass. "Where can the chevalier be?" said he. 
 One of the prince's attendants happened to be near him, 
 overheard his remark, and replied: 
 
 "No one knows, your highness." 
 
 "Still the same answer. The first one who answers me 
 again, 'I do not know,' I will discharge." Every one at 
 this remark hurried out of his apartments, in the same 
 manner as the others had fled from madame's apartments. 
 The prince then flew into the wildest rage. He kicked over 
 a chiffonier, which tumbled on the carpet, broken into 
 pieces. He next went into the galleries, and with the 
 greatest coolness threw down, one after another, an enameled 
 vase, a porphyry ewer, and a bronze chandelier. The 
 noise summoned every one to the various doors. 
 
 "What is your highness' pleasure?" said the captain of 
 the guards timidly. 
 
 "I am treating myself to some music," replied the prince, 
 jl^uashing his teeth. 
 
S16 TEN TEAHS LATER. 
 
 The captain of the guards desired his royal highness 
 physician to be sent for. But before he came Malicorne 
 arrived, saying to the prince, "Monseigueur, the Cheva- 
 lier de Lorraine is here." 
 
 The duke looked at Malicorne, and smiled graciously «ii 
 him, just as the chevalier entered in fact. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXL 
 
 K. DE LOEEAINE'S JEALOUSY. 
 
 The Due d'Orleans uttered a cry of delight on perceiv 
 ing the Chevalier de Lorraine. "This is fortunate, indeed," 
 he said. "By what happy chance do I see you? Had you 
 indeed disappeared, as every one assured me?" 
 
 "Yes, monseigneur." 
 
 "Some caprice?" 
 
 "I to venture upon caprices with your highness! The 
 respect " 
 
 "Put respect out of the way, for you fail in it every day. 
 I absolve you; but why did you leave me?" 
 
 "Because I felt that I was of no use to you." 
 
 "Explain yourself." 
 
 "Your highness has people about you who are far more 
 amusing than I can ever be. I felt that I was not strong 
 enough to enter into a contest with them, and I therefore 
 withdrew." 
 
 "This extreme diffidence shows a want of common sense. 
 Who are those with whom you cannot contend? De 
 Guiche?" 
 
 "I name no one." 
 
 "This is absurd. Does De Guiche annoy you?" 
 I "I do not say he does; do not force me to speak, how- 
 ever; you know very well that De Guiche is one of our best 
 friends." 
 
 "Who is it, then?" 
 
 "Excuse me, monseigneur, let us say no more about it." 
 The chevalier knew perfectly well that curiosity is excited 
 in the same way as thirst — by removing what quenches it; 
 or, in others words, by delaying the explanation. 
 
 "No, no," said the prince, "I wish to know why you 
 went away." 
 
 "In that case, monseigneur, I will tell you; but do not 
 be angry. I remarked that my presence was disagreeable." 
 
TEH- TEARS LATES. 217 
 
 "To whom?'- 
 
 "To madame." 
 
 "What do you mean?" said the duke, in astonishment. 
 
 "It is simple enough: madame is very probably jealous of 
 the regard you are good enough to testify for me." 
 
 "Has she shown it to you?" 
 
 "Madame never addresses a syllable to me, particularly 
 since a certain time." 
 
 "Since what time?" 
 
 "Since the time when. Monsieur de Guiche having made 
 himself more agreeable to her than I could, she receives 
 him at every and any hour." 
 
 The duke colored. "At any hour, chevalier; what do 
 you mean by that?" 
 
 "You see, your highness, I have already displeased you; 
 I was quite sure I should." 
 
 "I am not displeased; but you say things a little strong. 
 In what respect does madame prefer De Guiche to you?" 
 
 "I shall say no more," said the chevalier, saluting the 
 prince ceremoniously. 
 
 "On the contrary, I require you to speak. If you with- 
 draw on that account you must indeed be very jealous." 
 
 "One cannot help being jealous, monseigneur, when one 
 loves. Is not your royal highness jealous of madame? 
 Would not your royal highness if you saw some one always 
 near madame and always treated with great favor take 
 umbrage at it? One's friends are as one's lovers. Your 
 royal highness has sometimes conferred the distinguished 
 honor upon me of calling me your friend." 
 
 "Yes, yes; but you used a phrase which has a very equivo- 
 cal signification; you are unfortunate in your remarks." 
 
 "What phrase, monseigneur?" 
 
 "You said, 'treated with great favor.' What do you 
 mean by favor?" 
 
 "Nothing can be more simple," said the chevalier with an 
 expression of great frankness; "for instance, whenever a 
 husband remarks that his wife summons such and such a 
 man near her — whenever this man is always to be found by 
 her side or in attendance at the door of her carriage; when- 
 ever the bouquet of the one is always the same color as the 
 ribbons of the other — when music and supper-parties are 
 held in the private apartments^ — -whenever a dead silence takes 
 place immediately the husband makes his appearance in his 
 wife's rooms — and when the husband suddenly finds that 
 he has as a companion the most devoted and kindest of men. 
 
218 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 ■who a week before was with him as little as possible; why, 
 then " 
 
 "Well, finish." 
 
 "Why, then, I say, monseigneur, one possibly may get 
 jealous. But all these details hardly apply; for^our conver- 
 sation had nothing to do with them." 
 
 The duke was evidently much agitated, and seemed to 
 struggle within himself a good deal. "You have not told 
 me," he then remarked, "Avhy you absented yourself. A 
 little while ago you said it was from a fear of intruding; 
 you added even that you had observed a disposition on 
 madame's part to encourage De Quiche." 
 
 "Pardon me, monseigneur, I did not say that." 
 
 "You did, indeed." 
 
 "Well, if I did say so I noticed nothing but what was very 
 inofEensive." 
 
 "At all events, you remarked something." 
 
 "You embarrass me, monseigneur." 
 
 "What does that matter? Answer me. If you speak 
 the truth why should you feel embarrassed?" 
 
 "I always speak the truth, monseigneur; but I also always 
 hesitate when it is a question of repeating what others say." 
 
 "Ah! ah! you repeat? It appears that it is talked about, 
 then?" 
 
 "I acknowledge that others have spoken to me on the 
 subject." 
 
 "Who?" said the prince. 
 
 The chevalier assumed almost an angry air as he replied, 
 "Monseigneur, you are subjecting me to the question; you 
 treat me as a criminal at the bar; and the rumors which 
 idly pass by a gentleman's ears do not remain there. Your 
 highness wishes me to magnify the rumor until it attains 
 the importance of an event." 
 
 "However," sad the duke in great displeasure, "the fact 
 remains that you withdraw on account of this report." 
 
 "To speak the truth, others have talked to me of the at- 
 tentions of Monsieur de Guiche to madame, nothing more; 
 perfectly harpiless, I repeat, and more than that, permissible. 
 But do not be unjust, monseigneur, and do not attach an 
 undue importance to it. It does not concern you." 
 
 "Monsieur de Guiche's attentions to madame do not con- 
 cern me?" 
 
 "No monseigneur; and what I say to you I would say to 
 De Guiche himself, so little do I think of the attentions he 
 pays madame. Nay, I would say it even to madame herself, 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 319 
 
 Only you understand what I am afraid of — I am afraid of 
 being thought jealous of the favor shown, when I am only 
 jealous as far as friendship is concerned. I know your dis- 
 position; I know that when you bestow your affections you 
 become exclusively attached. You love madame — and who, 
 indeed, would not love her? Follow me attentively as I 
 proceed: Madame has noticed among your friends the hand- 
 somest and most fascinating of them all; she will begin to 
 influence you on his behalf, in such a way that you will 
 neglect the others. Your indifference would kill me; it is 
 already bad enough to have to support madame's indiffer- 
 ence. I have, therefore, made up my mind to give way t» 
 the favorite whose happiness I envy even while I acknowl- 
 edge my sincere friendship and sincere admiration for him. 
 Well, monseigneur, do you see anything to object to in this 
 reasoning? Is it not that of a man of honor? Is my conduci 
 that of a sincere friend? Answer me, at least, after having 
 so closely questioned me." 
 
 The duke had seated himself, with his head buried in his 
 hands. After a silence long enough to enable the cheva- 
 lier to judge of the effect of his oratorical display, the duke 
 rose, saying, "''Come, be candid." 
 
 "As I always am." 
 
 "Very well. You know that we already observed some- 
 thing respecting that mad fellow, Buckingham." 
 
 "Do not say anything against madame, monseigneur, or 
 I shall take my leave. It is impossible you can be suspicious 
 of madame?" 
 
 "No, no, chevalier; I do not suspect madame; but, in 
 fact, I observe — I compare " 
 
 "Buckingham was a madman, monseigneur." 
 
 "A madman about whom, however, you opened my eyes 
 thoroughly." 
 
 "No, no," said the chevalier quickly; "it was not I who 
 opened your eyes. It was De Guiche. Do not confound 
 us, I beg." And he began to laugh in so harsh a manner 
 that it sounded like the hiss of a serpent. 
 , "Yes, yes; I remember. You said a few words, but D« 
 Guiche showed the most jealousy." 
 
 "I should think so," continued the chevalier, in the 
 same tone. "He was fighting for home and altar." 
 
 "What did you say?" said the duke haughtily, thor- 
 oughly roused by this insidious jest. 
 
 "Am I not right? for does not Monsieur de Guiche hold 
 the chief post of honor in your household?" 
 
■^SO TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "Well," replied the duke, somewhat calmed, "had this 
 passion of Buckingham been remarked?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Very well. Do people say that Monsieur de Guiche's is 
 remarked as much?" 
 
 "Pardon me, monseigneur; you are again mistaken; no 
 one says that Monsieur de Guiche entertains anything of 
 the sort." 
 
 "Very good." 
 
 "You see, monseigneur, that it would have been better, 
 a hundred times better, to have left me in my retirement, 
 than to have allowed you to conjure up, by the aid of any 
 scruples I may have had, suspicions which madame will 
 regard as crimes, and she will be right, too." 
 
 "What would you do?" 
 
 "Act reasonably." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "I should not pay the slightest attention to the society 
 of these new Epicurean philosophers; and, in that Avay, the 
 rumors will cease." 
 
 "Well, I shall see; I shall think over it." 
 
 "Oh, you have time enough; the danger is not great; 
 and then, besides, it is not a question either of danger or of 
 passion. It all arose from a fear I had to see your friend- 
 ship for me decrease. From the very moment you restore 
 it me, with so kind an assurance of its existence, I have no 
 longer any other idea in my head." 
 
 "The duke shook his head, as if he meant to say: "If 
 you have no more ideas, I have though." It being now the 
 dinner-hour, the prince sent to inform madame of it, who 
 returned a message to the effect that she could not be 
 present, but would dine in her own apartment. ' 
 
 "That is not my fault," said the duke. "This morning, 
 having taken them by surprise, in the midst of a musical 
 party, I got jealous; and so they are in the sulks with me." 
 
 "We will dine alone," said the chevalier, with a sigh; "I 
 regret De Guiche is not here." 
 
 "Oh! De Guiche will not remain long in the sulks; he is 
 a very good-natured fellow." 
 
 "Monseigneur," said the chevalier suddenly, "an excel- 
 lent idea has struck me, in our conversation just now. I 
 may have exasperated your highness, and caused you some 
 dissatisfaction. It is but fitting that I should be the medi- 
 ator. I will go and look for ths comte^ and bring him back 
 with me." 
 
TEN" TEARS LATER. 221 
 
 "Ah! chevalier, you are really a very good-natured 
 fellow." 
 
 "You say that as if you were surprised." 
 
 "Well, you are not so tender-hearted every day." 
 
 "That may be; but confess that I know how to repair a 
 wrong I may have done." 
 
 "I confess that." 
 
 "Will your highness do me the favor to wait here a few 
 minutes?" 
 
 "Willingly; be off, and I will try on my Fontainebleau 
 costume." 
 
 The chevalier left the room, called his different attendants 
 with the greatest care, as if he were giving them different 
 orders. All went off in various directions; but he retained 
 his valet de cliambre. "Ascertain, and immediately, too, 
 if Monsieur de Gniche is not in madame's apartments. 
 How can one learn it?" 
 
 "Very easily, monsieur. I will ask Malicorne, who 
 will learn it from Mademoiselle de Montalais. I may as 
 well tell you, however, that the inquiry will be useless; for 
 all Monsieur de Guiche's attendants are gone, and he must 
 have left with them." 
 
 "Try and learn, nevertheless." 
 
 Ten minutes had hardly passed, when the valet returned. 
 He beckoned his master mysteriously toward the servants' 
 staircase, and showed him into a small room with a window 
 looking out upon the garden. "What is the matter?" said 
 the chevalier; "why so many precautions?" 
 
 "Look, monsieur," said the valet, "look yonder, under 
 the walnut-tree." 
 
 "Ah!" said the chevalier. "I see Manicamp there. 
 What is he waiting for?" 
 
 "You will see in a moment, monsieur, if you wait 
 patiently. There, do you see now?" 
 
 "I see one, two, four musicians, with their instrurnents, 
 and behind them, urging them on, De Guiche himself. 
 What is he doing there, though?" 
 
 "He is waiting until the little door of ihe staircase, be- 
 longing to the ladies of honor, is opened; by that staircase 
 he will ascend to madame's apartments, where some new 
 pieces of music are going to be performed during dinner." 
 
 "That is admirable which you tell me." 
 
 "Is it not, monsieur?" 
 
 "Was it Monsieur de Malicorne who told you this?" 
 
 "Yes. monsieur." 
 
222 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "He likes you, then?" 
 
 "No, monsieur, it is Monsieur whom he likes." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because he wishes to belong to his household." 
 
 "And most certainly he shall. How much did he give 
 you for that?" 
 
 "The secret which I now dispose of to you, monsieur?" 
 
 V And which I buy for a hundred pistoles. Take them." 
 
 j^Thank you, monsieur. Look, look! the little door 
 opens, a woman admits the musicians." 
 
 "It is Montalais." 
 
 "Hush, monseigneur; do not call out her name; whoever 
 isays Montalais says Malicorne. If you quarrel with the 
 one, you will be on bad terms with the other." 
 
 "Very well; I have seen nothing." 
 
 "And I," said the valet, pocketing the purse, "have re- 
 ceived nothing." 
 
 The chevalier, being now certain that Guiche had entered, 
 returned to the prince, whom he found splendidly dressed 
 and radiant with joy, as with good looks. "I am told," he 
 exclaimed, "that the king has taken the sun as his device; 
 really, monseigneur, it is you whom, this device would best 
 suit." 
 
 "Where is De Guiche?" 
 
 "He cannot be found. He has fled — has evaporated en- 
 tirely. Your scolding of this morning terrified him. He 
 could not be found in his apartments." 
 
 "Bah! the hare-brained fellow is capable of setting off 
 
 Eost-haste to his own estates. Poor fellow! we will recall 
 im. Come, let us "dine now." 
 
 "Monseigneur, to-day is a day of ideas; I have another." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Madame is angry with you, and she has reason to be so. 
 You owe her her revenge; go and dine with her." 
 
 "Oh! that would be acting like a weak husband." 
 
 "It is the duty of a good husband to do so. The princess 
 is no doubt wearied enough; she will be weeping in her 
 plate, and her eyes will get quite red. A husband who is 
 the cause of his wife's eyes getting red is an odious crea- 
 ture. Come, monseigneur, come." 
 
 "I cannot; for I Iiave directed dinner to be served here." 
 
 "Yet see, monseigneur, how dull we shall be; 1 shall be 
 low-spirited because I know that madame will be alone; 
 you, hard and savage as you wish to appear, will be sighing 
 all the while. Take me with you to madame's dinner, and 
 
TEK YEARS LATER. 
 
 that -will be a delightful surprise. I am sure we shall be 
 very merry; you were wrong tnis morning." 
 "Well, perhaps I was." 
 
 "There is no perhaps at all, for it is a fact you were so." 
 "Chevalier, chevalier, your advice is not good." 
 "Nay, my advice is good; all the advantages are on your 
 own side. Your violet-colored suit, embroidered with gold, 
 becomes you admirably. Madame will be as much van- 
 quished by the man as by the step. Come, monseigneur." 
 "You decide me; let us go." 
 
 The duke left his room, accompanied by the chevalier, 
 and went toward madame's apartments. The chevalier 
 nastily whispered to his valet, "Be sure that there are some 
 people before the little door, so that no one can escape in 
 that direction. Eun, run!" And he followed the duke 
 toward the antechambers of madame's suite of apartments, 
 and when the ushers were about to announce them, the 
 chevalier said, laughing, "His highness wishes to surprise 
 madame." 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXII. 
 
 MONSIEUR IS JEALOUS OF DE QUICHE. 
 
 Monsieur entered the room abruptly, as those persons 
 do who mean well and think they confer pleasure, or as 
 those who hope to surprise some secret, the melancholy re- 
 ward of jealous people. Madame, almost out of her senses 
 at the first bars of music, was dancing in the most unre- 
 strained manner, leaving the dinner, which had been already 
 begun, unfinished. Her partner was M. de Guiche, who, 
 with his arms raised, and his eyes half-closed, was kneeling 
 on one knee, like the Spanish dancers, with looks full of 
 passion, and gestures of the most caressing character. The 
 princess was dancing round him with a responsive smile, 
 and the same air of alluring seductiveness. Montalais 
 stood by admiringly; La Valliere, seated in a corner of the 
 room, looked on thoughtfully. It is impossible to describe 
 the efEect which the presence of the prince produced upon 
 this happy company, and it would be just as impossible to 
 describe the efEect which the sight of their happiness pro- 
 duced upon Philip. The Comte de Guiche had no power 
 to move; madame remained in the middle of one of the 
 figures and of an attitude, unable to utter a word. Tbo 
 
224 TEN" YEARS LATER. 
 
 Chevalier de Lorraine, leaning his back against the door- 
 way, smiled like a man in the very height of the frankest 
 admiration. The pallor of the prince, and the convulsive 
 trembling of his hands and limbs, were the first symptoms 
 that struck those present. A dead silence succeeded the 
 sound of the dance. The Chevalier de Lorraine took ad- 
 vantage of this interval to salute madame and De Guiche 
 most respectfully, affecting to join them together in his 
 reverences as though they were the master and mistress of 
 the house. Monsieur then approached them, saying, in a 
 hoarse tone of voice, "I am delighted; I came here expect- 
 ing to find you ill and low-spirited; and I find you abandon, 
 ing yourself to new amusements; really, it is most for- 
 tunate. My house is the merriest in the whole kingdom." 
 Then turning toward De Guiche, "Comte," he said, "I did 
 not know you were so good a dancer," And, again address- 
 ing his wife, he said, "Show a little more consideration for 
 me, madame; whenever you intend to amuse yourselves 
 here, invite me. I am a prince, unfortunately, very much 
 neglected." 
 
 De Guiche had now recovered his self-possession, and 
 with the spirited boldness which was natural to him, and 
 which so well became him, he said, "Your highness knows 
 very well that my very life is at your service, and whenever 
 there is a question of its being needed, I am ready; but to- 
 day, as it is only a question of dancing to music, I dance." 
 
 "And you are perfectly right," said the prince coldly. 
 
 "But, madame," he continued, "you do not remark that 
 your ladies deprive me of my friends; Monsieur de Guiche 
 does not belong to you, madame, but to me. If you wish 
 to dine without me, you have your ladies. When I dine 
 alone I have my gentlemen; do not strip me of everything." 
 
 Madame felt the reproach and the lesson, and the color 
 rushed to her face. "Monsieur," she replied, "I was not 
 aware, when I came to the court of France, that princesses 
 of my rank were to be regarded as the women in Turkey 
 are. I was not aware that we were not allowed to be seen; 
 but since such is your desire, I will conform myself to it; 
 pray do not hesitate, if you should wish it, to have my win- 
 dows barred, even." 
 
 This repartee, which made Montalais and De Guiche 
 smile, rekindled the prince's anger, no inconsiderable por- 
 tion of which had already evaporated in words. 
 
 "Very well," he said, in a concentrated tone of voice, 
 ''this is the way in which I am respected in my own house." 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 235 
 
 "Monseigneur, monseignenr," murmured the chevalier 
 in the duke's ear in such a manner that every one could 
 observe he was endeavoring to calm him. 
 
 "Come," replied the prince, as his only answer to the 
 remark, hurrying him away, and turning round with so 
 hasty a movement that he almost ran against ma/dame. 
 The chevalier followed him to his own apartment, where 
 ihe prince had no sooner seated himself than he gave free 
 lein to his fury. The chevalier raised his eyes toward the 
 selling, Joining his hands together, and said not a word. 
 
 "Give me your opinion," exclaimed the prince. 
 
 "Upon what?" 
 
 "Upon what is taking place here." 
 
 "Oh, monseigneur! it is a very serious matter." 
 
 "It is abominable! I cannot live in this manner." 
 
 "How unhappy all this is," said the chevalier. "We 
 hoped to enjoy tranquillity after that madman, Bucking- 
 ham had left." 
 
 "And this is worse." 
 
 "I do not say that, monseigneur." 
 
 "Yes, but I say it, for Buckingham would never have 
 ventured upon a fourth part of what we have just now 
 seen." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "To conceal one's self for the purpose of dancing, and to 
 feign indisposition in order to dine tete-a-tete." 
 
 "No, no, monseigneur!" 
 
 "Yes, yes!" exclaimed the prince, exciting himself like a 
 self-willed child; "but I will not endure it any longer; I 
 must learn what is really going on." 
 
 "Oh, monseigneur, an exposure " 
 
 "By Heaven! monsieur, am I to put myself out of the 
 way when people show so little consideration for me? Wait 
 for me here, chevalier, wait for me here." The prince dis- 
 appeared in the neighboring apartment, and inquired of the 
 gentlemen in attendance if the queen-mother had returned 
 from the chapel. Anne of Austria felt that her happiness 
 was now complete; peace restored to her family, a nation 
 delighted with the presence of a young monarch, who had 
 shown an aptitude for afEairs of great importance; the 
 revenues of the state increased; external peace assured; 
 everything seemed to promise a tranquil future for her. 
 Her thoughts recurred, now and then, to that poor young 
 man whom she had received as a mother, and had driven 
 away as a hard-hearted stepmother, and she sighed as she 
 thought of him. 
 
226 TEN TEAEB LATER. 
 
 Suduenly the Due d'0rl6ans entered her room. "Deal 
 mother," he exclaimed hurriedly, closing the door, "things 
 cannot go on as thej' now are." 
 
 Anne of Austria raised her beautiful eyes toM'ard him, and 
 with an unmoved gentleness of manner said: "What things 
 do you allude to?" 
 
 "I wish to speak of madame." 
 
 "Your wife?" 
 
 "Yes, madame." 
 
 "I suppose that silly fellow Buckingham has been writ- 
 ing a farewell letter to her." 
 
 "Oh! yes, madame; of course, it is a question of Buck' 
 ingham." 
 
 "Of whom else could it be, then? for that poor fellow 
 was, wrongly enough, the object of your jealousy, and I 
 thought " 
 
 "My wife, madame, has already replaced the Duke of 
 Buckingham." 
 
 "Philip, what are you saying? You are speaking very 
 heedlessly." 
 
 "No, no. Madame has so managed matters that I am 
 still jealous." 
 
 "Of whom, in Heaven's name?" 
 
 "Is it possible you have not remarked it? Have you not 
 noticed that Monsieur de Guiche is always in her apart- 
 ments — always with her?" 
 
 The queen clapped her hands together, and began to 
 laugh. "Philip," she said, "your jealousy is not merely a 
 defect, it is a positive disease." 
 
 "Whether a defect or a disease, madame, I am the suf- 
 ferer from it." 
 
 "And do you imagine that a complaint which exists only 
 in your own imagination can be cured? You wish it to be 
 said you are right in being jealous, when there is no ground 
 whatever for your jealousy." 
 
 "Of course, you will begin to say for this one what you 
 already said on behalf of the other." 
 
 "Because, Philip," said the queen dryly, "what you did 
 for the other, you are going to do for this one." 
 
 The prince bowed, slightly annoyed. "If I were to give 
 you facts," he said, "would you believe me?" 
 
 "If it regarded anything else but jealousy I would be- 
 lieve you without your bringing facts forward; but as 
 jealousy is in the case, I promise nothing." 
 
 "It is just the same as if your majesty were to desire me 
 to hold my tongue, and sent me awayunheardi" 
 
TEK TEARS LATER. 237 
 
 "Par from it; as you are my son, I owe you a mother's 
 indulgence." 
 
 "Oh, say what you think; you owe me as much indul- 
 gence as a madman deserves." 
 
 "Do not exaggerate, Philip, and take care how you 
 represent your wife to me as a woman of a depraved 
 mind " 
 
 "But facts, mother, facts!" 
 
 "Well, I am listening." 
 
 "This morning, at ten o'clock, they were playing music^ 
 jn madame's apartments." 
 
 "No harm in that, surely." 
 
 "Monsieur de Guiche was talking with- her alone — Ah! 
 jl forgot to tell you that during the last ten days he haa 
 never left her side." 
 
 "If they were doing any harm they would hide them- 
 selves." 
 
 "Very good," exclaimed the duke. "I expected you to 
 say that. Pray do not forget what you have just said. 
 This morning I took them by surprise, and showed my dis- 
 satisfaction in a very marked manner." 
 
 "Eely upon it, that is quite sufficient; it was, perhaps, 
 even a little too much. These young women easily take 
 offense. To reproach them for an error they have not com- 
 mitted is, sometimes, almost the same as telling them they 
 might do it." 
 
 "Very good, very good; but wait a minute. Do not for- 
 get what you have just this minute said, that this morning's 
 lesson ought to have been sufficient, and that if they had 
 been doing what was wrong they would have concealed 
 themselves." 
 
 "Yes, I said so." 
 
 "Well, just now, repenting of my hastiness of this morn- 
 ing, and knowing that De Guiche was sulking in his own 
 apartments, I went to pay madame a visit. Can you guess 
 what, or whom, I found there? Another set of musicians; 
 more dancing, and De Guiche himself — he was concealed 
 there." 
 
 Anne of Austria frowned. "It was imprudent," she said. 
 "What did madame say?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "And De Guiche?" 
 
 "As much — oh, no! he muttered some impertinent re- 
 mark or another." 
 
 "Well, what is your opinion, Philip?" 
 
838 TBK TEAES LATER. 
 
 "That I have been made a fool of; that Buckingham was 
 •nly a pretext, and that De Guiche is the one who is really 
 guilty." 
 
 Anne shrugged her shoulders. "Well/' she said, "what 
 else?" 
 
 "I wish De Guiche to be dismissed from my household, 
 as Buckingham was, and I shall ask the king, unless " 
 
 "Unless what?" 
 
 "Unless you, my dear mother, who are so clever and so 
 Kind, will execute the commission yourself." 
 
 "I shall not do it, Philip." 
 ■• "What! madame?" 
 
 "Listen, Philip: I am not disposed to pay people ill com 
 pliments every day; I have some influence over young peo- 
 ple, but I cannot take advantage of it without running the 
 chance of losing it altogether. Besides, there is nothing to 
 prove that Monsieur de Guiche is guilty." 
 
 "He has displeased me." 
 
 "That is your own afljair." 
 
 "Very well, I know what I shall do," said the prince 
 impetuously. 
 
 Anne looked at him with some uneasiness. "What do 
 you intend to do?" she said. 
 
 "I will have him drowned in my reservoir the next time I 
 find him in my apartments again." Having launched this 
 terrible threat, the prince expected his mother would be 
 frightened out of her senses; but the queen was unmoved 
 by it. 
 
 "Do so," she said. 
 
 Philip was as weak as a woman, and began to cry out: 
 "Every one betrays me — no one cares for me; my mother 
 even joins my enemies." 
 
 "Your mother, Philip, sees further in the matter than 
 you do, and does not care about advising you, since you do 
 not listen to her." 
 
 "I will go to the king." 
 
 "I was about to propose that to you. I am now expecting 
 £.is majesty; it is the hour he usually pays me a visit; ex- 
 plain the matter to him yourself." 
 
 She had hardly flnished, when Philip heard the door of 
 the anteroom open with some noise. He began to feel 
 nervous. At the sound of the king's footsteps, which could 
 be heard upon the carpet, the duke hurriedly made his 
 escape out of the room. Anne of Austria could not resist 
 laughing, and was laughing still when the king entered. 
 
TEK YEARS LATEK. 329 
 
 He came very aSectionately to inquire after the even now 
 uncertain health of the queen-mother, and to announce to 
 her that the preparations for the journey to Fontainebleau 
 were complete. Seeing her laugh, his uneasiness on her 
 account diminished, and he addressed her in a laughing 
 tone himself. Anne of Austria took him by the hand, and, 
 in a voice full of playfulness, said, "Do you know, sirOj 
 that I am proud of being a Spanish woman?" 
 
 "Why, madame?" 
 
 "Because Spanish women are worth more than English 
 women, at least." 
 
 "Explain yourself." 
 
 "Since your marriage you have not, I believe, had a 
 single reproach to make against the queen." 
 
 "Certainly not." 
 
 "And you, too, have been married some time. Your 
 brother, on the contrary, has been married only a fortnight." 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 "He is now finding fault with madame a second time." 
 
 "What, Buckingham still?" 
 
 "No, another." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "De Guiche." 
 
 "Really, madame is a coquette, then." 
 
 "I fear so." 
 
 "My poor brother," said the king, laughing. 
 
 "You don't mind coquetting, it seems?" 
 
 "In madame, certainly I do; but madame is not a 
 coquette at heart." 
 
 "That may be, but your brother is excessively angry 
 about it." 
 
 "What does he want?" 
 
 "He wishes to drown De Guiche." 
 
 "That is a violent measure to resort to." 
 
 "Do not laugh; he is extremely irritated. Think of what 
 can be done." 
 
 "To save De Guiche — certainly." 
 
 "Oh, if your brother heard you, he would conspire against 
 you as your uncle Monsieur did against your father." 
 
 "No; Philip has too much affection for me for that, and 
 I, on my side, have too great a regard for him; we shall live 
 together on very good terms. But what is the substance ol 
 his request?" 
 
 "That you will prevent madame from being a coquette= 
 and De Guiche from being amiable," 
 
330 TEN TEAKS LATER. 
 
 "Is that all? My brother has an exalted idea of sover- 
 eign power. To reform a woman, not to say a word about 
 reforming a man." 
 
 "How will you set about it?" 
 
 "With a word to De Guiche, who is a clever fellow, I will 
 undertake to convince him." 
 
 "Butmadame?" 
 
 "That is more difficult; a word will not be enough. I 
 will compose a homily and read it to her." 
 
 "There is no time to lose." 
 
 "Oh, I will use the utmost diligence. There is a repeti- 
 tion of the ballet this afternoon." 
 
 "You will read her a lecture while you are dancing?" 
 
 "Yes, madame." 
 
 "You promise to convert her?" 
 
 "I will root out the heresy altogether, either by convinc- 
 ing her, or by extreme measures." 
 
 "That is all right, then. Do not mix me up in the affair; 
 madame would never forgive me in her life, and, as a 
 mother-in-law, I ought to try and live on good terms with 
 my daughter-in-law." 
 
 "The king, madame, will take all upon himself. But let 
 me reflect." 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "It would be better, perhaps, if I were to go and see 
 madame in her own apartment." 
 
 "Would that not seem a somewhat serious step to take?" 
 
 "Yes; but seriousness is not unbecoming in preachers, 
 and the music of the ballet would drown one-half of my 
 arguments. Besides, the object is to prevent any violent 
 measures on my brother's part, so that a little precipitation, 
 may be advisable. Is madame in her own apartment?" 
 
 "I believe so." 
 
 "What is my statement of grievances to consist of?" 
 
 "In a few words, of the following: music uninterruptedly; 
 De Guiche's assiduity; suspicions of treasonable plots and 
 practices." 
 
 "And the proofs?" 
 
 "There are none." 
 
 "Very well; I shall go at once to see madame." The 
 king turned to look in the mirrors at his costume, which 
 was very rich, and his face, which was as radiant and spark- 
 ling as diamonds. "I suppose my brother is kept a little at 
 a distance," said the king. 
 
 *'FJre and water cannot possibly be more opposite," 
 
rEK TEARS LATER. 331 
 
 "That will do. Permit me, madame, to kiss yonr hands, 
 
 the most beautiful hands in France." 
 
 "May you be successful, sire, be the family peacemaker." 
 "I do not employ an ambassador," said Louis; "which is 
 
 as much as to say that I shall succeed." He laughed as he 
 
 left the room, and carefully dusted his dress as he went 
 
 along. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE MEDIATOR. 
 
 "When the king made his appearance in madame's apart- 
 ments the courtiers, whom the news of a conjugal misun- 
 derstanding had dispersed in the various apartments, began 
 to entertain the most serious apprehensions. A storm, too, 
 was brewing in that direction, the elements of which the 
 Chevalier de Lorraine, in the midst of the difEerent groups, 
 was analyzing with delight, contributing to the weaker, 
 and acting, according to his own wicked designs, in such a 
 manner with regard to the stronger, as to produce the most 
 disastrous consequences possible. As Anne of Austria had 
 herself said, the presence of the king gave a solemn and 
 serious character to the event. Indeed, in the year 1662, 
 the dissatisfaction of Monsieur with madame, and the king's 
 intervention in the private affairs of Monsieur, was a mat- 
 ter of no inconsiderable moment. 
 
 The boldest, even, who had been the associates of the 
 Comte de Guiche, had, from the first moment, held aloo;'. 
 from him, with a sort of nervous apprehension; and the 
 comte himself, infected by the general panic, retired to his 
 own apartments alone. The king entered madame's private 
 apartments, acknowledging and returning the salutations, 
 as he was always in the habit of doing. The ladies of honor 
 were ranged in a line on his passage along the gallery. Al- 
 fthough his majesty was very much preoccupied, he gave the 
 ■glance of a master at the two rows of young and beautiful 
 girls, who modestly cast down their eyes, blushing as they 
 felt the king's gaze upon them. One only of the number, 
 whose long hair fell in silken masses upon the most beauti- 
 ful skin imaginable, was pale, and could hardly sustain her- 
 self, notwithstanding the knocks which her companion gave 
 her with her elbow. It was La Valliere, whom Montalais 
 eupported io that manner, by whispering some o| ilvxt 
 
232 TEIT TEARS LATER. 
 
 courage to her with which she herself was so abundantlj 
 provided. The king could not resist turning round to look 
 at them again. Their faces, which had already been raised, 
 were again lowered, but the only fair head among them 
 remained motionless, as if all the strength and intelligence 
 she had left had abandoned her. When he entered ma- 
 dame's room Louis found his sister-in-law reclining upon 
 the cushions of her cabinet. She rose and made a profound 
 reverence, murmuring some words of thanks for the h(fnor 
 she was receiving. She then resumed her seat, overcome 
 by a sudden weakness, which was no doubt assumed, for a 
 delightful color animated her cheeks, and her eyes, still red 
 from the tears she had recently shed, never had more fire 
 in them. When the king was seated, and as soon as he had 
 remarked, with that accuracy of observation which charac- 
 terized him, the disorder of the apartment, and the no less 
 great disorder of madame's countenance, he assumed a play- 
 ful manner, saying, "My dear sister, at what hour to-day 
 would you wish the repetition of the ballet to take place?" 
 
 Madame, shaking her charming head, slowly and languish- 
 ingly said: "Ah! sire, will you' graciously excuse my ap- 
 pearance at the repetition; I was about to send to inform 
 your majesty that I could not attend to-day." 
 
 "Indeed," said the king, in apparent surprise; "are you 
 not well?" 
 
 "No, sire." 
 
 "I will summon your medical attendants, then." 
 
 "No; for they can do nothing for my indisposition." 
 
 "You alarm me." 
 
 "Sire, I wish to ask your majesty's permission to return 
 to England." 
 
 The king started. "Return to England," he said; "do 
 you really say what you mean?" 
 
 "I say it reluctantly, sire," replied the granddaughter of 
 Henry IV. firmly, her beautiful black eyes fiashing. "I 
 regret to have to confide such matters to your majesty, but 
 I feel myself too unhappy at your majesty's court; and I 
 wish to return to my own family." 
 
 "Madame, madame," exclaimed the king, as he ap- 
 proached her. 
 
 "Listen to me, sire," continued the young woman, ac- 
 quiring by degrees that ascendency over her interrogator 
 which her beauty and her nervous nature conferred; "young 
 as I am, I have already suifered humiliation, and hava 
 endured disdain here. Oh! do not contradict me, sire," 
 j$be said, with a smile. The kins: colorArl. 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 233 
 
 "Then," she continued, "I have reasoned, myself into 
 the belief that Heaven had called me into existence with 
 that object, I, the daughter of a powerful monarch; that 
 since my father had been deprived of life, Heaven could 
 well smite my pride. I have suffered greatly; I have been 
 the cause too, of my mother suffering much; but I have 
 sworn that if Providence had ever placed me in a position 
 of independence, even were it that of a workwoman of the 
 lower classes, who gains her bread by her labor, I would 
 never suffer humiliation again. That day has now arrived; I 
 have been restored to the fortune due to my rank and t<» 
 my birth; I have even ascended again the steps of a throne, 
 and I thought that, in allying myself with a French prince, 
 I should find in him a relation, a friend, an equal; but 1 
 perceive I have found only a master, and I rebel. My 
 mother shall know nothing of it; you whom I respect, 
 whom I — love — " The king started; never had any voice 
 so gratified his ear. 
 
 "You, sire, who know all, since you have come here, you 
 will, perhaps, understand me. If you had not come, I 
 should have gone to you. I wish for permission to pass 
 freely. I leave it to your delicacy of feeling to exculpate 
 and to protect me." 
 
 "My dear sister," murmured the king, overpowered by 
 this bold attack, "have you reflected upon the enormous 
 difficulty of the project you have conceived?" 
 
 "Sire, I do not reflect, I feel. Attacked, I instinctively 
 repel the attack, nothing more." 
 
 "Come, tell me what have they done to you?" said the 
 king. 
 
 The princess, it will have been seen, by this peculiarly 
 feminine maneuver, had escaped every reproach, and ad- 
 vanced on her side a far more serious one; from an accused 
 she became the accuser. It is an infallible sign of guilt; 
 but notwithstanding that, all women, even the least clever 
 of the sex, invariably know how to derive some means of 
 attaining success. The king had forgotten that he had 
 paid her a visit in order to say to her, "What have you 
 done to my brother?" and that he was reduced to saying 
 to her, "What have they done to you?" 
 
 "What have they done to me?" replied madame, "one 
 must be a woman to understand it, sire — they have made 
 me weep;" and with one of her fingers, whose slenderness 
 and perfect whiteness were unequaled, she pointed to hei 
 brilliant eyes swimming in tears, and again began to weep. 
 
234 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "I implore you, my dear sister,'" paid the king, advano 
 ing to take her warm and throbbing hand, which she aban- 
 doned to him. 
 
 "In the first place, sire, I was deprived of the presence 
 of my brother's friend. The Duke of Buckingham was an 
 agreeable, cheerful visitor; my own countryman, who knew 
 my habits; I will say, almost a companion, so accustomed 
 had he been to pass our days together, with our other 
 friends upon the beautiful piece of water at St. James'," 
 
 "But Villiers was in love with you?" 
 
 "A pretext! What does it matter," she said seriously; 
 'whether the duke was in love with me or not? Is a man 
 in love so very dangerous for me? Ah I sire, it is not 
 sufficient for a man to love a womari." And she smiled so 
 tenderly, and with so much archness, that the king felt hin 
 heart beat and throb within his breast. 
 
 "At all events, if my brother were jealous?" interrupted 
 the king. 
 
 "Very well, I admit that is a reason; and the duke wa», 
 sent away accordingly." 
 
 "No, not sent away." 
 
 "Driven away, expelled, dismissed, then, if you prefer it, 
 sire. One of the first gentlemen of Europe was ooliged to 
 leave the court of the King of France, of Louis XIV., like 
 a beggar, on account of a glance or a bouquet. It was 
 little worthy of the most gallant court; but forgive me, 
 sire; I forgot that, in speaking thus, I am attacking your 
 sovereign power." 
 
 "I assure you, my dear sister, it was not I who dismissed 
 the Duke of Buckingham; I was very charmed with him." 
 
 "It was not you?" said madame; "ah! so much the bet- 
 ter;" and she emphasized the "so much the better," as if 
 she had instead said, "so much the worse." 
 
 A few minutes' silence ensued. She then resumed: "The 
 Duke of Buckingham having left, I now know why and by 
 whose means, I thought I should have recovered my 
 tranquillity; but not at all, for all at once Monsieur finds 
 another pretext; all at once " 
 
 "All at once," said the king playfully, "some one else 
 presents himself. It is but natural; you are beautiful, and 
 will always meet with those who will love you." 
 
 "In that case," exclaimed the princess, "I shall create a 
 solitude around me, which indeed seems to be what ia 
 wished, and what is being prepared for me; but no, I pre* 
 fer to return to London. There I am known and appre- 
 
TEN TEARS LATEB. 235 
 
 ciated. I sliall have friends, without fearing they may be 
 regarded as my lovers. Shame! it is a disgraceful suspicion, 
 and unworthy a gentleman. Monsieur has lost everything 
 in my estimation, since he has shown me he can be the 
 tyrant of a woman." 
 
 "Nay, nay; my brother's only fault is that of loving you." 
 
 "Love me! Monsieur love me! Ah! sire," and she burst 
 out laughing. "Monsieur will never love any woman," she 
 said; "Monsieur loves himself too much; no, unhappily for 
 me. Monsieur's jealousy is of the worst kind — he is jealous 
 without love." 
 
 "Confess, however," said the king, who began to be ex- 
 cited by this varied and animated conversation, "confess 
 that De Guiche loves you." 
 
 "Ah! sire, I know nothing about that." 
 
 "You must have perceived it. A man who loves readily 
 betrays himself." 
 
 "Monsieur de Guiche has not betrayed himself." 
 
 "My dear sister, yo\ are defending Monsieur de Guiche." 
 
 "I, indeed ! Ah, sire, I only needed a suspicion from your- 
 self to complete my wretchedness." 
 
 "No, mada le, no," returned the king hurriedly; "db 
 not distress yourself. Nay, you are weeping. I implore 
 you to calm yourself." 
 
 She wept, however, and large tears fell upon her hands; 
 the king took one of her hands in his, and kissed the tears 
 away. She looked at him so sadly and with so much ten- 
 derness that he felt his heart throb under her gaze. 
 
 "You have no kind of feeling, then, for De Guiche?" he 
 said, more disturbed than became his character of mediator. 
 
 "None — absolutely none." 
 
 "Then I can reassure my brother in that respect?" 
 
 "Nothing will satisfy him, sire. Do not believe be is 
 
 i'ealous. Monsieur has been badly advised by some one, and 
 le is of an anxious disposition." 
 
 "He may well be so when you are concerned," said tha 
 king. 
 
 Madame cast down her eyes, and was silent; the king did 
 so likewise, still holding her hand all the while. His 
 momentary 'lence seemed to last an age. Madame gently 
 withdrew her hand, and from that moment she felt her 
 triumph was certain, and the field of battle was her own, 
 
 "Monsieur complains," said the king, "that you prefer 
 the society of private individuals to his own conversation 
 and Bocietj." 
 
236 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "But Monsieur passes his life in loolving at his face in the 
 glass, and in plotting all sorts of spiteful things against wo- 
 men with the Chevalier de Lorraine."' 
 
 "Oh, you are going somewhat too far." 
 
 "I only say what is the fact. Do you observe for your- 
 self, sire, and you will see that I am right." 
 
 "I will observe; but in the meantime, what satisfaction 
 can I give my brother?" 
 
 "My departure." 
 
 "You repeat that word," exclaimed the king imprudently, 
 '''as if, during the last ten minutes, such a change had been 
 produced that madame would have had all her ideas on the 
 subject thoroiighly changed." 
 
 "Sire, I cannot be happy here any longer," she said. 
 "Monsieur de Guiche annoys Monsieur. Will he be sent away, 
 too?" 
 
 "If it be necessary, why not?" replied the king, smiling. 
 
 "Well; and after Monsieur de Guiche — whom, by the bye, 
 I shall regret — I warn you, sire." 
 
 "Ah, you will regret him?" 
 
 "Certainly ; he is amiable ; he has a great friendship for 
 me, and he amuses me." 
 
 "If Monsieur were only to hear you," said the king, slightly 
 annoyed, "do you know I would not undertake to make it up 
 again between you; nay, I would not even attempt it." 
 
 "Sire, can you, even now, prevent Monsieur from being 
 jealous of the first person who may approach ? I know very 
 well that Monsieur de Guiche is not the first." 
 
 "Again: I warn yon that as a good brother I shall take a 
 dislike to De Guiche." 
 
 "Ab. sire, do not, I entreat you, adopt either the sym- 
 jDathies or the dislikes of Monsieur. Eemain the king; far 
 better for yourself and for every one else." 
 
 "\ou jest most charmingly, madame; and I can well un- 
 derstand how those whom you attack must adore you." 
 
 "And is that the reason why you, sire, whom I had re- 
 garded as my defender, are about to join those who perse- 
 cute me?" said madame. 
 
 "I 3'our persecutor ! Heaven forbid !" 
 
 "Then," she continued, languishingly, "grant me a favor." 
 
 ""Whatever you wish." 
 
 "Let me return to England." 
 
 "Never, never!" exclaimed Louis XIV. \ 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 337 
 
 "I am a prisoner, then?" 
 
 "In France, yes." 
 
 "What must I do, then?" 
 
 "i will tell you Instead of devoting yourself to friend- 
 ships -which are somewhat unsuitable, instead of alarming 
 us by your retirement, remain always in our society, do not 
 leave us, let us live as a united family. Monsieur de 
 Guiche is certainly very amiable; but if, at least, we do not 
 possess his wit " 
 
 "Ah, sire, you know very well that you are pretending 
 to be modest." 
 
 "No, I swear to you. One may be a king, and yet feel 
 that he possesses fewer chances of pleasing than many other 
 gentlemen." 
 
 "I am sure, sire, that you do not believe a single word 
 you are saying." 
 
 The king looked at madame tenderly, and said, "Will 
 you promise me one thing?" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "That you will no longer waste upon strangers, in your 
 own apartments, the time which you owe us. Shall we 
 make an ofEensive and defensive alliance against the com- 
 mon enemy?" 
 
 "An alliance with you, sire?" 
 
 "Why not? Are you not a sovereign power?" 
 
 "But are you, sire, a very faithful ally?" 
 
 "You shall see, madame." 
 
 "And when shall this alliance commence?" 
 
 "This very day." 
 
 "I will draw up the treaty, and you shall sign it." 
 
 "Blindly." 
 
 "Then, sire, I promise you wonders; you are the star of 
 the court, and when you make your appearance everything 
 will be resplendent." 
 
 "Oh, madame, madame," said Louis XIV., "you know 
 well that there is no brilliancy which does not proceed from 
 yourself, and that if I assume the sun as my device, it is 
 only an emblem." 
 
 "Sire, you flatter your ally, and you wish to deceive her," 
 said madame, threatening the king with her finger raised 
 menacingly. 
 
 "What! you believe I am deceiving you, when I assure 
 you of my affection?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What makes you so suspicious?" 
 
238 TEN YEARS L4TER. 
 
 "One thing." 
 
 "What is it? I shall indeed be unhappy if I do not uver= 
 
 come it." 
 
 "That one thing in question, sire, is not in your power, 
 not even in the power of Heaven." 
 
 "Tell me what it is." 
 
 'The past." 
 
 'I do not understand, madame," said the king, precisely 
 ■^ecause he had understood her but too well. 
 
 The princess took his hand in hers. "Sire," she said, "I 
 aave had the misfortune to displease you for so long a 
 period that I have almost the right to ask myself to-day 
 why you were able to accept me as a sister-in-law." 
 
 "Displease me! You have displeased me?" 
 
 "Nay, do not deny it, for I remember it well." 
 
 "Our alliance shall date from to-day," exclaimed the 
 king, with a warmth that was not assumed. "You will 
 not think any more of the past, will you? I myself am 
 resolved that I will not. I shall always remember the 
 present; I have it before my eyes; look." And he led the 
 
 Erincess before a mirror, in which she saw herself reflected, 
 lushing and beautiful enough to overcome a saint. 
 "It is all the same," she murmured; "it will not be a 
 very worthy alliance." 
 
 "Must I swear?" inquired the king, intoxicated by the 
 voluptuous turn the whole conversation had taken. 
 
 "Oh, I do not refuse a good oath," said madame; "it 
 has always the semblance of security." 
 
 The king knelt upon a footstool and took hold of ma- 
 dame's hand. She, with a smile that a painter could not 
 succeed in depicting, and which a poet only could imagine, 
 gave him both her hands, in which he hid his burning face. 
 iNeither of them could utter a syllable. The king felt 
 madame withdraw her hands, caressing his face while she 
 did so. He rose immediately and left the apartment. The 
 courtiers remarked his heightened color, and concluded 
 that the scene had been a stormy one. The Chevalier da 
 Lorraine, however, hastened to say, "Nay, be comforted, 
 gentlemen, his majesty is always pale when he is angry '' 
 
TEN- YEARS LATER. 239 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXIV. 
 
 THE ADVISEES. 
 
 The king left madame in a state of agitation which it 
 would have been difificult even for himself to have explained. 
 It is impossible, in fact, to explain the secret play of those 
 strange sympathies, which suddenly, and ap: arently with- 
 out any cause, are excited, after many years passed in the 
 greatest calmness and indifference, by two hearts destined 
 to love each other. Why had Louis formerly disdained;, 
 almost hated, madame? Why did he now find the same 
 woman so beautiful, so captiva'ing? And why, not only 
 were his thoughts occupied about her, but still more, why 
 i were they so occupied about her? Why, in fact, had ma- 
 j dame, whose eyes and mind were sought for in another 
 direction, shown during the last week toward the king a 
 semblance of favor which encouraged the belief of still 
 greater regard. It must not be suppos d that Louis pro- 
 posed to himself any plan of seduction; the tie which 
 united madame to his brother was, or at least seemed, for 
 him an insuperable barrier; he was even too far removed 
 from. that barrier to perceive its existence. But on the 
 downward path of those passions in which the heart rejoices, 
 toward which youth impels us, no one can decide where 
 to stop, not even he who has in advance calculated all the 
 chances of his own success or of another's submission. As 
 far as madame was concerned, her regard for the king may 
 easily be explained: she was young, a coquette, and ardently 
 fond of admiration. Hero was one of those buoyant, im- 
 petuous natures, which upon a theater would leap over the 
 greatest obstacles to obtain an acknowledgment of applause 
 from the spectato.s. I'; was not surprising, then, that 
 after having been adored by Buckingham, by De Guiche, 
 who was superior to BucliingL ^m, even if it were only from 
 that great merit, so much appreciated by woman, that is to 
 say, novelty — it was not surprising, we say, that the prin- 
 cess should rai e her ambition to being admired by the 
 king, who not onlj was the first person in the kingdom, but 
 was one of the handsomest and wittiest men in it. As for 
 the sudden passion with which Louis was inspired for his 
 sister-in-law, physiology would perhaps supply the explana- 
 tion of it by some hackneyed commonplace reasons, and 
 nature from some of her mysterious affinity of characters. 
 Madame had the most beautiful black eyes in the world; 
 
S40 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 Louis, eyes as beautiful, but blue. Madame was laughter- 
 loving and unreserved iu her manners; Louis, melancholy 
 and diffident. Summoned to meet each other, for the iirsfc 
 time, upon the grounds of interest and common curiosity, 
 these two opposite natures were mutually influenced by the 
 contact of their reciprocal contradictions of character. 
 Louis, when he returned to his own rooms, acknowledged 
 to himself that madame was the most attractive woman of 
 his court. Madame, left alone, delightedly thought that 
 she had made a great impression on the king. This feeling 
 with her must remain passive, while the king could not but 
 act with all the natural vehemence of the heated fancies of 
 a young man, and of a young man who has but to express 
 a wish to see his wishes executed. , 
 
 The first thing the king did was to announce to Mon- 
 sieur that everything was quietly arranged; that madame 
 had the greatest respect, the sincerest affection for him; but 
 that she was of a proud, impetuous character, and that her 
 susceptibilities were so acute as to require a very careful 
 management. 
 
 Monsieur replied in the sour tone of voice he generally 
 adopted with his brother, that he could not very well un- 
 derstand the susceptibilities of a woman whose conduct 
 might, in his opinion, expope her to censorious remarks, 
 and that if any one had a riofht to feel wounded, it was he. 
 Monsieur himself. To this the king replied in a quick tone 
 of voice, which showed the interest he took in his sister-in- 
 law, "Thank Heaven, madime is above censure!" 
 
 "The censure of others, certainly, I admit," said Mon- 
 sieur, "but not above mine, I presume." 
 
 "Well," said the king, "all I hav^ to say, Philip, is, that 
 madame's conduct does not deserve your censure. She 
 certainly is heedless and singular, but professes the best 
 feelings. The English character is not always well under- 
 Istood in France, and the liberty of English manners some- 
 times surprises those who do not know the extent to which 
 this liberty is enriched by innocence." 
 
 "Ah!" said Monsieur, more and more piqued, "from the 
 very moment that your majesty absolves my wife, whom i 
 accuse, my wife is not guilty, and I have nothing more to 
 
 ; "Philip," replied the king hastily, for he felt the voice 
 
 ■ of conscience murmuring softly in his heart that Monsieur 
 
 was not altogether wrong, "what I have done, and what 1 
 
 have said, was only for your happiness. I was told that 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 24,1'* 
 
 vou complained of a want of confidence or attention on 
 madaine's part, and I did not wish your uneasiness to be 
 prolonged any further. It is part of my duty to watch over 
 your household, as over that of the humblest of my subjects. 
 I have seen, therefore, with the sincerest pleasure that your 
 apprehensions have no foundation." 
 
 "And," continued Monsieur, in an interrogative tone of 
 voice, and fixing his eyes upon his brother, "what your 
 majesty has discovered for madame — and I bow myself to 
 your majesty's superior judgment — have you also verified it 
 for those who have been the cause of the scandal of which 
 1 complain?" 
 
 "You are right, Philip," said the king; "I will consider 
 that point." These words comprised an order as well as a 
 consolation; the prince felt it to be so, and withdrew. As 
 for Louis, he went to seek his mother, for he felt that he 
 had need of a more complete absolution than that he had 
 just received from his brother. Anne of Austria did not 
 entertain for M. de Guiche the same reasons for indulgence 
 she had had for Buckingham. She perceived, at the very 
 first words he pronounced, that Louis was not disposed to 
 be severe, as she was indeed. It was one of the stratagems 
 of the good queen, in order to succeed in ascertaining the 
 truth. But Louis was no longer in his apprenticeship; 
 already for more than a year past he had been king, and 
 during that year he had learned how to dissemble. Listen- 
 ing to Anne of Austria, in order to permit her to disclose 
 her own thoughts, testifying his approval only by look and 
 by gesture, he became convinced, from certain profound 
 glances, and from certain skillful insinuations, that the 
 queen, so clear-sighted in matters of gallantry, had, if not 
 guessed, at least suspected, his weakness for madame. Of 
 all his auxiliaries, Anne of Austria would be the most im- 
 portant to secure: of all his enemies, Anne of Austria would 
 have been the most dangerous. Louis therefore changed 
 his maneuvers. He complained of madame, absolved Mon- 
 sieur, listened to what his mother had to say of De Guiche, 
 as he had previously listened to what she had had to say of 
 Buckingham; and then, when he saw that she thought she 
 had gained a complete victory over him, he left her. The 
 whole of the court, that is to say, all the favorites and more 
 intimate associates, and they were numerous, since there 
 were already five masters, were assembled in the evening 
 for the repetition of the ballet. This interval had been 
 occupied by poor De Guiche in receiving visits. Among 
 
243 TEN TEAKS LATER. 
 
 the number was one which he hoped and feared nearly to 
 an equal extent. It was that d the Chevalier de Lorraine. 
 About three o'clock in the afternoon the chevalier entered 
 De Guiche's rooms. His looks were of the most assuring 
 character. "Monsieur," said he to De Guiche, "was in an 
 excellent humor, and no one co'ld say that the slightest 
 cloud had passed across the conj gal sky. Besides, Mon- 
 sieur was not one to bear ill feeling. " 
 
 For a very long time past, during his residence at the 
 court, the Chevalier de Lorraine had decided that, of Louis 
 XIII. 's two sons, Monsieur was the one who had inherited 
 the father's character^-an uncertain, irresolute character; 
 impulsively good, evilly disposed at bottom; but certainly 
 a cipher for his friends. He had especially cheered De 
 Guiche, by pointing out to him that madame would, before 
 long, succeed in governing her husband, and that, conse- 
 quently, that man would govern Monsieur who should suc- 
 ceed in influencing madame. To this, De Guiche, full of 
 mistrust and presence of mind, had replied, "Yes, cheva- 
 lier; but I believe madame to be a very dangerous person." 
 
 "In what respect?" 
 
 "She has perceived that Monsieur is not very passionately 
 inclined toward women." 
 
 "Quite true," said the Chevalier de Lorraine, laughing. 
 
 "In that case, madame will choose the first one who ap- 
 proaches, in order to make him the object of her prefer- 
 ence, and. to bring back her husband by jealousy." 
 
 "Deep! deep!" exclaimed the chevalier. 
 
 "But true," replied De Guiche. But neither the one 
 nor the other expressed his real thought. De Guiche, at 
 the very moment he thus attacked madame's character, 
 mentally asked her forgiveness from the bottom of his 
 heart. The chevalier, while admiring De Guiche's pene- 
 tration, led him, blindfolded, to the brink of the precipice, 
 De Guiche then questioned him more directly upon the 
 effect produced by the scene of that morning, and upon the 
 still more serious effect produced by the scene at dinner. 
 
 "But I have already told you they are all laughing at it," 
 replied the Chevalier de Lorraine, "and Monsieur himself 
 at the head of them." 
 
 "Yet," hazarded De Guiche, "I have heard that the king 
 paid madame a visit." 
 
 "Yes, precisely so. Madame was the only one who did 
 not laugh, and the king went to her in order to make hei 
 laugh too." 
 
»EK TEARS LATER. ' 24,3 
 
 "So that " 
 
 "So that nothing is altered in the arrangements of the 
 day," said the chevalier. 
 
 "And is there a repetition of the ballet this evening?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Are you sure?" 
 
 "Quite so," returned the chevalier. 
 
 At this moment of the conversation between the tw* 
 young men Raoul entered, looking full of anxiety. As 
 soon as the chevalier, who had a secret dislike for him, as 
 for every other noble character, perceived him enter, he 
 rose from his seat. 
 
 "What do you advise me to do, then?" inquired D« 
 Guiche of the chevalier. 
 
 "I advise you to go to sleep with perfect tranquillity, my 
 dear comte." 
 
 "And my advice, De Guiche," said Eaoul, "is the very 
 opposite." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "To mount your horse and set off at once for one of your 
 estates; on your arrival, follow the chevalier's advice, if you 
 like; and, what is more, you can sleep there as long and as 
 tranquilly as you please." 
 
 "What! set off!" exclaimed the chevalier, feigning sur- 
 prise; "why should De Guiche set off?" 
 
 "Because, and you cannot be ignorant of it — you particu- 
 larly so — because every one is talking about the scene which 
 has passed between Monsieur and De Guiche." De Guiche 
 turned pale. 
 
 "Not at all," replied the chevalier, "not at all, and you 
 have been wrongly informed. Monsieur de Bragelonne." 
 
 "I have been perfectly well informed, on the contrary, 
 monsieur," replied Eaoul, "and the advice I give De 
 Guiche is that of a friend." 
 
 During this discusssion De Guiche, somewhat shaken, 
 looked alternately first at one and then at the other of his 
 advisers., He inwardly felt that a game, important in all 
 its consequences for the rest of his life, was being played at 
 that moment. 
 
 "Is it not the fact," said the chevalier, putting the ques- 
 tion to the comte himself, "is it not the fact, De Guiche, 
 the scene was not so tempestuous as the Vicomte de Brage- 
 lonne seems to think, and who, moreover, was not himself 
 there?" 
 
 "Whether tempestuous or not," persisted Kaoul, "it is 
 
244 TEK TEARS LATER. 
 
 Bot precisely of the scene itself that I am speaking, but ot 
 the consequences that may ensue. I know that Monsieur 
 has threatened, and I know that madamehas been in tears." 
 
 "Madame in tears!" exclaimed De Guiche, imprudently 
 clasping his hands. 
 
 "Ah!" said the chevalier, laughing, "this is indeed a 
 circumstance I was not acquainted with. You are decidedly 
 better informed than I am. Monsieur de Bragelonne." 
 
 "And it is because I am better informed than yourself, 
 chevalier, that I insist upon De Guiche leaving." 
 
 "No, no; I regret to differ from you, vicomte; but his 
 departure is unnecessary. Why, indeed, should he leave? 
 Tell us why." 
 
 "The king!" 
 
 "The king!" exclaimed De Guiche. 
 
 "Yes; I tell you the king has taken up the affair." 
 
 "Bah!" said the chevalier; "the king likes De Guiche, 
 and particularly his father; reflect that, if the comte were 
 to leave, it would be an admission that he had done some- 
 thing which merited rebuke." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "No doubt of it; when one runs away, it is either from 
 guilt or from fear." 
 
 "Or because a man is offended, because he is wrongfully 
 accused," said Bragelonne. "We will assign as a reason 
 for his departure that he feels hurt and injured — nothing 
 will be easier; we will say that we both did our utmost to 
 keep him, and you, at least, will not be speaking otherwise 
 than the truth. Come, De Guiche, you are innocent, and, 
 being so, the scene of to-day must have wounded you. So 
 set off." 
 
 "No, De Guiche, remain where you are," said the cheva- 
 lier; "precisely as Monsieur de Bragelonne has put it, be- 
 cause you are innocent. Once more, forgive me, vicomte; 
 but my opinion is the very opposite to your own." 
 
 "And you are at perfect liberty to maintain it, monsieur; 
 but be assured that the exile which De Guiche will volun- 
 tarily impose upon himself will be of short duration. He 
 can terminate it whenever he pleases, and, returning from 
 hisvoluntary exile, he will meet with smiles from all lips; 
 while, on the contrary, the anger of the king may draw 
 down a storm upon his head, the end of which no one can 
 foresee." 
 
 The chevalier smiled, and murmured to himself, "That 
 is the very thing I wish." And at the same time he 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 345 
 
 shrugged his shoulders, a movement which did not escape 
 the comte, who dreaded, if he quitted the court, to seem to 
 yield to a feeling of fear. 
 
 "No, no; I have decided, Bragelonne; I stay." 
 
 "I prophesy, then," said Eaoul sadly, "that misfortune 
 will befall you, De Guiche." 
 
 "I, too, am a prophet, but not a prophet of evil; on the 
 contrary, comte, I say to you, remain." 
 
 "Are you sure," inquired De Guiche, "that the repeti- 
 ^on of the^ballet still takes place?" 
 
 "Quite sure." 
 
 "Well, you see, Eaoul," continued De Guiche, endeavor- 
 ing to smile, "you see the court is not so very sorrowful, or 
 so readily disposed for internal dissensions, when dancing 
 is carried on with such assi(Mity. Come, acknowledge 
 ihat," said the comte to Eaoul, who shook his head, saying: 
 
 "I have nothing to add." 
 
 "But," inquired the chevalier, curious to learn whence 
 Raoul had obtained his information, the exactitude of which 
 ke was inwardly forced to admit, "since you say you are 
 well informed, vicomte, how can you be better informed 
 than myself, who am one of the prince's most intimate 
 companions?" 
 
 "To such a declaration I submit. You certainly ought 
 to be perfectly well informed, I admit; and, as a man of 
 honor is incapable of saying anything but what he knows to 
 be true, or of speaking otherwise than what he thinks, I 
 shall say no more, but confess myself defeated, and leave 
 you in possession of the field of battle." 
 
 Whereupon Eaoul, who now seemed only to care to be 
 left quiet, threw himself upon a large couch, while the 
 comte summoned his servants to aid him in dressing. The 
 chevalier, finding that time was passing away, wished to 
 leave; but he feared, too, that Eaoul, left alone with De 
 Guiche, might yet influence him to change his resolution. 
 He therefore made use of his last resource. 
 
 "Madame," he said, "will be brilliant; she appears to- 
 day in her costume of Pomona." 
 
 "Yes, that is so," exclaimed the comte. 
 
 "And she has just given directions in consequence," con- 
 tinued the chevalier. "You know. Monsieur de Brage- 
 lonne, that the king is to appear as Spring." 
 
 "It will be admirable," said De Guiche; "and that is a 
 better reason for me to remain than any you have yet given, 
 because I am to appear as Autumn, and shall have to dance 
 
246 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 with madame. I cannot absent myself without the king's 
 orders, since my departure would interrupt the ballet." 
 
 "I," said the chevalier, "am to be only a simple Egyptian; 
 true it is, I am a bad dancer, and my legs are not well made. 
 Gentlemen, adieu. Do not forget the basket of fruit, 
 which you are to offer to Pomona, comte." 
 
 "Be assured," said De Guiche delightedly, "I shall for- 
 get nothing." 
 
 "I am now quite certain that he will remain," murmured 
 the Chevalier de Lorraine to himself. 
 
 ' Eaoul, when the chevalier had left, did not even attempt 
 to dissuade his friend, for he felt that it would be trouble 
 thrown away; he merely observed to the comte, in his mel- 
 ancholy and melodious voice, "You are embarking in a 
 most dangerous enterprise. I know you well; you go to 
 extremes in everything, and she whom you love does so too. 
 Admitting for an instant that she should at last love 
 you " 
 
 "Oh, never!" exclaimed De Guiche. 
 
 "Why do you say never?" 
 
 "Because it would be a great misfortune for both of us." 
 
 "In that case, instead of regarding you as simply impru- 
 dent, I cannot but consider you as absolutely mad." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Are you perfectly sure, mind, answer me frankly, that 
 you do not wish her whom you love to make any sacrifice 
 for you?" 
 
 "Yes, yes; quite sure." 
 
 "Love her, then, at a distance." 
 
 "What! at a distance?" 
 
 "Certainly; what matters being present or absent, since 
 you expect nothing from her. Love a portrait, a remem- 
 brance." 
 
 "Eaoul!" 
 
 "Love a shadow, an illusion, a chimera; be devoted to 
 the affection itself, in giving a name to your ideality ' ' 
 
 "You turn away; your servants approach; I shall say no 
 more. In good or bad fortune, De Guiche, depend upon 
 me." 
 
 "Indeed I shall do so." 
 
 "Very well; that is all I had to say to you. Spare no 
 pains in your person, De Guiche, and look your very best. 
 Adieu." 
 
 •'You will not be present^ then, at the repetition, 
 Vicoifit«f" 
 
TEN TEAKS LATER. 347 
 
 "No; I shall have a visit to pay in town. Farewell, De 
 Guiche." 
 
 The reception was to take place in the king's apartments. 
 In the first place, there were the queens, then madame, 
 and a few ladies of the court, who had been selected. A 
 great number of courtiers, also carefully selected, occupied 
 the time, before the dancing commenced, in conversing, as 
 people knew how to converse in those times. None of the 
 ladies who had received invitations appeared in the costumes 
 of the fete, as the Chevalier de Lorraine had predicted, but 
 many conversations took place about the rich and ingenious 
 toilets designed by different painters for the ballet of "The 
 Demi-Gods," for thus were termed the kings and queens, 
 of which Pontainebleau was about to become the Pantheon. 
 Monsieur arrived, holding in his hand a drawing represent- 
 ing his character; he looked somewhat anxious; he bowed 
 courteously to the young queen and his mother, but saluted 
 madame almost cavalierly. His notice of her and his cold 
 ness of manner were observed by all. M. de Guiche in- 
 demnified the princess by a look of passionate devotion, and 
 it must be admitted that madame, as she raised her eyes, 
 returned it to him with usury. It is unquestionable that 
 De Guiche had never looked so handsome, for madame's 
 glance had had the efEect of lighting up the features of the 
 son of the Marshal de Grammont. The king's sister-in- 
 law felt a storm mustering above her head; she felt, too, 
 that during the whole of the day, so fruitful in future 
 events, she had acted unjustly, if not treasonably, toward 
 one who loved her with such a depth of devotion. In her 
 eyes, the moment seemed to have arrived for an acknowl- 
 edgment to the poor victim of the injustice of the morning. 
 Her heart spoke, and murmured tHe name of De Guiche; 
 the comte was sincerely pitied, and accordingly gained the 
 victory over all others. Neither Monsieur, nor the king, 
 nor the Duke of Buckingham was any longer thought of; 
 and De Guiche at that moment reigned without a rival. 
 But although Monsieur also looked very handsome, still he 
 could not be compared to the comte. It is well known — ■ 
 indeed, all women say so — that a very wide difference in- 
 variably exists between the good looks of a lover and those 
 of a husband. Besides, in the present case, after Monsieur 
 had left, and after the courteous and affectionate recogni- 
 tion of the young queen and of the queen-mother, and the 
 careless and indifferent notice of madame, which all the 
 tiowrtiers had remarked, all these motives gave the lover 
 
248 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 the advantage over the husband. Monsieur was too great 
 a personage to notice these details. Nothing is so certain 
 as a well-settled idea of superiority to prove the inferiority 
 of the man who has that opinion of himself. The king 
 arrived. Every one looked for what might possibly happen, 
 in the glance, which began to bestir the world, like the 
 brow of Jupiter Tonans. Louis had none of his brother's 
 gloominess, but was perfectly radiant. Having examined a 
 greater part of the drawings which were displayed for his 
 inspection on every side, he gave his opinion or made his 
 ■'emarks upon them, and in this manner rendered some 
 aappy and others unhappy by a single word. Suddenly 
 his glance, which was smilingly directed toward madame, 
 detected the silent correspondence which was established 
 between the princess and the comte. He bit his lip, but 
 when he opened them again to utter a few commonplace 
 remarks, he said, advancing toward the queens: 
 
 "I have just been informed that everything is now pre- 
 pared at Fontainebleau, in accordance with my directions." 
 A murmur of satisfaction arose from the different groups, 
 and the king perceived on every face the greatest anxiety 
 to receive an invitation for the fetes. "I shall leave to- 
 morrow," he added. Whereupon the profoundest silence 
 immediately ensued. "And I invite," said the king, iinish- 
 ing, "all those who are now present to get ready to accom- 
 pany me." 
 
 Smiling faces were now everywhere visible, with the ex- 
 ception of Monsieur, who seemed to retain his ill-humor. 
 The different noblemen and ladies of the court thereupon 
 defiled before the king, one after the other, in order to 
 thank his majesty for the great honor which had been con- 
 ferred upon them by the invitation. When it came to De 
 Guiche's turn, the king said: 
 
 "Ah! Monsieur de Guiche, I did not see you." 
 
 The comte bowed, and madame turned pale. De Guiche 
 was about to open his lips to express his thanks, when the 
 king said: 
 
 "Comte, this is the season for farming purposes in the 
 country. I am sure your tenants in Normandy wiU be glad 
 to see you." 
 
 The king, after this severe attack, turned his back to the 
 poor comte, whose turn it was now to become pale: he ad- 
 vanced a few steps toward the king, forgetting that the 
 king is never spoken to except- in reply to queationa 
 addressed. 
 
TEK YEAfiS LATER. 249 
 
 "I have perhaps misunderstood your majesty," he stam- 
 mered out. 
 
 The king turned his head slightly, and with a cold and 
 stern glance, which plunged like a sword relentlessly into 
 the hearts of those under disgrace, repeated: 
 
 "I said retire to your estates;" and allowing every sylla- 
 ble to fall slowly, one by one. 
 
 A cold perspiration bedewed the comte's face, his hands 
 convulsively opened, and his hat, which he held between 
 his trembling fingers, fell to the ground. Louis sought his 
 mother's glance as though to show her that he was master; 
 he sought his brother's triumphant look, as if to ask him if 
 he were satisfied with the vengeance taken; and, lastly, his 
 eyes fell upon madame; but the princess was laughing and 
 smiling with Mme. de Noailles. She had heard nothing, 
 or rather had pretended not to hear at all. The Chevalier 
 de Lorraine looked on also, with one of those looks of set- 
 tled hostility which seemed to give to a man's glance the 
 power of a lever when it raises an obstacle, wrests it away, 
 and casts it to a distance. M. de Guiche was left alone m 
 the king's cabinet, the whole of the company having de- 
 parted. Shadows seemed to dance before his eyes. He 
 suddenly broke through the fixed despair which over- 
 whelmed him, and flew to hide himself in his own rooms, 
 where Eaoul awaited him, confident in his own sad pre- 
 sentiments. 
 
 "Well?" he murmured, seeing his friend enter, bare- 
 headed, with a wild gaze and tottering gait. 
 
 "Yes, yes, it is true," said De Guiche, unable to utter 
 more, and falling exhausted upon the couch. 
 
 "And she?" inquired Eaoul. 
 
 "She!" exclaimed his unhappy friend, as he raised his 
 hand, clinched in anger, toward heaven. "She " 
 
 "What did she say and do?" 
 
 "She said that her dress suited her admirably, and then 
 she laughed." 
 
 A fit of hysteric laughter seemed to shatter hi& H*rve«, foi 
 he fell backward, completely overcome. 
 
250 TEN TEARS LATEE. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXV. 
 
 FOKTAINEBLEAU. 
 
 Foe four days every kind of enchantment brought to« 
 gether in the magnificent gardens of Fontainebleau had 
 converted this spot into a place of the most perfect enjoy- 
 ment. M. Colbert seemed gifted with ubiquity. In the 
 morning there were the accounts of the previous night's 
 expenses to settle; during the day, programmes, essays, 
 enlistments, payments. M. Colbert had amassed four mil-' 
 lions of francs, and dispersed them with a prudent economy. 
 He was horrified at the expenses which mythology involved', 
 every wood-nymph, every dryad did not cost less than a 
 hundred francs a day. The dress alone amounted to three 
 hundred francs. The expense of powder and sulphur for 
 fireworks amounted, every night, to a hundred thousand 
 francs. In addition to these, the illuminations on the 
 borders of the sheet of water cost thirty thousand francs 
 every evening. The fetes had been magnificent, and Col- 
 bert could not restrain his delight. From time to time he 
 noticed madame and the king setting forth on hunting ex- 
 peditions, or preparing for the reception of different fantastic 
 personages, solemn ceremonials, which had been extempo- 
 rized a fortnight before, and in which madame's sparkling 
 wit and the king's magnificence were equally displayed. 
 
 For madame, the heroine of the fete, replied to the ad- 
 dresses of the deputations from unknown races — Gara- 
 manths, Scythians, Hyperboreans, Caucasians, and Pata- 
 gonians, who seemed to issue from the ground, for the 
 purpose of approaching her with their congratulations; and 
 upon every representative of these races the king bestowed 
 a diamond or some other article of great value. Then the 
 deputies, in verses more or less amusing, compared the king 
 to the sun, madame to Phoebe, the sun's sister, and the 
 queen and Monsieur were no more spoken of than if the 
 king had married Mme. Henrietta of England, and not 
 Maria Theresa of Austria. The happy pair, hand in hand, 
 imperceptibly pressing each other's fingers, drank in deep 
 draughts the sweet beverage of adulation, by which the at- 
 tractions of youth, beauty, power, and love are enhanced. 
 Every one at Fontainebleau was amazed at the extent of 
 the influence which madame had so rapidly acquired over 
 the king, and whispered among themselves that madame 
 was, in point of fact, the true queen; and, in effect, the 
 
TEUr YEARS LATER. 251 
 
 ting himself proclaimed its truth hy his every thought, 
 word, and look. He formed his wishes, he drew his inspira- 
 tions from madame's eyes, and his delight was unbounded 
 when madame deigned to smile upon him. And was ma- 
 dame, on her side, intoxicated with the power she wielded, 
 as she beheld every one at her feet? This was a (question 
 she herself could hardly answer; but what she did know 
 was, that she could frame no wish, and that she felt herself 
 to be perfectly happy. The result of all these changes, the 
 source of which emanated from the royal will, was that 
 Monsieur, instead of being the second person in the king- 
 dom, had, in reality, become the third. And it was now 
 far worse than in the time when De Guiche's guitars were 
 heard in madame's apartments; for then, at least. Monsieur 
 had the satisfaction of frightening those who annoyed him. 
 Since the departure, however, of the enemy, who had been 
 driven away by means of his alliance with the king. Mon- 
 sieur had to submit to a burden heavier, but in a very 
 different sense, to his former one. Every evening madame 
 returned home quite exhausted. Horse-riding, bathing in 
 the Seine, spectacles, dinners under the leafy covert of the 
 trees, balls on the banks of the grand canal, concerts, etc., 
 etc.; all this would have been sufficient to have killed, not 
 a slight and delicate woman, but the strongest porter in the 
 chateau. It is perfectly true that, with regard to dancing, 
 concerts, and promenades, and such matters, a woman is 
 far stronger than the most robust porter of the chdteau. 
 But, however great a woman's strength may be, there is a 
 limit to it, and she cannot hold out long under such a 
 system. As for Monsieur, he had not even the satisfaction 
 of witnessing madame's abdication of her royalty in the 
 evening, for she lived in the royal pavilion with the young 
 queen and the queen-mother. As a matter of course, the 
 Chevalier de Lorraine did not quit Monsieur, and did not 
 fail to distill his drops of gall into every wound the latter 
 received. The result was, that Monsieur — who had at first 
 been in the highest spirits, and completely restored since 
 De Guiche's departure — subsided into his melancholy state 
 three days after the court was installed at Fontainebleau. 
 It happened, however, that one day, about two o'clock in 
 the afternoon. Monsieur, who had risen late, and had be- 
 stowed upon . his toilet more than his usual attention, it 
 happened, we repeat, that Monsieur, who had not heard of 
 any plans having been arranged for the day, formed the pro- 
 ject of collecting his own court and of carrying madame off 
 
252 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 with him to Moret, where he possessed a charming coimtry 
 iijuse. He accordingly went to the queen's pavilion and 
 was astonished on entering to find none of the royiil serv- 
 ants in attendance. Quite alone, therefore, he entered the 
 rooms, a door on the left opening to madame's apartment, 
 the one on the right to the young queen's. In his wife's 
 apartment Monsieur was informed by a seamstress who was 
 working there that every one had left at eleven o'clock, for 
 the purpose of bathing in the Seine, that a grand fete wan 
 to be made of the expedition, that all the carriages hac? 
 been placed at the park gates, and that they had all sei ou; 
 more than an hour ago. 
 
 "Very good," said Monsieur, "the idea is a good one; 
 the heat is very oppressive, and I have no objection to 
 bathe, too." 
 
 He summoned his servants, but no one came. He sum. 
 moned those in attendance on madame, but everybody had 
 gone out. He then went to the stables, where he was in- 
 formed by a groom that there were no carriages of any 
 description. He then desired that a couple of horses should 
 be saddled, one for himself, and the other for his valet. 
 The groom told him that all the horses had been sent away. 
 Monsieur, pale with anger again descended toward the queen's 
 apartments, and penetrated as far as Anne of Austria's 
 oratory, where he perceived, through the half-opened tapes- 
 try hangings, his young and beautiful sister on her knees 
 before the queen-mother, who appeared weeping bitterly. 
 He had not been either seen or heard. He cautiously ap- 
 proached the opening, and listened, the sight of so much 
 grief having aroused his curiosity. Not only was the young 
 queen weeping, but she was complaining also. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "the king neglects me, the king devotes 
 himself to pleasures and amusements only in which I have 
 no share." 
 
 "Patience, patience, my daughter," said Anne of Austria, 
 in Spanish; and then, also in Spanish, added some words of 
 advice, which Monsieur did not understand. The queen 
 replied by accusations, mingled with sighs and sobs, among 
 which Monsieur often distinguished the word ianos, which 
 Maria Theresa accentuated with spiteful anger. 
 
 "The baths," said Monsieur to himself, "it seems it is 
 the baths that have put her out." 
 
 And he endeavored to put together the disconnected 
 plirases which he had been able to understand. It was 
 easy to guess that the queen complained bitterly, and that, 
 
TEST YEARS I-ATEfi. 253 
 
 if Anne of Austria did not console her, she at least endeav- 
 ored to do so. Monsieur was afraid to be detected listening 
 at the door, and he therefore made up his mind to cough; 
 the two queens turned round at the sound, and Monsieur 
 entered. At the sight of the prince the young queen rose 
 precipitately, and dried her tears. Monsieur, however, 
 knew the people he had to deal with too well, and was 
 naturally too polite to remain silent, and he accordingly 
 saluted them. The queen-mother smiled pleasantly at 
 him, saying: 
 
 "What do you want, Philip?" 
 
 "I? — nothing," stammered Monsieur. "I was looking 
 for " 
 
 "Whom?" 
 
 "I was looking for madame." 
 
 "Madame is at the baths." 
 
 "And the king?" said Monsieur, in a tone which made 
 the queen tremble. 
 
 "The king also, and the whole court as well," replied 
 Anne of Austria. 
 
 "Except you, madame," said Monsieur. 
 
 "Oh, I!" said the young queen, "I seem to terrify all 
 those who amuse themselves." 
 
 Anne of Austria made a sign to her daughter-in-law, who 
 withdrew, weeping. 
 
 Monsieur's brows contracted, as he remarked aloud: 
 
 "What a cheerless house! What do you think of it, 
 mother?" 
 
 "Why, no; everybody here is pleasure-hunting." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, that is the very thing that makes those 
 dull who do not care for pleasure." 
 
 "In what a tone you say that, Philip!" 
 
 "Upon my word, madame, I speak as I think." 
 
 "Explain yourself. What is the matter?" 
 
 "Ask my sister-in-law, rather, who just now was detail 
 ing all her grievances to you." 
 
 "Her grievances; what " 
 
 "Yes, I was listening; accidentally, I confess, but still 1 
 listened — so that I heard only too well my sister complain 
 of those famous baths of madame " 
 
 "What folly!" 
 
 "No, no, no; people are not always foolish when they 
 weep. The queen said lanos, which means baths." 
 
 "I repeat, Philip," said Anne of Austria, "that your 
 Bister is most childishly jealous." 
 
264 . TEN YEARS LATER, 
 
 "In that case, madame," replied the prince, "I, too, 
 must, with great humility, accuse myself of possessing the 
 same defect as she has." 
 
 "You also, Philip?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Are you really jealous of these baths?" 
 
 "And -why not, madame, when the king goes to the baths 
 with my wife, and does not take the queen? Why not, 
 when madame goes to the baths with the king, and does not 
 do me the honor to tell me of it? And you require my 
 sister-in-law to be satisfied, and require me to be satisfied, 
 too." 
 
 "Yoa are raving, my dear Philip," said Anne of Austria; 
 "you have driven the Duke of Buckingham away; you have 
 been the cause of Monsieur de Guiche's exile; do you now 
 wish to send the king away from Fontainebleau?" 
 
 "I do not pretend to anything of the kind, madame," 
 said Monsieur bitterly; "but, at least, I can withdraw, and 
 I shall do so." 
 
 "Jealous of the king — jealous of your brother?" 
 
 "Yes, madame, I am jealous of the king — of my own 
 brother, and very jealous, too." 
 
 "Eeally, Monsieur," exclaimed Anne of Austria, affect- 
 ing to be indignant and angry, "I begin to believe you are 
 mad, and a sworn enemy to my repose. I therefore abandon 
 the place to you, for I have no means of defending myself 
 against such wild conceptions." 
 
 She arose and left Monsieur a prey to the most extrava- 
 gant transport of passion. He remained for a moment com- 
 pletely bewildered; then, recovering himself, he again went 
 to the stables, found the groom, once more asked him for a 
 carriage or a horse, and upon his replying that there was 
 neither the one nor the other. Monsieur snatched a long 
 whip from the hand of a stable-boy, and began to pursue 
 the poor devil of a groom all round the servants' court- 
 yard, whipping him all the while, in spite of his cries and 
 his excuses; then, quite out of breath, covered with per- 
 spiration, and trembling in every limb, he returned to his 
 own apartments, broke m pieces some beautiful specimens 
 of porcelain, and then got into bed, booted and spurred as 
 he was, crying out for some one to come to him. 
 
fBK TEAfeS LATEfi* 365 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVI. 
 
 THE BATH. 
 
 At Valvins, beneath the impenetrable shade of flowering 
 osiers and willows, which, as they bent down their green heads, 
 dipped the extremities of their branches in the blue waters, 
 a long and flat-bottomed boat, with ladders covered with long 
 blue curtains, served as a refuge for the bathing Dianas, who, 
 as they left the water, were watched by twenty plumed Acteons, 
 who, eagerly, and full of desire, galloped up and down the 
 moss-grown and perfumed banks of the river. But Diana 
 herself, even the chaste Diana, clothed in her long chlamys, 
 was less beautiful — less impenetrable, than madame, as young 
 and beautiful as that goddess herself. For, notwithstanding 
 the fine tunic of the huntress, her round and delicate knee 
 can be seen; and notwithstanding the sonorous quiver, her 
 brown shoulders can be detected; whereas, in madame's ease, 
 a long white veil enveloped her, wrapping her round and 
 round a hundred times, as she resigned herself into the hands 
 of her female attendants, and thus was rendered inaccessible 
 to the most indiscreet, as well as to the most penetrating gaze. 
 When she ascended the ladder the poets who were present — 
 and all were poets when madame was the subject of discussion 
 — the twenty poets who were galloping about stopped, and 
 with one voice exclaimed that pearls, and not drops of water, 
 were falling from her person, to be lost again in the happy 
 river. The king, the center of these effusions, and of this re- 
 spectful homage, imposed silence upon those expatiators, for 
 whom it seemed impossible to exhaust their raptures, and 
 he rode away from fear of offending, even under the silken 
 curtains, the modesty of the woman and the dignity of the 
 princess. A great blank thereupon ensued in the scene, and a 
 perfect silence in the boat. From the movements on board 
 ■ — from the flutterings and agitations of the curtains — the 
 goings to and fro of the female attendants engaged in their 
 duties could be guessed. 
 
 The king smilingly listened to the conversation of the 
 courtiers around him, but it could easily be perceived that 
 he gave but little, if any, attention to their remarks. In 
 fact, hardly had the sound of the rings drawn along the 
 rurtain-rods announced that madame was dressed, and that 
 the goddess was about to make her appearance, than the 
 king, returning to his former post immediately, and run- 
 
i856 TEN- TEARS LATBR. 
 
 nmg quite close to the rirer-bank, gave the signal for all 
 those to approach whose attendance or pleasure summoned 
 them to madame's side. The pages hurried forward, con- 
 ducting tlie led horses; the carriages, which had remained 
 sheltered under th trees, advanced toward the tent, fol- 
 lowed by a crowd of servants, bearers, and female attendants, 
 who, while their masters had been bathing, had mutually 
 exchanged their own observations, their critical remarks, 
 and the discussion of matters personal to themselves — the 
 fugitive journal of that period, of which no record is pre- 
 served, not even by the waters, the mirror of individuals, 
 echoes of conversations, witnesses whom Heaven has hur- 
 ried into immensity, as he has hurried the actors themselves 
 into eternity. A crowd of people upon the banks of the 
 river, without reckoning the groups of peasants drawn 
 together by their anxi ty to see the king and the princess, 
 was for many minutes the most disorderly, but the most 
 agreeable, pellmell imaginable. The king dismounted 
 from his horse, a movement which was imitated by all the 
 courtiers, and offered his hand to madame, whose rich 
 riding-habit displayed her fine figure, which was set off to 
 great advantage by that garment, made of fine woolen cloth 
 embroidered with silver. Her hair, still damp and blacker 
 than jet, hung in heavy masses upon her white and delicate 
 neck. Joy and health sparkled in her beautiful eyes; com- 
 posed, and yet full of energy, she inhaled the air in deep 
 draughts, under the embroidered parasol, which was borne 
 by one of her pages. Nothing could be more charming, 
 more graceful, more poetical, than these two figures buried 
 under the rose-colored shade of the parasol; the king, whos.e 
 white teeth were displayed in continual smiles, and madame, 
 whose black eyes sparkled like two carbuncles in the glitter- 
 ing reflection of the changing hues of the silk. When 
 madame had approached her horse, e, magnificent animal ol 
 Andalusian breed, of spotless white, somewhat heavy, per- 
 haps, but with a spirited and splendid head, in which the 
 mixture so happily combined of Arabian and Spanish blood 
 could be readily traced, and whose long tail swept the 
 ground; and as the princess afEected difficulty in mounting, 
 the king took her in his arms in such a manner that ma- 
 dame's arm was clasped like a circlet of fire around the 
 king's neck; Louis, as he withdrew, involuntarily touched 
 with his li^s the arm, which was not withheld, and the 
 princess, having thanked her royal equerry, every one 
 sprang to bis saddle at the same moment. The king and 
 
TEN TEAES LATER. Z5T 
 
 madame drew aside to allow the carriages, the outriders, 
 and runners to pass by. A fair proportion of the cavaliers, 
 released from the restraint which etiquette had imposed 
 upon them, gave the rein to their horses, and darted after 
 the carriages which bore the maids of honor, as blooming 
 as so many Oreades around Diana, and the whirlwind, 
 laughing, chattering, and noisy, passed onward. 
 
 The king and madame, however, kept their horses in 
 hand at a foot-pace. Behind his majesty and his sister-in- 
 law, certain of the courtiers — those, at least, who were 
 seriously disposed, or were anxious to be within reach, or* 
 under the eyes of the king — followed at a respectful dis- 
 tance, restraining their impatient horses, regulating their 
 pace by that of the king and madame, and abandoned them- 
 selves to all the delight and gratification which is to be 
 found in the conversation of clever people, who can, with 
 perfect courtesy, make a thousand of the most atrocious 
 remarks about their neighbors. In their stifled laughter, 
 and in the little reticences of their sardonic humor. Mon- 
 sieur, the poor absentee, was not spared. But they pitied, 
 and bewailed greatly, the fate of De Guiche; and it must 
 be confessed that their compassion, as far as he was con- 
 cerned, was not misplaced. The king and madame having 
 breathed their horses, and repeated a hundred times over 
 such remarks as the courtiers, who made them talk, had 
 suggested to them, set off at a hand-gallop, and the shady 
 coverts of the forest resounded to the heavy footfall of the 
 mounted party. To the conversations beneath the shade of 
 trees — to the remarks made in the shape of confidential 
 communications, and to the observations which had been 
 mysteriously exchanged, succeeded the noisiest bursts of 
 laughter; from the very outriders to royalty itself, merri- 
 ment seemed to spread. Every one began to laugh and to 
 cry out. The magpies and the jays flew away, uttering 
 their guttural cries, beneath the waving avenues of the 
 oaks; the cuckoo stayed his monotonous cry in the recer.ses 
 of the forest; the chaffinch and tomtit flew away in clouds; 
 while the terrified fawn, and other deer, bounded forward 
 from the midst of the thickets. This crowd, spreading 
 wildly joy, confusion, and light wherever it passed, was 
 preceded, it may be said, to the chateau by its own clamor. 
 As the king and madame entered the village they were 
 both received by the general acclamations of the crowd. 
 Madame hastened to look for Monsieur, for she instinc- 
 tively understood that he had been far tgo long kept from 
 
258 TEN TEARS LATEK. 
 
 sharing in this joy. The king went to rejoin the queens; 
 he knew he owed them — one especially — a compensation for 
 his long absence. But madame was not admitted to Mon- 
 sieur's apartmtiits, and she was informed that Monsieut 
 was asleep. The king, instead of being met by Maria 
 Theresa "miling, as usual with her, found Anne of Austria 
 in the gallery watching for his return, who advanced to 
 meet him, and taking him by the hand, led him to her own 
 apartment. No one ever knew what was the nature of the 
 conversation which took jilace between them, or rather, 
 what it was that the queen-mother had said to Louis XIV. ; 
 but it certainly might easily be guessed from the annoyed 
 expression of the king's face as he left her after the inter- 
 view. 
 
 But we, whose mission it is to interpret all things, as it 
 is also to communicate our interpretations to our readers — 
 we should fail in our duty if we were to leave them in 
 ignorance of the result of this interview. It will be found 
 sufficiently detailed, at least we hope so, in the following 
 chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 THE BUTTEEELY-CHASE. 
 
 The king, on retiring to his apartments to give some direc- 
 tions and to arrange his ideas, found on his toilet-glass a 
 small note, the handwriting of which seemed disguised. 
 He opened it and read : 
 
 "Come quickly; I have a thousand things to say to you." 
 
 The king and madame had not been separated a suf- 
 ficiently long time for these thou and things to be the 
 result of the three thousand which t ley had been saying to 
 each other during the route which separated Valvins from 
 Fontainebleau. The confused and hurried character of the 
 note gave the king a great deal to reflect upon. He occu- 
 pied himself but slightly with his toilet, and set ofE to pay 
 his visit to madame. The princess, who did not wish to 
 have the appearance of expecting him, had gone into the 
 gardens with the ladies of her suite. When the king was 
 informed that madame had left her apartments and had 
 gone for a walk in the gardens, he collected all the gentle- 
 
TEN tEASS LATEK. 259 
 
 men he could find, and invited them to follow him. He 
 found madame engaged in chasing hutterflies, on a large 
 lawn bordered with heliotrope and flowering broom. She 
 was looking on as the most adventurous and youngest of 
 her ladies ran to and fro, and with her back turned to a 
 high hedge, very impatiently awaited the arrival of the 
 king, to whom she had given the rendezvous. The sound 
 of many feet upon the gravel-walk made her turn round. 
 Louis XIV. was bareheaded; he had struck down with his 
 cane a peacock-butterfly, which M. de St. Aignan had 
 picked up from the ground, quite stunned. 
 
 "You see, madame," said the king, as he approached her, 
 "that I, too, am hunting for you;" and then, turning to- 
 ward those who had accompanied him, said, "Gentlemen, 
 see if each of you cannot obtain as much for these ladies;" 
 a remark which was a signal for all to retire. 
 
 And thereupon a curious spectacle might be observed; 
 old and corpulent courtiers were seen running after butter- 
 flies, losing their hats as they ran, and with their raised 
 canes cutting down the myrtles and the furze, as they 
 would have done the Spaniards. 
 
 The king offered madame his arm, and they both selected, 
 as the center of observation, a bench with a roofing of moss, 
 a kind of hut roughly designed by the modest genius of one 
 of the gardeners who had inaugurated the picturesque and 
 fanciful amid the formal style of gardening of that period. 
 This sheltered retreat, covered with nasturtiums and climb- 
 ing roses, screened a bench, as it were, so that the specta- 
 tors, insulated in the middle of the lawn, saw and were seen 
 on every side, but could not be heard, without perceiving 
 those who might approach for the purpose of listening. 
 Seated thus, the king made a sign of encouragement to 
 those who were running about; and then, as if he were 
 engaged with madame in a dissertation upon the butterfly, 
 which he had thrust through with a gold pin and fastened 
 on his hat, said to her: 
 
 "How admirably we are placed here for conversation." 
 
 "Yes, sire, for I wished to be heard by you alone, and yet 
 to be seen by every one." 
 
 "And I also," said Louis. ' 
 
 "My note surprised you?" 
 
 "Terrified me, rather. But what I have to tell you is 
 more important." 
 
 "It cannot be, sire. Do you know that Monsieur refuses 
 to see me?" 
 
260 its TEARS LATER. 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "Can you not guess why?" 
 
 "Ah! madame, in that case we have both the same thing 
 to say to each ether." 
 
 "What has happened to you, then?" 
 
 "You wish me to begin?" 
 
 "Yes, for I have told you all." 
 
 "Well, then, as soon as I returned, I found my mother 
 waiting for me, and she led me away to her own apart- 
 ments." 
 
 "The queen-mother?" said madame, with some anxiety; 
 "the matter is serious, then." 
 
 "Indeed it is, for she told me — but, in the first place 
 allow me to preface what I have to say with one remark. 
 Has Monsieur ever spoken to you about me?" 
 
 "Often." 
 
 "Has he ever spoken to you about his jealousy?" 
 
 "More frequently still." 
 
 "Of his jealousy of me?" 
 
 "No; but of the Duke of Buckingham and De Guiche." 
 
 "Well, madame. Monsieur's present idea is a jealousy of 
 myself." 
 
 "Eeally!" replied the princess, smiling archly. 
 
 "And it really seems to me," continued the king, "that 
 we have never given any ground " 
 
 "Never! at least, I have not. But who told you that 
 Monsieur was jealous?" 
 
 "My mother represented to me that Monsieur entered 
 her apartments like a madman, that he had uttered a thou- 
 sand complaints against you, and — forgive me for saying it 
 — against your coquetry. It appears that Monsieur indulges 
 in injustice, too." 
 
 "You are very kind, sire." 
 
 "My mother reassured him; but he pretended that people 
 reassure him too often, and that he had had quite enough 
 of it." 
 
 "Would it not be better for him not to make himself 
 uneasy in any way?" 
 
 "The very thing I said." 
 
 "Confess, sire, that the world is very wicked. Is it pos- 
 sible that a brother and sister cannot converse together, or 
 take pleasure in each other's society, without giving rise to 
 remarks and suspicions? For, indeed, sire, we are doing no 
 harm, and have no intention of doing any." 
 
 And she looked at the king with that proud and provok- 
 
TEK YEARS LATER. 361 
 
 ing glance which kindles desire in the coldest and wisest of 
 men. 
 
 "No!" sighed the king; "that is true." 
 
 "You know very well, sire, that if it were to continue, I 
 should be obliged to make a disturbance. Do you decide 
 upon our conduct, and say whether it has, or has not, been 
 perfectly correct." 
 
 "Oh, certainly, perfectly correct." 
 
 "Often alone together — for we delight in the same things 
 — we might possibly be led into error, but have we done so? 
 I regard you as a brother, and nothing more." 
 
 The king frowned. She continued: 
 
 "Your hand, which often meets my own, does not excito 
 in me that agitation and emotion which is the case with 
 those who love each other, for instance " 
 
 "Enough," said the king, "enough, I entreat you. You 
 have no pity — you are killing me." 
 
 "What is the matter?" 
 
 "In fact, then, you distinctly say you experience nothing 
 when near me." 
 
 "Oh, sire I don't say that; my afEection " 
 
 "Enough, Henrietta, I again entreat you. If you believe 
 me to be marble, as you are, undeceive yourself." 
 
 "I do not understand you, fire." 
 
 "Very well," sighed the king, casting down his eyes. 
 "And so our meetings, the pressure of each other's hands, 
 the looks we have exchanged — Yes, yes; you are right, 
 and I understand your meaning;" and he buried his face in 
 his hands. 
 
 "Take care, sire, said madame hurriedly, "Monsieur de 
 St. Aignan is looking "t you." 
 
 "Of course," said Louis angrily; "never even the shadow 
 of liberty! never any sincerity in my intercourse with any 
 one! I imagine I have found a friend, who is nothing but 
 a spy; a dearer friend, who is only a — sister!" 
 
 Madame was silent, and cast down her eyes. 
 
 "My husband is jealous," she murmured, in a tone of 
 which nothing could equal its sweetness and its charm. 
 
 "You are right!" exclaimed the king suddenly. 
 
 "You see," she said, looking at him in a manner that set 
 his heart on fire, "you are free, you are not suspected, the 
 peace of your house is not disturbed." 
 
 "Alas!" said the king, "as yet you know nothing, for 
 the queen is Jealous." 
 
 "Mari^ Theresa!" 
 
262 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "Perfectly mad with jealousy! Monsieur's jealousy arises 
 from hers; she was weeping and complaining to my mother, 
 and was reproaching us for those bathing-parties, which 
 have made me so happy." 
 
 "And me, too," answered madame, by a look. 
 
 "When, suddenly," continued the king, "Monsieur, who 
 was listening, heard the word lanos, which the queen pro- 
 nounced with some degree of bitterness, that awakened his 
 attention; he entered the room, looking quite wild, broke 
 into the conversation, and began to quarrel with my mother 
 so bitterly that she was obliged to leave him; so that, while 
 you have a jealous husband to deal with, I shall have per- 
 petually present before me a specter of Jealousy with swollen 
 eyes, a cadaverous face, and sinister looks." 
 
 "Poor king!" murmured madame, as she lightly touched 
 the king's hand. He retained her hand in his, and in order 
 to press it without exciting suspicion in the spectators, who 
 were not so much taken up with the butterflies that they 
 could not occupy themselves about other matters, and who 
 perceived clearly enough that there was some mystery in the 
 king's and madame's conversation, Louis placed the dying 
 butterfly before his sister-in-law, and both bent over it as if 
 to count the thousand eyes of its wings, or the particles of 
 golden dust which covered it. Neither of them spoke; 
 however, their hair mingled, their breath united, and their 
 hands feverishly throbbed in each other's grasp. Five 
 minutes passed by in this manner. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVIII. 
 
 WHAT WAS CAUGHT IK THE HAND AFTER THE BUTTERFLIES. 
 
 The two young people remained for a moment with their: 
 ieads bent down, bowed, as it were, beneath the double' 
 thought of the love which was springing up in their hearts, 
 and which gives birth to so many happy fancies in the 
 imaginations of twenty years of age. Mme. Henrietta gave 
 a side-glance from time to time at the king. Hers was one 
 of those finely organized natures capable of looking in- 
 wardly at itself as well as others at the same moment. She 
 perceived Love lying at the bottom of Louis' heart, as a 
 skillful diver sees a pearl at the bottom of the sea. She 
 knew Louis was hesitating, if not in doubt, and that his 
 indolent or timid heart required aid and encouragement. 
 
TEN YEAES LATER. 263 
 
 _ "Consequently?" she said interrogatively, breaking the 
 silence. 
 
 "What do you mean?" inquired Louis, after a moment's 
 pause. 
 
 "I mean that I shall be obliged to return to the resolu- 
 tion I had formed." 
 
 "To what resolution?" 
 
 "To that which I have already submitted to your 
 majesty." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "On the very day we had a certain explanation about 
 Monsieur's jealousies." 
 
 "What did you say to me then?" inquired Louis, with 
 some anxiety. 
 
 "Do you not remember, sire?" 
 
 "Alas! if it be another cause of unhappiness, I shall 
 recollect it soon enough." 
 
 "A cause of unhappiness for myself alone, sire," replied 
 Mme. Henrietta; "but as it is necessary, I must submit to 
 it." 
 
 "At least, tell me what it is," said the king. 
 
 A rmpn pp 
 
 "Still that unkind resolve?" 
 
 "Believe me, sire, I have not formed it without a violent 
 struggle with myself; it is absolutely necessary I should 
 return to England." 
 
 "Never, never will I permit you to leave Prance!" ex- 
 claimed the king. 
 
 "And yet, sire," said madam e, affecting a gentle yet 
 sorrowful determination, "nothing is more urgently neces- 
 sary; nay, more than that, I am persuaded it is your 
 mother's desire I should do so." 
 
 "Desire!" exclaimed the king; "that is a very strange 
 expression to use to me." 
 
 "Still," replied Mme. Henrietta smilingly, "are you not 
 happy in submitting to the wishes of so good a mother?" 
 
 "Enough, I implore you; you read my very soul." 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "Yes; for you speak of your departure with tranquillity." 
 
 "I was not born for happiness, sire," replied the princess 
 dejectedly; "and I acquired, in very early life, the habit of 
 seeing my dearest thoughts disappointed." 
 
 "Do you speak truly?" said the king. "Would your 
 departure gainsay any one of your cherished thoughts?" 
 
 "If I were to say 'Yes,' would you begin to take your 
 ijji^fortune patientiiv?" 
 
364 TEN TEAES LATER. 
 
 "How cruel you are!" 
 
 "Take care, sire; some one is coming." 
 
 The king looked all round him, and said: 
 
 "No, there is no one," and then continued: "Come, 
 Henrietta, instead of trying to contend against Monsieur's 
 jealousy by a departure which would kill me — " Henrietta 
 slightly shrugged her shoulders like a woman unconvinced 
 — "yes," repeated Louis, "which would kill me, I say- 
 instead of fixing your mind on this departure, does not 
 your imagination — or, rather, does not your heart — suggest 
 some expedient?" 
 
 "What is it you wish my heart to suggest?" 
 
 "Tell me, how can one prove to another that it is wrong 
 to be jealous?" 
 
 "In the first place, sire, by giving no motive for jealousy; 
 in other words, in loving no one but the one in question." 
 
 "Oh! I expected better than that." 
 
 "What did you expect?" 
 
 "That you would simply tell me that jealous people are 
 pacified by concealing the affection which is entertained for 
 the object of their jealousy." 
 
 "Dissimulation is difficult, sire." 
 
 "Yet it is only by means of conquering difficulties that 
 any happiness is attained. As far as I am concerned, I 
 swear I will give the lie to those who are jealous of me by 
 pretending to treat you like any other woman." 
 
 "A bad, as well as an unsafe, means," said the young 
 princess, shaking her pretty head. 
 
 "You seem to think everything bad, dear Henrietta," 
 said Louis discontentedly. "You destroy everything I 
 propose. Suggest, at least, something else in its stead. 
 Come, try and think. I trust implicitly to a woman's in- 
 vention. Do you invent in your turn." 
 
 "Well, sire, I have hit upon something. Will you listen 
 to it?" 
 
 "Can you ask me? You speak of a matter of life or 
 death to me, and then ask if I will listen." 
 
 "Well, I judge of it by my own case. If my husband in- 
 tended to put me on the wrong scent with regard to another 
 woman, one thing would reassure me more than anything 
 else." 
 
 "What would that be?" 
 
 "In the first place, to see that he never took any notice of 
 the woman in question." 
 
 "Exactly. That is precisely what I said just now," 
 
tEsr YfiAES LATER, ' 365 
 
 "Very well; but in order to be perfectly reassured on the 
 subject, I should like to see him occupy himself with some 
 one else." 
 
 "Ah! I understand you," replied Louis, smiling. "But 
 confess, dear Henrietta, if the means is at least ingenious, 
 it is hardly charitable." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "In curing the dread of a wound in a jealous person's 
 mind, you inflict one upon the heart. His fear ceases, it is 
 true; but the evil still exists; and that seems to me to be 
 far worse." 
 
 "Agreed; but he does not detect, he does not suspect the 
 real enemy; he does no prejudice to love itself; he concen- 
 trates all his strength on the side where his strength will do 
 no injury to anything or any one. In a word, sire, my 
 plan, which I confess I am surprised to find you dispute, is 
 mischievous to jealous people, it is true; but to lovers it is 
 full of advantage. Besides, let me ask, sire, who, except 
 yourself, has ever thought of pitying jealous people? Are 
 they not a melancholy set of creatures, always equally un- 
 happy, whether with or without a cause? You may remove 
 that cause, but you do not remove their sufferings. It is a 
 disease which lies in the imagination, and, like all imaginary 
 disorders, it is incurable. By the bye, I remember an 
 aphorism upon this subject, of poor Dr. Dawley, a clever 
 and amusing man, who, had it not been for my brother, 
 who could not do without him, I should have with me now. 
 He used to say, 'Whenever you are likely to suffer from two 
 affections, choose that which will give you the least trouble, 
 and I will allow you to retain it; for it is positive,' he said, 
 'that that very one is of the greatest service to me, in order 
 to enable me to get rid of the other.' " 
 
 "Well and judiciously remarked, dear Henrietta," replied 
 .the king, smiling. 
 
 "Oh! we have some clever people in London, sire." 
 
 "And those clever people produce adorable pupils. I 
 will grant this Daley, Darley, Dawley, or whatever you call 
 him, a pension for his aphorism; but I entreat you, Hen- 
 rietta, to begin by choosing the least of your evils. You do 
 not answer — you smile. I guess that the least of your evils 
 is your stay in France. I will allow you to retain this mis- 
 fortune; and, in order to begin with the cure of the other, 
 I will this very day begin to look out for a subject which 
 shall divert the attention of the jealous members of either 
 sex who persecute us both." 
 
268 TEN" TEAES LATER, 
 
 "Hush! this time some one is really coming," said ma- 
 dame; and she stooped down to gather a flower from the 
 thick grass at her feet. Some one, in fact, was approach- 
 ing; for suddenly a bevy of young girls ran down from the 
 top of the little hillock, following the cavaliers — the cause 
 of this irruption being a magnificent hawk-moth, with wings 
 like rose leaves. The prey in question had fallen into the 
 net of Mile, de Tonnay-Charente, who displayed it with 
 some pride to her less successful rivals. The queen of the 
 chase had seated herself some twenty paces from the bank 
 on which Louis and Mme. Henrietta were reclining, and 
 leaned her back against a magnificent oak-tree intwined 
 with ivy, and stuck the butterfly on the long cane she car- 
 ried in her hand. Mile, de Tonney-Charente was very 
 beautiful, and the gentlemen, accordingly, deserted her 
 companions, and, under the pretext of complimenting her 
 upon her success, pressed in a circle around her. The king 
 and the princess looked gloomily at this scene, as spectators 
 of maturer age look on at the games of little children. 
 
 "They seem to be amusing themselves there," said the 
 king. 
 
 "Greatly, sire; I have always found that people are 
 amused wherever youth and beauty are to be found." 
 
 "What do you think of Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, 
 Henrietta?" inquired the king. 
 
 "I think she is rather fair in complexion," replied ma- 
 dame, fixing in a moment upon the only fault it was possi- 
 ble to find in the almost perfect beauty of the future Mme. 
 de Montespan. 
 
 "Bather fair, yes; but beautiful, I think, in spite of 
 that." 
 
 "Is that your opinion, sire?" 
 
 "Yes, really." 
 
 "Very well; and it is mine, too." 
 
 "And she seems to be much sought after, too." 
 
 "Oh, that is a matter of course. Lovers flutter from one 
 to another. If we had hunted for lovers instead of butter- 
 flies, you can see, from those who surround her, what suc- 
 cessful sport we should have had." 
 
 "Tell me, Henrietta, what would be said if the king 
 were to make himself one of those lovers and let his glance 
 fall in that direction? Would some one else be jealous, in 
 such a case?" 
 
 "Oh, sire. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente is a very 
 efficacious remedy," said madame, with a sigh. "She 
 
TEN TEAES LATER. 267 
 
 Would cure a jealous man, certainly; but she might possibly 
 make a woman jealous, too." 
 
 '"Henrietta," exclaimed Louis, "you fill my heart with joy. 
 Yes, yes; Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente is far too beau- 
 tiful to serve as a cloak." 
 
 "A king's cloak ought to be beautiful." 
 
 "Do you advise me to do it, then?" inquired Louis. 
 
 "I ! what should I say, sire, except that to give such an ad- 
 vice would be to supply arms against myself. It would be ; 
 folly or pride to advise you to take, for the heroine of an 
 assumed affection, a woman more beautiful than the one tor? 
 whom you pretend to feel real regard." 
 
 The king tried to take madame's hand in his own ; his eyes 
 sougljit hers; and then he murmured a few words so full of 
 tenderness, but pronounced in so low a tone, that the historian, 
 who ought to hear everything, could not hear them.- Then, 
 speaking aloud, he said : 
 
 "Do you, yourself, choose for me the one who is to cure our 
 jealous friend. To her, then, all my devotion, all my atten- 
 tion, all the time that I can spare from my occupations, shall 
 be devoted. For her shall be the flower that I may pluck for 
 you, the fond thoughts with which you have inspired me. To- 
 ward her, the glance that I dare not bestow upon you, and 
 which ought to be able to arouse you from your indifference. 
 But be careful in your selection, lest, in offering her the rose 
 which I may have plucked I should fi.nd myself conquered by 
 yourself; and lest my looks, my hand, my lips, should not 
 turn immediately toward you, even were the whole world to 
 !^ess my secret." 
 
 While these words escaped from the king's lips, in a streams 
 of wild affection, madame blushed, breathless, happy, proud,' 
 almost intoxicated with delight. She could find nothing to 
 say in reply ; her pride and her thirst for homage were satiifled, 
 
 "I shall fail," she said, raising her beautiful blacl eye&n 
 ^T)ut not as you beg me, for all this incense which you wisbl 
 to burn on the altar of another divinity. Ah! sire, I, too, 
 shall be jealous of it, and want it to be restored to me, and 
 would not wish that a particle of it should be lost in the way. 
 Therefore, sire, with your royal permission, I will choose one 
 who shall appear to me the least likely to distract your atten- 
 tion, ard who will leave my image pure and unsullied in your 
 heart,^' 
 
 "Happily for me," said the king, "your heart is not hard 
 
268 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 and unfeeling. If it were so, I should be alarmed at the 
 threat you hold out ; our precautions have been taken on this 
 point, and around you, as around myself, it would be diffi- 
 cult to meet with a disagreeable-looking face." 
 
 While the king was speaking, madame had risen from her 
 seat, looked around the greensward, and after a careful and 
 silent examination, she called the king to her side, and said: 
 "See yonder, sire, upon the declivity of that little hill, near 
 that group of Guelder roses, that beautiful girl walking alone, 
 her head down, her arms hanging by her side, with her eyes 
 fixed upon the flowers, which she crushes beneath her feet, like 
 one who is lost in thought." 
 "Mademoiselle de la Valliere, do you mean ?" 
 "Yes." 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Will she not suit you, sire ?" 
 
 "Why, look how thin the poor child is. She has hardly 
 any flesh upon her bones." 
 "Nay; am I stout, then?" 
 "She is so melancholy." 
 
 "The greater contrast to myself, who am accused of being 
 too lively." 
 "She is lame." 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 "No doubt of it. Look; she has allowed every one to 
 pass by her, from the fear of her defect being remarked." 
 
 "Well, she will not run so fast as Daphne, and will not 
 be able to escape Apollo." 
 
 "Henrietta," said the king, out of temper, "of all your 
 maids of honor, you have really selected for me the one most 
 full of defects." 
 
 "Still she is one of my maids of honor." 
 "Of course ; but what do you mean ?" 
 "I mean that, in order to visit this new divinity, you will 
 aot be able to do so without paying a visit to my apartments, 
 and that, as propriety will forbid your conversing with her 
 in private, you will be compelled to see her in my circle, to 
 speak to me while speaking to her. I mean, in fact, that 
 those who may be jealous will be wrong if they suppose you 
 come to my apartments for my sake, since you will come 
 there for Mademoiselle de la Valliere." 
 "Who happens to be lame." 
 "Hardly that." 
 
TEN YEAES LATEB. 269 
 
 ''Who never opens her lips." 
 
 "But who, when she does open them, displays a beautiful 
 set of teeth." 
 
 "Who may serve as a model for an osteologist." 
 
 "Your favor will change her appearance." 
 
 "Henrietta I" 
 
 "At all events, you have allowed me to be the mistress." 
 
 "Alas! yes." 
 
 "Well, my choice is made ; I impose her upon you, and you 
 must submit." I 
 
 "Oh ! I would accept one of the furies, if you were to in- 
 sist upon it." 
 
 "La Valliere is as gentle as a lamb; do not fear she will 
 3ver contradict you when you tell her you love her." 
 
 "You are not afraid that I shall say too much to her?" 
 
 "It would be for my sake." 
 
 "The treaty is agreed to, then ?" 
 
 "And signed." 
 
 "You will continue to show me the friendship of a brother, 
 the attention of a brother, the gallantry of a monarch, will you 
 not?" 
 
 "I will preserve for you a heart which has already become 
 accustomed to beat only at your coiomand." 
 
 "Very well; do you not see how we have guaranteed the 
 future by this means ?" 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 "Will your mother cease to regard me as an enemy?" 
 
 ."Yes." 
 
 "Will Maria Theresa leave ofE speaking in Spanish before 
 
 , Monsieur, who has a horror of conversation held in foreign 
 
 j languages, because he always thinks he is being ill-spoken of ? 
 
 ii and, lastly," continued the princess, "will people persist in 
 
 attributing a wrongful affection to the king, when the truth is, 
 
 we can be nothing to each other, except such as may arise from 
 
 « sympathy, free fi-om all mental reservation?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," sa'd the king hesitatingly. "But yet other 
 things may still be said of us." 
 
 "What can be said, sire? Shall we never be left in tran- 
 quillity?" 
 
 '^People will say I am deficient in taste; but what is my 
 self-respect in comparison with your tranquillity?" 
 
 "In comparison wit^ my honor, sire, and that of our 
 
270 TEN- YEAES LATEE. 
 
 family, you mean. Besides, believe me, do not be so hastily 
 prejudiced against La Valliere. She is lame, it is true, but 
 she is not deficient in good sense. Moreover, all that the 
 king touches is converted into gold." 
 
 "Well, madame, be assured of one thing, namely, that I 
 am still grateful to you; you might even yet make me pay 
 dearer for your stay in France." 
 
 "Sire, some one approaches." 
 ■ "Well !" 
 
 "One last word." 
 
 "Say it." 
 
 "You are prudent and judicious, sire; but in the present 
 instance you will be obliged to summon to your aid all your 
 prudence and all your judgment." 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Louis, laughing, "from this very even- 
 ing I shall begin to act my part, and you shall see whether 
 I am not quite fit to represent the character of a tender 
 swain. After luncheon there will be a promenade in the 
 forest, and then there is supper and the ballet at ten o'clock." 
 
 "I know it." 
 
 "The ardor of my passion shall blaze more brilliantly than 
 the fireworks, shall shine more steadily than the lamps of our 
 friend Colbert; it shall shine so dazzlingly that the queens 
 and Monsieur shall be almost blinded by it." 
 
 "Take care, sire, take care." 
 
 "In Heaven's name, what have I done, then?" 
 
 "I shall begin to recall the compliments I paid you just 
 now. You prudent ! you wise, did I say ? why, you begin by 
 the most reckless inconsistencies! Can a passion be kindled 
 in this manner, like a torch, in a moment ? Can a monarch, 
 such as you are, without any preparation, fall at the feet of a 
 girl like La Valliere?" 
 
 "Ah ! Henrietta, now I understand you. We have not yet 
 begun the campaign, and you are plundering me already." 
 
 "'No; I am only recalling you to common-sense ideas. 
 Let your passion be kindled gradually, instead of allowing 
 it to burst forth so suddenly. Jove's thunders and light- 
 nings are heard and seen before the palace is set on fire. 
 Everything has its commencement. If you are so easily ex- 
 cited, no one will believe you are really captivated, and every 
 one will think you out of your senses — unless, indeed, the truth 
 itself be not guessed. People are not always so foolish as 
 they seem." 
 
TEK TEARS LATER. 271 
 
 The king was obliged to admit that madame was an angel 
 for sense, and the very reverse for cleverness. He bowed, 
 and said: 
 
 "Agreed, madame; I will think over my plan of attack. 
 Great military men — my cousin De Conde, for instance — 
 grow pale in meditation upon their strategical plans before 
 they move one of the pawns, which people call armies; I 
 therefore wish to draw up a complete plan of attack, for 
 you know that the tender passion is subdivided in a variety 
 of ways. Well, then, I shall stop at the village of Little 
 Attentions, at the hamlet of Love Letters, before I follow 
 the road of Visible Affection; the way is clear enough, you 
 know, and poor Madame de Scudery would never forgive 
 me for passing through a halting-place without stopping." 
 
 "Ah! now we have returned to our proper senses, shall 
 we say adieu, sire?" 
 
 "Alas! it must be so, for, see, we are interrupted." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said Mme. Henrietta; "they are bringing 
 Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Oharente'and her sphinx butterfly 
 in grand procession this way." 
 
 "It is perfectly well understood, then, that this evening, 
 during the promenade, I am to make my escape into the 
 forest, and find La Valliere without you." 
 
 "I will take care to send her away." 
 
 "Very well; I will speak to her when she is with her 
 companions, and I will then discharge my first arrow at 
 her." 
 
 "Be skillful," said madame, laughing, "and do not miss 
 the heart." 
 
 And the princess took leave of the king, and went for- 
 ward to meet the merry troop, which was advancing with 
 much ceremony, and a great many pretended fiourishes of 
 trumpets, which they imitated with their mouths. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE BALLET OF THE SEASON. 
 
 At the conclusion of the banquet, which had been served 
 at five o'clock, the king entered his cabinet, where his 
 tailors were awaiting him, for the purpose of trying on the 
 celebrated costume representing Spring, which was the re- 
 sult of so much imagination, and had cost so many efforts 
 
^72" 'im TEARS lATEK, 
 
 of thought to the designers and ornament-workers of the 
 court. As for the ballet itself, every person knew the part 
 he had to take in it, and how to perform that part. The 
 king had resolved to make it a matter of surprise. Hardly, 
 therefore, had he finished his conference, and entered his 
 own apartment, than he desired his two masters of the 
 ceremonies, Villeroy and St. Aignan, to be sent for. Both 
 replied that they only awaited his orders, and that every- 
 thing was ready to begin, but that it was necessary to insure 
 fine weather and a favorable night before these orders could 
 be carried out. The king opened his window; the golden 
 hues of evening could be seen in the horizon through the 
 vistas of the wood, and the moon, white as snow, was 
 already visible in the heavens. Not a ripple could be 
 noticed on the surface of the green waters; the swans them- 
 selves, even, reposing with folded wings like ships at anchor, 
 seemed penetrated by the warmth of the air, the freshness of 
 the water, and the silence of the beautiful evening. The 
 king, having observed all these things, and contemplated 
 the magnificent picture before him, gave the order which 
 De Villeroy and De St. Aignan awaited; but, with the view 
 of insuring the execution of this order in a royal manner, 
 one last question was necessary, and Louis XIV. put it to 
 the two gentlemen in the following manner: 
 
 "Have you any money?" 
 
 "Sire," replied St. Aignan, "we have arranged every- 
 thing with Monsieur Colbert." 
 
 "Ah! very well." 
 
 "Yes, sire, and Monsieur Colbert said he would wait 
 upon your majesty as soon as your majesty should manifest 
 an intention of carrying out the fetes, of which he has 
 furnished the programme." 
 
 "Let him come in, then," said the king; and as if Col- 
 bert had been listening at the door for the purpose of keep- 
 ing himself au courant of the conversation, he entered as 
 soon as the king had pronounced his name before the two 
 courtiers. 
 
 "Ah! Monsieur Colbert," said the king. "Gentlemen, 
 to your posts;" whereupon St. Aignan and Villeroy took 
 their leave. The king seated himself in an easy-chair near 
 the window, saying: 
 
 "The ballet will take place this evening. Monsieur 
 Colbert." 
 
 "In that case, sire, I settle the accounts to-morrow." 
 
 "Why 60?" 
 
TEN TEAKS LATEB. 2"3 
 
 "I promised the trades-people to pay their bills the fol- 
 Lowing day to that on which the ballet should take place." 
 
 "Very well. Monsieur Colbert, pay them, since you have 
 promised to do so." , 
 
 "Certainly, sire; but I must have money to do that." 
 
 "What! have not the four millions, which Monsieur Fou- 
 quet promised, been sent? I had forgotten to ask you 
 about it." 
 
 "Sire, they were sent at the hour promised." 
 
 "Well?"_ 
 
 "Well, sire, the colored lamps, the fireworks, the musi- 
 cians, and the cooks, have swallowed up four millions in 
 eight days." 
 
 "Entirely?" 
 
 "To the last penny. Every time your majesty directed 
 the banks of the grand canal to be illuminated, as much oil 
 was consumed as there was water in the basins." 
 
 "Well, well. Monsieur Colbert; the fact is, then, you 
 have no more money?" 
 
 "I have no more, sire, but Monsieur Fouquet has," Col- 
 bert replied, his face darkening with a sinister expression 
 of pleasure. 
 
 "What do you mean?" inquired Louis. 
 
 "We have already made Monsieur Fouquet advance six 
 millions. He has given them with too much grace not to 
 have others still to give, if they are required, which is the 
 case at the present moment. It is necessary, therefore, 
 that he should comply." 
 
 The king frowned. 
 
 "Monsieur Colbert," said he, accentuating the financier's 
 name, "that is not the way I understood the matter; T do 
 not wish to make use, against any of my servants, of a 
 means of pressure which may oppress him and fetter his 
 services. In eight days Monsieur Fouquet has furnished 
 six millions; that is a good sum." 
 
 Colbert turned pale. 
 
 "And yet,"'he said, "your majesty did not use this 
 language some time ago, when the news about Belle-Isle 
 arrived, for instance." 
 
 "You are right. Monsieur Colbert." 
 
 "Nothing, however, has changed since then; on the cen- 
 trary, indeed." 
 
 "In my thoughts, monsieur, everything is changed." 
 
 "Does your majesty, then, no longer believe the at- 
 tempts?" 
 
274 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "My own affairs concern me alone, monsicurj and I hav9 
 already told you I transact them myself." 
 
 "Then, I perceive," said Colbert, trembling from anger 
 and from fear, "that I have had the misfortune to fall into 
 disgrace with your majesty." 
 
 Not at all; you are, on the contrary, most agreeable to 
 me." 
 
 "Yet, sire," said the minister, with a certain affected 
 bluntness, so successful when it was a question of flattering 
 Louis' self-esteem, "what use is there in being agreeable 
 to your majesty, if one can no longer be of any use to you?" 
 
 "I reserve your services for a better occasion; and, be- 
 lieve me, they will only be the better appreciated." 
 
 "Your majesty's plan, then, in this affair, is " 
 
 "You want money, Monsieur Colbert?" 
 
 "Seven hundred thousand francs, sire." 
 
 "You will take them from my private treasure." Col- 
 bert bowed. "And," added Louis, "as it seems a difficult 
 matter for you, notwithstanding your economy, to defray, 
 with so limited a sum, the expenses which I intend to incur, 
 I will at once sign an order for three millions." 
 
 The king took a pen and signed an order immediately, 
 then handed it to Colbert. 
 
 "Be satisfied. Monsieur Colbert, the plan I have adopted 
 is one worthy of a king," said Louis XIV., who pronounced 
 these words with all the majesty he knew how to assume in 
 such circumstances; and he dismissed Colbert for the pur- 
 pose of giving an audience to his tailors. 
 
 The order issued by the king was known in the whole of 
 Fontainebleau; it was already known, too, that the king 
 was trying on his costume, and that the ballet would be 
 danced in the evening. The news circulated with the 
 rapidity of lightning; during its progress it kindled every 
 variety of coquetry, desire, and wild ambition. At the 
 same moment, as if by enchantment, every one who knew 
 how to hold a needle, every one who could distinguish a 
 coat from a pair of trousers, was summoned to the assist- 
 ance of those who had received invitation. The king had 
 completed his toilet at nine o'clock; he appeared in an open 
 carriage decorated with branches of trees and flowers. The 
 queens had taken their seats upon a magnificent dais, or 
 platform, erected upon the borders of the lake, in a theater 
 of wonderful elegance of construction. In the space of five 
 hours the carpenters had put together all tlie dilfevent parts 
 connected with the theater; the upholsterers had laid dowu. 
 
TEK YEARS LATER. SW 
 
 the carpets, erected the seats; and, as if at the signal of an 
 enchanter's wand, a thousand arms, aiding, instead of in- 
 terfering with one another, had constructed the building on 
 this spot amid the sound of music; while, at the same time, 
 other workmen illuminated the theater and the shores of 
 the lake with an incalculable number of lamps. As the 
 heavens, set with stars, were perfectly unclouded, as not 
 even a breath of air could be heard in the woods, and as if 
 Nature itself had yielded complacently to the king's fancies, 
 the back of the theater had been left open; so that behind 
 the foreground of the scenes could be seen as a background 
 the beautiful sky glittering with stars; the sheet of water, 
 illumined by the lights which were reflected in it, and the 
 bluish outline of the grand masses of woods, with their 
 rounded tops. When the king made his appearance the 
 whole theater was full, and presented to the view one vast 
 group dazzling with gold and precious stones; in which, 
 however, at the first glance, no one single face could be 
 distinguished. By degrees, as the sight became accustomed 
 to so much brilliancy, the rarest beauties appeared to the 
 view, as in the evening sky the stars appear one by one to 
 him who closes his eyes and then opens them again. 
 
 The theater represented a grove of trees; a few fawns 
 lifting up their cloven feet were jumping about; a dyrad 
 made her appearance on the scene, and was immediately 
 pursued by them; others gathered round her for her de- 
 fense, and they quarreled as they danced. Suddenly, for 
 the purpose of restoring peace and order, Spring, accom- 
 panied by his whole court, made his appearance. The 
 Elements, the subaltern powers of mythology, together 
 with their attributes, precipitated themselves upon the trace 
 of their gracious sovereign. The Seasons, the allies of 
 Spring, followed him closely, to form a quadrille, which, 
 after many words of more or less flattering import, was the 
 commencement of the dance. The music, hautboys, flutes, 
 and viols, were descriptive of the rural delights. The king 
 had already made his appearance, amid thunders of applause. 
 He was dressed in a tunic of flowers, which set off his easy 
 and well-formed figure to advantage. His legs, the best- 
 shaped at the court, were also displayed to great advantage 
 in flesh-colored silken hose, of silk so fine and so transparent 
 that it seemed almost like flesh itelf. The most beautiful 
 pale-lilac satin shoes, with bows of flowers and leaves, im- 
 prisoned his small feet. The bust of the figure was in 
 harmonious keeping with the base; the waving hair was float- 
 
27G TEJT TEARS LATER. 
 
 ing on his shoulders, the freshness of his complexion WM 
 enhanced by the brilliancy of his beautiful blue eyes, which 
 softly kindled all hearts; a mouth with tempting lips, 
 which deigned to open in smiles. Such was the prince of 
 the period, who had that evening been justly named "The 
 King of all the Loves." There was something in his car- 
 riage which resembled the buoyant movements of an 
 immortal, and he did not dance so much as seem to soar 
 along. His entrance had produced, therefore, the most 
 brilliant effect. Suddenly the Comte de St. Aignan was 
 observed endeavoring to approach either the king or 
 madame. 
 
 The princess — who was clothed in a long dress, diaphanous 
 and light as the finest network tissue from the hands of the 
 skillful Mechlin workers, 'her knee occasionally revealed 
 beneath the folds of the tunic, and her little feet incased in 
 silken shoes — advanced radiant with beauty, accompanied 
 by her cortege of Bacchantes, and had already reached the 
 spot which had been assigned to her in the dance. The 
 applause continued so long that the comte had ample leisure 
 to join the king. 
 
 "What is the matter, St. Aignan?" said Spring. 
 
 "Nothing whatever," replied the courtier, as pale as 
 death; "but your majesty has not thought of the Fruits." 
 
 "Yes; it is suppressed." 
 
 "Far from it, sire; your majesty having given no direc- 
 tions about it, the musicians have retained it." 
 
 "How excessively annoying!" said the king. "This 
 figure cannot be performed, since Monsieur de Guiche is 
 absent. It must be suppressed." 
 
 "Oh, sire, a quarter of an hour's music without any 
 dancing will produce an effect so chilling as to ruin the suc- 
 cess of the ballet." 
 
 "But, comte, since " 
 
 "Oh, sire, that is not the greatest misfortune; for, after 
 all, the orchestra could still just as well cut it out, if it were 
 necessary; but " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "Why, Monsieur de Guiche is here." 
 
 "Here?" replied the king, frowning, "here? Are you 
 sure?" 
 
 "Yes, sire; and ready-dressed for the ballet." 
 
 The king felt himself color deeply, and said: 
 
 "You are probably mistaken." 
 
 "So little is that the case, sire, that if your majesty will 
 look to the right you will see that the comte is waiting." ^ 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. Hill 
 
 Louis turned hastily toward the side, and, in fact, on his 
 right, brilliant in his character of Autumn, De Guiche 
 awaited until the king should look at him, in order that he 
 might address him. To describe the stupefaction of the 
 king, that of Monsieur, who was moving about restlessly in 
 his box — to describe also the agitated movement of the 
 heads in the theater, and the strange emotion of madame 
 at the sight of her partner — is a task we must leave to more 
 able hands. The king stood almost gaping with astonish- 
 ment as he looked at the comte, who, bowing lowly, 
 approached his majesty with the profoundest respect. 
 
 "Sire," he said, "your majesty's most devoted servant ap- 
 proaches to perform a service on this occasion with similar 
 zeal to that he has already shown on the field of battle. 
 Your majesty, in omitting the dance of the Fruits, would 
 be losing the most beautiful scene in the ballet. I did not 
 wish to be the cause of so great a prejudice to your majesty's 
 elegance, skill, and graceful address; and I have left my 
 tenants in order to place my services at your majesty's 
 commands." 
 
 Every word fell distinctly, in perfect harmony and elo- 
 quence, upon Louis XIV. 's ears. Their flattery pleased, 
 as much as De Guiche's courage had astonished him, and he 
 simply replied: 
 
 "I did not tell you to return, comte." 
 
 "Certainly not, sire; but your majesty did not tell me to 
 remain." 
 
 The king perceived that time was passing away, that if 
 the scene were prolonged it might complicate every- 
 thing, and that a single cloud upon the picture would 
 effectually spoil the whole. Besides, the king's heart was 
 filled with two or three new ideas; he had just derived fresh 
 inspiration from the eloquent glances of madame. Her 
 look had said to him, "Since they are jealous of you, divide 
 their suspicions, for the man who distrusts two rivals does 
 not distrust either in particular." So that madame, by 
 this clever diversion, decided him. The king smiled upon 
 De Guiche, who did not comprehend a word of madame's 
 dumb language, but only remarked that she pretended not 
 to look at him, and he attributed the pardon which had 
 been conferred upon him to the princess' kindness of heart. 
 The king seemed pleased with every one present. Monsieur 
 was the only one who did not understand anything about 
 the matter. The ballet began; the effect was more than 
 beautiful. When the music, by its bursts of melody, carried 
 
378 TEK TEARS LATER. 
 
 away these illustrious dancers, when the simple, untutored 
 pantomime of that period, far more so on account of the 
 very indifferent acting of the august actors, had reached its 
 culminating point of triumph, the theater almost shook 
 with the tumultuous applause. 
 
 De Guiche shone like a sun, but like a courtly sun, which 
 is resigned to fill a subordinate part. Disdainful of a suc- 
 cess of which madame showed no acknowledgment, he 
 thought of nothing but of boldly regaining the marked 
 preference of the princess. She, however, did not bestow a 
 'single glance upon him. By degrees all his happiness, all 
 his brilliancy, subsided into regret and uneasiness; so that 
 his limbs lost their power, his arms hung heavily by his 
 side, and his head seemed stupefied. The king, who had 
 from this moment become in reality the principal dancer in 
 the quadrille, cast a look upon his vanquished rival. De 
 Guiche soon ceased to sustain even the character of the 
 courtier; without applause, he danced indifferently, and 
 very soon could not dance at all, by which means the 
 triumph of the king and of madame was assured. 
 
 CHAPTEE XL. 
 
 THE NYMPHS OF THE PARK OF FONTAINEBLEATJ. 
 
 The king remained for a moment to enjoy a triumph 
 which was as complete as it could possibly be. He then 
 turned toward madame, for the purpose of admiring her 
 also a little in her turn. Young persons love with more 
 vivacity, perhaps with greater ardor and deeper passion, 
 than others more advanced in years; but all the other feel- 
 ings are at the same time developed in proportion to their 
 youth and vigor; so that vanity being with them almost always 
 the equivalent of love, the latter feeling, according to the 
 laws of equipoise, never attains that degree of perfection 
 which it acquires in men and women from thirty to thirty-- 
 five years of age. Louis thought of madame, but only after 
 he had carefully thought of himself: and madame care- 
 fully thought of herself, without bestowing a single thought 
 upon the king. The victim, however, of all these royai 
 affections and vanities was poor De Guiche. Every one 
 could observe his agitation and prostration — a prostration 
 which was, indeed, the more remarkable since people were 
 DQt accustomed to see him with his arms hanging listlessly 
 
TEN TBAES LATEK. 879 
 
 by his side, his head bewildered, and his e5'es with their 
 bright intelligence gone. It rarely happened that any un- 
 easiness was excited on his account whenever a question of 
 elegance or taste was under discussion, and De Quiche's 
 defeat was accordingly attributed by the greater number 
 present to his courtier-like tact and ability. But there were 
 others — keen-sighted observers are always to be met with at 
 court — who remarked his paleness and his altered looks, 
 which he could neither feign nor conceal, and their conclu- 
 «ion was, that De G-uiche was not acting the part of a flat- 
 terer. All these sufferings, successes, and remarks, were 
 blended, confounded, and lost in the uproar of applause. 
 When, however, the queens had expressed their satisfaction 
 and the spectators their enthusiasm, when the king had re- 
 tired to his dressing-room to change his costume, and while 
 Monsieur, dressed as a woman, as he delighted to be, was, 
 in his turn, dancing about, De Guiche, who had now re- 
 covered himself, approached madame, who, seated at the 
 back of the theater, was waiting for the second part, and 
 had quittted the others for the purpose of creating a sort of 
 solitude for herself in the midst of the crowd, to meditate, 
 as it were, beforehand, upon chorographic effects; and it 
 will be perfectly understood that, absorbed in deep medita- 
 tion, she did not see, or rather, she pretended not to see, 
 anything that was passing around her. De Guiche, observ- 
 ing that she was alone, near a thicket constructed of painted 
 cloth, approached her. Two of her maids of honor, dressed 
 as hamadryads, seeing De Guiche advance, drew back out of 
 respect, whereupon De Guiche proceeded toward the mid- 
 dle of the circle and saluted her royal highness; but, 
 whether she did or did not observe his salutation, the prin- 
 cess did not even turn her head. A cold shiver passed 
 through poor De Guiche; he was unprepared for so utter an 
 indifference, for he had neither seen nor been told of any- 
 thing that had taken place, and, consequently, could guess 
 nothing. Remarking, therefore, that his obeisance obtained 
 him no acknowledgment, he advanced one step further, 
 and in a voice which he tried, though uselessly, to render 
 calm, said : 
 
 "i have the honor to present my most humble respects to 
 your royal highness." 
 
 Upon this madame deigned to turn her eyes languishingly 
 toward the comte, observing: 
 
 "Ah! Monsieur de Guiche, is that you? Good-day." 
 
 The gorote's patience almost forsook him as be cQnttnu§(J: 
 
280 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "Your royal highness danced just now most charmingly." 
 
 "Do you think so?" she replied, with indifference. 
 
 "Yes; the character which your royal highness assumed 
 is in perfect harmony with your own." 
 
 Madame again turned round, and looking De Guiche full 
 in the face with a bright and steady gaze, said: 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "Oh! there can be no doubt of it." 
 
 "Explain yourself." 
 \ "You represent a divinity, beautiful, disdainful, and 
 .inconstant." 
 
 "You mean Pomona, comte?" 
 
 "I allude to the goddess you represent." 
 
 Madame remained silent for a moment, with her lips com- 
 pressed, and then observed: 
 
 "But, comte, you, too, are an excellent dancer." 
 
 "Nay, madame, I am only one of those who are never 
 noticed, or who are soon forgotten if they ever happen to 
 be noticed." 
 
 With this remark, accompanied by one of those deep sighs 
 which ailect the remotest fibers of one's being, his heart 
 burdened with sorrow and throbbing fast, his head on fire, 
 and his gaze wandering, he bowed breathlessly, and with- 
 drew behind the thicket. The only reply madame conde- 
 scended to make was by slightly raising her shoulders, and 
 as her ladies of honor had discreetly retired while the con- 
 versation lasted, she recalled them by a look. The ladies 
 were Mile, de Tonnay-Oharente and Mile, de Montalais. 
 
 "Did you hear what the Comte de Guiche said?" the 
 princess inquired. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "It really is very singular," she continued, in a compas- 
 sionate tone, "how exile has affected poor Monsieur de 
 Guiche's wit." 
 
 And then, in a louder voice, fearful lest her unhappy 
 victim might lose a syllable, she said: 
 
 "In the first place, he danced badly, and then afterward 
 his remarks were very silly." 
 
 She then rose, humming the air to which she was pres- 
 ently going to dance. De Guiche had overheard every- 
 thing. The arrow had pierced his heart and wounded him 
 mortally. Then, at the risk of interrupting the progress of 
 the fete by his annoyance, he fled from the scene, tearing 
 his beautiful costume of Autumn in pieces, and scattering, 
 a§ he Trent along, the branches of yineS; mulberry and 
 
TEN TEABS lATEE. 281 
 
 almond-trees, with all the other artificial attributes of his 
 divinity. A quarter of an hour afterward he had returned 
 to the theater; but it will be readily believed that it was 
 only a powerful effort of reason over his great excitement 
 that had enabled him to return ; or perhaps, for the heart 
 is so constituted, he found it impossible even to remain 
 much longer separated from the presence of one who had 
 hroken that heart. Madame was finishing her figure. She 
 saw, but did not look at De Guiche, who, irritated and 
 furious, turned his back upon her as she passed him, 
 escorted by her nymphs, and followed by a hundred flat- 
 terers. During this time, at the other end of the theater, 
 near the lake, a young woman was seated, with her eyes 
 fixed upon one of the windows of the theater, from which 
 were issuing streams of light, the window in question being 
 that of the royal box. As De Guiche quitted the theater for 
 the purpose of getting into the fresh air he so much needed, 
 he passed close to this figure and saluted her. When she 
 perceived the young man she rose, like a woman surprised 
 in the midst of ideas she was desirous of concealing from 
 herself. De Guiche stopped as he recognized her, and said 
 hurriedly: 
 
 "Good-evening, Mademoiselle de la Valliere; I am indeed 
 fortunate in meeting you." 
 
 "I also. Monsieur de Guiche, am glad of this accidental 
 meeting," said the young girl, as she was about to with- 
 draw. 
 
 "Pray do not leave me," said De Guiche, stretching out 
 his hand toward her, "for you would be contradicting the 
 kind words you have Just pronounced. Eemain, I implore 
 you; the evening is most lovely. You wish to escape from 
 this tumult, and prefer your own society. Well, I can un- 
 derstand it; all women who are possessed of any feeling do, 
 and you never find them dull or lonely when removed from 
 the giddy vortex of these exciting amusements. Oh, 
 heavens!" he exclaimed suddenly. 
 
 "What is the matter. Monsieur le Comte?" inquired La 
 Valliere, with some anxiety. "You seem agitated." 
 
 "I? oh, no!" 
 
 "Will you allow me. Monsieur de Guiche, to return yoit 
 the thanks I had proposed to offer you on the very first 
 opportunity. It is to your recommendation, I am aware, 
 that I owe my admission among the number of madame's 
 maids of honor." 
 
 "Indeed! Ah! I remember now. and I congratulate my- 
 self. Do you love any one?" 
 
282 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "I?" exclaimed La Valliere. 
 
 "Forgive me; I hardly know what I am saying; a thou- 
 sand times, forgive me. Madame was right, quite right; 
 this brutal exile has completely turned my brain." 
 
 "And yet it seemed to me that the king received you 
 with kindness." 
 
 "Do you think so? Eeceived me with kindness — perhaps 
 80 — yes " 
 
 "There cannot be a doubt he received you kindly, for, 
 Sn fact, you have returned without his permission." 
 
 "Quite true, and I believe you are right. But have you 
 not seen Monsieur de Bragelonne here?" 
 
 La Valliere started at the name. 
 
 "Why do you ask?" she inquired. 
 
 "Have I offended you again?" said De Guiche. "In that 
 case, I am indeed unhappy, and greatly to be pitied." 
 
 "Yes, very unhappy, and very much to be pitied. Mon- 
 sieur de Guiche, for you seem to be suffering terribly." 
 
 "Oh, mademoiselle, why have I not a devoted sister, or a 
 true friend, such as yourself?" 
 
 "You have friends, Monsieur de Guiche, and the Vicomte 
 die Bragelonne, of whom you spoke just now, is, I believe, 
 one of them." 
 
 "Yes, yes, you are right; he is one of my best friends. 
 Farewell, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, farewell." 
 
 And he fled, like one possessed, along the banks of the 
 lake. His dark shadow glided, lengthening as it disap- 
 peared among the illumined yews and glittering undulations 
 of the water. La Valliere looked after him, saying: 
 
 "Yes, yes; he, too, is suffering, and I begin to under- 
 stand why." 
 
 She had hardly finished when her companions. Mile, de 
 Montalais and Mile, de Tonnay-Oharente, ran forward. They 
 were released from their attendance, and had changed their 
 costumes of nymphs; delighted with the beautiful night,, 
 and the success of the evening, they returned to look after 
 their companion. 
 
 "What, already here!" they said to her. "We thought 
 we should be the first at the rendezvous." 
 
 "I have been here this quarter of an hour," replied La 
 Valliere. 
 
 "Did not the dancing amuse you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "But surely the whole spectacle?" 
 
 "No more than the dancing. As far as a spectacle ia 
 
TEN Ti-iRS LATER, 283 
 
 concerned, I much prefer that which these dark woods pre- 
 sent, in whose depths can be seen, now in one direction and 
 again in another, a light passing by, as though it were an 
 eye, bright red in color, sometimes open as others closed." 
 
 "La Valliere is quite a poet," said Tonnay-Charente. 
 
 "In other words," said Montalais, "she is insupportable. 
 Whenever there is a question of laughing a little, or of 
 amusing ourselves with anything. La Valliere begins to cry; 
 whenever we girls have reason to cry, because, perhaps, 
 we have mislaid our dresses, or because our vanity has been 
 wounded, or our costume fails to produce any effect. La 
 Valliere laughs." 
 
 "As far as I am concerned, that is not my character," 
 said Mile, de Tonnay-Charente. "I am a woman; there 
 are few like me; whoever loves me, flatters me; whoever 
 flatters me, pleases me; and whoever pleases " 
 
 "Well," said Montalais, "you do not finish." 
 
 "It is too difficult," replied Mile, de Tonnay-Charente, 
 laughing loudly. "Do you, who are so clever, finish for 
 me." 
 
 "And you, Louise?" said Montalais, "does anyone please 
 you?" 
 
 "That is a matter which concerns no one but myself," 
 replied the young girl, rising from the mossy bank on which 
 she had been reclining during the whole time the ballet had 
 lasted. "Now, mesdemoiselles, we have agreed to amuse 
 ourselves to-night without any one to overlook us, and with- 
 out any escort. We are three in number, we like one an- 
 other, and the night is lovely; look yonder, do you not see 
 the moon slowly rising, silvering the topmost branches of 
 the chestnuts and the oaks? Oh! beautiful walk! dear 
 liberty! the beautiful, soft turf of the woods, the happiness 
 which your friendship confers upon me! Let us walk arm 
 in arm toward those large trees. Out yonder all are at this 
 moment seated at table and fully occupied, or preparing to 
 adorn themselves for a set and formal promenade; horses 
 are being saddled, or harnessed to the carriages — the queen's 
 mules or madame's four white ponies. As for ourselves, 
 we shall soon reach some retired spot where no eye can see 
 us and no step follow ours. Do you not remember, Monta- 
 lais, the woods of Chaverney and of Chambord, the num- 
 berless poplars of Blois, where we exchanged some of our 
 mutual hopes?" 
 
 "And many confidences also^" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
S84 V TEN TEAES LATER. 
 
 "Well," said Mile, de Tonnay-Oharente, "I also think it 
 good deal; but I take care — — " 
 
 "To say nothing," said Montalais, "so that when Made- 
 moiselle de Tonnay-Oharente thinks, Athenais is the only 
 one who knows it." 
 
 "Hush!" said Mile, de Tonnay-Oharente. "I hear steps 
 approaching from this side." 
 
 "Quick, quick, then, among the high reed-grass!" said 
 Montalais. "Stoop, Athenais, you are so tall." 
 
 Mile, de Tonnay-Oharente stooped as she was told, and 
 almost at the same moment they saw two gentlemen ap- 
 proaching, their heads bent down, walking arm in arm, on 
 the fine gravel-walk running parallel with the bank. The 
 young girls had, indeed, made themselves small, for noth- 
 ing was to be seen of them. 
 
 "It is Monsieur de Guiche," whispered Montalais in 
 Mile, de Tonnay-Charente's ear. 
 
 "It is Monsieur de Bragelonne," whispered the latter to 
 La Valliere. 
 
 The two young men approached still closer, conversing 
 in animated voices. 
 
 "She was here just now," said the count. "If I had only 
 seen her I should have declared it to be a vision, but I 
 spoke to her." 
 
 "You are positive, then?" 
 
 "Yes; but perhaps I frightened her." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "Oh! I was still half-mad, at what you know, so that she 
 could hardly have understood what I was saying, and must 
 have become alarmed." 
 
 "Oh!" said De Bragelonne, "do not make yourself un- 
 easy; she is all kindness, and will excuse you; she is clear- 
 sighted, and will understand." 
 
 "Yes, but if she should have understood, and understood 
 too well, she may talk." 
 
 "You do not know Louise, count," said Eaoul. "Louise 
 possesses every virtue, and has not a single fault." 
 
 And the two young men passed on, and as they proceeded 
 their voices were soon lost in the distance. 
 
 "How is it. La Valliere," said Mile, de Tonnay-Oharente, 
 ■'that the Vicomte de Bragelonne spoke of you as Louise?" 
 
 "We were brought up together," replied Louise, blush- 
 ing; "Monsieur de Bragelonne has honored me by asking 
 my hand'in marriage; but " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 285 
 
 "Tt seems the king will not consent to the marriage." 
 
 "Eh! Why the king? and what has the king to do with 
 it?" exclaimed Aure sharply. "Good gracious! has the 
 king the right to interfere in matters of that kind? Poli- 
 tics are politics, as Monsieur de Mazarin used to say; but 
 love is love. If, therefore, you love Monsieur de Brage- 
 lonne, marry him; I give my consent." 
 
 Athenais began to laugh. 
 
 "Oh! I speak seriously," replied Montalais, "and my 
 opinion in this case is quite as good as the king's, 1 suppose; 
 is it not, Louise?" 
 
 "Come," said La Valliere, "these gentlemen have passed; 
 let us take advantage of our being alone to cross the open 
 ground, and so take refuge in the woods." 
 
 "So much the better," said Athenais, "because I see the 
 torches setting out from the chateau and the theater, which 
 seem as if they were preceding some person of distinction." 
 
 "Let us run, then," said all three. 
 
 And, gracefully lifting up the long skirts of their silk 
 dresses, they lightly ran across the open space between the 
 lake and the thickest covert of the park. Montalais agile 
 as a deer, Athenais eager as a young wolf, bounded through 
 the dry grass, and, now and then, some bold Acteon might, 
 by the aid of the faint light, have perceived their straight 
 and well-formed limbs somewhat displayed beneath the 
 heavy folds of their satin petticoats. La Valliere, more 
 refined and less bashful, allowed her dress to flow around 
 her; retarded also by the lameness of her foot, it was not 
 long before she called out to her companions to halt, and, 
 left behind, she obliged them both to wait for her. At this 
 tnoment a man, concealed in a dry ditch full of young willow 
 saplings, scrambled quickly up its shelving side, and ran off 
 in the direction of the chateau. The three young girls, on 
 their side, reached the outskirts of the park, every path of 
 which they well knew. The ditches were bordered by high 
 hedges full of flowers, which on that side protected the 
 foot-passengers from being intruded upon by the horses and 
 carriages. In fact, the sound of madame's and of the queen's 
 carriages could be heard in the distance upon the hard, dry 
 ground of the roads, followed by the mounted cavaliers. 
 Distant music was heard in response, and when the soft 
 dotes died away the nightingale, with his song full of pride, 
 poured forth his melodious chants, and his most compli- 
 cated, learned, and sweetest compositions, to those who he 
 perceived had met beneath the thick covert of the woods. 
 
286 lEN- tEARS LATER. 
 
 Kear the songster, in the dark background of the large 
 trees, could be seen the glistening eyes of an owl, attracted 
 by the harmony. In this way the fete, for the whole court 
 was a fete also for the mysterious inhabitants of the forest; 
 for certainly the deer from the brake, the pheasant on the 
 branch, the fox in its hole, were all listening. One could 
 realize the life led by this nocturnal and invisible popula- 
 tion from the restless movements which suddenly took place 
 among the leaves. Our sylvan nymphs uttered a slight cry, 
 but, reassured immediately afterward, they laughed, and 
 resumed their walk. In this manner they reached the 
 royal oak, the venerable relic of an oak which in its earlier 
 days had listened to the sighs of Henry II. for tne beautiful 
 Diana of Poictiers, and later still, to those of Henry IV. for 
 the lovely Gabrielle d'Estrees. Beneath this oak the gar- 
 deners had piled up the moss and turf in such a manner 
 that never had a seat more luxuriously reposed the wearied 
 limbs of any monarch. The trunk of the tree, somewhat 
 rough to recline against, was suflBciently large to accommo- 
 date the three young girls, whose voices were lost among 
 the branches, which stretched downward toward the trunk. 
 
 CHAPTEE XLI, 
 
 WHAT WAS SAID UNDER THE ROYAL OAK. 
 
 The softness of the air, the stillness of the foliage, tacitly 
 imposed upon these young girls an engagement to change 
 immediately their giddy conversation for one of a more 
 serious character. She, indeed, whose disposition was the 
 most lively — Montalais, for instance — was the first to yield 
 to its influence; and she began by heaving a deep sigh, and 
 saying: 
 
 "What happiness to be here alone, and at liberty, witn 
 every right to be frank, especially toward each other." 
 
 "Yes," said Mile, de Tonnay-Charente; "for the court, 
 however brilliant it may be, has always some falsehood con- 
 cealed beneath the folds of its velvet robes, or beneath the 
 blaze of its diamonds." 
 
 "I," replied La Valliere, "I never tell a falsehood; when 
 I cannot speak the truth I remain silent." 
 
 "You will not remain long in favor," said Montalais, 
 "it is not here as it was at Blois, where we told the dowager 
 madame all our little annoyances and all our longings. 
 
TEN YEARS LATER 287 
 
 There wei'e certain days when madame remennDered that 
 she herself had been young, and on those days whoevef 
 talked with her found in her a sincere friend. She related 
 to us her flirtations with Monsieur, and we told her of the 
 flirtations she had had with others, or, at least, the rumors 
 of them which had been spread abroad. Poor woman, so 
 simple-minded! she laughed at them, as we did. Where is 
 she now?" 
 
 "Ah, Montalais — laughter-lcving Montalais!" cried La 
 Valliere, "you see you are sighing again; the woods inspire 
 you, and you are almost reasonable this evening." 
 
 "You ought not, either of you," said Athenais, "to re- 
 gret the court at Blois so much, unless you do not feel 
 happy with us. A court is a place where men and women 
 resort to talk of matters which mothers, guardians, and 
 « specially confessors, so severely denounce." 
 
 "Oh, Athenais!" said Louise, blushing. 
 
 "Athenais is frank to-night," said Montalais; "let us 
 ttvail ourselves of it." 
 
 "Yes; let us take advantage of it, for this evening I 
 jould divulge the dearest secrets of my heart." 
 
 "Ah, if Monsieur de Montespan were here!" said 
 Montalais. 
 
 "Do you think that I care for Monsieur de Montespan?" 
 murmured the beautiful young girl. 
 
 "He is handsome, I believe?" 
 
 "Yes. And that is no small advantage in my eyes." 
 
 "There, now, you see " 
 
 "I will go further, and say that of all the men whom one 
 sees here, he is the handsomest and the most " 
 
 "What was that?" said La Valliere, starting suddenly 
 from the mossy bank. 
 
 "A deer which hurried by, perhaps." 
 
 "I am only afraid of men," said Athenais. 
 
 "When they do not resemble Monsieur de Montespan." 
 
 "A truce to this raillery. Monsieur de Montespan is at- 
 tentive to me, but that does not commit me in any way. 
 Is not Monsieur de Guiche here, he who is so devoted to 
 madame?" 
 
 "Poor fellow!" said La Valliere. 
 
 "Why poor? Madame is sufficiently beautiful and of 
 sufficiently high rank, I suppose." 
 
 La Valliere shook her head sorrowfully, saying: 
 
 "When one loves, it is neither beauty nor rank; when 
 one loves, it should be the heart or the eyes only, of him 
 ^r of ber whom one loves.' 
 
i'EN- YEARS lATEE. 
 
 Montalais began to laugh loudly. 
 
 "Heart, ej'es," she said. "Oh, sugar-plums!" 
 
 "I speak for mj'self," replied La Valliere. 
 
 "Noble sentiments," said Athenais, with an air of protection. 
 
 "Are they not your own?" said Louise. 
 
 "Perfectly so; but to continue: how can one pity a man 
 who bestows his attentions upon such a woman as madame? 
 If any disproportion exists, it is on the count's side." 
 
 "Oh, no, no !" said La Valliere ; "it is on madame's side." 
 
 "Explain yourself." 
 
 "I will. Madame has not even a wish to know what love, 
 is. She diverts herself with the feelings, as children do with 
 fireworks, of which a spark might set a palace on fire. It 
 makes a display, and that is all she cares about. Besides, 
 pleasure and love form the tissue of which she wishes her life 
 to be woven. Monsieur de Guiche will love this illustrious 
 personage but she will never love him." 
 
 Athenais laughed disdainfully. 
 
 "Do people really love?" she said. "Where are the noble 
 sentiments you just now uttered? Does not a woman's vir- 
 tue consist in the courageous refusal of every intrigue which 
 might compromise her? A properly regulated woman, en- 
 dowed with a generous heart, ought to look at men, make 
 herself loved — adored, even, by them, and say, at the very 
 utmost, but once in her life, 'I begin to think that I ought 
 not to have been what I am — I -should have detested this 
 one less than others.' " 
 
 "Therefore," exclaimed La Valliere, "that is what Monsieur 
 de Montespan has to expect." 
 
 "Certainly; he, as well as every one else. What, have I 
 not said that I admit he possesses a certain superiority, and 
 would not that be enough? My dear child, a woman is a 
 queen during the whole period nature permits her to enjoy 
 sovereign power — from fifteen to thirty-five years of age. 
 After that, we are free to have a heart, when we only have 
 that left " 
 
 "Oh, oh!" murmured La Valliere. 
 
 "Excellent!" cried Montalais; "a wife and mistress com- 
 bined in one. Athenais, you will make your way in the 
 world." 
 
 "Do you not approve of what I say ?" 
 
 "Completely," replied her laughing companion. 
 
 "You are not serious, Montalais?" ",aid Louise. 
 
TEN TEARS LATER, 289 
 
 "ies, yes; I approve everything Athenais lias just said; 
 
 only " 
 
 "Only what?" 
 
 "Well, I cannot carry it out. I have the firmest princi- 
 
 Eles; I form resolutions beside which the laws of the Stadt- 
 older and of the King of Spain are child's play; but when 
 the moment arrives to put them into execution, nothing 
 comes of them." 
 
 "Your courage fails?" said Athenais scornfully. 
 
 "Miserably so." 
 
 "Great weakness of nature," returned Athenais. "But 
 at least you make a choice." 
 
 "Why, no. It pleases fate to disappoint me in every- 
 thing; I dream of emperors, and I find only " 
 
 "Aure, Aure!" exclaimed La Valliere, "for pity's sake, 
 do not, for the pleasure of saying something witty, sacrifice 
 those who love you with such devoted afiEection." 
 
 "Oh, I do not trouble myself much about that; those who 
 love me are sufficiently happy that I do not dismiss them 
 altogether. So much the worse for myself if I have a weak- 
 ness for any one, but so much the worse for others if I 
 revenge myself upon them for it." 
 
 "You are right," said Athenais, "and perhaps you, too, 
 will reach the same goal. In other words, young ladies, 
 that is termed being a coquette. Men, who are very silly 
 in most things, are particularly so in confounding, under 
 the term of coquetry, a woman's pride and her variable- 
 ness. I, for instance, am proud; that is to say, impregna- 
 ble. I treat my admirers harshly, but without any preten- 
 sion to retain them. Men call me a coquette, because they 
 are vain enough to think I care for them. Other women — 
 Montalais, for instance — have allowed themselves to be in- 
 fluenced by flattery; they would be lost were it not for that 
 most fortunate principle of instinct which urges them to 
 change suddenly, and punish the man whose devotion they 
 had so recently accepted." 
 
 "A very learned dissertation," said Montalais, in the' 
 tone of thorough enjoyment. 
 
 "It is odious!" murmured Louise. 
 
 "Thanks to this sort of coquetry, for, indeed, that is 
 genuine coquetry," continued Mile, de Tonnay-Oharente, 
 "the lover who, a little while since, was puffed up with 
 pride, in a minute afterward is suffering at every pore of 
 his vanity and self-esteem. H6 was, perhaps, already be- 
 ginning to assume the airs of a conqueror, but now he 
 
290 TEX TEAKS LATER. 
 
 recedes; he was about to assume an air of protection to- 
 ward us, but he is obliged to prostrate himself once more. 
 The result of all which is, that. Instead of having a husband 
 who is jealous and troublesome, from restraint in his con- 
 duct toward us, we have a lover always trembling in our 
 presence, always fascinated by our attractions, and always 
 submissive; and for this simple reason, that he finds the 
 same woman never the same. Be convinced, therefore, of 
 the advantages of coquetry. Possessing that, one reigns a 
 queen among women in cases where Providence has with- 
 held that precious faculty of holding one's heart and mind 
 in check." 
 
 "How clever you are," said Montalais, "and how well 
 you understand the duty women owe themselves." 
 
 "I am only settling a case of individual happiness," said 
 Athenais modestly; "and defend myself, like all weak, 
 loving dispositions, against the oppressions of the stronger." 
 
 La Valliere did not say a word. 
 
 "Does she not approve of what we are saying?" 
 
 "Nay; only I do not understand it," said Louise. "You 
 talk like those who would not be called upon to live in this 
 world of ours." 
 
 "And very pretty your world is," said Montalais. 
 
 "A world," returned Athenais, "in which men worship 
 a woman until she has fallen — or insult her when she has 
 fallen." 
 
 "Who spoke to you of falling?" said Louise. 
 
 "Yours is a new theory, then; will you tell us how you 
 intend to resist yielding to temptation, if you allow your- 
 self to be hurried away by feelings of affection?" 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed the young girl, raising toward the dark 
 heavens her beautiful eyes filled with tears, "if you did but 
 know what a heart was, I would explain, and would con- 
 vince you; a loving heart is stronger than all your coquetry, 
 and more powerful than all your pride. A woman is never 
 truly loved, I believe; a man never loves with idolatry, ex- 
 cept he feels himself loved in return. Let old men, whom 
 we read of in comedies, fancy themselves adored by co- 
 quettes. A young man is conscious of, and knows them; if 
 ne has a fancy, or a strong desire, or an absorbing passion, for 
 a coquette, he cannot mistake her; a coquette may drive 
 him out of his senses, but will never make him fall in love. 
 Love, such as I conceive it to be, is an incessant, complete, 
 and perfect sacrifice; but it is not the sacrifice of one only 
 of the two persons who are united. It is the perfeci abuega- 
 
TEN TEAKS LATER. 391 
 
 tion of two who are desirous of blending their beings into 
 one. If I ever love, I shall implore my lover to leave me 
 free and pure; I will tell him, what he will understand, that 
 my heart was torn by my refusal, and he, in his love for me, 
 aware of the magnitude of my sacrifice — he, in his turn, I 
 say, will store his devotion for me — will respect me, and 
 will not seek my ruin, to insult me when I shall have fallen, 
 as you said just now, when uttering your blasphemies 
 against love, such as I understand it. That is my idea of 
 love. And now you will tell me, perhaps, that my lover will 
 despise me. I defy him to do so, unless he be the vilest of 
 men, and my heart assures me that it is not such a man I 
 should choose. A look from me will repay him for the 
 sacrifices he makes, or it will inspire him with virtues which 
 he would never think he possessed." 
 
 "But, Louise," exclaimed Montalais, "you tell us this, 
 and do not carry it into practice." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "You are adored by Eaoul de Bragelonne, who worships 
 you on both his knees. The poor fellow is made the victim 
 of your virtue, just as he would be — nay, more than he 
 would be even, of my coquetry, or of Athenais" pride." 
 
 "This is simply a diflerent shade of coquetry," said 
 Athenais; "and Louise, I perceive, is a coquette without 
 knowing it." 
 
 "Oh!" said La Valliere. 
 
 "Yes, you may call it instinct, if you please, keenest sen- 
 sibility, exquisite refinement of feeling, perpetual display 
 of unrestrained outbreaks of afEection, which end in noth- 
 ing. It is very artful too, and very effective. 1 should 
 even, now that I reflect on it, have preferred this system of 
 tactics to my own pride, for waging war with members of 
 the other sex, because it offers the advantage sometimes of 
 thoroughly convincing them; but at the present moment,!' 
 without utterly condemning myself, I declare it to be 
 superior to the simple coquetry of Montalais." And the 
 two young girls began to laugh. 
 
 La Valliere alone preserved a silence and quietly shook: 
 her head. Then, a moment after, she added, "If you were 
 to tell me, in the presence of a man, but a fourth part of 
 what you have just said, or even if I were assured that you 
 think it, I should die of shame and grief where I am now." 
 
 "Very well; die, poor tender little darling," replied Mile. 
 de Tonnay-Charente; "for, if there are no men here, there 
 we at least two women, your own friends, who declare you to 
 
Sd2 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 be attainted and convicted of being a coquette from instinct; 
 in other words, the most dangerous kind of coquette which 
 the world possesses." 
 
 "Oh! mesdemoiselles," replied La Valliere, blushing, and 
 almost ready to weep. Her two companions aguin burst 
 out laughing. 
 
 "Very well! I shall ask Bragelonne to tell me." 
 
 "Bragelonne?" said Athenais. 
 
 "Yes; Bragelonne, who is as courageous as Caesar, and as 
 clever and witty as Monsieur Pouquet. Poor fellow! for 
 twelve years he has known you, loved you, and yet — one 
 can hardly believe it — he has never even kissed the tips of 
 ycur fingers." 
 
 "Tell us the reason of this cruelty, you who are all heart," 
 said Athenais to La Valliere. 
 
 "I wilJ explain it by a single word — virtue. You will 
 perhaps deny the existence of virtue?" 
 
 "Come, Louise, tell us the truth," said Aure, taking her 
 by the hand. 
 
 "What do you wish me to tell you?" cried Valliere. 
 
 "Whatever you like; but it will be useless for you to saj 
 anything, for I persist in my opinion of you. A coquette 
 from instinct; in other words, as I have already said, and 1 
 say it again, the most dangerous of all coquettes." 
 
 "Oh! no, no; for pity's sake, do not believe that!" 
 
 "What! twelve years of extreme severity." 
 
 "How can that be, since twelve years ago I was only five 
 years old. The freedom of the child cannot surely be 
 added to the young girl's account." 
 
 "Well, you are now seventeen; three years instead of 
 twelve. During those three years you have remained con- 
 stantly and unchangeably cruel. Against you are arrayed 
 the silent shades of Blois, the meetings when you diligently 
 conned the stars together, the evening wanderings beneath 
 the plantain-trees, his impassioned twenty years speaking to 
 >rour fourteen summers, the fire of his glances addressed to 
 vourself." 
 
 "Yes, yes; but so it is!" 
 
 "'Impossible!" 
 'But why impossible?" 
 
 "Tell us something credible, and we will believe you," 
 
 "Yet, if you were to suppose one thing." 
 
 "What is that?'^ 
 
 "Suppose that I thought I was in love, and that I am 
 not." 
 
TEN YEAES LATEE. 393 
 
 "What! not in love?" 
 
 "If I have acted in a different manner to what others do 
 when they are in love, it is because I do not love, and be- 
 cause my hour has not yet come." 
 
 "Louise, Louise," said Montalais, "take care, or I will 
 remind you of the remark you made just now. Eaoul is 
 not here; do not overwhelm him while he is absent; be 
 charitable, and if, on closer inspection, you think you do 
 not love him, tell him so, poor fellow!" and she began to 
 Jaugh. 
 
 "Louise pitied Monsieur de Guiche just now," said 
 Athenais; "would it be possible to detect the explanation of 
 the indifierence for the one in this compassion for the 
 other." 
 
 "Say what you please," said La Valliere sadly; "up- 
 braid me as you like, since you do not understand me." 
 
 "Oh! oh!" replied Montalais, "temper, sorrow, and tears; 
 we are laughing, Louise, and are not, I assure you, quite 
 the monsters you suppose. Look at the proud Athenais, as 
 she is called; she does not love Monsieur de Montespan, it 
 is true, but she would be in despair if Monsieur de Mon- 
 tespan were not to love her. Look at me; I laugh at Mon- 
 sieur Malicorne, but the poor fellow whom I laugh at knows 
 very well when he may be permitted to press his lips upon 
 my hand. And yet the eldest of us is not twenty yet. 
 What a future before us!" 
 
 "Silly, silly girls!" murmured Louise. 
 
 "You are quite right," said Montalais; "and you alone 
 have spoken words of wisdom." 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "I do not dispute it," replied Athenais. "And so it is 
 positive you do not love poor Monsieur de Bragelonne?" 
 
 "Perhaps she does," said Montalais; "she is not yet 
 quite sure of it. But, in any case, listen, Athenais; if Mon-- 
 sieur de Bragelonne becomes tree, I will give you a little 
 friendly advice." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "To look at him well before you decide in favor of Mon- 
 sieur de Montespan." 
 
 "Oh! in that way of considering the subject. Monsieur 
 de Bragelonne is not the only one whom one could look at 
 with pleasure; Monsieur de Guiche, for instance, has his 
 value also." 
 
 "He did not distinguish himself this evening," said 
 Montalais; " and I know from very good authority that 
 madame thought him uubearablj 
 
394 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "Monsieur de St. Aignan produced a most brilliant effect, 
 and I am sure that more than one person who saw him 
 dance this evening will not soon forget him. Do you not 
 think so. La Valliere?" 
 
 "Why do you ask me? I did not see him, nor do I know 
 him." 
 
 "What! you did not see Monsieur de St. Aignan? Yow 
 do not know him?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Come, come, do not affect a virtue more extravagantly 
 excessive than our fierfesj you have eyes, I suppose?" 
 
 "Excellent." 
 
 "Then you must have seen all those who danced th'°s 
 evening." 
 
 "Yes, nearly all." 
 
 "That is a very impertinent 'nearly all' for some." 
 
 "You must take it for what it is worth." 
 
 "Very well; now, among all those gentlemen whom you 
 eaw, which do you prefer?" 
 
 "Yes," said Montalais; "is it Monsieur de St. Aignan, or 
 Monsieur de Guiche, or Monsieur " 
 
 "I prefer no one; I thought them all about the same." 
 
 "Do you mean, then, that among that brilliant assembly, 
 the first court in the world, no one pleased you?" 
 
 "I do not say that." 
 
 "Tell us, then, who your ideal is." 
 
 "It is not an ideal being." 
 
 "He exists, then?" 
 
 "In very truth," exclaimed La Valliere, aroused and ex- 
 cited, "I cannot understand you at all. What! you who 
 have a heart as I have, eyes as I have, and yet yon speak of 
 Monsieur de Guiche, of Monsieur de St. Aignan, when the 
 king was there." These words, uttered in a precipitate 
 manner, and in an agitated, fervid tone of voice, made hei 
 two companions, between waom she was seated, exclaim in 
 a manner which terrified her "The king!" , 
 
 La Valliere buried her face in her hands. "Yes," she 
 murmured; "the king! the king! Have you ever seen any 
 one to be compared to the king?" 
 
 "You were right just now in saying you had excellent 
 eyes, Louise, for you see a great distance; too far, indeed. 
 Alas! the king is not one upon whom our poor eyes have a 
 right to be fixed." 
 
 "That is too true," cried La Valliere; "it is not the 
 privilege of all eyes to gaze -ipon +be sun; bvit I will Jook 
 
TEN TEARS LATEB. 295 
 
 Upon him, even were I to be blinded in doing so." At this 
 moment, and as though caused by the words which had just 
 escaped La Valliere's lips, a rustling of leaves, and of that 
 which sounded like some silken material, was heard behind 
 the adjoining bush. The young girls hastily rose, almost 
 terrified out of their senses. They distinctly saw the leaves 
 move, without observing what it was that stirred them. 
 
 "It is a wolf or a wild boar," cried Montalais; "fly! fly!" 
 The three girls, in the very extremity of terror, fled by the 
 first path which presented itself, and did not stop until they 
 had reached the verge of the wood. There, breathless, 
 leaning against one another, feeling their hearts throb 
 wildly, they endeavored to collect their senses, but could 
 only succeed in doing so after the lapse of some minutes. 
 Perceiving at last the lights from the windows of the 
 chdteau, they decided to walk toward thorn. La Valliere 
 was exhausted with fatigue, and Aure and Athenais were 
 obliged to support her. 
 
 "We have escaped well," said Montalais. 
 
 "I am greatly afraid," said La Valliere, "that it was 
 something worse than a wolf. For my part, and I speak as 
 I think, I should have preferred to have run the risk of 
 being devoured alive by some wild animal than to have been 
 listened to and overheard. Fool, fool, that I am! How 
 could I have thought, how could I have said what I didF" 
 And saying this, her head bowed like the head of a reed, 
 she felt her limbs fail, and, all her strength abandoning 
 her, she glided almost inanimate from the arms of her com- 
 panions, and sank down upon the grass. 
 
 CHAPTEE XLIL 
 
 THE king's uneasiness. 
 
 Let us leave poor La Valliere, who had fainted in the arms 
 I of her two companions, and return to the precincts of the 
 royal oak. The young girls had hardly run twenty paces 
 when the sound which had so much alarmed them was re- 
 newed among the branches. A man's figure might indis- 
 tinctly be perceived, and putting the branches of the bushes 
 aside, he appeared upon the verge of the wood, and perceiv- 
 ing that the place was empty, burst out into a peal of 
 laughter. It was useless to say that the form in question 
 was that of a young and handsome man, who immediately 
 Oft4e a sign to another, who thereunon rp^icje his appearance, 
 
296 TEK YEARS LATEE. 
 
 "Well, sire,*' said the second figure, advancing timidlj, 
 "has your majesty put our young sentimentalists to flight?" 
 
 "It seems so," said the king, "and you can show your- 
 self without fear." 
 
 "Take care, sire; you will be recognized." 
 
 "But I tell you they have gone." 
 
 "This is a most fortunate meeting, sire; and, if I dared 
 offer aa opinion to your majesty, we ought to follow them." 
 
 "They are far away by this time." 
 
 "They would easily allow themselves to be overtaken, 
 especially if they knew who were following them." 
 
 "What do you mean by that, coxcomb that you are?" 
 
 "Why, one of them seems to have taken a fancy to me, 
 and another compared you to the sun." 
 
 "The greater reason why we should not show ourselves, 
 St. Aignan. The sun does not show himself in the night- 
 time." 
 
 "Upon my word, sire, your majesty seems to have very 
 little curiosity. In your place, I should like to know who 
 are the two nymphs, the two dryads, the two hamadryads, 
 who have so good an opinion of us." 
 
 "I shall know them again very well, I assure you, with- 
 out running after them." 
 
 "By what means?" 
 
 "By their voices, of course. They belong to the court, 
 and the one who spoke of me had a very sweet voice." 
 
 "Ah! your majesty permits yourself to be influenced by 
 flattery." 
 
 "No one will ever say it is a means you make use of." 
 
 "Forgive my stupidity, sire." 
 
 "Come; let us go and look where I told you." 
 
 "Is the passion, then, which your majesty confided to mo, 
 already forgotten?" 
 
 "Oh! no, indeed. How is it possible to forget such beau- 
 tiful eyes as Mademoiselle de la Valliere has?" 
 
 "Yet the other had so sweet a voice." 
 
 "Which one?" 
 
 "She who has fallen in love with the sun." 
 
 "Monsieur de St. Aignan!" 
 
 "Forgive me, sire.' 
 
 "Well, I am not sorry you should believe me to be an 
 admirer of sweet voices as well as of beautiful eyes. I 
 know you to be a terrible talker, and to-morrow I shall h^ve 
 to pay for the confidence I have shown you." 
 
 "Whs-t do you mean^ sire?" 
 
TEN" YEARS LATER. 297 
 
 "That io-morrow every one will know that I have designs 
 upon this little La Valliere; but be careful, St. Aignan, I 
 have confided my secret to no one but you, and if any one 
 should speak to me about it I shall know who has betrayed 
 my secret." 
 
 "You are angry, sire." 
 
 "No; but you understand I do not wish to compromise 
 the poor girl." 
 
 "Do not be afraid, sire." 
 
 "You promise me, then?" 
 
 "I give you my word of honor." 
 
 "Excellent," thought the king, laughing to himseit; 
 "now every one will know to-morrow that I have been run 
 ning about after La Valliere to-night." 
 
 Then, endeavoring to see where he was, he said: "Why, 
 we have lost ourselves." 
 
 "Not quite so bad as that, sire." 
 
 "Where does that gate lead to?" 
 
 "To the great Eoad Point, sire." 
 
 "Where we were going when we heard the sound of 
 
 women s voices 
 
 V" 
 
 "Yes, sire, and the termination of a conversation in which 
 I had the honor of hearing my own name pronounced by the 
 side of your majesty's." 
 
 "You return to that.subject very frequently, St. Aignan." 
 
 "Your majesty will forgive me, but I am delighted to 
 know that a women exists whose thoughts are occupied 
 about me, without my knowledge, and without having done 
 anything to deserve it. Your majesty cannot comprehend 
 this satisfaction, for your rank and merit attract attention 
 and compel regard." 
 
 "No, no, St. Aignan, believe me or not, as you like," 
 said the king, leaning familiarly upon St. Aignan's arm, 
 ia,nd taking the path which he thought would lead him to 
 ,the chateau; "but this candid confession, this perfectly dis- 
 interested preference of one who will, perhaps, never at- 
 tract my attention — in one word, the mystery of this 
 adventure excites me, and the truth is, that if I were not 
 so taken with La Valliere " 
 
 "Do not let that interfere with your majesty's intentions; 
 "you have time enough before you." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "La Valliere is said to be very strict in her ideas." 
 
 "You excite my curiosity, and I am anxious to find hex 
 again. Come, let us walk on-." 
 
298 TEN YEAKB I^ATiSK. 
 
 The king spoke untruly, for nothing, on the contrary, 
 could make him less anxious; but he had a part to play, and 
 so he walked on hurriedly. St. Aignan followed him at a 
 short distance. Suddenly the king stopped; the courtier 
 followed his example. 
 
 "St. Aignan," he said, "do you not hear some one 
 moaning?" 
 
 "Yes, sire, and crying, too, it seoms." 
 
 "It is in this direction," said the king. "It sounds like 
 Lhe tears and sobs of a woman." 
 
 "Run," said the king; and, following a by-path, they ran 
 across the grass. As they approached the cries were more 
 distinctly heard. 
 
 "Help! help!" exclaimed two voices. The king and his 
 companion redoubled their speed, and as they approached 
 nearer the sighs they had heard were changed into loud 
 sobs. The cry of "Help! help!" was again repeated; at 
 the sound of which the king and St. Aignan increased the 
 rapidity of their pace. Suddenly, at the other side of a 
 ditch, under the branches of a willow, they perceived a 
 woman on her knees, holding another in her arms, who 
 seemed to have fainted. A few paces from them, a third, 
 standing in the middle of the path, was calling for assist- 
 ance. Perceiving two gentlemen, whose rank she could 
 not tell, her cries for assistance were redoubled. The king, 
 who was in advance of his companion, leaped across the 
 ditch, and reached the group at the very moment when, 
 from the end of the path which led to the chS,teau, a dozen 
 persons were approaching, who had been drawn to the spot 
 by the same cries which had attracted the attention of the 
 king and M. de St. Aignan. 
 
 "What is the matter, young ladies?" said Louis. 
 
 "The king!" exclaimed Mile, de Montalais, in her aston- 
 ishment letting Lia Valliere's head fall upon the ground. 
 
 "Yes, it is the king; but that is no reason why you should 
 abandon your companion. Who is she?" 
 
 "It is Mademoiselle de la Valliere, sire." 
 
 '■■Mademoiselle de la Valliere?" 
 
 "Yes, sire; she has Just fainted." 
 
 "Poor child!" said the king. "Quick, quick, fetch a 
 surgeon!" But however great the anxiety with which the 
 king had pronounced these words may have seemed to 
 others, he had not so carefully watched over himself thaf 
 they appeared, as well as the gesture which accompanied 
 them, somewhat cold to St. Aignan, to whom the king had 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 399 
 
 confided the great affection with which she had inspired 
 him. 
 
 "St. Aignan," continued the king, "watch over Made- 
 moiselle de la Valliere, I beg. Send for a surgeon. I will 
 hasten forward and inform madame of the accident which 
 has befallen one of her maids of honor." And, in fact, 
 while M. de St. Aignan was busily engaged in making prep- 
 arations for carrying Mile, de la Valliere to the chateau, 
 the king hurried forward, happy to have an opportunity of 
 approaching madame, and of speaking to her under some 
 colorable pretext. Fortunately, a carriage was passing; the 
 coachman was told to-stop, and the persons who were inside. 
 having been informed of the accident, eagerly gave up theii. 
 seats to Mile, de la Valliere. The current of fresh air pro- 
 duced by the rapid motion of the, carriage soon recalled her 
 to her senses. Having reached the chateau, she was able, 
 though very weak, to alight from the carriage, and, with 
 the assistance of Athenais and of Montalais, to reach the 
 inner apartments. They made her sit down in one of the 
 rooms of the ground-floor. After awhile, as the accident 
 had not produced much effect upon those who had been 
 walking, the promenade was resumed. During this time, 
 the king had found madame beneath a tree with overhang- 
 ing branches, and had seated himself by her side. 
 
 "Take care, sire," said Henrietta to him, in a low tone, 
 "you do not show yourself as indifferent as you should be." 
 
 "Alas!" replied the king, in the same tone, "I much fear 
 we have entered into an agreement above our strength to 
 keep." He then added, aloud: "You have heard of the 
 accident, I suppose?" 
 
 "What accident?" 
 
 "Oh! in seeing you, I forgot that I had come expressly 
 to tell you of it. I am, however, painfully affected by it* 
 one of your maids of honor. Mademoiselle de la Vallier?. 
 has just fainted." 
 
 "indeed! poor girl/' said the princess quietly; "what 
 was the cause of it?" 
 
 She then added, in an undertone, "You forget, sire, 
 that you wish others to believe in your passion for this girl, 
 and yet you remain here while she is almost dying, perhaps, 
 elsewhere." 
 
 "Ah! madame," said the king, sighing, "how much more 
 perfect you are in your part than I am, and how well you 
 think of everything." 
 , He then rose^ sajing loud enough foi every oae to j ^ear 
 
300 TEN" TEARS LATER. 
 
 him: "Permit me to leave you, madame; my uneasiness is 
 very great, and I wish to be quite certain, myself, that 
 proper attention has been given to Mademoiselle de la 
 Valliere." And the king left again to return to La Val- 
 liere, while those who had been present commented upon 
 the king's remark: 'My uneasiness is very great.' 
 
 CHAPTEE XLIII. 
 
 THE KING'S SECRET. 
 
 On his way Louis met the Comte de St. Aignan. "Well, 
 St. Aignan," he inquired, with afEected interest, "how is 
 the invalid?" 
 
 "Keally, sire," stammered St. Aignan, "to my shame, I 
 confess I do not know." 
 
 "What! you do not know?" said the king, pretending to 
 take in a serious manner, this want of attention for the 
 object of his predilection. 
 
 "Will your majesty pardon me; but I have just met one 
 of our three loquacious wood-nymphs, and I confess that 
 my attention has been taken away from other matters." 
 
 "Ah!" said the king eagerly, "you have found, then " 
 
 "The one who deigned to speak of me in such advantagous 
 terms; and, having found mine, I was searching for yours, 
 sire, when I had the happiness to meet your majesty." 
 
 "Very well; but Mademoiselle de la Valliere before every- 
 thing else," said the king, faithful to the character he had 
 assumed. 
 
 "Oh! our charming invalid!" said St. Aignan; "how 
 fortunately her fainting came on, since your majesty had 
 already occupied yourself about her." 
 
 "What is the name of your fair lady, St. Aignan? Is it 
 a secret?" 
 
 "It ought to be a secret, and a very great one, even; but 
 your majesty is well aware that no secret can possibly ezist 
 for you." 
 
 "Well, what is her name?" 
 
 "Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente." 
 
 "Is she pretty?" 
 
 "Exceedingly so, sire; and I recognized the voice which 
 pronounced my name in such tender accents. I then ac- 
 costed her, questioned her as well as I was aljle to do in , 
 the midst of the crowd; and she told me, without suspect- 
 
TEK TEARS LATER. 301 
 
 ing anything, that a little while ago she was under the great 
 oak, with her two friends, when the appearance of a wolf 
 or a robber had terrified them, and made them run away." 
 
 "But," inquired the king anxiously, "what are the 
 names of these two friends?" 
 
 "Sire," said St. Aignan, "will your majesty send me 
 forthwith to the Bastile?" 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "Because I am an egotist and a fool. My surprise was so 
 great at such a conquest, and at so fortunate a discovery, 
 that I went no further in my inquiries. Besides, I did not 
 think that your majesty would attach any very great im- 
 portance to what you heard, knowing how much your atten- 
 tion was taken up by Mademoiselle dela Valliere; and then. 
 Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente left me precipitately to 
 return to Mademoiselle de la Valliere." 
 
 "Let us hope, then, that I shall be as fortunate as your- 
 self. Come, St. Aignan." 
 
 "Your majesty is ambitious, I perceive, and does not wish 
 to allow any conquest to escape you. Well, I assure you 
 that I will conscientiously set about my inquiries; and, 
 moreover, from one of the three Graces we shall learn the 
 names of the others, and, by the name, the secret." 
 
 "I, too," said the king, "only require to hear her voice 
 to know it again. Come, let us say no more about it, but 
 show me where poor La Valliere is." 
 
 "Well," thought St. Aignan, "the king's regard is begin- 
 ing to display itself, and for that girl, too. It is extraor- 
 dinary; I should never have believed it." And with this 
 thought passing through his mind, he showed the king the 
 room where La Valliere had been taken; the king entered, 
 followed by St. Aignan. In a low room, near a large win- 
 dow looking out upon the gardens. La Valliere, reclining 
 in a large armchair, inhaled in deep draughts the perfumed 
 evening breeze. From the loosened body of her dress the 
 lace fell in tumbled folds, mingling with the tresses of her 
 beautiful fair hair, which lay scattered upon her shoulders. 
 Her languishing eyes were filled with tears; she seemed as 
 lifeless as those beautiful visions of our dreams, which pass 
 before the closed eyes of the. sleeper, half-opening their 
 wings without moving them, unclosing their lips without a 
 sound escaping them. The pearl-like pallor of La Valliere 
 possessed a charm which it would be impossible to describe. 
 Mental and bodily suffering had produced upon her features 
 a soft and noble expression of grief; from the perfect paS' 
 
302 TEN YEAfiS IATER; 
 
 eiveness of her arms and bust, she more resembled one 
 whose soul had passed away than a living being; she seemed 
 not to hear either the whisperings of her companions or the 
 distant murmurs which arose from the neighborhood. She 
 seemed to be communing within herself; and her beautiful, 
 sleuder, and delicate hands trembled from time to time, as 
 though from the contact of some invisible touch. She was 
 so completely absorbed in her reverie that the king entered 
 without her perceiving him. At a distance he gazed upon 
 her lovely face, upon which the moon shed its pure silvery 
 light. 
 
 "Good heavens!" he exclaimed, with a terror he could 
 not control, "she is dead!" 
 
 "No, sire," said Montalais, in a low voice; "on the con- 
 trary, she is better. Are you not better, Louise?" 
 
 But Louise did not answer. "Louise," continued Mon- 
 talais, "the king has deigned to express his uneasiness on 
 your account." 
 
 "The king!" exclaimed Louise, starting up abruptly, as 
 if a stream of fire had darted through her frame to her 
 heart; "the king uneasy about me?" 
 
 "Yes," said Montalais. 
 
 "The king is here, then?" said La Valliere, not ventur- 
 ing to look round her. 
 
 "That voice! that voice!" whispered Louis eagerly to 
 St. Aignan. 
 
 "Yes, it is so," replied St. Aignan; "your majesty is 
 right; it is she who declared her love for the sun." 
 
 "Hush!" said the king. And then approaching La Val- 
 liere, he said, "You are not well. Mademoiselle de la Val- 
 liere? Just now, indeed, in the park, I saw that you had 
 fainted. How were you attacked?" 
 
 "Sire," stammered out the poor child, pale and trem- 
 bling, "I really do not know." 
 
 "You have been walking too much," said the king; "and 
 fatigue, perhaps " 
 
 "No, sire," said Montalais eagerly, answering for her 
 friend, "it could not be from fatigue, for we passed part of 
 the evening seated beneath the royal oak." 
 
 "Under the royal oak?" returned the king, starting. "I 
 was not deceived; it is as I thought." And he directed a 
 look of intelligence at the comte. 
 
 "Yes," said St. Aignan, "under the royal oak, with 
 Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Oharente." 
 
 ''How do you know that?" inquired Montalais, 
 
TEN- YEAilS tATER. 303 
 
 "In a very simple way. Mademaiselle de Tonnay- 
 Charente told me so." 
 
 "In that case, she probably told you the cause of Made- 
 moiselle de la Valliere fainting." 
 
 "Why, yes; she told me something about a wolf or a rob- 
 ber. I forget precisely which." La Valliere listened, her 
 eyes fixed, her bosom heaving, as if, gifted with an acute- 
 ness of perception, she foresaw a portion of the truth. 
 Louis imagined this attitude and agitation to be the conse- 
 quence of a terror but partially removed. "Nay, fear noth- 
 ing," he said, with a rising emotion which he could not 
 conceal; "the wolf which terrified you so much was simply 
 a wolf with two legs." 
 
 "It was a man, then," said Louise; "it was a man who 
 was listening?" 
 
 "Suppose it were, mademoiselle, what great evil was there 
 in his having listened? Is it likely that, even in your own 
 opinion, you would have said anything which could not 
 have been listened to?" ^ ' 
 
 La Valliere wrung her hands, and hid her face in them, 
 as if to hide her blushes. "In heaven's name," she said, 
 "who was concealed there? who was listening?" 
 
 The king advanced toward her, to take hold of one of 
 her hands. "It was I," he said, bowing with marked re- 
 spect. "Is it likely I could have frightened you?" La 
 Valliere uttered aloud cry; for the second time her strength 
 forsook her, and, cold, moaning, and in utter despair, she 
 again fell apparently lifeless in her chair. The king had 
 just time to hold out his arm; so that she was partially sup- 
 ported by him. Mile, de Tonnay-Charente and Montalais, 
 who stood a few paces from the king and La Valliere, 
 motionless and almost petrified at the recollection of the 
 conversation with La Valliere, did not think even of offer- 
 ing their assistance to her, feeling restrained by the pres- 
 ence of the king, who, with one knee on the ground, held 
 La Valliere round the waist with his arm. ■ 
 
 "You heard, sire!" murmured Athenais. But the king 
 did not reply; he remained with his eyes fixed upon La 
 Valliere's half-closed eyes, and held her drooping hand in 
 his own. 
 
 "Of course," replied St. Aignan, who, on his side, hop- 
 ing that Mile, de Tonnay-Charente would faint, advanced 
 toward her, holding his arms extended; "of course; we did 
 not even lose a word." But the haughty Athenais was not 
 &, woman to faint easily; she darted a terrible look at St, 
 
304 TEK TEARS LATER. 
 
 Aignan, and fled. Montalais, with more courage, advanced 
 hurriedly toward Louise, and received her from the king's 
 hands, who was already fast losing his presence of mind, 
 as he felt his face covered by the perfumed tresses of the 
 seemingly dying girl. "Excellent," said St. Aignan. 
 "This is indeed an adventure; and it will be my own fault 
 if I am not the first to relate it." 
 
 The king approached him, and with a trembling voice 
 and a passionate gesture, said, "Not a syllable, comte." 
 
 The poor king forgot that, only an hour before, he had 
 given him a similar recommendation, but with the very 
 opposite intention, namely, that the comte should be indis- 
 creet. It was a matter of course that the latter recom- 
 mendation was quite as unnecessary as the former. Half 
 an hour afterward everybody in Fontainebleau knew that 
 Mile, de la Valliere had had a conversation under the royal 
 oak with Montalais and Tonnay-Oharente, and that in this 
 conversation she had confessed her affection for the king. 
 It was known, also, that the king, after having manifested 
 the uneasiness with which Mile, de la Valliere's health had 
 inspired him, had turned pale, and trembled very much as 
 he received the beautiful girl fainting in his arms; so that 
 it was quite agreed among the courtiers that the greatest 
 event of the period had just been revealed; that his majesty 
 loved Mile, de la Valliere, and that, consequently. Monsieur 
 could now sleep in perfect tranquillity. It was this, even, 
 that the queen-mother, as surprised as the others by this 
 sudden change, hastened to tell the young queen and 
 Philippe d'Orleans. Only she set to work in a different 
 manner, by attacking them in the following way. To her 
 daughter-in-law she said, "See, now, Therese, how very 
 wrong you were to accuse the king; now it is said he is de- 
 voted to some other person; why should there be any greater 
 truth in the report of to-day than in that of yesterday, or 
 in that of yesterday than in that of to-day?" To Monsieur, 
 in relating to him the adventure of the royal oak, she said, 
 "Are you not very absurd in your jealousies, my dear 
 Philip? It is asserted that the king is madly in love with 
 that little La Valliere. Say nothing of it to your wife; for 
 the queen will know all about it very soon." This latter 
 confidential communication had an immediate result. 
 Monsieur, who had regained his composure, went trium- 
 phantly to look after his wife, and as it was not yet mid- 
 night and the fete was to continue until two in the morn- 
 ing, he offered her his hand for a promenade. At the end 
 
TEK YEARS LATER. 305 
 
 of a few paoeSj however, the first thing he did was to dis- 
 obey his mother's injunctions. 
 
 "Do not go and tell any one, the queen least of all/' he 
 said mysteriously, "what people say about the king." 
 
 "What do they say about him?" inquired madame. 
 
 "That my brother has fallen suddenly in love." 
 
 "With whom?" 
 
 "With Mademoiselle de la Valliere." As it was dark, 
 madame could smile at her ease. 
 
 "Ah!" she said, "and how long is it since this has been 
 the case?" 
 
 "For some days, so it seems. But that was nothing but 
 pure nonsense; but it is only this evening that he has re- 
 vealed his passion." 
 
 "The king shows his good taste," said madame; "and in 
 my opinion she is a very charming girl." 
 
 "I verily believe you are jesting." 
 
 "I! in what way?" 
 
 "In any case this passion will make some one very happy, 
 even if it be only La Valliere herself." 
 
 "Eeally," continued the princess, "you speak as if you 
 had read into the inmost recesses of La Valliere's heart. 
 Who has told you that she agrees to return the king's 
 afEection?" 
 
 "And who has told you that she will not return it?" 
 
 "She loves the Vicomte de Bragelonne." 
 
 "You think so." 
 
 "She is even affianced to him." 
 
 "She was so." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "When they went to ask the king's permission to arrange 
 the marriage he refused his permission." 
 
 "Refused?" 
 
 "Yes, although the request was preferred by the Comte 
 oe la Fere himself, for whom the king has the greatest re- 
 gard, on account of the part he took in your brother's 
 restoration, and in other events, also, which happened a 
 long time ago." 
 
 "Well, the poor lovers must wait until the king is pleased 
 to change his opinion; they are young, and there is time 
 enough." 
 
 "But, dear me," said Philip, laughing, "I perceive that 
 you do not know the best part of the affair." 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "That by which the king was most deeply touched." 
 
306 TEN TEAKS LATER. 
 
 "The Icing, do you say, has been deeply touched?' 
 
 "To the very heart." 
 
 "But how? in what manner? tell me directly." 
 
 "By an adventure, the romance of which cannot be 
 equaled." 
 
 "You know how I love such adventures, and yet you keep 
 me waiting," said the princess impatiently. 
 
 "Well, then — " and Monsieur paused. 
 
 "I am listening." 
 
 "Under the royal oak — you know where the royal oak is?" 
 
 "What can that matter? Under the royal oak, you were 
 saying." 
 
 "Well, Mademoiselle dela Valliere, fancying herself alone 
 with her two friends, revealed to them her affection for the 
 king." 
 
 "Ah!" said madame, beginning to be uneasy, "her affec- 
 tion for the king?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When was this?" 
 
 "About an hour ago." 
 
 Madame started, and then said, "And no one knew of 
 this affection?" 
 
 "No one." 
 
 "Not even his majesty?" 
 
 "Not even his majesty. The little creature kept her 
 secret most strictly to herself, when suddenly it proved 
 stronger than herself, and so escaped her." 
 
 "And from whom did you get this absurd tale?" 
 
 "Why, as everybody else did, from La Valliere herself, 
 who confessed her love to Montalais and Tonnay-Oharente, 
 who were her companions." 
 
 Madame stopped suddenly, and by a hasty movement let 
 go her husband's hand. 
 
 "Did you say it was an hour ago she made this confes- 
 sion?" madame inquired. 
 
 "About that time." 
 
 "Is the king aware of it?" 
 
 "Why, that is the very thing which constitutes the whole 
 romance of the affair, for the king was behind the royal oak 
 with St. Aignan, and he heard the whole of the interesting 
 conversation without losing a single word of it." 
 
 Madame felt struck to the heart, saying incautiously: 
 "But I have seen the king since, and he never told me a 
 word about it." 
 
 "Of course," said Monsieur- "he took care not to speak 
 
Sen tears lateK. tOl 
 
 of it to you himself, since he recommended every one not 
 to say a word about it to you." 
 
 "What do you mean?" said madame, irritated. 
 
 "I mean that they wished to keep you in ignorance of the 
 affair altogether." 
 
 "But why should they wish to conceal it from me?" 
 
 "From the fear that your friendship for the young queen 
 might induce you to say something about it to her, nothing 
 more." 
 
 Madame hung down her head; her feelings were grievously 
 wounded. She could not enjoy a moment's repose until 
 she had met the king. As a king is, most naturally, the 
 very last person in his kingdom who knows what is said 
 about him, in the same way that a lover is the only one who 
 is kept in ignorance of what is said about his mistress, 
 therefore, when the king perceived madame, who was look- 
 ing for him, he approached her somewhat disturbed, but 
 still gracious and attentive in his manner. Madame waited 
 for him to speak about La Valliere first; but as he did not 
 speak of her, she said, "And the poor girl?" 
 
 "What poor girl?" said the king. 
 
 "La Valliere. Did you not tell me, sire, that she had 
 fainted?" 
 
 "She is still very ill," said the king, affecting the great- 
 est indifference. 
 
 "But surely that will prejudicially affect the rumor you 
 were going to spread, sire?" 
 
 "What rumor?" 
 
 "That your attention was taken up by her." 
 
 "Oh!" said the king carelessly, "I trust it will be re- 
 ported all the same." 
 
 Madame still waited; she wished to know if the king 
 would speak to her of the adventure of the royal oak. But 
 the king did not say a word about it. Madame, on her 
 side, did not open her lips about the adventure, so that the 
 king took leave of her without having reposed the slightest 
 confidence in her. Hardly had she seen the king move 
 away than she set out in search of St. Aignan. St. Aignan 
 was never very difficult to find; he was like the smaller 
 vessels which always follow in the wake of, and as tenders 
 to, the larger ships. St. Aignan was the very man whom 
 madame needed in her then state of mind. And as for 
 him, he only looked for worthier ears than others he had 
 found, to have an opportunity of recounting the event with 
 ail its details. And therefore he did not spare madame a 
 
308 TEN YEAE3 LATEfi. 
 
 single word of the whole affair. When he had finished 
 madame said to him, "Confess, now, that it is all a charm- 
 ing invention." 
 
 "Invention, no; a true story, yes." 
 
 "Confess, whether invention or true story, that it wa? 
 told to you as you have told it to me, but that you were not 
 there." 
 
 "Upon my honor, madame, I was there." 
 
 "And you think that these confessions may have made 
 an impression upon the king?" 
 
 "Certainly, as those of Mademoiselle Tonnay-Oharente 
 did upon me," replied St. Aignan; "do not forget, ma- 
 dame, that Mademoiselle de la Valliere compared the king 
 to the sun; that was flattering enough." 
 
 "The king does not permit himself to be influenced by 
 such flatteries." 
 
 "Madame, the king is just as much man as sun, and I 
 saw that plain enough just now when La Valliere fell into 
 his arms." 
 
 "La Valliere fell into the king's arms?" 
 
 "Oh! it was the most graceful picture possible; just 
 imagine, La Valliere had fallen back fainting, and " 
 
 "Well, what did you see? tell me — speak!" 
 
 "I saw what ten other people saw at the same time as 
 myself; I saw that when La Valliere fell into his arms the 
 king almost fainted himself." 
 
 Madame uttered a subdued cry, the only indication of her 
 smothered anger. "Thank you," she said, laughing in a 
 convulsive manner, "you relate stories delightfully. Mon- 
 sieur de St. Aignan." And she hurried away, alone and 
 almost sufEocated by her feelings, toward the chdteau. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 COUESES DB NUIT. 
 
 Monsieur had quitted the princess in the best possiblft 
 humor, aad feeling very fatigued, had retired to his apart- 
 ments, leaving every one to finish the night as he chose. 
 When in his room. Monsieur began to dress for the night 
 with careful attention, which displayed itself from time to 
 time in paroxysms of satisfaction. While his attendants 
 were engaged in dressing him he sang the principal airs of 
 the ballet which the violins had played and to which the 
 
TEK TEAKS LATER. 309 
 
 king had danced. He then summoned his tailors, inspected 
 his costumes for the next day, and, in token of his extreme 
 satisfaction, distributed various presents among them. As, 
 however, the Chevalier de Lorraine, who had seen the prince 
 return to the chdteau, entered the room. Monsieur over- 
 whelmed him with kindness. The former, after having 
 saluted the prince, remained silent for a moment, like a 
 sharpshooter who deliberates before deciding in what direc- 
 tion he will renew his fire; then, seeming to make up his 
 mind, he said, "Have you remarked a very singular circum- 
 stance, monseigneur?" 
 
 "No; what is it?" 
 
 "The had reception which his majesty, in appearance, 
 gave the Comte de Guiche." 
 
 "In appearance?" 
 
 "Yes, certainly; since, in reality, he has restored him to 
 fe,vor." 
 
 "I did not notice it," said the prince. 
 
 "What, did you not remark that, instead of ordering 
 him to return to his exile, as would have been natural, he 
 encouraged him in his opposition by permitting him to 
 resume his place in the ballet?" 
 
 "And you think the king was wrong, chevalier?" said 
 the prince. 
 
 "Are you not of my opinion, prince?" 
 
 "Not altogether so, my dear chevalier; and I think the 
 king was quite right not to have made a disturbance against a 
 poor fellow whose want of judgment is more to be com- 
 plained of than his intention." 
 
 "Eeally," said the chevalier, "as far as I am concerned, 
 I confess that this magnanimity astonishes me to the high- 
 est degree." 
 
 "Why so?" inquired Philip. 
 
 "Because I should have thought the king had been more 
 jealous," replied the chevalier spitefully. During the last 
 few minutes Monsieur had felt there was something of an 
 irritating nature concealed under his favorite's remarks; 
 this last word, however, had ignited the powder. 
 
 "Jealous!" exclaimed the prince. "Jealous! what do 
 you mean? Jealous of what, if you please — or jealous of 
 whom?" 
 
 The chevalier perceived that he had allowed one of those 
 mischievous remarks to escape him, as he was sometimes in 
 the habit of doing. He endeavored, therefore, to recall it 
 while it was still possible to do bq. "Jealous pf hie ^uthoy- 
 
310 TEN TEAES LATER. 
 
 ity," he said, with an assumed frankness; "of what else 
 would vou have the king be jealous?" 
 
 "Ah"!" said the prince, "that's very proper." 
 
 "Did your royal highness," continued the chevalier, 
 "solicit dear De Guiche's pardon?" 
 
 "No, indeed," said Monsieur. "De Guiche is an excel- 
 lent fellow, and full of courage; bui; as I do not approve of 
 his conduct with madame, I wish him neither harm nor 
 good." 
 
 The chevalier had assumed a bitterness with regard to 
 De Guiche, as he had attempted to do with the king; but 
 he thought that he perceived that the tim'e for indulgence, 
 and even for the utmost indiiierence, had arrived, and that, 
 in order to throw some light on the question, it might be 
 necessary for him to put the lamp, as the saying is, under 
 the husband's nose even. 
 
 "Very well, very well," said the chevalier to himself; "I 
 shall wait for De Wardes; he will do more in one day than 
 I in a month; for I verily believe that he is still more 
 jealous than I am. Then, again, it is not De Wardes even 
 whom I require so much as that some event or another 
 should happen; and in the whole of this affair I see none. 
 That De Guiche returned after he had been sent away ia 
 certainly serious enough, but all its seriousness disappears 
 when I learn that De Guiche has returned at the very 
 moment madame troubles herself no longer about him. 
 Madame, in fact, is occupied with the king, that is clear; 
 but she will not be so much longer if, as it is asserted, the 
 king has ceased to occupy himself about her. The result 
 of the whole matter is, to remain perfectly quiet, and await 
 the arrival of some new caprice, and let that decide the 
 whole affair." And the chevalier thereupon settled himself 
 resignedly in the armchair in which Monsieur permitted 
 him to seat himself in his presence, and, having no more 
 spiteful or malicious remarks to make, the consequence was 
 that thechevalier's wit seemed to have deserted him. Mos 
 fortunately Monsieur was endowed with great good-humor, 
 and he had enough for two, until the time arrived for dis- 
 missing the servants and gentlemen of the chamber, and he 
 passed into his sleeping apartment. As he withdrew he 
 desired the chevalier to present his compliments to madame, 
 and say that, as the night was cool. Monsieur, who was 
 afraid of the toothache, would not venture out agrin into 
 the park during the remainder of the evening. The cheva- 
 lier entered the princess' apartments at the verj mora?»t 
 
TEN YEARS LATEE. 311 
 
 she entered them herself. He acquitted himself faithfully 
 of the commission which had been intrusted to him, and, 
 in the first place, remarked the indifference and annoyance 
 with which madame received her husband's communication 
 — a circumstance which appeared to him fraught with some- 
 thing quite fresh. If madame had been about to leave her 
 apartments with that strangeness of manner about her, he 
 would have followed her; but madame was returning to 
 them; there was nothing to be done; therefore he turned 
 upon his heel like an unemployed heron, seemed to question 
 earth, air, and water about it, shook his head, and walked 
 away mechanically in the direction of the gardens. He had 
 hardly gone a hundred paces when he met two young men, 
 walking arm in arm, with their heads bent down, and idly 
 kicking the small stones out of their path as they walked 
 on, plunged in thought. It was De Guiche and De Brage- 
 lonne, the sight of whom, as it always did, produced upon the 
 chevalier, instinctively, a feeling of great repugnance. He 
 did not, however, the less, on that account, salute them 
 with a very low bow, and which they returned with interest. 
 Then, observing that the park was becoming thinner, that 
 the illuminations began to burn out, and that the morning 
 breeze was setting in, he turned to the left, and entered the 
 chAteau again, by one of the smaller courtyards. The 
 others turned aside to the right, and continued on their 
 way toward the large park. As the chevalier was ascending 
 the side staircase, which led to the private entrance, he saw 
 a woman, followed by another, make her appearance under 
 the arcade which led from the small to the large courtyard. 
 The two women walked so fast that the rustling of their 
 dresses could be distinguished in the darkness of the night. 
 The style of their mantelets, their graceful figures, a mys- 
 terious yet haughty carriage which distinguished them both, 
 especially the one who walked first, struck the chevalier. 
 
 "I certainly know those two persons," said he to himself, 
 pausing upon the top step of the small staircase. Then, as 
 with the instinct of a bloodhound he was about to follow 
 them, one of the servants who had been running after him 
 arrested his attention. 
 
 "Monsieur," he said, "the courier has arrived." 
 
 "Very well," said the chevalier, "there is time enough; 
 to-morrow will do." 
 
 "There are some urgent letters which you would be glad 
 to see, perhaps." 
 
 *' Where from?" inquired the chevalier. 
 
312 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "One from England, and the other from Calais; th« 
 latter arrived by express, and seems of great importance." 
 
 "From Calais! Who the deuce can have written to me 
 from Calais?" 
 
 "'I think I can recognize the handwriting of your friend 
 the Comte de Wardes." 
 
 "Oh!" cried the chevalier, forgetting his intention of 
 acting the spy, "in that case I will come up at once." This 
 he did, while the two unknown beings disappeared at the 
 end of the court opposite to the one by which they had just 
 entered. We shall now follow them, and leave the cheva- 
 lier undisturbed to his correspondence. When they had 
 arrived at the grove of trees, the foremost of the two halted, 
 somewhat out of breath, and cautiously raising her hood, 
 said, "Are we still far from the tree?" 
 
 "Yes, madame; more than five hundred paces; but pray 
 rest awhile, you will not be able to walk much longer at 
 this pace." 
 
 "You are right," said the princess, for it was she; and 
 she leaned against a tree. "And now," she resumed, after 
 having recovered her breath, "tell me the whole truth, and 
 conceal nothing from me." 
 
 "Oh, madame!" said the young girl, "you are already 
 angry with me." 
 
 "No, my dear Athenais; reassure yourself, I am in no way 
 angry with you. After all, these things do not concern me 
 personally. You are anxious about what you may have 
 said under the oak; you are afraid of having offended the 
 king, and I wish to tranquillize you by ascertaining myself 
 if it were possible you could have been overheard." 
 
 "Oh, yes, madame, the king was so close to us." 
 
 "Still, you were not speaking so loud that some of your 
 remarks may not have been lost." 
 
 "We thought we were quite alone, madame." 
 
 "There were three of you, you say?" 
 
 "Yes; La Valliere, Montalais, and myself." 
 
 "And you, individually, spoke in a light manner of the 
 king?" 
 
 "I am afraid so. Should such be the case, will your 
 highness have the kindness to make my peace with his 
 majesty?" 
 
 "If there should be any occasion for it, I promise you to 
 do so. However, as I have already told you, it will be 
 better not to anticipate evil, and to be quite sure that evil 
 has been committed, The night is now very dark, and the 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 3lS 
 
 darkness is still greater under those large trees. It is not 
 likely you were recognized by the king. To inform him of 
 it, by being the first to speak, is to denounce yourself." 
 
 "Oh, madame! madame! if Mademoiselle de la Valliere 
 were recognized, I must have been recognized also. Be- 
 sides, Monsieur de St. Aignan did not leave a doubt on the 
 subject." 
 
 "Did you, then, say anything very disrespectful of the 
 king?" 
 
 "Not at all so; it was one of the others who made some 
 very flattering remarks about the king, and my remarks 
 will have been so much in contrast with hers." 
 
 "That Montalais is such a giddy girl," said madame. 
 
 "It was not Montalais. Montalais said nothing; it was 
 La Valliere." 
 
 Madame started as if she had not known it perfectly 
 already. "No, no," she said, "the king cannot have 
 heard. Besides, we will now try the experiment for which 
 we came out. Show me the oak. Do you know where it 
 is?" she continued. 
 
 "Alas! madame, yes." 
 
 "And you can find it again?" 
 
 "With my eyes shut." 
 
 "Very well; sit down on the bank where you were, where 
 La Valliere was, and speak in the tone and to the same 
 efEect as you did before; I will conceal myself in the thicket, 
 and if I can hear you I will tell you so." 
 
 "Yes, madame." 
 
 "If, therefore, you really spoke sufficiently loud for the 
 king to have heard you, in that case " 
 
 Athenais seemed to await the conclusion of the phrase 
 with some anxiety. 
 
 "In that case," said madame, in a suffocated voice, aris- 
 ing doubtless from her hurried progress; "in that case I 
 forbid you — " And madame again increased her pace. 
 Suddenly, however, she stopped. "An idea occurs to me," 
 she said. 
 
 "A good idea, no doubt, madame," replied Mile, de 
 Tonnay-Charente. 
 
 "Montalais must be as much embarrassed as La Valliere 
 and yourself." 
 
 "Less so, for she is less compromised, having said less." 
 
 "That does not matter; she will help you, I dare say, by 
 deviating a little from the exact truth." 
 
 "Especially if she knows that your highness is kind 
 enough to interest yourself about.me." 
 
314 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "Very well; I think I have discovered what we want." 
 
 "How delightful." 
 
 "You will say that all three of you were perfectly well 
 aware that the king was behind the tree, or behind the 
 thicket, whichever it might have been; and that you knew 
 Monsieur de St. Aignan was there too." 
 
 "Yes, madame." 
 
 "For you cannot disguise it from yourself, Athenais, St. 
 Aignan takes advantage of some very flattering remarks 
 which you made about him." 
 
 "Well, madame, you see very well that one can be over- 
 heard," cried Athenais, "since Monsieur de St. Aignan 
 overheard us." 
 
 Madame bit her lips, for she had thoughtlessly committed 
 herself. "Oh, you know St. Aignan's character very well," 
 she said; "the favor the king shows him almost turns his 
 brain, and he talks at random; not only that, he very often 
 invents. That is not the question; the fact remains. Did 
 or did not the king overhear?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, madame, he did hear," said Athenais, in 
 despair. 
 
 "In that case, do what I said: maintain boldly that all 
 three of you knew — mind, all three of you, for if there is a 
 doubt about any one of you, there will be a doubt about all 
 — persist, I say, that you knew that the king and Monsieur 
 de St. Aignan were there, and that you wished to amuse 
 yourselves at the expense of those who were listening." 
 
 "Oh, madame, at the king's expense; we never dare say 
 that!" 
 
 "It is a simple jest, an innocent deception readily per- 
 mitted in young girls whom men wish to take by surprise. 
 In this manner everything is explained. What Montalais 
 said of Malicorne, a mere Jest; what you said of Monsieur 
 de St. Aignan, a mere jest, too; and what La Valliere 
 might have said of " ] 
 
 "And which she would have given anything to have 
 recalled." 
 
 "Are you sure of that?" 
 
 "Perfectly so." 
 
 "Very well; an additional reason, therefore. Say the 
 whole affair was a mere Joke. Monsieur de Malicorne will 
 have no occasion to get out of temper; Monsieur de St. 
 Aignan will be completely put out of countenance, he will 
 be laughed at instead of you; and, lastly, the king will be 
 punished for a curiosity which was unworthy of his rank. 
 
TEK IBABS LATER. 315 
 
 Let people laugh a little at the king in this affair, and I do 
 not think he will complain of it." 
 
 "Oh, madame, you are indeed an angel of goodness and 
 sense!" 
 
 "It is to my own advantage." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "Do you ask me why it is to my advantage to spare my 
 maids of honor the remarks, annoyances, and perhaps even 
 calumnies, which might follow? Alas! you well know that 
 the court has no indulgence for this sort of pecadilloes. 
 But we have now been walking for some time; shall we be 
 long before we reach it?" 
 
 "About fifty or sixty paces further; turn to the left, 
 inadame, if you please." 
 
 "And so you are sure of Montalais?" said madame. 
 
 "Oh, certainly." 
 
 "Will she do what you ask her?" 
 
 "Everything. She will be delighted." 
 
 "As for La Valliere— " ventured the princess. 
 
 "Ah, there will be some diflBculty with her, madame; sht 
 would scorn to tell a falsehood." 
 
 "Yet, when it is her interest to do so " 
 
 "I am afraid that that would not make the slightea-i 
 difference in her ideas." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said madame, "I have been already told that; 
 she is one of those overnice and affected, particular persons 
 who place heaven in the foreground to conceal themselves 
 behind it. But if she refuse to tell a falsehood — as she will 
 expose herself to the jestings of the whole court — as she 
 will have annoyed the king by a confession as ridiculous as 
 it was immodest — Mademoiselle de la Baume le Blanc de la 
 Valliere will think it but proper that I should send her 
 back again to her pigeons in the country, in order that, in 
 Touriane yonder, or in Le Blaisois — I know not whtjre it 
 may be, she may at her ease study sentiment and a pastoral 
 life together." These words were uttered with a 
 Tshemence and harshness which terrified Mile, de Tonnay- 
 Charente; and the consequence was, that, as far as ushe was 
 concerned, she promised to tell as many falsehoods as might 
 be necessary. It was in this amiable frame of mind, respec- 
 tively, that madame and her companion reached the pre- 
 cincts of the royal oak. 
 
 "Here we are," said Tonnay-Charente. 
 
 "We shall soon learn if one can overhear," replied 
 inadame. 
 
S16 TEK TEARS LATER, 
 
 "Hush!" said the young girl, holding madame bacK with 
 a hurried gesture, entirely forgetful of her comDaniou's 
 rank. Madame stopped. 
 
 "You see that you can hear/' said Athenais. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Listen." 
 
 Madame held her breath; and, in fact, the following 
 words, pronounced by a gentle and melancholy voice, floated 
 toward them: 
 
 "I tell you, vicomte, I tell you I love her madly; I teL 
 you I love her to distraction." 
 
 Madame started at the voice; and, beneath her hood, a 
 bright joyous smile illumined her features. It was she who 
 now stayed her companion, and with a light footstep lead- 
 ing her some twenty paces back, that is to say, out of the 
 reach of the voice, she said, "Eemain there, my dear 
 Athenais, and let no one surprise us. I think it may be you 
 they are conversing about." 
 
 "Me, madame?" 
 
 "Yes, you — or rather, your adventure. I will go and 
 listen; if we were both there we should be discovered. Go 
 and fetch Montalais, and then return and wait for me with 
 her at the entrance of the forest." And then, as Athenais 
 hesitated, she again said, "Go!" in a voice which did not 
 admit of a reply. Athenais thereupon arranged her dress 
 so as to prevent its rustling being heard, and by a path 
 which crossed the group of trees, she regained the flower- 
 garden. As for madame, she concealed herself in the 
 thicket, leaning her back against a gigantic chestnut-tree, 
 one of the branches of which had been cut in a manner to 
 form a seat, and waited there full of anxiety and apprehen- 
 sion. "Now," she said, "since one can hear from this 
 place, let us listen to what Monsieur de Bragelonne and 
 that other madly in love fool, the Comte de Guiche, have to 
 say about me." 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 IK WHICH MADAME ACQUIRES A PROOF THAT LISTENERS 
 CAN HEAR WHAT IS SAID. 
 
 There was a moment's silence, as if all the mysterious 
 sounds of night were hushed to listen, at the same time as 
 madame, to the youthful and passionate disclosures of De 
 Guiche. 
 
fm YDAKS tATBS. M 
 
 It was Eaoul who was about to speak. He leaned in- 
 dolently against the trunk of the large oak, and replied in 
 his sweet and musical voice, "Alas, my dear De Guiche, it 
 is a great misfortune." 
 
 "Yes," cried the latter, "great indeed." 
 
 "You do not understand me, De Guiche. I say that it 
 is a great misfortune for you, not that of loving, but that 
 of not knowing how to conceal your love." 
 
 "What do you mean?" said De Guiche. 
 
 "Yes, you do not perceive one thing, namely, that it is 
 no longer to the only friend you have — in other words, to 
 a man who would rather die than betray you — you do not 
 perceive, I say, that it is no longer to your only friend that 
 you confide your passion, but to the first one who approaches 
 you." 
 
 "Are you mad, Bragelonne," exclaimed De Guiche, "to 
 say such a thing to me?" 
 
 "The fact is so, however." 
 
 "Impossible! How, in what manner could I have become 
 indiscreet to such an extent?" 
 
 "I mean, that your eyes, your looks, your sighs, speak, 
 in spite of yourself, that every exaggerated feeling leads 
 and hurries a man beyond his own control. In such a case 
 he ceases to be master of himself; he is a prey to a mad 
 passion, which makes him confide his grief to the trees, or 
 to the air, from the very moment he has no longer any liv- 
 ing being within reach of his voice. Besides, remember 
 this: it very rarely happens that there is not always some 
 one present to hear, especially those very things which 
 ought not to be heard." De Guiche uttered a deep sigh. 
 "Nay," continued Bragelonne, "you distress me; since your 
 return here you have a thousand times, and in a thousand 
 different ways, confessed your love for her; and yet, had 
 you not said anything, your return would alone have been 
 a terrible indiscretion. I persist, then, in drawing this 
 conclusion: that if you do not place a greater watch over 
 yourself than you have hitherto done, one day or anothei 
 something will happen which will cause an explosion. 
 Who will save you then? Answer me. Who will save her? 
 for, innocent as she will be of your affection, your affec- 
 tion will be an accusation against her in the hands of her 
 enemies." 
 
 "Alas!" murmured De Guiche; and a deep sigh accom- 
 panied the exclamation. 
 
 "That is not answering me, De Guiche." 
 
818 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 "Well, what reply have you to make?" 
 
 "This, that when the day arrives I shall not be less a 
 living being than I feel myself to be now." 
 
 "I do not understand you." 
 
 "So many vicissitudes have worn me out. At present, 1 
 am no more a thinking, acting being; at present, the most 
 worthless of men is better than I am; therefore, my re- 
 maining strength is now exhausted, my latest-formed resolu- 
 tions have vanished, and I abandon myself to my fate. When 
 a man is out campaigning, as we have been together, and he 
 sets off alone and unaccompanied for a skirmish, it sometimes 
 happens that he may meet with a party of five or six foragers, 
 and although alone, he defends himself; afterward, five or 
 six others arrive unexpectedly, his anger is aroused, and he 
 persists; but if six, eight, or ten others should stiU be met 
 with, he either sets spurs to his horse, if he should still 
 happen to retain it, or lets himself be slaiii, to save an 
 ignominious flight. Such, indeed, is my own case. First, 
 I had to struggle against myself; afterward, against Buck- 
 ingham; now, since the king is in the field, I will not con-- 
 tend against the king, nor even, I wish you to understand, 
 will the king retire; nor even against the nature of that 
 woman. Stul I do not deceive myself; having devoted 
 myself to the service of that afEection, I will lose my life 
 in it." 
 
 "It is not her you ought to reproach," replied Eaoul; "it 
 is yourself." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "You know the princess' character — somewhat giddy, 
 easily captivated by novelty, susceptible to flattery, whether 
 it come from a blind person or a child, and yet you allow 
 your passion for her to eat your very life away. Look at 
 her — love her, if you will — for no one whose heart is not 
 engaged elsewhere can see her without loving her. Yet, 
 while you love her, respect, in the first place, her husband's 
 rank, then himself, and, lastly, your own safety." 
 
 "Thanks, Eaoul." 
 
 *'Por what?" 
 
 "Because, seeing how much I suffer from this woman, 
 you endeavor to console me, because you tell me all the 
 good of her you think, and perhaps even that which you do 
 not think." 
 
 "Oh," said Eaoul, "there you are wrong, De Guiche; 
 what I think I do not always say, but in that case I say 
 
TEiT tEARS tATEft. 5ld 
 
 iiothing; but when I speak I know not either how to feign 
 or to deceive, and whoever listens to me may believe me." 
 
 During this conversation madame, her head stretched 
 forward with eager ear and dilated glance, endeavoring to 
 penetrate the obscurity, thirstily drank in the faintest 
 sound of their voices. 
 
 "Oh, I know her better than you do, then!" exclaimed 
 De Guiche. "She is not giddy, but frivolous; she is not 
 attracted by novelty, she is utterly oblivious, and is without 
 faith; she is not simply susceptible to flattei'y, she is a 
 practiced and cruel coquette. A thorough coquette! yes, 
 yes, I am sure of it. Believe me, Bragelonne, I am suffer- 
 ing all the torments of hell; brave, passionately fond of 
 danger, I meet a danger greater than my strength and my 
 courage. But believe me, Eaoul, I reserve for myself a. 
 victory which shall cost her floods of tears." 
 
 "A victory," he asked, "of what kind?" 
 
 "Of what kind, you ask?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "One day I will accost her, and will address her thus: 'I 
 was young — madly in love; I possessed, however, sufficient 
 respect to throw myself at your feet, and to prostrate my- 
 self with my forehead buried in the dust, if your looks had 
 not raised me to your hand. I fancied I understood your 
 looks, I arose, and then, without having done anything 
 toward you than love you yet more devotedly, if that were 
 possible — you, a woman without heart, faith, or love, in 
 very wantonness of disposition, dashed me down again from 
 mere caprice. You are unworthy, princess of the royal 
 blood though you may be, of the love of a man of honor; I 
 offer my life as a sacrifice for having loved you too tenderly, 
 and I die hating you.' " 
 
 "Oh!" cried Eaoul, terrified at the accents of profound 
 truth which De Quiche's words betrayed, "I was right in 
 saying you were mad, De Guiche." 
 
 "Yes, yes!" exclaimed De Guiche, following out his own 
 idea; "since there are no wars hero now, I will flee yonder, 
 to the north, seek service in the empire, where some 
 Hungarian, or Croat, or Turk will perhaps kindly put mf 
 out of my misery at once." De Guiche did not finish, ot- 
 rather, as he finished, a sound made him start, and at the 
 same moment made Eaoul leap to his feet. As foi De 
 (rniche, buried in his own thoughts, he remained seated, 
 with his head tightly pressed between his hands. The 
 branches of the trees were pushed aside, and a woman, pale 
 
3aO TEN- TEARS lATEH. 
 
 and much agitated, appeared before the .wo young' meiln 
 With oue hand she held back the branches, which would 
 have struck her lace^ and with the other she raised the 
 .'lood of the mantle which covered her shoulders. By her 
 jlear and lustrous glance, by her lofty carriage, by her 
 haughty attitude, and, more than all, by the throbbing of 
 his own heart, De Guiche recognized madame, and, utter- 
 ing a load cry, he removed his hands from his temples, and 
 coverea his eyes with them. Raoul, trembling and out of 
 countenance, merely muttered a few formal words of respect. 
 
 "Monsieur de Bragelonne," said the princess, "have the 
 goodness, I beg, to see if my attendants are not somewhere 
 yonder, either in the walks or in the groves; and you. Mon- 
 sieur de Guiche, remain here; I am tired, and you will pei'- 
 haps give me your arm." 
 
 Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of the unhappy 
 young man he would have been less terrified than by her 
 cold and severe tone. However, as he himself had just said, 
 he was brave; and as in the depths of his own heart he had 
 just decisively made up his mind, De Guiche arose, and, 
 observing Bragelonne's hesitation, he turned toward him a 
 glance full of resignation and of grateful acknowledgment. 
 Instead of immediately answering madame, he even ad- 
 vamced a step toward the vicomte, and holding out toward 
 him the hand which the princess had just desired him to 
 give her, he pressed his friend's hand in his own with a 
 sigh, in which he seemed to give to friendship all life that 
 was left in the depths of his heart. Madame, who in her 
 pride had never known what it was to wait, now waited 
 until this mute colloquy was ended. Her royal hand re- 
 mained suspended in the air, and when Eaoul had left, it 
 sank without anger, but not without emotion, in that of 
 De Guiche. They were alone in the depths of the dark 
 and silent forest, and nothing could be heard but Eaoul's 
 hastily retreating footsteps along the obscure paths. Over 
 their heads was extended the thick and fragrant vault of 
 branches, through the occasional openings of which the 
 stars could be seen glittering in their beauty. Madame 
 ^,oftlydrew De Guiche about a hundred paces away from 
 that indiscreet tree which had heard, and had allowed so 
 joaany things to be heard, during that evening, and leading 
 him to a neighboring glade, so that they could see a certain 
 distance around them, she said in a trembling voice, "I 
 have brought you here, because yonder where you were 
 everything can be overheard." 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 331 
 
 "Everything can be overheard^ did you say, madame?" 
 'replied the young man mechanically. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Which means — " murmured De Guiche. 
 
 "Which means that I have heard every syllable you h»T8 
 said." 
 
 "Oh, Heaven! this only was wanting to destroy me," 
 stammered De Guiche; and he bent down his head, like an 
 exhausted swimmer beneath the wave which ingulfs him. 
 
 "And so," she said, "you judge me as you have said." 
 
 De Guiche grew pale, turned his head aside, and was 
 silent; he felt almost on the point of fainting. 
 
 "I do not complain," continued the princess, in a tone 
 of voice full of gentleness; "I prefer a frankness which 
 wounds me to flattery which would deceive me. And so, 
 according to your opinion. Monsieur de Guiche, I am a 
 coquette and a worthless creature." 
 
 "Worthless!" cried the young man; "you worthless! No, 
 no; most certainly I did not say, I could not have said, 
 that that which was the most precious object in life for me 
 could be worthless. No, no; I did not say that!" 
 
 "A woman who sees a man perish, consumed by the fire 
 she has kindled, and who does not allay that fire is, in my 
 opinion, a worthless woman." 
 
 "What can it matter to you what I said?" returned the 
 comte. "What am I compared to you, and why should you 
 even trouble yourself to know whether I exist or not?" 
 
 "Monsieur de Guiche, both you and I are human beings, 
 and, knowing you as I do, I do not wish you to risk your 
 life; with you I will change my conduct and character. I 
 will be, not frank, for I am always so, but truthful. I im 
 plore you, therefore, to love me no more, and to forge; 
 utterly that I have ever addressed a word or a glance 
 toward you." 
 
 De Guiche turned round, bending a look full of pas- 
 sionate devotion upon her. "You," he said; "you excuse 
 yoisrself; you implore me!" 
 
 "Certainly; since I have done the evil, I ought to repair 
 the evil I have done. And so, comte, this is what we have 
 agreed to. You will forgive my frivolity and my coquetry. 
 Nay,, do not interrupt me. I will forgive you for having 
 said I was frivolous and a coquette, or something worse, 
 perhaps; and you will renounce your idea of dying, and 
 will preserve for your family, for the king, and for our sex, 
 a cavalier whom every one esteems, and whom many hold 
 
522 TEN" TEARS LATER. 
 
 Madame pronounced these last words in such an accent 
 of frankness, and even of tenderness, that poor De Quiche's 
 heart felt almost bursting. 
 
 "Oh! madame, madame!" he stammered out. 
 
 "Nay, listen further," she continued. "When you shall 
 have renounced all thought of me forever, from necessity 
 in the first place, and, afterward, because you will yield to 
 my entreaty, then you will judge me more favorably, and I 
 am convinced you will replace this love — forgive the folly 
 of the expression — by a sincere friendship, which you will 
 be ready to offer me, and which, I promise you, shall be 
 cordially accepted." 
 
 De ftuiche, his forehead bedewed with perspiration, a feel- 
 ing of death in bia heart, and a trembling agitation through 
 his whole frame, bit his lip, stamped his foot on the ground, 
 and, in a word, devoured the bitterness of his grief. "Ma- 
 dame," he said, "what you offer is impossible, and I can- 
 not accept such conditions." 
 
 "What!" said madame, "do you refuse my friendship?" 
 
 "No, no! I need not your friendship, madame; I prefer 
 to die from love than to live for friendship." 
 
 "Comte!" 
 
 "Oh! madame," cried De Guiche,"the present is a mo- 
 ment for me, in which no other consideration and no other 
 respect exists, than the respect of a man of honor toward 
 the woman he worships. Drive me away, curse me, de- 
 nounce' me, you will be perfectly right; I have uttered com- 
 plaints against you, but their bitterness has been owing to 
 my passion for you; I have said that I would die, and die I 
 shall. If I lived, you would forget me; but dead, you would 
 never forget me, I am sure." 
 
 And yet she, who was standing buried in thought, nnd as 
 agitated as De Guiche himself, turned aside her head as he 
 but a minute before had turned aside his. Then, after a 
 moment's pause, she said, "And you love me, then, very 
 much?" 
 
 "Madly; madly enough to die from it, whether you drive 
 me from you or whether you listen to me still." 
 
 "It is, therefore, a hopeless case," she said, in a playful 
 manner; "a case which must be treated with soothing ap- 
 plications. Give me your hand. It is as cold as ice." 
 
 De Guiche knelt down, and pressed to his lips, not one, 
 but both of madame's hands. 
 
 "Love me, then," said the princess, "since it cannot be 
 otherwise.'' And almost imperceptibly she pressed his 
 
TEK TEARS lATEft. 323 
 
 fingers, raising him thus, partly in the manner of a queen, 
 and partly as a fond and afEectionate woman would have 
 done. De Gniche trembled throughout, from head to foot, 
 and madame, who felt how passion coursed through every 
 fiber of his being, knew that he indeed loved truly. "Give 
 me your arm, comte," she said, "and let us return." 
 
 "Ah! madame," said the comte, trembling and be- 
 wildered; "yon have discovered a third way of killing me." 
 
 "But, happily, it is the longest, is it not?" she renlied; 
 as she led him toward the grove of trees she had left. 
 
 GHAPTEE XLVI. 
 
 AEAMIS' CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 While De Guiche's affairs, which had been suddenly set 
 to rights without his having been able to guess the cause of 
 their improvement, assumed that unexpected change which 
 we have seen, Eaoul, in obedience to the request of H. K. 
 H., had withdrawn in order not to interrupt an explana- 
 tion, the results of which he was far from guessing, and he 
 had joined the ladies of honor who were walking about in 
 the ilower-gardens. During this time the Chevalier de 
 Lorraine, who had returned to his own room, read De 
 Wardes' letter with surprise, for it informed him, by the 
 hand of his valet, of the sword-thrust received at Calais, 
 and of all the details of the adventure, and invited him to 
 communicate to De Guiche and to Monsieur, whatever there 
 might be in the affair likely to be most disagreeable to both 
 of them. De Wardes particularly endeavored to prove to 
 the chevalier the violence of madame's affection for Buck- 
 ingham, and he finished his letter by declaring that he 
 thought this feeling was returned. The chevalier shrugged 
 his shoulders at the latter paragraph, and, in fact, De 
 Wardes was very much behindhand, as may have bgen seen. 
 De Wardes was still only at Buckingham's affair. The 
 chevalier threw the letter over his shoulder upon an adjoin- 
 ing table, and said in a disdainful tone: "It is really in- 
 credible; and yet poor De Wardes is not deficient in ability; 
 but the truth is, it is not very apparent, so easy is it to grow 
 rusty in the country. The deuce take the simpleton, who 
 ought to have written to me about matters of importance, 
 and who writes such silly stuff as that. If it had not been 
 for that miserable letter, which has no meaning at all in it, 
 
324 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 I should have detected in the grove yonder a charming 
 httle intrigue, wliich would have compromised a woman, 
 would have perhaps been as good as a sword-thrust for a 
 man, and have diverted Monsieur for some days to come." 
 
 He looked at his watch. "It is now too late," he said. 
 "One o'clock in themoDiing; everyone must have returned 
 to the king's apartments, where the night is to be finished; 
 well, the scene is lost, and iinless some extraordinary 
 chance — " And thus saying, as if to appeal to his good 
 star, the chevalier, much out of temper, approached the 
 window, which looked out upon a somewhat solitary part 
 of the garden. Immediately, and as if some evil genius had 
 been at his orders, he perceived returning toward the 
 chateau, accompanied by a man, a silk mantle of a dark 
 color, and recognized the figure which had struck his atten- 
 tion half an hour previously. 
 
 "Admirable!" he thought, striking his hands together, 
 "this is my mysterious afl:air." And he started out precipi- 
 tately along the staircase, hoping to reach the courtyard in 
 time to recognize the woman in the mantle, and her com- 
 
 E anion. But as he arrived at the door in the little court, 
 e nearly knocked against madame, whose radiant face 
 seemed full of charming revelations beneath the mantle 
 which protected without concealing her. Unfortunately, 
 madame was alone. The chevalier knew that since he had 
 seen her, not five minutes before, with a gentleman, the 
 gentleman in question could not be far off. Consequently, 
 he hardly took time to salute the princess as he drew up, to 
 allow her to pass; then when she had advanced a few steps, 
 with the rapidity of a woman who fears recognition; and 
 when the chevalier perceived that she was too much occu- 
 pied with her own thoughts to trouble herself about him, 
 he darted into the garden, looked hastily round on every 
 side, and embraced within his glance as much of the hori- 
 zon as he possibly could. He was just in time: the gentle- 
 man who had accompanied madame was still in sight; only 
 he was i'apidly hurrying toward one of the wings of the 
 chateau, behind which he was just on the point of disap- 
 pearing. There was not a minute to lose; the chevalief 
 darted in pursuit of him, prepared to slacken his pace as he 
 approached the unknown; but in spite of the diligence he 
 used, the unknown had disappeared behind the flight of 
 steps before he approached. 
 
 It was evident, however, that as he whom the chevalier 
 pursued was walking quietly, in a very pensive manner, 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 335 
 
 with his head bent down, either beneath the weight of grief 
 or of happiness, when once the angle was passed, unless, 
 indeed, he were to enter by some door or another, the 
 chevalier conld not fail to overtake him. And this cer- 
 tainly would have happened, if, at the very moment he 
 turned the angle, the chevalier had not run against two 
 persona, who were themselves turning it in the opposite direc- 
 tion. The chevalier was quite ready to seek a quarrel with 
 these two troublesome intruders, when looking up he recog- 
 nized the surintendant. Fouquet was accompanied by a 
 person whom the chevalier now saw for the iirst time. The 
 stranger was His Grace the Bishop of Vannes. Checked by 
 the important character of the individual, and obliged from 
 politeness to make his own excuses when he expected to 
 receive them, the chevalier stepped back a few paces; and 
 as M. Fouquet possessed, if not the friendship, at least the 
 respect of every one; as the king himself, although he was 
 rather his enemy than his friend, treated M. Fouquet as a 
 man of great distinction, the chevalier did what the king 
 would have done, namely, he howed to M. Fouquet, who 
 returned his salutation with kindly politeness, perceiving 
 that the gentleman had run against him by mistake, and 
 without any intention of being rude. Then, almost imme- 
 diately afterward, having recognized the Chevalier de Lor- 
 raine, he made a few civil remarks, to which the chevalier 
 was obliged to reply. Brief as the conversation was, the 
 Chevalier de Lorraine saw, with the most unfeigned dis- 
 pleasure, the figure of his unknown becoming less and less 
 in the distance, and fast disappearing in the darkness. The 
 chevalier resigned himself, and, once resigned, gave his 
 entire attention to Fouquet: "You arrive late, monsieur," 
 he said. "Your absence has occasioned great surprise, and 
 I heard Monsieur express himself as much astonished that, 
 having been invited by the king, you had not come." 
 
 "It was impossible for me to do so; but I came as soon as 
 I was free." 
 
 "Is Paris quiet?" 
 
 "Perfectly so. Paris has received the last tax very well." 
 
 "Ah! I understand, you wished to assure yourself of this 
 good feeling before you came to participate in our feies." 
 
 "I have arrived, however, somewhat late to enjoy them. 
 I will ask you, therefore, to inform me if the king is within 
 the chateau or not, if I shall be able to see him this even- 
 ing, or if I am to wait until to-morrow." 
 
 "We have lost sight of his majesty during the last half 
 hour nearly," said the chevalier. 
 
326 TEN TEARS LATER, 
 
 "Perhaps he is in madame's apartments," inquii-ed 
 Fouquet. 
 
 ''Not in madame's apartments, I should think, for I have 
 just met madame as she was entering by the small staircase; 
 and unless the gentleman whom you just now passed was 
 the king himself — " and the chevalier paused, hoping that, 
 in this manner, he might learn who it was he had been 
 hurrying after. But Fouquet, whether he had or not 
 recognized De Guiche, simply replied: 
 
 "No, monsieur, it was not he." 
 
 The chevalier, disappointed in his expectation, saluted 
 them; but as he did so, casting a parting glance around 
 him, and perceiving M. Colbert in the center of a group, 
 ne said to thesurintendant: "Stay, monsieur; there is some 
 one under the trees yonder who will be able to inform you 
 better than myself." 
 
 "Who?" asked Fouquet, whose near-sightedness pre- 
 vented his seeing through the darkness. 
 
 "Monsieur Colbert," returned the chevalier. 
 
 "Indeed! That person, then, who is speaking yonder to 
 those men with torches in their hands, is Monsieur Colbert?" 
 
 "Monsieur Colbert himself. He is giving his orders per- 
 sonally to the workmen who are arranging the lamps for 
 the illuminations." 
 
 "Thank you," said Fouquet, with an inclination of the 
 head which indicated that he had obtained all the informa- 
 tion he wished. The chevalier, on his side, having, on the 
 contrary, learned nothing at all, withdrew with a profound 
 salutation. 
 
 He had scarcely left when Fouquet, knitting his brows, fell 
 in a deep reverie. Aramis looked at him for a moment with 
 a mingled feeling of compassion and sadness. "What!" he 
 said to him, "that man's name alone seemed to affect you.' 
 Is it possible that, full of triumph and delight as you were, 
 just now, the sight merely of that man is capable of dis-| 
 piriting you? Tell me, have you faith in your good star?" ' 
 
 "No," replied Fouquet dejectedly. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because I am too full of happiness at this present 
 moment," he replied in a trembling voice. "You, my 
 dear D'Herblay, who are so learned, will remember the his- 
 tory of a certain tyrant of Samos. What can I throw into 
 the sea to avert approaching evil? Yes; I repeat it once 
 more, I am too full of happiness! so happy that I wi^h for 
 nothing beyond what I have. ... I have risen so high. 
 
TEN TEABS LATER. 327 
 
 • • . You Icnow my motto: ^Quo non ascendamV I 
 have risen so h'gh that nothing is left me but to descend 
 from my elevation. I cannot believe in the progress of a 
 success which is already more than human." 
 
 Aramis smiled as he fixed his kind and penetrating glance 
 upon him. ''If I were aware of the cause of your happi- 
 ness/' he said, "I should probably fear for your disgrace; 
 but you regard me in the light of a true friend; I mean, 
 you turn to me in misfortune, nothing more. Even that is 
 an immense and precious boon, I know; but the truth is, 1 
 have a just right to beg you to confide in me, from time to 
 time, any fortunate circumstances which may befall you, 
 and in which I should rejoice, you know, more than if they 
 had befallen myself." 
 
 "My dear prelate," said Fouquet, laughing, "my secrets 
 are of too profane a character to confide them to a bishop, 
 however great a worldling he may be." 
 
 "Bah! in confession." 
 
 "Or I should blush too much if you were my confessor." 
 And Fouquet began to sigh. Aramis again looked at him 
 without any other betrayal of his thoughts than a quiet 
 smile. 
 
 "Well," he said, "discretion is a great virtue." 
 
 "Silence," said Fouquet; "that venomous beast has 
 recognized us, and is coming this way." 
 
 "Colbert?" 
 
 "Yes; leave me, D'Herblay; 1 do not wish that fellow to 
 see you with me, or he will take an aversion to you." 
 
 Aramis pressed his hand, saying, "What need have I of 
 his friendship, while you are here?" 
 
 "Yes, but I may not be always here," replied Fouquet 
 dejectedly. 
 
 "On that day, then, if that day should ever come," said 
 Aramis tranquilly, "we will think over a means of dispens- 
 ing with the friendship, or of braving the dislike of Mon- 
 sieur Colbert. But tell me, my dear Fouquet, instead of 
 conversing with this fellow, as you did him the honor to 
 style him, a conversation the ntility of which I do not per- 
 ceive, why do you not pay a visit, if not to the king, at 
 least to madame?" 
 
 "To madame?" said the surintendant, his mind occupied 
 by his souvenirs. 
 
 "Yes, certainly, to madame." 
 
 "You remember," continued Aramis, "that we have been 
 tpld tJj^t w^4ame stands high in favor during the last tWQ 
 
328 "' TEX TEARS LATER. 
 
 or three days. It enters into your policy, and forms part, 
 of onr plans, that you should assiduously devote yourself to 
 his majesty's friends. It is a means of counteracting the 
 growing influence of Monsieur Colbert. Present yourself, 
 therefore, as soon as possible to madame, and, for our sakes, 
 treat this ally with consideration." 
 
 "But," said Fouquet, "are you quite sure that it is upon 
 her the king has his eyes fixed at the present moment?" 
 
 "If the needle has turned, it must be since the morning. 
 You know I have my police." 
 
 "Very well. I go there at once, and, at all events, I 
 shall have a means of introduction in the shape of a mag- 
 nificent pair of antique cameos set round with diamonds." 
 
 "I have seen them, and nothing could be more costly and 
 regal." 
 
 At this moment they were interrupted by a servant fol- 
 lowed by a courier. 
 
 "For you, monseigneur," said the courier, aloud, pre- 
 senting a letter to Fouquet. 
 
 "For your grace," said the lackey, in a low tone, hand- 
 ing Aramis a letter. 
 
 And as the lackey carried a torch in his hand, he placed 
 himself between the surintendant and the Bishop of Vannes, 
 so that both of them could read at the same time. As Fou- 
 quet looked at the fine and delicate writing on the envelope, 
 he started with delight; they who love, or who are beloved, 
 will understand his anxiety in the first place, and his hap- 
 piness in the next. He hastily tore open the letter, which, 
 however, contained only these words: 
 
 "It is but an hour since I quitted you, it is an age since I 
 told you that I love you." 
 
 And that was all. Mme. de BelliSre had, in fact, left 
 Fouquet about an hour previously, after having passed two 
 days with him; and, apprehensive lest his remembrance of 
 her might not be effaced for too long a period from the 
 heart she regretted, she dispatched a courier to him as the 
 bearer of this important communication. Fouquet kissed 
 the letter, and rewarded the bearer with a handful of gold. 
 As for Aramis, he, on his side, was engaged in reading, but 
 with more coolness and reflection, the following letter: 
 
 "The king has this evening been struck with a strange 
 fancy; a woman loves him. He learned it accidentally, as he 
 was listening to the conversation of this young girl with 
 
fEir YEARS tATEfi. 339 
 
 her companions; and his majesty has entirely abandoned 
 himself to this new caprice. The girl's name is Made- 
 moiselle de la Valliere, and she is suiBciently pretty to 
 warrant this caprice becoming a strong attachment. Be- 
 ware of Mademoiselle de la Valliere." 
 
 There was not a word about madame. Aramis slowly 
 folded the letter and put it in his pocket. Fouquet was 
 still engaged in inhaling the perfume of his epistle. 
 
 "Monseigneur," said Aramis, touching Fouquet's arm. 
 
 "Yes, what is it?" he asked. 
 
 "An idea has just occurred to me. Are you acquainted 
 with a young girl of the name of La Valliere?" 
 ' "Not at all." 
 
 "Eeflect a little." 
 
 "Ah, yes, I belieye so; one of madame's maids of honor." 
 
 "That must be the one." 
 
 "Well, what then?" 
 
 "Well, monseigneur, it is to that young girl that you 
 must pay your visit this evening." 
 
 "Bah! why so?" 
 
 "Nay, more than that, it is to her you must present your 
 cameos." 
 
 "Nonsense." 
 
 "You know, monseigneur, that my advice is not to be 
 regarded lightly." 
 
 "Yet this was unforeseen " 
 
 "That is my afEair. Pay your court in due form, and 
 without loss of time, to Mademoiselle de la Valliere. I 
 will be your guarantee with Mme. de Belliere that your 
 devotion is altogether politic." 
 
 "What do you mean, my dear D'Herblay, and whose 
 name have you just pronounced?" 
 
 "A name which ought to convince you that, as I am so 
 well informed about yourself, I may possibly be as well in- 
 formed about others. Pay your court, therefore, to La 
 Valliere." 
 
 "I will pay my court to whomsoever you like," replied 
 Fouquet, his heart filled with happiness. 
 
 "Come, come; descend again to the earth, traveler of the 
 seventh heaven," said Aramis. "Monsieur de Colbert is 
 approaching. He has been recruiting while we were read- 
 ing; see how he is surrounded, praised, congratulated; he is 
 decidedly becoming powerful." 
 
 In fact, Colbert was advancing, escorted by all the cour- 
 
330 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 tiers who remained in the gardens, every one of whom com- 
 plimented him upon the arrangements of the f&te, and 
 which so pufied him up that he could hardly contain him- 
 self. 
 
 "If La Fontaine were here," said Fouquet, smiling, 
 "what an admirable opportunity for him to recite his fable 
 of 'The Frog that wished to make itself as big as the Ox!' " 
 Colbert arrived in the center of the circle blazing with 
 light, Fouquet awaited his approach, unmoved, and with a 
 slightly mocking smile. Colbert smiled, too; he had been 
 observing his enemy during the last quarter of an hour, and 
 had been approaching him gradually. Colbert's smile was 
 a presage of hostility. 
 
 "Oh, oh!" said Aramis, in a low tone, to the surin- 
 tendant; "the scoundrel is going to ask you again for a few 
 more millions to pay for his fireworks and his colored 
 lamps." 
 
 Colbert was the first to salute them, and with an air 
 which he endeavored to render respectful. Fouquet hardly 
 moved his head. 
 
 "Well, monseigneur, what do your eyes say? Have we 
 shown our good taste?" 
 
 "Perfect taste," replied Fouquet, without permitting 
 the slightest tone of raillery to be remarked in his words. 
 
 "Oh!" said Colbert maliciously, "you are treating us 
 with indulgence. We are poor, we other servants of the 
 king, and Fontainebleau is in no way to be compared as a 
 residence with Vaux." 
 
 "Quite true," replied Fouquet coolly. 
 "But what can we do, monseigneur?" continued Colbert; 
 "we have done our best with our slender resources." 
 Fouquet made a gesture of assent. 
 
 "But," pursued Colbert, "it would be only a proper dis- 
 play of your magnificence, monseigneur, if you were to 
 offer to his majesty s,fete in your wonderful gardens — in 
 those gardens which have cost you sixty millions of francs." 
 "Seventy-two," said Fouquet. 
 
 "An additional reason," returned Colbert; "it would, 
 indeed, be truly magnificent." 
 
 "But do you suppose, monsieur, that his majesty would 
 deign to accept my invitation?" 
 
 "I have no doubt whatever of it!" cried Colbert hastily; 
 "I will guarantee that he does." 
 
 "You are exceedingly kind," said Fouquet. "I may 
 depend on it, then?" 
 
TEN TEAKS LATER. 331 
 
 "Yes, monseigneur; yes, certainly." 
 
 "Then I will consider it," said Fonquet. 
 
 ■'Accept, accept," whispered Aramis eagerly. 
 
 "You will consider it?" repeated Colbert. 
 
 "Yes," replied Pouquet; "in order to know what day I 
 shall submit my invitation to the king." 
 
 "This very evening, monsieur, this very evening." 
 
 "Agreed," said t^^e surintendant. "Gentlemen, I should 
 wish to issue my invitations; but you know that wherever 
 the king goes, the king is in his own palace; it is by his 
 majesty therefore, that you must be invited." 
 
 A murmur of delight immediately arose. Fouquet bowed 
 and left. 
 
 "Proud and haughty man," said Colbert, "you accept, 
 and you know it will cost you ten millions." 
 
 "You have ruined me,",:said Fouquet, in a low tone, to 
 Aramis. * 
 
 "I have saved you," replied the latter, while Fouquet 
 ascended the flight of steps and inquired whether the king 
 was still visible. 
 
 CHAPTEE XLVII. 
 
 THE ORDERLY CLERK. 
 
 The king, anxious to be again quite alone, in order to 
 reflect well upon what was passing in his heart, had with- 
 drawn to his own apartments, where M. de St. Aignan had, 
 after his conversation with madame, gone to meet him. 
 This conversation has already been related. The favorite, 
 vain of his twofold importance, and feeling that he had 
 become, during the last two hours, the confidant of the 
 king, began to treat the affairs of the court in a somewhat 
 indifferent manner; and from the position in which he had 
 placed himself, or rather, where chance had placed him, 
 he saw nothing but love and garlands of flowers around 
 him. The king's love for madame, that of madame for the 
 king, that of De Guiche for madame, that of La Valliere 
 for the king, that of Malicorne for Montalais, that of Mile. 
 de Tonnay-Charente for himself, was not all this, truly, 
 more than enough to turn the head of any courtier? Be- 
 sides, St. Aignan was the model of all courtiers, past, 
 present, and future; and, moreover, St. Aignan showed^ 
 himself such an excellent narrator and so discerningly ap- 
 
333 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 preciative that the king listened to him with an appearance 
 of great interest, particularlywhen he described the excited 
 manner with which madame had sought for him to converse 
 about the affair of Mile, de la Valliere. When the king no 
 longer experienced for madame any remains of the passion 
 he had once felt for her, there was, in this same eagerness 
 of madame to procure information about him, such a grati- 
 fication for his vanity, from which he could not free him- 
 self. He experienced this gratification, then, but nothing 
 more; and his heart was not, for a single moment, alarmed 
 at what madame might, or might not, think of this adven- 
 ture. When, however, St. Aignan had finished, the king, 
 while preparing to retire to rest, asked: 
 
 "Now, St. Aignan, you know what Mademoiselle de la 
 Valliere is, do you not?" 
 
 "Not only what she is, but w&at she will be." 
 
 "What do you mean?" * 
 
 "I mean that she is everything that a woman can wish to 
 be; that is to say, beloved by your majesty; I mean, that 
 she will be everything your majesty may wish her to be." 
 
 "That is not what I am asking. I do not wish to know 
 what she is to-day, or what she will be to-morrow; as you 
 have remarked, that is my affair. But tell me what others 
 say of her." 
 
 "They say she is well-conducted." 
 
 "Oh!" said the king, smiling, "that is but report." 
 
 "But rare enough, at court, sire, to believe it when it is 
 spread." 
 
 "Perhaps you are right. Is she well-born?" 
 
 "Excellently so; the daughter of the Marquis de la Val- 
 liere, and stepdaughter of that good Monsieur de St. 
 Eemy." 
 
 "Ah, yes, my aunt's major-domo; I remember it; and I 
 remember now that I saw her as I passed through Blois. 
 She was presented to the queens. I have even to reproach 
 myself that I did not, on that occasion, pay her all the 
 attention she deserved." 
 
 "Oh, sire, I trust that your majesty will repair the time 
 you have lost." 
 
 "And the report, you tell me, is that Mademoiselle de la 
 Valliere never had a lover?" 
 
 "In any case, I do not think your majesty would be 
 much alarmed at the rivalry." 
 
 "Yet, stay," said the king, in a very serious tone of voice. 
 
 "Your majesty?" 
 
TEN YEARS tATEE. 333 
 
 "I remember." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "If she has no lover, she has, at least, a betrothed." 
 
 "A betrothed!" 
 
 "What, count, do not you know that?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You, the man who knows all the news?" 
 
 "Your majesty will excuse me. Your majesty knows 
 this betrothed, then?" 
 
 "Assuredly; his father came to ask me to sign the mar- 
 riage contract; it is " 
 
 The king was about to pronounce the Vicomte de Brage- 
 lonne's name, when he stopped, and knitted his brows. 
 
 "It is?" repeated St. Aignan inquiringly. 
 
 "I don't remember now," replied Louis XIV., endeavor- 
 ing to conceal an annoyance which he had some trouble to 
 disgia^e. 
 
 "Can I put your majesty in the way?" inquired the 
 Comte de St. Aignan. 
 
 "No; for I no longer remember to whom I intended to 
 refer; indeed, I only remember very indistinctly that one 
 of the maids of honor was to marry. The name, however, 
 has escaped me." 
 
 ""Was it Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente he was going 
 to marry?" inquired St. Aignan. 
 
 "Very likely," said the king. 
 
 "In that case, the intended was Monsieur de Montespan; 
 but Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente did not speak of it, 
 it seemed to me, in such a manner as would frighten suitors 
 away." 
 
 "At all events," said the king, "I know nothing, or 
 almost nothing, about Mademoiselle de la Valliere. St. 
 Aignan, I rely upon you to procure me some information 
 about her." 
 
 "Yes, sire; and when shall I have the honor of seeing 
 your majesty again, to give you the information?" 
 
 "Whenever you shall have procured it." 
 
 "I shall obtain it speedily, then, if the information can 
 be as quickly obtained as my wish to see your majesty 
 again." 
 
 "Well said, count. By the bye, has madame displayed 
 any ill-feeling against this poor girl?" 
 
 "None, sire." 
 
 "Madame did not get angry, then?" 
 
 "I do not know; T only know that she laughed con- 
 
334 TEK YKARS tATEfi. 
 
 "That's well; but I think I hear voices in the anterooms; 
 no doubt a courier has just arrived. Inquire, St. Aignan." 
 
 The count ran to the door and exchanged a few words 
 with the usher; he returned to the king, saying: 
 
 "Sire, it is Monsieur Fouquet, who has this moment 
 arrived, by your majesty's orders, he says. He presented 
 himself, but, because of the advanced hour, he does not 
 
 Eress for an audience this evening, and is satisfied to have 
 is presence here formally announced." 
 
 "Monsieur Fouquet! I wrote to him at three o'clock, 
 inviting him to be at Fontainebleau the following morning, 
 and he arrived at Fontainebleau at two o'clock. This is 
 indeed zeal!" exclaimed the king, delighted to see himself 
 so promptly obeyed. "On the contrary. Monsieur Fouquet 
 shall have his audience. I summoned him, and will receive 
 him. Let him be introduced. As for you, count, pursue 
 your inquiries, and be here to-morrow." 
 
 The king placed his finger on his lips; and St. Aignan, 
 his heart brimful of happiness, hastily withdrew, telling the 
 usher to introduce M. Fouquet, who thereupon entered 
 the king's apartment. Louis rose to receive him. 
 
 "Good-evening, Monsieur Fouquet," he said, smiling 
 graciously; "I congratulate you on your punctuality; and 
 yet my message must have reached you late?" 
 
 "At nine in the evening, sire." 
 
 "You have been working very hard lately. Monsieur Fou- 
 quet, for I have been informed that you have not left your 
 rooms at St. Mande during the last three or four days." 
 
 "It is perfectly true, your majesty, that I have kept my- 
 self shut up for the past three days," replied Fouquet. 
 
 "Do you know. Monsieur Fouquet, that I had a great 
 many things to say to you?" continued the king, with a 
 most gracious air. 
 
 "Your majesty overwhelms me, and since you are so 
 graciously disposed toward me, will your majesty permit me 
 to remind you of the promise your majesty made to grant 
 me an audience?" 
 
 "Ah, yes; some church dignitary, who thinks he has to 
 thank me for something, is it not?" 
 
 "Precisely so, sire. The hour is, perhaps, badly chosen; 
 but the time of the companion whom I have brought with 
 me is valuable, and as Fontainebleau is on the way to his 
 diocese " 
 
 "Who is it, then?" 
 
 "The last Bishop of Vannes, whose appointment youi 
 
TEN YBARS liATEE. 335 
 
 majesty, at my recommendation, deigned, three months 
 since, to sign." 
 
 "That is very possible," said the king, who had signed 
 without reading; "and is he here?" 
 
 "Yes, sire; Vannes is an important diocese; the flock he- 
 longing to this pastor need his religious consolation; they 
 are savages, whom it is necessary to polish, at the same time 
 that he instructs them, and Monsieur d'Herblay is un- 
 equaled in such kind of missions." 
 
 "Monsieur d'Herblay!" said the king musingly, as if 
 his name, heard long since, was not, however, unknown to 
 him. 
 
 "Oh!" said Pouquet promptly, "your majesty is not 
 acquainted with the obscure name of one of your most 
 faithful and most valuable servants?" 
 
 "No, I confess I am not. And so he wishes to set off 
 again?" 
 
 "He has this very day received letters which will, per- 
 haps, compel him to leave, so that, before setting off for 
 that unknown region called Bretagne, he is desirous of pay. 
 ing his respects to your majesty." 
 
 "Is he waiting?" 
 
 "He is here, sire." 
 
 "Let him enter." 
 
 Fouquet made a sign to the usher in attendance, who was 
 waiting behind the tapestry. The door opened, and Aramis 
 entered. The king allowed him to finish the compliments 
 which he addressed to him, and fixed a long look upon a 
 countenance which no one could forget after having once 
 beheld it. 
 
 "Vannes!" he said; "you are a Bishop of Vannes, I 
 believe?" 
 
 "Yes, sire." 
 
 "Vannes is in Bretagne, I think?" 
 
 Aramis bowed. 
 
 "Near the coast?" 
 
 Aramis again bowed. 
 
 "A few leagues from Belle-Isle, is it not?" 
 
 "Yes, sire," replied Aramis; "six leagues, I believe." 
 
 "Six leagues; a mere step, then," said Louis XIV. 
 
 "Not for us poor Bretons, sire," replied Aramis; "six 
 leagues, on the contrary, is a great distance, if it be six 
 leagues on land, and an immense distance, if it be leagues 
 on the sea. Besides, I have the honor to mention to your 
 majesty that there are six leagues of sea from the river to 
 Belle-Isle." 
 
336 TEN -yEAHS LATBR. 
 
 "It is said that jMonsieur Fouquet has a very beautiful 
 house there?" inquired the king. 
 
 "Yes, it is said so," replied Aramis, looking quietly at 
 Fouquet. 
 
 "What do you mean by 'it is said so?' " exclaimed the 
 king. 
 
 "He has, sire." 
 
 "Eeally, Monsieur Fouquet, I must confess that one cir- 
 cumstance surprises me." 
 
 "What may that be, sire?" 
 
 "That you should have at the head of your parishes a 
 man like Monsieur d'Herblay, and yet should not have 
 shown him Belle-Isle." 
 
 "Oh, sire," replied the bishop, without giving Fouquet 
 time to answer, "we poor Breton prelates seldom leave our 
 residences." 
 
 "Monsieur de Vannes," said the king, "I will punish 
 Monsieur Fouquet for his indifference." 
 
 "In what way, sire?" 
 
 "I will change your bishopric." 
 
 Fouquet bit his lips, but Aramis only smiled. 
 
 "What income does Vannes bring you in?" continued 
 the king. 
 
 "Sixty thousand livres, sire," said Aramis. 
 
 "So trifling an amount as that? But you possess other 
 property. Monsieur de Vannes?" 
 
 "I have nothing else, sire; only Monsieur Fouquet pays 
 me one thousand two hundred livres a year for his pew in 
 the church." 
 
 "Well, Monsieur d'Herblay, I promise you something 
 better than that." 
 
 "Sire " 
 
 "I will not forget you." 
 
 Aramis bowed, and the king also bowed to him in a re- 
 spectful manner, as he was always accustomed to do toward 
 women and members of the church. Aramis gathered that 
 his audience was at an end; he took his leave of the king in 
 the simple, unpretending language of a country pastor, and 
 disappeared. 
 
 "His is, indeed, a remarkable face," said the king, follow- 
 ing him with his eyes as long as he could see him, and even 
 to a certain degree when he was no longer to be seen. 
 
 "Sire," replied Fouquet, "if that bishop had been edu- 
 cated early in life, no prelate in the kingdom would deserve 
 the highest distinctions better than he." 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 337 
 
 "His learning is not extensive, then?" 
 
 "He changed the sword for the priest's garments, and 
 that rather late in life. But it matters little, if your 
 majesty will permit me to speak of Monsieur de Vannes 
 again on another occasion " 
 
 "I beg you to do so. But before speaking of him, let us 
 speak of yourself. Monsieur Fouquet." 
 
 "Of me, sire?" 
 
 "Yes; I have to pay you a thousand compliments." 
 
 "I cannot express to your majesty the delight with 
 which you overwhelm me." 
 
 "I understand you. Monsieur Fouquet. I confess, how- 
 ever, to have had certain prejudices against you." 
 
 "In that case, I was indeed unhappy, sire." 
 
 "But they exist no longer. Did you not perceive " 
 
 "I did, indeed, sire; but I awaited with resignation the 
 day when the truth would prevail; and it seems that that 
 day has now arrived." 
 
 "Ah! you knew, then, you were in disgrace with me?" 
 
 "Alas! sire, I perceived it." 
 
 ' And do you know the reason?" 
 
 "Perfectly well; your majesty thought that I had been 
 wastefully lavish in expenditure." 
 
 "Not so; far from that." 
 
 "Or rather, an indifferent administrator. In a word, 
 your majesty thought that, as people had no money, there 
 would be none for your majesty either." 
 
 "Yes, I thought so; but I was deceived." 
 
 Fouquet bowed. 
 
 "And no disturbances, no complaints?" 
 
 "And money enough," said Fouquet. 
 
 "The fact is, that you have been profuse with it during 
 the last month." 
 
 "I have more still, not only for all your majesty's re= 
 quirements, but for all your caprices." 
 
 "I thank you. Monsieur Fouquet," replied the king 
 seriously. "I will not put you to the proof. For the next 
 two months I do not intend to ask you for anything." 
 
 "I will avail myself of the interval to amass five or six 
 millions, which will be serviceable as money in hand in case 
 of war." 
 
 "Five or six millions!" 
 
 "For the expenses of your majesty's household only, be 
 it understood." 
 
 "You think war is probable;, Monsieur Fouquet?" 
 
838 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "I think that if Heaven has bestowed on the eagle a beak 
 and claws, it is to enable him to show his royal character." 
 
 The king blushed with pleasure. 
 
 "We have spent a great deal of money these few days 
 past, Monsieur Fouquet; will you not scold me for it?" 
 
 "Sire, your majesty has still twenty years of youth to 
 enjoy, and a thousand million of francs to spend in those 
 twenty years." 
 
 "That is a great deal of money. Monsieur Fouquet," said 
 the king. 
 
 "I will economize, sire. Besides, your majesty has two 
 valuable men in Monsieur Colbert and myself. The one 
 will encourage you to be prodigal with your treasures — and 
 this shall be myself, if my services should continue to be 
 agreeable to your majesty; and the other will economize 
 money for you, and this will be Monsieur Colbert's 
 province." 
 
 "Monsieur Colbert?" returned the king, astonished. 
 
 "Certainly, sire; Monsieur Colbert is an excellent 
 accountant." 
 
 At this commendation, bestowed by the enemy on the 
 enemy himself, the king felt himself penetrated with con- 
 fidence and admiration. There was not, moreover, either 
 in Fouquet's voice or look, anything which injuriously 
 affected a single syllable of the remark he had made; he 
 did not pass one eulogium, as it were, in order to acquire 
 the right of making two reproaches. The king compre- 
 hended him, and yielding to so much generosity and 
 address, he said: 
 
 "You praise Monsieur Colbert, then?" 
 
 "Yes, sire, I praise him; for, besides being a man of 
 merit, I believe him to be very devoted to your majesty's 
 interests." 
 
 "Is that because he has often interfered with your own 
 views?" said the king, smiling. 
 
 "Exactly, sire." 
 
 "Explain yourself." 
 
 "It is simple enough. I am the man who is needed to 
 make the money come in; he the man who is needed to 
 prevent it leaving." 
 
 "Nay, nay. Monsieur le Surintendant; you will presently 
 say something which will correct this gucl opinion?" 
 
 "Do you mean as far as admiuistrative abilities are con- 
 cerned, sire?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 339 
 
 "Not in the slightest." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "Upon my honor, sire, I do not know, throughout 
 France, a better clerk than Monsieur Colbert." 
 
 This word "clerk" did not possess, in 1661, the some- 
 what subservient signification which is attached to it in the 
 present day; but, as spoken by Fouquet, whom the king 
 had addressed as the surintendant, it seemed to acquire an 
 insignificant and petty character, which served admirably 
 to restore Fouquet to his place and Colbert to his own. 
 
 "And yet," said Louis XIV., "it was he, however, who, 
 notwithstanding his economy, had the arrangement of my 
 fetes here at Fontainebleau; and I assure you. Monsieur 
 Fouquet, that in no way has he interfered with the ex- 
 penditure of money." 
 
 Fouquet bowed, but did not reply. 
 
 "Is it not your opinion, too?" said the king. 
 
 "I think, sire," he replied, "that Monsieur Colbert has 
 done what he had to do in an exceedingly orderly manner, 
 and that he deserves, in this respect, all the praise your 
 majesty may bestow upon him." 
 
 The word "orderly" was a proper accompaniment for 
 the word "clerk." The king possessed that extreme sensi- 
 tiveness of organization, that delicacy of perception, which 
 pierced through and detected the regular order of feelings 
 and sensations, before the actual sensations themselves, and 
 he therefore comprehended that the clerk had, in Fouquet's 
 opinion, been too full of method and order in his arrange- 
 ments; in other words, that the magnificent /e^es of Fon- 
 tainebleau might have been rendered more magnificent stilL 
 The king consequently felt that there was something in the 
 amusements he had provided with which some person or 
 another might be able to find fault; he experienced a little 
 of the annoyance felt by a person coming from the provinces 
 to Paris, dressed out in the very best clothes which his 
 wardrobe can furnish, and finds that the fashionably dressed 
 man there looks at him either too much or not enough. 
 This part of the conversation, which Fouquet had carried 
 on with so much moderation, yet with such extreme tact, 
 inspired the king with the highest esteem for the character 
 of the man and the capacity of the minister. Fouquet took 
 his leave at two o'clock in the morning, and the king went 
 to bed, a little uneasy and confused at the indirect lesson 
 he had just received; and two good quarters of an hour 
 were employed by him in going over again in his memory 
 
340 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 the embroideries, the tapestries, the bills of fare ot th« 
 various banquets, the architecture for the triumphal arches, 
 the arrangements for the illuminations and fireworks, all 
 the offspring of the "Clerk Colbert's" invention. The 
 result was, that the king passed In review before him every- 
 thing that had taken place during the last eight days, and 
 decided that faults could be found in hisj'etes. But Fou- 
 quet, by his politeness, his thoughtful consideration, and his 
 generosity, had injured Colbert more deeply than the latter 
 by his artifice, his ill-will, and his persevering hatred had 
 ever succeeded in injuring Pouquet. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 FONTAINEBLEAU AT TWO O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. 
 
 As we have seen, St. Aignan had quitted the king's apart-- 
 ment at the very moment the surintendant entered it. St. 
 Aignan was charged with a mission which required dis- 
 patch, and he was going to do his utmost to turn his time 
 to the best possible advantage. He whom we have intro- 
 duced as the king's friend was indeed an uncommon per- 
 sonage; he was one of those valuable courtiers whose vigilance 
 and acuteness of perception threw all past and future 
 favorites into the shade, and counterbalanced, by his close 
 attention, the servility of Dangeau, who was not the favor- 
 ite, but the toady of the king. M, de St. Aignan began to , 
 think what was to be done in the present position of affairs. 
 He reflected that his first information ought to come from 
 De Guiche. He therefore set out in search of him, but De 
 Guiche, whom we saw disappear behind one of the wings of 
 the chdteau, and who seemed to have returned to his own 
 apartments, had not entered the chateau. St. Aignan, 
 therefore, went in quest of him, and after having turned, 
 and twisted, and searched in every direction, he perceived 
 something like a human form leaning against a tree. This 
 figure was as motionless as a statue, and seemed deeply en- 
 gaged in looking at a window, although its curtains were 
 closely drawn. As this window happened to be madame's, 
 St. Aignan concluded that the form in question must be 
 that of De Guiche. He advanced cautiously, and found 
 that he was not mistaken. De Guiche had, after his con- 
 versation with madame, carried away such a weight of hap- 
 piness that all his strength of mind was hardly suflScient to 
 
TEIT YEAES LATER. 341 
 
 ename him to support it. On his side, St. Aignan knew 
 that De Guiche had had something to do with La Valliere's 
 introduction to madame's household, for a courtier Isnows 
 everything and forgets nothing; but he had never learned 
 under what title or conditions De Guiche had conferred his 
 protection upon La Valliere. But, as in asking a great 
 many questions it is singular if a man does not learn some- 
 thing, St. Aignan reckoned upon learning much or little, 
 as it might be, if he were to question De Guiche with that 
 extreme tact, and, at the same time, with that persistence 
 in attaining an object of which he was capable. St. 
 Aignan's plan was the following: if the information obtained 
 was satisfactory, he would inform the king, with effusion, 
 that he had alighted upon a pearl, and claim the privilege 
 of setting the pearl in question in the royal crown. If the 
 information were unsatisfactory, which, after all, might be 
 possible, he would examine how far the king cared about 
 La Valliere, and make use of his information in such a 
 manner as to get rid of the girl altogether, and thereby 
 obtain all the merit of her banishment with all those ladies 
 of the court who might have any pretensions upon the 
 king's heart, beginning with madame, and finishing with the 
 queen. In case the king should show himself obstinate in 
 his fancy, then he would not produce the damaging infor- 
 mation he had obtained, but would let Valliere know that 
 this damaging information was carefully preserved in a 
 secret drawer of her confidant's memory; in this manner Jie 
 would be able to display his generosity before the poor girl's 
 eyes, and so keep her in constant suspense between grati- 
 tude and apprehension, to such an extent as to make her a 
 friend at court, interested, as an accomplice, in making her 
 accomplice's fortune, while she was making her own. As 
 far as concerned the day when the bombshell of the past 
 should burst, if ever there should be any occasion for its 
 bursting, St. Aignan promised himself that he would by 
 that time have taken all possible precautions, and would 
 pretend an entire ignorance of the matter to the king; 
 while, with regard to La Valliere, he would still, even on 
 that day, have an opportunity of being considered the 
 personification of generosity. It was with such ideas as 
 these, which the fire of -covetousness had caused to dawn 
 into being in half an hour, that St. Aignan, the best son in 
 the world, as La Fontaine would have said, determined to 
 get De Guiche into conversation; in other words, to trouble 
 him io his happiness — a happiness of which St. Aignan wa? 
 
342 TEK TEARS LATER. 
 
 quite ignorant. It was one o'clock in the morning wheu 
 St. Aignan perceived De Guiche, standing motionless, lean- 
 ing against the trunk of a tree, with his eyes fastened upon 
 the lighted window. One o'clock in the morning, that is, 
 the' softest hour of night-time, that which painters crown 
 with myrtles and budding poppies, the hour when eyes are 
 heavy, hearts are throbbing, and heads feel dull and languid 
 — an hour which casts upon the day which has passed away 
 a look of regret, which addresses a loving greeting to the 
 r'awning light. For De Guiche it was the dawn of unutter- 
 able happiness; he would have bestowed a treasure upon a 
 beggar, had he stood before him, to secure him an unin- 
 terrupted indulgence in his dreams. It was precisely at 
 ihis hour that St. Aignan, badly advised — selfishness always 
 counsels badly — came and struck him on the shoulder at 
 the very moment he was murmuring a word, or rather, a 
 name. 
 
 "Ah!" he cried loudly, "I was looking for you." 
 
 "For me?" said De Guiche, starting. 
 
 "Yes; and I find you seemingly moon-struck. Is it 
 hkely, my dear comte, you have been attacked by a poetical 
 malady, and are making verses?" 
 
 The young man forced a smile upon his lips, while a 
 thousand conflicting sensations were muttering against St. 
 Aignan in the deep recesses of his heart. 
 
 "Perhaps," he said. "But by what happy chance " 
 
 "Ah! your remark shows that you did not hear what 1 
 said." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 "Why, I began by telling you I. was looking for you." 
 
 "You were looking for me?" 
 
 "Yes; and I find you now in the very act." 
 
 "Of doing what, I should like to know?" 
 
 "Of singing the praises of Phillis." 
 
 "Well, I do not deny it," said De Guiche, laughing. 
 
 Yes, my dear comte, I was celebrating Phillis' praises." 
 ' "And you have acquired the right to do so." 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "You; no doubt of it. You, the intrepid protector of 
 every beautiful and clever woman." 
 
 "In the name of goodness, what story have you got hold 
 of now?" 
 
 "Acknowledged truths, I am well aware. But stay a 
 moment; I am in lovQ." 
 
 "You?" 
 
TEN yBAES LATEE. 343 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "80 much the better, my dear comte; tell me all about 
 it." 
 
 And De Guiche, afraid that St. Aignan might perhaps 
 presently observa the window where the light was still 
 burning, took the comte's arm and endeavored to lead him 
 away. 
 
 "Oh!" said the latter, resisting, "do not take me toward 
 those dark woods, it is too damp there. Let us stay in the 
 moonlight." 
 
 And while he yielded to the pressure of De Guiche's arm, 
 he remained in the flower-garden adjoining the chdteau. 
 
 "Well," said De Guiche, resigning himself, "lead me 
 where you like, and ask me what you please." 
 
 "It is impossible to be more agreeable than you are." 
 
 And then, after a moment's silence, St. Aignan continued; 
 
 "I wish you to tell me something about a certain person 
 in whom you have interested yourself." 
 
 "And with whom you are in love?" 
 
 "I will neither admit nor deny it. You understand that 
 a man does not very readily place his heart where there is 
 no hope of return, and tht it is most essential he should 
 take measures of security in advance." 
 
 "You are right," said De Guiche, with a sigh; "a heart 
 is a precious gift." 
 
 "Mine particularly is very tender, and in that light I 
 present it to you." 
 
 "Oh! you are well known, comte. Well?" 
 
 "It is simply a question of Mademoiselle de Tonnay- 
 Charente." 
 
 "Why, my dear St. Aignan, you are losing your senses, 
 I should think." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "I have never shown or taken any interest in Mademoiselle 
 de Tonnay-Charente." 
 
 "Bah!" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Did you not obtain admission for Mademoiselle de 
 Tonnay-Charente into madame's household?" 
 
 "Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente — and you ought to 
 know it better than any one else, my dear comte^is of a 
 sufficiently good family to make her presence here desira- 
 ble, and a greater reason, therefore, to render her admit- 
 tance very easy." 
 
 "You are Jesting." 
 
344 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "No; and upon my honor, I do not know what you 
 mean." 
 
 "And you had nothing, then, to do with her admission?" 
 
 "No."" 
 
 "You do notknow her?" 
 
 "I saw her for the first time the day she was presented to 
 madame. Therefore, as I have never taken any interest in 
 her, as I do not know her, I am not able to give you the 
 information you require." 
 
 And De Guiche made a movement as though he were 
 about to leave his questioner. 
 
 "Nay, nay, one moment, my dear comte," said St. 
 Aignan; "you shall not escape me in this manner." 
 
 "Why, really, it seems to me that it is now time to return 
 to our apartments." 
 
 "And yet you were not going in when I — did not meet, 
 but found you." 
 
 "Therefore, my dear comte," said De Guiche, "as long 
 as you have anything to say to me, I place myself entirely 
 at your service." 
 
 "And you are quite right in doing so. What matters 
 half an hour, more or less? Will you swear that you have 
 no injurious communications to make to me about her, and 
 that any injurious communications you might possibly have 
 to make are not the cause of your silence?" 
 
 "Oh! I believe the poor child to be as pure as crystal." 
 
 "You overwhelm me with joy. And yet I do not wisl? 
 to have toward you the appearance of a man so badly in- 
 formed as I seem. It is quite certain that you supplied the 
 princess' household with the ladies of honor. Nay, a song 
 even has been written about it." 
 
 "You know that songs are written about everything." 
 
 "Do you know it?" 
 
 "No; sing it to me, and I shall make its acquaintance." 
 
 "I cannot tell you how it begins, I only remember how it 
 ends." 
 
 "Very well; at all events, that is something." 
 
 "" Guiche is the furnisher 
 Of the maids of honor.' " 
 
 "The idea is weak, and the rhyme poor," said De Guiche. 
 
 "What can you expect, my dear fellow? It is not Eacine 
 or Moliere, but La Feuillade's, and a great lord cannot 
 rhyme like a beggarly poet." 
 
TEK TEARS LATER. 345 
 
 "It is very unfortunate, though, that you only remember 
 the termination." 
 
 "Stay, stay; I have just recollected the beginning of the 
 second couplet. 
 
 " ' He has stodk'd the birdcage, 
 Montalais and ' " 
 
 "And La Valliere," exclaimed De Guiche impatiently, 
 and completely ignorant, besides, of St. Aignan's object. 
 
 "Yes, yes, you have it. You have it upon the word La 
 Valliere." 
 
 "A grand discovery, indeed." 
 
 "Montalais and La Valliere, these, then, are the two 
 young girls in whom you interest yourself," said St. Aignan, 
 laughing. 
 
 "And so. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente's name is 
 not to be met with in the song?" 
 
 "No, indeed." 
 
 "Are you satisfied, then?" 
 
 "Perfectly; but I find Montalais' there," said St. Aignan, 
 still laughing. 
 
 "Oh! you will find her everywhere. She is a most active 
 young lady." 
 
 "You know her?" 
 
 "Indirectly. She was the protegee of a man named Mali- 
 corne, who is a protege of Manicamp's. Manicamp asked 
 me to get the situation of maid of honor for Montalais in 
 madame's household, and a situation for Malicorne as an 
 officer in Monsieur's household. Well, I asked for the 
 appointments, and you know very well that I have a weak- 
 ness for that droll fellow, Manicamp." 
 
 "And you obtained what you sought?" 
 
 "For Montalais, yes; for Malicorne, yes and no; for as 
 yet he is only tolerated there. Do you wish to know any- 
 thing else?" 
 
 "The last word of the couplet still remains, La Valliere," 
 said St. Aignan, resuming the smile which had so tormented 
 De Guiche. 
 
 "Well," said the latter, "it is true that I obtained admis- 
 sion for her in madame's household." 
 
 "Ah, ah!" said St. Aignan. 
 
 "But," continued De Guiche, assuming a great coldness 
 of manner, "you will oblige me, comte, not to jest about 
 that name. Mademoiselle la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere 
 is a young lady perfectly well conducted." 
 
846 TEK YEARS LATER. 
 
 "Perfectly well conducted, do you say?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then you have not heard the last rumor?" exclaimed 
 St. Aignan. 
 
 "No; and you will do me a service, my dear comte, in 
 keeping this report to yourself and to those who circulate 
 it." 
 
 "Ah, bah! you take the matter up very seriously." 
 
 "Yes; Mademoiselle de la Valliere is beloved by one of 
 my best friends." 
 
 St. Aignan started. 
 
 "Oh, oh!" he said. 
 
 "Yes, comte," continued De Guiche; "and consequently, 
 you, the most distinguished man in France for his polished 
 courtesy of manner, will understand that I cannot allow 
 my friend to be placed in a ridiculous position." 
 
 St. Aignan began to bite his nails, partially from vexation, 
 and partially from disappointed curiosity. De Guiche made 
 him a very profound bow. 
 
 "You send me away," said St. Aignan, who was dying to 
 know the name of the friend. 
 
 "I do not send you away, my dear fellow. I am going 
 to finish my lines to Phillis." 
 
 "And those lines " 
 
 "Are a quatrain. You understand, I trust, that a 
 quatrain is a serious affair?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 ■'And as of these four lines, of which it is naturally com- 
 posed, I have yet three and a half to make, I need my un- 
 divided attention." 
 
 "I quite understand. Adieu, comte. By the bye " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Are you quick at making verses?" 
 
 "Wonderfully so." 
 
 "Will you quite have finished the three lines and a half 
 to-morrow morning?" 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 "Adieu, then, until to-morrow." 
 
 "Adieu, adieu!" 
 
 St. Aignan was obliged to accept the notice to quit; he 
 accordingly did so, and disappeared behind the hedge. 
 Their conversation had led De Guiche and St. Aignan a 
 good distance from the chateau. 
 
 Every mathematician, every poet, and every dreamer has 
 his means of diverting his attention. St. Aignan, then, on 
 
TEN TEARS LATHR. 347 
 
 'eaving De Guiche, found himself at the extremity of the 
 grove — at the very spot where the outbuildings for the 
 servants begin, and where, behind thickets of acacias and 
 chestnut-trees interlacing their branches, which were hidden 
 by masses of clematis and young vines, the wall which 
 separated the woods from the courtyard of these outbuild- 
 ings was erected. St. Aignan, alone, took the path which 
 led toward these buildings, De Guiche going ofE m the very 
 opposite direction. The one proceeded toward the flower- 
 garden, while the other bent his steps toward the walls. 
 St. Aignan walked on between rows of the mountain-ash, 
 lilac, and hawthorn, which formed an almost impenetrable 
 roof above his head; his feet were buried in the soft gravel 
 and the thick moss. He was deliberating over a means of 
 taking his revenge, which it seemed difficult for him to 
 carry out, and was vexed with himself for not having 
 learned more about La Valliere, notwithstanding the in- 
 genious measures he had resorted to in order to acquire some 
 information about her, when suddenly the murmur of a 
 human voice attracted his attention. He heard whispers, 
 the complaining tones of a woman's voice mingled with 
 entreaties, smothered laughter, sighs, and half-stifled ex- 
 clamations of surprise; but abov-e them all the woman's 
 voice prevailed. St. Aignan stopped to look about him; 
 he perceived with the greatest surprise that the voices pro- 
 ceeded, not from the ground, but from the branches of the 
 trees. As he glided along under the covered walk he 
 raised his head, and observed at the top of the wall a woman 
 perched upon a ladder, in eager conversation with a man 
 seated on a branch of a chestnut-tree, whose head alone 
 could be seen, the rest of his body being concealed in the 
 thick covert of the chestnut. The woman was on the near 
 side of the wall, the man on the other side of it. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 THE LABYRINTH. 
 
 St. Aignan, who had only been seeking for Information, 
 had rnet with an adventure. This was, indeed, a piece of 
 good luck. Curious to learn why, and particularly about 
 what, this man and woman were conversing at such an hour 
 and in such a singular position, St. Aignan made himself as 
 small as he possibly could, and approached almost under 
 
348 TEN- TEAKS LATER. 
 
 the rounds of the ladder. And taking measures to maKe 
 himself as comfortable as possible, he leaned his back against 
 a tree and listened, and heard the following conversation. 
 The woman was the first to speak. 
 
 "Eeally,"' Monsieur Manicamp," she said, in a voice 
 which, notwithstanding the reproaches she addressed to 
 him, preserved a marked tone of coquetry, "really, youx 
 indiscreetness is of a very dangerous character. We cannot 
 talk long in this manner without being observed." 
 
 "That is very probable," said the man, in the calmest 
 and coolest of tones. 
 
 "In that case, then, what would people say? Oh! if any 
 one were to see me, I declare I should die from very shame." 
 
 "Oh! that would be very silly, and I do not believe you 
 capable of it." 
 
 "It might have been different if there had been anything 
 between us; but to do any injury to myself gratxxitously is 
 really very foolish of me; so, adieu. Monsieur Manicamp." 
 
 "So far, so good; I know the man, and now let me see 
 who the woman is," said St. Aignan, watching the rounds 
 of the ladder, on which were standing two pretty little feet 
 covered with blue satin shoes. 
 
 "Nay, nay, for pity's sake, my dear Montalais," cried 
 Manicamp. "Deuce take it! do not go away; I have a 
 great many things to say to you, of the greatest importance, 
 still." 
 
 "Montalais," said St. Aignan, to himself, "one of the 
 three. Each of the three gossips had her adventure, only 
 I had thought that the hero of this one's adventure was 
 Malicorne, and not Manicamp." 
 
 At her companion's appeal Montalais stopped in the 
 taiddle of her descent, and St. Aignan could observe the 
 unfortunate Manicamp climb from one branch of the 
 chestnut-tree to another, either to improve his situation or 
 to overcome the fatigue consequent upon his indifferent 
 position. 
 
 "Now, listen to me," said he: "you quite understand, I 
 hope, that my intentions are perfectly innocent." 
 
 "Of course. But why did you write me a letter stimulat- 
 ing my gratitude toward you? Why did you ask me for an 
 interview at such an hour and in such a place as this?" 
 
 "I stimulated your gratitude in reminding you that it 
 was I who had been the means of your becoming attached 
 to madame's household; because most anxiously desirous 
 of obtaining the interview which you have been kind enough 
 
TilJN YEjiKS LATER. 
 
 349 
 
 to grant me. I employed the means -which appeared to me 
 the most certain to insure it. And my reason for soliciting 
 it at such an hour and in such a locality, was, that the hour 
 seemed to me to be the most prudent, and the locality the 
 least open to observation. Moreover, I had occasion to 
 speak to you upon certain subjects which require both 
 prudence and solitude." 
 
 "Monsieur Manicamp!" 
 
 "But everything in the most perfect honor, I assure you." 
 
 "I think. Monsieur Manicamp, that it will be more be- 
 coming in me to take my leave." 
 
 "Nay, listen to me, or I shall jump from my perch here 
 to yours, and be careful how you set me at defiance; for a 
 branch of this chestnut-tree causes me a good deal of annoy- 
 ance, and may provoke me to extreme measures. Do not 
 follow the example of this branch, then, but listen to me." 
 
 "I am listening, and I will agree to do so; but be as brief 
 as possible, for if you have a branch of the chestnut-tree 
 which annoys you, I wish you to understand that one of the 
 rounds of the ladder is hurting the soles of my feet, and 
 my shoes are being cut through." 
 
 "Do me the kindness to give me your hand." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Will you have the goodness to do so?" 
 
 "There is my hand, then; but what are you going to do?" 
 
 "To draw you toward me." 
 
 "What for? You surely do not wish me to join you in 
 the tree?" 
 
 "No; but I wish you to sit down upon the wall; there, 
 that will do; there is quite room enough, and I would give 
 a great deal to be allowed to sit down beside you." 
 
 "No, no; you are very well where you are; we should be 
 seen." 
 
 "Do you really think so?" said Manicamp, in an insinuat- 
 ing voice. 
 
 "I am sure of it." 
 
 "Very well, I remain in my tree, then, although I cannot 
 be worse placed." 
 
 "Monsieur Manicamp, we are wandering away from the 
 subject." 
 
 "You're right, we are so." 
 
 "You wrote me a letter?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "Why did you write?" 
 
 "Fancy, that at two o'clock to-day, De Guiche left." 
 
350 TES TEARS LATER. 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 "Seeing him set off, I followed him, as I usually do." 
 
 "Of course, I see that, since you are here now." 
 
 "Don't be in a hurry. You are aware, I suppose, that 
 De Guiche is up to his very neck in disgrace?" 
 
 "Alas! yes." 
 
 "It was the very height of imprudence on his part, then, 
 to come to Pontainebleau to seek those who had at Paris 
 sent him away into exile, and particularly those from whom 
 he had been separated." 
 
 "Monsieur Manicamp, you reason like Pythagoras of old." 
 
 "Moreover, De Guiche is as obstinate as a man in love 
 can be, and he refused to listen to any of my remonstrances. 
 I begged, I implored him, but he would not listen to any- 
 thing. Oh! the deuce!" 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Montalais, but this 
 confounded branch, about which I have already had the 
 honor of speaking to you, has just torn a certain portion of 
 my dress." 
 
 "It is quite dark," replied Montalais, laughing; "so, pray 
 continue, Monsieur Manicamp." 
 
 "De Guiche set off on horseback »s hard as he could, I 
 following him at a slower pace. You quite understand that 
 to throw one's self into the water, for instance, with a 
 friend, with the same headlong speed as he himself would 
 do it, would be the act either of a fool or a madman. I 
 therefore allowed De Guiche to get in advance, and I pro- 
 ceeded on my way with a commendable slowness of pace, 
 feeling quite sure that my unfortunate friend would not be 
 received, or, if he had been, that he would ride off again at 
 the very first cross, disagreeable answer; and that I should 
 see him returning much faster than he had gone, without 
 having, myself, gone further than Eis or Melun — and that 
 even was good distance, you will admit, for it is eleven 
 leagues to get there and as many to return." 
 
 Montalais shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "Laugh as much as you like; but if, instead of being 
 comfortably seated on the top of the wall as you are, you 
 were sitting on this branch, as if you were on horseback, 
 you would, like Augustus, aspire to descend." 
 
 "Be patient, my dear Monsieur Manicamp, a few minutes 
 will soon pass away; you were saying, I think, that you had 
 gone beyond Eis and Melun." 
 
 "Yes; I went through Eis and Meluu. apd I continwed to 
 
TEN" YEARS LATBB. 351 
 
 go on, more and more surprised that I did not see him re- 
 turning; and here I am at Fontainebleau; I look for and 
 inquire after De Guiche everywhere, but no one has seen 
 him, no one in the town has spoken to him; he arrived rid- 
 ing at full gallop, he entered the chateau, where he has dis- 
 appeared. I have been here at Fontainebleau since eight 
 o'clock this evening, inquiring for De Guiche in every 
 direction, but no De Guiche can be found. I am dying 
 from uneasiness. You understand that I have not been 
 running my head into the lion's den, in entering the 
 chateau, as my imprudent friend has done; I came at once 
 to the servant's offices, and I succeeded in getting a letter 
 conveyed to you; and now, for Heaven's sake, my dear 
 young lady, relieve me from my anxiety." 
 
 "There will be no difficulty in that, my dear Monsieur 
 Manicamp; your friend De Guiche has been admirably 
 received." 
 
 "Bah!" 
 
 "The king made quite a fuss with him." 
 
 "The king who exiled him!" 
 
 "Madame smiled upon him, and Monsieur appears to lik« 
 him better than ever." 
 
 "Ah! ah!" said Manicamp, "that explains to me, then, 
 why and how he has remained. And did he not say any- 
 thing about me?" 
 
 "Not a word." 
 
 "That is very unkind. What is he doing now?" 
 
 "In all probability he is asleep, or, if not asleep, he is 
 dreaming." 
 
 "And what have they been doing all the evening?" 
 
 "Dancing." 
 
 "The famous ballet? How did De Guiche look?" 
 
 "Superb." 
 
 "Dear fellow! And now, pray forgive me, Mademoiselle 
 Montalais, but all that I now have to do is to pass from 
 where I now am to your apartment." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I cannot suppose that the door of the chateau will be 
 opened for me at this hour; and as for spending the night 
 upon this branch, I possibly might not object to do so, but 
 I declare it is impossible for any other animal than a papegai 
 to do it." 
 
 "But, Monsieur Manicamp, I cannot introduce a man 
 over the wall in that manner." 
 
 "Two, if you please," said a second voice, but in so timid 
 
362 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 a tone that it seemed as if its owner felt the utter impro- 
 priety of such a request. 
 
 "Good gracious!" exclaimed Montalais, "who is that 
 speaking to me?" 
 
 "Malicorne, Mademoiselle Montalais." 
 
 And as Malicorne spoke he raised himself from the 
 ground to the lowest branches, and thence to the height of 
 the wall. 
 
 "Monsieur Malicorne! why, you are both mad!" 
 
 "How do you do. Mademoiselle Montalais?" inquired 
 Malicorne. 
 
 "I needed but this!" said Montalais, in despair. 
 
 "Oh! Mademoiselle Montalais," murmured Malicorne; 
 "do not be so severe, I beseech you." 
 
 "In fact," said Manicamn, "we are your friends, and you 
 cannot possibly wish yo .r friends to lose their lives; and 
 to leave us to pass the night where we are, in fact, is 
 condemning us both to death." 
 
 "Oh!" said Montalais, "Monsieur Malicorne is so robust 
 that a night passed in the open air with the beautiful stars 
 above him will not do him any harm, and it will be a just 
 punishment for the trick he has played me." 
 
 "Be it so, then; let Malicorne arrange matters with you 
 in the best way he can; I pass over," said Manicamp. And 
 bending down the famous branch against which he had 
 directed such bitter complaints, he succeeded, by the assist- 
 ance of his hands and feet, in seating himself side by side 
 with Montalais, who tried to push him back, while he 
 endeavored to maintain his position, and in which, more- 
 over, he succeeded. Having taken possession of the lad- 
 der, he stepped on it, and then gallantly offered his hand 
 to his fair antagonist. While this was going on Malicorne 
 had installed himself in the chestnut-tree, in the very place 
 Manicamp had Just left, determining within himself to suc- 
 ceed him in the one which he now occupied. Manicamp 
 and Montalais descended a few rounds of the ladder, Mani- 
 camp insisting, and Montalais laughing and objecting. 
 
 Suddenly Malicorne's voice was heard intones of entreaty: 
 
 "I entreat you. Mademoiselle Montalais, not to leave me 
 here. My position is very insecure, and some accident 
 will be sure to befall me, if I attempt, unaided, to reach 
 the other side of the wall; it does not matter if Manicamp 
 tears his clothes, for he can make use of Monsieur de 
 Guiche's wardrobe; but I shall not be able to use even those 
 belonging to Monsieur Manicamp, for they will be torn." 
 
TEN TEAKS LATEB. 353 
 
 "My opinion," said Ma'nicamp, without taking any notice 
 of Malicorne's lamentations, "is that the best thing to be 
 done is to go and look for De Guiche without delay, for, by 
 and by, perhaps, I may not be able to get to his apartments." 
 
 "That is my opinion, too," replied Montalais; "so, go at 
 once. Monsieur Manicamp." 
 
 "A thousand thanks. Adieu, Mademoiselle Montalais," 
 said Manicamp, jumping to the ground; "your kindness 
 cannot possibly be exceeded." 
 
 "Farewell, Monsieur Manicamp; I am now going to get 
 rid of Monsieur Malicorne." 
 
 Malicorne sighed. Manicamp went away a few paces, but 
 returning to the foot of the ladder, he said, "By the bye, 
 which is the way to Monsieur de Guiche's apartments?" 
 
 "Nothing is easier. You go along by the hedge until you 
 reach a place where the paths cross." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You will see four paths." 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "One of which you will take." 
 
 "Which of them?" 
 
 "That to the right." 
 
 "To the right?" 
 
 "No, to the left," 
 
 "The deuce!" 
 
 "No, no, wait a minute " 
 
 "You do not seem to be quite sure. Think again, I beg." 
 
 "You take the middle path." 
 
 "But there are four." 
 
 "So there are. All that I know is, that one of the four 
 
 faths leads straight to madame's apartments; and that one 
 am well acquainted with." 
 
 "But Monsieur de Guiche is not in madame's apartments, 
 I suppose?" 
 
 "No, indeed." 
 
 "Well, then, the path which leads to madame's apart- 
 ments is of no use to me, and I would willingly exchange 
 it for the one that leads to where Monsieur de Guiche is 
 lodging." 
 
 "Of course, and I know that as well; but as for indicat- 
 ing from where we are, it is quite impossible." 
 
 "Well, let us suppose that I have succeeded in finding 
 that fortunate path." 
 
 "In that case, you are almost there, for you have nothing 
 else to do but to cross the lab,vrinth," 
 
354 'XEN TEAKS LATEE. 
 
 "Nothing more than that? The deuce! so there is a 
 labyrinth as well." 
 
 "Yes, and complicated enough, too; even in daylight 
 one may sometimes be deceived — there are turnings and 
 windings without end; in the first place, you must turn 
 three times to the right, then twice to the left, then turn 
 once — stay, is it once or twice, though? At all events, 
 when you get clear of the labyrinth you will see an avenue 
 of sycamores, and this avenue leads straight to the pavilion 
 in which Monsieur de Guiche is lodging." 
 
 "Nothing could be more clearly indicated," said Mani- 
 camp; "and I have not the slightest doubt in the world that 
 if I were to follow your directions I should lose my way 
 immediately. I have, therefore, a slight service to ask of 
 you." 
 
 "What may that be?" 
 
 "That you will ofEer me your arm and guide me yourself, 
 like another — like another — I used to know mythology, but 
 other important matters have made me forget itj pray come 
 with me, then." 
 
 "And am I to be abandoned, then?" cried Malicorne. 
 
 "It is quite impossible, monsieur," said Montalais to 
 Manicamp; "if I were to be seen with you at such an hour 
 what would be said of me?" 
 
 "Your own conscience would acquit you," said Mani- 
 camp sententiously. 
 
 "Impossible, monsieur, impossible." 
 
 "In that case, let me assist Malicorne to get down; he is 
 a very intelligent fellow, and possesses a very keen scent; 
 he will guide me, and if we lose ourselves both of us will 
 be lost, and the one will save the other. If we are together, 
 and shtould be met by any one, we shall look as if we had 
 some matter of business in hand; while alone I should have 
 ithe appearance either of a lover or a robber. Come, Mal- 
 icorne, here is the ladder." 
 
 Malicorne had already stretched out one of his legs 
 toward the top of the wall, when Manicamp said, in a 
 whisper, "Hush!" 
 
 "What's the matter?" inquired Montalais. 
 
 "I hear footsteps." 
 
 "Good heavens!" 
 
 In fact, the fancied footsteps soon became a reality; the 
 foliage was pushed aside, and St. Aignan appeared, with a 
 smile on his lips, and his hand stretched out toward them, 
 taking every one by surprise; that is to say, Malicorne upon 
 
TEN- YEARS LATER. 355 
 
 the tree with his head stretched out, Montalais upon the 
 rounds of the ladder and clinging to it tightly, and Mani- 
 camp on the ground with his foot advanced ready to set off. 
 
 "Good-evening, Manicamp," said the comte, "I am glad 
 to see you, my dear fellow; we missed you this evening, and 
 a good many inquiries have been made about you. Made- 
 moiselle de Montalais, your most obedient servant." 
 
 Montalais blushed. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, 
 hiding her face in both her hands. 
 
 "Pray reassure yourself; I know how perfectly innocent 
 you are, and I shall give a good account of you. Mani- 
 camp, do you follow me: the hedge, the cross-paths, and 
 labyrinth, I am well acquainted with them all; I will be 
 your Ariadne. There now, your mythological name is 
 found at last." 
 
 "Perfectly true, comte." 
 
 "And take Monsieur Malicorne away with you at the 
 same time," said Montalais. 
 
 "No, indeed," said Malicorne; "Monsieur Manicamp has 
 conversed with you as long as he liked, and now it is my 
 turn, if you please; I have a multitude of things to tell you 
 about our future prospects." 
 
 "You hear," said the comte, laughing; "stay with him. 
 Mademoiselle Montalais. This is, indeed, a night for 
 secrets." And, taking Manicamp's arm, the comte led 
 him rapidly away in the direction of the road which Montalais 
 knew so well, and indicated so badly. Montalais followed 
 them with her eyes as long as she could perceive them. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 HOW MALICORNE HAD BEEN TDRNED OUT OF THE HOTEL 
 OF THE BEAU PAON. f 
 
 While Montalais was engaged in looking after the comte 
 and Manicamp, Malicorne had taken advantage of the young 
 girl's attention being drawn aw y to render his position 
 somewhat more tolerable, and when she turned round she 
 immediately noticed the change which had taken place; for 
 he had seated himself, like a monkey, upon the wall, with 
 his feet resting upon the top rounds of the ladder. The 
 foliage of the wild vine and honeysuckle curled round his 
 head like a faun, while the twisted ivy branches represented 
 tolerably enough his cloven feet. Montalais required noth- 
 
356 TEK YEARS LATEK. 
 
 ing to make her resemblance to a dyrad as complete as pos- 
 sible. *'Well," she said, ascending another round of the 
 ladder, "are you resolved to render me unhappy? Have 
 you not persecuted me enough, tyrant that you are?" 
 
 "I a tyrant?" said Malicorne. 
 
 "Yes, you are always compromising me, Monsieur Mali- 
 corne; you are a perfect monster of wickedness." 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "What have you to do with Fontainebleau ? Is not 
 lOrleans your place of residence?" 
 
 "Do you ask me what I have to do here? I wanted to see 
 iyou." 
 
 "Ah, great need of that." 
 
 "Not as far as concerns yourself, perhaps, but as far as I 
 am concerned. Mademoiselle Montalais, you know very well 
 that I have left my home, and that, for the future, I have 
 no other place of residence than that which you may hap- 
 pen to have. As you, therefore, are staying at Fontaine- 
 bleau at the present moment, I have come to Fontainebleau." 
 
 Montalais shrugged her shoulders. "You wished to see 
 me, did you not?" she said. 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "Very well, you have seen me — you are satisfied; so now 
 go away." 
 
 "Oh, no," said Malicorne; "I came to talk with you as 
 well as to see you." 
 
 "Very well, we will talk by and by, and in another place 
 than this." 
 
 "By and by! Heaven only knows if I shall meet you by 
 and by in another place. We shall never find a more favor- 
 able one than this." 
 
 "But I cannot this evening, nor at the present moment." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because a thousand things have happened to-night." 
 
 "Well, then, my affair will make a thousand and one." 
 
 "No, no; Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Oharente is waiting 
 ior me in our room to communicate something of the very 
 greatest importance." 
 
 "How long has she been waiting?" 
 
 "For an hour at least." 
 
 "In that case," said Malicorne tranquilly, "she will wait 
 a few minutes longer." 
 
 "Monsieur Malicorne," said Montalais, "you are forget- 
 ting yourself." 
 
 "You should rather say that it is you who are forgetting 
 
TEN TEARS LATBE. 357 
 
 me, and that I am getting impatient at the part you make 
 me play here, indeed! For the last week I have been 
 prowling about among the company here, and you have not 
 deigned once to notice my presence here." 
 
 "Have you been prowling about here for a week. Mon- 
 sieur Malicorne?" 
 
 "Like a wolf; sometimes I have been burned by the fire- 
 works, which have singed two of my wigs; at others, I have 
 been completely drenched in the osiers by the evening 
 damps, or the spray from the fountains — always half- 
 famished, always fatigued to death, with the view of a wall 
 always before me, and the prospect of having to scale it 
 perhaps. Upon my word, this is not the sort of life for 
 any one to lead who is neither a squirrel, nor a salamander, 
 nor an otter; and since you drive your inhumanity so far as 
 to wish to make me renounce my own condition as a man, I 
 declare it openly. A man I am indeed, and a man I will 
 remain, unless by superior orders." 
 
 "Well, then, tell me, what do you wish — what do you 
 require — what do you insist upon?" said Montalais, in a 
 submissive tone. 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me that you did not know I was at 
 Fontainebleau ?" 
 
 "I!" 
 
 "Nay, be frank." 
 
 "I suspected so." 
 
 "Well, then, could you not have contrived during tho 
 last week to have seen me once a day, at least?" 
 
 "I have always been prevented. Monsieur Malicorne." 
 
 "Fiddlestick!" 
 
 "Ask my companion, if you do not believe me." 
 
 "I shall ask no one to explain matters which I know 
 better than any one." 
 
 "Compose yourself. Monsieur Malicorne; things will 
 change." 
 
 "They must, indeed." 
 
 "You know that, whether I see you or not, I am think- 
 ing of you," said Montalais, in a coaxing tone of voice. 
 
 "Oh, you are thinking of me, are you? Well, and is 
 there anything new?" 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "About my post in Monsieur's household." 
 
 "Ah, my dear Monsieur Malicorne, no one has ventured 
 lately to approach his royal highness." 
 
 "Well, but now?" 
 
358 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "Now, it is quite a different tiling; since yesterday he has 
 left off being jealous." 
 
 "Bah! how has his jealousy subsided?" 
 
 "It has been diverted into another channel." 
 
 "Tell me all about it.'' 
 
 "A report was spread that the king had fallen in love 
 with some one else^, and Monsieur was tranquillized im- 
 mediately." 
 
 "And who spread the report?" 
 
 Montalais lowered her voice. "Between ourselves," she 
 said, "I think that madame and the king have come to an 
 understanding about it." 
 
 "Ah! ah!" said Malicorne; "that was the only way to 
 manage it. But what about poor Monsieur de Guiche?" 
 
 "Oh, as for him, he is completely turned off." 
 
 "Have they been writing to each other?" 
 
 "No, certainly not; I have not seen a pen in either of 
 their hands for the last week." 
 
 "On what terms are you with madame?" 
 
 "The very best." 
 
 "And with the king?" 
 
 "The king always smiles at me whenever I pass him." 
 
 "Good! Now tell me whom have the two lovers selected 
 to serve for their screen?" 
 
 "La Valliere." 
 
 "Oh, oh, poor girl! We must prevent that." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because, if Monsieur Raoul de Bragelonne were to sus- 
 pect it, he would either kill her or kill himself." 
 
 "Eaoul, poor fellow! do you think so?" 
 
 "Women pretend to have a knowledge of the state of 
 people's affections," said Malicorne, "and they do not even 
 know how to read the thoughts of their own minds and 
 hearts. Well, I can tell you that Monsieur de Bragelonne 
 loves La Valliere to such a degree that, if she pretended to 
 deceive him, he would, I repeat, either kill himself or kill 
 her." 
 
 "But the king is there to defend her," said Montalais. 
 
 "The king!" exclaimed Malicorne; "Eaoul would kill 
 the l?ing as he would a common thief." 
 
 "Good heavens!" said Montalais; "you are mad. Mon- 
 sieur Malicorne." 
 
 "Not in the least. Everything I have told you is, on the 
 contrary, perfectly serious; and, for my own part, I know 
 prie thing." 
 
TEN TEAES LATBE. 359 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "That I shall quietly tell Eaoul of the trick." 
 
 "Hush!" said Montalais, ascending another round of the 
 ladder, so as to approach Malicorne more closely; ' do not 
 open your lips to poor Eaoul." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because as yet you know nothing at all." 
 
 "What is the matter, then?" 
 
 "Why, this evening — but no one is listening, I hope?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "This evening, then, beneath the royal oak. La Valliere 
 said aloud, and innocently enough, 'I cannot conceive that 
 when one has once seen the king, one can ever love another 
 man.' " 
 
 Malicorne almost jumped off the wall. "Unhappy girl! 
 did she really say that?" 
 
 "Word for word." 
 
 "And she thinks so?" 
 
 "La Valliere always thinks what she says." 
 
 "That positively cries aloud for vengeance. Why, women 
 are the veriest serpents," said Malicorne. 
 
 "Compose yourself, my dear Malicorne, compose your- 
 
 "No, no; let us take the evil in time, on the contrary. 
 There is time enough yet to tell Eaoul of it." 
 
 "Blunderer, on the contrary, it is too late," replied Mon- 
 talais. 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 "La Valliere's remark, which was intended for the king, 
 reached its destination." 
 
 "The king knows it, then? The king was told of it, '' 
 suppose?" 
 . "The king heard it." 
 
 "Ohime! as the cardinal used to say." 
 
 "The king was hidden in the thicket close to the royal 
 oak." 
 i i i' "It follows, then," said Malicorne, "that for the future, 
 the plan which the king and madame have arranged will go 
 as easily as . if it were on wheels, and will pass over poor 
 Bragelonne's body." 
 
 "Precisely so." 
 
 "Well," said Malicorne, after a moment's reflection, "do 
 not let us interpose our poor selves between a large oak-tree 
 and a great king, for we should certainly be ground to 
 pieges," 
 
360 TEN" YEARS LATER. 
 
 "The very thing I was going to say to you." 
 
 "Let us thinli of ourselves, then." 
 
 "My own idea." 
 
 "Open your beautiful eyes, then." 
 
 "And you your large ears." 
 
 "Approach your little mouth for a kiss." 
 
 "Here," said Montalais, who paid the debt immediately 
 in ringing coin. 
 
 "Now, let us consider. First, we have Monsieur de 
 Guiche, who is in love with madame; then. La Valliere, 
 who is in love with the king; next, the king, who is in love 
 both with madame and La Valliere; lastly. Monsieur, who 
 loves no one but himself. Among all these loves, a noodle 
 would make his fortune; a greater reason, therefore, for 
 sensible people like ourselves to do so." 
 
 "There you are with your dreams again." 
 
 "Nay, rather, with realities. Let me lead you, darling. 
 I do not think you have been very badly off hitherto." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well, the future is guaranteed by the past. Only since 
 all here think of themselves before anything else, let us do 
 so too." 
 
 "Perfectly right." 
 
 "But of ourselves only." 
 
 "Be it so." 
 
 "An offensive and defensive alliance." 
 
 "I am ready to swear to it." 
 
 "Put out your hand then, and say, 'All for Malicorne.' " 
 
 "All for Malicorne." 
 
 "And I, 'All for Montalais,' " replied Malicorne, stretch- 
 ing out his hand in his turn. 
 
 "And now, what is to be done?" 
 
 "Keep your eyes and ears constantly open; collect every 
 means of attack which may be serviceable against others; 
 never let anything lie about which can be used against 
 ourselves." 
 
 "Agreed." 
 
 "Decided." 
 
 "Sworn to. And, now the agreement is entered into, 
 good-by." 
 
 "What do you mean by 'good-by'?" 
 
 "Of course you can now return to your inn." 
 
 "To my inn?" 
 
 "Yes; are you not lodging at the sign of the Beau Paon?" 
 
 "Montalais, Montalais, you now see that you were aware 
 of my being at Fontainebleau« 'i 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 301 
 
 "Well; and what does that prove, except that I occupied 
 myself about you more than you deserve?" 
 
 "Hum!" 
 
 "Go back, then, to the Beau Paon." 
 
 "That is now quite out of the question." 
 
 "Have you not a room there?" 
 
 "I had, but have it no longer." 
 
 "Who has taken it from you, then?" 
 
 "I will tell you. Some little time ago I was returning 
 there, after I had been running about after you; and hav- 
 ing reached my hotel quite out of breath, I perceived a 
 litter, upon which four peasants were carrying a sick monk." 
 
 "A monk?" 
 
 "Yes; an old gray-bearded Franciscan. As I was looking 
 at the monk they entered the hotel; and as they were 
 carrying him up the staircase, I followed, and as I reached 
 the top of the staircase I observed that they took him into 
 my room." 
 
 "Into your room?" 
 
 "Yes, into my own apartment. Supposing it to be amis- 
 take, I summoned the landlord, who said that the room 
 which had been let to me for the past eight days was let to 
 the Franciscan for the ninth." 
 
 "Oh! oh!" 
 
 "That was exactly what I said; nay, I did even more, for 
 I was inclined to get out of temper. I went upstairs again. 
 I spoke to the Franciscan himself, and wished to prove to 
 him the impropriety of the step; when this monk, dying 
 though he seemed to be, raised himself upon his arm, fixed 
 a pair of blazing eyes upon me, and, in a voice which was 
 admirably suited for commanding a charge of cavalry, said, 
 'Turn this fellow out-of-doors;' which was done imme- 
 diately by the landlord and the four porters, who made me 
 idescend the staircase somewhat faster than was agreeable. 
 JThis is how it happens, dearesf, that I have no lodging." 
 
 "Who can this Franciscan be?" said Montalais. "Is he 
 a general?" 
 
 "That is exactly the very title that one of the bearers of 
 the litter gave him as he spoke to him in a low tone." 
 
 "So that — " said Montalais. 
 
 "So that I have no room, no hotel, no lodging; and that 
 I am as determined as my friend Manicamp was just now, 
 not to pass the night in the open air." 
 
 "What is to be done, then?" said Montalais. 
 
 "Nothing easier," said the third voice; whereupon Mou- 
 
3C2 TEN TEARS LATER. ' 
 
 talais and Malicorne uttered a simultaneous cry, and St. 
 Aignan appeared. "Dear Monsieur Malicorne," said St. 
 Aignan, "a very lucky accident has brought me back to 
 extricate you from your embarrassment. Come, I can offer 
 you a room in my own apartments, which, I can assure you, 
 no Franciscan will deprive you of. As for you, my dear 
 young lady, be easy. I already knew Mademoiselle de la 
 Valliere's secret, and that of Mademoiselle de Tonnay- 
 Charente; your own you have just been kind enough to 
 confide to me; for which I thank you. I can keep three 
 quite as well as one only." Malicorne and Montalais looked 
 at each other, like two children detected in a theft; but as 
 Malicorne saw a great advantage in the proposition which 
 had been made to him, he gave Montalais a sign of resigna- 
 tion, which she returned. Malicorne then descended the 
 ladder, round by round, reflecting at every step upon the 
 means of obtaining piecemeal from M. de St. Aignan all he 
 might possibly know about the famous secret. Montalais 
 had already darted away as fleet as a deer, and neither cross- 
 road nor labyrinth was able to deceive her. As for St. 
 Aignan, he carried off Malicorne with him to his own apart- 
 ments, showing him a thousand attentions, enchanted to 
 have close at hand the very two men who, supposing that 
 De Guiche were to remain silent, could give him the best 
 information about the maids of honor. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 WHAT ACTUALLY DID OCCUR AT THE INN CALLED THE 
 BEAU PAON. 
 
 In the first place, let us supply our readers with a few 
 details about the inn called the Beau Paon. It owed it« 
 name to its sign, which represented a peacock spreading 
 out its tail. But, in imitation of some painters who had 
 bestowed the face of a handsome young man upon the 
 serpent which tempted Eve, the painter of this sign had 
 conferred upon the peacock the features of a woman. This 
 inn, a living epigram against that half of the human race 
 which renders existence delightful, was situated at Pon- 
 tainebleau, in the first turning on the left-hand side, which 
 divides on the road from Paris that large artery which con- 
 stitutes in itself alone the entire town of Fontainebleau. 
 The side street in question was then known as the Eue de 
 
XEK TEARS LATER. 363 
 
 Lyon, doubtless because, geographically, it advanced in the 
 direction of the second capital o| the kingdom. The street 
 itself was composed of two houses occupied by persons of 
 the class of tradespeople, the houses being separated by two 
 large gardens border'ed with hedges running round them. 
 Apparently, however, there seemed to be three houses in 
 the street. Let us explain, notwithstanding appearances, 
 how there were only two. The inn of the Beau Paon had 
 its principal front toward the main street; but upon the 
 Rue de Lyon there were two ranges of buildings divided by 
 courtyards, which comprised sets of apartments for the 
 reception of all classes of travelers, whether on foot or on 
 horseback, or even with their own carriages; and in which 
 could be supplied, not only board and lodging, but also 
 accommodation for exercise, or opportunities of solitude for 
 even the wealthiest courtiers, whenever, after having re- 
 ceived some check at the court, they wished to shut them- 
 selves up with their own society, either to devour an affront 
 or to brood over their revenge. From the windows of this 
 part of the building the travelers could perceive, in the 
 first place, the street with the grass growing between the 
 stones, which were being gradually loosened by it; next, 
 the beautiful hedges of elder and thorn, which embraced, 
 as though within two green and flowering arms, the houses 
 of which we have spoken; and then, in the spaces between 
 those houses, forming the groundwork of the picture, and 
 appearing like an almost impassable barrier, a line of thick 
 trees, the advanced sentinels of the vast forest which ex- 
 tends itself in front of Pontainebleau. It was therefore 
 easy, provided one secured an apartment at the angle of 
 the building, to obtain, by the main street from Paris, a 
 view of, as well as to hear, the passers-by and the fetes; 
 and, by the Eue de Lyon, to look upon and to enjoy the 
 calm of the country. And this without reckoning that, in 
 cases of urgent necessity, at the very moment people might 
 De knocking at the principal door in the Rue de Paris, one 
 could make one's escape by the little door in the Eue de 
 Lyon, and, creeping along the ^gardens of the private 
 houses, attain the outskirts of the forest. Malicorne, who, 
 it will be remembered, was the first to speak about this inn, 
 by way of deploring his being turned out of it, having been 
 absorbed in his own affairs, had not told Montalais all that 
 could be said about this curious inn; and we will try to 
 repair Malicorne's grievous omission. With the exception 
 ,of the few words he said aboPtt the Pranciscau friar^ he had 
 
364 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 not given any particulars about the travelers who were stay- 
 ing in the inn. The manner in which they had arrived, the 
 manner in which they lived, the difficulty which existed for 
 every one but certain privileged travelers, in entering the 
 hotel without a password, and to live' there without certain 
 preparatory precautions, must have struck Malicorne; and, 
 we will venture to say, really did so. But jMalicorne, as we 
 have already said, had some personal matters of his own to 
 occupy his attention, which prevented him from paying 
 much attention to others. In fact, all the apartments of 
 the hotel were engaged and retained by certain strangers, 
 who never stirred out, who were uncommunicative in their 
 address, with countenances full of thoughtful occupation, 
 and not one of whom was known to Malicorne. Every one 
 of these travelers had arrived at the hotel after his own 
 arrival there; each man had entered after having given a 
 kind of password, which had at first attracted Malicorne's 
 attention; but having inquired, in an indirect manner, 
 about it, he had been informed that the host had given as a 
 reason for this extreme vigilance that, as the town was so 
 ' full of wealthy noblemen, it must also be as full of clever 
 and zealous pickpockets. The reputation of an honest inn 
 like that of the Beau Paon was concerned in not allowing 
 its visitors to be robbed. It occasionally happened that 
 Malicorne asked himself, as he thought matters carefully 
 over in his mind, and reflected upon his own position in the 
 inn, how it was that they had allowed him to become an 
 inmate of the hotel, while he had observed, since his resi- 
 dence there, admission refused to so many. He asked him- 
 self, too, how it was that Manicamp, who, in his opinion, 
 must be a man to be looked upon with veneration by every- 
 body, having wished to bait his horse at the Beau Paon, on 
 arriving there, both horse and rider had been incontinently 
 led away with a nescio vos of the most positive character. 
 All this for Malicorne, whose mind being fully occupied by 
 his own love aSair and his personal ambition, was a problem 
 he had not applied himself to solve. Had he wished to do 
 so, we should hardly venture, notwithstanding the intelli- 
 gence we have accorded as his due, to say he would have 
 succeeded. A few words will prove to the reader that 
 nothing less than CEdipus in person could have solved the 
 enigma in question. During the week seven travelers had 
 taken up their abode in the inn, all of them having arrived 
 there the day after the fortunate day on which Malicorne 
 had fixed his choice on the Beau Paon. These seven per- 
 
TE>r YEARS LATER. 366 
 
 sons, accompanied by a suitable retinue, were the following: 
 First of all, a brigadier in the German army, his secretary, 
 physician, three servants, and seven horses. The brigadier's 
 name was the Oomte de Wostpur. A Spanish cardinal, 
 with two nephews, two secretaries, an officer of his house- 
 hold, and twelve horses. The cardinal's name was M. 
 Herrebia. A rich merchant of Bremen, with his man- 
 servant and two horses. This merchant's name was Mein- 
 heer Bonstett. A Venetian senator, with his wife and 
 daughter, both extremely beautiful. The senator's name 
 was Signer Marini. A Scotch laird, with seven Highlanders 
 of his clan, all on foot. The laird's name was Mac Cumnor. 
 An Austrian from Vienna, without title or coat of arms, 
 who had arrived in a carriage, a good deal of the priest, 
 and something of the soldier. He was called the councilor. 
 And, finally, a Flemish lady, with a man-servant, a lady's- 
 maid, and a female companion, a large retinue of servants, 
 great display, and immense horses. She was called the 
 Flemish lady. 
 
 All these travelers had arrived on the same day, and yet 
 their arrival had occasioned no confusion in the inn, no 
 stoppage in the street; their apartments had been fixed 
 upon beforehand, by their couriers or their secretaries, who 
 had arrived the previous evening or the same morning. 
 Malicorne, who had arrived the previous day, and riding an 
 ill-conditioned horse, with a slender valise, had announced 
 himself at the hotel of the Beau Paon as the friend of a 
 nobleman desirous of witnessing the fetes, and who would 
 himself arrive almost immediately. The landlord, on hear- 
 ing these words, had smiled as if he were perfectly well 
 acquainted either with Malicorne or his friend the noble- 
 man, and said to him, "Since you are the first arrival, mon- 
 sieur, choose what apartment you please." And this was 
 said with that obsequiousness of manners so full of meaning 
 with landlords, which means, "Make yourself perfectly 
 easy, monsieur; we know with whom we have to do, and 
 you will be treated accordingly." These words, and their 
 accompanying gesture, Malicorne had thought very friendly, 
 but rather obscure. However, as he did not wish to be very 
 extravagant in his expenses, and as he thought that if he 
 were to ask for a small apartment he would doubtless have 
 been refused, on account of his want of consequence, he 
 hastened to close at once with the innkeeper's remark, and 
 deceive him with a cunning equal to his own. So, smiling 
 as a man would do for whom whatever might be done was 
 
366 TEK TEAR3 LATER. 
 
 but simply his due, he said, "My dear host, I shall take the 
 best and the gavest room in the house." 
 
 "With a stable?" 
 
 "Yes, with a stable." 
 
 "And when will you take it?" 
 
 "Immediately, if it be possible." 
 
 "Quite so." 
 
 "But," said Malicorne, "I shall leave the large room 
 unoccupied for the present." 
 
 "Very good!" said the landlord, with an air of intelli- 
 gence. 
 
 "Certain reasons, which you will understand by and by, 
 oblige me to take at my own cost this small room only." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said the host. 
 
 "When my friend arrives he will occupy the large apart- 
 ment; and, as a matter of course, as this larger apartment 
 will be his own affair, he will settle for it himself." 
 
 "Certainly," said the landlord, "certainly; let it be un- 
 derstood in that manner." 
 
 "It is agreed, then, that such shall be the terms?" 
 
 "Word for word." 
 
 "It is extraordinary," said Malicorne to himself. "You 
 quite understand, then?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "There is nothing more to be said. Since, then, you 
 understand — for you do clearly understand, do you not?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 "Very well; and now show me to my room." 
 
 The landlord, cap in hand, preceded Malicorne, who in- 
 stalled himself in his room, and became more and more sur- 
 prised to observe that the landlord, at every ascent or 
 descent, looked and winked at him in a manner which indi- 
 cated the best possible intelligence between them. "There 
 is some mistake here," said Malicorne to himself; "but 
 until it is cleared up I shall take advantage of it, which is' 
 the best thing I can possibly do." And he darted out of 
 his room, like a hunting-dog following up a scent, in search 
 of all the news and curiosities of the court, getting himself 
 burned in one place and drowned in another, as he had told 
 Mile, de Montalais. The day after he had been installed in 
 his room he had noticed the seven travelers arrive success- 
 ively, who speedily filled the whole hotel. When he saw 
 all this number of people, of carriages, and retinue, Mali- 
 corne rubbed his hands delightedly, thinking that, one day 
 later, he should not have found a bed to lie upon after his 
 
Tm YllAfeS tATER. 36? 
 
 return from his exploring expeditions. When all the 
 travelers were lodged the landlord entered Malicorne's 
 room, and with his accustomed courteousness, said to him, 
 "You are aware, my dear monsieur, that the large room in 
 the third detached building is still reserved for you?" 
 
 "Of course I am aware of it." 
 
 "I am really making you a present of it." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "So that when your friend comes " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "He will be satisfied with me, I hope; or, if he be not, 
 he will be very difficult to please." 
 
 "Excuse me, but will you allow me to say a few words 
 about my friend?" 
 
 "Of course, for you have a perfect right to do so." 
 
 "He intended to come, as you know." 
 
 "And he does so still." 
 
 "He may possibly have changed his opinion." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You are quite sure, then?" 
 
 "Quite sure." 
 
 "But in that case you should have some doubt." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I can only say that I do not positively assure you that 
 he will come." 
 
 "Yet he told you " 
 
 "He certainly did tell me; but you know that man pro- 
 poses and God disposes — vei'ba volant, scripta manent." 
 
 "Which is as much as to say " 
 
 "That what is spoken flies away, and what is written 
 remains; and, as he did not write to me, but contented 
 himself by saying to me, 'I will authorize you, yet without 
 specially inviting you,' you must feel that it places me in 
 a very embarrassing position." 
 
 "What do you authorize me to do, then?" 
 
 "Why, to let your rooms if you find a good tenant for 
 them." 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "Yes, you." 
 
 "Never will I do such a thing, monsieur. If he has not 
 written to you, he has written to me." 
 
 "Ah! ah! what does he say? Let us see if his letter 
 agrees with his words." 
 
 "These are almost his very words. 'To the landlord of 
 the Beau Paon Hotel: You will have been informed of the 
 
368 TEK- YEASg tATER. 
 
 meeting arranged to take place in your inn between soni« 
 people of importance; I shall be one of those who will meet 
 the others at Fontainebleau. Keep for me, then, a small 
 room for a friend who will arrive either before or after 
 me — ' and you are the friend, I suppose," said the landlord, 
 interrupting his reading of the letter. Malicorne bowed 
 modestly. The landlord continued: " 'And a large apartment 
 for myself. The large apartment is my own affair, but I 
 wish the price of the smaller room to be moderate, as it is 
 destined for a fellow who is deucedly poor.' It is still you 
 he is speaking of, is he not?" said the host. ' 
 
 "Oh, certainly," said Malicorne. 
 
 "Then we are agreed; your friend will settle for his 
 apartment, and you for your own." 
 
 "May I be broken alive upon the wheel," said Malicorne 
 to himself, "if I understand anything at all about it," and 
 then he said aloud, "Well, then, are you satisfied with the 
 name?" 
 
 "With what name?" 
 
 "With the name at the end of the letter. Does it give 
 you the guarantee you require?" 
 
 "I was going to ask you the name." 
 
 "What! was not the letter signed?" 
 
 "No," said the landlord, opening his eyes very wide, full 
 of mystery and curiosity. 
 
 "In that case," replied Malicorne, imitating his gesture 
 and his mysterious look, "if he has not given you his name, 
 you understand, he must have his reasons for it." 
 
 "Oh, of course." 
 
 "And, therefore, that I, his friend, his confidant, must 
 not betray him." 
 
 "You are perfectly right, monsieur," said the landlord, 
 "and therefore I do not insist upon it." 
 
 "I appreciate your delicacy. As for myself, as my friend 
 told you, my room is a separate affair, so let us come to 
 terms about it. Short accounts make good friends. How 
 much is it?" 
 
 "There is no hurry." 
 
 "Never mind, let us reckon it up all the same. Room, 
 my own board, a place in the stable for my horse, and his 
 feed. How much per day?" 
 
 "Four livres, monsieur." 
 
 "Which will make twelve livres for the three days I have 
 been here?" 
 
 "Yes, monsieur.' ' 
 
TEK YEARS LATER. 369 
 
 "Here are your twelve livres, then." 
 
 "But why settle now?" 
 
 "Because," said Malicorne, lowering his voice, and re- 
 sorting to his former air of mystery, because he saw that the 
 mysterious had succeeded, "because if I had to set off sud- 
 denly, to decamp at any moment, my account would be 
 already settled." 
 
 "You are right, monsieur." 
 
 "I may consider myself at home, then?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 "So far, so well. Adieu!" And the landlord withdrew. 
 Malicorne, left alone, reasoned with himself in the follow- 
 ing manner: "No one but De Guiche or Manicamp could 
 have written to this fellow; De Guiche, because he wishes 
 to secure a lodging for himself beyond the precincts of the 
 court, in the event of his success or failure, as the case 
 might be; Manicamp, because De Guiche must have in- 
 trusted him with his commission. And De Guiche or 
 Manicamp will have argued in this manner. The large 
 apartment in which one could receive, in a befitting manner, 
 a lady very thickly veiled, reserving to the lady in question 
 a double means of exit, either in a street somewhat de- 
 serted, or closely adjoining the forest: The smaller room, 
 either to shelter Manicamp for a time, who is De Guiche'a 
 confidant, and would be the vigilant keeper of the door, or 
 for De Guiche himself, acting, for greater safety, the part 
 of master and of confidant at the same time. Yet," he 
 continued, "how about this meeting which is to take place, 
 and which indeed has actually taken place, in this hotel? 
 No doubt they are persons who are going to be presented to 
 the king. And the 'poor devil,' for whom the smaller 
 room is destined, is a trick, in order to better conceal De 
 Guiche or Manicamp. If this be the case, as very likely it 
 is, there is only half the mischief done, for there is simply 
 the length of one's purse-strings between Manicamp and 
 Malicorne." After he had thus reasoned the matter out, 
 Malicorne had slept soundly, leaving the seven travelers to 
 occupy, and in every sense of the word to walk up and 
 down, their several lodgings in the hotel. Whenever there 
 was nothing at court to put him out, when he had wearied 
 himself with his excursions and investigations, tired of writ- 
 ing letters which he could never find an opportunity of 
 delivering to whom they were intended, he then returned 
 home to his comfortable little room, and leaning upon the 
 balcony, which was filled with nasturtiums and white pinks. 
 
370 TEK TEARS LATEH. 
 
 he began to think over these strange travelers, for whom 
 ^ontainebleau seemed to possess no attractions in its illu- 
 minations, or amusements, ov fetes. Things went on in this 
 manner until the seventh day, a day of which we have 
 given such full details, with its night also, in the preceding 
 chapters. On that night Malicorne was enjoying the fresh 
 air, seated at his window, toward one o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, when Manicamp appeared on horseback, with a thought- 
 ful and listless air. 
 
 "Good!" said Malicorne to himself, recognizing him at 
 the first glance; "there's my friend, who is come to take 
 possession of his apartment, that is to say, of my room." 
 And he called to Manicamp, who looked up and imme- 
 diately recognized Malicorne. 
 
 "Ah! by Jove!" said the former, his countenance clear- 
 ing up, "glad to see you, Malicorne. I have been wander- 
 ing about "Fontainebleau, looking for three things I cannot 
 find: De Guiche, a room, and a stable." 
 
 "Of Monsieur de Guiche I cannot give you either good 
 or bad news, for I have not seen him; but as far as concerns 
 your room and a stable, that's another matter, for they have 
 been retained here for you." 
 
 "Eetained — and by whom?" 
 
 "By yourself, I suppose." 
 
 "By me?" 
 
 "Do you mean to say you have not taken lodgings here?" 
 
 "By no means," said Manicamp. 
 
 At this moment the landlord appeared on the threshold 
 of the door. 
 
 "I require a room," said Manicamp. 
 
 "Have you engaged one, monsieur?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then I have no rooms to let." 
 
 "In that case, I have engaged a room," said Manicamp. 
 
 "A room simply, or lodgings?" 
 
 "Anything you please." 
 
 "By letter?" inquired the landlord. 
 
 Malicorne nodded affirmatively to Manicamp. 
 
 "Of course by letter," said Manicamp. "Did you not 
 receive a letter from me?" 
 
 "What was the date of the letter?" inquired the host, in 
 whom Manicamp's hesitation had aroused suspicion. Mani- 
 camp rubbed his ear, and looked up at Malicorne's window; 
 but Malicorne had left his window and was coming down 
 the stairs to his friend's assistance. At the very same 
 
tEK YEARS tATEll. 3'}'1 
 
 moment a traveler, wrapped up in a large Spanish cloak, 
 appeared at the porch, near enough to hear the conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 "I ask you what was the date of the letter you wrote to 
 me to retain apartments here?" repeated the landlord, 
 again pressing his question. 
 
 "Last AVednesday was the date," said the mysterious 
 stranger, in a soft and polished tone of voice, touching the 
 landlord on the shoulder. 
 
 Manicamp drew back, and it was now Malicorne's turn, 
 who appeared on the threshold, to scratch his ear. The 
 landlord saluted the new arrival as a man who recognizes 
 his true guest. "Monsieur," he said to him, with civility, 
 "your apartment is ready for you, and the stables too, 
 only — " He looked round him and inquired, "Your 
 horses.''" 
 
 "My horses may or may not arrive. That, however, 
 matters but little to you, provided you are paid for what 
 has been engaged." The landlord bowed still lower. 
 
 "You have," continued the unknown traveler, "kept for 
 me, besides, the small room I asked for." 
 
 "Oh!" said Malicorne, endeavoring to hide himself. 
 
 "Your friend has occupied it during the last week," said 
 the landlord, pointing to Malicorne, who was trying to 
 make himself as small as possible. The traveler, drawing 
 his cloak round him so as to cover the lower part of his 
 face, cast a rapid glance at Malicorne, and said: 
 
 "This gentleman is no friend of mine." 
 
 The landlord almost started off his feet. 
 
 "I am not acquainted with this gentleman," continued 
 the traveler. 
 
 "What!" exclaimed his host, turning to Malicorne, "are 
 you not this gentleman's friend, then?" 
 
 "What does it matter whether I am or not, provided you 
 are paid?" said Malicorne, parodying the stranger's remark 
 in a very majestic manner. 
 
 "It matters so far as this," said the landlord, who began 
 to perceive that one person had been taken for another, 
 "that I beg you, monsieur, to leave the rooms, which had 
 been engaged beforehand, and by some one else instead of 
 you." 
 
 "Still," said Malicorne, "this gentleman cannot require 
 at the same time a room on the first floor and an apart- 
 ment on the second. If this gentleman will take the room, 
 I will take the apartment; if he prefers the apartment^ I 
 will be satisfied with the room '' 
 
373 TEir TEARS LATER. 
 
 "I am exceedingly distressed, monsieur," said the 
 traveler, in his soft voice, "but I need both the room and 
 the apartment." 
 
 "At least, tell me for whom?" inquired Malicorne. 
 
 "The apartment I require for myself." 
 
 "Very well; but the room?" 
 
 "Look," said the traveler, pointing toward a sort of pro- 
 cession which was approaching. 
 
 Malicorne looked in the direction indicated, and observed, 
 oorne upon a litter, the arrival of the Franciscan, whose 
 installation in his apartment he had, with a few details of 
 his own, related to Montalais, and whom he had so use- 
 lessly endeavored to convert to humbler views. The result 
 of the arrival of the stranger, and of the sick Franciscan, 
 was Malicorne's expulsion, without any consideration for 
 his feelings, from the inn, by the landlord and the peasants 
 who carried the Franciscan. The details have already been 
 given of what followed this expulsion; of Manicamp's con- 
 versation with Montalais; how Manicamp, with greater 
 cleverness than Malicorne had shown, had succeeded in 
 obtaining news of De Guiche; of the subsequent conversa- 
 tion of Montalais with Malicorne; and, finally, of the billets 
 with which the Comte de St. Aignan had furnished Mani- 
 camp and Malicorne. It remains for us to inform our read- 
 ers who were the traveler with the cloak — the principal 
 tenant of the double apartment of which Malicorne had 
 only occupied a portion — and the Franciscan, quite as mys- 
 terious a personage, whose arrival, together with that of the 
 stranger with the cloak, had been unfortunate enough to 
 upset the two friends' plans. 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 A JESUIT OF THE ELEVEKTH YEAR. 
 
 Is tiie first place, in order not to weary the reader's 
 patience, we will hasten to answer the first question. The 
 traveler with the cloak held over his face was Aramis, who, 
 after he had left Fouquet, and had taken from a portman- 
 teau, which his servant had opened, a cavalier's complete 
 costume, had quitted the chateau, and had gone to the 
 hotel of the Beau Paon, where, by letters, seven or eight 
 days previously, he had, as the landlord stated, directed a 
 room and an apartment to be retained for him. Imme- 
 
TEN TEAKS LATER. 373 
 
 diately Malicome and Manicamp had been turned out, 
 Aramis approached the Franciscan, and asked him whether 
 he would prefer the apartment or the room. The Fran- 
 ciscan inquired where they were both situated. He was told 
 that the room was on the first, and the apartment on the 
 second floor. 
 
 "The room, then," he said. 
 
 Aramis did not contradict him, but, with great submis- 
 siveness, said to the landlord: "The room." And bowing 
 with respect, he withdrew into the apartment, and the 
 Franciscan was accordingly carried at once into the room. 
 Now, is it not extraordinary that this respect should be 
 shown by a prelate of the church for a simple monk, for 
 one, too, belonging to a mendicant order; to whom was 
 given up, without a request for it even, a room which so 
 many travelers were desirous of obtaining? How, too, ex- 
 plain the unexpected arrival of Aramis at the hotel — he who 
 had entered the chateau with M. Fouquet, and could have 
 remained at the chateau with M. Fouquet if he had liked? 
 The Franciscan supported his removal up the staircase 
 without uttering a complaint, although it was evident ho 
 snfEered very much, and that every time the litter was 
 knocked against the wall or against the railing of the stair- 
 case he experienced a terrible shock throughout his frame. 
 And finally, when he had arrived in the room, he said to those 
 who carried him: "Help me to place myself on that arm- 
 chair." The bearers of the litter placed it on the ground, 
 and lifting the sick man up as gently as possible, they car- 
 ried him to the chair he had indicated, and which was 
 situated at the head of the bed. "Now," he added, with a 
 marked benignity of gesture and tone, "desire the land- 
 lord to come." 
 
 They obeyed, and five minutes afterward the landlord 
 appeared at the door. 
 
 "Be kind enough," said the Franciscan to him, "to send 
 these excellent fellows away; they are vassals of the Comte 
 de Melun. They found me when I had fainted on the road 
 overcome by the heat, and without thinking whether they 
 would be paid for their trouble, they wished to carry me to 
 their own homes. But I know at what cost to themselves is 
 the hospitality which the poor extend to a sick man, and I 
 preferred this hotel, where, moreover, I was expected." 
 
 The landlord looked at the Franciscan in amazement, but 
 the latter, with his thumb, made the sign of the cross in a 
 peculiar manner upon bis bre^'St. Th^ host replied by mak- 
 
374 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 ing a similar sign on his left shoulder. "Yes, indeed," he 
 said, "we did expect you, but we hoped that you would 
 arrive in a better state of health." And as the peasants 
 were looking at the innkeeper, usually so supercilious, and 
 saw how respectful he had become in the presence of a poor 
 monk, the Franciscan drew from a deep pocket three or 
 four pieces of gold, which he held out. 
 
 "My friends," said he, "here is something to repay you 
 for the care you have taken of me. So make yourselves 
 perfectly easy, and do not be afraid of leaving me here. 
 The order to which I belong, and for which I am traveling, 
 does not require me to beg; only, as the attention you have 
 shown me deserves to be rewarded, take these two louis 
 and depart in peace." 
 
 The peasants did not dare to take them; the landlord 
 took the two louis out of the monk's hand and placed them 
 in that of one of the peasants, the whole four of whom 
 withdrew, opening their eyes wider than ever. The door 
 was then closed, and while the innkeeper stood respectfully 
 near it, the Franciscan collected himself for a moment. 
 He then passed across his sallow face a hand which seemed 
 dried up by fever, and rubbed his nervous and agitated 
 fingers across his beard. His large eyes, hollowed by sick- 
 ness and inquietude, seemed to pursue in the vague dis- 
 tance a mournful and fixed idea. 
 
 "What physicians have you at Fontainebleau?" he in- 
 quired, after a long pause. 
 
 "We have three, my father." 
 
 "What are their names?" 
 
 "Luiniguet first." 
 
 "The next one?" 
 
 "A brother of the Carmelite order, named Brother 
 Hubert." 
 
 "The next?" 
 
 "A secular member, named Grisart." 
 
 "Ah! Grisart?" murmured the monk. "Send for Mon 
 sieur Grisart immediately." 
 
 The landlord moved in prompt obedience to the direction. 
 
 "Tell me what priests there are here?" 
 
 "What priests?" 
 
 "Yes; belonging to what orders?" 
 
 "There are Jesuits, Augustines, and Cordeliers; but the 
 Jesuits are the closest at hand. Shall I send for a confessor 
 belonging to the order of Jesuits?" 
 
 "Yes, immediately," 
 
TEK YEAKS LATER. S'J'S 
 
 It will be imagined that, at the sign of the cross which 
 they had exchanged, the landlord and the invalid monk 
 had recognized each other as two affiliated members of tho 
 well-known Society of Jesus. Left to himself, the Fran- 
 ciscan drew from his pocket a bundle of papers, some of 
 which he read over with the most careful attention. The 
 violence of his disorder, however, overcame his courage; his 
 eyes rolled in their sockets, a cold sweat poured down his 
 face, and he nearly fainted, and lay with his head thrown 
 backward and his arms hanging down on both sides of his 
 chair. For more than five minutes he remained without 
 any movement, when the landlord returned, bringing with 
 him the physician, whom he had hardly allowed time to 
 dress himself. The noise they made in entering the room, 
 the -current of air which the opening of the door had occa- 
 sioned, restored the Franciscan to his senses. He hurriedly 
 seized hold of the papers which were lying about, and with, 
 his long and bony hand concealed them under the cushions 
 of the chair. The landlord went out of the room, leaving 
 patient and physician together. 
 
 "Come here. Monsieur Grisart," said the Franciscan to 
 the doctor; "approach closer, for there is no time to lose. 
 Try, by touch and sound, and consider and pronounce your 
 sentence." 
 
 "The landlord," replied the doctor, "told me that I had 
 the honor of attending an affiliated brother." 
 
 "Yes," replied the Franciscan, "it is- so. Tell me the 
 truth, then; I feel very ill, and I think I am about to die." 
 
 The physician took the monk's hand and felt his pulse. 
 
 "Oh! oh!" he said, "a dangerous fever." 
 
 "What do you call a dangerous fever?" inquired the 
 Franciscan, with an imperious look. 
 
 "To an affiliated member of the first or second year," 
 replied the physician, looking inquiringly at the monk, "I, 
 should say — a fever that may be cured." 
 
 "But to me?" said the Franciscan. 
 
 The physician hesitated. 
 
 "Look at my gray hair, and my forehead, full of anxious 
 thbught," he continued; "look at the lines in my face, by 
 which I reckon up the trials I have undergone; I am a 
 Jesuit of the eleventh year. Monsieur Grisart." The 
 physician started, for, in fact, a Jesuit of the eleventh year 
 was one of those men who had been initiated in all the 
 secrets of the order, one of those for whom the science has 
 no more secrets, the society no further barriers to present- 
 temporal obedience, np more trammels. 
 
376 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "In that case," said Grisart, saluting him with respect, 
 "I am in the presence of a master?" 
 
 "Yes; act, therefore, accordingly." 
 
 "And you wish to know?" 
 
 "My real state." 
 
 "Well," said the physician, "it is a brain fever, which 
 has reached its highest degree of intensity." 
 
 "There is no hope, then?" inquired the Franciscan, in a 
 quick tone of voice. 
 
 : "I do not say that," replied the doctor; "yet, consider- 
 ing the disordered state of the brain, the hurried respira- 
 tion, the rapidity of the pulse, and the burning nature of 
 the fever which is devouring you " 
 
 "And which has thrice prostrated me since this morn- 
 ing," said the monk. 
 
 "Therefore, I should call it a terrible attack. But why 
 did you not stop on your road?" 
 
 "I was expected here, and I was obliged to come." 
 
 "Even at the risk of your life?" 
 
 "Yes, at the risk of dying!" 
 
 "Very well. Considering all the symptoms of your case, 
 I must tell you that your condition is desperate." 
 
 The Franciscan smiled in a strange manner. 
 
 "What you have just told me is, perhaps, sufBcient for 
 what is due to an affiliated member, even of the eleventh 
 year; but for what is due to me. Monsieur Grisart, it is too 
 little, and I have a right to demand more. Come, then, let 
 us be more candid still, and as frank as if you were making 
 your own confession to Heaven. Besides, I have already 
 sent for a confessor." 
 
 "Oh! I hope, however," murmured the doctor. 
 
 "Answer me," said the sick man, displaying with a dig- 
 nified gesture a golden ring, the stone of which had, until 
 that moment, been turned inside, and which bore engraved 
 thereon the distinguishing mark of the Society of Jesus. 
 
 Grisart uttered a loud exclamation. "The general!" he 
 cried. 
 
 "Silence," said the Franciscan; "you now understand 
 that the truth is everything." 
 
 "Monseigneur! monseigneur!" murmured Grisart, "send 
 for the confessor, for in two hours, at the next seizure, you 
 will be attacked by delirium, and will pass away in the 
 course of it." 
 
 "Very well," said the patient, for a moment contracting ' 
 bis eyebrows, "I have still two hours to live, then?" 
 
TEN "JEARS tAtEE. 377 
 
 "Yes; particularly if you tnke the potion I shall send you 
 presently." 
 
 "And that will give me two hours more?" 
 
 "Two hours." 
 
 "I would take it, were it poison, for those two hours are 
 necessary not only for myself, but for the glory of the 
 order." 
 
 "What a loss, what a catastrophe for us all!" murmured 
 the physician. 
 
 "It is the loss of one man, and nothing more," replied 
 the Franciscan, "and Heaven will enable the poor monk, 
 who is about to leave you, to find a worthy successor. 
 Adieu, Monsieur Grisart; already even, through the good- 
 ness of Heaven, I have met with you. A physician who 
 had not been one of our holy order would have left me in 
 ignorance of my condition; and, relying that my existence 
 might have been prolonged a few days further, I should 
 not have taken the necessary precautions. You are a learned 
 man. Monsieur Grisart, and that confers an honor upon us 
 all; it would have been repugnant to my feelings to have 
 found one of our order of little standing in his profession. 
 Adieu, Monsieur Grisart; send me the cordial immediately." 
 
 "Give me your blessing, at least, monseigneur." 
 
 "In my mind, I do; go, go; in my mind I do so, I tell 
 you-^ -animo, Maitre Grisart, viriius wipossiMle." And he 
 again fell back on the armchair, in an almost senseless 
 state. M. Grisart hesitated, whether he should give him 
 immediate assistance or should run to prepare the cordial 
 he had promised. He, doubtless, decided in favor of the 
 cordial, for he darted out of the room and disappeared down 
 the staircase. 
 
 CHAPTER LIU. 
 
 THE STATE SECRET. 
 
 A FEW moments after the doctor's departure the con- 
 fessor arrived. He had hardly crossed the threshold of the 
 door when the Franciscan fixed a penetrating look upon 
 him, and, shaking his head, murmured, "A weak mind, I 
 see; may Heaven forgive me for dying without the help of 
 this living piece of human infirmity." The confessor, on 
 his side, regarded the dying man with astonishment, almost 
 with terror. He had never beheld eyes so burningly bright 
 
378 TEK TEARS LATER. 
 
 at the very moment they were about to close, nor looks so 
 terrible at the moment they were about to be quenched in 
 death. The Franciscan made a rapid and imperious move- 
 ment of his hand. "Sit down, there, my father," he ^aid, 
 "and listen to me." The Jesuit confessor, a good priest, 
 a recent member of the order, who had merely witnessed 
 the initiation into its mysteries, yielded to the superiority 
 assumed by the penitent. 
 
 "There are several persons staying in this hotel," con 
 tinued the Franciscan. 
 
 "But," inquired the Jesuit, "I thought I had been sum- 
 moned to receive confession. Is your renjark, then, a con- 
 fession?" 
 
 "Why do you ask me?" 
 
 "In order to know whether I am to keep your words 
 secret." 
 
 "My remarks are part of my confession; I confide them 
 to you in your character of a confessor." 
 
 "Very well," said the priest, seating himself on the chair 
 which the Franciscan had, with great difficulty, just left, to 
 lie down on the bed. 
 
 The Franciscan continued: "I repeat, there are several 
 persons staying in this inn." 
 
 "So I have heard." 
 
 "They ought to be eight in number." ' 
 
 The Jesuit made a sign that he understood him. "The 
 first to whom I wish to speak," said the dying man, "is a 
 German from Vienna, whose name is Baron de Wostpur. 
 Be kind enough to go to him, and tell him the person he 
 expected has arrived." 
 
 The confessor, astounded, looked at his penitent; the 
 confession seemed a singular one. 
 
 "Obey," said the Franciscan, in a tone of command im- 
 possible to resist. The good Jesuit, completely subdued, 
 rose and left the room. As soon as he had gone the Fran-( 
 ciscan again took up the papers which a crisis of the fever 
 had already once before obliged him to put aside. 
 
 "The Baron de Wostpur? Good!" he said; "ambitious, 
 a fool, and straitened in his means." 
 
 He folded up the papers, which he thrust under his 
 pillow. 
 
 Eapid footsteps were heard at the end of the corridor. 
 The confessor returned, followed by the Baron de Wostpur, 
 who walked along with his head raised, as if he were dis- 
 cussing with himself the propriety of touching the ceiling 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 379 
 
 with the feather in his hat. Therefore, at the appearance 
 of the Franciscan^ at his mslancholy'look, and at the plain- 
 ness of the room, he stopped, and inquired: "Who sum- 
 moned me?" 
 
 "I," said the Franciscan, who turned toward the con- 
 fessor, saying, "My good father, leave us for a moment to- 
 gether; when this gentleman leaves, you will return here." 
 
 The Jesuit left the room, and, doubtless, availed himself 
 of this momentary exile from the presence of the dying 
 man to ask the host for some explanation about this strahge 
 penitent, who treated his confessor no better than he would 
 a man-servant. The baron approached the bed, and wished 
 to speak, but the hand of the Franciscan imposed silence 
 upon him. 
 
 "Every moment is precious," said the latter hurriedly. 
 "You have come here for the competition, have you not?" 
 
 "Yes, my father." 
 
 "You hope to be elected general of the order?" 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 "You know on what conditions only you can possibly 
 attain this high position, which makes one man the master 
 of monarchs, the equal of popes?" 
 
 "Who are you," inquired the baron, "to subject me to 
 these interrogatories?" 
 
 "I am he whom you expected." 
 
 "The elector general?" 
 
 "I am the elected." 
 
 "You are " 
 
 The Franciscan did not give him time to reply; he ex- 
 tended his shrunken hand, on which glittered the ring of 
 the general of the order. The baron drew back in surprise; 
 and then, immediately afterward, bowing with the pro- 
 foundest respect, he exclaimed: "Is it possible that you are 
 here, monseigneur; you, in this wretched room; you, upon 
 this miserable bed; you, in search of and selecting the 
 future general, that is, your own successor?" 
 
 "Do not distress yourself about that, monseigneur, but 
 fulfill immediately the principal condition, of furnishing 
 the order with a secret of importance, such as one of the 
 greatest courts of Europe can, by your instrumentality, 
 forever confer upon the order. Well, do you possess the 
 secret which you promised, in your request, addressed to 
 the grand council?" 
 
 "Monseigneur " 
 
 "Let us proceed, however, in due order," said the monk. 
 "You are the Baron d© Wostpur?" 
 
380 TEN" TEARS LATER. 
 
 ^'Yes, monseigneur." 
 
 "And this letter is from you?" 
 
 The general of the Jesuits drew a paper from his bundle 
 and presented it to the baron, who glanced at it, and made 
 a sign in the affirmative, saying, "Yes, monseigneur, this 
 letter is mine." 
 
 "Can you show me the reply which the secretary of the 
 grand council returned to you?" 
 
 "This is it," said the baron, holding toward the Fran- 
 ciscan a letter bearing simply the address, "To His Excel- 
 lency the Baron de Wostpur," and containing only this 
 phrase, "From the 15th to the 22d of May, Foutainebleau, 
 the Hotel of the Beau Paon.— A.M.D.G." * 
 
 "Eight," said the Franciscan; "and now speak." 
 
 "I have a body of troops, composed of fifty thousand 
 men; all the officers are gained. I am encamped on the 
 Danube. In four days I can overthrow the emperor, who 
 is, as you are aware, opposed to the progress of our order, 
 and can replace him by whichever of the princes of his 
 family the order may determine upon." 
 
 The Franciscan listened, unmoved. 
 
 "Is that all?" he said. 
 
 "A revolution throughout Europe is included in my 
 plan," said the baron. 
 
 "Very well. Monsieur de Wostpur, you will receive a 
 reply; return to your room, and leave Fontainebleau within 
 a quarter of an hour." 
 
 The baron withdrew backward, just as obsequiously as if 
 he were taking leave of the emperor he was ready to betray. 
 
 "There is no secret there," murmured the Franciscan, 
 "it is a plot. Besides," he added, after a moment's reflec- 
 tion, "the future of Europe is no longer in the House of 
 Austria." 
 
 And with a pencil which he held in his hand he struck 
 the Baron de Wostpur's name from the list. 
 
 "Now for the cardinal," he said; "we ought to get some- ' 
 thing more serious from the side of Spain." 
 
 Raising his head, he perceived the confessor, who was 
 awaiting his orders as submissively as a schoolboy. 
 
 "Ah, ah!" he said, noticing his submissive air, "you have 
 been talking with the landlord." 
 
 "Yes, monseigneur, and to the physician." 
 
 "To Grisart?" 
 
 * Ad majorem Dei gloriam, 
 
TEK YEAfiS tAtm. S81 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "He is here, then?" 
 
 "He is waiting with the potion he promised." 
 
 "Very well; if I require him, I will call. You now Onl- 
 derstand the great importance of my confession, do you 
 not?" 
 
 "Yes, monseigneur." 
 
 "Then go and fetch me the Spanish Cardinal Herrebia. 
 Make haste. Only, as you now understand the matter in 
 hand, you will remain near me, for I begin to feel faint." 
 
 "Shall I summon the physician?" 
 
 "Not yet, not yet . . . the Spanish cardinal . . • 
 no one else. Ply!" 
 
 Five minutes afterward the cardinal, pale and disturbed, 
 entered the little room. 
 
 "I am informed, monseigneur — " stammered out the 
 cardinal. 
 
 "To the point," said the Franciscan, in a faint voice, 
 showing the cardinal a letter which he had written to the 
 grand council. "Is that your handwriting?" 
 
 "Yes, but " 
 
 "And your summons here?" 
 
 The cardinal hesitated to answer. His purple revolted 
 against the mean garb of the poor Franciscan, who stretched 
 out his hand and displayed the ring, which produced its 
 effect, greater in proportion as the greatness of the person 
 increased over whom the Franciscan exercised his influence. 
 
 "Quick, the secret, the secret!" said the dying man, 
 leaning upon his confessor. 
 
 "Coram into?" inquired the Spanish cardinal. 
 
 "Speak in Spanish," said the Franciscan, showing the 
 liveliest attention. 
 
 "You are aware, monseigneur," said the cardinal, con- 
 tinuing the conversation in the Castilian dialect, "that the 
 condition of the marriage of the Infanta with the King of 
 France is the absolute renunciation of the rights of the said 
 Infanta, as well as of King Louis XIV., to all claim to the 
 crown of Spain." 
 
 The Franciscan made a sign in the affirmative. 
 
 "The consequence is," continued the cardinal, "that the 
 peace and alliance between the two kingdoms depend upon 
 the observance of that clause of the contract." 
 
 A similar sign from the Franciscan. 
 
 "Not only France and Spain," continued the cardinal, 
 "but the whole of Europe even would be violently rent 
 asunder by the faithlessness of either party." 
 
382 TEK YEARS LATER. 
 
 Another movement of the dying man's head. 
 
 "It further results," continued the speaker, "that the 
 man who might be able to foresee events, and to render cer- 
 tain that which is no more than a vague idea floating in the 
 mind of man; that is to say, the idea of future good or evil 
 would preserve the world from a great catastrophe; and 
 the event, which has no fixed certainty, even in the brain 
 of him who originated it, could be turned to the advantage 
 of our order." 
 
 "Pronto, pronto!" muTrnviTed the Franciscan, who sud- 
 denly became paler, and leaned upon the priest. The 
 cardinal approached the ear of the dying man, and said: 
 
 "Well, monseigneur, I know that the King of France has 
 determined that, at the first pretext, a death for instance, 
 either that of the King of Spain or that of a brother of 
 the Infanta, France will, arms in hand, claim the inherit- 
 ance, and I have in my possession already prepared the plar 
 of policy agreed upon by Louis XIV. for this occasion." 
 
 "And this plan?" said the Franciscan. 
 
 "Here it is," returned the cardinal. 
 
 "In whose handwriting is it?" 
 
 "In my own." . 
 
 "Have you anything further to say to me?" 
 
 "I think I have said a good deal, my lord," replied the 
 cardinal. 
 
 "Yes, you have rendered the order a great service. But 
 how did you procure the details, by the aid of which you 
 have constructed your plan?" 
 
 "I have the under-servants of the King of France in my 
 pay, and I obtain from them all the waste papers, which 
 have been saved from being burned." 
 
 "Very ingenious," murmured the Franciscan, endeavor- 
 ing to smile; "you will leave this hotel, cardinal, in 3 
 quarter of an hour, and a reply shall be sent you." 
 
 The cardinal withdrew. 
 
 "Call Grisart, and desire the Venetian, Marini, to come,' 
 said the sick man. 
 
 While the confessor obeyed, the Franciscan, instead dt 
 striking out the cardinal's name, as he had done the baron's, 
 made a cross at the side of it. Then, exhausted by the 
 eSort, he fell back on his bed, murmuring the name of Dr. 
 Grisart. When he returned to his senses he had drunk 
 about half of the potion, of which the remainder was left in 
 the glass, and he found himself supported by the physician, 
 while the Venetian and the confessor were standing close to 
 
im YEARS LATEft. 383 
 
 the door. The Venetian submitted to the same formalities 
 as his two predecessorSj hesitated as they had done at the 
 sight of the two strangers, but his confidence restored by 
 the order of the general, he revealed that the pope, terrified 
 at the power of the order, was weaving a plot for the general 
 expulsion of the Jesuits, and was tampering with the differ- 
 ent courts of Europe, in order to obtain their assistance. 
 He described the pontiff's auxiliaries, his means of action, 
 and indicated the particular locality in the archipelago where, 
 by a sudden surprise, two cardinals, adepts of the eleventh 
 year, and consequently high in authority, were to be trans- 
 ported, together with thirty-two of the principal aflBliated 
 members of Eome. The Franciscan thanked the Signer 
 Marini. It was by no means a slight service he had rendered 
 the society by denouncing this pontifical project. The 
 Venetian thereupon received directions to set off in a 
 quarter of an hour, and left as radiant as if he already pos- 
 sessed the ring, the sign of the supreme authority of the 
 society. As, however, he was departing, the Franciscan 
 murmured to himself: 
 
 "All these men are either spies, or a sort of police, not 
 one of them a general; they have all discovered a plot, but 
 not one of them a secret. It is not by means of ruin, or 
 war, or force, that the Society of Jesus is to be governed, 
 but by that mysterious influence which a moral superiority 
 confers. No, the man is not yet found, and to complete 
 the misfortune. Heaven strikes me down, and I am dying. 
 Oh! must the society, indeed, fall with me for want of a 
 column to support it? Must death, which is waiting foi 
 me, swallow up with me the future of the order? That 
 future which ten years more of my own life would have 
 rendered eternal; for that future, with the reign of the new 
 king, is opening radiant and full of splendor." 
 
 These words, which had been reflected, half-pronounced 
 aloud, were listened to by the Jesuit confessor with a terror 
 similar to that with which one listens to the wanderings of 
 a person attacked by fever, while Grisart, with a mind of a 
 higher order, devoured them as the revelations of an un- 
 known world, in which his looks were plunged without abil- 
 ity to attain them. Suddenly the Franciscan recovered 
 himself. 
 
 "Let us finish this," he said; "death is approaching. 
 Oh! just now I was dying resignedly, for I hoped _ . . 
 while now I sink in despair, unless those who remain . . , 
 Gvisart, Grisart, make me live but an hour longer." 
 
384 TEN- TEAES LATEB. 
 
 Grisart approached the dying monk, and made him swal- 
 low a few drops, not of the potion which was still left in ths 
 glass, but of the contents of a small bottle he had upon his 
 person. 
 
 "Call the Scotchman!" exclaimed the Franciscan; "call 
 the Bremen merchant. Call, call, quickly! I am dying! I 
 am suffocatedl" 
 
 The confessor darted forward to seek assistance, as if 
 there had been any human strength which could hold back 
 the hand of death, which was weighing down the sick man; 
 but at the threshold of the door he found Aramis, who, 
 with his finger on his lips, like the statue of Harpocrates, 
 the god of silence, by a look motioned him back to the end 
 of the apartment. The physician and the confessor, after 
 having consulted each other by their looks, made a move- 
 ment, however, as if to push Aramis aside, who, however, 
 with two signs of the cross, each made in a different man- 
 ner, transfixed them both in their places. 
 
 "A chief!" they both murmured. 
 
 Aramis slowly advanced into the room where the dying 
 man was struggling against the first attack of the agony 
 which had seized him. As for the Franciscan, whether 
 owing to the effect of the elixir, or whether the appearance 
 of Aramis had restored his strength, he made a movement, 
 and his eyes glaring, his mouth half-open, and his hair 
 damp with sweat, sat up upon the bed. Aramis felt that 
 the air of the room was stifling; the windows were closed; 
 the fire was burning upon the hearth; a pair of candles of 
 yellow wax were guttering down in the copper candlesticks, 
 and still further increased, by their thick smoke, the tem- 
 perature of the room. Aramis opened the window, and 
 fixing upon the dying man a look full of intelligence and 
 respect, said to him: 
 
 "Monseigneur, pray forgive my coming in this manner, 
 before you summoned me, but your state alarms me, and I 
 thought you might possibly die before you had seen me, 
 for I am only the sixth on your list." 
 
 The dying man started and looked at the list. 
 
 "You are, therefore, he who was formerly called Aramis, 
 and since the Chevalier d'Herblay? You are the Bishop of 
 Vannes, then." 
 
 "Yes, my lord." 
 
 "I know you, I have seen you." 
 
 "At the last jubilee we were with the Holy Fathei 
 together." 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 385 
 
 "Yes, yes, I rem-ember; and you place yourself on the 
 list of candidates." 
 
 "Monseigneur, I have heard it said that the order re- 
 quired to become possessed of a great state secret, and 
 knowing that from modesty you had in anticipation re- 
 signed your functions in favor of the person -who should be 
 the depositary of this secret, I wrote to say that I was ready 
 to compete, possessing alone a secret which I believe to be 
 important." 
 
 "Speak," said the Franciscan; "I am ready to listen to 
 you, and to judge of the importance of the secret." 
 
 "A secret of the value of that which I have the honor to 
 confide to you cannot be communicated by word of mouth. 
 Any idea which, when once expressed, has thereby lost its 
 safeguard, and has become vulgarized by any manifestation 
 or communication of it whatever, no longer is the property 
 of him who gave it birth. My words may be overheard by 
 some listener, or perhaps by an enemy; one ought not, 
 therefore, to speak at random, for, in such a case, the 
 secret would cease to be one." 
 
 "How do you propose, then, to convey your secret?" in- 
 quired the dying monk. 
 
 With one hand Aramis signed to the physician and the 
 confessor to withdraw, and with the other he handed to the 
 Franciscan a paper inclosed in a double envelope. 
 
 "Is not writing more dangerous still than language?" 
 
 "No, my lord," said Aramis, "for you will find within 
 this envelope characters which you and I alone can under- 
 stand." 
 
 The Franciscan looked at Aramis with an astonishment 
 which momentarily increased. 
 
 "It is a cipher," continued the latter, "which you used 
 in 1655, and which your secretary, Ivan Injan, who is dead, 
 could alone decipher, if he were to be restored to life." 
 
 "You knew this cipher then?" 
 
 "It was I whom taught it him," said Aramis, bowing 
 with a gracefulness full of respect, and advancing toward 
 the door as if to leave the room; but a gesture of the Fran- 
 ciscan, accompanied by a cry for him to remain, retained 
 him. 
 
 "Ecce homo!" he exclaimed; then, reading the paper a 
 second time, he called out: 
 
 "Approach, approach quickly!" 
 
 Aramis returned to the side of the Franciscan, with the 
 same calm countenance and the same respectful manner. 
 
386 TEN TEAHS LATER. 
 
 unchanged. The Franciscan, extending his arm, l>orned 
 by the flame of the candle the paper which Aramis had 
 handed him. Then, taking hold of Aramis' hand, he drew 
 him toward him, and inquired: 
 
 "In what manner, and by whose means could you possibly 
 become acqauinted with such a secret?" 
 
 "Through Madame de Ohevreuse, the intimate friend 
 and confidante of the queen." 
 
 "And Madame de Chevreuse ' 
 
 "Is dead." 
 
 "Did any others know it?" 
 
 "A man and a woman only, and they of the lower classes. " 
 
 "Who are they?" 
 
 "Persons who had brought him up." 
 
 "What has become of them?" 
 
 "Dead also. This secret burns like fire." 
 
 "And you have survived?" 
 
 "No oae is aware that I know it." 
 
 "And for what length of time have you possessed this 
 secret?" 
 
 "For the last fifteen years." 
 
 "And you have kept it?" 
 
 "I wished to live." 
 
 "And you give it to the order without ambition, without 
 acknowledgment?" 
 
 "I give it to the order with ambition and with a hope of 
 return," said Aramis; "for if you live, my lord, you will 
 make of me, now you know me, what I can and ought 
 to be." 
 
 "And as I am dying," exclaimed the Franciscan, "I con- 
 stitute you my successor . . . Thus." 
 
 And drawing off the ring, he passed it on Aramis' finger. 
 Then, turning toward the two spectators of this scene, he 
 said: 
 
 "Be ye witnesses of this, and testify, if need be, that, 
 sick in body, but sound in mind, I have freely and volun- 
 tarily bestowed this ring, the token of supreme authority, 
 upon Monseigneur d'Herblay, Bishop of Vannes, whom I 
 nominate my successor, and before whom I, a humble 
 sinner, about to appear before Heaven, prostrate myself the 
 first, as an example for all to follow." 
 
 And the Franciscan bowed lowly and submissively, while 
 the physician and the Jesuit fell on their knees. Aramis, 
 even while he became paler than the dying man himself, 
 bout his looks successively upon all the actors of this ggenet 
 
TEK TEAES tATEIt. SSt 
 
 His gratified ambition flowed with his blood toward his 
 heart. 
 
 "We must lose no time," said the Franciscan; "what I 
 had to do here is urgent. I shall never succeed in carrying 
 it out." 
 
 "I will do it," said Aramis. 
 
 "That's well," said the Franciscan; and then, turning 
 toward the Jesuit and the doctor, he added, "Leave us 
 alone," a direction which they instantly obeyed. 
 
 "With this sign," he said, "you are the man needed to 
 shake the world from one end to the other; with this sign 
 you will overthrow; with this sign you will edify; in hoc 
 signo vinces!" 
 
 "Close the door," continued the Franciscan, after a 
 pause. 
 
 Aramis shut and bolted the door, and returned to the 
 side of the Franciscan. 
 
 "The pope has conspired against the order," said the 
 monk; "the pope must die." 
 
 "He shall die," said Aramis quietly. 
 
 "Seven hundred thousand livres are owing to a Bremen 
 merchant of the name of Bonstett, who came here to get 
 the guarantee of my signature." 
 
 "He shall be paid," said Aramis. 
 
 "Six knights of Malta, whose names are written here, 
 have discovered, by the rndiscreetness of one of the 
 affiliated of the eleventh year, the three mysteries; it must 
 be ascertained what these men have done with the secret, 
 to get it back again, and crush it." 
 
 "It shall be done." 
 
 "Three dangerous affiliated members must be sent away 
 into Thibet, to perish there; they are condemned. Here 
 are their names." 
 
 "I will see that the sentence be carried out." 
 
 "Lastly, there is a lady at Anvers, grandniece of Eavail- 
 lac; she holds certain papers in her hands which compro- 
 mise the order. There has been payable to the family dur- 
 ing the last fifty-one years a pension of fifty thousand livres. 
 The pension is a heavy one, and the order is not wealthy. 
 Bedeem the papers for a sum of money paid down, or, in 
 case of refusal, stop the pension — but without risk." 
 
 "I will think about what is best to be done," said Aramis. 
 
 "A vessel chartered from Lima will have entered the 
 port of Lisbon last week; ostensibly it is laden with choco- 
 lata, in reality with gold. Every ingot is concealed by a 
 
388 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 coating of chocolate. The vessel belongs to the order; it Is 
 worth seventeen millions of livres; yon will see that claim 
 is laid to it; here are the bills of lading." 
 
 "To what port shall I direct it to be taken?" 
 
 "To Bayonne." 
 
 "Before three weeks are over it shall be there, wind and 
 ■weather permitting. Is that all?" 
 
 The Franciscan made a sign in the affirmative, for he 
 could no longer speak; the blood rushed to his throat an4 
 his head, and gashed from his mouth, his nostrils, and his 
 eyes. The dying man had barely time to press Aramis' 
 hand, when he fell in convulsions from his bed upon the 
 floor. Aramis placed his hand upon the Franciscan's heart, 
 but it had ceased to beat. As he stooped down Aramis 
 observed that a fragment of the paper he had given the 
 Franciscan had escaped being burned. Ho picked it upj 
 and burned it to the last atom. Then, summoning the 
 confessor and the physician, he said to the former: 
 
 "Your patient is in heaven; he needs nothing more than 
 prayers and the burial bestowed on the dead. Go and pre- 
 pare what is necessary for a simple interment, such as a 
 poor monk only would require. Go." 
 
 The Jesuit left the room. Then, turning toward the 
 physician, and observing his pale and anxious face, he said, 
 in a low tone of voice: 
 
 "Monsieur Grisart, empty and clean this glass; there is 
 too much left in it of what the grand council desired you 
 to put in." 
 
 Grisart, amazed, overcome, completely astounded, almost 
 fell backward in his extreme terror. Aramis shrugged his 
 shoulders in sign of pity, took the glass, and poured out 
 the contents among the ashes of the hearth. He then left 
 the room, carrying the papers of the dead man with him. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 MISSION. 
 
 The next day, or rather, the same day (for the events we 
 have just described had been concluded only at three o'clock 
 in the morning), before breakfast was served, and as the 
 king was preparing to go to mass with the two queens; as 
 Monsieur, with the Chevalier de Lorraine, and a few other 
 intimate companions, was mounting his horse to set ofiE for 
 
TEIT YEAKS LATEK. 389 
 
 the river, to take one of those celebrated baths about which 
 the ladies of the court were almost mad; as, in fact, no one 
 remained in the chdteau, with the exception of madame, 
 who, under the pretext of indisposition, would not leave 
 her room; Montalais was seen, or rather, was not seen, to 
 glide stealthily out of the room appropriated to the maids 
 of honor, leading La Valliere after her, who tried to con- 
 ceal herself as much as possible, and both of them, hurry- 
 ing secretly through the gardens, succeeded, looking round 
 them at every step they took, in reaching the thicket. The 
 weather was cloudy, a hot air bowed the flowers and the 
 shrubs before its blast; the burning dust, swept along in 
 clouds by the wind, was whirled in eddies toward the trees. 
 Montalais, who, during their progress, had discharged the 
 functions of a clever scout, advanced a few steps further, 
 and, turning round again, to be quite sure that no one was 
 either listening or approaching, said to her companion: 
 
 "Thank goodness, we are quite alone! Since yesterday 
 every one spies us here, and a circle seems to be drawn 
 round us, as if we were plague-stricken." 
 
 La Valliere bent down her head and sighed. 
 
 "It is positively unheard of," continued Montalais; "from 
 Monsieur Malicorne to Monsieur de St. Aignan, every one 
 wishes to get hold of our secret. Come, Louise, let us 
 concert a little together, in order that I may know what 
 to do." 
 
 La Valliere lifted up toward her companion her beautiful 
 eyes, pure and deep as the azure of a spring-time sky. 
 
 "And I," she said, "I will ask you why have we been 
 summoned to madame's own apartment? Why have we 
 slept close to her apartment, instead of sleeping as usual in 
 our own? Why did you return so late, and whence are 
 these measures of strict supervision which have been 
 adopted since this morning, with respect to us both?" 
 
 "My dear Louise, you answer my question by another, or 
 frather, by ten others, which is not answering me at all. I 
 will tell you all you want to know later, and, as they are 
 matters of secondary importance, you can wait. What I 
 ask you — for everything will depend upon that— is, whether 
 there is or is not any secret?" 
 
 "I do not know if there is any secret," said La Valliere; 
 "but I do know, for my own part, at least, that there has 
 been groat imprudence committed. Since the foolish re- 
 mark I made, and my still more silly fainting yesterday, 
 ^ver^ one here is making remarks about u§," 
 
390 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "Speak for yourself," said Montalais, laughing, "speak 
 for yourself and for Tonnay-Charente; for both of you 
 made your declarations of love to the skies and which, un- 
 fortunately, were intercepted." 
 
 La Valliere hung down her head. 
 
 "Eeally, you overwhelm me," she said. 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "Yes, you kill me with your jests." 
 
 "Listen to me, Louise. These are no jests, for nothing 
 is more serious; on the contrary, I did not drag you out of 
 the chdteau; I did not miss attending mass; I did not pre- 
 tend to have a cold, as madame did, and which she has as 
 much as I have; and, lastly, I did not display ten times 
 more diplomacy than Monsieur Colbert inherited from 
 Monsieur de Mazarin, and makes use of with respect to 
 Monsieur Fouquet, in order to find means of confiding my 
 perplexities to you, for the sole end and purpose that when 
 at last we are alone, and no one can listen to us, you are to 
 deal hypocritically with me. No, no; believe me, that 
 when I ask you any questions it is not from curiosity alone, 
 but really because the position is a critical one. What you 
 said yesterday is now known — it is a text on which every 
 one is discoursing. Every one embellishes it to the utmost, 
 and does so according to his own fancy; you had the honor 
 last night, and you have it still to-day, of occupying the 
 whole court, my dear Louise; and the number of tender and 
 witty remarks which have been ascribed to you would make 
 Mademoiselle de Scud^ry and her brother burst from very 
 spite, if they were faithfully reported to them." 
 
 "But, dearest Montalais," said the poor girl, "you know 
 better than any one what I did say, since you were present 
 when I said it." 
 
 "Yes, I know. But that is not the question. I have 
 not even forgotten a single syllable you said; but did you 
 think what you were saying?" 
 
 Louise became confused. 
 
 "What," she exclaimed, "more questions still? Oh, 
 heavens! when I would give the whole world to forget what 
 I did say, how does it happen that every one does all he 
 possibly can to remind me of 't? Oh, this is indeed 
 terrible!" 
 
 "What is?" 
 
 "To have a friend who ought to spare me, who might 
 advise me and help me to save myself, and yet who is de- 
 gtroying me — is killing me, " 
 
TEK YEARS LATER. 891 
 
 "There, there, that will do!" said Montalais; "after 
 having said too little, you now say too much. No one 
 thinks of killing you, nor even of robbing you, even of your 
 secret; I wish to have it voluntarily, and in no other way; 
 for the question does not concern your own affairs only, 
 but ours also; and Tonnay-Charente would tell you as I do, 
 if_ she were here. For, the fact is, that last evening she 
 wished to have some private conversation in our room, and 
 I was going there after the Manicampian and Malicornian 
 colloquies had terminated, when I learned, on my return, 
 rather late, it is true, that madame had sequestrated her 
 maids of honor, and that we are to sleep in her apartments, 
 instead of our own room. Moreover, madame has seques- 
 trated her maids of honor in order that they should not 
 have the time to concert any measures together, and this 
 morning she was closeted with Tonnay-Charente with the 
 same object. Tell me, then, to what extent Athenais and 
 I can rely upon you, as we will tell you in what way you 
 can rely upon us?" 
 
 "Ijdo not clearly understand the question you have put," 
 said Louise, much agitated. 
 
 "Hum! and yet, on the contrary, you seem to understand 
 me very well. However, I will put my questions in a more 
 precise manner, in order that you may not be able, in the 
 slightest degree, to evade them. Listen to me: Do you 
 love Monsieur de Bragelonne? That is plain enough, is 
 it not?" 
 
 At this question, which fell like the first projectile of a 
 besieging army into a besieged town, Louise started. 
 
 "You ask me," she exclaimed, "if I love Kaoul, the 
 friend of my childhood — my brother almost?" 
 
 "No, no, no! Again you evade me, or rather, you wish 
 to escape me. I do not ask you if yto love Eaoul, your child- 
 hood's friend — your brother; but I ask if you love the 
 Vicomte de Bragelonne, your affianced husband?" 
 
 "Good heavens! my dear Montalais," said Louise, "how 
 severe your tone is!" 
 
 "You deserve no indulgence — I am neither more nor less 
 severe than usual. I put a question to you, so answer it." 
 
 "You certainly do not," said Louise, in a choking voice, 
 "speak to me like a friend; but I will answer you as a true 
 friend." 
 
 "Well, do so." 
 
 "Very well; my heart is full of scruples and silly feelings 
 of pride, with respect to eveKvtlhing that a woman ought to 
 
393 TEK YEAES LATER. 
 
 keep secret, and in this respect no one has ever read into 
 the bottom of my soul." 
 
 "That I know very well. If I had read it I should not 
 interrogate you as I have done; I should simply say, 'My 
 good Louise, you have the happiness of an acquaintance 
 with Monsieur de Bragelonne, who is an excellent young 
 man, and an advantageous match for a girl without any 
 fortune. Monsieur de la Fere will leave something like 
 fifteen thousand livres a year to his son. At a future day, 
 then, you, as this son's wife, will have fifteen thousand 
 livres a year; which is not bad. Turn, then, neither to the 
 right hand nor to the left, but go frankly to Monsieur de 
 Bragelonne; that is to say, to the altar to which he will lead 
 you. Afterward, why — afterward, according to his disposi- 
 tion, you will be emancipated or enslaved; in other words, 
 you will have a right to commit any piece of folly which 
 people commit who have either too much liberty or too 
 little.' That is, my dear Louise, what I should have told 
 you at first, if I had been able to read your heart." 
 
 "And I should have thanked you," stammered out 
 Louise, "although the advice does not appear to me to be 
 altogether good." 
 
 "Wait, wait. But immediately after having given you 
 that advice, I should add, 'Louise, it is very dangerous to 
 pass whole days with your head reclining on your bosom, 
 your hands unoccupied, your eyes restless and full of 
 thought; it is dangerous to prefer the least frequented 
 paths, and no longer to be amused with such diversions as 
 gladden young girls' hearts; it is dangerous, Louise, to 
 write with the point of your foot, as you do, upon the 
 gravel, certain letters which it is useless for you to efface, 
 but which appear again under your heel, particularly when 
 those letters rather resemble the letter L than the letter B; 
 and, lastly, it is dangerous to allow the mind to dwell on a 
 thousand wild fancies, the fruits of solitude and headaches; 
 these fancies, while they sink into a young girl's mind, 
 make her cheeks sink in also, so that it is not unusual, on 
 these occasions, to find the most delightful persons in the 
 world become the most disagreeable, and the wittiest to 
 become the dullest." 
 
 "I thank you, dearest Aure," replied La Valliere gently; 
 "it is like you to speak to me in this manner, and I thank 
 you for it." 
 
 "It was only for the benefit of wild dreamers, such as I 
 described, th^t I spokej do not take anj of mj words, trjen, 
 
TEN- YEARS LATER. 393 
 
 to yourself, except such as you think you deserve. Stay, I 
 hardly know what story recurs to my memory of some silly 
 or melancholy young girl, who was gradually pining away 
 because she fancied that the prince, or the king, or the 
 emperor, whoever it was — and it does not much matter 
 which — had fallen completely in love with her; while, on 
 the contrary, the prince, or the king, or the emperor, which- 
 ever you please, was plainly in love with some one else, and 
 — a singular circumstance, one, indeed, which she could not 
 perceive, although every one around and about her per- 
 ceived it clearly enough — made use of her as a screen for 
 his own love affair. You laugh, as I do, at this poor, silly 
 girl, do you not, Louise?" 
 
 "I laugh, of course," stammered out Louise, pale as 
 death. 
 
 "And you are right, too, for the thing is amusing enough. 
 The story, whether true or false, amused me, and so I have 
 remembered it and told it to you. Just imagine, then, my 
 good Louise, the mischief that such a melancholy would 
 create in your brain — a melancholy, I mean, of that kind. 
 For my own part, I resolved to tell you the story; for if 
 such a thing were to happen to either of us it would be 
 most essential to be assured of its truth; to-day it is a 
 snare, to-morrow it will become a jest and a mockery, the 
 next day it will be death itself." 
 
 La Valliere started again, and became, if possible, still 
 paler. 
 
 "Whenever a king takes notice of us," continued Mon- 
 talais, "he lets us see it easily enough, and, if we happen 
 to be the object he covets, he knows very well how to gain 
 his object. You see, then, Louise, that in such circum- 
 stances, between young girls exposed to such a danger as 
 the one in question, the most perfect confidence should 
 'exist, in order that those hearts which are not disposed 
 toward melancholy may watch over those who are likely to 
 become so." 
 
 "Silence, silence!" said La Valliere; "some one ap- 
 pYoaehes." 
 
 "Some one is approaching, in fact," said Montalais; "but 
 who can it possibly be? Everybody is away, either at mass 
 with the king, or bathing with Monsieur." 
 
 At the end of the walk the young girls perceived almost 
 immediately, beneath the arching trees, the graceful car- 
 riage and noble height of a young man, who, with his sword 
 under his arm and a cloak thrown across his shoulders, and 
 
394 TEN- TEARS LATER. 
 
 booted and spurred besides, saluted them from the distance 
 with a gentle smile. 
 
 "Eaoul!" exclaimed Montalais. 
 
 "Monsieur de Bragelonne!" murmured Louise. 
 
 "A very proper Judge to decide upon our difEerence of 
 opinion," said Montalais. 
 
 "Oh, Montalais, Montalais, for pity's sake," exclaimed 
 La Valliere, "after having been so cruel, show me a little 
 mercy!" 
 
 These words, uttered with all the fervor of a prayer, 
 efEaced all trace of irony, if not from Montalais' heart, at 
 least from her face. 
 
 "Why, you are as handsome as Amadis, Monsieur de 
 Bragelonne," she cried to Eaoul, "and armed and booted 
 like him!" 
 
 "A thousand compliments, young ladies," replied Eaoul, 
 bowing. 
 
 "But why, I ask, are you booted in this manner?" re- 
 peated Montalais, while La Valliere, although she looked 
 at Eaoul with a surprise equal to that of her companion, 
 nevertheless uttered not a word. 
 
 "Why?" inquired Eaoul. 
 
 "Yes," ventured Louise. 
 
 "Because I am about to set off," said Bragelonne, look- 
 ing at Louise. 
 
 The young girl seemed as though smitten by some super- 
 stitious feeling of terror, and tottered. 
 
 "You are going away, Eaoul!" she cried; "and where are 
 you going?" 
 
 "Dearest Louise," he replied, with that quiet, composed 
 manner which was natural to him, "I am going to England." 
 
 "What are you going to do in England?" 
 
 "The king has sent me there." 
 
 "The king!" exclaimed Louise and Aure together, in- 
 voluntarily exchanging glances, the conversation which had 
 just been interrupted recurring to them both. Eaoul in- 
 tercepted the glance, but he could not understand its mean- 
 ing, and, naturally enough, attributed it to the interest 
 which both the young girls took in him. 
 
 "His majesty," he said, "has been good enough to re- 
 member that the Comte de la Fere is high in favor with King 
 Charles IL This morning, then, as he was on his way to 
 attend mass, the king, seeing me as he passed, signed to 
 me to approach, which I accordingly did. 'Monsieur de 
 Bragelonne,' he said to me, 'vou will call upon Monsieur 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 395 
 
 Fouquet, who has received from me letters for the King of 
 Great Britain; you will be the bearer of them.' I bowed. 
 'Ah!' his majesty added, 'before you leave, you will be good 
 enough to take any commissions which madame may have 
 for the king, her brother.' " 
 
 "Gracious Heaven!" murmured Louise, much agitated, 
 and yet full of thought at the same time. 
 
 "So quickly! You are desired to set ofE in such haste!" 
 said Montalais, almost paralyzed by this unforeseen event. 
 
 "Properly to obey those whom we respect," said Eaoul, 
 "it is necessary to obey quickly. Within ten minutes after 
 I had received the order, I was ready. Madame, already 
 informed, is writing the letter which she is good enough to 
 do me the honor of intrusting to me. In the meantime, 
 learning from Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Oharente that it 
 was likely you would be in this direction, I came here, and 
 am happy to find you both." 
 
 "And both of us very suffering, as you see," said Monta- 
 lais, going to Louise's assistance, whose countenance was 
 visibly altered. 
 
 "Suffering?" repeated Raoul, pressing Louise's hand 
 with a tender curiosity. "Your hand is like ice." 
 
 "It is nothing." 
 
 "This coldness does not reach your heart, Louise, does 
 it?" inquired the young man, with a tender smile. Louise 
 raised her head hastily, as if this question had been inspired 
 by some suspicion, and had aroused a feeling of remorse. 
 
 "Oh! you know," she said, with an effort, "that my 
 heart will never be cold toward a friend like yourself. Mon- 
 sieur de Bragelonne." 
 
 "Thank you, Louise. I know both your heart and your 
 mind, and it is not by the touch of the hand that one can 
 judge of an affection like yours. You know, Louise, how 
 devotedly I love you, with what perfect and unreserved 
 confidence I have resigned my life to you ; will you not for ■ 
 give me, then, for speaking to you with something like thj 
 frankness of a child?" 
 
 "Speak, Monsieur Eaoul," said Louise, trembling very 
 much, "1 am listening." 
 
 "I cannot part from you, carrying away with me a 
 thought which torments me; absurd I know it to be, and 
 yet one which rends my very heart." ' 
 
 "Are you going away, then, for any length of time?" 
 inquired La Valliere, with a thickened wtteraace, 'whUg 
 
 Montekis tvire«4 her head aside. 
 
396 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "No; and probably I shall not be absent more than a 
 fortnight." 
 
 La Valliere pressed her hand upon her heart, which felt 
 as though it were breaking. 
 
 "It is strange," pursued Eaoul, looking at the young 
 girl with a melancholy expression; "I have often left you 
 when setting oS on adventures fraught with danger. Then 
 I started joyously enough — my heart free, my mind intoxi- 
 cated by the thought of happiness in store for me, of hopes 
 of which the future was full; and yet, at that time, I was 
 about to face the Spanish cannon, or the halberds of the 
 Walloons. To-day, without the existence of any danger or 
 uneasiness, and by the easiest manner in the world, I am 
 going in search of a glorious recompense, which this mark 
 of the king's favor seems to indicate, for I am, perhaps, going 
 to win you, Louise; what other favor, more precious than 
 yourself, could the king confer upon me? Yet, Louise, in 
 very truth I know not how or why, but this happiness and 
 this future seem to vanish from my eyes like smoke — like an 
 idle dream; and I feel here, here at the very bottom of my 
 heart, a deep-seated grief, a dejection which I cannot over- 
 come — something heavy, passionless, deathlike — resem- 
 bling a corpse. Oh, Louise, too well do I know why; it is 
 because I have never loved you so truly as now. God help 
 me!" 
 
 At this last exclamation, which issued, as it were, from a 
 broken heart, Louise burst into tears, and threw herself 
 into Montalais' arms. The latter, although she was not 
 very easily impressed, felt the tears rush to her eyes. 
 Kaoul saw only the tears which Louise shed; his look, how- 
 ever, did not penetrate — nay, sought not to penetrate — be- 
 yond those tears. He bent his knee before her, and ten- 
 derly kissed her hand; and it was evident that in that kiss 
 he poured out his whole heart before her. 
 
 "Rise, rise," said Montalais to him, herself ready to cry, 
 "for Athenais is coming." 
 
 Eaoul rose, brushed his knee with the back of his hand, 
 smiled again upon Louise, whose eyes were fixed on the 
 ground, and having pressed Montalais' hand gratefully, 
 he turned round to salute Mile, de Tonnay-Oharente, the 
 sound of whose silken robe was already heard upon the 
 gravel-walk. . 
 
 "lias madame finished her letter?" he inquired, when 
 the young girl came within reach of his voice. 
 
 "Yes; the letter is finished, sealed, and feer royal high- 
 ness is ready to receive you, " 
 
■rEN TEABS LATER. 397 
 
 Raoul, at this remark, hardly gave himself time to salute 
 Athenais, cast one last look at Louise, bowed to Montalais, 
 and withdrew in the direction of the chateau. As he with- 
 drew he again turned round, but at last, at the end of the 
 grand walk, it was useless to do so again, as he could no 
 longer see them. The three young girls, on their side, had, 
 with very different feelings, watched him disappear. 
 
 "At last," said Athenais, the first to interrupt the silence, 
 "at last we are alone, free to talk of yesterday's great affair, 
 and to come to an understanding upon the conduct it is ad- 
 visable for us to pursue. Besides, if you will listen to me,"/ 
 she continued, looking round on all sides, "1 will explain 
 to you as briefly as possible, in the first place, our own duty, 
 such as I imagine it to be, and if you do not understand a 
 hint, what is madame's desire on the subject." 
 
 And Mile, de Tonnay-Charente pronounced these words 
 in such a tone as to leave no doubt in her companions' 
 minds upon the official character with which she was 
 invested. 
 
 "Madame's desire!" exclaimed Montalais and La Valliere 
 together. 
 
 "Her ultimatum," replied Mile, de Tonnay-Charente 
 diplomatically. 
 
 "But," murmured La Valliere, "does madame know, 
 then " 
 
 "Madame knows more about the matter than we said, 
 even," said Athenais, in a formal, precise manner. "There- 
 fore, let us come to a proper understanding." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said Montalais, "and I am listening in 
 breathless attention." 
 
 "Gracious Heaven!" murmured Louise, trembling, "shall 
 I ever survive this cruel evening?" 
 
 "Oh, do not frighten yourself in that manner," said 
 Athenais; "we have found a remedy for it." 
 
 So, seating herself between her two companions, and tak- 
 ing each of them by the hand, which she held in her own, 
 she began. The first words were hardly spoken, when they 
 heard a horse galloping away over the stones of the publi* 
 highroad, outside the gates of the chdteau. 
 
TEN" YEARS LATER. 
 
 CHAPTEK LV. 
 
 HAPPY AS A PKINCB. 
 
 At the very moment he was about entering the chateau, 
 Bragelonne had met De Guiche. But before having been 
 met by Eaoul, De Guiche had met Manicamp, who had met 
 Malicorne. How was it that Malicorne had met Manicamp? 
 Nothing more simple, for he had awaited his return from 
 mass, where he had accompanied M. de St. Aignan. When 
 they had met they congratulated each other upon their 
 good fortune, and Manicamp had availed himself of the 
 circumstance to ask his friend if he had not a few crowns 
 still remaining at the bottom of his pocket. The latter, 
 without expressing any surprise at the question, and which 
 he expected, perhaps, had answered that every pocket, 
 which is always being drawn upon without anything ever 
 being put in it, greatly resembles those wells which can 
 supply water during the winter, but which the gardeners 
 render useless by exhausting them during the summer; that 
 his, Malicorne's, pocket certainly was deep, and that there 
 would be a pleasure in drawing on it in times of plenty, but 
 that, unhappily, abuse had produced barrenness. To this 
 remark, Manicamp, deep in thought, had replied: 
 ; "Quite true." 
 
 "The question, then, is how to fill it?" Malicorne had 
 added. 
 
 "Of course; but in what way?" 
 
 "Nothing easier, my dear Monsieur Manicamp." 
 
 "So much the better. How?" 
 
 "A post in Monsieur's household, and the pocket is full 
 again." 
 
 "You have the post?" 
 
 "That is, I have the promise of being nominated." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Yes; but the promise of nomination, without the post 
 itself, is the purse without money." 
 
 "Quite true," Manicamp had replied, a second time. 
 
 "Let us try for the 'post, then," the candidate had 
 persisted. 
 
 "My dear fellow," sighed Manicamp, "an appointment in 
 his royal highness' household is one of the gravest diflScul- 
 ties of our position." 
 
 "Oh, ohf" 
 
TEN- YEARS LATER. 399 
 
 "There is no question that, at the present moment, we 
 cannot ask Monsieur for anything." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "Because we are not on good terms with him." 
 
 "A great absurdity, too," said Malicorne promptly. 
 
 "Bah! and if we were to show madame any attention," 
 said Manicamp, "frankly speaking, do you think we should 
 please Monsieur?" 
 
 "Precisely; if we show madame any attention, and do so 
 adroitly, Monsieur ought to adore us." 
 
 "Hum!" 
 
 "Either that, or we are great fools; make haste, there- 
 fore. Monsieur Manicamp, you who are so able a politician, 
 to make Monsieur de Guiche and his royal highness friendly 
 again." 
 
 "Tell me, what did Monsieur de St. Aignan tell you, 
 Malicorne?" 
 
 "Tell me? Nothing; he asked me several questions, and 
 that was all." 
 
 "Well, he was less discreet, then, with me." 
 
 "What did he tell you?" 
 
 "That the king is passionately in love with Mademoiselle 
 de la Valliere." 
 
 "We knew that already," replied Malicorne ironically; 
 "and everybody talks about it loud enough for every one to 
 know it; but in the meantime, do what I advise you; speak 
 to Monsieur de Guiche, and endeavor to get him to make 
 an advance toward Monsieur. Deuce take it! he owes his 
 royal highness that, at least." 
 
 "But we must see De Guiche, then?" 
 
 "There does not seem to be any great difficulty in that; 
 try to see him in the same way I tried to see you; wait for 
 him; you know that he is naturally very fond of walking." 
 
 "Yes; but whereabouts does he walk?" 
 
 "What a question to ask! Do you not know that he is in 
 love with madame?" 
 
 "So it is said." 
 
 "Very well; you will find him walking about on the side 
 of the chateau where her apartments are." 
 
 "Stay, my dear Malicorne, you were not mistaken, for 
 here he is coming." 
 
 "Why should I be mistaken? Have you ever noticed that 
 I am in the habit of making a mistake? Come, we only 
 need to understand each other. Are you in want of money?" 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed Manicamp mournfully. 
 
400 TEIT YEARS LATER. 
 
 "Well, I want my appointment. Let Malicorne have the 
 appointment, and Manicamp shall have the money. There 
 is no greater difficulty in the way than that." 
 
 "Very well; in that case ,make yourself easy. I will do 
 my hest." 
 
 "Do so." 
 
 De Guiche approached, Malicorne stepped aside, and 
 Manicamp caught hold of De Guiche, who was thoughtful 
 and melancholy. 
 
 "Tell me, my dear comte, what rhyme you were trying to 
 find," said Manicamp. "I have an excellent one to match 
 yours, particularly if yours ends in ame." 
 
 De Guiche shook his head, and recognizing a friend, he 
 took him by the arm. 
 
 "My dear Manicamp," he said, "I am in search of some- 
 thing very dillerent from a rhyme." 
 
 "What is it you are looking for?" 
 
 "You will help me to find what I am in search of," con- 
 tinued the comtc ; "you who are such an idle fellow, in 
 other words, a man with a mind full of ingenious devices?" 
 
 "I am getting my ingenuity ready, tljen, my dear comte." 
 
 "This is the state of the case, then: I wish to approach 
 to a particular house where I have some business." 
 
 "You must get near to the house, then," said Manicamp. 
 
 "Very good; but in this house dwells a husband who 
 happens to be jealous." 
 
 "Is he more Jealous than the dog, Cerberus?" 
 
 "Not more, but quite as much so." 
 
 "Has he three mouths, as that obdurate guardian of the 
 infernal regions had? Do not shrug your shoulders, my 
 dear comte; I put the question to you with a perfect reason 
 for doing so, since poets pretend that, in order to soften 
 Monsieur Cerberus, the visitor must take something entic- 
 ing with him — a cake, for instance. Therefore I, who view 
 the matter in a prosaic light, that is to say, in the light of 
 reality, I say: one cake is very little for three mouths. If 
 your jealous husband has three mouths, comte, get three 
 cakes." 
 
 "Manicamp, I can get such advice as that from Monsieur 
 de Beautru." 
 
 "In order to get better advice," said Manicamp, with a 
 comical seriousness of expression, "you will be ohliged to 
 adopt a more precise formula than you have used toward 
 me." 
 
 "If Eaoul were here," said De Guiche, "he would be sura 
 to understand we-" 
 
TEN TEAKS LATER. 401 
 
 "So I think, particularly if you said to him: 'I should 
 very much like to see madame a little nearer, but I fear 
 Monsieur, because he is jealous.' " 
 
 "Manicamp!" cried the comte angrily, and endeavoring 
 to overwhelm his tormentor by a look, who did not, how- 
 ever, appear to be in the slightest degree disturbed by it. 
 
 "What is the matter now, my dear comte?" inquired 
 Manicamp. 
 
 "What! is it thus that you blaspheme the most sacred of 
 names?" 
 
 "What names?" 
 
 "Monsieur, madame — the highest names in the kingdom." 
 
 "You are very strangely mistaken, my dear comte; I 
 never mentioned the highest names in the kingdom. I 
 merely answered you in reference to the subject of a jealous 
 husband, whose name you did not tell me, and who, as a 
 matter of course, has a wife. I, therefore, I repeat, replied 
 to you, in order to see madame you must get a little more 
 intimate with Monsieur.'' 
 
 "Jester that you are," said the comte, smiling; "was 
 that what you said?" 
 
 "Nothing else." 
 
 "Very good; what then?" 
 
 "Now," added Manicamp, "let the question be regard- 
 ing the Duchess or the Duke ; very well, I shall 
 
 say: let us get into the house in some way or other; for 
 that is a tactic which cannot in any case be unfavorable to 
 your love affair." 
 
 "Ah! Manicamp, if you could find me a pretext, a good 
 pretext." 
 
 "A pretext; I can find you a hundred, nay, a thousand. 
 If Malicorne were here he would have already hit upon 
 fifty thousand excellent pretexts." 
 
 "Who is Malicorne?" replied De Guiche, half-shutting 
 his eyes like a person refiecting. "I seem to know that 
 name." 
 
 "Know him! I should think so, you owe his father thirty 
 thousand crowns." 
 
 "Ah, indeed! so it's that worthy fellow from Orl6ans." 
 
 "Whom you promised an appointment in Monsieur's 
 household; not the jealous husband, but the other." 
 
 "Well, then, since your friend Malicorne is such an in- 
 ventive genius, let him find me a means of being adored by 
 Monsieur, and a pretext to make my peace with him." 
 , "Very good; I'll talk to him about it." 
 
403 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "But who is that coming?" 
 
 "The Vicomte de Bragelonne." 
 
 "Raoul! yes, it is he," said De Guiche, as he hastened 
 forward to meet him. "You here, Eaoul?" said De 
 Guiche. 
 
 "Yes; I was looking for you to say farewell," repliea 
 Eaoul warmly, pressing the comte's hand. "How do you 
 do, Monsieur Manicamp?" 
 
 "How is this, vicomte, you are leaving us?" 
 
 "Yes, a mission from the king." 
 
 "Where are you going?" 
 
 "To London. On leaving you, I am going to madame; 
 she has a letter to give me for His Majesty Charles II." 
 
 "You will find her alone, for Monsieur has gone out; gone 
 to bathe, in fact." 
 
 "In that case, you, who are one of Monsieur's gentlemen 
 in waiting, will undertake to make my excuses to him. I 
 should have waited in order to receive any directions he 
 might have to give me, if tne desire for my immediate 
 departure had not been intimated to me by Monsieur Fou- 
 quet on behalf of his majesty." 
 
 "Manicamp touched De Guiche's elbow, saying, "There's 
 a pretext for you." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Monsieur de Bragelonne's excuses." 
 
 "A weak pretext," said De Guiche. 
 
 "An excellent one, if Monsieur is not angry with you; 
 but a paltry one if he bears you ill-will." 
 
 "You are right, Manicamp; a pretext, whatever it may 
 be, is all I require. And so a pleasant journey to you, 
 Raoul." And the two friends thereupon took a warm leave 
 of each other. Five minutes afterward Eaoul entered 
 madame's apartments, as Mile, de Montalais had begged 
 him to do. Madame was still seated at the table where she 
 had written her letter. Before her was still burning the 
 rose-colored taper which she had used to seal it. Only in 
 her deep reflection, for madame had seemed to be buried 
 in thought, she had forgotten to extinguish the taper. 
 Bragelonne was a very model of elegance in every way; it 
 was impossible to see him once without always remembering 
 him; and, not only had madame seen him once, but it will 
 not be forgotten he was one of the very first who had gone 
 to meet her, and had accompanied her from Havre to Paris. 
 Madame had preserved, therefore, an excellent rocollectioa 
 of him. 
 
tek teaes later. 403 
 
 "Ah! Monsieur de Bragelonne," she said to him, "you 
 are going to see my brother, who will be delighted to pay 
 to the son a portion of the debt of gratitude he has con- 
 tracted with the father." 
 
 "The Comte de la Fere, madame, has been abundantly 
 recompensed for the little service he had the happiness to 
 render the king, by the kindness which the king manifested 
 toward him, and it is I who will have to convey to his 
 majesty the assurance of the respect, devotion, and grati- 
 tude of father and son," 
 
 "Do you know my brother?" 
 
 "JSTo, your highness; I shall have the honor of seeing his 
 majesty for the first time." 
 
 "You require no recommendation to him. At all events, 
 however, if you have any doubt about your personal merit, 
 take me unhesitatingly for your surety." 
 
 ' ' Your royal highness overwhelms me with your kindness. " 
 
 "M'o! Monsieur de Bragelonne, I well remember that 
 we were fellow-travelers once, and that I remarked your 
 extreme prudence in the midst of the extravagant absurdi- 
 ties committed, on both sides, by two of the greatest sim- 
 pletons in the world. Monsieur de Guiche and the Duke of 
 Buckingham. Let us not speak of them, however; but of 
 yourself. Are you going to England to remain there per- 
 manently? Forgive my inquiry, but it is not curiosity, but 
 a desire to be of service to you in anything that I can do." 
 
 "No, madame; I am going to England to fulfill a mis- 
 sion which his majesty has been kind enough to confide to 
 me — nothing more." 
 
 "And you propose to return to France?" 
 
 "As soon as I shall have accomplished my mission; unless, 
 indeed. His Majesty King Charles II. should have other 
 orders for me." 
 
 "He will beg you, at the very least, I am sure, to remain 
 near him as long as possible." 
 
 "In that case, as I shall not know how to refuse, I will 
 now beforehand entreat your royal highness to have the 
 goodness to remind the King of France that one of his de- 
 voted servants is far away from him." 
 
 "Take care that at the time you are recalled you do not 
 consider his command as an abuse of power." 
 
 "I do not understand you, madame." 
 
 "The court of France is not easily matched, I am aware; 
 but yet we have some pretty women at the court of Eng- 
 land also." 
 
404 TEN YEARS LATEE. 
 
 Eaoul smiled. 
 
 "Oh!" said madame, "yours is a smile which portends no 
 good to my countrywomen. It is as though you were tell- 
 ing them, Monsieur de Bragelonne: 'I visit you, but I leave 
 my heart on the other side of the Channel.' Did not your 
 smile indicate that?" 
 
 "Your highness is gifted with the power of reading the 
 inmost depths of the soul, and you will understand, there- 
 fore, why, at present, any prolonged residence at the court 
 of England would be a matter of the deepest regret forme." 
 
 "And I need not inquire if so gallant a knight is recom- 
 pensed in return?" 
 
 "I have been brought up, madame, with her whom I love, 
 and I believe that our affection is mutual." 
 
 "In that case, do not delay your departure. Monsieur de 
 Bragelonne, and delay not your return, for on your return 
 we shall see two persons happy; for I hope no obstacle exists 
 to your felicity." 
 
 "There is a great obstacle, madame." 
 
 "Indeed! what is it?" 
 
 "The king's wishes on the subject." 
 
 "The king opposes your marriage?" 
 
 "He postpones it, at least. I solicited his majesty's con- 
 sent through the Comte de la Fere, and without absolutely 
 refusing it, he at least positively said it must be deferred." 
 
 "Is the young lady whom you love unworthy of you, 
 then?" 
 
 "She is worthy of a king's affection, madame." 
 
 "I mean, she is not, perhaps, of birth equal to your own." 
 
 "Her family is excellent." 
 
 "Is she young, beautiful?" 
 
 "She is seventeen, and, in my opinion, exceedingly 
 beautiful." 
 
 "Is she in the country, or at Paris?" 
 
 "She is here, at Pontainebleau, madame." , 
 
 "At the court?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do i know her?" 
 
 "She has the honor to form one of your highness' house- 
 hold." ^ 
 
 "Her name?" inquired the princess anxiously; "if, 
 indeed," she added hastily, "her name is not a secret." 
 
 "No, madame; my affection is too pure for me to make a 
 secret of it for any one, and with still greater reason for 
 your royal highness, whose kindness toward me has been so 
 extreme. It is Mademoiselle Louise de ia YalUere." 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. '405 
 
 Madame could not restrain an exclamation, in -which a 
 feeling stronger than surprise might have been detected. 
 "Ah!" she said, "La Valliere — she, who yesterday" — she 
 paused and then continued, "she who was tal^en ill, I 
 believe." 
 
 "Yes, madame; it was only this morning that I heard of 
 the accident which had befallen her." 
 
 "Did you see her before you came to me?" 
 
 "I had the honor of taking leave of her." 
 
 "And you say," resumed madame, making a powerful 
 effort over herself, "that the king has — deferred your mar- 
 riage with this young girl?" 
 
 "Yes, madame, deferred it." 
 
 "Did he assign any reason for this postponement?" 
 
 "None." 
 
 "How long is it since the Comte de la Fere preferred his 
 request to the king?" 
 
 "More than a month, madame." 
 
 "It is very singular," said the princess, as something like 
 a cloud passed across her eyes. "A month?" she repeated, 
 
 "About a month." 
 
 "You are right, vicomte,"said the princess, with a smile, 
 in which De Bragelonne might have remarlfed a kind of 
 restraint, "my brother must not keep you too long in Eng- 
 land; set off at once, and in the first letter I write to 
 England I will claim you in the king's name." And ma- 
 dame rose to place her letter in Bragelonne's hands. 
 
 Eaoul understood that his audience was at an end; he 
 took the letter, bowed lowly to the princess, and left the 
 room. 
 
 "A month!" murmured the princess; "could I have been 
 blind, then, to so great an extent, and could he have loved 
 her for this last month?" And as madame had nothing to 
 do, she sat down to begin a letter to her brother, the post- 
 script of which was a summons for Bragelonne to return. 
 
 The Comte de Guiche, as we have seen, had yielded to 
 the pressing persuasions of Manicamp, and allowed himself 
 to be led to the stables, where they desired their horses to 
 be got ready for them; then, by one of the side paths, a 
 description of which has already been given, they advanced 
 to meet Monsieur, who, having Just finished bathing, was 
 returning toward the chateau, wearing a woman's veil to 
 protect his face from getting burned by the sun, which was 
 already very powerful. Monsieur was in one of those fits 
 of good-humor whiph inspired him sometimes with w ad- 
 
406 TEN TEAKS LATER. 
 
 miration of his own good looks. As he was bathing he had 
 been able to compare the whiteness of his body with that of 
 his courtiers; and, thanks to the care which his royal higii- 
 ness took of himself, no one, not even the Chevalier de 
 Lorraine, could bear the comparison. Monsieur, moreover, 
 had been tolerably successful in swimming, and his muscles 
 haying been exercised by the healthy immersion in the cool 
 water, he was in a light and cheerful state of mind and 
 body. So that, at the sight of De Guiche, who advanced 
 to meet him at a hand gallop, mounted upon a magnificent 
 white horse, the prince could not restrain an exclamation of 
 delight. 
 
 "I think matters look well," said Manicamp, who fancied 
 he could read this friendly disposition upon his royal high- 
 ness' countenance. 
 
 "Good-day, De Guiche, good-day," exclaimed the prince. 
 
 "Long life to your royal highness!" replied De Guiche, 
 encouraged by the tone of Philip's voice; "health, joy, 
 happiness, and prosperity to your highness." 
 
 "Welcome, De Guiche; come on my right side, but keep 
 your horse in hand; for I wish to return at a walking pace, 
 under the cool shade of these trees." 
 
 "As you please, monseigneur," said De Guiche, taking 
 his place on the prince's right side, as he had just been 
 invited to do. 
 
 "Now, my dear De Guiche," said the prince, "give me a 
 little news of that De Guiche whom I used to know formerly, 
 and who used to pay attentions to my wife." 
 
 De Guiche blushed to the very whites of his eyes, while 
 Monsieur burst out laughing, as though he had made the 
 wittiest remark in the world. The few privileged courtiers 
 who surrounded Monsieur thought it their duty to follow 
 his example, although they had not heard the remark, and 
 a noisy burst of laughter immediately followed, beginning 
 with the first courtier, passing on through the whole com- 
 pany, and only terminating with the last. De Guiche, al- 
 though blushing extremely, put a good countenance on the 
 matter; Manicamp looked at him. 
 
 "Ah! monseigneur," replied De Guiche, "show a little 
 charity toward such a miserable fellow as I am; do not hold 
 me up to the ridicule of the Chevalier de Lorraine." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "If he hears you ridicule me, he will go beyond your 
 highness, and will show no pity." 
 
 "About your passion and the princess, do you mean?" 
 
TEN YEAES LATER. 407 
 
 "For mercy's sake, monseigneur!" 
 
 "Come, come, De Guiche, confess that you did get a 
 little sweet upon madame." ' 
 
 "I will never confess such a thing, monseigneur." 
 
 "Out of respect for me, I suppose; but I release you from 
 your respect, De Guiche. Confess, as if it were simply a 
 question about Mademoiselle de Ghalais and Mademoiselle 
 de la Valliere." 
 
 Then breaking ofE, he said, beginning to laugh again: 
 "Come, that is very good — a remark like a sword which 
 cuts two ways at once. I hit you and my brother at the 
 same time, Chalais and La Valliere, your aflBanced bride and 
 his future lady-love." 
 
 "Eeally, monseigneur," said the comte, "you are in a 
 most brilliant humor to-day." 
 
 "The fact is, I feel well, and then I am pleased to see 
 you again. But you were angry with me, were you not?" 
 
 "I! monseigneur? Why should I have been so?" 
 
 "Because I interfered with your sarabands and your other 
 Spanish amusements. Nay, do not deny it. On that day 
 you left the princess' apartments with your eyes full of 
 fury; that brought you ill-luck, for you danced in the 
 ballet yesterday in a most miserable manner. Now, don't 
 get sulky, De Guiche, for it does you no good, but makes 
 you look surly as a bear. If the princess did look at you 
 attentively yesterday, I am quite sure of one thing." 
 
 "What is that, monseigneur? Your highness alarms me." 
 
 "She has quite foresworn you now," said the prince, with 
 a burst of loud laughter. 
 
 "Decidedly," thought Manicamp, "rank has nothing to 
 do with it, and all men are alike." 
 
 The prince continued: "At all events, you are now re- 
 turned, and it is to be hoped that the chevalier will become 
 amiable again." 
 
 "How so, monseigneur; and hj what miracle can I exer- 
 cise such an influence over Monsieur de Lorraine?" 
 
 "The matter is very simple, he is jealous of you." 
 
 ''Bah! it is not possible." 
 
 "It is the case, though.'" 
 
 "He does me too much honor, then." 
 
 "The fact is, that when you are here he is full of kind- 
 ness and attention, but when you are gone he makes me 
 suffer a perfect martyrdom. I am like a see-saw. Besides, 
 you do not know the idea which has gtruqk xa^?" 
 
 "J dp not eveu suspect it." 
 
408 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "Well, then; when you were in exile, for you really were 
 exiled, my poor De Guiche " 
 
 "I should think so, indeed; but whose fault was it?" 
 said De Guiche, pretending to speak in an angry tone. 
 
 "Not mine, certainly, my dear comte," replied his royal 
 highness; "upon my honor, I did not ask the king to exile 
 you." 
 
 "No, not you, monseigneur, I am well aware; but " 
 
 "But, madame; well, as far as that goes, I do«iiot say it 
 is not the case. Why, what the deuce did you do or say to 
 madame?" 
 
 "Eeally, monseigneur " 
 
 "Women, I know, have their grudges, and my wife is not 
 free from caprices of that nature. But if she were the 
 cause of your being exiled I bear you no ill-will." 
 
 "In that case, monseigneur," said De Guiche, "I am not 
 unhappy altogether." 
 
 Manicamp, who was following closely behind De Guiche, 
 and who did not lose a word of what the prince was saying, 
 bent down to his very shoulders over his horse's neck, in 
 order to conceal the laughter he could not repress. 
 
 "Besides, your exile started a project in my head." 
 
 "Good." 
 , "When the chevalier — finding you were no longer here, 
 and sure of reigning undisturbed — began to bully me, I, 
 observing that my wife, in the most perfect contrast to 
 him, was most kind and amiable toward me who had 
 neglected her so much, the idea occurred to me of becom- 
 ing a model husband — ^a rarity, a curiosity, at the court; 
 and I had an idea of getting very fond of my wife." 
 
 De Guiche looked at the prince with a stupefied expres- 
 sion of countenance, which was not assumed. 
 
 "Oh! monseigneur," De Guiche stammered out trem- 
 blingly; "surely, that did not seriously occur to you." 
 
 "Indeed it did. I have some property that my brother 
 gave me on my marriage; she has some money of her own, 
 and not a little, either, for she gets money from her brother 
 and brother-in-law of England and France at the same 
 time. Well, we should have left the court. I should have 
 retired to my chateau at Villers Cotterets, situated in the 
 middle of a forest, in which we should have led a most 
 sentimental life in the very same spot where my grand- 
 father, Henry IV., did with La belle Gabrielle. What do 
 you think of that idea, De Guiche?" 
 
 "Why, it is enough to make one shudder, monseigneur," 
 replied De Guiche, who shuddered in reality. 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 409 
 
 "Ah! I see you would never be able to endure being 
 exiled a second time." 
 
 "I! monseigneur?" 
 
 "I will not carry you off with us, as I had at first in- 
 tended." 
 
 "What! with you, monseigneur?" 
 
 "Yes; if the idea should occur to me again of taking a 
 dislike to the court." 
 
 "Oh! do not let that make any difference, monseigneur; 
 I would follow your highness to the end of the world." 
 
 "Clumsy fellow, that you are!" said Manicamp grum- 
 blingly, pushing his horse toward De Guiche, so as almost 
 to unseat him, and then, as he passed close to him, as if he 
 had lost command over his horse, he whispered, "For good- 
 ness' sake, think what you are saying." 
 
 "Well, it is agreed, then," said the prince; "since you 
 are so devoted to me, I shall take you with me." 
 
 "Anywhere, everywhere, monseigneur," replied De 
 Guiche, in a joyous tone, "whenever you like, and at once 
 too. Are you ready?" 
 
 And De Guiche laughingly gave his horse the rein, and 
 galloped forward a few yards. 
 
 "One moment," said the prince. "Let us go to the 
 chateau first." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "Why, to take my wife, of course." 
 
 "What for?" asked De Guiche. 
 
 "Why, since I tell you that it is a project of conjugal 
 affection, it is necessary I shall take my wife with me." 
 
 "In that case, monseigneur," replied the comte, "I am 
 greatly concerned, but no De Guiche for you." 
 
 "Bah!" 
 
 "Yes. Why do you take madame with you?" 
 
 "Because I begin to see that I love her," said the prince. 
 
 De Guiche turned slightly pale, but endeavored to pre- 
 serve his seeming cheerfulness. 
 
 "If you love madame, monseigneur," he said, "that 
 ought to be quite enough for you, and you have no further 
 need of your friends." 
 
 "Not bad, not bad," murmured Manicamp. 
 
 "There, your fear of madame has begun again," replied 
 the prince. 
 
 "Why, monseigneur, I have experienced that to my cost; 
 a woman who was the cause of my being exiled." 
 
 "What a horrible disposition you have, De Guiche, how 
 terribly you bear malice.'* 
 
410 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "I should like the case to be your own, nxonseigneur. " 
 
 "Decidedly, then, that was the reason why you danced 
 so badly yesterday; you wished to revenge yourself, I sup- 
 pose, by trying to make madame make a mistake in her 
 dancing; ah! that is very paltry, De Guiche, and 1 will tell 
 madame of it." 
 
 "You can tell her whatever you please, monseigneur, for 
 her highness cannot hate me more than she does." 
 
 "Nonsense; you are exaggerating; and this because 
 merely of the fortnight's sojourn in the country she im- 
 posed on you." 
 
 "Monseigneur, a fortnight is a fortnight; and when the 
 time was passed in getting sick and tired of everything, a 
 fortnight is an eternity." 
 
 "So that you will not forgive her?" 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 "Come, come, De Guiche, be a better disposed fellow 
 than that. I wish to make your peace with her; you will 
 find, in conversing with her, that she has no malice or un- 
 kindness in her nature, that she is very talented." 
 
 "Monseigneur ' ' 
 
 "You will see that she can receive her friends like a prin- 
 cess, and laugh like a citizen's wife; you will see that, when 
 she pleases, she can make the hours pass away like minutes. 
 Come, De Guiche, you must really make up your differences 
 with my wife." 
 
 "Upon my word," said Manicamp to himself, "the prince 
 is a husband whose wife's name will bring him ill-luck, and 
 King Candaules, of old, was a complete tiger beside his 
 royal highness." 
 
 "At all events," added the prince,"! am sure you will 
 make it up with my wife; I guarantee you will do so. Only, 
 I must show you the way now. There is nothing common- 
 place about her, and it is not every one who takes her 
 fancy." 
 
 "Monseigneur " ' 
 
 "No resistance, De Guiche, or I shall get out of temper," 
 replied the prince. 
 
 "Well, since he will have it so," murmured Manicamp, in 
 De Guiche's ear, "do as he wants you to do." 
 
 "Well, monseigneur," said the comte, "I obey." 
 
 "And to begin," resumed the prince, "there will be 
 cards, this evening, in madame's apartment,- you will dine 
 with me, and I will take you there with me." 
 
 "Oh! as for that, monseigneur," objected De Guiche, 
 "you will allow me to_object." 
 
TEN YEARS LATEE. 411 
 
 "What, again! this is positive rebellion." 
 
 "Madame received me too indifferently yesterday before 
 the whole court." 
 
 "Eeally!" said the prince, laughing. 
 
 "Nay, so much so, indeed, that she did not even answer 
 me when I addressed her; it may be a good thing to have 
 no self-respect at all, but to have too little is not enough, 
 as the saying is." 
 
 "Comte! after dinner, you will go to your own apart- 
 ments, and dress yourself, and then you will come to fetch 
 me. I shall wait for you." 
 
 "Since your highness absolutely commands it." 
 
 "Positively." 
 
 "He'll not let go his hold," said Manicamp; "these are 
 the sort of things which husbands cling most obstinately to. 
 Ah! what a pity Monsieur Moli^re could not have heard 
 this man; he would have turned him into verse if he had." 
 
 The prince and his court, chatting in this manner, re- 
 turned to the coolest apartments of the chateau. 
 
 "By the bye," said De Guiche, as they were standing by 
 the door, "I had a commission for your royal highness." 
 
 "Execute it, then." 
 
 "Monsieur de Bragelonne has, by the king's order, set off 
 for London, and he charged me with his respects for yoy, 
 mpnseigneur." 
 
 "A pleasant journey to the vicomte, whom I like very 
 much. Go and dress yourself, De Guiche, and come back 
 for me. If you don't come back " 
 
 "What will happen then, monseigneur?" 
 
 "I will get you sent to the Bastile." 
 
 "Well," said De Guiche, laughing, "his royal highness, 
 monseigneur, is decidedly the counterpart of her royal 
 highness, madame. Madame gets me sent into exile, because 
 she does not care for me sufficiently; and monseigneur gets 
 me imprisoned because he cares for me too much. I thank 
 monseigneur, and I thank madame." 
 
 "Come, come," said the prince, "you are a delightful 
 companion, and you know that I canHot do without you. 
 Eeturn as soon as you can." 
 
 "Very well; but I am in the humor to prove myself difiB- 
 cult to be pleased in my turn, monseigneur." 
 
 "Bah!" 
 
 "So, I will not return to your royal highness, except 
 upon one conditiion," 
 
 "Name it." 
 
41-2 TEJSr TEARS LATER. 
 
 "I want to oblige the friend of one of my friends." 
 
 "What's his name?" 
 
 "Malicorne." 
 
 "An ugly name." 
 
 "But very well borne, monseigneur." 
 
 "That may be. Well?" 
 
 "Well, I owe Monsieur Malicorne a place in your house- 
 hold, monseigneur." 
 
 "What kind of a place?" 
 
 "Any kind of place; a supervision of some sort or another, 
 for instance." 
 
 "That happens very fortunately, for yesterday I dismissed 
 my chief usher of the apartments." 
 
 "That will do admirably. What are his duties?" 
 
 "Nothing, except to look about and make his report." 
 
 "A sort of interior police?" 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "Ah, how excellently tliat will suit Malicorne," Mani- 
 camp ventured to say. 
 
 "Yon know the person we are speaking of. Monsieur 
 Manicamp?" inquired the prince. 
 
 "Intimately, monseigneur. I am the friend in the 
 question." 
 
 "And your opinion is?" 
 
 "That your highness could never get such an usher of 
 the apartments as he will make." 
 
 "How much does the appointment bring in?" inquired 
 the comte of the prince. 
 
 "I don't know at all, only I have always been told that 
 he could make as much as he pleased when he was thor- 
 oughly employed." 
 
 "What do you call being thoroughly employed, prince?" 
 
 "It means, of course, when the functionary in question 
 is a man with his wits about him." 
 
 "In that case I think your highness will be content, for 
 Malicorne is as sharp as the devil himself." 
 
 "Good! the appointment will be an expensive one for me, 
 in that case," replied the prince, laughing. "You are 
 making me a positive present, comte." 
 
 "I believe so, monseigneur." 
 
 "Well, go and announce to your Monsieur Melicorne " 
 
 "Malicorne, monseigneur." 
 
 "I shall never get hold of that name." 
 
 "You say Manicamp very well, monseigneur." 
 
 "Oh, I ought to say Malicorne very well, too. Custom 
 will help me." 
 
Ti!K TEARS LATER. 413 
 
 "Say what yon like, monseignenr, I can promise you that 
 your inspector of apartments will not be annoyed; he has 
 the very happiest disposition that can be met with." 
 
 "Well, then, my dear De Guiche, inform him of his 
 nomination. But, stay " 
 
 "What is it, monseigneur?" 
 
 "I wish to see him beforehand; if he be as ugly as his 
 name, I retract what I have said." 
 
 "Your highness knows him, for you have already seen 
 him at the Palais Eoyal; nay, indeed, it was I who pre- 
 sented him to you." 
 
 "Ah, I remember now — not a bad-looking fellow." 
 
 "I knew you must have noticed him, monseigneur.'' 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes. You see, De Guiche, I do not wish thai; 
 either my wife or myself should have ugly faces before our 
 eyes. My wife will have all her maids of honor pretty; I, 
 all the gentlemen about me good-looking. In this way, De 
 Gkiiche, you see, that any children we may have will run a 
 good chance of being pretty, if my wife and myself have 
 handsome models before us." 
 
 "Most powerfully argued, monseigneur," said Manicamp, 
 showing his approval by look and voice at the same time. 
 
 As for De Guiche, he very probably did not find the 
 argument so convincing, for he merely signified his opinion 
 by a gesture, which, moreover, eihibited in a marked man- 
 ner great indecision of mind on the subject. Manicamp 
 went ofE to inform Malicorne of the good news he had just 
 learned. De Guiche seemed very unwilling to take his de- 
 parture for the purpose of dressing himself. Monsieur,, 
 singing, laughing, and admiring himself, passed away the 
 time until the dinner-hour, in a frame of mind which would 
 have justified the proverb of "Happy as a prince." 
 
 CHAPTEE LVI. 
 
 STORY OF A DRYAD AND OF A NAIAD. ^ 
 
 Every one had partaken of the banquet at the chateau, 
 and had afterward assumed their full court dresses. The 
 usual hour for the repast was five o'clock. If we say, then, 
 that the repast occupied an hour and the toilet two hours, 
 everybody was ready about eight o'clock in the evening. 
 Toward eight o'clock, therefore, the guests began to arrive 
 at madame's, for we have already intimated it was madame 
 
414 TEN- YEARS LATER. 
 
 who "received" that evening. And at madame's soiries no 
 one failed to be present; for the evenings passed in her 
 apartments had always that perfect charm about them 
 Vhich the queen, that pious and excellent princess, had not 
 been able to confer upon her reunions. For, unfortunately, 
 one of the advantages of goodness of disposition is, that it 
 is far less amusing than wit of an ill-natured character. 
 And yet, let us hasten to add, that such a style of wit could 
 not be applied to madame, for her disposition of mind, 
 naturally of the very highest order, comprised too much 
 true generosity, too many noble impulses and high-souled 
 thoughts to warrant her wit being termed ill-natured. But 
 madame was endowed with a spirit of resistance — a gift very 
 frequently fatal to its possessor, for it breaks where another 
 would have, bent; the result was that blows did not become 
 deadened upon her as upon what might be termed the 
 wadded feelings of Marie Theresa. Her heart rebounded 
 at each attack, and, therefore, whenever she was attacked, 
 even in a manner almost to stun her, she returned blow for 
 blow to any one who might be imprudent enough to venture 
 to tilt against her. Was this really maliciousness of dispo- 
 sition or simply waywardness of character? We regard 
 those rich and powerful natures as like the tree of knowl- 
 edge, producing good and evil at the same time; a double 
 branch, always blooming and fruitful, of which those who 
 wish to eat know how to detect the good fruit, and from 
 which the worthless and frivolous die who have eaten of it 
 — a circumstance which is by no means to be regarded as a 
 great misfortune. Madame, therefore, who had a well- 
 digested plan in her mind of constituting herself the second, 
 if not even the principal, queen of the court, rendered her 
 receptions delightful to all, from the conversation, the 
 opportunities of meeting, and the perfect liberty which she 
 allowed to every one of making any remark he pleased, on 
 the condition, however, that the remark was amusing or 
 sensible. And it will hardly be believed that, by that 
 means, there was less talking among the society madame 
 assembled together than elsewhere. Madame hated people 
 who talked much, and took a very cruel revenge upon them, 
 for she allowed them to talk. She disliked pretension, too, 
 and never overlooked that defect, even in the king himself. 
 It was more than a weakness of Monsieur, and the princess 
 had undertaken the amazing task of curing him of it. As 
 for the rest, poets, wits, beautiful women, all were received 
 by her with the air of a mistress superior to her slaves. 
 
Tfilf YEAES LAtfiR. 415 
 
 Sufficiently meditative in her liveliest humors to make even 
 poets meditate; sufiBciently pretty to dazzle by her attrac- 
 tions, even among the prettiest; suiBciently witty for the 
 most distinguished persons who were present to listen to her 
 with pleasure — it will easily be believed that the reunions 
 which were held in madame's apartments must naturally 
 have ppoved very attractive. All who were young flocked 
 there, and when the king himself happens to be young, 
 everybody at court is so too. And so, the older ladies of 
 the court, the strong-minded women of the regency, or of 
 the last reign, pouted and sulked at their ease; but others 
 only laughed at the fits of sulkiness in which these venera- 
 ble individuals indulged, who had carried the love of 
 authority so far as even to have taken the command of 
 bodies of soldiers in the war of the Fronde, in order, as 
 madame asserted, not to lose their influence over, men alto- 
 gether. As eight o'clock struck, her royal highness entered 
 the great drawing-room, accompanied by her ladies in at- 
 tendance, and found several gentlemen belonging to the 
 court already there, having been waiting for some minutes. 
 Among those who had arrived before the hour fixed for the 
 reception, she looked around for the one who, she thought, 
 ought to have been the first Jin attendance; but he was not 
 there. However, almost at the very moment she had com- 
 pleted her investigation. Monsieur was announced. Mon- 
 sieur looked splendid. All the precious stones and jewels 
 of Cardinal Mazarin, those of course which that minister 
 could not do otherwise than leave; all the queen-mother's 
 jewels, as well as a few others belonging to his wife — Mon- 
 sieur wore them all, and he was as dazzling as the sun. 
 Behind him followed De Guiche, with hesitating steps and 
 with an air of contrition admirably assumed. De Guiche 
 wore a costume of French-gray velvet embroidered with 
 silver and trimmed with blue ribbons; he wore also Mechlin 
 lace as rare and beautiful of its sort as were the jewels of 
 Monsieur of theirs. The plume in his hat was red. Ma- 
 dame, too, wore several colors, and preferred red for hang- 
 ings, gray for dresses, and blue for flowers. M. de Guiche, 
 dressed as we have described, looked so handsome that he 
 excited every one's observation. An interesting pallor of 
 complexion, a languid expression of the eyes, his white 
 hands seen through the masses of lace which covered them, 
 the melancholy expression of his mouth — it was only neces- 
 sary indeed to see M. de Guiche to admit that few men at 
 the court of France could equal him. The consequence 
 
416 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 was that Monsieur, who was pretentious enough to fancy h? 
 could eclipse a star even, if a star had adorned itself in a 
 similar manner to himself, was, on the contrary, completely 
 eclipsed in all imaginations, which are very silent judges 
 certainly, but very positive and high in their judgment. 
 Madame had looked at De Guiche slightly; but slight as 
 her look had been, it had brought a delightful color to his 
 face. In fact, madame had found De Guiche so handsome 
 and so admirably dressed that she almost ceased regretting 
 the royal conquest which she felt was on the point of escap- 
 ing her. Her heart, therefore, sent the blood to her face. 
 Monsieur approached her. He had not noticed the princess 
 blush, or, if he had seen it, he was far from attributing it 
 to its true cause. 
 
 "Madame," he said, kissing his wife's hand, "there is 
 some one present here who has fallen into disgrace, an un- 
 happy exile whom I would venture to recommend to your 
 kindness. Do not forget, I beg, that he is one of my best 
 friends, and that your kind reception of him will please me 
 greatly." 
 
 "What exile? what disgraced person are you speaking 
 of?" inquired madame, looking all round, and not permit- 
 ting her glance to rest more on the count than on the 
 others. 
 
 This was the moment to present De Guiche, and the 
 prince drew aside and let De Guiche pass him, who, with a 
 tolerably well-assumed awkwardness of manner, approached 
 madame and made his reverence to her. 
 
 "What!" exclaimed madame, as if she were greatly sur- 
 prised, "is Monsieur de Guiche the disgraced individual 
 you speak of, the exile in question?" 
 
 "Yes, certainly," returned the duke. 
 
 "Indeed," said madame, "he is almost the only person 
 we see here." 
 1 "You are unjust, madame," said the prince. 
 
 "Certainly. Come, forgive the poor fellow." 
 
 "Forgive him what? What have I to forgive Monsieur 
 de Guiche?" 
 
 "Come, explain yourself, De Guiche. What do you wish 
 to be forgiven?" inquired the prince. 
 
 "Alas! her royal highness knows very well what it is," 
 replied the latter, in a hypocritical tone. 
 
 "Come, come, give him your hand, madame," said Philip. 
 
 "If it will give you any pleasure. Monsieur;" and with a 
 
TEN YEARS LATEE. ^111 
 
 movement of her eyes and shoulders which it Avould be im- 
 possible to describe, madame extended toward the young 
 man her beautiful and perfumed hand, upon which he 
 pressed his lips. It was evident that he did so for some 
 little time, and that madame did not withdraw her hand 
 too quickly, for the duke added: 
 
 "De Guiche is not wickedly disposed, madame; so do not 
 be afraid, he will not bite you." 
 
 A pretext was given in the gallery by the duke's remark, 
 which was not perhaps very laughable, for every one to 
 laugh excessively. The situation was odd enough, and 
 some kindly disposed persons had observed it. Monsieur 
 was still enjoying the effect of his remark, when the king 
 was announced. The appearance of the room at that mo.' 
 ment was as follows: in the center, before the fireplace, 
 which was filled with flowers, madame was standing up, witli 
 her maids of honor formed in two wings on either side ol 
 her, and around whom the butterflies of the court were 
 fluttering. Several other groups were formed in the recesses 
 of the windows, like soldiers stationed in their different 
 towers who belong to the same garrison. From their re- 
 spective places they could pick up the remarks which fell 
 from the principal group. Prom one of these groups, the 
 nearest to the fireplace, Malicorne, who had been at once 
 raised to the dignity, through Manicamp and De Guiche, of 
 the post of master of the apartments, and whose official 
 costume had been ready for the last two months, was bril- 
 liant with gold lace, and shone upon Montalais, standing on 
 madame's extreme left, with all the fire of his eyes and all 
 the splendor of his velvet. Madame was conversing with 
 Mile, de Ohdtillon and Mile, de Cregny, who were next to 
 her, and addressed a few words to Monsieur, who drew 
 aside as soon as the king was announced. Mile, de la Val- 
 liere, like Montalais, was on madame's left hand, and the 
 last but one on the line. Mile, de Tonnay-Charente being . 
 on her right. She was stationed as certain bodies of troops 
 are, whose weakness is suspected, and who are placed be- 
 tween two experienced regiments. Guarded in this manner 
 by her two companions who had shared her adventure. La 
 Valliere, whether from regret at Eaoul's departure, or still 
 suffering from the emotion caused by recent events, which 
 had begun to render her name familiar on the lips of the 
 courtiers. La Valliere, we repeat, hid her eyes, red with 
 weeping, behind her fan, and seemed to give the greatest 
 attention to the remarks which Montalais and Athenaia ' 
 
418 TEK TEARS LATER, 
 
 alternately whispered to her from time to time. As soon as 
 the king's name was announced a general movement took 
 place in the apartment. Madame, in her character as 
 hostess, rose to receive the royal visitor; but as she rose, 
 notwithstanding her preoccupation of mind, she glanced 
 hastily toward her right; her glance, which the presump- 
 tuous De Guiche regarded as intended for himself, rested, 
 as it swept over the whole circle, upon La Valliere, whose 
 warm blush and restless emotion it immediately perceived. 
 
 The king advanced to the middle of the group, which 
 had now become a general one, by a movement which took 
 place from the circumference to the center. Every head 
 bowed low before his majesty, the ladies bending like frail 
 and magnificent lilies before the king Aquilio. There was 
 nothing very severe, we will even say, nothing very royal 
 that evening about the king, except, however, his youth 
 and good looks. He wore an air of animated joyousness 
 and good humor which set all imaginations at work, and, 
 thereupon, all present promised themselves a delightful 
 evening, for no other reason than from having remarked 
 the desire which his majesty had to amuse himself in ma- 
 dame's apartments. If there was any one in particular 
 whose high spirits and good humor could equal the king's, 
 it was M. de St. Aignan, who was dressed in a rose-colored 
 costume, with face and ribbons of the same color, and, in 
 addition, particularly rose-colored in his ideas, for that 
 evening M. de St. Aignan was prolific in ideas. The cir- 
 cumstance which had given him a new expansion to the 
 numerous ideas germinating in his fertile brain was, that 
 he had just perceived that Mile, de Tonnay-Charente was, 
 like himself, dressed in rose-color. We would not wish to 
 say, however, that the wily courtier had not known before- 
 hand that the beautiful Athenais was to wear that particu- 
 lar color; for he very well knew the art of unlocking the 
 lips of a dressmaker or a ladies'-maid as to her mistress' 
 intentions. He cast as many assassinating glances at Mile. 
 >ithenais as he had bows of ribbon on his stockings and his 
 doublet; in other words, he discharged an immense num- 
 ber. The king having paid madame the customary compli- 
 ments, and madame having requested him to be seated, the 
 circle was immediately formed. Louis inquired of Mon- 
 sieur the particulars of the day's bathing; and stated, look- 
 ing at the ladies present while he spoke, that certain poets 
 were engaged turning into verse the enchanting diversion 
 of the baths of Yalvins, and that one of them particularly, 
 
TEN- TEARS LATER. 419 
 
 M. Loret, seemed to have been intrusted with the confidence 
 of some water-nymph, as he had in his verses recounted 
 mauy circumstances that were actually true — at which re- 
 mark more than one lady present felt herself bound to blush. 
 The king at this moment took the opportunity of looking round . 
 him more leisurely ; Montalais was the only one who did not 
 blush suiEciently to prevent her looking at the king, and she 
 saw him fix his eyes most devouringly upon Mile, de la Val-- 
 liere. This undaunted maid of honor. Mile, de Montalais, be 
 it understood, forced the king to lower his gaze, and so saved 
 Louise de la Valliere from a sympathetic warmth of feeling 
 which this gaze might possibly have conveyed. Louis was 
 appropriated by madame, who overwhelmed him with in- 
 quiries, and no one in the world knew how to ask questions 
 better than she did. He tried, however, to render the conver- 
 sation general, and with the view of effecting this, he redou- 
 bled his attention and devotion to her. Madame coveted com- 
 plimentary remarks, and, determined to procure them at any 
 cost, she addressed herself to the king, saying: 
 
 "Sire, your majesty, who is aware of everything which 
 occurs in your kingdom, ought to know beforehand the verses 
 confided to Monsieur Loret by this nymph; will your majesty 
 kindly communicate them to us ?" 
 
 "Madame," replied the king, with perfect grace of man- 
 ner, "I dare not — ^you, personally, might be in no little de- 
 gree confused at having to listen to certain details — but St. 
 Aignan tells a story well, and had a perfect recollection of the 
 verses ; if he does not remember them he will invent." 
 
 St. Aignan, thus brought prominently forward, was com- 
 pelled to introduce himself as advantageously as possible. 
 Unfortunately, however, for madame, he thought of his owe 
 personal affairs only; in other words, instead of paying 
 madame the complin^nts she so much desired and relished, 
 his mind was fixed upon making as much display as possible 
 of his own good fortune. Again glancing, therefore, for 
 the hundredth time, at the beautiful Athenais, who thoroughlj 
 carried into practice her previous evening's theory of not 
 even deigning to look at her adorer, he said : 
 
 "Your majesty will perhaps pardon me for having too in- 
 differently remembered the verses which the nymph dictated 
 to Loret ; but if the king has not retained any recollection of 
 them, what could I possibly remember?" 
 
 Madame did not receive this shortcoming of the courtier 
 jrery favorably;. 
 
4:20 TEK TEARS lATER. 
 
 "Ah! madame," added St. Aignan, "at present it is no 
 longer a question what the water-nymphs have to say; and 
 one would almost he tempted to believe that nothing of any 
 interest now occurs in those liquid realms. It is upon 
 earth, madame, where important events happen. Ah! ma- 
 dame, upon the earth how many tales are there full of " 
 
 "Well," said madame, "and what is taking place npon 
 the earth?" 
 
 "That question must be asked of the Dryads," replied 
 the comte; "the Dryads inhabit the forest, as your royal 
 ihighness is aware." 
 
 ' "I am aware, also, that they are naturally very talkative. 
 Monsieur de St. Aignan." 
 
 "Such is the case, madame; but when they say such de- 
 lightful things, it would be ungracious to accuse them of 
 being too talkative." 
 
 "Do they talk so delightfully, then?" inquired the prin- 
 cess, indifferently. "Keally, Monsieur de St. Aignan, you 
 excite my cuiiosity; and if I were the king I would require 
 you immediately to tell- us what the delightful things are 
 which these Dryads have been saying, since you alone seem 
 to understand their language." 
 
 "I am perfectly at his majesty's orders, madame, in that 
 respect," replied the comte quickly. 
 
 "What a fortunate fellow this St. Aignan is, to under- 
 stand the language of the Dryads," said Monsieur. 
 
 "I understand it .perfectly, monseigneur, as I do my own 
 language." 
 
 "Tell us all about them, then," said madame. 
 
 The king felt embarrassed; for his confidant was, in all 
 probability, about to embark in a difficult matter. He felt 
 that it would be so, from the general attention excited by 
 St. Aignau'f preamble, and aroused, too, by madame's 
 peculiar manner. The most reserved of those who were 
 present seemed ready to devour every syllable the comte 
 was about to pronounce. They coughed, drew closer to- 
 gether, looked curiously at some of the maids of honor who, 
 in order to support with greater propriety, or with more 
 steadiness, the fixity of the inquisitorial looks bent upon 
 them, adjusted their fans accordingly, and assumed the 
 bearing of a duelist who is about to be exposed to his ad- 
 versary's fire. At this epoch the fashion of ingeniously 
 constructed conversations and hazardously dangerous re- 
 citals so prevailed that where, in modern times, a whole 
 company assembled in a drawing-room would" begin to sus- 
 
TEN Y3ARS LATBE. 421 
 
 ppct some scandal, or disclosure, or tragic event, and would 
 hurry away in dismay, madame's guests quietly settled 
 themselves in their places, in order not to lose a word or 
 gesture of the comedy composed by M. de St. Aignan for 
 their benefit, and the determination of which, whatever the 
 style and the plot might be, must, as a matter of course, be 
 marked by the most perfect propriety. The comte was 
 known as a man of extreme refinement and an admirable 
 narrator. He courageously began, then, amid a profound 
 silence, which would have been formidable for any one but 
 himself: 
 
 "Madame, by the king's permission, I address myself, in 
 the first place, to your royal highness, since you admit 
 yourself to be the person possessing the greatest curiosity. 
 I have the honor, therefore, to inform your royal highness 
 that the Dryad more particularly inhabits the hollows of 
 oaks; and, as Dryads are mythological creatures of great 
 beauty, they inhal't the most beautiful trees, in other 
 words, the largest to be found." 
 
 At this exordium, which recalled, under a transparent 
 veil, the celebrated story of the royal oak, which had played 
 so important a ^ art in the last evening, so many hearts 
 began to beat, both from Joy and uneasiness, that, if St. 
 Aignan had not had a good and sonorous voice, their throb- 
 bings might have been heard above the sound of his voice. 
 
 "There must surely be Dryads at Pontainebleau, then," 
 said madame, in a perfectly calm voice; "for I have never, 
 in all my life, seen finer oaks than in the royal park." 
 And as she spoke, she directed toward De Guiche a look of 
 which he had no reason to complain, as he had of the one 
 that preceded it; and which, as we have already mentioned, 
 had reserved a certain amount of indefiniteness most pain- 
 ful for so loving a heart as his. 
 
 "Precisely, madame; it is of Pontainebleau that I was 
 about to speak to your royal highness," said St. Aignan; 
 "for the Dryad whose story is engaging our attention lives 
 in the park belonging to the chateau of his majesty." The 
 affair was fairly embarked on, the action was begun, and it 
 was no longer possible for auditors or narrator to draw back. 
 
 "It will be worth listening to," said madame; "for the 
 story not only appears to me to have all the interest of a 
 national incident, but still more, seems to be a circumstance 
 of very recent occurrence." 
 
 "I ought to begin by the beginning," said the comte. 
 "In the first place, then, there lived at Pontainebleau, ijj. 
 
432 TEKT TEAKS LATER, 
 
 a cottage of modest and unassuming appearance, two shep- 
 herds. The one was the shepherd Tyrcis, the owner of ex- 
 tensive domains transmitted to him from his parents by 
 right of inheritance. Tyrcis was young and handsome, 
 and, from his many qualifications, he might be pronounced 
 to be the first and foremost among the shepherds in the 
 whole country; one might even boldly say he was the king 
 of them." A subdued murmur of approbation encouraged 
 the narrator, who continued: "His strength equals his 
 courage; no one displays greater address in hunting wild 
 beasts, nor greater wisdom in matters where Judgment is 
 required. Whenever he mounts and exercises his horse in 
 the beautiful plains of his inheritance, or whenever he joins 
 with the shepherds who owe him allegiance, in different 
 games of skill and strength, one might say that it is the 
 god Mars darting his lance in the plains of Thrace, or, even 
 better, that it was Apollo himself, the god of day, radiant 
 upon earth, bearing his flaming darts in his hand." Every 
 one understood that this allegorical portrait of the king was 
 not the worst exordium that the narrator could have chosen; 
 and it consequently did not fail to produce its eflect, either 
 upon those who, from duty or inclination, applauded it to 
 the very echo, or upon the king himself, to whom flattery 
 was very agreeable when delicately conveyed, and whom 
 indeed it did not always displease, even when it was a little 
 too broad. St. Aignan then continued: "It is not in games 
 of glory only, ladies, that the shepherd Tyrcis had acquired 
 that reputation by which he was regarded as the king of 
 shepherds." 
 
 "Of the shepherds of Fontainebleau," said the king 
 smilingly, to madame. 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed madame, "Fontainebleau is selected 
 ftrbitrarily by the poet; but I should say, of the shepherds 
 of the whole world." The king forgot his part of a passive 
 auditor, and bowed. 
 
 "It was," pursued St. Aignan, amid a flattering murmui 
 of applause, "it was with ladies fair especially that the 
 qualities of this king of the shepherds were most promi- 
 nently displayed. He was a shepherd with a mind as refined 
 as his heart was pure; he can pay a compliment with a 
 charm of manner whose fascination it is impossible to resist; 
 and in his attachments he is so discreet that his beautiful 
 and happy conquests may regard their lot as more than 
 enviable. Never a syllable of disclosure, never a moment's 
 forgetfulness. Whoever has seen ^n4 heard Tyrcis roust 
 
tBn tears later. 42-3 
 
 love him; whoever loves and is beloved by him, has indeed 
 found happiness." 
 
 St. Aignan here paused; he was en;joying the pleasures of 
 his own compliments; and the portrait he had drawn, how- 
 ever grotesquely inflated it might be, had found favor in 
 certain ears, for whom the perfections of the shepherd did 
 not seem to have been exaggerated. Madame begged the 
 orator to continue. 
 
 "Tyrcis," said the comte, "had a faithful companion, or 
 rather, a devoted servant, whose name was — Amyntas." 
 
 "Ah!" said madame archly, "now for the portrait of 
 Amyntas; you are such an excellent painter. Monsieur de 
 St. Aignan." 
 
 "Madame " 
 
 "Oh, comte, do not, I entreat you, sacrifice poor Amyntas; 
 I should never forgive you." 
 
 _ "Madame, Amyntas is of too humble a position, par- 
 ticularly beside Tyrcis, for his person to be honored by a 
 parallel. There are certain friends who resemble those fol- 
 lowers of ancient times who caused themselves to be buried 
 alive at their masters' feet. Amyntas' place, too, is at 
 the feet of Tyrcis; he cares forno other; and if, sometimes, 
 the illustrious hero " 
 
 "Illustrious shepherd, do you mean?" said madame, pre- 
 tending to correct M. de St. Aignan. 
 
 "Your royal highness is right; I was mistaken," returned 
 the courtier; "if, I say, the shepherd Tyrcis deigns occa- 
 sionally to call Amyntas his friend, and to open his heart to 
 him, it is an unparalleled favor, which the latter regards as 
 the most unbounded felicity." 
 
 "All that you say," interrupted madame, "establishes 
 the extreme devotion of Amyntas to Tyrcis, but does not 
 furnish us with the portrait of Amyntas. Comte, do not 
 flatter him, if you like, but describe him to us. I will have 
 Amyntas' portrait." 
 
 St. Aignan obeyed, after having bowed profoundly toward 
 I his majesty's sister-in-law. 
 
 "Amyntas," he said, "is somewhat older than Tyrcis; he 
 is not an ill-favored shepherd; it is even said that the muses 
 condescended to smile upon him at his birth, even as Hebe 
 smiled upon youth. He is not ambitious of display, but he 
 is ambitious of being loved; and he might not, perhaps, be 
 found unworthy of it, if he were only sufficiently well 
 known." 
 ■ybis latter paragraph^ strengthened by a very killing 
 
424 TEN YEAES LATER. 
 
 glance, was directed straight to Mile, de Tonnay-Chareute, 
 who received them both unmoved. But the modesty and 
 tact of the allusion had produced a good effect; Amyntas 
 reaped the benefit of it in the applause bestowed on him; 
 Tyrcis' head had even given the signal for it by a consent- 
 ing bow full of good feeling. 
 
 "One evening," continued St. Aignan, "Tyrcis and 
 Amyntas were walking together in the forest, talking of 
 their love disappointments. Do not forget, ladies, that 
 the story of the Dryad is now beginning, otherwise it would 
 be easy to tell you what Tyrcis and Amyntas, the two most 
 discreet shepherds of the whole earth, were talking about. 
 They reached the thickest part of the forest, for the pur- 
 pose of being quite alone, and of confiding their troubles 
 more freely to each other, when suddenly the sound of 
 voices struck upon their ears." 
 
 "Ah, ah!" said those who surrounded the narrator. 
 "Nothing can be more interesting than this." 
 
 At this point, madame, like a vigilant general inspecting 
 his army, glanced at Montalais and Tonnay-Charente, who 
 could not help wincing at it as they drew themselves up. 
 
 "These harmonious voices," resumed St. Aignan, were 
 those of certain shepherdesses, who had been likewise de- 
 sirous of enjoying the coolness of the shade, and who, 
 knowing the isolated and almost unapproachable situation 
 of the place, had betaken themselves there to interchange 
 their ideas upon " 
 
 A loud burst of laughter occasioned by this remark of 
 St. Aignan, and an imperceptible smile of the king, as he 
 looked at Tonnay-Charente, followed this sally. 
 
 "The Dryad affrms positively," continued St. Aignan, 
 "that the shepherdesses were three in number, and that all 
 three were young and beautiful." 
 
 "What were their names?" said madame quietly. 
 
 "Their names?" said St. Aignan, who hesitated from the 
 fear of committing an indiscretion. 
 
 "Of course; you called your shepherds Tyrcis and Amyn- 
 tas; give your shepherdesses names in a similar manner." 
 
 "Oh, madame, I am not an inventor; I relate simply what 
 took place as the Dryad related it to me." 
 
 "What did yonr Dryad, then, call these shepherdesses? 
 You have a very treacherous memory, I fear. This Dryad 
 must have fallen out with the goddess Mnemosyne.'* 
 
 "These shepherdesses, madame! Pray, remember that it 
 is A crime to betray a woman's name." 
 
It's YEARS tATEB. 425 
 
 "From which a woman absolves yon, comte, on condition 
 that you will reveal the names of the shepherdesses." 
 
 "Their names were Phillis, Amaryllis, and Galatea." 
 
 "Very well; they have not lost by the delay," said ma- 
 dame; "and now we have three charming names. But now 
 for their portraits." 
 
 St. Aignan again made a slight movement. 
 
 "Nay, comte, let us proceed in due order," returned 
 madame. "Ought we not, sire, to have the portraits of the 
 shepherdesses?" 
 
 The king, who expected this determined perseverance, 
 and who began to feel some uneasiness, did not think it safe 
 to provoke so dangerous an interrogator. He thought, too, 
 that St. Aignan, in drawing the portraits, would find a 
 means of insinuating some flattering allusions which would 
 be agreeable to the ears of one whom his majesty was in- 
 terested in pleasing. It was with this hope and with this 
 fear that Louis authorized St. Aignan to sketch the por- 
 traits of the shepherdesses, Phillis, Amaryllis, and Galatea. 
 
 "Very well, then; be it so," said St. Aignan, like a man 
 who has made up his mind, and he began. 
 
 CHAPTEE LVII. 
 
 CONCLUSION OF THE STOET OF A KAIAD AND OF A DETAD. 
 
 "Phillis," said St. Aignan, with a glance of defiance at 
 Montalais, just as a fencing-master would give who invites 
 an antagonist worthy of him to place himself on his guard, 
 "Phillis is neither fair nor dark, neither tall nor short, 
 neither too grave nor too gay; though but a shepherdess, 
 she is as witty as a princess, and as coquettish as the most 
 finished coquette that ever lived. Nothing can equal her 
 excellent vision. Her heart yearns for everything her gaze 
 embraces. She is like ■. bird, which, always warbling, at 
 one moment skims along the ground, at the next rises flut- 
 tering in pursuit of a butterfly, then rests itself upon the 
 topmost branch of a cree where it defies the bird-catchers 
 either to come and seize it or to entrap it in their nets." 
 
 The portrait bore such a strong resemblance to Montalais 
 that all eyes were directed toward her; she, however, with 
 her head raised, and with a steady, unmoved look, listened 
 to St. Aignan, as if he were speaking of some one who was 
 a complete stranger to her. 
 
42(5 TEN YEARS LATEE. 
 
 "Is that all. Monsieur de St. Aignan?" inquired the 
 princess. 
 
 "Oh! your royal highness, the portrait is a mere sketch, 
 and many more additions could be made, but I fear weary- 
 ing your royal highness' patience, or offending the modesty 
 of the shepherdess, and I shall therefore pass on to her 
 companion, Amaryllis." 
 
 "Very well," said madame, "pass on to Amaryllis, Mon- 
 sieur de St. Aignan; we are all attention." 
 
 "Amaryllis is the eldest of the three, and yet," St. 
 Aignan hastened to add, "this advanced age does not reach 
 twenty years." 
 
 Mile, de Tonnay-Charente, who had slightly knitted her 
 brows at the commencement of the description, unbent 
 them with a smile. 
 
 "She is tall, with an immense quantity of hair, which 
 she fastens in the manner of the Grecian statues; her walk 
 is full of majesty, her attitude haughty; she has the air, 
 therefore, rather of a goddess than of a mere mortal, and, 
 among the goddesses, she most resembles Diana, the hunt- 
 ress; with this sole difierence, however, that the cruel 
 shepherdess, having stolen the quiver of young love while 
 poor Cupid was sleeping in a thicket of roses, instead of 
 directing her arrows against the inhabitants of the forest 
 discharges them most pitilessly against all the poor shep- 
 herds who pass within reach of her bow and of her eyes." 
 
 "Oh! what a wicked shepherdess!" said madame. "She 
 may some day wound herself with one of those arrows she 
 discharges as you say so mercilessly on all sides." 
 
 "It is the hope of all the shepherds in general," said St. 
 Aignan. 
 
 "And that of the shepherd Amyntas in particular, I sup- 
 pose?" said madame. 
 
 "The shepherd Amyntas is so timid," said St. Aignan 
 with the most modest air he could assume, "that if he 
 cherishes such a hope as that, no one has ever known any- 
 thing about it, for he conceals it in the very depths of his 
 heart." 
 
 A flattering murmur of applause greeted the narrator's 
 profession of faith on the part of the shepherd. 
 
 "And Galatea?" inquired madame. "I am impatient to 
 see a hand so skillful as yours continue the portrait where 
 Virgil left it, and finish it before our eyes." 
 
 "Madame," said St. Aignan, "I am indeed but a very 
 poor poet beside the great VirgiL Still, encouraged by 
 your desire, I will do my best." 
 
TEN TEARS LATEE. 437 
 
 St. Aignan axtended his foot and his hand, and thus be= 
 gan: 
 
 "White as milk, she casts upon the breeze the perfume of 
 her fair hair tinged with golden hues, as are the ears of corn. 
 One is tempted to inquire if she is not the beautiful Europa, 
 who inspired Jupiter with a tender passion as she played with 
 her companions in the flower-bespangled meadows. From 
 her beautiful eyes, blue as the azure heavens in the brightest 
 summer day, emanates a tender light, which reverie nurtures 
 and which love dispenses. When she frowns, or bends her 
 looks toward the ground, the sun is veiled in token of mourtt i 
 ing. When she smiles, on the contrary, nature resumes her- 
 joyousness, and the birds, which had for a moment beeQ 
 silenced, recommence their songs amid the leafy covert of the I 
 trees. Galatea," said St. Aignan, in conclusion, "is worthj 
 of the admiration of the whole world ; and if she should ever 
 bestow her heart upon another, happy will that man be to 
 whom she consecrates her first affections." 
 
 Madame, who had attentively listened to the portrait St. 
 Aignan had drawn, as, indeed, had all the others, too, con- 
 tented herself by marking her approbation of the most poetic 
 passages by occasional inclinations of her head; but it was 
 impossible to say if these marks of assent had been accorded to 
 the ability of the narrator or to the resemblance of the por- 
 trait. The consequence, therefore, was, that as madame did 
 not openly exhibit any approbation, no one felt authorized to 
 applaud, not even Monsieur, who secretly thought that St. 
 Aignan dwelt too much upon the portraits of the shepherd- 
 esses, and had somewhat slightingly passed over the portraits 
 of the shepherds. The whole assembly seemed suddenly 
 chilled. St. Aignan, who had exhausted his rhetorical skill 
 and his artist's brush in sketching the portrait of Galatea, and 
 who, after the favor with which his other descriptions had 
 been received, already imagined he could hear the loud ap- 
 plause for this last one, was himself more disappointed than 
 the king and the rest of the company. A moment's silence 
 followed, which was at last broken by madame. 
 
 "Well, sire," she inquired, "what is your majesty's opinioffi 
 of these three portraits?" 
 
 The king, who wished to relieve St. Aignan's embarrass^ 
 ment without compromising himself, replied: 
 
 "Why, Amaryllis, in my opinion, is beautiful." 
 
 "For my part," said Monsieur, "I prefer Phillis; she la 
 § (lapital girl ^r, latbet a geod-soxt-pf -fellow oi a ^ympk"^ 
 
438 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 A gentle laugh followed, and this time the looks were so 
 direct that Montalais felt herself blushing almost scarlet. 
 
 "Well," resumed madame, "what were those shepherd- 
 esses saying to one another?" 
 
 St. Aignan, however, whose vanity had been wounded, 
 did not feel himself in a position to sustain an attack of 
 new and refreshed troops, and merely said: 
 
 "Madame, the shepherdesses were confiding to one an- 
 other their little preferences."' 
 
 "Nay, nay. Monsieur de St. Aignan, you are a perfect 
 stream of pastoral poesy," said madame, with an amiable 
 smile, which somewhat comforted the narrator. 
 
 "They confessed that love is a great peril, but that the 
 absence of love is the heart's sentence of death." 
 
 "What was the conclusion they came to?" inquired 
 madame. 
 
 "They came to the conclusion that love was necessary." 
 
 "Very good! Did they lay down any conditions?" 
 
 "That of choice, simply," said St. Aignan. "I ought 
 even to add — remember, it is the Dryad who is speaking — ■ 
 that one of the shepherdesses, Amaryllis, I believe, was 
 completely opposed to the necessity of loving, and yet she 
 did not positively deny that she had allowed the image of 
 a certain shepherd to take refuge in her heart." 
 
 "Was it Amyntas or Tyr is?" 
 
 "Amyntas, madame," said St. Aignan modestly. "But 
 Galatea, the gentle and soft-eyed Galatea, immediately re- 
 plied that neither Amyntas, nor- Alphesiboeus nor Tityrus, 
 nor indeed any of the handsomest shepherds of the country, 
 were to be compared to Tyrcis; that Tycris was as superior 
 to all other men as the oak to all other trees, as the lily in 
 its majesty to all other flowers. She drew even such a por- 
 trait of Tyrcis, that Tyrcis himself, who was listening, 
 must have felt truly flattered at it, notwithstanding his 
 rank and position. Thus Tyrcis and Amyntas had been 
 distinguished by Phillis and Galatea; and thus had the 
 secrets of two hearts been revealed beneath the shades of 
 evening, and amid the recesses of the woods. Such, 
 madame, is what the Dryad related to me; she who knows 
 all that takes place in the hollow of oaks and in grassy 
 dells; she who knows the loves of the birds, and all they 
 wish to convey by tbeir songs; she who understands, in 
 fact, the language of the wind among the branches, the 
 humming of the insects with their golden and emerald 
 wings in the corolla of the wild-flowers, it was she who 
 related the particulars to me^ and I have repeated them."' ^ 
 
TElJ- YEAKS LATEE. 429 
 
 "And now you have finished. Monsieur de St. Aignan, 
 have you not?" said madams, with a smile which made the 
 king tremble. 
 
 "Quite finished," replied St. Aignan, "and only but too 
 happy if I have been able to amuse your royal highness for 
 a few moments." 
 
 "Moments which have been too brief," replied the prin- 
 cess, "for you have related most admirably all you know; 
 but, my dear Monsieur de St. Aignan, you have been un- 
 fortunate enough to obtain your information from one 
 Dryad only, I believe?" 
 
 "Yes, madame, only from one, I confess." 
 
 "The fact was, that you passed by a little Naiad, who 
 pretended to know nothing at all, and yet knew a great 
 deal more than your Dryad, my dear comte." 
 
 "A Naiad!" repeated several voices, who began to sus- 
 pect that the story had a continuation. 
 
 "Of course; close beside the oak you are speaking of, 
 which, if I am not mistaken, is called the royal oak — is it 
 not so. Monsieur de St. Aignan?" 
 
 St. Aignan and the king exchanged glances. 
 
 "Yes, madame," the former replied. 
 
 "Well, close beside the oak there is a pretty little spring, 
 which runs murmuringly on over the pebbles, amid the 
 forget-me-nots and daisies." 
 
 "I believe you are correct," said the king, with some un- 
 easiness, and listening with some anxiety to his sister-in- 
 law's narrative. 
 
 "Oh! there is one, I can assure you," said madame; "and 
 the proof of it is, that the Naiad who resides in that little 
 stream stopped me as I was £fbout to cross." 
 
 "Bah!" said St. Aignan. 
 
 "Yes, indeed," continued the princess, "and she did so 
 " in order to communicate to me many particulars which 
 Monsieur de St. Aignan omitted in hit recital." 
 
 "Pray relate them yourself," s",id Monsieur; "you can 
 relate stories in such a charming manner." 
 
 The princess bowed at the conj gal compliment paid her. 
 
 "I do not possess the poetical powers of the comte, nor 
 his ability to bring out all the details." 
 
 "You will not be listened to with less interest on that 
 account," said the king, who already perceived that some- 
 thing hostile was intended in his sister-in-law's story. 
 
 "I speak, too," continued madame, "in the name of that 
 poor little Naiad, who is indeed the most charming creature 
 
430 TEN TEARS tATEE. 
 
 I ever met. Moreover, she laughed so heartily while she 
 was telling me her story that, in pursuance of that medical 
 axiom that laughter is contagious, I ask permission to laugh 
 a little myself when I recollect her words." 
 
 The king and St. Aignan, who noticed spreading over 
 many of the faces present a commencement of the laughter 
 which madame announced, finished by looking at each 
 other, as if asking themselves whether there was not some 
 little conspiracy concealed beneath her words. But ma- 
 dame was determined to turn the knife in the wound over 
 and over again; she therefore resumed with an air of the most 
 perfect innocence, in other words, with the most dangerous 
 of all her airs: 
 
 "Well, then, I passed that way," she said, "and as I 
 found beneath my steps many fresh flowers newly blown, 
 no doubt Phillis, Amaryllis, Galatea, and all your shep- 
 herdesses had passed the same way before me." 
 
 The king bit his lips, for the recital was becoming more 
 and more threatening, 
 
 "My little Naiad," continued madame, "was murmuring 
 her little song in the bed of her rivulet; as I perceived that 
 she accosted me by touching the bottom of my dress, I did 
 not think of receiving her advances ungraciously, and more 
 particularly so, since, after all, a divinity, even though 
 she be of a second grade, is always of greater importance 
 than a mortal, though a princess. I thereupon accosted 
 the Naiad; bursting into laughter, this is what she said to 
 me: 
 
 " 'Fancy, princess — ' You understand, sire, it is the 
 Naiad who is speaking." 
 
 The king bowed assentingly, and madame continued: 
 
 " 'Fancy, princess, the banks of my little stream have 
 just witnessed a most amusing scene. Two shepherds, full 
 of curiosity, even indiscreetly so, have allowed themselves 
 to be mystified in a most amusing manner by three nymphs, 
 or three shepherdesses.' I beg your pardon, but I do not 
 Tiow remember if it were a nymph or a shepherdess, she 
 said; but it does not much matter, so we will continue." 
 
 The king, at this opening, colored visibly, and St. 
 Aignan, completely losing countenance, began to open his 
 eyes in the greatest possible anxiety. < 
 
 " 'The two shepherds,' pursued my nymph, still laugh- 
 ing, 'followed in the wake of the three young ladies — no, I 
 mean, of the three nymphs; forgive me, I ought to say of 
 *ihe three shepherdesses. ' It is not always wise to do that, 
 
fW YEARS LATER, 431 
 
 for it may be awkward for those who are followed. I appeal 
 to all the ladies present, and not one of them, I am sure, 
 will contradict me." 
 
 The king, who was much disturbed by what he suspected 
 was about to follow, signified his assent by a gesture. 
 
 " 'But,' continued the Naiad, 'the shepherdesses had 
 noticed Tyrcis and Amyntas gliding into the wood, and, by 
 the light of the room, they had recognized them through 
 the grove of trees.' Ah, you laugh!" interrupted madame, 
 "wait, wait, you are not yet at the end." * 
 
 The king turned pale; St. Aignan wiped his forehead, 
 which was bedewed with perspiration. Among the groups 
 of ladies present could be heard smothered laughter and 
 stealthy whispers. 
 
 " 'The shepherdesses, I was saying, noticing how indis- 
 creet the two shepherds were, proceeded to sit down at the 
 foot of the royal oak; and, when they perceived that their 
 indiscreet listeners were suiSciently near, so that not a 
 syllable of what they might say could be lost, they addressed 
 toward them very innocently, in the most innocent manner 
 in the world indeed, a passionate declaration, which, from 
 the vanity natural to all men, and even to the most senti- 
 mental of shepherds, seemed to the two listeners as sweet 
 as honey." 
 
 The king, at these words, which the assembly was una- 
 ble to hear without laughing, could not restrain a flash of 
 anger darting from his eyes. As for St. Aignan, he let his 
 head fall upon his breast, and concealed, under a bitter 
 laugh, the extreme annoyance he felt. 
 
 "Oh," said the king, drawing himself up to his full 
 height, "upon my word, that is a most amusing jest, cer- 
 tainly; but, really and truly, are you sure you quite under- 
 stood the language of the Naiads?" 
 
 "The comte, sire, pretends to have perfectly understood 
 that of the Dryads," retorted madame eagerly. 
 
 "No doubt," said the king; "but you know the comte 
 has the weakness to aspire to become a member of the 
 Academy, so that, with this object in view, he has learned 
 all sorts of things of which very happily you are ignorant; 
 and it might possibly happen that the language of the 
 Nymph of the Waters might be among the number of things, 
 which you have not studied." 
 
 "Of course, sire," replied madame, "for facts of that 
 nature one does not altogether rely upon one's self alone; 
 a, woman's e&i- \s not infallible, so says St. Augustine; and 
 
432 TEN TEAM LATER. 
 
 I, therefore, wished to satisfy myself hj other opinior.B he- 
 sides my own, and as my Naiad, who, in her character of 
 a goddess, is polyglot — is not that the expression. Monsieur 
 de St. Aignan?" 
 
 "Yes," said the latter, quite out of countenance. 
 
 "Well," continued the princess, "as my Naiad, who, in 
 her character of a goddess, had at first spoken to me in 
 English, I feared, as you suggest, that I might have misun- 
 derstood her, and I requested Mesdemoiselles de Montalais, 
 De Tonnay-Charente, and De la Valliere to come to me. 
 begging my Naiad to repeat to me, in the French language, 
 the recital she hadalready communicated to me in English." 
 
 "And did she do so?" inquired the king. 
 
 "Oh, she is the most polite divinity that exists. Yes, 
 sire, she did so; so that no doubt whatever remains on the 
 subject. Is it not so, young ladies?" said the princess, 
 turning toward the left of her army; "did not the Naiad 
 say precisely what I have related, and have I, in any one 
 particular, exceeded the truth, Phillis? I beg your pardon, 
 I mean Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais." 
 
 "Precisely as you have stated, madame," articulated 
 Mile, de Montalais very distinctly. 
 
 "Is it true. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente?" 
 
 "The perfect truth," replied Athenais, in a voice quite 
 as firm, but yet not so distinct. 
 
 "And you. La Valliere?" asked madame. 
 
 The poor girl felt the king's ardent look fixed upon her; 
 she dared not deny it, she dared not tell a falsehood, and 
 bowed her head simply in token of assent. Her head, how- 
 ever, was not raised again, half-chilled as she was by a cold- 
 ness more bitter than that of death. This triple testimony 
 overwhelmed the king. As for St. Aignan, he did not 
 even attempt to dissemble his despair, and, hardly know- 
 ing what he said, he stammered out: 
 
 "An excellent jest! admirably played!" 
 
 "A just punishment for curiosity," said the king, in a 
 hoarse voice. "Oh! who would think, after the chastise- 
 ment that Tyrcis and Amyntas had suffered, of endeavor- 
 ing to surprise what is passing in the heart of shepherdesses? 
 Assuredly I shall not, for one; and you, gentlemen?" 
 
 "Nor 1! nor I!" repeated, in a chorus, the group of cour- 
 tiers. 
 
 Madame was filled with triumph at the king's annoyance; 
 and was full of delight, thinking that her story had been, 
 or was to be, the termination of the whole matter. As for 
 
TEN TEAKS LATER. 433 
 
 ITopsieur, who had laughed at the two stories without com- 
 prehending anything about them, he turned toward De 
 Guiche, and said to him: 
 
 "Well, comte, you say nothing; can you not find some- 
 thing to say? Do you pity Monsieur Tyrcis and Monsieur 
 Amyntas, for instance?" 
 
 "I pity them with all my soul," replied De Guiche; "for, 
 in very truth, love is so sweet a fancy that to lose it, fancy 
 though it maybe, is to lose more than life itself. If,. there- 
 fore, these two shepherds thought themselves beloved — if 
 they were happy in that idea, and if, instead of that happi- 
 ness, they meet with not only that empty void which resem- 
 bles death, but jeers and jests at that love, which is worse 
 than a thousand deaths — in that case, I say that Tyrcis and 
 Amyntas are the two most unhappy men I know." 
 
 "And you are right, too. Monsieur de Guiche," said the 
 king; "for, in fact, the death we speak of is a very hard 
 return for a little curiosity." 
 
 "That is as much as to say, then, that the story of my 
 Naiad has displeased the king?" asked madame innocently. 
 
 "Nay, madame, undeceive yourself," said Louis, taking 
 the princess by the hand; "your Naiad, on the contrary, 
 has pleased me, and the more so, because she has been 
 more truthful, and because her tale, I ought to add, is con- 
 firmed by the testimony of unimpeachable witnesses." 
 
 These words fell upon La Valliere accompanied by a look 
 that no one, from Socrates to Montaigne, could have exactly 
 defined. The look and the king's remark succeeded in 
 overpowering the unhappy girl, who, with her head upon 
 Montalais's shoulder, seemed to have fainted away. The 
 king rose, without remarking this circumstance, of which 
 no one, moreover, took any notice, and, contrary to his 
 usual custom, for generally he remained late in madame's 
 apartments, he took his leave, and retired to his own side 
 of the palace. St. Aignan followed him, leaving the rooms 
 .'n as great a state of despair as he had entered them in a state 
 of delight. Mile, de Tonnay-Oharente, less sensitive than 
 La Valliere, was not much frightened, and did not faint. 
 However, the last look of St. Aignan had hardly been sa 
 majestic as the last look of the king. 
 
4:34 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 ROYAL PSYCHOLOGY. 
 
 The king returned to his apartments with hurried steps. 
 The reason he walked as fast as he did was probably to 
 avoid tottering in his gait. He seemed to leave behind him 
 as he went along a trace of a mysterious sorrow. This 
 gayety of manner, which every one had remarked in him 
 on his arrival, and which they had been delighted to per- 
 ceive, had not perhaps been understood in its true sense; 
 but his stormy departure, his disordered countenance, ail 
 knew,''or at least thought they could tell the reason of. 
 Madame's levity of manner, her somewhat bitter jests — 
 bitter for persons of a sensitive disposition, and particularly 
 for one of the king's character; the great resemblance 
 which naturally existed between the king and an ordinary 
 mortal, were among the reasons assigned for the precipitate 
 and unexpected departure of his majesty. Madame, keen- 
 sighted enough in other respects, did not, however, at first 
 see anything extraordinary in it. It was quite sufficient for 
 her to have inflicted some slight wound upon the vanity or 
 self-esteem of one who, so soon forgetting the engagements 
 he had contracted, seemed to have undertaken to disdain, 
 without cause, the noblest and highest prizes. It was not 
 an unimportant matter for madame, in the present position 
 of affairs, to let the king perceive the difference which ex- 
 isted between the bestowal of his affections on one in a high 
 station, and the running after some passing fancy, like a 
 outh fresh from the provinces. With regard to those 
 igher-placed affections, recognizing their dignity and their 
 unlimited influence, acknowledging in some respects a cer- 
 tain etiquette and display — a monarch not only did not act 
 in a manner derogatory to his high position, but found even 
 a repose, security, mystery, and general respect therein. 
 On the contrary, in the debasement of a common or humble 
 attachment, he would encounter, even among his meanest 
 subjects, carping and sarcastic remarks; he would forfeit 
 his character of infallibility and inviolability. Having de- 
 scended to the region of petty human miseries, he would be 
 subjected to its paltry contentions. In one word, to con- 
 vert the royal divinity into a mere mortal by striking at his 
 heart, or rather, even at his face, like the meanest of his 
 subjects, was to inflict a terrible blow upon the pride of 
 that generous nature. Louis was more easily captivated by 
 
 I 
 
TEN TKARS LAfEit. 43o 
 
 vanity than by affection. Madame had wisely calculated 
 her vengeance, and, it has been seen, also, in what manner 
 she carried it out. Let it not be supposed, however, that 
 madame possessed such terrible passions as the heroines of 
 the Middle Ages possessed, or that she regarded things in a 
 somber point of view; on the contrary, madame, young, 
 amiable, of cultivated intellect, coquettish, loving in her 
 nature, but rather from fancy, or imagination, or ambition, 
 than from her heart — madame, we say, on the contrary, 
 inaugurated that epoch of light and fleeting amusements 
 which distinguished the hundred and twenty years which 
 intervened between the half of the seventeenth century and 
 the three-quarters of the eighteenth. Madame saw, there- 
 lore, or rather fancied she saw, things under their true aspect; 
 she knew that the king, her august brother-in-law, had beea 
 the first to ridicule the humble La Valliere, and that, in 
 accordance with his usual custom, it was hardly probable 
 he would ever love the person who had excited his laughter, 
 even had it been only for a moment. Moreover, was not 
 her vanity present, that evil influence which plays so im- 
 portant a part in that comedy of dramatic incidents called 
 the life of a woman; did not her vanity tell her, aloud, in a 
 subdued voice, in a whisper, in every variety of tone, that 
 she could not, in reality, she a princess, young, beautiful 
 and rich, be compared to the poor La Valliere, as youthful 
 as herself, it is true, but far less pretty, certainly, and 
 utterly poor? And surprise need not be excited with re- 
 spect to madame; for it is known that the greatest char., 
 acters are those who flatter themselves the most in the com- 
 parison they draw between themselves and others, between 
 others and themselves. It may perhaps be asked what was 
 madame's motive for an attack which had been so skillfully 
 combined? Why was there such a display of forces, if it 
 were not seriously the intention to dislodge the king from a 
 heart that had never been occupied before, in which hw 
 seemed disposed to take refuge? Was there any necessity 
 then, for madame to attach so great an importance to La 
 Valliere, if she did not fear her? Yet madame did not fear 
 La Valliere in that point of view in which a historian, who 
 knows everything, sees into the future, or rather, the past. 
 Madame was neither a prophetess nor a sybil; nor could 
 she, any more than another, read what was written in that 
 terrible and fatal book of the future, which records in its 
 ruost secret pages the most serious events. No, madame 
 desired simply to punish the king for having availed himself 
 
436 lEN YEAfiS LATER. 
 
 of secret means altogether feminine in their nature; she 
 wished to prove to him that if he made use of offensive 
 weapons of that nature, she, a woman of ready wit and high 
 descent, would assuredly discover in the arsenal of her 
 imagination defensive weapons proof even against the 
 thrusts of a monarch. Moreover, she wished him to learn 
 that, in a war of that description, kings are held of no 
 account, or, at all events, that kings who fight on their own 
 behalf, like ordinary individuals, may witness the fall of 
 'jheir crown in the first encounter; and that, in fact, if he 
 had expected to be adored by all the ladies of the court 
 from the very first, from a confident reliance on his mere 
 appearance, it was a pretension which was most preposterous 
 and insulting even, for certain persons who filled a higher 
 position than others, and that a lesson being taught in 
 season to this royal personage, who assumed too high and 
 haughty a carriage, would be rendering him a great service. 
 Such, indeed, were madame's reflections with respect to 
 the king. The event itself was not thought of. And in 
 this manner, it will have been seen that she had exercised 
 her influence over the minds of her maids of honor, and 
 with all its accompanying details, had arranged the comedy 
 which had just been acted. The king was completely be- 
 wildered by it; for the first time since he had escaped from 
 the trammels of M. de Mazarin, he found himself treated 
 as a man. A similar severity from any of his subjects 
 would have been at once resisted by him. Les pouvoirs 
 croissent dans la lutte. But to attack women, to be attacked 
 by them, to have been imposed upon by rrfere girls, from 
 the country, who had come from Blois expressly for that 
 purpose, it was the depth of dishonor for a young sovereign 
 full of that pride which his personal advantages and his 
 royal power inspired him with. To show any vexation would 
 have been to admit that he had been touched, like Hamlet, 
 by a sword from which the button had been removed — the 
 isword of ridicule. To show vexation toward women, what 
 "lumiliation ! especially when these women in question have 
 laughter on their side as a means of vengeance. Oh, if 
 instead of leaving all the responsibility of the affair to these 
 women, one of the courtiers had had anything to do with 
 the intrigue, how delightedly would Louis have seized the 
 opportunity of turning the Bastile to a profitable account! 
 But there, again, the king's anger paused, cheeked bj; 
 
TEST TEAES LATEK. 437 
 
 reason. To be the master of armies, of prisons, of an 
 almost divine authority, and to exert that almost almightj 
 power in the service of a petty grudge, would be unworthy 
 not only of a monarch, but even of a man. It was neceS' 
 sary, therefore, simply to swallow the affront in silence, 
 and to wear his usual gentleness and graciousness of expres- 
 sion. It was essential to treat madame as a friend. As a 
 friend! Well, and why not? Either madame had been the 
 instigator of the affair, or the affair itself had found her 
 passive. If she had been the instigator of it, it certainly 
 was a bold measure on her part, but at all events it was but 
 natural in her. Who was it that had sought her in the 
 earliest moments of her married life to whisper words of 
 love in her ear? Who was it that had dared to calculate 
 the possibility of committing a crime against the marriage 
 vow — a crime, too, still more deplorable on account of the 
 relationship between them? Who was it, who, shielded 
 behind his royal authority, had said to this young creature: 
 Be not afraid, love but the King of France, who is above 
 all, aad a movement of whose sceptered hand will protect 
 you against all attacks, even from your own remorse? And 
 she had listened to and obeyed the royal voice, had been 
 influenced by his insnaring tones; and now that she had, 
 morally speaking, sacrificed her honor in listening to him, 
 she saw herself repaid for her sacrifice by an infidelity the 
 more humiliating, since it was occasioned by a woman far 
 beneath her own station in the world. 
 
 Had madame, therefore, been the instigator of the re- 
 venge, she would have been right. If, on the contrary, she 
 had remained passive in the whole affair, what grounds had 
 the king to be angry with her on that account? Was it for 
 her to restrain, or rather, could she restrain, the chatter- 
 ing of a few country girls? and was it for her, by an excess 
 of zeal which might have been misinterpreted, to check, at 
 the risk of increasing it, the impertinence of their conduct? 
 All these various reasonings were like so many actual stings 
 to the king's pride; but when he had carefully, in his own 
 mind, gone over all the various causes of complaint, Louis 
 was surprised, upon due reflection — in other words, after 
 the wound had been dressed — to find that there were other 
 causes of suffering, secret, unendurable, and unrevealed. 
 There was one circumstance which he dared not confess, 
 even to himself; namely, that the acute pain from which he 
 was suffering had its seat in his heart. The fact is, he had 
 T)erQiitted his heart to be gratified by La VaUieire's iouQ- 
 
438 TEN TEARS LATER 
 
 cent confusion. He had dreamed of a pure affection — of 
 an affection for Louis the man, and not the sovereign — of 
 an affection free from all self-interest; and his heart, more 
 youthful and more simple than he had imagined it to be, 
 had bounded forward to meet that other heart which had 
 just revealed itself to him by its aspirations. The common- 
 est thing in the complicated history of love is the double 
 inoculation of love to which any two hearts are subjected; 
 Ihe one loves nearly always before the other, in the same 
 way that the latter finishes nearly always by loving after 
 the other. In this way the electric current is established, 
 in proportion to the intensity of the passion which is first 
 kindled. The more Mile, dc la Valliere had shown her 
 affection, the more the kind's affe tion had increased. And 
 it was precisely that which had surprised his majesty. For 
 it had been fairly demonstrated to him that no sympathetic 
 current had been the means of hurrying his heart away in 
 its course, beciiutje there had been no confession of love in 
 the case — because the conf ssion was, in fact, an insult 
 toward the man and toward the sovereign; and, finally, be- 
 cause — and the word, too, burned like a hot iron — because, 
 in fact, it was nothing but a mystification after all. This 
 girl, therefore, who, in strictness, could not lay claim to 
 beauty, or birth, or great intelligence — who had been 
 selected by madame herself, on account of her unpretend- 
 ing position, had not only aroused the king's regard, but 
 had, moreover, treated him with disdain — he, the king, a 
 man who, like an Eastern potentate, had but to bestow a 
 glance, to indicate with his finger, to throw his handker- 
 chief. And since the previous evening his mind had been 
 so absorbed with this girl that he could think and dream 
 of nothing but her. Since the previous evening his imag- 
 in"tion had 'jeen occupied by clothing her image with all 
 those charms to which she could not lay claim. In very 
 truth, he whom such vast interests summoned, and whom 
 so many women smiled upon invitingly, had, since the pre- 
 vious evening, consecrated every moment of bis time, every 
 throb of his heart, to this sole dream. It was, indeed', 
 either too much or not sufficient. The indignation of the 
 king, making him forget everything, and, among others, 
 that St. Aignan was present, was poured out in the most 
 violent imprecations. True it is that St. Aignan had taken 
 refuge in a corner of the room, and from his corner re- 
 garded the tempest passing over. His own personal disap- 
 poJBtnjept seemed contemptible in comparison with the 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 439 
 
 anger of the king. He compared with his own petty vanity 
 the prodigious pride of offended majesty; and, being well 
 read in the hearts of kings in general, and in those of power- 
 ful kings in particular, he began to ask himself if this 
 weight of anger, as yet held in suspense, would not soon 
 terminate by falling upon his own head, for the very reason 
 that others were guilty and he innocent. In point of fact, 
 the king all at once did arrest his hurried pace, and fixing 
 a look full of anger upon St. Aignan, suddenly cried out: 
 
 "And you, St. Aignan?" 
 
 St. Aignan made a sign which was intended to signify 
 
 "Well, sire?" 
 
 "Yes; you have been as silly as myself, I think." 
 
 "Sire," stammered out St. Aignan. 
 
 "You permitted yourself to be deceived by this shameful 
 trick." 
 
 "Sire," said St. Aignan, whose agitation was such as to 
 make him tremble in every limb, "let me entreat your 
 majesty not to exasperate yourself. Women, you know, 
 are creatures full of imperfections, created for the misfor- 
 tune of others; to expect anything good from them is to re- 
 quire them to do impossibilities." 
 
 The king, who had the greatest consideration for him- 
 self, and who had begun to acquire over his emotions that 
 command which he preserved over them all his life, per- 
 ceived that he was doing an outrage to his own dignity in 
 displaying so much animation about so trifling an object. 
 
 "No," he said hastily, "you are mistaken, St. Aignan; 
 I am not angry; I can only wonder that we should have 
 been turned into ridicule so cleverly and with such boldness 
 by these two young girls. I am particularly surprised that, 
 although we might have informed ourselves accurately on 
 the subject, we were silly enough to leave the matter for 
 our own hearts to decide upon." 
 
 "The heart, sire, is an organ which requires positively to 
 be reduced to its physical functions, but which must be 
 deprived of all its moral functions. For my own part, I 
 confess that when I saw that your majesty's heart was so 
 taken up by this little " 
 
 "My heart taken up! — I? My mind might, perhaps, 
 have been»so; but as for my heart, it was-^ — " 
 
 Louis again perceived that in order to conceal one blank 
 he was about to disclose another. 
 
 "Besides," he added, "I have no fault to find with the 
 girl. I was quite aware that she was in love with some one 
 
440 TEN T/iiA'rt LAItrt. 
 
 "The Vicomte de Bragelonne. I informed your majesty 
 of the circumstance." 
 
 "You did so; but you were not the first who told me. 
 The Comte de la Fere had solicited from me Mademoisello 
 de la Valliere's hand for his son. And on his return from 
 England, the marriage shall be celebrated, since they love 
 each other." 
 
 "I recognize your majesty's generosity of disposition in 
 that act." 
 
 "So, St. Aignan, we will cease to occupy ourselves with 
 these matters any longer," said Louis. 
 
 "Yes, we will digest the afEront, sire," replied the cour- 
 tier, with resignation. 
 
 "Besides, it will be a very easy \natter to do so," said the 
 king, checking a sigh. 
 
 "And, by way of a beginning, I will set about the compo- 
 sition of an epigram upon all three of them. I will call it 
 'The Naiad and Dryad,' which will please madame." 
 
 "Do so, St. Aignan, do so," said the king indifferently. 
 "You shall read me your verses; they will amuse me. Ah! 
 it does not signify, St. Aignan," added the king, like a 
 man breathing with difficulty, "the blow requires more 
 than human strength to support in a dignified manner." 
 
 As the king thus spoke, assuming an air of the most 
 angelic patience, one of the servants in attendance knocked 
 gently at the door. St. Aignan drew aside, out of respect. 
 
 "Come in," said the king. 
 
 The servant partially opened the door. 
 
 "What is it?" inquired Louis. 
 
 The servant held out a letter of a triangular shape. 
 
 "For your majesty," he said. 
 
 "From whom?" 
 
 "I do not know. One of the oflBcers on duty gave it me." 
 
 The valet, in obedience to a gesture of the king, handed 
 him the letter. The king advanced toward the candles, 
 opened the note, read the signature, and uttered a loud 
 cry. St. Aignan was sufficiently respectful not to look on; 
 but without looking on he saw and heard all, ran toward 
 the king, who, with a gesture, dismissed the servant. 
 
 "Oh, heavens!" said the king, as he read the note. 
 
 "Is your majesty unwell?" inquired St. Aignan, stretch' 
 ing forward his arms. 
 
 "No, no, St. Aignan; read!" and he handed tin* iM 
 note. 
 
 St. Aignan's eyes fell upon the signature. 
 
TEK tEARS tAl'Efi. 441 
 
 "La Valliere!" he exclaimed. "Oh, sire!" 
 
 "Eead, read!" 
 
 And St. Aignan read: 
 
 "Forgive my importunity, sire; and forgive, also, the 
 absence of the formalities which may be wanting in.this 
 letter. A note seems to be more speedy and more urgent 
 than a dispatch. I venture, therefore, to address this note 
 to your majesty. I have returned to my own room, over- 
 come with grief and fatigue, sire, and I implore your 
 majesty to grant me the favor of an audience which will 
 enable me to confess the truth to my sovereign. 
 
 "Signed, Louise db la Valliere." 
 
 "Well?" asked the king, taking the letter from St. 
 Aignan's hands, who was completely bewildered by what he 
 had just read. 
 
 "Well!" repeated St. Aignan. 
 
 "What do you think of it?" 
 
 "I hardly know." 
 
 "Still, what is your opinion?" 
 
 "Sire, the young lady must have heard the muttering of 
 the thunder, and has got frightened." 
 
 "Frightened at what?" asked Louis, with dignity. 
 
 "Why, your majesty has a thousand reasons to be angry 
 with the author or authors of so hazardous a joke; and, if 
 your majesty's memory were to be awakened in a disagreea- 
 ble sense, it would be a perpetual menace hanging over the 
 head of this imprudent girl." 
 
 "St. Aignan, I do not think as you do." 
 
 "Your majesty doubtless sees more clearly than myself." 
 
 "Well, I see affliction and restraint in these lines, and 
 more particularly since 1 recollect some of the details of the 
 scene which took place this evening in madame's apart- 
 ments " 
 
 The king suddenly stopped, leaving his meaning unex- 
 pressed. 
 
 "In fact," resumed St. Aignan, "your majesty will grant 
 an audience; nothing is clearer than that in the whole 
 affair." 
 
 "I will do better still, St. Aignan." 
 
 "What is that, sire?" 
 
 "Put on your cloak." 
 
 "But, sire " 
 
 "You know the room where madame's maids of honor 
 are lodged?" 
 
442 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "You know some means of obtaining an entrance there?" 
 
 "As far as that is concerned, I do not." 
 
 "At all events, you must be acquainted with some one 
 there." 
 
 "Jleally, your majesty is the source of every good idea." 
 
 "You do know some one, then? Who is it?" 
 
 "I know a certain gentleman who is on very good terms 
 with a certain young lady there." 
 
 "One of the maids of honor?" 
 
 "Yes, sire." 
 
 "With Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, I suppose?" 
 said the king, laughing. 
 
 "Unfortunately, no, sire; with Montalais." 
 
 "What is his name?" 
 
 "Malicorne." 
 
 "And you can depend on him?" 
 
 "I believe so, sire. He ought to have a key of some sort 
 in his possession; and if he should happen to have one, as I 
 have done him a service, why, he will return it." 
 
 "Nothing could be better. Let us set off, then." 
 
 The king threw his cloak over St. Aignan's shoulders, 
 asked him for his, and then both went out into the 
 vestibule. 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 SHOWING WHAT NEITHER THE NAIAD NOR DRYAD HAD 
 ANTICIPATED. 
 
 St. Aignan stopped at the foot of the staircase which 
 led to the entresol, where the maids of honor were lodged, 
 and to the first floor, where madame's apartments were 
 situated. Then, by means of one of the servants who wasi 
 passing, he sent to apprise Malicorne, who was still with 
 Monsieur. After having waited ten minutes, Malicorne 
 arrived, looking full of suspicion and importance. The 
 king drew back toward the darkest part of the vestibule. 
 St. Aignan, on the contrary, advanced to meet him, but at 
 the first words indicating his wish Malicorne drew back 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Oh, oh!" he said, "you want me to introduce jou into 
 the rooms of the maids ot honor'''" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 443 
 
 "You know very well that I cannot do anything of the 
 kind, without being made acquainted with your object." 
 
 "Unfortunately, my dear Monsieur Malicorne, it is quite 
 impossible for me to give you any explanation; you must, 
 therefore, confide in me as in a friend who got you out of a 
 great difBcnlty yesterday, and who now begs you to draw 
 him out of one to-day." 
 
 "Yet I told you, monsieur, what my object was; that my 
 object was, not to sleep out in the open air, and any man 
 might express the same wish, while you, however, admit 
 nothing." 
 
 "Believe me, my dear Monsieur Malicorne," St. Aignan 
 persisted, "that if I were permitted to explain myself I 
 would do so." 
 
 "In that case, my dear monsieur, it is impossible for me 
 to allow you to enter Mademoiselle de Montalais' apart- 
 ment." 
 
 "Why so?" ~ 
 
 "You know why better than any one else, since you 
 caught me on the wall paying my addresses to Mademoiselle 
 de Montalais; it would, therefore, be an excess of kindness 
 on my part, you will admit, since I am paying my atten- 
 tions to her, to open the door of her room to you." 
 
 "But who told you it was on her account I asked you for 
 the key?" 
 
 "For whom, then?" 
 
 "She does not lodge there alone, I suppose?" 
 
 "No, certainly; for Mademoiselle de la Valliere shares 
 her rooms with her; but, really, you have nothing more to 
 do with Mademoiselle de la Valliere than with Mademoiselle 
 de Montalais, and there are only two men to whom I would 
 give this key — to Monsieur de Bragelonne, if he begged me 
 to give it him, and to the king, if he ordered me to do so." 
 
 "In that case, give me the key, monsieur, I order you to 
 do 80," said the king, advancing from the obscurity, and 
 partially opening his cloak. "Mademoiselle de Montalais 
 will step down to talk with you, while we go upstairs to 
 Mademoiselle de la Valliere, for, in fact, it is she only 
 whom we require." 
 
 "The king!" exclaimed Malicorne, bowing down to the 
 very ground. 
 
 "Yes, the king," said Louis, smiling; "the king, who is 
 as pleased with your resistance as with your capitulation. 
 Eise, monsieur, and render us the service we request of 
 you." 
 
444 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "I obey yonr majesty," said Malicorne, leading the way 
 up the staircase. 
 
 "Get Mademoiselle de Montalais to come down," said the 
 king, "and do not breathe a word to her of my visit." 
 
 Malicorne bowed in sign of obedience, and proceeded up 
 the staircase. But the king, after a hasty reflection, fol- 
 lowed him, and that, too, with such rapidity that, although 
 Malicorne was already more than halfway up the staircase, 
 the king reached the room at the same moment he did. He 
 then observed, by the door which remained half open be- 
 hind Malicorne, La Valliere, sitting in an armchair, with 
 her head thrown back, and in the opposite corner Monta- 
 lais, who, in her dressing-gown, was standing before a look- 
 ing-glass, engaged in arranging her hair, and parleying all 
 the while with Malicorne. The king hurriedly opened the 
 door and entered the room. Montalais called out at the 
 noise made by the opening of the door, and recognizing the 
 king, made her escape. La Valliere rose from her seat, 
 like a dead person who had been galvanized, and then fell 
 back in her armchair. The king advanced slowly toward 
 her. 
 
 "You wished for an audience, I believe," he said coldly; 
 "I am ready to hear you. Speak." 
 
 St. Aignan, faithful to his character of being deaf, blind 
 and dumb, had stationed himself in a corner of the door, 
 upon a stool which he fortuitously found there. Concealed 
 by the tapestry which -covered the doorway, and leaning 
 his back against the wall, he could in this way listen with- 
 out being seen, resigning himself to the post of a good 
 watchdog, who patiently waits and watches without ever 
 getting in his master's way. 
 
 La Valliere, terror-stricken at the king's irritated aspect, 
 again rose a second time, and assuming a posture full of 
 humility and entreaty, murmured: 
 
 "Forgive me, sire." I 
 
 "What need is there for my forgiveness?" asked Louis. 
 
 "Sire, I have been guilty of a great fault; nay, more than 
 a great fault, a great crime." 
 
 "You?" 
 
 "Sire, I have offended your majesty." 
 
 "Not the slightest degree in the world," replied Louis 
 XIV. 
 
 "I implore you, sire, not to maintain toward me that ter-, 
 rible seriousness of manner which reveals your majesty's 
 just anger. I feel I have ofEended you, sire; but I wish to 
 
TEN TDAES LATEft. 445 
 
 explain to you how it was that I have not offended you of 
 my own accord." ' 
 
 "In the first place," said the king, "in what way can you 
 possibly have offended me? I cannot perceive how. Surely 
 not on account of a young girl's harmless and very innocent 
 jest? You turned the credulity of a young man into ridi- 
 cule — it was very natural to do so; any other woman in your 
 place would have done the same." 
 
 "Oh! your majesty overwhelms me by your remark." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "Because, if I had been the author of the jest, it would 
 not have been innocent." 
 
 "Well, is that all you had to say to me in soliciting an 
 audience?" said the king, as though about to turn away. 
 
 Thereupon La Valliere, in an abrupt and broken voice, 
 her eyes dried up by the fire of her tears, made a step 
 toward the king, and said: 
 
 "Did your majesty hear everything?" 
 
 "Everything— what?" 
 
 "Everything I said beneath the royal oak." 
 
 "I did not lose a syllable." 
 
 "And when your majesty heard me, you were able to 
 think I had abused your credulity?" 
 
 "Credulity? Yes, indeed, you have selected the very 
 word." 
 
 "And your majesty did not suppose that a poor girl like 
 myself might possibly be compelled to submit to the will of 
 others?" 
 
 "Forgive me," returned the king; "but I shall never be 
 able to understand that she, who, of her own free will, 
 could express herself so unreservedly beneath the royal oak, 
 would allow herself to be influenced to such an extent by 
 the direction of others." 
 
 "But the threat held out against me, sire." 
 
 "Threat! who threatened you — who dared to threaten 
 you?" 
 
 "They who have the right to do so, sire." 
 
 "I do not recognize any one as possessing the right to 
 threaten in my kingdom." 
 
 "Forgive me, sire; but near your majesty even there are 
 persons sufficiently high in position to have, or to believe 
 that they possess, the right of injuring a young girl without 
 fortune and possessing only her reputation." 
 
 "In what way injure her?" 
 
 "In depriving her of her reputation, by disgracefully ex- 
 pelling her from th§. court." 
 
446 TEN TEAES LATEB. * 
 
 "Oh, Madamoiselle de la Valliere," said the king bit- 
 terly, "I prefer those persons who exculpate themselves 
 without incriminating others." 
 
 "Sire!" 
 
 "Yes; and I confess that I greatly regret to perceive that 
 an easy justification as your own might be should have been 
 complicated in my presence by a tissue of reproaches and 
 imputations against others." 
 
 "And which you do not believe?" exclaimed La Valliere. 
 
 The king remained silent. 
 
 "Nay, but tell me," repeated La Valliere vehemently. 
 
 "I regret to confess it," repeated the king, bowing coldly. 
 
 The young girl uttered a deep groan, striking her hands 
 together in despair. 
 
 "You do not believe me, then," said the king, who still 
 remained silent, while poor La Valliere 's features became 
 visibly changejd at his continued silence. 
 
 "Therefore, you believe," she said, "that I settled this 
 ridiculous, this infamous plot of trifling in so shameless a 
 manner with your majesty?" 
 
 "Nay," said the king; "it is neither ridiculous nor in- 
 famous, it is not even a plot; it is merely a jest, more or 
 less amusing, and nothing more." 
 
 "Oh!" murmured the young girl, "the king does not, 
 and will not, believe me, then?" 
 
 "No, indeed, I will not believe you," said the king. 
 "Besides, in point of fact, what can be more natural? The 
 king, you argue, follows me, listens to me, watches me; 
 the king wishes perhaps to amuse himself at my expense; I 
 will amuse myself at his, and as the king is very tender- 
 hearted, I will take his heart by storm." 
 
 La Valliere hid her face in her hands as she stifled her 
 sobs. The king continued most pitilessly; he revenged 
 himself upon the poor victim before him for all that he 
 had himself suffered. 
 
 "Let us invent, then, this story of my loving him and 
 preferring him to others. The king is so simple and so 
 conceited that he will believe me; and then we can go and 
 tell others how credulous the king is, and can enjoy a laugh 
 at his expense." 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed La Valliere, "to think that, to believe 
 that! it is frightful." 
 
 "And," pursued the king, "that is not all; if this self- 
 conceited prince should take our jest seriously, if he should 
 be imprudent enough to exhibit before others anything like 
 
TEK YEARS LATES. 447 
 
 delighv at it, weil, in that case, the king will oe humiliated 
 before the whole court; and what a delightful story it will 
 be, too, for him to whom I am really attached, a part of 
 my dowry for my husband, to have the adventure to relate 
 of the king who was so amusingly deceived by a young girl." 
 
 "Sire!" exclaimed La Valliere, her mind bewildered, 
 almost wandering, indeed, "not another word, I implore 
 you; you do not see that you are killing me?" 
 
 "A jest, nothing but a jest," murmured the king, who, 
 however, began to be somewhat afEected. 
 
 La Valliere fell upon her knees, and that so violently 
 that their sound could be heard upon the hard floor. 
 
 "Sire," she said, "I prefer shame to disloyalty." 
 
 "What do you mean?" inquired the king, without mov- 
 ing a step to raise the young girl from her knees. 
 
 "Sire, when I shall have sacrificed my honor and my reason 
 both to you, you will perhaps believe in my loyalty. The 
 tale which was related to you in madame's apartments, and 
 by madame herself, is utterly false; and that which I said 
 beneath the great oak " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "That only is the truth." 
 
 "What!" exclaimed the king. 
 
 "Sire," exclaimed La Valliere, hurried away by the 
 violence of her emotions, "were I to die of shame on the 
 very spot where my knees are fixed, I would repeat it until 
 my latest breath; I said that I loved you, and it is true; 
 I do love you." 
 
 "You!" 
 
 "I have loved you, sire, from the very day I first saw 
 you, from the moment when at Blois, where I was pining 
 away my existence, your royal looks, full of light and life, 
 were first bent upon me. I love you still, sire; it is & crime of 
 high treason, I know, that a poor girl like myself should love 
 her sovereign, and should presume to tell him so. Punish 
 me for my audacity, despise me for my shameless immodesty, 
 but do not ever say, do not ever think, that I have jested 
 with or deceived you. I belong to a family whose loyalty 
 has been proved, sire, and I, too, love my king." 
 
 Suddenly her strength, voice, and respiration ceased, and 
 she fell forward, like the flower Virgil alludes to, which 
 the scythe of the reaper touched as it passed over. The 
 king, at these words, at this vehement entreaty, no longer 
 retained either ill-will or doubt in his mind; his whole 
 heart seemed to expand at the ^■lowing breath of an afFec" 
 
448 TEK TEAES LATER. 
 
 tion which proclaimed itself in such a noble and courageous 
 language. When, therefore, he heard the passionate con- 
 fession of that young girl's affection, his strength seemed 
 to fail him, and he hid his face in his hands. But when he 
 felt La Valliere's hands clinging to his own, when theii 
 warm pressure fired his blood, he bent forward, and passing 
 his arm round La Valliere's waist, he raised her from the 
 ground and pressed her against his heart. But she, her 
 drooping head fallen forward on her bosom, seemed to have 
 ceased to live. The king, terrified, called out for St. Aignan . 
 St. Aignan, who had carried his discretion so far as to remain 
 without stirring in his corner, pretending to wipe away a 
 tear, ran forward at the king's summons. He then assisted 
 Louis to seat the young girl upon a couch, slapped her 
 hands, sprinkled some Hungary water over her face, call- 
 ing out all the while: 
 
 "Come, come, it is all over; the king believes you, and 
 forgives you. There, there, now! take care, or you will 
 agitate his majesty too much; his majesty is so sensitive, 
 so tender-hearted. Now, really. Mademoiselle de la Yal- 
 liere, you must pay attention, for the king is very pale." 
 
 The fact was, the king was visibly losing color. But La 
 Valliere did not move. 
 
 "Do, pray, recover," continued St. Aignan; "I beg, I 
 implore you; it is really time you should. Think only of 
 one thing, that if the king should become unwell I should 
 be obliged to summon his physician. What a state of 
 things that would be! So do, pray, rouse yourself; make 
 an effort, pray do, and do it at once, too." 
 
 It was difficult to display more persuasive eloquence than 
 St. Aignan did, but something still more powerful and of a 
 more energetic nature than this eloquence aroused La Val- 
 liere. The king, who was kneeling before her, covered the 
 palms of her hands with those burning kisses which are to 
 the hands what a kiss upon the lips is to the face. La Val- 
 liere's senses returned to her; she languidly opened her 
 eyes, and, with a dying look, murmured: 
 
 "Oh, sire, has your majesty pardoned me, then?" 
 
 The king did not reply, for he was still too much over- 
 come. 
 
 St. Aignan thought it his duty again to retire, for he 
 observed the passionate devotion which was displayed in 
 the king's gaze. La Valliere rose. 
 
 "And now, sire, that I have justified myself, at least -I 
 trust so, in your majesty's eyes, grant me leave to retire 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 449' 
 
 into a convent. I shall bless your majesty all my life, and 
 I shall die there thanking and loving Heaven for having 
 granted me one day of perfect happiness." 
 
 "No, no," replied the king, "you will live here, blessing 
 Heaven, on the contrary, but loving Louis, who will make 
 your existence one of perfect felicity — Louis who loves you 
 — Louis who swears it." 
 
 "Oh, sire! sire!" 
 
 And upon this doubt of La Valliere, the king's kisses 
 became so warm that St. Aignan thought it his duty to 
 retire behind the tapestry. These kisses, however, which 
 she had not had the strength at first to resist, began to in- 
 timidate the young girl. 
 
 "Oh, sire!" she exclaimed, "do not make me repent my 
 loyalty, for it would show me that your majesty despises 
 me still." 
 
 "Mademoiselle de la Valliere," said the king, suddenly 
 drawing back with an air full of respect, "there is nothing 
 in the world that I love and honor more than yourself, and 
 nothing in my court, I call Heaven to witness, shall be so 
 highly regarded as you shall be henceforward. I entreat 
 your forgiveness for my transport; it arose from an excess 
 of afEection, but I can prove to you that I shall love still 
 more than ever by respecting you as much as you can possi- 
 bly desire." 
 
 Then, bending before her, and taking her by the hand, 
 he said to her: 
 
 "Will you honor me by accepting the kiss I press upon 
 your hand?" 
 
 And the king's lips were pressed respectfully and lightly 
 upon th© young girl's trembling hand. 
 
 "Henceforth," added Louis, rising and bending his 
 glance upon La Valliere, "henceforth you are under my 
 safeguard. Do not speak to any one of the injury I have 
 done you, forgive others that which they may have been 
 able to do you. For the future you shall be so far above 
 all those that, far from inspiring you with fear, they shall 
 be even beneath your pity." 
 
 And he bowed as reverently as though he were leaving a 
 place of worship. Then, calling St. Aignan, who ap- 
 proached with great humility, he said: 
 
 "I hope, comte, that Mademoiselle de la Valliere will 
 kindly confer a little of her friendship upon you in return 
 for that which I have vowed to her eternally." 
 
 St. Aignan bent his knee before La Valliere, saying: 
 
450 TEN TEAUS LATER. 
 
 "How happy, indeed, would such an honor make me!" 
 
 "I shall send your companion back to you," said the 
 king. "Farewell, or rather, adieu till we meet again. Do 
 not forget me in your prayers, I entreat." 
 
 "Oh, no!" said La Valliere, "be assured that you and 
 Heaven are in my heart together." 
 
 These words of Louise elated the king, who, full of hap- 
 piness, hurried St. Aignan down the stairs. Madame had 
 not anticipated this termination, and neither the Naiad nor 
 the Dryad had said a word about it. 
 
 CHAPTEE LX. 
 
 THE NEW GENBEAL OF THE JESUITS. 
 
 While La Valliere and the king were mingling together 
 in their first confession of love all the bitterness of the 
 past, all the happiness of the present, and all the hopes of 
 the future, Fouquet had retired to the apartments which 
 had been assigned to him in the chateau, and was convers- 
 ing with Aramis precisely upon the very subjects which the 
 king at that moment was forgetting. 
 
 "Now tell me," began Fouquet, after having installed his 
 guest in an armchair, and seated himself by his side, "tell 
 me. Monsieur d'Herblay, what is our position with regard 
 to the Belle-Isle affair, and whether you have received any 
 news about it." 
 
 "Everything is going on in that direction as we wish," 
 replied Aramis; "the expenses have been paid, and nothing 
 has transpired of our designs." 
 
 "But what about the soldiers whom the king wished to 
 send there?" 
 
 "I have received news this morning that they had arrived 
 there fifteen days ago." 
 
 "And how have they been treated?" 
 
 "In the best manner possible." 
 
 "What has become of the former garrison?" 
 
 "The soldiers were landed at Sarzeau, and were sent oft 
 at once toward Quimper." 
 
 "And the new garrison?" 
 
 "Belongs to us from this very moment." 
 
 "Are you sure of what you say, my dear Monsieur de 
 Vannes?" 
 
TEN YEARS lATEft. 451 
 
 "Quite sure, and, moreover, you will see by and by how 
 matters have turned out." 
 
 "Still, you are very well aware that of all the garrison 
 towns Belle-Isle is precisely the very worst." 
 
 "I know it, and have acted accordingly; no space to move 
 about, no communications, no cheerful society, no gam- 
 bling permitted; well, it is a great pity," added Aramis, 
 with one of those smiles so peculiar to him, "to see how 
 much young people at the present day seek amusement, 
 and how much, consequently, they incline toward the man 
 who procures and pays for such amusements for them." 
 
 "But if they amuse themselves at Belle-Isle?" 
 
 "If they amuse themselves through the king's means, 
 they will attach themselves to the king; but if they get 
 bored to death through the king's means, and amuse them- 
 selves through Monsieur Fouquet, they will attach them- 
 selves to Monsieur Fouquet." 
 
 "And you informed my intendant, of course, so that im- 
 mediately on their arrival " 
 
 "By no means; they were left alone a whole week, to 
 weary themselves at their ease; but at the end of the week 
 they cried out, saying that the last officers amused them- 
 selves more than they did. Whereupon they were told that 
 the old officers had been able to make a friend of Monsieur 
 Fouquet, and that Monsieur Fouquet, knowing them to be 
 friends of his, had from that moment done all he possibly 
 could to prevent their getting wearied or bored upon his 
 estates. Upon this they began to reflect. Immediately 
 afterward, however, the intendant added that, without an- 
 ticipating Monsieur Fouquet's orders, he knew his master 
 sufiBciently well to be aware that he took an interest in 
 every gentleman in the king's service, and that, although 
 he did not know the newcomers, he would do as much for 
 them as he had done for the others." 
 
 "Excellent; and I trust that the promises were followed 
 up? I desire, as you know, that no promise should ever bo 
 made in my name without being kept." 
 
 "Without a moment's loss of time, our two privateers, 
 and your own horses, were placed at the disposal of the 
 oflBcers; the keys of the principal mansion were handed 
 over to them, so that they made up hunting-parties and 
 walking-excursions with such ladies as are to be found in 
 Belle-Isle, and such others as they are enabled to enlist 
 from the neighborhood who have no fear of seasickness." 
 
452 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "And there is a fair sprinkling to be met with at Sarzeau 
 and Vannes, I believe, your eminence?" 
 
 "Yes; all along the coast," said Aramis quietly. 
 
 "And now for the soldiers?" 
 
 "Everything is precisely .the same, in a relative degree, 
 you understand; the soldiers have plenty of wine, excellent 
 provisions, and good pay." 
 
 "Very good; so that " 
 
 "So that this garrison can be depended upon, and it is a 
 better ons than the last." 
 > "Good." 
 
 ' "The result is, if Fortune favors us, so that the garrisons 
 are changed in this manner, only every two months, that, 
 at the end of every three years, the whole army will, in its 
 turn, have been there; and, therefore, instead of having 
 one regiment in our favor, we shall have fifty thousand 
 men." 
 
 "Yes, yes; I knew perfectly well," said Fouquet, "that 
 no friend could be more incomparable and invaluable than 
 yourself, my dear Monsieur d'Herblay; but," he added, 
 laughing, "all this time we are forgetting our friend, Du 
 Vallon. What has become of him? During the three days 
 I have spent at St. Mande, I confess I have forgotten him 
 completely." 
 
 "I do not forget him, however," returned Aramis. 
 "Porthos is at St. Mande; all his joints are kept well 
 greased, the greatest care is being taken of him with regard 
 to the food he eats and to the wines he drinks; I advise 
 him to take daily airings in the small park, which you have 
 kept for your own use, and he makes use of it accordingly. 
 He begins to walk again, he exercises his muscular powers 
 by bending down young elm-trees, or making the old oaks 
 fly into splinters, as Milo of Crotona used to do; and, as 
 there are no lions in the park, it is not unlikely we shall 
 find him alive. Porthos is a brave fellow." 
 
 "Yes; but in the meantime he will get wearied to death." 
 
 "He never does that." 
 
 "He will be asking questions." 
 
 "He sees no one." 
 
 "At all events, he is looking or hoping for something or 
 another." 
 
 "I have inspired in him a hope which we will realize some 
 fine morning, and he subsists on that." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "That of being presented to the king." 
 
TEN YEAKS LATER. 453 
 
 "Oh, oh! in what character?" 
 
 "As the engineer of Belle-Isle, of course." 
 
 "Is it possible?" 
 
 "Quite true." 
 
 "Shall we not be obliged, then, to send him back to 
 Belle-Isle?" 
 
 "Most certainly; I am even thinking of sending him back 
 as soon as possible. Porthos is very fond of display; he is 
 a man whose weaknesses D'Artagnan, Athos, and myself 
 are alone ac(^uainted with; he never commits himself in any 
 way; he is dignity itself; to the ofiBcers there he would 
 seem like a paladin of the time of the Crusades. He would 
 make the whole staff drunk without getting so himself, and 
 every one will regard him as an object of admiration and 
 sympathy; if, therefore, it should happen that we should 
 have any orders requiring to be carried out, Porthos is an 
 incarnation of the order itself, and whatever he chose to do 
 others would find themselves obliged to submit to." 
 
 "Send him back, then." 
 
 "That is what I intend to do; but in a few days only, for 
 I must not omit to tell you one thing." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "I begin to suspect D'Artagnan. He is not at Fontaine- 
 bleau, as you may have noticed, and D'Artagnan is never 
 absent, or apparently idle, without some object in view. 
 And now that my own affairs are settled, I am going to try 
 and ascertain what the affairs are in which D'Artagnan is 
 engaged." 
 
 "Your own affairs are settled, you say?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You are very fortunate in that case, then, and I should 
 like to be able to say the same." 
 
 "I hope you do not make yourself uneasy." 
 
 "Hum!" 
 
 "Nothing could be better than the king's reception oi 
 you." 
 
 "True." 
 
 "And Colbert lets you be quiet." 
 
 "Almost so." 
 
 "In that case," said Aramis, with that connection of ideas 
 which marked him, "in that case, then, we can bestow a 
 thought upon the young girl I was speaking to you about 
 yesterday." 
 
 "Whom do you mean?" 
 
 "What, have you forgotten already? Imean Ln V»lliere." 
 
454 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "Ah! of course, of course." 
 
 "Do you object, then, to try and make a conquest of 
 her?" 
 
 "In one respect only, my heart is engaged in another 
 direction; and I positively do not care about the girl in the 
 least." 
 
 "Oh, oh!" said Aramis, "your heart is engaged, you say. 
 The deuce! we must take care of that." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because it is terrible to have the heart occupied when 
 others beside yourself have so much need of the head." 
 
 "You are right. So, you see, at your first summons I left 
 everything. But to return to this girl. What good do you 
 see in my troubling myself about her?" 
 
 "This: the king, it is said, has taken a fancy to her; at 
 least, so it is supposed." 
 
 "But you, who know everything, know very differently." 
 
 "I know that the king has changed with great rapidity; 
 that the day before yesterday he was mad about madame; 
 that a few days ago Monsieur complained of it, even to the 
 queen-mother, and that some conjugal misunderstandings 
 and maternal scoldings were the consequence." 
 
 "How do you know all that?" 
 
 "I do know it; at all events, since these misunderstand- 
 ings and scoldings, the king has not addressed a word, has 
 not paid the slightest attention, to her royal highness." 
 
 "Well, what next?" 
 
 "Since then he has been taken up with Mademoiselle de 
 la Valliere. Now, Mademoiselle de la Valliere is one of 
 madame's maids of honor. You happen to know, I sup- 
 pose, what is called a chaperon in matters of love. Well, 
 then. Mademoiselle de la Valliere is madame's chaperon. 
 it is for you, therefore, to take advantage of this state of 
 things. You have no occasion for me to tell you that. 
 But, at all events, wounded vanity will render the conquest 
 an easier one; the girl will get hold of the king, and ma- 
 dame's secret, and you can hardly tell what a man of intel- 
 ligence can do with a secret." 
 
 "But how to get at her?" 
 
 "Nay, you, of all men, to ask me such a question?" said 
 Aramis. 
 
 "Very true. I shall not have any time to take any 
 notice of her." 
 
 "She is poor and unassuming; you will create a position 
 for her, and. ivhether she becomes the king's master, or bia 
 
TEN" TEAKS LATEK. 455 
 
 mistress, or whether she only becomes his confidante, you 
 will only have made a new proficient." 
 
 "Very good," said Fonquet. "What is to be done, then, 
 with regard to this girl?" 
 
 "Whenever you have taken a fancy to any lady. Monsieur 
 Pouquet, what steps have you taken?" 
 
 "I have written to her, protesting my devotion to her. I 
 have added how happy I should be to render her any service 
 in my power, and have signed 'Fouquet' at the end of the 
 letter." 
 
 "And has any one offered any resistance?" 
 
 "One person only," replied Fouquet. "But four days 
 ago she yielded, as the others had done." 
 
 "Will you take the trouble to write?" said Aramis, hold- 
 ing a pen toward him, which Fouquet took, saying: 
 
 "I will write at your dictation. My head is so taken up 
 in another direction, that I should not be able to write a 
 couple of lines." 
 
 "Very well," said Aramis, "write." 
 
 And he dictated as follows: 
 
 "I have seen, and you will not be surprised to learn, how 
 beautiful I have found you. But, for want of the position 
 you merit at the court, your presence there is a waste of 
 time. The devotion of a man of honor, should ambition of 
 any kind inspire you, might possibly serve as a means of 
 display for your talents and beauty. I place my devotion 
 at your feet; but, as an affection, however reserved and 
 unpresuming it may be, might possibly compromise the 
 object of its worship, it would ill become a person of your 
 merit running the risk of being compromised without her 
 future being insured. If you would deign to accept, and 
 reply to my affection, my affection shall prove its gratitude 
 to you in making you free and independent forever." 
 
 Having finished writing, Fouquet looked at Aramis. 
 
 "Sign it," said the latter. 
 
 "Is it absolutely necessary?" 
 
 "Your signature at the foot of that letter is worth a mil- 
 lion; you forget that." 
 
 Fouquet signed. 
 
 "Now, by whom do you intend to send the letter?" asked 
 Aramis. 
 
 "By an excellent servant of mine," 
 
 "Can you rely on him?" 
 
456 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "He is a man who has been with me all my life." 
 
 "Very well. Besides, in this case, we are not playing tot 
 very heavy stakes." 
 
 "How so? For if what you say be true of the accommo- 
 dating disposition of this girl for the king and madame, the 
 king will give her all the money she can ask for." 
 
 "The king has money, then?" asked Aramis. 
 
 "I suppose so, for he has not asked me for any more." 
 
 "Be easy; he will ask for some soon." 
 
 "Nay, more than that, I had thought he would have 
 spoken to me about the fete at Vaux, but he never said a 
 word about it." 
 
 "He will be sure to do so, though." 
 
 "You must think the king's disposition a very cruel one, 
 Monsieur d'Herblay." 
 
 "It is not he who is so." 
 
 "He is young, and therefore his disposition is a kind one." 
 
 "He is young, and either he is weak or his passions are 
 strong, and Monsieur Colbert holds his weaknesses and his 
 passions in his villainous grasp." 
 
 "You admit that you fear him?" 
 
 "I do not deny it." 
 
 "In that case, I am lost." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "My only influence with the king has been through the 
 money I commanded, and now I am a ruined man." 
 
 "Not so." 
 
 "What do you mean by 'not so?' Do you know my affairs 
 better than myself?" 
 
 "That is not unlikely." 
 
 "If he were to request this fete to be given?" 
 
 "You will give it, of course." 
 
 "But where is the money to come from?" * 
 
 "Have you ever been in want of any?" 
 
 "Oh! if you only knew at what a cost I procured the last 
 supply." 
 
 The next shall cost you nothing." 
 
 "But who will give it me?" 
 
 "I will." 
 
 "What, give me six millions?" 
 
 "Ten, if necessary." 
 
 "Upon my word, D'Herblay," said Fouquet, "your con- 
 fidence alarms me more than the king's displeasure. Who 
 can you possibly be, after all?" 
 
 "You know me well enough, I should think.' 
 
TEN TEARS tATBE. 457 
 
 "Of course; but what is it you are aiming at?^' 
 
 "I wish to see upon the throne of France a king devoted 
 to Monsieur Fouquet, and I wish Monsieur Fouquet to be 
 devoted to me." 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Fouquet, pressing his hand, "as for 
 belonging to you, I am yours entirely; but believe me, my 
 dear D'Herblay, you are deceiving yourself." 
 
 "In what respect?" 
 
 "The king will never become devoted to me." 
 
 "I do not remember to have said that the king would be 
 devoted to you." 
 
 "Why, on the contrary, you have this moment said so." 
 
 "I did not say the king; I said a king." 
 
 "Is it not all the same?" 
 
 "No; on the contrary, it is quite different." 
 
 "I do not understand you^' 
 
 "You will do so shortly, then; suppose, for instance, the 
 king in question were to be a very different person to Louis 
 XIV." 
 
 "Another person?" 
 
 "Yes, who is indebted for everything to you." 
 
 "Impossible." 
 
 "His very throne, even." 
 
 "You are mad, D'Herblay. There is no man living be- 
 sides Louis XIV. who can sit on the throne of France. I 
 see none, not one." 
 
 "But I see one." 
 
 "Unless it be Monsieur," said Fouquet, looking at 
 Aramis uneasily; "yet Monsieur " 
 
 "It is not Monsieur." 
 
 "But how can it be, that a prince not of the royal line, 
 that a prince without any right " 
 
 "My king, or rather your king, will be everything that 
 is necessary, be assured of that." 
 
 "Be careful. Monsieur d'Herblay; you make my blood 
 run cold, and my head swim." 
 
 Aramis smiled. 
 
 "There is but little occasion for that," he replied. 
 
 "Again, I repeat, you terrify me," said Fouquet. 
 
 Aramis smiled. 
 
 "You laugh!" said Fouquet. 
 
 "The day will come when you will laugh, too; only, at 
 the present moment, I must laugh alone." 
 
 "But explain yourself." 
 
 "When the proper day shall have arrived, I will explain 
 all. Fear nothing. Have faith in me, and doubt nothing." 
 
458 tEK YEARS LATEK. 
 
 "The fact is, I cannot but doubt, because I do not see 
 clearly, or at all even." 
 
 "That is because of your blindness; but a day will come 
 when you will be enlightened." 
 
 "Oh!" said Pouquet, "how willingly would I believe." 
 
 "You, without belief, you, who, through my means, have 
 ten times crossed the abyss yawning at your feet, and in 
 which, had you been alone, you would have been irretrieva- 
 bly swallowed up; you, without belief; you, who, from pro- 
 cureur-general attained the rank of intendant, from the rank 
 of intendant that of the first minister of the crown, and 
 who, from the rank of first minister, will pass to that of 
 mayor of the palace. But no," he said, with the same unal- 
 tered smile, "no, no, you cannot see, and, consequently, 
 cannot believe that." 
 
 And Aramis rose to withdraw. 
 
 "One word more," said Fouquet; "you have never yet 
 spoken to me in this manner, you have never yet shown 
 yourself so confident, I should rather say, so daring." 
 
 "Because it is necessary, in order to speak confidently, to 
 have the lips unfettered." 
 
 "And that is now your case?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Since a very short time, then?" 
 
 "Since yesterday only." 
 
 "Oh, Monsieur d'Herblay, take care; your confidence is 
 becoming audacity." 
 
 "One can well be audacious when one is powerful." 
 
 "And you are powerful?" 
 
 "I have already offered you ten millions, I offer them 
 again to you." 
 
 Fouquet rose, much agitated and disturbed. 
 
 "Come," he said, "come; you spoke of overthrowing 
 kings, and replacing them by others. If, indeed, I am not 
 really out of my senses, is or is not that what you said just 
 now?" 
 
 "You are by no means out of your senses, for it is per- 
 fectly true; I did say all that just now." 
 
 "And why did you say so?" 
 
 "Because it is easy to speak in this manner of thrones 
 being cast down and kings being raised up when one is, 
 one's self, far above all kings and thrones, of this world at 
 least." 
 
 "Your power is infinite, then?" cried Fouquet. 
 
 "I have told you so already, and I repeat it," replied 
 Aramis, with glistening ejes and trembling lips. 
 
TElSr TEARS LATER. 459 
 
 Fouquet threw himself back in his chair, and buried his 
 face in liis hands. Aramis looked at him for a moment, as 
 the angel of human destinies might have looked upon a 
 simple mortal being. 
 
 "Adieu," he said to him; "sleep undisturbed, and send 
 your letter to La Valliere. To-morrow we shall see each 
 other again." 
 
 "Yes, to-morrow," said Fouquet, shaking his hand like 
 a man returning to his senses. "But where shall we see 
 each other?" 
 
 "At the king's promenade, if you like." 
 
 "Agreed." 
 
 And they separated. 
 
 CHAPTiEE LXL 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 The dawn of the following day was dark and gloomy, 
 and as every one knew that the promenade was set down in 
 the royal programme, every one's gaze, as his eyes were 
 opened, was directed toward the sky. Just above the tops 
 of the trees a thick, suilocating vapor seemed to remain 
 suspended, with hardly sufficient power to rise thirty feet 
 above the ground under the influence of the sun's rays, 
 which could barely be seen through the veil of a heavy and 
 thick mist. No dew had fallen in the morning; the turf 
 was dried up for want of moisture, the flowers were with- 
 ered. The birds sung less inspiritingly than usual amid the 
 boughs, which remained as motionless as death. The 
 strange, confused, and animated murmurs, which seemed 
 born of, and to exist by the sun, that respiration of nature 
 which is unceasingly heard amid all other sounds, could 
 not be heard now, and never had the silence been so pro- 
 found. The king had noticed the cheerless aspect of the. 
 heavens as he approached the window immediately after 
 rising. But as all the necessary directions had been given 
 respecting the promenade, and every preparation had been 
 made accordingly, and as, which was far more imperious 
 than anything else, Louis relied upon this promenade to 
 satisfy the cravings of his imagination, and we will even 
 already say, the clamorous desires of his heart — the king 
 unhesitatingly decided that the appearance of the heavens 
 had nothiTig whatever to do with the matter; that the 
 
460 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 promenade was arranged, and that, whatever the state ol 
 the weather might be, the promenade should take place. 
 Besides, there are certain terrestrial sovereigns who seem to 
 have accorded them privileged existences, and there are 
 certain times when it might almost be supposed that the 
 expressed wish of an earthly monarch has its influence over 
 the divine will. It was Virgil who observed of Augustus: 
 Node placet tota redeunt spectacula mane. Louis attended 
 mass as usual, but it was evident that his attention was 
 somewhat distracted from the presence of the Creator by 
 the remembrance of the creature. His mind was occupied 
 during the service in reckoning more than once the number 
 of minutes, then of seconds, which separated him from the 
 blissful moment when the promenade would begin, that is 
 to say, the moment when madame would set out with her 
 maids of honor. Besides, as a matter of course, everybody 
 at the chateau was ignorant of the interview which had 
 taken place between La Valliere and the king. Montalais, 
 
 Eerhaps, with her usual chattering propensity, might have 
 een disposed to talk about it; but Montalais, on this occa- 
 sion, was held in check by Malicorne, who had placed upon 
 her lips the padlock of mutual interest. As for Louis 
 XIV., his happiness was so extreme that he had forgiven 
 madame, or nearly so, her little piece of ill-nature of the 
 previous evening. In fact, he had occasion to congratulate 
 himself about it rather than to complain of it. Had it not 
 been for her ill-natured action he would not have received 
 the letter from La Valliere; had it not been for the letter he 
 would have had no interview; and had it not been for the 
 interview he would have remained undecided. His heart 
 was filled with too much happiness for any ill-feeling to 
 remain in it, at that moment, at least. Instead, therefore, 
 of knitting his brows into a frown when he perceived his 
 sister-in-law, Louis resolved to receive her in a more friendly 
 and gracious manner than usual. But on one condition 
 only, that she would be ready to set out early. Such was 
 the nature of Louis' thought during mass, and which made 
 him, during the ceremony, forget matters, which, in his 
 character of Most Christian King and of the eldest son of 
 the Church, ought to have occupied his attention. He re- 
 turned to the chateau, and as the promenade was fixed for 
 midday only, and it was at present just ten o'clock, he set 
 to work most desperately with Colbert and Lyonne. But 
 even while he worked Louis went from the table to the 
 window, inasmuch as the window looked out upon madame's 
 
TEN TEAES lATEE. 461 
 
 pavilion; he could see M. Fouquefc in the courtyard, to 
 whom the courtiers, since the favor shown toward him on 
 the previous evening, paid greater attention than ever. 
 The king instinctively, on noticing Fouquet, turned toward 
 Colbert, who was smiling, and seemed full of benevolence 
 and delight, a state of feeling which had arisen from the 
 very moment one of his secretaries had entered and handed 
 him a pocketbook, which he had put unopened into his 
 pocket. But as there was always something sinister at the 
 bottom of any delight expressed by Colbert, Louis pre- 
 ferred, of the smiles of the two men, that of Fouquet, He| 
 beckoned to the surintendant to come up, and then, turn- 
 ing toward Lyonne and Colbert, he said: 
 
 "Finish this matter, place it on my desk, and I will read 
 it at my leisure." 
 
 And he left the room. At the sign the king had made 
 to him Fouquet had' hastened up the staircase, while 
 Aramis, who was with the surintendant, quietly retired 
 among the group of courtiers, and disappeared without 
 having been even observed by the king. The king and 
 Fouquet met at the top of the staircase. 
 
 "Sire," said Fouquet, remarking the gracious manner in 
 which Louis was about to receive him, "your majesty has 
 overwhelmed me with kindness during the last few days. 
 It is not a youthful monarch, but a being of a higher order, 
 who reigns over France, one whom pleasure, happiness, and 
 love acknowledge as their master." 
 
 The king colored. The compliment, although flattering, 
 was not the less somewhat direct. Louis conducted Fou- 
 quet to a small room which separated his study from his 
 sleeping apartment. 
 
 "Do you know why I summoned you?" said the king, as 
 he seated himself upon the edge of the window, so as not to 
 lose anything that might be passing in the gardens which 
 fronted the opposite entrance to madame's pavilion. 
 
 "No, sire," replied Fouquet, "but I am sure for some- 
 thing agreeable, if I am to judge from your majesty's 
 gracious smile." 
 
 "You are mistaken, then." 
 
 "I, sire?" 
 
 "For I summoned you, on the contrary, to pick a quarrel 
 with you." 
 
 "With me, sire?" 
 
 "Yes; and that a serious one." 
 
 "Your majesty alarms me — and yet I was most confident 
 in your justice and goodnessi'^. 
 
462 TEK YEARS LATER. 
 
 "Do you know I am told. Monsieur Fouquet, that you aie 
 preparing a grand /e7e at Vaux?" 
 
 Fouquet smiled, as a sick man would do at the first shiver 
 of a fever which has left him, but returns again. 
 
 "And that you have not invited me!" continued the king. 
 
 "Sire," replied Fouquet, "I have not even thought of the 
 fete you speak of, and it was only yesterday evening that 
 one of n\j friends," Fouquet laid a stress upon the word, 
 "was kind enough to make me think of it." 
 
 "Yet I saw you yesterday evening, Monsieur Fouquet, 
 and you said nothing to me about it." 
 
 "How dared I hope that your majesty would so greatly 
 descend from your own exalted station as to honor my 
 dwelling with your royal presence?" 
 
 "Excuse me. Monsieur Fouquet, you did not speak to 
 me about your fete." 
 
 "I did not allude to the fete to your majesty, I repeat, in 
 the first place, because nothing had been decided with 
 regard to it, and, secondly, because I feared a refusal." 
 
 "And something made you fear a refusal. Monsieur Fou- 
 quet? You see, I am determined to push you hard." 
 
 "The profound wish I had that your majesty should 
 accept my invitation " 
 
 "Well, Monsieur Fouquet, nothing is easier, I perceive, 
 than our coming to an understanding. Your wish is to in- 
 vite me to your fete; my own is to be present at it; invite 
 me, and I will go." 
 
 "Is it possible that your majesty will deign to accept?" 
 murmured the surintendant. 
 
 "Why, really, monsieur," said the king, laughing, "I 
 think I do more than accept, I think I invite myself." 
 
 "Your majesty overwhelms me with honor and delight!" 
 exclaimed Fouquet, "but I shall be obliged to repeat what 
 Monsieur de Vieuville said to your ancestor, Henry IV., 
 Domine, non sum dignus." 
 
 "To which I reply. Monsieur Fouquet, that if you give a 
 fete I will go, whether I am invited or not." 
 
 "I thank your majesty deeply," said Fouquet, as he 
 raised his head beneath this favor, which he was convinced 
 would be his ruin. 
 
 "But how could your majesty have been informed of it?" 
 
 "By public rumor. Monsieur Fouquet, which says such 
 wonderful things of yourself and of the marvels of your 
 house. Would you become proud, Monsieur Fouquet, if 
 the king were to be jealous of ^ou?" 
 
TEN TEAKS LATER. 463 
 
 "I should be the happiest man in the world, sire, since 
 the very day on which your majesty were to he Jealous of 
 Vaux I should possess something worthy of being offered to 
 you." 
 
 "Very well. Monsieur Fouquet; prepare your fete, and 
 open the doors of your house as wide as possible." 
 
 "It is for your majesty to fix the day." 
 
 "This day month, then." 
 
 "Has your majesty any further commands?" 
 
 "Nothing, Monsieur Fouquet, except from the present 
 moment until then to have you near me as mueh as possible. " 
 
 "I have the honor to form one of your majesty's party 
 for the promenade." 
 
 "Very good; I am now going out, indeed, for there are 
 the ladies, I see, who are going to start." 
 
 With this remark the king, with all the eagerness, not 
 only of a young man, but of a young man in love, withdrew 
 from the window, in order to take his gloves and cane, 
 which his valet held ready for him. The neighing of the 
 horses and the rumbling of the wheels on the gravel of the 
 courtyard could be distinctly heard. The king descended 
 the stairs, and at the moment he made his appearance upon 
 the flight of steps every one stopped. The king walked 
 straight up to the young queen. The queen-mother, who 
 was still suffering more than ever from the illness with 
 which she was afflicted, did not wish to go out. Maria 
 Theresa accompanied madame in her carriage, and asked 
 the king in what direction he wished the promenade to take 
 place. The king, who had just seen La Valliere, still pale 
 from the events of the previous evening, get into a carriage 
 with three of her companions, told the queen that he had 
 no preference, and wherever she would wish to go there 
 would he be with her. The queen then desired that the 
 outriders should proceed in the direction of Apremont. 
 The outriders' set off accordingly before the others. The 
 king rode on horseback, and for a few minutes accompanied 
 the carriage of the queen and madame, with his hand rest- 
 ing upon the door. The weather had cleared up a little, 
 but a kind of veil of dust, like a thick gauze, was still 
 spread over the surface of the heavens, and the sun made 
 every glittering atom of dust glisten again within the cir- 
 cuit of its rays. The heat was stifling; but as the king did 
 not seem to pay any attention to the appearance of the 
 heavens, no one made himself uneasy about it and the 
 promenade, in obedience to the orders which had been given 
 
464 TtelT YEARS LATER. 
 
 by the queen, took its course in the direction of Apremont. 
 The courtiers who followed were merry and full of spirits; 
 it was very evident that every one tried to forget, and to 
 make others forget, the bitter discussions of the previous 
 evening. Madame, particularly, was delightful. In fact, 
 seeing the king at the door of her carriage, as she did not 
 suppose he would be there for the queen's sake, she hoped 
 that her prince had returned to her. Hardly, however, 
 had they proceeded a quarter of a mile on the road, when 
 the king, with a gracious smile, saluted them and drew up 
 his horse, leaving the queen's carriage to pass on, then that 
 of the principal ladies of honor, and then all the others in 
 succession, who, seeing the king stop, wished, in their 
 turn, to stop, too; but the king made a sign to them to 
 continue their progress. When La Valliere's carriage 
 passed the king approached it, saluted the ladies who were 
 inside, and was preparing to accompany the carriage con- 
 taining the maids of honor, in the same way he had followed 
 that in which madame was, when suddenly the whole file of 
 carriages stopped. It was probable that madame, uneasy 
 at the king having left her, had just given directions for 
 the performance of this maneuver, the direction in which 
 the promenade was to take place having been left to her. 
 The king having sent to inquire what her object was in 
 stopping the carriages, was informed, in reply, that she 
 wished to walk. She, very likely, hoped that the king, 
 ( who was following the carriages of the maids of honor on 
 horseback, would not venture to follow the maids of honor 
 themselves on foot. They had arrived in the middle of the 
 forest. The promenade, in fact, was not ill-timed, especially 
 for those who were dreamers or lovers. From the little 
 open space where the halt had taken place, three beautiful 
 long walks, shady and undulating, stretched out before 
 them. These walks were covered with moss, with leaves 
 lying scattered idly about; and each walk had its horizon 
 in the distance, consisting of about a handbreadth of sky, 
 apparent through the interlacing of the branches of the 
 trees. At the end of the walks, evidently in great tribula- 
 tion and uneasiness, the startled deer were seen hurrying to 
 and fro, first stopping for a moment in the middle of the 
 path, and then raising their heads they fied with the speed 
 of an arrow or bounded into the depths of the forest, where 
 they disappeared from view; now and then a rabbit of 
 philosophical mien could be noticed quietly sitting upright, 
 rubbing his muzzle with his forepaws, and looking about 
 
TEN- TEARS LATER. 465 
 
 Inquiringly, as though wondering whether all these people, 
 who were approaching in his direction, and who had just 
 disturbed him in his meditations and his meal, were not 
 followed by their dogs or had not their guns under their 
 arms. All alighted from their carriages as soon as they 
 observed that the queen was doing so. Maria Theresa took 
 the arm of one of her ladies of honor, and, with a side- 
 glance toward the king, who did not perceive that he was 
 m the slightest degree the object of the queen's attention, 
 entered the forest by the first path before her. Two of the 
 outriders preceded her majesby with long poles, which they 
 used for the purpose of putting the branches of the trees 
 aside, or removing the bushes which might impede her prog- 
 ress. As soon as madame alighted she found the Comte 
 de Quiche at her side, who bowed and placed himself at 
 her disposal. Monsieur, delighted with his bath of the two 
 previous days, had announced his preference for the river, 
 and, having given De Guiche leave of absence, remained at 
 the chdteau with the Chevalier de Lorraine and Manicamp. 
 He was not in the slightest degree jealous. He had been 
 looked for to no purpose among those present; but as Mon- 
 sieur was a man who thought a great deal of himself and 
 usually added very little to the general pleasure, his absence 
 had rather been a subject of satisfaction than of regret. 
 Every one had followed the example which the queen and 
 madame had set, doing just as they pleased, according as 
 chance or fancy influenced them. The king, we have 
 already observed, remained near La Valliere, and, throwing 
 himself ofE his horse at the moment the door of her carriage 
 was opened, he offered her his hand to alight. Montalais 
 and Tonnay-Charente immediately drew back and kept at 
 a distance; the former from calculated, the latter from 
 prudent, motives. There was this difference, however, be- 
 tween the two, that the one had withdrawn from a wish to 
 please the king, the other for a very opposite reason. Dur- 
 mg the last half-hour the weather also had undergone a 
 change; the veil which had been spread over the sky, as if 
 driven by a blast of heated air, had become massed together 
 in the western part of the heavens; and afterward, as if 
 driven by a current of air from the opposite direction, was 
 now advancing slowly and heavily toward them. The ap- 
 proach of the storm could be felt, but as the king did not 
 perceive it, no one thought it was right to do so. The 
 promenade was therefore continued; some of the company, 
 with minds ill at ease on the subject, raised their eyes from 
 
466 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 time to time toward the sky; others, even more timid still, 
 walked about without wandering too far from the carriages, 
 where they relied upon taking shelter in case the storm 
 burst. The greater number of these, however, observing 
 that the king fearlessly entered the wood with La Valliere, 
 followed his majesty. The king, noticing this, took La 
 Valliere's hand, and led her by a side-path, where no one 
 this time ventured to follow him. 
 
 CHAPTER LXII. 
 
 THE SHOWER OF KAIlf. 
 
 At this moment, and in the same direction, too, that the 
 king and La Valliere were proceeding, except that they 
 were walking in the wood itself, instead of following the 
 path, two men were walking together, utterly indifferent to 
 the appearance of the heavens. Their heads were bent 
 down in the manner of people occupied with matters of 
 great moment. They had not observed either De Guiche 
 or madame, or the king, or La Valliere. Suddenly some- 
 thing passed through the air like a stream of fire, followed 
 by a loud but distant rumbling noise. 
 
 "Ah!" said one of them, raising his head, "here is the 
 storm. Let us reach our carriages, my dear D'Herblay." 
 
 Aramis looked inquiringly at the heavens. 
 
 "There is no occasion to hurry yet," he said; and then, 
 resuming the conversation where it had doubtlessly been 
 interrupted, he said: 
 
 "You were observing that the letter we wrote last even- 
 ing must by this time have reached its destination?" 
 
 "I was saying that she certainly has it." 
 
 "Whom did you send it by?" 
 
 "By my own servant, as I have already told you." 
 
 "Did he bring back an answer?" 
 
 "I have not seen him since; the young girl was probably 
 in attendance on madame, or was in laer own room, dress- 
 ing, and he may have had to wait. Our time for leaving 
 arrived, and we set oS, of course. I cannot, therefore, 
 know what is going on yonder." 
 
 "Did you see the king before leaving?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How did he eeem?" 
 
 "Nothing could be better, pp y?c,r^Q. ftQqQr^iag ag he l)t 
 
TEK YEAfiS LATEK. iGl 
 
 "And the fete?" 
 
 "Will take place in a month." 
 
 "He invited himself, you say?" 
 
 "With a pertinacity in which I detected Colbert's in- 
 fluence. But has not last night removed your illusions?" 
 
 "What illusions?" 
 
 "With respect to the assistance you may be able to give 
 me in this circumstance." 
 
 "No; I have passed the night writing, and all my orders 
 are given." 
 
 "Do not conceal it from yourself, D'Herblay, but the fSte 
 will cost some millions." 
 
 "I will give six; do you, on your side, get two or three." 
 
 "You are a wonderful man, my dear D'Herblay." 
 
 Aramis smiled. 
 
 "But," incjuired Fouquet, with some remaining uneasi- 
 ness, "how is it that, while now you are squandering mil- 
 lions in this manner, a few days ago you did not pay the 
 fifty thousand francs to Baisemeaux out of your own 
 pocket?" 
 
 "Because a few days ago I was as poor as Job." 
 
 "And to-day?" 
 
 "To-day I am wealthier than the king himself." 
 
 "Very well," said Fouquet. "I understand men pretty 
 well; I know you are incapable of forfeiting your word; I 
 do not wish to wrest your secret from you, and so let us 
 talk no more about it." 
 
 At this moment a dull, heavy rumbling was heard, 
 which suddenly burst forth in a violent clap of thunder. 
 
 "Oh, oh!" said Fouquet, "I was quite right in what I 
 said." 
 
 "Come," said Aramis, "let us rejoin the carriages." 
 
 "We shall not have time," said Fouquet, "for here comes 
 the rain." 
 
 In fact, as he spoke, and as if the heavens were opened, a 
 shower of large drops of rain was suddenly heard falling on 
 the trees about them. 
 
 "We shall have time," said Aramis, "to reach the ca.: 
 riage before the foliage becomes saturated." 
 
 "It will be better," said Fouquet, "to take shelter some- 
 where — in a grotto, for instance." 
 
 "Yes, but where are we to- find a grotto?" inquired 
 Aramis. 
 
 "I know one," said Fouquet, smiling, "not ten paces 
 from here." Then, looking round about him, he added[, 
 "'Yes; we are quite lishi '' 
 
468 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 "You are very fortunate to have so good a memory," 
 said Aramis, smiling in his turn; "but are you not afraid 
 that your coachman, finding we do not return, will suppose 
 we have taken another road back, and that he will not fol- 
 low the carriages belonging to the court?" 
 
 "Oh, there is no fear of that," said Fouquet; "whenever 
 I place my coachman and my carriage in any particular 
 spot, nothing but an express order from the king could stir 
 them; and, more than that, too, it seems that we are not 
 the only ones who have come so far, for I hear footsteps 
 and the sound of voices." 
 
 As he spoke, Fouquet turned round, opened with his 
 cane a mass of foliage which hid the path from his view. 
 Aramis' glance as well as his own plunged at the same 
 moment through the opening he had made. 
 
 "A woman," said Aramis. 
 
 "And a man," said Fouquet. 
 
 "It is La Valliere and the king," they both exclaimed 
 together. 
 
 "Oh, oh!" said Aramis, "is his majesty aware of your 
 cavern as well? I should not be astonished if he were, for 
 he seems to be on very good terms with the nymphs of 
 Fontainebleau. " 
 
 "It matters little," said Fouquet; "let us get there; if 
 he is not aware of it we shall see what he will do; if he 
 should know it, as it has two entrances, while he enters by 
 one we can leave by the other." 
 
 "Is it far?" asked Aramis, "for the rain is beginning to 
 penetrate." 
 
 "We are there now," said Fouquet, as he put aside a few 
 branches, and an excavation of the rock could be observed, 
 v/hich had been entirely concealed by heath, ivy, and a 
 thick covert of small shrubs. 
 
 Fouquet led the way, followed by Aramis; but as the 
 latter entered the grotto he turned around, saying: 
 
 "Yes, they are now entering the wood; and see, they are 
 bending their steps this way." 
 
 "Very well; let us make room for them," said Fouquet, 
 smiling and pulling Aramis by his cloak; "but I do not 
 think the king knows of my grotto." 
 
 "Yes," said Aramis, "they are looking about them, but 
 it is only for a thicker tree." 
 
 Aramis was not mistaken, the king's looks were directed 
 upward, and not around him. He held La Valliere's arm 
 within his own, and held her hand in his. La Valliere's 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 469 
 
 feet began to slip on the damp grass. Louis again looked 
 round him with greater attention than befo?'e, and perceiv- 
 ing an enormous oalc with widespreading branches, he hur- 
 riedly drew La Valliere beneath its protecting shelter. The 
 poor girl looked round her on all sides, and seemed half- 
 afraid, half-desirous of being followed. The king made her 
 lean her back against the trunk of the tree, whose vast cir- 
 cumference, protected by the thickness of the foliage, was 
 as dry as if at that moment the rain had not been falling in 
 torrents. He himself remained standing before her with 
 his head uncovered. After a few minutes, however, some 
 drops of rain penetrated through the branches of the tree 
 and fell on the king's forehead, who did not pay any atten- 
 tion to it. 
 
 "Oh, sire!" murmured La Valliere, pushing the king's 
 hat toward him. But the king simply bowed, and deter- 
 minedly refused to cover his head. 
 
 "Now or never is the time to ofEer your place," said 
 Fouquet, in Aramis' ear. 
 
 "Now or never is the time to listen, and not lose a sylla- 
 ble of what they may have to say to each other," replied 
 Aramis, in Fouquet's ear. 
 
 In fact, they both remained perfectly silent, and the 
 king's voice reached them where they were. 
 
 "Believe me," said the king, "I perceive, or rather I 
 can imagine your uneasiness; believe how sincerely I regret 
 to have isolated you from the rest of the company, and to 
 have brought you also to a spot where you will be incon- 
 venienced by the rain. You are wet already, and perhaps 
 are cold, too?" 
 
 "No, sire." 
 
 "And yet you tremble?" 
 
 "I am afraid, sire, that my absence may be misinter- 
 preted; at a moment, too, when all the others are reunited." 
 
 "I would not hesitate to propose returning to the car- 
 riages. Mademoiselle de la Valliere; but pray look and 
 listen, and tell me if it be possible to attempt to make the 
 slightest progress at the present." 
 
 In fact, the thunder was still rolling, and the rain con- 
 tinued to fall in torrents. 
 
 "Besides," continued the king, "no possible interpreta- 
 tion can be made which would be to your discredit. Are you 
 not with the King of France — in other words, with the first 
 gentleman of the kingdom?" 
 
 "Certainly, sire," replied La Valliere, "and it is a very 
 
470 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 distinguished honor for me; it is not, therefore, for myself 
 that I fear the interpretations that may be made." 
 
 "For whom, then?" 
 
 "For yourself, sire." 
 
 "For me?" said the king, smiling. "I do not under- 
 stand you." 
 
 "Has your majesty already forgotten what took place 
 yesterday evening in her royal highness' apartments?" 
 
 "Oh! forget that, I beg, or allow me to remember it for 
 no other purpose than to thank you once more for your 
 letter, and ■" 
 
 "Sire," interrupted La Valliere, "the rain is falling, and 
 your majesty's head is uncovered." 
 
 "I entreat you not to think of anything but yourself." 
 
 "Oh! I," said La Valliere, smiling, "I am a country girl, 
 accustomed to roaming through the meadows of the Loire 
 and the gardens of Blois, whatever the weather may be. 
 And as for my clothes," she added, looking at her simple 
 muslin dress, "your majesty sees they do not run much 
 risk." 
 
 "Indeed, I have already noticed, more than once, that 
 you owed nearly everything to yourself, and nothing to 
 your toilet. Your freedom from coquetry is one of your 
 greatest charms in my eyes." 
 
 "Sire, do not make me out better than I am, and say, 
 merely, 'You cannot be a coquette.' " 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "Because," said La Valliere, smiling, "I am not rich.' 
 
 "You admit, then," said the king quickly, "that you 
 have a love for beautiful things." 
 
 "Sire, I only regard those things as beautiful which are 
 within my reach. Everything which is too highly placed 
 for me " 
 
 "You are indifferent to?" 
 
 "Is foreign to me, as being prohibited." 
 
 "And I," said the king, "do not find that you are at my 
 court on the footing you should be. The services of your 
 family have not been sufficiently brought under my notice. 
 'The advancement of your family has been cruelly neglectel 
 by my uncle." 
 
 "On the contrary, sire. His royal highness, the Duke 
 of Orleans, had always been exceedingly kind toward Mon- 
 sieur de St. Eemy, my father-in-law. The services rendered 
 were humble, and, properly speaking, our services have 
 been adequately recognized. It is not every one who J3 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 471 
 
 happy enough to find opportunities of serving his sovereign 
 with distinction. I have no doubt at all that, if ever 
 opportunities had been met with, my family's actions would; 
 but that happiness has never been ours." 
 
 "In that case. Mademoiselle de la Valliere, it belongs to 
 kings to repair the want of opportunity, and most de- 
 lightedly do I undertake to repair in your instance, and 
 with the least possible delay, the wrongs of fortune toward 
 you." 
 
 "Nay, sire," cried La Valliere eagerly; "leave things, I 
 beg, as they now are." 
 
 "Is it possible! You refuse what I ought, and what I 
 wish to do for you?" 
 
 "All I desired has been granted me, when the honor was 
 conferred upon me of forming one of madame's household." 
 
 "But if you refuse for yourself, at least accept for your 
 family." 
 
 "Your generous intention, sire, bewilders and makes me 
 apprehensive, for, in doing for my family what your kind- 
 ness urges you to do, your majesty will raise up enemies 
 for us, and enemies for yourself, too. Leave me in my 
 mediocrity, sire; of all the feelings and sentiments I ex- 
 perience, leave me to enjoy that pleasing delicacy of disin- 
 terestedness." 
 
 "The sentiments you express," said the king, "are in- 
 deed admirable." 
 
 "Quite true," murmured Aramis in Fouquet's ear, "and 
 he cannot be accustomed to them." 
 
 "But," replied Fouquet, "suppose she were to make a 
 similar reply to my letter." 
 
 "True!" said Aramis, "let us not anticipate, but wait 
 the conclusion." 
 
 "And then, dear Monsieur d'Herblay, added the surin- 
 tendant, hardly able to appreciate the sentiments which La 
 Valliere had just expressed, "it is very often a sound calcu- 
 lation to seem disinterested with monarchs." 
 
 "Exactly what I was thinking this very minute," said 
 Aramis. "Let us listen." 
 
 The king approached nearer to La Valliere, and as the 
 rain dripped more and more through the foliage of the oak, 
 he held his hat over the head of the young girl, who raised 
 her beautiful blue eyes toward the royal hat which sheltered 
 hfa:',. and shook her head, sighing deeply as she did so. 
 
 "What melancholy thought," said the king, "can possi- 
 bly reach your heart when I place mine as a rampart i?efQr9 
 it?" 
 
472 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "I will tell you, sire. I had already once before broached 
 this question, which is so difficult for a young girl of my 
 age to discuss, but your majesty imposed silence on me. 
 Your majesty belongs not to yourself alone — you are mar- 
 ried; and every sentiment which would separate your 
 majesty from the queen, in leading your majesty to take 
 notice of me, will be a source of the profoundest sorrow for 
 the queen." The king endeavored to interrupt the young 
 girl, but she continued with a suppliant gesture. "The 
 ^ueen Maria, with an attachment which can be so well un- 
 derstood, follows with her eyes every step of your majesty 
 which separates you from her. Happy enough in having 
 had her fate united to your own, she weepingly implores 
 Heaven to preserve you to her, and is jealous of the faintest 
 throb of your heart bestowed elsewhere." The king again 
 seemed anxious to speak, but again did La Valliere venture 
 to prevent him. "Would it not, therefore, be a most 
 blamable action," she continued, "if your majesty, a wit- 
 ness of this anxious and disinterested affection, gave the 
 queen any cause for her jealousy? Forgive me, sire, for 
 the expression I have used. I well know it is impossible, 
 or rather that it would be impossible, that the greatest 
 queen of the whole world could be jealous of a poor girl 
 like myself. But, though a queen, she is still a woman, 
 and her heart, like that of any of her sex, cannot close 
 itself against the suspicions which such as are evilly disposed 
 insinuate. For Heaven's sake, sire, think no more of me; 
 I am unworthy of your regard!" 
 
 "Do you not know that in speaking as you have done yon 
 change my esteem for you into admiration?" 
 
 "Sire, you assume my words to be contrary to the truth; 
 you suppose me to be be^tter than I really am, and attach a 
 greater merit to me than God ever intended should be the 
 case. Spare me, sire; for, did I not know that your majesty 
 was the most generous man in your kingdom, I should be- 
 lieve you were jesting." 
 
 "You do not, I know, fear such a thing; I am quite sure 
 of that," exclaimed Louis. 
 
 _ "I shall be obliged to believe it, if your majesty con- 
 tinues to hold such language toward me." 
 
 "I am most unhappy, then," said the king, in a tone of 
 regret which was not assumed; "lam the unhappiest prince 
 in the whole Christian world, since I am powerless to induce 
 belief in my words, in one whom I love the best in the wide 
 world, and who almost breaks my heart by refusing to 
 credit my regard for h** " 
 
TTiK yeaes later. 473 
 
 "Oh, sire!" said La Valliere, gently putting the king 
 aside, who had approached nearer to her, "1 think the 
 storm has passed away now, and the rain has ceased." At 
 the very moment, however, as the poor girl, fleeing, as it 
 were, from her own heart, which doubtlessly throbbed too 
 much in unison with the king's, uttered these words, the 
 storm undertook to contradict her. A bluish flash of light- 
 ning illumined the forest with a wild, weird-like glare, and 
 a peal of thunder, like a discharge of artillery, burst over 
 'itheir very heads, as if the height of the oak which sheltered 
 'them had attracted the storm. The young girl could not 
 repress a cry of terror. The king with one hand drew her 
 toward his heart, and stretched the other above her head, 
 as though to shield her from the lightning. A moment's 
 silence ensued, as the group, delightful as everything young 
 and loving is delightful, remained motionless, while Fou- 
 quet and Aramis contemplated it in attitudes as motionless 
 as La Valliere and the king. "Oh, sire, sire!" murmured La 
 Valliere, "do you hear?" and her head fell upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Yes," said the king. "You see, the storm has not 
 passed away." 
 
 "It is a warning, sire." The king smiled. "Sire, it is 
 the voice of Heaven in anger," 
 
 "Be it so," said the king. "I agree to accept that peal 
 of thunder as a warning, and even as a menace, if, in five 
 minutes from the present moment, it is renewed with equal 
 violence; but if not, permit me to think that the storm is a 
 storm simply, and nothing more." And the king, at the 
 same moment, raised his head, as if to interrogate the 
 heavens. But, as if the remark had been heard and ac- 
 cepted, during the five minutes which elapsed after the 
 burst of thunder which had alarmed them, no renewed peal 
 was heard; and when the thunder was again heard, it was 
 passing away in so audible a manner, as if, during those 
 same five minutes, the storm, put to flight, had traversed 
 the heavens with the speed of the wings of the wind. 
 "Well, Louise," said the king, in a low tone of voice, "will 
 you still threaten me with the anger of Heaven; and, since 
 you wished to regard the storm as a presentiment, will you 
 still believe that presentiment to be one of misfortune?" 
 
 The young girl looked up, and saw that while they had 
 been talking the rain had penetrated the foliage above them 
 and was trickling down the king's face. "Oh, sire, sire!" 
 she eiclaimed, in accents of eager apprehension which 
 
iH TEir YEARS tATEfi. 
 
 greatly agitated the king. "Is it for me," she murmured, 
 "that the king remains thus uncovered and exposed to the 
 rain? What am I, then?" 
 
 "You are, you perceive," said the king, "the divinity 
 who dissipates the storm and brings back fine weather." 
 In fact, a ray of sunlight streamed through the forest, and 
 caused the rain-drops which rested upon the leaves, or fell 
 vertically among the openings in the branches of the trees, 
 to glisten like diamonds. 
 
 "Sire," said La Valliere, almost overcome, but making a 
 powerful effort over herself, "think of the anxieties your 
 majesty will have to submit to on my account. At this 
 very moment they are seeking you in every direction. The 
 queen must be full of uneasiness; and madame — oh, rna- 
 dame!" the young girl exclaimed, with an expression which 
 almost resembled terror. 
 
 This name had a certain effect upon the king. He 
 started, and disengaged himself from La Valliere, whom he 
 had, till that moment, held pressed against his heart. He 
 then advanced toward the path, in order to look round, and 
 returned, somewhat thoughtfully, to La Valliere. "Ma- 
 dame, did you say?" he remarked. 
 
 "Yes, madame; she, too, is jealous," said La Valliere, 
 with a marked tone of voice; and her eyes, so timorous in 
 their expression, and so modestly furtive in their glance, 
 for a moment ventured to look inquiringly into the king's 
 eyes. 
 
 "Still," returned Louis, making an effort over himself, 
 "it seems to me that madame has no reason, no right to be 
 jealous of me." 
 
 "Alas!" murmured La Valliere. 
 
 "Are you, too," said the king, almost in a tone of re- 
 proach, "are you among those who think the sister has a 
 right to be jealous of the brother?" 
 
 "It is not for me, sire, to penetrate your majesty's; 
 secrets." 
 
 "You do believe it, then?" exclaimed the king. 
 
 "I do believe madame is jealous, sire," La Valliere re- 
 plied firmly. 
 
 "Is it possible," said the king, with some anxiety, "that 
 you have perceivod it, then, from her conduct toward you? 
 Have her manners in any way been such toward you that 
 you can attribute them to the jealousy you speak of?" 
 
 "Not at all, sire; I am of so little importance." 
 
 "Oh! if it were really the case — " exclaimed Louis 
 violently. 
 
TEK TEARS LATHE. 475 
 
 "Sire," interrupted the young girl, "it has ceased rain- 
 ing; some one is coming, I think." And, forgetful of all 
 etiquette, she had seized the king by the arm. 
 
 "Well," replied the king, "let them come. Who is there 
 who would venture to think I had done wrong in remaining 
 alone with Mademoiselle de la Valliere?" 
 
 "For pity's sake, sire! they will think it strange to see 
 you wet through in this manner, and that you should have 
 run such risk for me." 
 
 "I have simply done my duty as a gentleman," said 
 Louis; "and woe to him who may fail in his in criticising 
 his sovereign's conduct." In fact, at this moment, a few 
 eager and curious faces were seen in the walk, as if engaged 
 in a search, and who, observing the king and La Valliere, 
 seemed to have found what they were seeking. They were 
 some of the courtiers who had been sent by the queen and 
 madame, and who immediately uncovered themselves, in 
 token of having perceived his majesty. But Louis, not- 
 withstanding La Valliere's confusion, did not quit his re- 
 spectful and tender attitude. Then, when all the courtiers 
 were assembled in the walk — when every one had been able 
 to perceive the mark of deference with which he had treated 
 the young girl, by remaining standing and bareheaded dur- 
 ing the storm — he offered her his arm, led her toward the 
 group who were waiting, recognized by an inclination of 
 the head the respectful salutations which were paid him on 
 ail sides, and, still holding his hat in his hand, he conducted 
 her to her carriage. And as the rain still continued to fall — 
 a last adieu of the despairing storm — the other ladies, whom 
 respect had prevented getting into their carriages before 
 the king, remained, and altogether unprotected by hood 
 and cloak, exposed to the rain from which the king, with 
 his hat over her, was protecting, as much as he was able, 
 the humblest among them. The queen and madame must, 
 like the others, have witnessed this exaggerated courtesy of 
 the king. Madame was so disconcerted at it that she 
 touched the queen with her elbow, saying, at the same 
 time, "Look there, look there!" 
 
 The queen closed her eyes as if she had been suddenly 
 seized with a fainting attack. She lifted her hand to her 
 face and entered her carriage, madame following her. The 
 king again mounted his horse, and without showing a 
 preference for any particular carriage-door, he returned to 
 Fontaineblaau, the reiaa banging over his horse's neck. 
 
476 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 peared, and the sound of the horses and carriages grew 
 fainter in the distance, and when they were certain, in fact, 
 that no one could see them, Aramis and Fouquet came out 
 of their grotto, and both of them in silence passed slowly on 
 toward the walk. Aramis looked most narrowly not only 
 at the whole extent of the open space stretching out before 
 and behind him, but even into the very depth of the wood. 
 
 "Monsieur Fouquet," he said, when he had quite satisfied 
 himself that they were alone, "we must get back, at any 
 cost, the letter you wrote to La Valliere." 
 
 "That will be easy enough," said Fouquet, "if my servant 
 has not given it to her." 
 
 "In any case, it must be done, do you understand?" 
 
 "Yes; the king is in love with this girl, you mean?" 
 
 "Exceedingly so; and what is worse, is that, on her side, 
 the girl is personally attached to the king." 
 
 "As much as to say that we must change our tactics, I 
 suppose?" 
 
 "Not a doubt of it; you have no time to lose. You must 
 see La Valliere, and, without thinking any more of becom- 
 ing her lover, which is out of the question, must declare 
 yourself her dearest friend and her most humble servant." 
 
 "I will do so," replied Fouquet,"and without the slight- 
 est feeling of disinclination, for she seems a good-hearted 
 girl." 
 
 "Or a clever one," said Aramis; "but in that case the 
 greater reason." Tlaen he added, after a moment's pause, 
 "If I am not mistaken, that girl will become the strongest 
 passion of the king. Let us return to our carriage, and, as 
 fast as possible, to the chateau." 
 
 CHAPTEE LXIII. 
 
 TOBY. 
 
 TvfO hours after the surintendant's carriage had set off 
 by Aramis' directions, conveying them both toward Fon- 
 tainebleau with the fleetness of the clouds which the last 
 breath of the tempest was hurrying across the face of the 
 heavens. La Valliere was closeted in her own apartment, 
 with a simple muslin wrapper round her, having just 
 finished a slight repast, which was placed upon a small 
 marble table. Suddenly the door was opened, and a servant 
 entered to announce M. Fouquet, who iiad called to request 
 
TEK TEARS tATER. 477 
 
 permission to pay his respects to her. She made him re- 
 peat the message twice over, for the poor girl only knew M. 
 Fouquet hy name, and could not conceive what she could 
 possibly have to do with a surintendant of finances. How- 
 ever, as he might possibly come from the king — and after 
 the conversation we have recorded it was likely — she glanced 
 at her mirror, drew out still more the long ringlets of her 
 hair, and desired him to be admitted. La Valliere could 
 not, however, refrain from a certain feeling of uneasiness. 
 A visit from the surintendant was not an ordinary event in 
 xhe life of any woman attached to the court. Fouquet, so 
 notorious for his generosity, his gallantry, and his sensitive 
 delicacy of feeling with regard to women generally, had 
 received more invitations than he had requested audiences. 
 In many houses the presence of the surintendant had been 
 significant of fortune; in many hearts, of love. Fouquet 
 entered the apartment with a manner full of respect, pre- 
 senting himself with that ease and gracefulness of manner 
 which was the distinctive characteristic of the men of emi- 
 nence of that period, and which at the present day seems no 
 longer to be understood, even in the portraits of the period 
 in which the painter has endeavored to recall them into 
 being. La Valliere acknowledged the ceremonious saluta- 
 tion which Fouquet addressed to her by a gentle inclination 
 of the head, and motioned him to a seat. But Fouquet, 
 with a bow, said, "I will not sit down until you have par- 
 doned me." 
 
 "I?" asked La Valliere, "pardon what?" 
 
 Fouquet fixed a most piercing look upon the young girl, 
 and fancied he could perceive in her face nothing but the 
 most unaffected surprise. "I observe," he said, "that you 
 have as much generosity as intelligence, and I read in your 
 eyes the forgiveness I solicit. A pardon pronounced by 
 your lips is insufficient for me, and I need the forgiveness 
 of your heart and mind." 
 
 "Upon my honor, monsieur," said La Valliere, "I assure 
 you most positively I do not understand your meaning." 
 
 "Again, that is a delicacy on your part which charms 
 me," replied Fouquet, "and I see you do not wish me to 
 blush before you." 
 
 "Blash! blush before me! Why should you blush?" 
 
 "Can I have deceived myself," said Fouquet, "and can I 
 have been happy enough not to have offended you by my 
 conduct toward you?" 
 
 "Keally, monsieur/' said La Valliere, shrugging her 
 
4'?8 TElf YEARS LATEK. 
 
 shoulders, "you speak in enigmas, and I suppose I am too 
 ignorant to understand you." 
 
 "Be it so," said Fouquet; "I will not insist. Tell me 
 only, I entreat you, that I may rely upon your full and 
 complete forgiveness." 
 
 "I have but one reply to make to you, monsieur," said 
 La Valliere, somewhat impatiently, "and I hope that will 
 satisfy you. If I knew the wrong you have done me, I 
 would forgive you, and I would do so with still greater 
 reason since I am ignorant of the wrong you allude to." 
 
 Fouquet bit his lips, as Aramis would have done. "In 
 that case," he said, "I may hope, that, notwithstanding 
 what has happened, our good understanding will remain 
 undisturbed, and that you will kindly confer the favor upon 
 me of believing in my respectful friendship." 
 
 La Valliere fancied that she now began to understand, 
 and said to herself, "I should not have believed Monsieur 
 Fouquet so eager to seek the source of a favor so very 
 recent," and then added aloud, "Your friendship, mon- 
 sieur! you offer me your friendship. The honor, on the 
 contrary, is mine, and I feel overpowered by it." 
 
 "I am aware," replied Fouquet, "that the friendship of 
 the master may appear more brilliant and desirable than 
 that of the servant; but I assure you the latter will be quite 
 as devoted, quite as faithful, and altogether disinterested." 
 
 La Valliere bowed, for, in fact, the voice of the surin- 
 tendant seemed to convey both conviction and real devotion 
 in its tone, and she held out her hand to him, saying, "I 
 believe you." 
 
 Fouquet eagerly took hold of the young girl's hand. 
 "You see no difficulty, therefore," he added, "in restoring 
 me that unhappy letter." 
 
 "What letter?" inquired La Valliere. 
 
 Fouquet interrogated her with his most searching gaze, 
 as he had already done before; but the same innocent ex- 
 pression, the same candid look met his. "I am obliged to 
 confess," he said, after this denial, "that your system is 
 the most delicate in the world, and I should not feel I was a 
 man of honor and uprightness if I were to suspect anything 
 from a woman so generous as yourself." 
 
 "Eeally, Monsieur Fouquet," replied La Valliere, "it is 
 with profound regret that I am obliged to repeat that I 
 absolutely understand nothing of what you refer to." 
 
 "In fact, then, upon your honor, mademoiselle, you have 
 not received anv letter from me?" 
 
TEN- ffiAftS LATER. ' 479 
 
 "TTpon my honor, none," replied La Valliere firmly. 
 
 "Very well; that is quite sufficient; permit me, then, to 
 renew the assurance of my utmost esteem and respect," 
 said Fouquet. Then, bowing, he left the room to seek 
 Aramis, who was waiting for him in his own apartment, 
 and leaving La Valliere to ask herself whether the surin- 
 tendant had not lost his senses. 
 
 "Well," inquired Aramis, who was impatiently waiting 
 Fouquet's return, "are you satisfied with the favorite?" 
 
 "Enchanted," replied Fouquet; "she is a woman full of 
 intelligence and fine feeling." 
 
 "She did not get angry, then?" 
 
 "Far from that — she did not even seem to understand." 
 
 "To understand what?" 
 
 "To understand that I had written to her." 
 
 "She must, however, have understood you sufficiently to 
 give the letter back to you, for I presume she returned it." 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 "At least, you satisfied yourself that she had burned it." 
 
 "My dear Monsieur d'Herblay, I have been playing at 
 cross-purposes for more than an hour; and, however amus- 
 ing it may be, / begin to have had enough of this game. 
 So understand me thoroughly: the girl pretended not to 
 understand what I was saying to her; she denied having 
 received any letter; therefore, having positively denied its 
 receipt, she was unable either to return or burn it." 
 
 "Oh! oh!" said Aramis, with uneasiness, "what is that 
 you say?" 
 
 "I say that she swore most positively she had not received 
 any letter." 
 
 "That is too much. And did you not insist?" 
 
 "On the contrary, I did insist, almost impertinently so, 
 even." 
 
 "And she persisted in her denial?" 
 
 "Unhesitatingly." 
 
 "And she did not contradict herself once?" 
 
 "Not once." 
 
 "But, in that case, then, you have left our letter in hei 
 hands?" 
 
 "Sow could I do otherwise?" 
 
 "Oh! it was a great mistake." 
 
 "What the deuce would you have done in my place?" 
 
 "One could not force her, certainly, but it is very em- 
 barrassing; such a letter ought not to remain in existence 
 Sgainst us." 
 
4*0 TBIT rV.A-RS LATER. 
 
 "Oh! the young girl's disposition is generosity itself: 1 
 looked at her eyes, and I can read eyes well." 
 
 "You think she can be relied upon?" 
 
 "From my heart I do." 
 
 "Well, I think we are mistaken." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "I think that, in point of fact, as she herself told you, 
 she did not receive the letter." 
 
 / "What! do you suppose " 
 
 j "I suppose that, from some motive, of which we know 
 nothing, your man did not deliver the letter to her." 
 
 Fouquet rang the bell. A servant appeared. "Send 
 Toby here," he said. A moment afterward a man made 
 his appearance, with an anxious, restless look, shrewd ex- 
 pression of the mouth, with short arms, and his back some- 
 what bent. Aramis fixed a penetrating look upon him. 
 
 "Will you allow me to interrogate him myself?" inquired 
 Aramis. 
 
 "Do so," said Fouquet. 
 
 Aramis was about to say something to the lackey, when 
 he paused. "No," he said; "he would see that we attach 
 too much importance to his answer; question him yourself; 
 I will pretend to write." Aramis accordingly placed him- 
 self at a table, his back turned toward the old attendant, 
 whose every gesture and look he watched in a looking-glass 
 opposite to him. 
 
 "Come here, Toby," said Fouquet to the valet, who 
 approached with a tolerably firm step. "How did you ex- 
 ecute my commission?" inquired Fouquet. 
 
 "In the usual way, monseigneur," replied the man. 
 
 "But how, tell me?" 
 
 "I succeeded in penetrating as far as Mademoiselle de la 
 Valliere's apartment; but she was at mass, and so I placed 
 the note on her toilet-table. Is not that what you told me 
 to do?" 
 
 "Precisely; and is that all?" 
 
 "Absolutely all, monseigneur." 
 
 "No one was there?" 
 
 "No one." 
 
 "Did you conceal yourself as I told yonP" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And she returned?" 
 
 "Ten minutes afterward." 
 
 "And no one could have taken the letter?" 
 
 "No one; for no one bad entered the room." 
 
TEN TEARS LAtBB. 481 
 
 ''From the outside, but from tho interior." 
 
 "From the place where I was secreted, I could see to the 
 Tery end of the room." 
 
 "Now listen to me," said Fouquet, looking fixedly at the 
 lackey; "if this letter did not reach its proper destination, 
 confess it; for, if a mistake has been made, youi- head shall 
 be the forfeit." 
 
 Toby started, but immediately recovered himself. "Mon- 
 siegneur," he said, "I placed the letter on the very place I 
 told you; and I ask only half an hour to prove to you that 
 the letter is in Mademoiselle de la Valliere's hand, or to 
 bring you back the letter itself." 
 
 Aramis looked at the latter scrutinizingly. Fouquet was 
 ready in placing confidence in people, and for twenty years 
 this man had served him faithfpily. "Go," he said; "but 
 bring me the proof you speak of-," The lackey quitted the 
 room. 
 
 "Well, what do you think of it?" inquired Fouquet of 
 Aramis. 
 
 "I think that you must, by some means or another, assure 
 yourself of the truth, either that the letter has or has not 
 reached La Valliere; that, in the first case. La Valliere 
 must return it to you, or satisfy you by burning it in your 
 presence; that, in the second, you must have the letter 
 back again, even were it to cost you a million. Come, is 
 not that your opinion?" 
 
 "Yes; but still, my dear bishop, I believe yia are ex- 
 aggerating the position of the affair." 
 
 "Blind, how blind you are!" murmured Aramis. 
 
 "La Valliere," returned Fouquet, "whom ^ve assume to 
 be a politician of the greatest ability, is simply nothing 
 more than a coquette, who hopes that I shall pay my court 
 to her, because I have already done so, and who, now that 
 she has received a confirmation of the king's regard, hopes 
 to keep me in leading-strings with the letter. It is natural i 
 enough." Aramis shook his head. 
 
 "Is not that your opinion?" said Fouquet. 
 
 "She is not a coquette," he replied. 
 
 "Allow me to tell you " 
 
 "Oh! I am well enough acquainted with women who are 
 joquettes," said Aramis. 
 
 "My dear friend!" 
 
 "It is a long time ago since I finished my studies, you 
 mean. But women do not change." 
 
 "True; but meo cJiange, mi you at tfo? present day are 
 
482 TEN YEAES LATER. 
 
 far more suspicious than you formerly were." And then, 
 beginning to laugh, he added, "Come, if La Valliere ia 
 willing to love me only to the extent of a third, and the 
 king two-thirds, do you think the condition acceptable?" 
 
 Aramis rose impatiently. "La Valliere," he said, "has 
 never loved, and will never love any one but a king." 
 
 "At all events," said Eouquet, "what would you do?" 
 
 "Ask me rather what I would have done?" 
 
 "Well! what would you have done?" 
 
 "In the first place, I should not have allowed that man to 
 .go." 
 
 "Toby!" 
 
 "Yes; Toby is a traitor. Nay, I am sure of it, and I 
 would not have let him go until he had told me the truth." 
 
 "There is still time. I will recall him, and do you ques- 
 tion him in your turn." 
 
 "Agreed." 
 
 "But I assure you it is quite useless. He has been with 
 me for the last twenty years, and has never made the slight- 
 est mistake, and yet," added Fouquet, laughing, "it has 
 been easy enough." 
 
 "Still, call him back. This morning I fancy I saw that 
 face in earnest conversation with one of Monsieur Colbert's 
 men." 
 
 "Where was that?" 
 
 "Opposite the stables." 
 
 "Bah! all my people are at daggers drawn with that 
 fellow." 
 
 "I saw him, I tell you, and his face, which I ought not 
 to have recognized when he entered just now, struck me in 
 a disagreeable manner." 
 
 "Why did you not say something, then, while he was 
 here?" 
 
 "Because it is only at this very minute that my memory 
 is clear upon the subject." 
 
 "Eeally," said Fouquet, "you alarm me." And he again 
 rang the bell. 
 
 "Provided that it is not already too late," said Aramis. 
 
 Fouquet once more rang impatiently. The valet usually 
 in attendance appeared. "Toby!" said Fouquet, "send 
 Toby." 
 
 The valet again shut the door. 
 
 "You leave me at perfect liberty, I suppose?" 
 
 "Entirely so." 
 
 "I may employ aU means; tbea, W »?Qertew the truth?" 
 
TfiN TEARS tATEE. 483 
 
 "All." 
 
 "Intimidation, even?" 
 
 "I constitute you public prosecutor in my place." 
 
 They waited ten minutes longer, but uselessly, and Fou- 
 quet, thoroughly out of patience, again rang loudly. 
 "Toby!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Monseigneur," said the valet, "they are looking for 
 him." 
 
 "He cannot be far distant; I have not given him any 
 commission to execute." 
 
 "I will go and see, monseigneur," replied the valet, as he 
 closed the door. Aramis, during this interview, walked 
 impatiently up and down the cabinet. Again they waited 
 another ten minutes. Fouquet rang in a manner to awaken 
 the very dead. The valet again presented himself, trem- 
 bling in a way to induce a belief that he was the bearer of 
 bad news. 
 
 "Monseigneur is mistaken," he said, before even Fouquet 
 could interrogate him, "you must have given Toby some 
 commission, for he has been to the stables and taken your 
 lordship's swiftest horse and saddled it himself." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "And he has gone off." 
 
 "Gone!" exclaimed Fouquet. "Let him be pursued, let 
 him be captured." 
 
 "Nay, nay," said Aramis, taking him by the hand, "be 
 calm, the evil is done now." 
 
 "The evil is done, you say?" 
 
 "No doubt; I was sure of it. And now, let us give no 
 cause for suspicion; we must calculate the result of the 
 blow and ward it off, if possible." 
 
 "After all," said Fouquet, "the evil is not great." 
 
 "You think so?" said Aramis. 
 
 "Of course. Surely a man is allowed to write a love 
 letter to a woman." 
 
 "A man, certainly; a subject, no; especially, too, when 
 the woman in question is one with whom the king is in 
 love." 
 
 "But the king was not in love with La Valliere a week 
 ago, he was not in love with her yesterday, and the letter is 
 dated yesterday; I could not guess the king was in love, 
 when the king's affection was not even yet in existence." 
 
 "As you please," replied Aramis; "but unfortunately 
 the letter is not dated, and it is that circumstance particu- 
 larly which annoys me. If it had only been dated yester- 
 
484 TEK TEARS LATEE, 
 
 day, I should not have the slightest shadow of uneasiness on 
 your account." Fouquet shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Am I not my own master," he said, "and is the king, 
 then, king of my brain and of my flesh?" 
 
 "You are right," replied Aramis, "do not let us give 
 more importance to matters than is necessary; and besides — 
 Well! if we are menaced, we have means of defense." 
 
 "Oh! menaced!" said Fouquet, "you do not place this 
 gnat bite, as it were, among the number of menaces which 
 may compromise my fortune and my life, do you?" 
 . "Do not forget. Monsieur Fouquet, that the bite of an 
 'insect can kill a giant, if the insect be venomous." 
 
 "Bat has this sovereign power you were speaking of 
 already vanished?" 
 
 "I am all-powerful, it is true, but I am not immortal." 
 
 "Come, then, the most pressing mattter is to find Toby 
 again, I suppose. Is not that your opinion?" 
 
 "Oh! as for that, you will not find him again," said 
 Aramis, "and if he were of any great value to you, you 
 must give him up for lost." 
 
 "At all events, he is somewhere or another in the world," 
 said Fouquet. 
 
 "You're right, let me act," replied Aramis. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIV. 
 
 madame's four chances. 
 
 Akne of Austria had begged the young queen to pay her 
 a visit. For some time past suffering most acutely, and 
 losing both her youth and beauty with that rapidity which 
 signalizes the decline of women for whom life has been a 
 long contest, Anne of Austria had, in addition to her physi- 
 cal sufferings, to experience the bitterness of being no 
 longer held in any esteem, except as a living remembrance 
 of the past, amid the youthful beauties, wits, and influences 
 of her court. Her physician's opinions, her mirror also, 
 grieved her far less than the inexorable warnings which the 
 society of the courtiers afforded, who, like the rats in a 
 ship, abandoned the hold in which the water is on the point 
 of penetrating, owing to the ravages of decay. Anne of 
 Austria did not feel satisfied with the time her eldest son 
 devoted to her. The king, a good son, more from affecta- 
 tion than from affection, had at first been in the habit of 
 
TEK YEAKS LATBK. 485 
 
 passing an hour in the morning and one in the evening 
 with his mother; but, since he had himself undertaken the 
 conduct of state affairs, the duration of the morning and 
 evening's visit had been reduced to half; and then, by de- 
 grees, the morning visit had been suppressed altogether. 
 They met at mass; the evening visit was replaced by a 
 meeting either at the king's assembly or at madame's, 
 which the queen attended obligingly enough out of regard 
 to her two sons. The result was, that madame had acquired 
 an immense influence over the court, which made her apart- 
 ments the true royal place of meeting. This Anne of 
 Austria had perceived; feeling herself to be suffering, and 
 condemned by her sufferings to frequent retirement, she 
 was distressed at the idea that the greater part of her future 
 days and evenings would pass away solitary, useless, and in 
 despondency. She recalled with terror the isolation in 
 which Cardinal Eichelieu had formerly left her, those 
 dreaded and insupportable evenings, during which, how- 
 ever, she had her youth and beauty, which are always 
 accompanied by hope, to console her. She next formed the 
 project of transporting the court to her own apartments, 
 and of attracting madame, with her brilliant escort, to her 
 gloomy and already sorrowful abode, where the widow of a 
 king of France and the mother of a king of France was re- 
 duced to console, in her anticipated widowhood, the always 
 weeping wife of a king of France. 
 
 Anne began to reflect. She had intrigued a good deal in 
 her life. In the good times past, when her youthful mind 
 nursed projects which were invariably successful, she then 
 had by her side, to stimulate her ambition and her love, a 
 friend of her own sex, more eager, more ambitious than her- 
 self, a friend who had loved her, a rare circumstance at 
 court, and whom some petty considerations had removed 
 from her forever. But for many years past — except Mme. 
 de Motteville, and except La Molena, her Spanish nurse, a 
 confidante in her character of countrywoman and woman 
 too — who could boast of having given good advice to the 
 queen? Who, too, among all the youthful heads there, 
 could recall the past for her, that past in which alone she 
 lived? Anne of Austria remembered Mme. de Chevreuse, 
 in the first place exiled rather by her wish than the king's, 
 and then dying in exile, the wife of a gentleman of obscure 
 birth and position. She asked herself what Mme. de 
 Chevreuse would formerly have advised her in a similar 
 circumstance, to their mutual difficulties, arising from their 
 
486 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 intrigues; and after serious reflection, it seemed as if the 
 clever, subtle mind of her friend, full of experience and 
 sound judgment, answered her in her ironical tone of voice: 
 ''All these insignificant young people are poor and greedy 
 of gain. They require gold and incomes to keep alive their 
 means of amusements; it is by interest you must gain them 
 over." And Anne of Austria adopted this plan. Her 
 purse was well filled, and she had at her disposal a consider- 
 able sum of money, which had been amassed by Mazarin for 
 her, and lodged in a place of safety. She possessed the 
 most magnificent jewels in France, and especially pearls of 
 a size so large that they made the king sigh every time he 
 saw them, because the pearls of his crown were like millet 
 seed compared to them. Anne of Austria had neither 
 beauty nor charms any longer at her disposal. She gave 
 out, therefore, that her wealth was great, and as an induce- 
 ment for others to visit her apartments she let it be known 
 that there was good gold crowns to be won at play, or that 
 handsome presents were likely to be made on days when all 
 went well with her, or windfalls, in the shape of annuities 
 which she had wrung from the king by entreaty, and which 
 she determined to do to maintain her credit. And, in the 
 first place, she tried these means upon madame, because, to 
 gain her consent was of more importance than anything 
 else. Madame, notwithstanding the bold confidence with 
 which her wit and beauty inspired her, blindly ran head- 
 foremost into the net which had been stretched out to catch 
 her. Enriched by degrees by these presents and transfers 
 of property, she took a fancy to these inheritances by an- 
 ticipation. Anne of Austria adopted the same means toward 
 Monsieur, and even toward the king himself. She insti- 
 tuted lotteries in her apartments. The day on which the 
 present chapter opens, invitations had been issued for a 
 late supper in the queen-mother's apartments, as she in- 
 tended that two beautiful diamond bracelets of exquisite 
 workmanship should be put into lottery. The medallions 
 were antique cameos of the greatest value; the diamonds, 
 in point of intrinsic value, did not represent a very consid- 
 erable amount, but the originality and rarity of the work- 
 manship were such, that every one at court not only wished 
 to possess the bracelets, but even to see the queen herself 
 wear them; for, on the days she wore them, it was con- 
 sidered as a favor to be admitted to admire them in kissing 
 her hands. The courtiers had, even with regard to this 
 jpubject, adopted various expressions of gallantry to establish 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 487 
 
 the aphorism, that the bracelets -would have been priceless 
 in value if they had not been unfortunate enough to be 
 placed in contact with arms as beautiful as the queen's. 
 This compliment had been honored by a translation into all 
 the languages of Europe, and numerous were the verses in 
 Latin and French which had been circulated on the subject. 
 The day that Anne of Austria had selected for the lottery 
 was a decisive moment; the king had not been near his 
 mother for a couple of days; madame, after the great scene 
 of the Dryads and Naiads, was sulking by herself. The 
 king's fit of sulkiness was over, but his mind was absorb- 
 ingly occupied by a circumstance which raised him above 
 the stormy disputes and the giddy pleasures of the court. 
 
 Anne of Austria effected a diversion by the announcement 
 of the famous lottery to take place in her apartments on 
 the following evening. With this object in view she saw 
 the young queen, whom, as we have already seen, she had 
 invited to pay her a visit in the morning. "I have good 
 news to tell you," she said to her; "the king has been say- 
 ing the most tender things about you. He is young, you 
 know, and easily drawn away; but so long as you keep near 
 me, he will not venture to keep away from you, to whom, 
 besides, he is most warmly and affectionately attached. I 
 intend to have a lottery this evening, and shall expect to 
 see you." 
 
 "I have heard," said the young queen, with a sort of 
 timid reproach, "that your majesty intends to put in lot- 
 tery those beautiful bracelets whose rarity is so great that 
 we ought not to allow them to pass out of the custody of 
 the crown, even were there no other reason than that they 
 had once belonged to you." 
 
 "My daughter," said Anne of Austria, who read the 
 young queen's thoughts, and wished to console her for not 
 having received the bracelets as a present, "it is positively 
 necessary that I should induce madame to pass her time 
 always in my apartments." 
 I' "Madame!" said the young queen, blushing. 
 
 "Of course; would you not prefer to have a rival near 
 you, whom you could watch and rule over, than to know 
 that the king is with her, always as ready to flirt with as to 
 be flirted with by her? The lottery I have proposed is my 
 means of attraction for that purpose; do you blame me?" 
 
 "f}b, no!" returned Maria Theresa, clapping her hands 
 with a childlike expression of delight. 
 
 "-And you no longer regret, then, that I did not give you 
 tJj^^e bracelets, as I had at first intenrle^ to do?" 
 
488 TEN TEAKS LATER. 
 
 "Oh, no, no!" 
 
 "Very well; make yourself look as beautiful as possible, 
 that our supper may be very brilliant; tlie gayer you seem, 
 ihe more charming you appear, and you will eclipse all the 
 ladies present as much by your brilliancy as by your rank." 
 
 Maria Theresa left full of delight. An hour afterward 
 Anne of Austria received a visit from madame, whom she 
 covered with caresses, saying, "Excellent news! the king is 
 charmed with my lottery." 
 
 "But I," replied madame, "am not quite so charmed; to 
 see such beautiful bracelets on any one's arms but yours or 
 mine, is what I cannot reconcile myself to." 
 
 "Well, well," said Anne of Austria, concealing by a smile 
 a violent pang which she had just experienced, "do not 
 alarm yourself, young lady, and do not look at things in 
 the worst light immediately." 
 
 "Ah, madame, fortune is blind, and I am told there are 
 two hundred tickets." 
 
 "Quite as many as that; but you cannot surely forget that 
 there can only be one winner." 
 
 "No doubt. But who will that be? Can you tell?" said 
 madame, in despair. 
 
 "You remind me that I had a dream last night; my 
 dreams are always good, I sleep so little." 
 
 "What was your dream? — but are you suffering?" 
 
 "No," said the queen, stifling with wonderful command 
 the torture of a renewed attack of shooting pains in her 
 bosom. "I dreamed that the king won the bracelets." 
 
 "The king?" 
 
 "You are going to ask me, I think, what the king could 
 possibly do with the bracelets?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you would not add, perhaps, that it would be very 
 fortunate if the king were really to win, for he should be 
 obliged to give the bracelets to some one else." 
 
 "To restore them to you, for instance." 
 
 "In which case I should immediately give them away; for 
 you do not think, I suppose," said the queen, laughing, 
 "that I have put these bracelets up to a lottery from neces' 
 sity. My object was to give them without arousing any 
 one's jealousy; but if fortune will not get me out of my 
 difficulty — well, I will teach fortune a lesson — and I know 
 very well to whom I intend to ofEer the bracelets." These 
 words were accompanied by so expressive a smile that ma- 
 dame could not resist paying her a grateful kiss. 
 
TSN yeahs later. 480 
 
 "But," added Anne of Austria, "do you not know, as 
 well as I do, that if the king were to win the bracelets he 
 would not restore them to me?" 
 
 "You mean he would give them to the queen?" 
 
 "No; and for the very same reason, that he would not 
 give them back again to me; since, if I had wished to make 
 the queen a present of them, I had no need of him for that 
 purpose." 
 
 Madame cast a side-glance upon the bracelets, which, in 
 their casket, were dazzlingly exposed to view upon a table 
 iclose beside her. 
 
 "How beautiful they are!" she said, sighing. "But 
 stay," madam e continued, "we are quite forgetting that 
 your majesty's dream is nothing but a dream." 
 
 "I should be very much surprised," returned Anne of 
 Austria, "if my dream were to deceive me; that has hap- 
 pened to me very seldom." 
 
 "We may look upon you as a prophetess, then?" 
 
 "I have already said that I dream but very rarely; but 
 the coincidence of my dream about this matter, with my 
 own ideas, is extraordinary, it agrees so wonderfully with 
 my own views and arrangements." 
 
 "What arrangements do you allude to?" 
 
 "That you will win the bracelets, for instance." 
 
 "In that case, it will not be the king." 
 
 "Oh!" said Anne of Austria, "there is not such a very 
 great distance between his majesty's heart and your own; 
 for, are you not his sister, for whom he has a great regard? 
 There is not, I repeat, so very wide a distance that my 
 dream can be pronounced false on that account. Come, let 
 us reckon up the chances in its favor." 
 
 "I will count them." 
 
 "In the first place, we will begin with the dream. If the 
 king wins he is sure to give you the bracelets." 
 
 "I admit that is one." 
 
 "If you win them, they are yours." 
 
 "Naturally; that may be admitted also." 
 
 "Lastly; if Monsieur were to win them." 
 
 "Oh!" said madame, laughing heartily, "he would give 
 them to the Chevalier de Lorraine." 
 
 Anne of Austria laughed as heartily as her daughter-in- 
 law; so much so, indeed, that her sufferings again returned, 
 and made her turn suddenly pale in the very midst of her 
 enjoyment. 
 
 "What is the matter?" inquired madame, almost terrified. 
 
490 TEK TEARS LATER. 
 
 "Nothing, nothing; a pain in my side. I have been 
 laughing too much. We were at the fourth chance, I 
 think?" , 
 
 "I cannot see a fourth." 
 
 "I beg your pardon; I am not excluded from the chance 
 of winning, and if I be the winner, you are sure of me." 
 
 "Oh! thank you, thank you!" exclaimed madame. 
 
 "I hope you look upon yourself as one whose chances are 
 good, and that my dream now begins to assume the solid 
 form of reality." 
 
 "Yes, indeed; you give me both hope and confidence," 
 said madame, "and the bracelets, won in this manner, will 
 be a hundred times more precious to me." 
 
 "Well, then, good-by, until this evening." And the 
 two princesses separated. Anne of Austria, after her 
 daughter-in-law had left her, said to herself, as she ex- 
 amined the bracelets. "They are, indeed, precious; since, 
 by their means, this evening, I shall have won over a heart 
 to my side, and, at the same time, shall have guessed a 
 secret." 
 
 Then, turning toward the deserted recess in her room, 
 she said, addressing vacancy: "Is it not thus that you would 
 have acted, my poor Chevreuse? Yes, yes; I know it is." 
 
 And, like a perfume of days gone by, her youth, her 
 imagination, and her happiness seemed to return to her 
 with the echo o^ 'Ms invocation. 
 
 CHAPTEK LXV. 
 
 THE LOTTERY. 
 
 At eight o'clock in the evening every one had assembled 
 in the queen-mother's apartments. Anne of Austria, in 
 full dress, beautiful still, from former loveliness, and from 
 all the resources which coquetry can command at the hands 
 of clever assistants, concealed, or rather pretended to con- 
 ceal, from the crowd of young courtiers who surrounded 
 her, and who still admired her, thanks to the combination 
 of circumstances which we have indicated in the preceding 
 chapter, the ravages, which were already visible, of the 
 acute suffering to which she finally yielded a few years 
 later. Madame, almost as great a coquette as Anne of 
 Austria, and the queen, simple and natural as usual, wera 
 seated beside her, each contending for her good graces. 
 
TEN YEARS LATER. 491 
 
 The ladies of honor, united in a body, in order to resist with 
 greater effect, and consecjuently with more success, the 
 witty and lively conversations which the young men held 
 about them, were enabled, like a battalion formed in a 
 square, to offer one another the means of attack and defense 
 which were thus at their command. Montalais, learned in 
 that species of warfare which consists of a skirmishing 
 character, protected the whole line by the sort of rolling 
 fire which she directed against the enemy. St. Aignan, in 
 utter despair at the rigor, which became insulting almost, 
 from the very fact of her persisting in it, which Mile, de 
 Tonnay-Oharente displayed, tried to turn his back upon 
 her; but, overcome by the irresistible brilliancy of her large 
 eyes, he, every moment, returned to consecrate his defeat 
 by new submissions, to which Mile, de Tonnay-Charente 
 did not fail to reply by fresh acts of impertinence. St. 
 Aignan did not know which way to turn. La Valliere had 
 about her, not exactly a court, but sprinklings of courtiers. 
 St. Aignan, hoping by this maneuver to attract Athenais' 
 attention toward him, had approached the young girl, and 
 saluted her with a respect which induced some to believe 
 that he wished to balance Athenais by Louise. But these 
 were persons who had neither been witnesses of the scene 
 during the shower, nor had heard it spoken of. But, as the 
 majority was already informed, and well informed, too, on 
 the matter, the acknowledged favor with which she was re- 
 garded had attracted to her side some of the most astute, as 
 well as the least sensible, members of the court. The for- 
 mer, because they said with Montaigne, "What can we tell ?" 
 and the latter, who said with Kabelais, "It is likely." 
 The greatest number had followed in the wake of the latter, 
 just as in hunting five or six of the best hounds alone follow 
 the scent of the animal hunted, while the remainder of the 
 pack follow only the scent of the hounds. The two queens 
 and madame examined with particular attention the toilets 
 of their ladies and maids of honor; and they condescended 
 to forget they were queens in recollecting that they were 
 women. In other words, they pitilessly tore in pieces every 
 person there who wore a petticoat. The looks of both 
 princesses simultaneously fell upon La Valliere, who, as we 
 have just said, was completely surrounded at that moment. 
 Madame knew not what pity was, and said to the queen- 
 Jnother, as she turned toward her, "If fortune were just, 
 . . iphe would favor that poor La Valliere." 
 
 I 1^ "That is not possible/' eaid the c^ueeo-roother, gaiiling. 
 
492 TEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "There are only two hundred tickets, so that it was not 
 possible to inscribe every one's name on the list." 
 
 "And hers is not there, then?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What a pity; she might have won them, and then sold 
 them." 
 
 "Sold them!" exclaimed the queen. 
 
 "Yes; it would have been a dowry for her, and she would 
 not have been obliged to marry without her trousseau, as 
 will probably be the case." 
 
 "Eeally," answered the queen-mother, "poor little thing, 
 has she no dresses, then?" 
 
 And she pronounced these words like a woman who has 
 never been able to understand the inconveniences of a 
 slenderly filled purse. 
 
 "Stay, look at her. Heaven forgive me, if she is not 
 wearing the very same petticoat this evening that she had 
 on this morning during the promenade, and which she 
 managed to keep clean, thanks to the care the king took of 
 her in sheltering her from the rain." 
 
 At the very moment madame uttered these words the 
 king entered the room. The two queens would not perhaps 
 have observed his arrival, so completely were they occupied 
 in their ill-natured remarks, had not madame noticed that 
 all at once La Valliere, who was standing up facing the 
 gallery, exhibited certain signs of confusion, and then said 
 a few words to the courtiers who surrounded her, who im- 
 mediately dispersed. This movement induced madame to 
 look toward the door, and at that moment, the captain of 
 the guards announced the king. At this moment La Val- 
 liere, who had hitherto kept her eyes fixed upon the gallery, 
 suddenly cast them down as the king entered. His majesty 
 was dressed magnificently and in the most perfect taste; he 
 was conversing with Monsieur and the Due de Eoquelaure, 
 Monsieur on his right and the Due de Eoquelaure on his 
 left. The king advanced, in the first place, toward the 
 queens, to whom he bo\ved with an air full of graceful re- 
 spect. He took his mother's hand and kissed it, addressed 
 a few compliments to madame upon the beauty of her toilet, 
 and then began to make the round of the assembly. La 
 Valliere was saluted in the same manner as the others, but 
 with neither more nor less attention. His majesty then 
 returned to his mother and his wife. AMien the courtiers 
 
 noticed that; the king bad only addressed some ordinary 
 
TEN TEARS LATER. 493 
 
 remark to the young girl who had been so particularly" 
 noticed in the morning, they immediately drew their own 
 conclusion to account lor this coldness of manner; this con- 
 clusion being, that although the king may have taken a 
 sudden fancy to her, that fancy had already disappeared. 
 One thing, however, must be remarked, that close beside 
 La Valliere, among the number of the courtiers, M. Fou- 
 quet was to be seen; and his respectfully attentive manner 
 served to sustain the young girl in the midst of the varied 
 emotions which visibly agitated her. 
 
 M. Pouquet was just on the point, moreover, of speaking) 
 in a more friendly manner with Mile, de la Valliere, when 
 M. de Colbert approached, and after having bowed to Fou- 
 quet with a formality which the rules of the most respectful 
 politeness could require, he seemed to take up a post be- 
 side La Valliere, for the purpose of entering into conversa- 
 tion with her. Fouquet immediately quitted his place. 
 These proceedings were eagerly devoured by the eyes of 
 Montalais and Malicorne, who mutually exchanged their 
 several observations on the subject. De Guiche, standing 
 within the embrasure of one of the windows, saw no one 
 but madame. But as madame, on her side, frequently 
 glanced at La Valliere, De Guiche's eyes, following ma- 
 dame's, were from time to time cast upon the young girl. 
 La Valliere instinctively felt herself sinking beneath the 
 weight of all the different looks, inspired, some by interest, 
 others by envy. She had nothing to compensate her for 
 her sufferings, not a kind word from her companions nor a 
 look of affection from the king. No one could possibly ex- 
 press the misery the poor girl was suffering. The queen- 
 mother next directed the small table to be brought forward, 
 on which the lottery tickets were placed, two hundred in 
 number, and begged Mme. de Motteville to read the list of 
 the names. It was a matter of course that this list had 
 been drawn out in strict accordance with the laws of 
 etiquette; the king's name was first on the list, next the 
 queen-mother, then the queen. Monsieur, madame, and so 
 on. All hearts throbbed anxiously as the list was read out; 
 more than three hundred persons had been invited, and 
 each of them was anxious to learn whether his or her name 
 was likely to be found among the number of privileged 
 names. The king listened with as much attention as the 
 others, and when the last name had been pronounced he 
 noticed that La Valliere had been omitted from the list. 
 Every one, of course, could remark this omission. The 
 
494 TElT TfiAES LATER. 
 
 king flushed as if he had been much annoyed; but La Val- 
 liere, gentle, and resigned, as usual, exhibited nothing of 
 the sort. While the list was being read the king had not 
 taken his eyes ofi the young girl, -who seemed to expand, 
 as it were, beneath the happy influence she felt was shed 
 around her, and who was delighted and too pure in spirit 
 for any other thought than that of love to find an entrance 
 either in her mind or her heart. Acknowledging this 
 touching self-denial by the fixedness of his attention, the 
 king showed La Valliere how much he appreciated its deli- 
 cacy. When the list was finished the different faces of those 
 who had been omitted or forgotten fully expressed their 
 disappointment. Malicorne also was forgotten among the 
 number of men; and the grimace he made plainly said to 
 Montalais, who was also forgotten, "Cannot we contrive to 
 arrange matters with fortune in such a manner that she 
 shall not forget us?" to which a smile full of intelligence 
 from Mile. Aure replied: "Certainly we can." 
 
 The tickets were distributed to each person according to 
 the number held. The king received his first, next the 
 queen-mother, then Monsieur, then the queen and madame, 
 and so on. After this, Anne of Austria opened a small 
 Spanish leather bag containing two hundred numbers en- 
 graved upon small balls of mother-of-pearl, and presented 
 the open sack to the youngest of her maids of honor for the 
 purpose of taking one of the balls out of it. The eager ex- 
 pectation, amid all the tediously slow preparations, was 
 rather that of avidity than of curiosity. St. Aignan bent 
 toward Mile, de Tonnay-Oharente to whisper to her, "Since 
 we have each a number, let us unite our two chances. The 
 bracelet shall be yours if I win, and if you are successful, 
 deign to give me but one look of your beautiful eyes." 
 
 "No," said Athenais, "if you win the bracelet, keep it; 
 every one for himself." 
 
 "You are without any pity," said St, Aignan, "and I 
 will punish you by a quatrain: 
 
 " ' Beautiful Iris, to my vow 
 You are too opposed ' " 
 
 "Silence," said Athenais; "you will prevent me hearing 
 the winning number." 
 
 "Number one," said the young girl who had drawn the 
 mother-of-pearl from the Spanish leather bag. 
 
 "The king!" exclaimed the queen-mother. 
 
 "The king has won/' repeated the queen delightedly. 
 
TEK YEARS LATER. 496 
 
 "Oh^ the king! yonr dream!" said madame joyously, in 
 the ear of Anne of Austria. 
 
 The king was the only one who did not exhibit any satis- 
 faction. He merely thanked fortune for what she had done 
 for him, in addressing a slight salutation to the young girl 
 who had been chosen as her proxy. Then, receiving from 
 the hands of Anne of Austria, amid the eager desire of the 
 whole assembly, the casket inclosing the bracelet, he said, 
 "Are these bracelets really beautiful, then?" 
 
 "Look at them," said Anne of Austria, "and judge for 
 yourself." 
 
 The king looked at them, and said, "Yes, indeed, an 
 admirable medallion. "What perfect finish!" 
 
 "What perfect finish!" repeated madame. 
 
 Queen Maria Theresa easily saw, and that, too, at the 
 very first glance, that the king would not offer the bracelets 
 to her; but as he did not seem either the least degree in 
 the world disposed to offer them to madame, she felt almost 
 satisfied, or nearly so. The king sat down. The most in- 
 timate among the courtiers approached, one by one, for the 
 purpose of admiring more closely the beautiful piece of 
 workmanship, which soon, with the king's permission, was 
 handed from person to person. Immediately, every one, 
 connoisseurs or not, uttered various exclamations of sur- 
 prise, and overwhelmed the king with congratulations. 
 There was, in fact, something for everybody to admire — 
 the brilliants for some, and the cutting for others. The 
 ladies present visibly displayed their impatience to see such 
 a treasure monopolized by the gentlemen. 
 
 "Gentlemen, gentlemen," said the king, whom nothing 
 escaped, "one would almost think that you wore bracelets as 
 the Sabines used to do; hand them for a little while for the in- 
 spection of the ladies, who seem to me to have, and with 
 far greater right, some excuse for understanding such mat- 
 ters better than you." 
 
 These words appeared to madame the commencement of 
 a decision she expected. She gathered, besides, this happy 
 belief from the glances of the queen-mother. The courtier 
 who held them at the moment the king made this remark, 
 amid the general agitation, hastened to place the bracelets 
 in the hands of the queen, Maria Theresa, who, knowing 
 too well, poor woman, that they were not designed for her, 
 hardly looked at them, and almost immediately passed them 
 on to madame. The latter, and — even more minutely than 
 herself — Monsieur, gave the bracelets a long look of anxious 
 
496 TEN TEARS LATER. 
 
 and almost covetous desire. She then handed the jewels to 
 those ladies who were near her, pronouncing this single 
 word, but with an accent which was worth a long phrase, 
 "Magnificent!" 
 
 The ladies who had received the bracelets from madame's 
 hands looked at them as long as they chose to examine 
 them, and then made them circulate by passing them on 
 toward the right. During this time the king was tranquilly 
 conversing with De Guiche and Fouquet, rather letting 
 them talk than himself listening. Accustomed to the set 
 form of ordinary phrases, his ear, like that of all men who 
 exercise an incontestable superiority over others, merely 
 selected from the conversations held in various directions 
 the indispensable word which requires reply. His atten- 
 tion, however, was now elsewhere, for it wandered as his 
 eyes did. 
 
 Mile, de Tonnay-Charente was the last of the ladies in- 
 scribed for tickets; and, as if she had ranked according 
 to her name upon the list, she only had Montalais and Ld 
 Valliere after her. When the bracelets reached these two 
 latter, no one appeared to take any further notice of them. 
 The humble hands which for a moment touched these 
 jewels deprived them of all their importance — a circum- 
 stance which did not, however, prevent Montalais from 
 starting with joy, envy, and covetous desire at the eiight of 
 the beautiful stones still more than at their magnificent 
 workmanship. It is evident that if she were compelled to 
 decide between the pecuniary value and the artistic beauty, 
 Montalais would unhesitatingly have preferred diamonds to 
 cameos, and her disinclination, therefore, to pass them to 
 her companion. La Valliere, was very great. La Valliere 
 fixed a look almost of indifference upon the jewels. 
 
 "Oh, how beautiful, how magnificent these bracelets are!" 
 exclaimed Montalais; "and yet you do not go into ecstasies 
 about them, Louise! You are no true woman, I am sure." 
 
 "Yes, I am indeed," replied the young girl, with an 
 accent of the most charming melancholy; "but why desire 
 that which cannot be ours?" 
 
 The king, his head bent forward, listened to what the 
 young girl was saying. Hardly had the vibration of her 
 voice reached his ear than he rose radiant with delight, 
 and passing across the whole assembly, from the place where 
 he stood, to La Valliere, "You are mistaken, mademoiselle," 
 he said, "you are a woman, and every woman has a right te 
 wear jewels, which are a woman's property." 
 
TEN YEAES , .lTEB.' 497 
 
 "Oh, sire," said La Valliere, "your majesty will not 
 absolutely believe my modesty?" 
 
 "I believe you possess every virtue^ mademoiselle; frank- 
 ness as well as every other; I entreat you, therefore, to say 
 frankly what you think of these bracelets." 
 
 "They axe beautiful, sire, and cannot be offered to any 
 other than a queen." 
 
 "I am delighted that such is your opinion, mademoiselle; 
 the bracelets are yours, and the king begs your acceptance 
 of them." 
 
 And as, with a movement almost resembling terror. La 
 Valliere eagerly held out the casket to the king, the king 
 gently pushed back La Valliere's trembling hand. A 
 silence of astonishment, more profound than that of death, 
 reigned in the assembly. And yet, from the side where the 
 queens were, no one had heard what he had said nor under- 
 stood what he had done. A charitable friend, however, 
 took upon herself to spread the news; it was Tonnay- 
 Charente, to whom madame had made a sign to approach. 
 
 "Good heavens!" exclaimed Tonnay-Charente, "how 
 happy that La Valliere is! the king has just given her the 
 bracelets." 
 
 Madame bit her lips to such a degree that the blood ap- 
 peared upon the surface of the skin. The young queen 
 looked first at La Valliere and then at madame, and began 
 to laugh. Anne of Austria rested her chin upon her beau- 
 tiful white hand, and remained for a long time absorbed by 
 a suspicion which disturbed her mind, and by a terrible 
 pang which stung her heart. De Guiche, observing ma- 
 dame turn pale, and guessing the cause of her change of 
 color, abruptly quitted the assembly and disappeared. 
 Malicorne was then able to approach Montalais very quietly, 
 and under cover of the general din of conversation, said to 
 her: 
 
 "Aure, you have our fortune and our future close beside 
 you." 
 
 "Yes," was her reply, as she tenderly embraced La Val- 
 liere, whom, inwardly, she was tempted to strangle. 
 
 THE EIJB. 
 
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