This is a modern-English version of Ten Years Later, originally written by Dumas, Alexandre.
It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling,
and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If
you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.
Scroll to the bottom of this page and you will find a free ePUB download link for this book.
Ten Years Later
(1660–1661, Chapters 76–140 of the Third Volume of the D’Artagnan series)
by Alexandre Dumas
| ORDER | TITLE | PG EBOOK# | DATES | VOLUME | CHAPTERS |
| 1 | 1257 | 1625–1628 | 1 | ||
| 2 | 1259 | 1648–1649 | 2 | ||
| 3 | 2609 | 1660 | 3 | 1–75 | |
| 4 | Ten Years Later | 2681 | 1660–1661 | 3 | 76–140 |
| 5 | 2710 | 1661 | 3 | 141–208 | |
| 6 | 2759 | 1661–1673 | 3 | 209–269 |
| TITLE | PG EBOOK# | DATES | VOLUME | CHAPTERS |
| 1258 | 1660–1661 | 3 | 1–104 |
Contents
Transcriber’s Notes:
The Vicomte de Bragelonne is the final volume of D’Artagnan Romances: it is usually split into three or four parts, and the final portion is entitled The Man in the Iron Mask. The Man in the Iron Mask we’re familiar with today is the last volume of the four-volume edition. [Not all the editions split them in the same manner, hence some of the confusion...but wait...there’s yet more reason for confusion.]
The Vicomte de Bragelonne is the last book of the D’Artagnan Romances. It’s typically divided into three or four parts, with the last part called The Man in the Iron Mask. The version of The Man in the Iron Mask that we know today is the final volume of the four-volume edition. [Not all editions are divided the same way, which causes some confusion...but wait...there’s even more reason for confusion.]
We intend to do ALL of The Vicomte de Bragelonne, split into four etexts entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later, Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask; you WILL be getting The Man in the Iron Mask.
We plan to publish the entire Vicomte de Bragelonne series in four e-texts titled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later, Louise de la Vallière, and The Man in the Iron Mask; you will receive The Man in the Iron Mask.
One thing that may be causing confusion is that the etext we have now, entitled Ten Years Later, says it’s the sequel to The Three Musketeers. While this is technically true, there’s another book, Twenty Years After, that comes between. The confusion is generated by the two facts that we published Ten Years Later BEFORE we published Twenty Years After, and that many people see those titles as meaning Ten and Twenty Years “After” the original story...however, this is why the different words “After” and “Later”...the Ten Years “After” is ten years after the Twenty Years later...as per history. Also, the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances, while entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, has the subtitle Ten Years Later. These two titles are also given to different volumes: The Vicomte de Bragelonne can refer to the whole book, or the first volume of the three or four-volume editions. Ten Years Later can, similarly, refer to the whole book, or the second volume of the four-volume edition. To add to the confusion, in the case of our etexts, it refers to the first 104 chapters of the whole book, covering material in the first and second etexts in the new series. Here is a guide to the series which may prove helpful:
One thing that might be causing confusion is that the e-text we have now, titled Ten Years Later, claims to be the sequel to The Three Musketeers. While this is technically accurate, there’s another book, Twenty Years After, that comes in between. The confusion arises because we published Ten Years Later BEFORE we published Twenty Years After, and many people interpret those titles as meaning Ten and Twenty Years “After” the original story. However, this is why the different words “After” and “Later” matter: Ten Years “After” is ten years after the Twenty Years later...according to the timeline. Additionally, the third book in the D’Artagnan Romances, while called The Vicomte de Bragelonne, has the subtitle Ten Years Later. These two titles can also refer to different volumes: The Vicomte de Bragelonne can denote the entire book or the first volume of the three- or four-volume editions. Similarly, Ten Years Later can refer to the whole book or the second volume of the four-volume edition. To add to the confusion, in the case of our e-texts, it refers to the first 104 chapters of the entire book, covering material from the first and second e-texts in the new series. Here is a guide to the series that may be helpful:
The Three Musketeers: Etext 1257—First book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1625-1628.
The Three Musketeers: Etext 1257—First book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1625-1628.
Twenty Years After: Etext 1259—Second book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1648-1649. [Third in the order that we published, but second in time sequence!!!]
Twenty Years After: Etext 1259—Second book of the D'Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1648-1649. [Third in the order that we published, but second in time sequence!!!]
Ten Years Later: Etext 1258—First 104 chapters of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661.
Ten Years Later: Etext 1258—First 104 chapters of the third book of the D'Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661.
The Vicomte de Bragelonne: Etext 2609 (first in the new series)—First 75 chapters of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the year 1660.
The Vicomte de Bragelonne: Etext 2609 (first in the new series)—First 75 chapters of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the year 1660.
Ten Years Later: Etext 2681 (our new etext)—Chapters 76-140 of that third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661. [In this particular editing of it]
Ten Years Later: Etext 2681 (our new etext)—Chapters 76-140 of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661. [In this particular editing of it]
Louise de la Valliere: forthcoming (our next etext)—Chapters 141-208 of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the year 1661.
Louise de la Valliere: coming soon (our next etext)—Chapters 141-208 of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the year 1661.
The Man in the Iron Mask: forthcoming (following)—Chapters 209-269 of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1661-1673.
The Man in the Iron Mask: upcoming (next)—Chapters 209-269 of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Spans the years 1661-1673.
If we’ve calculated correctly, that fourth text SHOULD correspond to the modern editions of The Man in the Iron Mask, which is still widely circulated, and comprises about the last 1/4 of The Vicomte de Bragelonne.
If we've done the math right, that fourth text SHOULD match the current editions of The Man in the Iron Mask, which is still commonly available, and makes up about the last quarter of The Vicomte de Bragelonne.
Many thanks to Dr. David Coward, whose editions of the D’Artagnan Romances have proved an invaluable source of information.
Many thanks to Dr. David Coward, whose versions of the D’Artagnan Romances have been an invaluable source of information.
Introduction:
In the months of March-July in 1844, in the magazine Le Siecle, the first portion of a story appeared, penned by the celebrated playwright Alexandre Dumas. It was based, he claimed, on some manuscripts he had found a year earlier in the Bibliotheque Nationale while researching a history he planned to write on Louis XIV. They chronicled the adventures of a young man named D’Artagnan who, upon entering Paris, became almost immediately embroiled in court intrigues, international politics, and ill-fated affairs between royal lovers. Over the next six years, readers would enjoy the adventures of this youth and his three famous friends, Porthos, Athos, and Aramis, as their exploits unraveled behind the scenes of some of the most momentous events in French and even English history.
In the months of March to July in 1844, the magazine Le Siecle published the first part of a story written by the famous playwright Alexandre Dumas. He claimed it was based on some manuscripts he had discovered a year earlier in the Bibliothèque Nationale while researching a history he intended to write about Louis XIV. These manuscripts detailed the adventures of a young man named D’Artagnan who, upon arriving in Paris, quickly found himself caught up in court intrigues, international politics, and doomed affairs between royal lovers. Over the next six years, readers followed the adventures of this young man and his three iconic friends, Porthos, Athos, and Aramis, as their exploits unfolded behind the scenes of some of the most significant events in French and even English history.
Eventually these serialized adventures were published in novel form, and became the three D’Artagnan Romances known today. Here is a brief summary of the first two novels:
Eventually, these serialized adventures were published as novels and became the three D’Artagnan Romances we know today. Here’s a brief summary of the first two novels:
The Three Musketeers (serialized March-July, 1844): The year is 1625. The young D’Artagnan arrives in Paris at the tender age of 18, and almost immediately offends three musketeers, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos. Instead of dueling, the four are attacked by five of the Cardinal’s guards, and the courage of the youth is made apparent during the battle. The four become fast friends, and, when asked by D’Artagnan’s landlord to find his missing wife, embark upon an adventure that takes them across both France and England in order to thwart the plans of the Cardinal Richelieu. Along the way, they encounter a beautiful young spy, named simply Milady, who will stop at nothing to disgrace Queen Anne of Austria before her husband, Louis XIII, and take her revenge upon the four friends.
The Three Musketeers (serialized March-July, 1844): The year is 1625. The young D’Artagnan arrives in Paris at just 18 years old and almost immediately offends three musketeers—Porthos, Aramis, and Athos. Instead of dueling, the four are attacked by five of the Cardinal’s guards, revealing the youth’s bravery during the fight. The four quickly become close friends, and when D’Artagnan’s landlord asks him to find his missing wife, they set off on an adventure that takes them across both France and England to thwart Cardinal Richelieu’s plans. Along the way, they encounter a beautiful young spy known simply as Milady, who will stop at nothing to compromise Queen Anne of Austria in front of her husband, Louis XIII, and to take her revenge on the four friends.
Twenty Years After (serialized January-August, 1845): The year is now 1648, twenty years since the close of the last story. Louis XIII has died, as has Cardinal Richelieu, and while the crown of France may sit upon the head of Anne of Austria as Regent for the young Louis XIV, the real power resides with the Cardinal Mazarin, her secret husband. D’Artagnan is now a lieutenant of musketeers, and his three friends have retired to private life. Athos turned out to be a nobleman, the Comte de la Fere, and has retired to his home with his son, Raoul de Bragelonne. Aramis, whose real name is D’Herblay, has followed his intention of shedding the musketeer’s cassock for the priest’s robes, and Porthos has married a wealthy woman, who left him her fortune upon her death. But trouble is stirring in both France and England. Cromwell menaces the institution of royalty itself while marching against Charles I, and at home the Fronde is threatening to tear France apart. D’Artagnan brings his friends out of retirement to save the threatened English monarch, but Mordaunt, the son of Milady, who seeks to avenge his mother’s death at the musketeers’ hands, thwarts their valiant efforts. Undaunted, our heroes return to France just in time to help save the young Louis XIV, quiet the Fronde, and tweak the nose of Cardinal Mazarin.
Twenty Years After (serialized January-August, 1845): It’s now 1648, twenty years after the last story ended. Louis XIII has passed away, as has Cardinal Richelieu. While the crown of France is worn by Anne of Austria as Regent for the young Louis XIV, the real power lies with Cardinal Mazarin, her secret husband. D’Artagnan is now a lieutenant of musketeers, and his three friends have settled into private lives. Athos has become a nobleman, the Comte de la Fere, and retired to his estate with his son, Raoul de Bragelonne. Aramis, whose real name is D’Herblay, has pursued his goal of exchanging the musketeer’s uniform for a priest’s robes, and Porthos has married a wealthy woman who left him her fortune when she died. Meanwhile, trouble is brewing in both France and England. Cromwell threatens the monarchy itself while marching against Charles I, and at home, the Fronde risks tearing France apart. D’Artagnan calls his friends out of retirement to save the endangered English king, but Mordaunt, the son of Milady, who wants revenge for his mother’s death at the hands of the musketeers, undermines their brave efforts. Undeterred, our heroes return to France just in time to help save the young Louis XIV, calm the Fronde, and put Cardinal Mazarin in his place.
The third novel, The Vicomte de Bragelonne (serialized October, 1847 —January, 1850), has enjoyed a strange history in its English translation. It has been split into three, four, or five volumes at various points in its history. The five-volume edition generally does not give titles to the smaller portions, but the others do. In the three-volume edition, the novels are entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask. For the purposes of this etext, I have chosen to split the novel as the four-volume edition does, with these titles: The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later, Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask. In the last etext:
The third novel, The Vicomte de Bragelonne (serialized from October 1847 to January 1850), has had a complicated history in its English translation. It has been divided into three, four, or five volumes at different times. The five-volume edition typically doesn't assign titles to the smaller sections, while the others do. In the three-volume edition, the novels are titled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask. For this etext, I have chosen to divide the novel as seen in the four-volume edition, with these titles: The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later, Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask. In the last etext:
The Vicomte de Bragelonne (Etext 2609): It is the year 1660, and D’Artagnan, after thirty-five years of loyal service, has become disgusted with serving King Louis XIV while the real power resides with the Cardinal Mazarin, and has tendered his resignation. He embarks on his own project, that of restoring Charles II to the throne of England, and, with the help of Athos, succeeds, earning himself quite a fortune in the process. D’Artagnan returns to Paris to live the life of a rich citizen, and Athos, after negotiating the marriage of Philip, the king’s brother, to Princess Henrietta of England, likewise retires to his own estate, La Fere. Meanwhile, Mazarin has finally died, and left Louis to assume the reigns of power, with the assistance of M. Colbert, formerly Mazarin’s trusted clerk. Colbert has an intense hatred for M. Fouquet, the king’s superintendent of finances, and has resolved to use any means necessary to bring about his fall. With the new rank of intendant bestowed on him by Louis, Colbert succeeds in having two of Fouquet’s loyal friends tried and executed. He then brings to the king’s attention that Fouquet is fortifying the island of Belle-Ile-en-Mer, and could possibly be planning to use it as a base for some military operation against the king. Louis calls D’Artagnan out of retirement and sends him to investigate the island, promising him a tremendous salary and his long-promised promotion to captain of the musketeers upon his return. At Belle-Isle, D’Artagnan discovers that the engineer of the fortifications is, in fact, Porthos, now the Baron du Vallon, and that’s not all. The blueprints for the island, although in Porthos’s handwriting, show evidence of another script that has been erased, that of Aramis. D’Artagnan later discovers that Aramis has become the bishop of Vannes, which is, coincidentally, a parish belonging to M. Fouquet. Suspecting that D’Artagnan has arrived on the king’s behalf to investigate, Aramis tricks D’Artagnan into wandering around Vannes in search of Porthos, and sends Porthos on an heroic ride back to Paris to warn Fouquet of the danger. Fouquet rushes to the king, and gives him Belle-Isle as a present, thus allaying any suspicion, and at the same time humiliating Colbert, just minutes before the usher announces someone else seeking an audience with the king.
The Vicomte de Bragelonne (Etext 2609): It's the year 1660, and D’Artagnan, after thirty-five years of loyal service, is fed up with serving King Louis XIV while the real power lies with Cardinal Mazarin, and he has decided to resign. He sets off on his own mission to restore Charles II to the throne of England, and with Athos's help, he succeeds, making quite a fortune in the process. D’Artagnan returns to Paris to live as a wealthy citizen, and Athos, after arranging the marriage of Philip, the king’s brother, to Princess Henrietta of England, also retires to his estate, La Fere. Meanwhile, Mazarin has finally died, allowing Louis to take control of the power, with M. Colbert, once Mazarin’s trusted clerk, by his side. Colbert harbors a deep hatred for M. Fouquet, the king’s superintendent of finances, and is determined to bring him down by any means necessary. With a new title of intendant given to him by Louis, Colbert manages to have two of Fouquet’s loyal friends tried and executed. He then informs the king that Fouquet is strengthening the island of Belle-Ile-en-Mer, possibly planning to use it as a base for a military operation against him. Louis calls D’Artagnan out of retirement and sends him to investigate the island, promising him a great salary and the long-awaited promotion to captain of the musketeers upon his return. At Belle-Isle, D’Artagnan finds out that the engineer behind the fortifications is actually Porthos, now the Baron du Vallon, and there’s more. The blueprints for the island, although in Porthos’s handwriting, reveal traces of another script that has been erased, belonging to Aramis. D’Artagnan later learns that Aramis has become the bishop of Vannes, which happens to be a parish connected to M. Fouquet. Suspecting that D’Artagnan is on a royal mission to investigate, Aramis tricks him into wandering around Vannes searching for Porthos, and sends Porthos on a daring ride back to Paris to warn Fouquet of the danger. Fouquet hurries to the king and offers him Belle-Isle as a gift, diverting any suspicion and simultaneously humiliating Colbert, just before the usher announces someone else seeking an audience with the king.
And now, the second etext of The Vicomte de Bragelonne. Enjoy!
And now, here's the second e-text of The Vicomte de Bragelonne. Enjoy!
John Bursey Mordaunt
John Bursey Mordaunt
There is one French custom that may cause confusion. The Duc d’Orleans is traditionally called “Monsieur” and his wife “Madame.” Gaston, the king’s uncle, currently holds that title. Upon the event of his death, it will be conferred upon the king’s brother, Philip, who is currently the Duc d’Anjou. The customary title of “Monsieur” will go to him as well, and upon his future wife, Henrietta of England, that of “Madame.” Gaston’s widow will be referred to as the “Dowager Madame.”—JB
There’s one French custom that might be confusing. The Duc d’Orleans is traditionally called “Monsieur” and his wife “Madame.” Gaston, the king’s uncle, currently holds that title. When he dies, it will be passed on to the king’s brother, Philip, who is currently the Duc d’Anjou. The customary title of “Monsieur” will go to him, and his future wife, Henrietta of England, will be called “Madame.” Gaston’s widow will be referred to as the “Dowager Madame.”—JB
Chapter I. In which D’Artagnan finishes by at Length placing his Hand upon his Captain’s Commission.
The reader guesses beforehand whom the usher preceded in announcing the courier 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 at every step, on which resounded the clink of his blood-stained spurs. He perceived in the doorway he was passing through, the superintendent 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 Duc 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’Artagnan 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:—
The reader can guess right away who the usher was announcing as the courier from Bretagne. This messenger was easy to recognize. It was D’Artagnan, his clothes dusty, his face flushed, his hair soaked with sweat, and his legs stiff. He lifted his feet with difficulty at every step, the sound of his blood-stained spurs clinking with each movement. As he passed through the doorway, he saw the superintendent coming out. Fouquet smiled and bowed to the man who, just an hour earlier, had been bringing him ruin and death. D’Artagnan found enough presence of mind, thanks to his good heart and boundless energy, to remember the warm welcome he'd received from Fouquet; he bowed too, more from kindness and sympathy than respect. The word that had been said so many times to the Duc de Guise was on his lips: “Run.” But saying that word would have betrayed his cause; to speak it in the king's chamber and in front of an usher would have been to ruin himself for no reason and would save no one. So, D’Artagnan settled for just bowing to Fouquet and entered. At that moment, the king was caught between the joy that the last words of Fouquet had given him and his happiness at D’Artagnan’s return. Without being a courtier, D’Artagnan had an eye as sharp and quick as if he were one. He saw, upon his entrance, the devouring humiliation on Colbert's face. He even heard the king say these words to him:—
“Ah! Monsieur Colbert; you have then nine hundred thousand livres at the intendance?” Colbert, suffocated, bowed but made no reply. All this scene entered into the mind of D’Artagnan, by the eyes and ears, at once.
“Ah! Mr. Colbert; so you have nine hundred thousand livres at the treasury?” Colbert, taken aback, bowed but didn’t respond. D’Artagnan absorbed the entire scene through his eyes and ears at once.
The first word of Louis to his musketeer, as if he wished it to contrast with what he was saying at the moment, was a kind “good day.” His second was to send away Colbert. The latter left the king’s cabinet, pallid and tottering, whilst D’Artagnan twisted up the ends of his mustache.
The first thing Louis said to his musketeer, almost as if he wanted it to stand out against what he was saying at that moment, was a friendly "good day." His next order was to send Colbert away. Colbert left the king's office, pale and unsteady, while D’Artagnan curled 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 love to see one of my servants in this mess,” said the king, admiring the battle stains on the clothes of his envoy.
“I thought, sire, my presence at the Louvre was sufficiently urgent to excuse my presenting myself thus before you.”
“I thought, sir, that my presence at the Louvre was important enough to justify me coming to you like this.”
“You bring me great news, then, monsieur?”
“You have fantastic news for me, then, sir?”
“Sire, the thing is this, in two words: Belle-Isle is fortified, admirably fortified; Belle-Isle has a double enceinte, a citadel, two detached forts; its ports contain three corsairs; and the side batteries only await their cannon.”
“Sire, the situation is simple: Belle-Isle is strongly fortified, exceptionally fortified; Belle-Isle has a double enceinte, a citadel, and two detached forts; its ports hold three corsairs; and the side batteries are just waiting for their cannons.”
“I know all that, monsieur,” replied the king.
“I know all that, sir,” replied the king.
“What! your majesty knows all that?” replied the musketeer, stupefied.
“What! You knew all that, Your Majesty?” replied the musketeer, amazed.
“I have the plan of the fortifications of Belle-Isle,” said the king.
“I have the layout of the defenses for Belle-Isle,” said the king.
“Your majesty has the plan?”
“Do you have the plan, Your Majesty?”
“Here it is.”
“Here it is.”
“It is really correct, sire: I saw a similar one on the spot.”
“It’s really true, your Majesty: I saw a similar one right there.”
D’Artagnan’s brow became clouded.
D'Artagnan's brow furrowed.
“Ah! I understand all. Your majesty did not trust to me alone, but sent some other person,” said he in a reproachful tone.
“Ah! I get it now. Your majesty didn’t trust me alone, but sent someone else,” he said in a reproachful tone.
“Of what importance is the manner, monsieur, in which I have learnt what I know, so that I know it?”
“Why does it matter, sir, how I learned what I know as long as I 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 scarcely 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.
“Your Majesty, Your Majesty,” the musketeer said, not even trying to hide his frustration. “But I have to say, it’s not worth it for me to rush and risk breaking my neck twenty times just to be met with this news upon my arrival. Your Majesty, when people aren’t trusted or considered good enough, they shouldn’t be used at all.” D’Artagnan then made a perfectly military motion, stamping his foot and leaving a dust mark stained with blood on the floor. The king looked at him, secretly savoring his first victory.
“Monsieur,” said he, at the expiration of a minute, “not only is Belle-Isle known to me, but, still further, Belle-Isle is mine.”
“Mister,” he said after a minute, “not only do I know Belle-Isle, but, even more, Belle-Isle is mine.”
“That is well! that is well, sire, I ask but one thing more,” replied D’Artagnan.—“My discharge.”
“That’s great! That’s great, sir, I only ask for one more thing,” replied D’Artagnan. —“My discharge.”
“What! your discharge?”
“What! Your discharge?”
“Without doubt I am too proud to eat the bread of the king without earning it, or rather by gaining it badly.—My discharge, sire!”
“There's no doubt I'm too proud to take the king's bread without earning it, or at least not by getting it the wrong way. —My discharge, sire!”
“Oh, oh!”
“Oh wow!”
“I ask for my discharge, or I will take it.”
“I request my discharge, or I will take it.”
“You are angry, monsieur?”
"Are you angry, sir?"
“I have reason, mordioux! Thirty-two hours in the saddle, I ride day and night, 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!”
“I have my reasons, damn it! Thirty-two hours in the saddle, I ride day and night, pushing myself to the limit, and I arrive as stiff as a corpse of someone who has been hanged—and someone else shows up before me! Come on, sire, I’m a fool!—Let me go, 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 king’s word given must 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.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Louis, leaning his pale hand on the dusty arm of the musketeer, “what I’m about to tell you won’t change what I promised you. A king’s word must be honored.” The king then walked straight to his table, opened a drawer, and pulled out a folded paper. “Here is your commission as captain of the musketeers; you’ve earned it, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
D’Artagnan opened the paper eagerly, and scanned it twice. He could scarcely believe his eyes.
D’Artagnan eagerly opened the paper and read through it twice. He could hardly believe what he was seeing.
“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 Greve. There, likewise, you served me valiantly.”
“And this commission is given to you,” continued the king, “not just because of your trip to Belle-Isle but also for your brave actions at the Place de Greve. There, too, you served me honorably.”
“Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan, without his self-command being able to prevent a blush from mounting to his eyes—“you know that also, sire?”
“Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan, unable to hide his embarrassment as a blush crept into his cheeks—“you know that too, sire?”
“Yes, I know it.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
The king possessed a piercing glance and an infallible judgment when it was his object to read men’s minds. “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 and for all, that you are to be always quite frank with me.”
The king had a sharp gaze and an unbeatable ability to read people’s minds. “You have something to say,” he told the musketeer, “something you’re not saying. Go on, speak openly, sir; you know I’ve told you time and again that you should always be completely honest with me.”
“Well, sire! what I have to say is this, that I would prefer being made captain of the musketeers for having charged a battery at the head of my company, or taken a city, than for causing two wretches to be hung.”
“Well, your Majesty! What I have to say is this: I would rather be made captain of the musketeers for leading an assault on a cannon with my company or for capturing a city than for having two miserable people hanged.”
“Is this quite true you tell me?”
“Is this really true what you’re telling me?”
“And why should your majesty suspect me of dissimulation, I ask?”
“And why should your majesty think I’m being deceitful, I ask?”
“Because I have known you well, monsieur; you cannot repent of having drawn your sword for me.”
“Because I know you well, sir; you can’t regret drawing 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 were hung, sire, were neither your enemies nor mine; and they could not defend themselves.”
“Well, your majesty is greatly mistaken. Yes, I regret drawing my sword because of the consequences that followed; the poor men who were hanged, sire, were neither your enemies nor mine, and they couldn’t defend themselves.”
The king preserved silence for a moment. “And your companion, M. d’Artagnan, does he partake of your repentance?”
The king was silent for a moment. “And your friend, M. d’Artagnan, does he share your regret?”
“My companion?”
"My partner?"
“Yes, you were not alone, I have been told.”
“Yes, you weren't alone, I've been told.”
“Alone, where?”
"Alone, where to?"
“At the Place de Greve.”
“At Place de Grève.”
“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 Raoul; “no, mordioux! and as your majesty says, I had a companion, and a good companion, too.”
“No, sire, no,” said D’Artagnan, blushing at the thought that the king might suspect him of wanting to take all the glory that belonged to Raoul; “no, mordioux! and as your majesty mentioned, I had a partner, and a good partner, too.”
“A young man?”
"A young guy?"
“Yes, sire; a young man. Oh! your majesty must accept my compliments, you are as well informed of things out of doors as things within. It is M. Colbert who makes all these fine reports to the king.”
“Yes, sir; a young man. Oh! your majesty must accept my compliments, you are as well informed about things outside as you are about things inside. It’s M. Colbert who gives all these great reports to the king.”
“M. Colbert has said nothing but good of you, M. d’Artagnan, and he would have met with a bad reception if he had come to tell me anything else.”
“M. Colbert has only said good things about you, M. d’Artagnan, and he would have been met with a poor reception if he had come to tell me anything different.”
“That is fortunate!”
"That's lucky!"
“But he also said much good of that young man.”
“But he also had a lot of good things to say about that young man.”
“And with justice,” said the musketeer.
“And with justice,” said the musketeer.
“In short, it appears that this young man is a fire-eater,” said Louis, in order to sharpen the sentiment which he mistook for envy.
“In short, it looks like this young guy is a fire-eater,” said Louis, trying to heighten the feeling he confused with envy.
“A fire-eater! Yes, sire,” repeated D’Artagnan, delighted on his part to direct the king’s attention to Raoul.
“A fire-eater! Yes, sir,” D’Artagnan repeated, pleased to point the king's attention to Raoul.
“Do you not know his name?”
"Don't you know his name?"
“Well, I think—”
“Well, I believe—”
“You know him then?”
"Do you know him?"
“I have known him nearly five-and-twenty years, sire.”
“I have known him for almost twenty-five years, sir.”
“Why, he is scarcely twenty-five years old!” cried the king.
“Wow, he's barely twenty-five!” exclaimed the king.
“Well, sire! I have known him ever since he was born, that is all.”
“Well, sir! I've known him since he was born, that’s all.”
“Do you affirm that?”
"Do you agree with that?"
“Sire,” said D’Artagnan, “your majesty questions me with a mistrust in which I recognize another character than your own. M. 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?”
“Sire,” D’Artagnan said, “your majesty is questioning me with a doubt that doesn’t seem like you. Has M. Colbert, who has informed you so well, not mentioned that this young man is the son of my closest friend?”
“The Vicomte de Bragelonne?”
"The Viscount de Bragelonne?"
“Certainly, sire. The father of the Vicomte de Bragelonne is M. le Comte de la Fere, who so powerfully assisted in the restoration of King Charles II. Bragelonne comes of a valiant race, sire.”
“Of course, sir. The father of the Vicomte de Bragelonne is M. le Comte de la Fere, who played a significant role in the restoration of King Charles II. Bragelonne comes from a brave lineage, sir.”
“Then he is the son of that nobleman who came to me, or rather to M. Mazarin, on the part of King Charles II., to offer me his alliance?”
“Then he is the son of that nobleman who came to me, or rather to M. Mazarin, on behalf of King Charles II., to propose his alliance?”
“Exactly, sire.”
"Exactly, your majesty."
“And the Comte de la Fere is a great soldier, say you?”
“And the Comte de la Fere is a great soldier, you say?”
“Sire, he is a man who has drawn his sword more times for the king, your father, than there are, at present, months in the happy life of your majesty.”
“Sire, he is a man who has unsheathed his sword more times for the king, your father, than there are currently months in the blessed life of your majesty.”
It was Louis XIV. who now bit his lip.
It was Louis XIV who now bit his lip.
“That is well, M. d’Artagnan, very well! And M. le Comte de la Fere is your friend, say you?”
"That's great, Mr. d'Artagnan, really great! And you're saying that Mr. Count de la Fere is your friend?"
“For about forty years; yes, sire. Your majesty may see that I do not speak to you of yesterday.”
“For about forty years; yes, sir. Your majesty can see that I’m not talking about yesterday.”
“Should you be glad to see this young man, M. d’Artagnan?”
“Are you happy to see this young man, M. d’Artagnan?”
“Delighted, sire.”
"Thrilled, Your Majesty."
The king touched his bell, and an usher appeared. “Call M. de Bragelonne,” said the king.
The king rang his bell, and an usher showed up. “Call M. de Bragelonne,” said the king.
“Ah! ah! he is here?” said D’Artagnan.
“Ah! Ah! Is he here?” said D’Artagnan.
“He is on guard to-day, at the Louvre, with the company of the gentlemen of monsieur le prince.”
“He is on duty today at the Louvre, alongside the gentlemen of mister the prince.”
The king had scarcely ceased speaking, when Raoul presented himself, and, on seeing D’Artagnan, smiled on him with that charming smile which is only found upon the lips of youth.
The king had just finished speaking when Raoul appeared and, seeing D’Artagnan, smiled at him with that lovely smile that only young people have.
“Come, come,” said D’Artagnan, familiarly, to Raoul, “the king will allow you to embrace me; only tell his majesty you thank him.”
“Come on,” D’Artagnan said casually to Raoul, “the king will let you hug me; just make sure to thank his majesty.”
Raoul bowed so gracefully, that Louis, to whom all superior qualities were pleasing when they did not overshadow his own, admired his beauty, strength, and modesty.
Raoul bowed so elegantly that Louis, who appreciated any superior traits as long as they didn’t outshine his own, admired his looks, strength, and humility.
“Monsieur,” said the king, addressing Raoul, “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 by the exchange.”
“Sir,” said the king, turning to Raoul, “I’ve asked the prince to kindly hand you over to me; I’ve received his answer, and as of this morning, you’re mine. The prince was a good master, but I hope this change will be for the better.”
“Yes, yes, Raoul, be satisfied; the king has some good in him,” said D’Artagnan, who had fathomed the character of 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.
“Yes, yes, Raoul, be satisfied; the king has some good in him,” said D’Artagnan, who had figured out Louis’s character and who toyed with his ego, within certain limits; always keeping in mind the social norms and flattering, even when he seemed to be joking.
“Sire,” said Bragelonne, with 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.”
“Sire,” said Bragelonne, his voice soft and melodic, speaking with the natural ease he inherited from his father; “Sire, I have been loyal to your majesty for a long time.”
“Oh! no, I know,” said the king, “you mean your enterprise of the Greve. That day, you were truly mine, monsieur.”
“Oh! no, I know,” said the king, “you’re talking about your plan for the Greve. That day, you were really on my side, mister.”
“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 M. 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.”
“Sire, I’m not here to talk about that day; it wouldn’t be right for me to mention such a small favor in front of someone like M. d’Artagnan. I want to discuss an event that marked a turning point in my life, one that dedicated me to the loyal service of your majesty from the age of sixteen.”
“Ah! ah!” said the king, “what was that circumstance? Tell me, monsieur.”
“Ah! ah!” said the king, “what happened? Tell me, sir.”
“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, M. le Comte de la Fere came to conduct me as far as Saint-Denis, where the remains of King Louis XIII. wait, upon the lowest steps of the funeral basilique, a successor, whom God will not send him, I hope, for many years. Then he made me swear upon the ashes of our masters, 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.”
“This is it, your majesty. When I was getting ready for my first campaign, which means to join the army of Monsieur le Prince, Count de la Fere came to escort me as far as Saint-Denis, where the remains of King Louis XIII. wait, upon the lowest steps of the funeral basilique, a successor who I hope God won’t send for many years. Then he made me swear on the ashes of our masters to serve royalty, represented by you—embodied in you, your majesty—to serve it in word, thought, and action. I swore, and God and the dead witnessed my oath. For ten years, your majesty, I haven’t had as many opportunities to fulfill it as I would have liked. I am a soldier of your majesty, and nothing else; and by coming closer to you, I am not changing my master, I am only changing my garrison.”
Raoul was silent and bowed. Louis still listened after he had done speaking.
Raoul was quiet and lowered his head. Louis kept listening even after he finished speaking.
“Mordioux!” cried D’Artagnan, “that was well spoken! was it not, your majesty? A good race! a noble race!”
“Mordioux!” shouted D’Artagnan, “that was well said! Don’t you think so, your majesty? A great race! a noble race!”
“Yes,” murmured the king, without, however daring to manifest his emotion, for it had no other cause than contact with a nature intrinsically noble. “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.”
“Yeah,” the king whispered, though he didn’t want to show his feelings, which came only from being in the presence of someone inherently noble. “Yes, sir, you’re absolutely right: wherever you went, you were the king’s. But as you change your guard, trust me, you will discover an opportunity that you truly deserve.”
Raoul saw that this ended what the king had to say to him. And with the perfect tact which characterized his refined nature, he bowed and retired.
Raoul realized that this concluded what the king had to say to him. With the perfect tact that defined his refined nature, he bowed and left.
“Is there anything else, monsieur, of which you have to inform me?” said the king, when he found himself again alone with D’Artagnan.
“Is there anything else, sir, that you need to tell me?” said the king, when he found himself alone with D’Artagnan again.
“Yes, sire, and I kept that news for the last, for it is sad, and will clothe European royalty in mourning.”
“Yes, sir, and I saved that news for last because it’s sad and will put European royalty in mourning.”
“What do you tell me?”
"What do you say to me?"
“Sire, in passing through Blois, a word, a sad word, echoed from the palace, struck my ear.”
“Sire, as I passed through Blois, I heard a word, a mournful word, echoing from the palace.”
“In truth, you terrify me, M. d’Artagnan.”
“In truth, you scare me, M. d’Artagnan.”
“Sire, this word was pronounced to me by a piqueur, who wore crape on his arm.”
“Sire, this word was told to me by a piqueur, who had black fabric on his arm.”
“My uncle, Gaston of Orleans, perhaps.”
“My uncle, Gaston of Orleans, maybe.”
“Sire, he has rendered his last sigh.”
“Sir, he has breathed his last.”
“And I was not warned of it!” cried the king, whose royal susceptibility saw an insult in the absence of this intelligence.
“And I wasn't warned about it!” shouted the king, whose royal sensitivity perceived an insult in not being informed.
“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 thither side of Orleans.”
“Oh! Please don't be mad, sire,” said D’Artagnan. “Neither the messengers of Paris nor those from anywhere else in the world can travel as fast as your servant. The courier from Blois won't arrive for another two hours, and I assure you he rides well, since 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 symbol of opposing sentiments.
"My uncle Gaston," Louis murmured, pressing his hand to his forehead, capturing in those three words everything his memory recalled about that symbol of conflicting feelings.
“Eh! yes, sire, it is thus,” said D’Artagnan, philosophically replying to the royal thought, “it is thus the past flies away.”
“Yeah, sir, that’s how it is,” D’Artagnan said, responding to the king’s thoughts with a philosophical tone, “that’s how the past slips 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.”
"That's true, sir, that's true; but thankfully we still have the future ahead of us, and we will do our best to make it not too bleak."
“I feel confidence in your majesty on that head,” said D’Artagnan, bowing, “and now—”
“I have confidence in you, Your Majesty, regarding that matter,” 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 disposal.”
“You're right, sir; I forgot about the hundred leagues you've just traveled. Go, sir, take care of one of the best soldiers, and when you've rested a bit, come and make yourself available to me.”
“Sire, absent or present, I am always yours.”
“Sire, whether you are here or not, I am always yours.”
D’Artagnan bowed and retired. Then, as if he had only come from Fontainebleau, he quickly traversed the Louvre to rejoin Bragelonne.
D’Artagnan bowed and left. Then, as if he had just come from Fontainebleau, he quickly crossed the Louvre to meet up with Bragelonne.
Chapter II. A Lover and His Mistress.
Whilst the wax-lights were burning in the castle of Blois, around the inanimate body of Gaston of Orleans, that last representative of the past; whilst the bourgeois of the city were thinking out his epitaph, which was far from being a panegyric; whilst madame the dowager, no longer remembering that in her young days she had loved that senseless corpse to such a degree as to fly the paternal palace for his sake, was making, within twenty paces of the funeral apartment, her little calculations of interest and her little sacrifices of pride; other interests and other prides were in agitation in 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 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 lighted a chamber forming part of what were called the little apartments. For the rest, a joyous beam of the sun, for the sun appeared to care 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, 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 large eyes, shaded with long eye-lashes, was short of stature and swart of skin; he smiled with an enormous, but well-furnished mouth, and his pointed chin, which appeared to enjoy a mobility nature does not ordinarily grant to that portion of the countenance, leant from time to time very lovingly towards his interlocutrix, who, we must say, did not always draw back so rapidly as strict propriety had a right to require. The young girl—we know her, 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 shyness and reflection; she was charming when she laughed, beautiful when she became serious; but, let us hasten to say, she was more frequently charming than beautiful. These two appeared to have attained the culminating point of a discussion—half-bantering, half-serious.
While the candle lights were burning in the castle of Blois, around the lifeless body of Gaston of Orleans, the last representative of the past; while the townspeople were coming up with his epitaph, which was far from flattering; while the dowager, having forgotten that in her youth she loved that lifeless body so much that she fled her family home for him, was making her little calculations of interest and small sacrifices of pride just twenty paces from the funeral chamber; other interests and other prides were stirring throughout the castle wherever a living soul could be found. Neither the mournful sounds of the bells, nor the voices of the singers, nor the glow of the candle lights through the windows, nor the funeral preparations could distract the attention of two people at a window in the inner courtyard—a window we know well, which lit a room in what was called the little apartments. Meanwhile, a cheerful ray of sunshine, which seemed indifferent to France's recent loss, descended upon them, drawing scents from the nearby flowers and enlivening the walls themselves. These two individuals, absorbed not by the duke's death but by the conversation resulting from it, were a young woman and a young man. The young man, about twenty-five or twenty-six years old, with an expression that shifted between lively and somber and making good use of his large eyes framed by long eyelashes, was short and dark-skinned; he smiled with a wide, well-formed mouth, and his pointed chin, which seemed to move in ways not usually granted to that part of the face, occasionally leaned affectionately toward his companion, who, it should be noted, did not always pull away as quickly as proper decorum might dictate. The young woman—we recognize her, as we’ve seen her at that very window, in the light of that same sun—exhibited a unique blend of shyness and thoughtfulness; she was charming when she laughed and beautiful when she was serious; but let’s quickly add, she was charming more often than beautiful. These two seemed to have reached the peak of a conversation—part teasing, part serious.
“Now, Monsieur Malicorne,” said the young girl, “does it, at length, please you that we should talk reasonably?”
“Now, Mr. Malicorne,” said the young girl, “are you finally in the mood for a reasonable conversation?”
“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—”
“You think that's really easy, Mademoiselle Aure,” replied the young man. “To do what we want, when we can only do what we can—”
“Good! there he is bewildered in his phrases.”
“Good! There he is confused in his words.”
“Who, I?”
"Me?"
“Yes, you; quit that lawyer’s logic, my dear.”
“Yes, you; stop with that lawyer’s logic, my dear.”
“Another impossibility. Clerk I am, Mademoiselle de Montalais.”
“Another impossible thing. I’m just a clerk, Mademoiselle de Montalais.”
“Demoiselle I am, Monsieur Malicorne.”
"I am a lady, Mr. Malicorne."
“Alas, I know it well, and you overwhelm me by your rank; so I will say no more to you.”
“Unfortunately, I know it all too well, and your status puts me in awe; so I won’t say anything more to you.”
“Well, no, I don’t overwhelm you; say what you have to tell me—say it, I insist upon it.”
“Well, no, I don’t overwhelm you; just tell me what you need to say—go on, I insist.”
“Well, I obey you.”
"Okay, I’ll follow you."
“That is truly fortunate.”
"That's really lucky."
“Monsieur is dead.”
"Mr. is dead."
“Ah, peste! that’s news! And where do you come from, to be able to tell us that?”
“Ah, peste! that’s news! And where are you from to be able to tell us that?”
“I come from Orleans, mademoiselle.”
"I'm from Orleans, miss."
“And is that all the news you bring?”
“And is that all the news you have?”
“Ah, no; I am come to tell you that Madame Henrietta of England is coming to marry the king’s brother.”
“Ah, no; I’ve come to tell you that Madame Henrietta of England is coming to marry the king’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.”
“Honestly, Malicorne, you’re unbearable with your stories from the last century. Just so you know, if you keep laughing at people like this, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“Oh!”
“Oh!”
“Yes, for really you exasperate me.”
“Yes, you really bug me.”
“There, there. Patience, mademoiselle.”
"There, there. Patience, miss."
“You want to make yourself of consequence; I know well enough why. Go!”
“You want to make yourself important; I know exactly why. Go!”
“Tell me, and I will answer you frankly, yes, if the thing be true.”
“Tell me, and I will answer you honestly, yes, if it's 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.”
“You know that I’m eager to get that lady of honor position that I’ve been silly enough to ask you about, and you’re not using your influence.”
“Who, I?” Malicorne cast down his eyes, joined his hands, and assumed his sullen air. “And what credit can the poor clerk of a procurer have, pray?”
“Who, me?” Malicorne looked down, clasped his hands, and put on a gloomy expression. “And what kind of respect can a lowly clerk for a procurer possibly have, I ask?”
“Your father has not twenty thousand livres a year for nothing, M. Malicorne.”
“Your father doesn’t have twenty thousand livres a year for no reason, Mr. Malicorne.”
“A provincial fortune, Mademoiselle de Montalais.”
“A provincial fortune, Miss de Montalais.”
“Your father is not in the secrets of monsieur le prince for nothing.”
“Your father is not in the prince’s secrets for no reason.”
“An advantage which is confined to lending monseigneur money.”
“An advantage that is limited to lending the lord money.”
“In a word, you are not the most cunning young fellow in the province for nothing.”
“In short, you’re not the smartest young guy in the province for no reason.”
“You flatter me!”
"You’re too kind!"
“Who, I?”
"Me?"
“Yes, you.”
"Yeah, you."
“How so?”
"Why is that?"
“Since I maintain that I have no credit, and you maintain I have.”
“Since I insist that I have no credit, and you insist that I do.”
“Well, then,—my commission?”
“Well, then—where's my commission?”
“Well,—your commission?”
"Well, what's your commission?"
“Shall I have it, or shall I not?”
“Should I get it, or should I not?”
“You shall have it.”
"You will have it."
“Ay, but when?”
"Yeah, but when?"
“When you like.”
"When you're ready."
“Where is it, then?”
"Where is it now?"
“In my pocket.”
"In my pocket."
“How—in your pocket?”
“How—do you have it?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah.”
And, with a smile, Malicorne drew from his pocket a letter, upon which mademoiselle seized as a prey, and which she read eagerly. As she read, her face brightened.
And, with a smile, Malicorne pulled a letter from his pocket, which mademoiselle eagerly snatched up and read. As she read, her face lit up.
“Malicorne,” cried she after having read it, “In truth, you are a good lad.”
“Malicorne,” she exclaimed after reading it, “Honestly, you’re a good guy.”
“What for, mademoiselle?”
"What for, miss?"
“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 Malicorne sustained the attack bravely.
“Because you might have been paid for this commission, and you haven't.” And she laughed loudly, trying to embarrass the clerk; but Malicorne handled the situation confidently.
“I do not understand you,” said he. It was now Montalais 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.”
“I don’t get you,” he said. Now it was Montalais who was thrown off balance. “I’ve shared my feelings with you,” Malicorne continued. “You’ve told me three times, laughing every time, that you didn’t love me; you hugged me once without laughing, and that’s all I want.”
“All?” said the proud and coquettish Montalais, in a tone through which the wounded pride was visible.
“All?” said the proud and flirty Montalais, her tone revealing her hurt pride.
“Absolutely all, mademoiselle,” replied Malicorne.
"Absolutely everyone, miss," replied Malicorne.
“Ah!”—And this monosyllable indicated as much anger as the young man might have expected gratitude. He shook his head quietly.
“Ah!”—And this one-word response showed just as much anger as the young man might have hoped for gratitude. He shook his head quietly.
“Listen, Montalais,” said he, without heeding whether that familiarity pleased his mistress or not; “let us not dispute about it.”
“Listen, Montalais,” he said, not caring whether his mistress liked the familiarity or not; “let's not argue about it.”
“And why not?”
"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.”
“Because in the year that I've known you, you could have kicked me out twenty times if I didn't make you happy.”
“Indeed; and on what account should I have had you turned out?”
“Exactly; and why would I have had you thrown out?”
“Because I have been sufficiently impertinent for that.”
“Because I have been rude enough for that.”
“Oh, that,—yes, that’s true.”
“Oh, that—yeah, that’s true.”
“You see plainly that you are forced to avow it,” said Malicorne.
"You can clearly see that you have to admit it," Malicorne said.
“Monsieur Malicorne!”
"Mr. Malicorne!"
“Don’t let us be angry; if you have retained me, then it has not been without cause.”
“Please don’t be mad; if you’ve kept me around, it must be for a good reason.”
“It is not, at least, because I love you,” cried Montalais.
“It’s definitely not because I love you,” Montalais shouted.
“Granted. I will even say, at this moment, I am certain that you hate me.”
“Okay. I’ll even say, right now, I know you hate me.”
“Oh, you have never spoken so truly.”
“Oh, you’ve never spoken so truthfully.”
“Well, on my part, I detest you.”
“Well, I, for one, really dislike you.”
“Ah! I take the act.”
“Ah! I accept the offer.”
“Take it. You find me brutal and foolish; on my part I find you have a harsh voice, and your face is too often 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.”
“Take it. You think I'm cruel and stupid; I think you have an awful tone, and your face frequently twists with rage. Right now, you would let yourself be thrown out of that window rather than let me kiss the tip of your finger; I would throw myself off the balcony before I touched the edge of your robe. But in five minutes, you’ll love me, and I’ll adore you. Oh, it’s just how it is.”
“I doubt it.”
"I don't think so."
“And I swear it.”
“And I swear.”
“Coxcomb!”
"Fool!"
“And then, that is not the true reason. You stand in need of me, Aure, 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.”
“And that’s not the real reason. You need me, Aure, and I need you. When you feel like being cheerful, I make you laugh; when I feel like being affectionate, I look at you. I’ve given you the role of lady of honor that you wanted; soon, you’ll give me something I want.”
“I will?”
"Am I?"
“Yes, you will; but, at this moment, my dear Aure, I declare to you that I wish for absolutely nothing, so be at ease.”
“Yes, you will; but right now, my dear Aure, I want you to know that I don’t wish for anything at all, so relax.”
“You are a frightful man, Malicorne; I was going to rejoice at getting this commission, and thus you quench my joy.”
“You're a terrible person, Malicorne; I was about to celebrate getting this assignment, and now you've dampened my spirits.”
“Good; there is no time lost,—you will rejoice when I am gone.”
“Great; there’s no time wasted—you’ll be happy when I leave.”
“Go, then; and after—”
"Go ahead; and after—"
“So be it; but in the first place, a piece of advice.”
“So be it; but first, a bit of advice.”
“What is it?”
"What is it?"
“Resume your good-humor,—you are ugly when you pout.”
“Get back to your good mood—you look unappealing when you sulk.”
“Coarse!”
"Rude!"
“Come, let us tell the truth to each other, while we are about it.”
“Come on, let’s be honest with each other while we’re at it.”
“Oh, Malicorne! Bad-hearted man!”
“Oh, Malicorne! Heartless man!”
“Oh, Montalais! Ungrateful girl!”
“Oh, Montalais! Thankless girl!”
The young man leant 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 doublet;—Montalais, though pretending to read, looked at him out of the corner of her eye.
The young man rested his elbow on the window frame while Montalais picked up a book and opened it. Malicorne stood up, dusted off his hat with his sleeve, and straightened his black jacket. Montalais, though pretending to read, glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.
“Good!” cried she, furious; “he has assumed his respectful air—and he will pout for a week.”
“Good!” she exclaimed, furious; “he's putting on his polite face—and he’ll sulk for a week.”
“A fortnight, mademoiselle,” said Malicorne, bowing.
"A couple of weeks, miss," said Malicorne, bowing.
Montalais lifted up her little doubled fist. “Monster!” said she; “oh! that I were a man!”
Montalais raised her small, clenched fist. “Monster!” she exclaimed; “oh! if only I were a man!”
“What would you do to me?”
“What are you going to do to me?”
“I would strangle you.”
"I'd choke you."
“Ah! very well, then,” said Malicorne; “I believe I begin to desire something.”
“Ah! all right, then,” said Malicorne; “I think I’m starting to want something.”
“And what do you desire, Monsieur Demon? That I should lose my soul from anger?”
“And what do you want, Mr. Demon? Do you want me to lose my soul out of anger?”
Malicorne was rolling his hat respectfully between his fingers; but, all at once, he let fall his hat, seized the young girl by the shoulders, pulled her towards him, and sealed her mouth with two lips that were very warm, for a man pretending to so much indifference. Aure would have cried out, but the cry was stifled in his kiss. Nervous and, apparently, angry, the young girl pushed Malicorne against the wall.
Malicorne was nervously rolling his hat between his fingers; but suddenly, he dropped it, grabbed the young girl by the shoulders, pulled her close, and kissed her with surprisingly warm lips for someone acting so indifferent. Aure would have screamed, but her cry was muffled by his kiss. Looking both nervous and seemingly angry, the young girl pushed Malicorne against the wall.
“Good!” said Malicorne, philosophically, “that’s enough for six weeks. Adieu, mademoiselle, accept my very humble salutation.” And he made three steps towards the door.
“Good!” said Malicorne, thoughtfully, “that’s enough for six weeks. Goodbye, mademoiselle, please accept my humble greeting.” And he took 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!”
“Well! No—you’re not going!” cried Montalais, stamping her little foot. “Stay right here! I’m telling you!”
“You order me?”
"Are you ordering me?"
“Yes; am I not mistress?”
"Yeah; am I not the boss?"
“Of my heart and soul, without doubt.”
“Of my heart and soul, for sure.”
“A pretty property! ma foi! The soul is silly and the heart dry.”
“A lovely place! Oh my! The soul is foolish and the heart is empty.”
“Beware, Montalais, I know you,” said Malicorne; “you are going to fall in love with your humble servant.”
“Watch out, Montalais, I know you,” Malicorne said; “you’re about to fall for 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.”
“Sure!” she said, draping herself around his neck with a lazy, childlike attitude instead of with a loving embrace. “Sure! Because I at least need to thank you.”
“And for what?”
"And for what reason?"
“For the commission; is it not my whole future?”
“For the commission; isn’t it my entire future?”
“And mine.”
"And mine."
Montalais looked at him.
Montalais stared at him.
“It is frightful,” said she, “that one can never guess whether you are speaking seriously or not.”
“It’s terrifying,” she said, “that you can never tell if you’re being serious or not.”
“I cannot speak more seriously. I was going to Paris,—you are going there,—we are going there.”
“I can’t stress this enough. I was heading to Paris—you’re going there—we’re going there.”
“And so it was for that motive only you have served me; selfish fellow!”
“And so it was for that reason only that you have helped me; selfish guy!”
“What would you have me say, Aure? I cannot live without you.”
“What do you want me to say, Aure? I can’t live without you.”
“Well! in truth, it is just so with me; you are, nevertheless, it must be confessed, a very bad-hearted young man.”
“Well! Honestly, that's just how I feel; you are, however, it must be admitted, a very cruel young man.”
“Aure, my dear Aure, take care! if you take to calling me 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 towards 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 Madame de Saint-Remy who uttered the cry and the angry words. The unlucky Malicorne almost crushed her between the wall and the door she was coming in at.
“Aure, my dear Aure, be careful! If you start calling me names again, you know how it affects me, and I’ll end up adoring you.” With that, Malicorne pulled the young girl closer to him again. But just then, footsteps echoed down the staircase. They were so close that they would have been caught in each other's arms if Montalais hadn’t violently pushed Malicorne against the door, which was just opening. A loud scream, followed by angry accusations, immediately rang out. It was Madame de Saint-Remy who let out the scream and the angry words. Poor Malicorne nearly crushed her between the wall and the door she was entering through.
“It is again that good-for-nothing!” cried the old lady. “Always here!”
“It’s that useless person again!” shouted the old lady. “Always around!”
“Ah, madame!” replied Malicorne, in a respectful tone; “it is eight long days since I was here.”
“Ah, ma’am!” Malicorne replied respectfully, “It’s been eight long days since I was here.”
Chapter III. In Which We at Length See the True Heroine of this History
Appear.
Show up.
Behind Madame de Saint-Remy stood Mademoiselle de la Valliere. She heard the explosion of maternal anger, and as she divined the cause of it, she entered the chamber trembling, and perceived the unlucky Malicorne, whose woeful countenance might have softened or set laughing whoever observed it coolly. He had promptly intrenched himself behind a large chair, as if to avoid the first attacks of Madame de Saint-Remy; 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; Malicorne had long been one of her antipathies. But her anger was too great not to overflow from Malicorne on his accomplice. Montalais had her turn.
Behind Madame de Saint-Remy stood Mademoiselle de la Valliere. She heard the burst of maternal anger, and as she figured out the reason for it, she entered the room shaking and saw the unfortunate Malicorne, whose sorrowful face could have softened or amused anyone who looked at it closely. He had quickly taken refuge behind a large chair, as if to dodge the initial onslaught from Madame de Saint-Remy; he didn’t expect to win with words, since she spoke louder than he did and without pausing; but he counted on the power of his gestures. The old lady would neither listen to nor acknowledge anything; Malicorne had long been one of her dislikes. But her anger was too intense to stay focused solely on Malicorne, and it spilled over to his accomplice. Montalais was next.
“And you, mademoiselle; you may be certain I shall inform madame of what is going on in the apartment of one of her ladies of honor?”
“And you, miss; you can be sure I will tell madam what’s happening in the apartment of one of her ladies-in-waiting?”
“Oh, dear mother!” cried Mademoiselle de la Valliere, “for mercy’s sake, spare—”
“Oh, dear mother!” cried Mademoiselle de la Valliere, “for mercy’s sake, spare—”
“Hold your tongue, mademoiselle, and do not uselessly trouble yourself to intercede for unworthy people; 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.”
“Be quiet, miss, and don’t bother to speak up for people who don’t deserve it; it’s already a big enough shame that a young maid of honor like you has to deal with a bad example; but I won’t allow you to support it by being lenient.”
“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?”
“But honestly,” said Montalais, pushing back again, “I don’t understand why you’re treating me like this. I’m not doing anything wrong, am I?”
“And that great good-for-nothing, mademoiselle,” resumed Madame de Saint-Remy, pointing to Malicorne, “is he here to do any good, I ask you?”
“And that useless guy, mademoiselle,” continued Madame de Saint-Remy, pointing to Malicorne, “is he here to help at all, I ask you?”
“He is neither here for good nor harm, madame; he comes to see me, that is all.”
“He’s not here to do any good or harm, ma’am; he’s just here to see me, that’s 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.”
“It’s all very well! All very well!” said the old lady. “Her royal highness will be informed, and she will decide.”
“At all events, I do not see why,” replied Montalais, “it should be forbidden M. Malicorne to have intentions towards me, if his intentions are honorable.”
“At any rate, I don’t understand why,” replied Montalais, “it should be wrong for M. Malicorne to have feelings for me, if his feelings are sincere.”
“Honorable intentions with such a face!” cried Madame de Saint-Remy.
“Honorable intentions with that face!” exclaimed Madame de Saint-Remy.
“I thank you in the name of my face, madame,” said Malicorne.
“I thank you on behalf of my face, madam,” said Malicorne.
“Come, my daughter, come,” continued Madame de Saint-Remy; “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 themselves with flirtations!”
“Come, my daughter, come,” Madame de Saint-Remy said. “Let’s go tell her that while she’s crying for her husband, and while we’re all mourning for a master in this old castle of Blois, the place of sorrow, there are people who are having fun with flirtations!”
“Oh!” cried both the accused, with one voice.
“Oh!” both the accused exclaimed in unison.
“A maid of honor! a maid of honor!” cried the old lady, lifting her hands towards heaven.
“A maid of honor! A maid of honor!” shouted the old lady, raising her hands to the sky.
“Well! it is there you are mistaken, madame,” said Montalais, highly exasperated; “I am no longer a maid of honor, of madame’s at least.”
“Well! That's where you're wrong, madame,” said Montalais, quite frustrated; “I’m no longer a maid of honor, at least not to madame.”
“Have you given in your resignation, mademoiselle? That is well! I cannot but applaud such a determination, and I do applaud it.”
“Have you handed in your resignation, miss? That’s great! I can’t help but admire such determination, and I really do admire it.”
“I do not give in my resignation, madame; I take another service,—that is all.”
“I’m not resigning, ma'am; I’m just taking another job—that’s all.”
“In the bourgeoisie or in the robe?” asked Madame de Saint-Remy, disdainfully.
“In the bourgeoisie or in the robe?” asked Madame de Saint-Remy, with a sneer.
“Please to learn, madame, that I am not a girl to serve either bourgeoises or robines; and that instead of the miserable court at which you vegetate, I am going to reside in a court almost royal.”
“I'm happy to let you know, ma'am, that I’m not the kind of girl who serves bourgeoises or robines; and instead of the miserable court you linger in, I’ll be living in a court that’s almost royal.”
“Ha, ha! a royal court,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, forcing a laugh; “a royal court! What do you think of that, my daughter?”
“Ha, ha! A royal court,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, forcing a laugh. “A royal court! What do you think of that, my daughter?”
And she turned towards Mademoiselle de la Valliere, whom she would by main force have dragged away from Montalais, and who instead of obeying the impulse of Madame de Saint-Remy, looked first at her mother and then at Montalais with her beautiful conciliatory eyes.
And she turned to Mademoiselle de la Valliere, whom she would have forcibly pulled away from Montalais, and who, instead of following Madame de Saint-Remy's lead, first looked at her mother and then at Montalais with her beautiful, soothing eyes.
“I did not say a royal court, madame,” replied Montalais; “because Madame Henrietta of England, who is about to become the wife of S. A. R. Monsieur, is not a queen. I said almost royal, and I spoke correctly, since she will be sister-in-law to the king.”
“I didn’t say a royal court, ma’am,” Montalais replied; “because Madame Henrietta of England, who is about to marry S. A. R. Monsieur, isn’t a queen. I said almost royal, and I was right, since she will be the king’s sister-in-law.”
A thunderbolt falling upon the castle of Blois would not have astonished Madame de Saint-Remy more than the last sentence of Montalais.
A thunderbolt striking the castle of Blois would not have shocked Madame de Saint-Remy more than Montalais's last sentence.
“What do you say? of Son Altesse Royale Madame Henrietta?” stammered out the old lady.
“What do you think of Her Royal Highness Madame Henrietta?” the old lady stammered.
“I say I am going to belong to her household, as maid of honor; that is what I say.”
“I’m saying I’m going to be part of her household as a maid of honor; that’s what I’m saying.”
“As maid of honor!” cried, at the same time, Madame de Saint-Remy with despair, and Mademoiselle de la Valliere with delight.
“As maid of honor!” cried Madame de Saint-Remy in despair, while Mademoiselle de la Valliere exclaimed with delight.
“Yes, madame, as maid of honor.”
“Yes, ma'am, 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.
The old lady’s head dropped as if the hit had been too much for her. But, almost instantly regaining her composure, she fired one last shot at her opponent.
“Oh! oh!” said she; “I have heard of many of these sorts of promises beforehand, which often lead people to flatter themselves with wild hopes, and at the last moment, when the time comes to keep the promises, and have the hopes realized, they are surprised to see the great credit upon which they reckoned vanish like smoke.”
“Oh! oh!” she said. “I've heard many of these kinds of promises before, which often cause people to get their hopes up unrealistically, and at the last moment, when it's time to fulfill those promises and see those hopes come true, they're shocked to find the confidence they relied on vanish like smoke.”
“Oh! madame, the credit of my protector is incontestable and his promises are as good as deeds.”
“Oh! Ma’am, my protector's reputation is undeniable, and his promises are just as good as his actions.”
“And would it be indiscreet to ask you the name of this powerful protector?”
“And would it be rude 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.
“Oh! my God! no! it’s that guy over there,” said Montalais, pointing to Malicorne, who, throughout this situation, had maintained the most unshakable coolness and the most amusing dignity.
“Monsieur!” cried Madame de Saint-Remy, with an explosion of hilarity, “monsieur is your protector! Is the man whose credit is so powerful, and whose promises are as good as deeds, Monsieur Malicorne!”
“Sir!” exclaimed Madame de Saint-Remy, bursting with laughter, “Sir is your protector! The man whose reputation is so strong, and whose promises are as good as his actions, is Monsieur Malicorne!”
Malicorne bowed.
Malicorne bowed.
As to Montalais, as her sole reply, she drew the brevet from her pocket, and showed it to the old lady.
As for Montalais, her only response was to pull the brevet out of her pocket and show it to the elderly woman.
“Here is the brevet,” said she.
“Here is the brevet,” she said.
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 contracted her countenance, and she was obliged to sit down to avoid fainting. Montalais was not malicious enough to rejoice extravagantly at her victory, or to overwhelm the conquered enemy, particularly when that enemy was the mother of her friend; she used then, but did not abuse her triumph. Malicorne was less generous; he assumed noble poses in his fauteuil and stretched himself out with a familiarity which, two hours earlier, would have drawn upon him threats of a caning.
Suddenly, it was all over. After she had taken a quick look at this lucky brevet, the kind lady clasped her hands, an indescribable mix of envy and despair took over her face, and she had to sit down to keep from fainting. Montalais wasn’t cruel enough to gloat over her victory or to attack the defeated foe, especially since that foe was her friend’s mother; she celebrated her win without overdoing it. Malicorne was less kind; he struck noble poses in his fauteuil and sprawled out in a way that, two hours earlier, would have gotten him a good threat of being caned.
“Maid of honor to the young madame!” repeated Madame de Saint-Remy, still but half convinced.
“Maid of honor to the young lady!” repeated Madame de Saint-Remy, still only half convinced.
“Yes, madame, and through the protection of M. Malicorne, moreover.”
"Yes, ma'am, and also with the protection of Mr. Malicorne."
“It is incredible!” repeated the old lady: “is it not incredible, Louise?” But Louise did not reply; she was sitting, thoughtfully, almost sad; passing one had over her beautiful brow, she sighed heavily.
“It’s amazing!” the old lady said again. “Isn’t it incredible, Louise?” But Louise didn’t respond; she sat there, deep in thought, almost sad. Running a hand over her beautiful forehead, she let out a heavy sigh.
“Well, but, monsieur,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, all at once, “how did you manage to obtain this post?”
"Well, but, sir," said Madame de Saint-Remy, suddenly, "how did you get this position?"
“I asked for it, madame.”
"I requested it, ma'am."
“Of whom?”
"Who are you talking about?"
“One of my friends.”
“One of my buddies.”
“And you have friends sufficiently powerful at court to give you such proofs of their credit?”
“And you have friends at court who are influential enough to give you that kind of proof?”
“It appears so.”
"Looks that way."
“And may one ask the name of these friends?”
“And may I ask the name of these friends?”
“I did not say I had many friends, madame, I said I had one friend.”
“I didn’t say I had a lot of friends, ma’am, I said I had one friend.”
“And that friend is called?”
“And what's that friend's name?”
“Peste! 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.”
“Peste! Madame, you’re going too far! When someone has a friend as influential as mine, we don’t reveal his name like that, out in the open, just for him to be taken 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.”
“You're right, sir, to be quiet about that name; I think it would be pretty tough for you to say it.”
“At all events,” said Montalais, “if the friend does not exist, the brevet does, and that cuts short the question.”
“At any rate,” said Montalais, “if the friend doesn’t exist, the brevet does, and that settles the issue.”
“Then, I conceive,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, with the gracious smile of the cat who is going to scratch, “when I found monsieur here just now—”
“Then, I realize,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, with the charming smile of a cat about to scratch, “when I found monsieur here just now—”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“He brought you the brevet.”
“He brought you the brevet.”
“Exactly, madame; you have guessed rightly.”
"That's right, ma'am; you guessed it."
“Well, then, nothing can be more moral or proper.”
“Well, then, nothing can be more moral or appropriate.”
“I think so, madame.”
"I think so, ma'am."
“And I have been wrong, as it appears, in reproaching you, mademoiselle.”
“And it seems I was wrong to blame you, miss.”
“Very wrong, madame; but I am so accustomed to your reproaches, that I pardon you these.”
“Very wrong, ma'am; but I'm so used to your criticisms that I forgive you for them.”
“In that case, let us begone, Louise; we have nothing to do but retire. Well!”
“In that case, let’s get out of here, Louise; we just need to leave. Alright!”
“Madame!” said La Valliere starting, “did you speak?”
“Ma'am!” La Valliere said, surprised, “did you say something?”
“You do not appear to be listening, my child.”
“You don’t seem to be listening, my child.”
“No, madame, I was thinking.”
“No, ma’am, I was thinking.”
“About what?”
"About what?"
“A thousand things.”
“A thousand things.”
“You bear me no ill-will, at least, Louise?” cried Montalais, pressing her hand.
“You don’t hold a grudge against me, do you, Louise?” cried Montalais, gripping her hand.
“And why should I, my dear Aure?” replied the girl in a voice soft as a flute.
“And why should I, my dear Aure?” replied the girl in a voice as soft as a flute.
“Dame!” resumed Madame de Saint-Remy; “if she did bear you a little ill-will, poor girl, she could not be much blamed.”
“Come on!” continued Madame de Saint-Remy; “if she held a bit of resentment against you, poor girl, it’s understandable.”
“And why should she bear me ill-will, good gracious?”
“And why should she have any reason to dislike me, good grief?”
“It appears to me that she is of as good a family, and as pretty as you.”
“It seems to me that she comes from a good family and is just as pretty as you.”
“Mother! mother!” cried Louise.
“Mom! Mom!” cried Louise.
“Prettier a hundred times, madame—not of a better family; but that does not tell me why Louise should bear me ill-will.”
“Much prettier, madame—just not from a better family; but that doesn’t explain why Louise should have any grudges against me.”
“Do you think it will be very amusing for her to be buried alive at Blois, when you are going to shine at Paris?”
“Do you really think it will be fun for her to be buried alive in Blois while you’re out there shining in Paris?”
“But, madame, it is not I who prevent Louise following me thither; on the contrary, I should certainly be most happy if she came there.”
“But, ma'am, it’s not me who stops Louise from coming with me there; on the contrary, I would definitely be really happy if she came along.”
“But it appears that M. Malicorne, who is all-powerful at court—”
“But it seems that M. Malicorne, who has all the power at court—”
“Ah! so much the worse, madame,” said Malicorne, “every one for himself in this poor world.”
“Ah! that’s too bad, ma’am,” said Malicorne, “everyone looks out for themselves in this tough world.”
“Malicorne! Malicorne!” said Montalais. Then stooping towards the young man:—
“Malicorne! Malicorne!” said Montalais. Then leaning down towards the young man:—
“Occupy Madame de Saint-Remy, 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 recompensed Malicorne for his future obedience. Malicorne went grumbling towards Madame de Saint-Remy, whilst Montalais said to her friend, throwing one arm around her neck:—
“Engage Madame de Saint-Remy, either by arguing with her or reconciling with her; I need to talk to Louise.” And at the same time, a gentle squeeze of the hand rewarded Malicorne for his future compliance. Malicorne grumbled as he walked over to Madame de Saint-Remy, while Montalais said to her friend, wrapping one arm around her neck:—
“What is the matter? Tell me. Is it true that you would not love me if I were to shine, as your mother says?”
“What’s wrong? Tell me. Is it true that you wouldn’t love me if I were to shine, like your mom says?”
“Oh, no!” said the young girl, with difficulty restraining her tears; “on the contrary, I rejoice at your good fortune.”
“Oh, no!” said the young girl, struggling to hold back her tears; “actually, I'm really happy for your good luck.”
“Rejoice! why, one would say you are ready to cry!”
“Rejoice! It seems like you’re about to cry!”
“Do people never weep except from envy?”
“Do people only cry because of jealousy?”
“Oh! yes, I understand; I am going to Paris and that word Paris recalls to your mind a certain cavalier—”
“Oh! yes, I get it; I'm going to Paris, and that word Paris reminds you of a certain gentleman—”
“Aure!”
"Aura!"
“A certain cavalier who formerly lived near Blois, and who now resides at Paris.”
“A certain gentleman who used to live near Blois and now lives in Paris.”
“In truth, I know not what ails me, but I feel stifled.”
“In truth, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I feel suffocated.”
“Weep, then, weep, as you cannot give me a smile!”
“Weep, then, weep, since you can’t give me a smile!”
Louise raised her sweet face, which the tears, rolling down one after the other, illumined like diamonds.
Louise lifted her lovely face, with tears streaming down one after another, shining like diamonds.
“Come, confess,” said Montalais.
"Come on, confess," said Montalais.
“What shall I confess?”
"What should I confess?"
“What makes you weep; people don’t weep without cause. I am your friend; whatever you would wish me to do, I will do. Malicorne is more powerful than you would think. Do you wish to go to Paris?”
“What makes you cry; people don’t cry without a reason. I’m your friend; whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it. Malicorne is stronger than you might realize. Do you want to go to Paris?”
“Alas!” sighed Louise.
“Wow!” sighed Louise.
“Do you wish to come to Paris?”
“Do you want to come to Paris?”
“To remain here alone, in this old castle, I who have enjoyed 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!”
“To stay here alone, in this old castle, after having loved the wonderful routine of listening to your songs, holding your hand, and running around the park with you. Oh! how I will be bored! how soon I will feel like I’m dying!”
“Do you wish to come to Paris?”
“Do you want to come to Paris?”
Louise breathed another sigh.
Louise let out another sigh.
“You do not answer me.”
"You’re not answering me."
“What would you that I should reply?”
“What do you want me to say in response?”
“Yes or no; that is not very difficult, I think.”
“Yes or no; that isn't very hard, I think.”
“Oh! you are very fortunate, Montalais!”
“Oh! You’re super lucky, Montalais!”
“That is to say you would like to be in my place.”
“That means you would want to be in my position.”
Louise was silent.
Louise was quiet.
“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 Raoul again.”
“Little stubborn thing!” said Montalais; “has anyone ever kept their secrets from their friend like this? But admit it, you want to come to Paris; admit that you’re longing to see Raoul again.”
“I cannot confess that.”
"I can't admit that."
“Then you are wrong.”
"Then you’re mistaken."
“In what way?”
“How so?”
“Because—do you not see this brevet?”
“Because—don't you see this brevet??”
“To be sure I do.”
“Absolutely, I do.”
“Well, I would have got you a similar one.”
“Well, I would have gotten you a similar one.”
“By whose means?”
"By whose help?"
“Malicorne’s.”
“Malicorne’s.”
“Aure, are you telling the truth? Is that possible?”
“Aure, are you being honest? Is that really possible?”
“Malicorne is there; and what he has done for me, he surely can do for you.”
“Malicorne is here; and what he did for me, he can definitely do for you.”
Malicorne had heard his name pronounced twice; he was delighted at having an opportunity of coming to a conclusion with Madame de Saint-Remy, and he turned round:—
Malicorne had heard his name said twice; he was thrilled at the chance to come to a conclusion with Madame de Saint-Remy, and he turned around:—
“What is the question, mademoiselle?”
"What’s your question, miss?"
“Come hither, Malicorne,” said Montalais, with an imperious gesture. Malicorne obeyed.
“Come here, Malicorne,” said Montalais, with a commanding gesture. Malicorne complied.
“A brevet like this,” said Montalais.
“A brevet like this,” said Montalais.
“How so?”
“How so?”
“A brevet like this; that is plain enough.”
“A brevet like this; that’s clear enough.”
“But—”
"But..."
“I want one—I must have one!”
“I want one—I need to have one!”
“Oh! oh! you must have one!”
“Oh! oh! you have to get one!”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“It is impossible, is it not, M. Malicorne?” said Louise, with her sweet, soft voice.
“It’s impossible, right, M. Malicorne?” said Louise, with her sweet, gentle voice.
“If it is for you, mademoiselle—”
“If it’s for you, mademoiselle—”
“For me. Yes, Monsieur Malicorne, it would be for me.”
“For me. Yes, Mr. Malicorne, it would be for me.”
“And if Mademoiselle de Montalais asks it at the same time—”
“And if Mademoiselle de Montalais asks for it at the same time—”
“Mademoiselle de Montalais does not ask it, she requires it.”
“Mademoiselle de Montalais doesn’t just ask for it; she demands it.”
“Well! we will endeavor to obey you, mademoiselle.”
“Well! We’ll do our best to follow your instructions, mademoiselle.”
“And you will have her named?”
"And you have her name?"
“We will try.”
"We'll give it a shot."
“No evasive answers, Louise de la Valliere shall be maid of honor to Madame Henrietta within a week.”
“No dodging the issue, Louise de la Valliere will be maid of honor to Madame Henrietta within a week.”
“How you talk!”
"Your way of speaking!"
“Within a week, or else—”
“Within a week, or else—”
“Well! or else?”
"Well! Or else?"
“You may take back your brevet, Monsieur Malicorne; I will not leave my friend.”
“You can have your brevet back, Monsieur Malicorne; I’m not leaving my friend.”
“Dear Montalais!”
"Hey Montalais!"
“That is right. Keep your brevet; Mademoiselle de la Valliere shall be a maid of honor.”
“That’s right. Hold on to your brevet; Mademoiselle de la Valliere will be a maid of honor.”
“Is that true?”
“Is that real?”
“Quite true.”
"That's true."
“I may then hope to go to Paris?”
“I can hope to go to Paris?”
“Depend on it.”
"Count on it."
“Oh! Monsieur Malicorne, what joy!” cried Louise, clapping her hands, and bounding with pleasure.
“Oh! Mr. Malicorne, what joy!” exclaimed Louise, clapping her hands and bouncing with excitement.
“Little dissembler!” said Montalais, “try again to make me believe you are not in love with Raoul.”
“Little deceiver!” said Montalais, “try again to convince me you’re not in love with Raoul.”
Louise blushed like a rose in June, but instead of replying, she ran and embraced her mother. “Madame,” said she, “do you know that M. Malicorne is going to have me appointed maid of honor?”
Louise blushed like a rose in June, but instead of replying, she ran and hugged her mother. “Madame,” she said, “do you know that M. Malicorne is going to have me appointed as maid of honor?”
“M. Malicorne is a prince in disguise,” replied the old lady, “he is all-powerful, seemingly.”
“M. Malicorne is a prince in disguise,” replied the old lady, “he seems to be all-powerful.”
“Should you also like to be a maid of honor?” asked Malicorne of Madame de Saint-Remy. “Whilst I am about it, I might as well get everybody appointed.”
“Do you want to be a maid of honor too?” Malicorne asked Madame de Saint-Remy. “Since I’m at it, I might as well get everyone assigned.”
And upon that he went away, leaving the poor lady quite disconcerted.
And with that, he left, leaving the poor woman feeling really confused.
“Humph!” murmured Malicorne as he descended the stairs,—“Humph! there goes another note of a thousand livres! but I must get through as well as I can; my friend Manicamp does nothing for nothing.”
“Humph!” muttered Malicorne as he walked down the stairs, “Humph! there goes another thousand livre note! But I have to manage as best as I can; my friend Manicamp doesn’t do anything for free.”
Chapter IV. Malicorne and Manicamp.
The introduction of these two new personages into this history and that mysterious affinity of names and sentiments, merit some attention on the part of both historian and reader. We will then enter into some details concerning Messieurs Malicorne and Manicamp. Malicorne, we know, had made the journey to Orleans in search of the brevet destined for Mademoiselle 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 singular person was this M. de Manicamp; a very intelligent 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 boyhood, this De Manicamp, a poor gentleman, vassal-born, of the house of Gramont. M. de Manicamp, with his tact and talent had created himself a revenue in the opulent family of the celebrated marechal. From his infancy he had, with calculation beyond his age, lent his mane and complaisance to the follies of the Comte de Guiche. If his noble companion had stolen some fruit destined for Madame la Marechale, if he had broken a mirror, or put out a dog’s eye, Manicamp declared himself guilty of the crime committed, and received the punishment, which was not made the milder for falling on the innocent. But this was the way 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 he was mean in character or humble in spirit; no, he was a philosopher, or rather he had the indifference, the apathy, the obstinacy which banish from man every sentiment of the supernatural. 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 drained the Comte de Guiche, and when the Comte de 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, Manicamp lost all his energy, he went to bed, remained there, ate nothing and sold his handsome clothes, under the pretense that, remaining in bed, he did not want them. During this prostration of mind and strength, the purse of the Comte de Guiche was getting full again, and when once filled, overflowed into that of De Manicamp, who bought new clothes, dressed himself again, and recommenced the same life he had followed before. The 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 general, we should be puzzled to say why he came to pass his days of penitence. Provincial debauches, petits-maitres of six hundred livres a year, shared the fragments of his opulence.
The introduction of these two new characters into the story and the strange connection between their names and feelings deserve some attention from both historians and readers. Let’s take a closer look at Messieurs Malicorne and Manicamp. Malicorne had traveled to Orleans to fetch the brevet intended for Mademoiselle de Montalais, which had caused quite a stir at the castle of Blois. At that time, M. de Manicamp was in Orleans. M. de Manicamp was quite the character; he was a smart young man, always broke and in need, even though he often tapped into the well-off purse of M. le Comte de Guiche, one of the richest men around. M. le Comte de Guiche had grown up alongside this De Manicamp, a poor gentleman from the house of Gramont. With his charm and skill, M. de Manicamp had engineered a lifestyle within the wealthy family of the famous marechal. From an early age, he cleverly offered his looks and compliance for the whims of Comte de Guiche. If his noble friend ever swiped fruit meant for Madame la Marechale, broke a mirror, or injured a dog, Manicamp would take the blame and suffer the consequences, which were no lighter for the innocent. But this self-sacrificing behavior allowed him to dress extravagantly, like a young nobleman with an income of fifty thousand livres a year. It wasn't because he was lowly or humble; he was more of a philosopher—or perhaps he had the indifference, apathy, and stubbornness that pushed away any sense of the extraordinary. His only ambition was to spend money. In this way, M. de Manicamp was truly insatiable. Three or four times a year, he completely drained the Comte de Guiche, and when the Comte was left empty, having turned out his pockets and purse, and declared it would take at least two weeks for his father to refill them, Manicamp would lose all motivation. He would go to bed, stay there, eat nothing, and sell his fancy clothes, claiming that since he was in bed, he didn’t need them. During this period of mental and physical collapse, the Comte de Guiche’s purse would be replenishing, and once it was full, it inevitably flowed into Manicamp’s, who would buy new clothes, dress up again, and restart his previous lifestyle. His habit of selling new outfits for a fraction of their value had made him somewhat of a local celebrity in Orleans, a place where it would be hard to say why he chose to spend his days of penance. Local playboys and young masters with incomes of six hundred livres a year eagerly shared in the remnants of his wealth.
Among the admirers of these splendid toilettes, 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 Conde, 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 livres furnished by the generosity 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 out of ambition; and he would have ruined himself for ambition. Malicorne had determined to rise, at whatever price it might cost, and for this, whatever price it did cost, he had given himself a mistress and a friend. The mistress, Mademoiselle de Montalais, was cruel, as regarded love; but she was of a noble family, and that was sufficient for Malicorne. The friend had little or 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, Mademoiselle de Montalais cost per annum:—ribbons, gloves, and sweets, a thousand livres. De Manicamp cost—money lent, never returned—from twelve to fifteen hundred livres per annum. 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 profound secrecy, and which consisted in advancing to himself, from the coffers of the syndic, half a dozen year’s profits, 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 household of Monsieur, when that household would be established at the period of his marriage. This juncture had 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 annum; 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 Mademoiselle de Montalais. Mademoiselle de Montalais, of a half noble family, not only would be dowered, but would ennoble Malicorne. But, in order that Mademoiselle 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 of one party whilst the husband belonged to 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. Mademoiselle de Montalais would be maid of honor to Madame. M. Malicorne would be officer to Monsieur.
Among the admirers of these stunning outfits, our friend Malicorne stood out. He was the son of a city syndic, from whom M. de Conde, always in need of money, frequently borrowed at steep interest rates. M. Malicorne managed the family money; in those times when morals were loose, he followed in his father's footsteps, lending at high interest for short periods, earning him eighteen hundred livres, not including six hundred livres provided by the syndic's generosity. This meant Malicorne was the king of the young and carefree in Orleans, with two thousand four hundred livres to spend, waste, and indulge in various frivolities. However, unlike Manicamp, Malicorne was incredibly ambitious. He loved out of ambition, spent money for the same reason, and would have sacrificed everything for it. Malicorne had resolved to rise in status, no matter the cost, and to achieve that, he had taken a mistress and a friend. The mistress, Mademoiselle de Montalais, was harsh when it came to love but belonged to a noble family, which was all that mattered to Malicorne. The friend had little genuine friendship to offer, but he was favored by the Comte de Guiche, who was himself close to Monsieur, the king’s brother; and that was enough for Malicorne. As for expenses, Mademoiselle de Montalais cost him about a thousand livres a year for ribbons, gloves, and sweets. De Manicamp cost him between twelve and fifteen hundred livres annually in loans he’d never see again. So there wasn’t much left for Malicorne. Ah, there was one thing left: the family strongbox. He had a method, which he kept very secret, to advance himself from the syndic's coffers, borrowing the equivalent of six years’ worth of profits, meaning fifteen thousand livres, swearing to himself—mind you, only to himself—that he would pay this back whenever an opportunity arose. He expected that opportunity would be a decent position in Monsieur's household once it was formed at the time of his marriage. That time had come, and the household was about to be established. A good position in a royal family, delivered by the backing and recommendation of a friend like the Comte de Guiche, was worth at least twelve thousand livres annually. Through the means that M. Malicorne had used to increase his income, twelve thousand livres could ideally grow to twenty thousand. Then, once he had that position, he would marry Mademoiselle de Montalais. Mademoiselle de Montalais, from a partially noble family, would not just come with a dower but would also elevate Malicorne's status. However, for Mademoiselle de Montalais, who didn’t have a large inheritance despite being an only daughter, to have an appropriate dower, she would need to belong to a wealthy princess, as generous as the dowager Madame was greedy. To ensure that the wife wouldn’t be part of one faction while the husband belonged to another— which often leads to major issues, especially with future couples like this—Malicorne thought about making the connections point around the household of Monsieur, the king's brother. Mademoiselle de Montalais would become a maid of honor to Madame, while M. Malicorne would take on the role of 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 constructive 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 constructive plan of Malicorne, we say, was this:—To obtain entrance into the household of Madame Henrietta for a woman devoted to himself, who was intelligent, young, handsome, and intriguing; to learn, by means of this woman, all the feminine secrets of the young household; whilst he, Malicorne, 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, for short, would ring more nobly on the ear.
It’s clear that the plan was created by someone with a sharp mind, and it’s also clear that it was executed with courage. Malicorne had asked Manicamp to request a brevet for maid of honor from the Comte de Guiche, and the Comte de Guiche had asked Monsieur for this brevet, who signed it without any hesitation. The clever strategy of Malicorne—because we can assume that someone as quick-thinking as he was not only focused on the present but also on the future—was to secure a position in the household of Madame Henrietta for a woman devoted to him, someone who was smart, young, attractive, and manipulative; to gather, through her, all the feminine secrets of the youthful household, while he and his friend Manicamp would together uncover all the male secrets of the young community. It was through these methods that they could quickly and dramatically build their fortune at the same time. Malicorne was a disreputable name; he who carried it was too smart not to realize this truth, but land could be bought; and Malicorne of some place, or even De Malicorne for short, would sound much more distinguished.
It was not improbable that a most aristocratic origin might be hunted up by the heralds 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 spilt? Certes, this plan presented itself bristling with difficulties: but the greatest of all was Mademoiselle de Montalais herself. Capricious, variable, close, giddy, free, prudish, a virgin armed with claws, Erigone 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 exhausted Malicorne’s patience for a month.
It wasn't unlikely that a very aristocratic origin could be traced by the heralds for this name Malicorne; could it not come from some estate where a bull with deadly horns had caused a major disaster, staining the ground with the blood it had spilled? Indeed, this idea was filled with challenges: but the biggest challenge of all was Mademoiselle de Montalais herself. Capricious, unpredictable, secretive, carefree, prude, a virgin with sharp claws, like Erigone covered in grapes, she could easily dismantle, with just a flick of her delicate fingers or a single breath from her playful lips, the structure that had tested Malicorne’s patience for a month.
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 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, persuaded that if he opened his arms, she would run away laughing at him. On her side, Montalais believed she did not love Malicorne; whilst, on the contrary, in reality she did. 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 Malicorne always came cram full of fresh news from the court and the city; Malicorne always brought to Blois a fashion, a secret, or a perfume; 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 learnt all that passed at Blois, in the 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.
Love aside, Malicorne was happy; but this love, which he couldn’t help feeling, he had the strength to hide carefully; convinced that at the slightest loosening of the bonds he had formed with his ever-changing woman, the demon would overthrow him and laugh. He humiliated his mistress by looking down on her. Burning with desire, when she came to tempt him, he managed to seem cold, believing that if he opened his arms, she would only run away laughing at him. On her part, Montalais thought she didn’t love Malicorne; while, in reality, she did. Malicorne professed his indifference to her so often that sometimes she ended up believing him; and then she convinced herself that she despised Malicorne. If she tried to win him back with flirtation, Malicorne played the flirt better than she did. But what kept Montalais clinging to Malicorne was that he always brought back fresh news from the court and the city; he always arrived in Blois with a new trend, a secret, or a perfume; he never asked for a meeting but, on the contrary, needed to be begged to receive the favors he longed for. On her side, Montalais wasn’t stingy with stories. Through her, Malicorne learned everything happening in Blois, in the family of the dowager Madame; and he shared hilarious tales with Manicamp, who, out of boredom, took them straight to M. de Guiche, who passed them on to Monsieur.
Such, in two words, was the woof of petty interests and petty conspiracies which united Blois with Orleans, and Orleans with Pairs; 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 reserved. 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 suspicion as he walked, every day, between three and five o’clock, after his dinner, upon the Place Sainte-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 was paying for all those bursts of laughter, all those stolen kisses, all those whisperings, all those little keepsakes, and all those bubble projects which formed a chain of forty-five leagues in length, from the palais of Blois to the Palais Royal.
This was, in two words, the mix of small interests and petty schemes that connected Blois to Orleans and Orleans to Paris; and which was about to bring the poor little La Valliere, who had no idea what a strange future awaited her, into Paris, where she would spark a huge revolution, as she joyfully returned, leaning on her mother’s arm. As for the good man, Malicorne—we’re talking about the syndic of Orleans—he didn't have any clearer insight into the present than others did into the future; and as he strolled every day between three and five o'clock after his dinner in the Place Sainte-Catherine, dressed in his gray coat cut in the style of Louis XIII and his cloth shoes with big ribbon bows, he had no idea that he was the one funding all those bursts of laughter, all those stolen kisses, all those whispers, all those little keepsakes, and all those fanciful plans that formed a chain of forty-five leagues from the palais of Blois to the Palais Royal.
Chapter V: Manicamp 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 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 Le Havre. He had drawn from Malicorne, three days before, fifty pistoles, the price of the brevet obtained for Montalais. He had then no expectation of anything else, having exhausted all his resources, with the exception of selling a handsome suit of cloth and satin, 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 walking-money, nothing but sleep to take the place of repasts, companies and balls. It has been said—“He who sleeps, dines;” but it has never been affirmed—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 usurer, and saw Malicorne enter. A cry of distress escaped him.
Malicorne left Blois, as we mentioned, and went to find his friend, Manicamp, who was currently hiding out in the city of Orleans. It was just when that young nobleman was busy selling the last decent clothes he had left. A fortnight earlier, he had forced the Comte de Guiche to give him a hundred pistoles, all he had, to help him get ready to meet Madame when she arrived at Le Havre. Three days prior, he had borrowed fifty pistoles from Malicorne, the cost of the brevet he got for Montalais. He didn't expect to get anything else, having used up all his resources except for selling a handsome suit made of cloth and satin, embroidered and trimmed with gold, which had been the envy of the court. But to be able to sell this suit, the last one he had left—as we've had to admit to the reader—Manicamp had been forced to stay in bed. No fire, no pocket money, no walking-around money, nothing but sleep replacing meals, social gatherings, and dances. It’s been said, “He who sleeps, dines;” but it’s never been claimed—He who sleeps, plays—or, He who sleeps, dances. Manicamp, reduced to this extreme of not playing or dancing for at least a week, was, therefore, very sad; he was waiting for a moneylender when he saw Malicorne walk in. A cry of distress escaped him.
“Eh! what!” said he, in a tone which nothing can describe, “is that you again, dear friend?”
“Hey! What!” he said, in a tone that’s hard to describe, “is that you again, my friend?”
“Humph! you are very polite!” said Malicorne.
“Humph! You’re really polite!” said Malicorne.
“Ay, but look you, I was expecting money, and, instead of money, I see you.”
“Ay, but look, I was expecting money, and instead of money, I see you.”
“And suppose I brought you some money?”
“And what if I brought you some money?”
“Oh! that would be quite another thing. You are very welcome, my dear friend!”
“Oh! That would be something else entirely. You’re very welcome, 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 he extended his hand, not for Malicorne's hand, but for the purse. Malicorne feigned confusion and offered his hand.
“And the money?” said Manicamp.
"And the money?" asked Manicamp.
“My dear friend, if you wish to have it, earn it.”
“My dear friend, if you want it, earn it.”
“What must be done for it?”
“What needs to be done about it?”
“Earn it, parbleu!”
“Earn it, parbleu!”
“And after what fashion?”
"What do you mean?"
“Oh! that is rather trying, I warn you.”
“Oh! that's pretty challenging, I warn you.”
“The devil!”
"The devil!"
“You must get out of bed, and go immediately to M. le Comte de Guiche.”
“You need to get out of bed and go see M. le Comte de Guiche right away.”
“I get up!” said Manicamp, stretching himself in his bed, complacently, “oh, no, thank you!”
“I’m getting up!” said Manicamp, stretching out in his bed, feeling pleased with himself, “oh, no, thanks!”
“You have sold all your clothes?”
“Did you sell all your clothes?”
“No, I have one suit left, the handsomest even, but I expect a purchaser.”
“No, I have one suit left, the most handsome one, but I’m expecting a buyer.”
“And the chausses?”
“And the leggings?”
“Well, if you look, you will see them on that chair.”
“Well, if you look, you’ll 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.”
“Alright! Since you have some chausses and a pourpoint left, put your legs into the first and your back into the other; get a horse saddled, and head out.”
“Not I.”
"Not me."
“And why not?”
"Why not?"
“Morbleu! don’t you know, then, that M. de Guiche is at Etampes?”
“Morbleu! Don’t you know that M. de Guiche is in Etampes?”
“No, I thought he was at Paris. You will then only have fifteen leagues to go, instead of thirty.”
“No, I thought he was in Paris. So, you’ll only have to go fifteen leagues instead of thirty.”
“You are a wonderfully clever fellow! If I were to ride fifteen leagues in these clothes, they would never be fit to put on again; and, instead of selling them for thirty pistoles, I should be obliged to take fifteen.”
“You're a really smart guy! If I had to ride fifteen leagues in these clothes, they'd be ruined and I'd never be able to wear them again; instead of selling them for thirty pistoles, I'd have to settle for fifteen.”
“Sell them for whatever you like, but I must have a second commission of maid of honor.”
“Sell them for whatever you want, but I need a second commission of maid of honor.”
“Good! for whom? Is Montalais doubled, then?”
“Good! For whom? Is Montalais a double now?”
“Vile fellow!—It is you who are doubled. You swallow up two fortunes—mine, and that of M. le Comte de Guiche.”
“Vile guy!—You're the one who's two-faced. You're draining two fortunes—mine and M. le Comte de Guiche’s.”
“You should say, that of M. le Comte de Guiche and yours.”
“You should say, that of Mr. Count de Guiche and yours.”
“That is true; honor where it is due; but I return to my brevet.”
“That’s true; credit where it’s due; but I’m going back to my brevet.”
“And you are wrong.”
"And you're wrong."
“Prove me that.”
"Prove that to me."
“My friend, there will only be twelve maids of honor for madame; I have already obtained for you what twelve hundred women are trying for, and for that I was forced to employ all my diplomacy.”
“My friend, there will only be twelve maids of honor for the lady; I have already secured for you what twelve hundred women are vying for, and to do that, I had to use all my persuasion.”
“Oh! yes, I know you have been quite heroic, my dear friend.”
“Oh! yes, I know you've been really heroic, my dear friend.”
“We know what we are about,” said Manicamp.
“We know what we’re doing,” said Manicamp.
“To whom do you tell that? When I am king, I promise you one thing.”
“To whom do you say that? When I'm king, I promise you one thing.”
“What? To call yourself Malicorne the First?”
“What? To call yourself Malicorne the First?”
“No; to make you superintendent of my finances; but that is not the question now.”
“No; to make you in charge of my finances; but that’s not the issue right now.”
“Unfortunately.”
"Sadly."
“The present affair is to procure for me a second place of maid of honor.”
“The current situation is to get me a second position as a maid of honor.”
“My friend, if you were to promise me the price of heaven, I would decline to disturb myself at this moment.”
“My friend, even if you promised me the price of heaven, I wouldn't be bothered to stir from where I am right now.”
Malicorne chinked the money in his pocket.
Malicorne jingled the coins in his pocket.
“There are twenty pistoles here,” said Malicorne.
“There are twenty pistoles here,” said Malicorne.
“And what would you do with twenty pistoles, mon Dieu!”
“And what would you do with twenty pistoles, my God!”
“Well!” said Malicorne, a little angry, “suppose I were to add them to the five hundred you already owe me?”
“Well!” said Malicorne, a bit annoyed, “what if I just added them to the five hundred you already owe me?”
“You are right,” replied Manicamp, stretching out his hand again, “and from that point of view I can accept them. Give them to me.”
“You're right,” Manicamp said, reaching out his hand again, “and from that perspective, I can accept them. Hand them over.”
“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?”
“Just a moment, what the heck! It’s not just about extending your hand; if I give you the twenty pistoles, will I get my brevet?”
“To be sure you shall.”
"Sure, you will."
“Soon?”
"Coming soon?"
“To-day.”
“Today.”
“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.”
“Oh! Be careful! Monsieur de Manicamp; you’re taking on too much, and I’m not asking you to do that. Thirty leagues in a day is too far, you’ll exhaust yourself.”
“I think nothing impossible when obliging a friend.”
"I believe nothing is impossible when helping a friend."
“You are quite heroic.”
"You are really heroic."
“Where are the twenty pistoles?”
"Where are the twenty coins?"
“Here they are,” said Malicorne, showing them.
“Here they are,” said Malicorne, pointing them out.
“That’s well.”
"That's great."
“Yes, but my dear M. Manicamp, you would consume them in post-horses alone!”
“Yes, but my dear M. Manicamp, you would spend all of them on post horses alone!”
“No, no, make yourself easy on that score.”
“No, no, don’t worry about that.”
“Pardon me. Why, it is fifteen leagues from this place to Etampes?”
“Excuse me. Is it really fifteen leagues from here to Etampes?”
“Fourteen.”
"14."
“Well! fourteen be it; fourteen leagues makes seven posts; at twenty sous the post, seven livres; seven livres the courier, fourteen; as many for coming back, twenty-eight! as much for bed and supper, that makes sixty livres this complaisance would cost.”
“Well! Fourteen it is; fourteen leagues make seven posts; at twenty sous per post, that's seven livres; seven livres for the courier, fourteen; the same amount for the return trip, twenty-eight! Add that for bed and dinner, which totals sixty livres for this favor."
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.
Manicamp stretched out like a snake in his bed and fixed his two big eyes on Malicorne. “You’re right,” he said, “I couldn’t come back before tomorrow,” and he took the twenty pistoles.
“Now, then, be off!”
“Go on, now!”
“Well, as I cannot be back before to-morrow, we have time.”
“Well, since I can’t be back before tomorrow, we have time.”
“Time for what?”
"Time for what?"
“Time to play.”
"Let's play."
“What do you wish to play with?”
“What do you want to play with?”
“Your twenty pistoles, pardieu!”
“Your twenty pistoles, wow!”
“No; you always win.”
“No; you always come out on top.”
“I will wager them, then.”
“I'll bet them, then.”
“Against what?”
"Against what?"
“Against twenty others.”
"Against twenty others."
“And what shall be the object of the wager?”
“And what will be the goal of the bet?”
“This. We have said it was fourteen leagues to Etampes.”
“This. We said it was fourteen leagues to Etampes.”
“Yes.”
"Yes."
“And fourteen leagues back?”
"And fourteen leagues ago?"
“Doubtless.”
"Definitely."
“Well; for these twenty-eight leagues you cannot allow less than fourteen hours?”
“Well, for these twenty-eight leagues, you can't expect it to take less than fourteen hours?”
“That is agreed.”
"That's agreed."
“One hour to find the Comte de Guiche.”
“One hour to find the Count de Guiche.”
“Go on.”
"Go ahead."
“And an hour to persuade him to write a letter to Monsieur.”
“And an hour to convince him to write a letter to Mr.”
“Just so.”
"Exactly."
“Sixteen hours in all?”
"Sixteen hours total?"
“You reckon as well as M. Colbert.”
“You think just like M. Colbert.”
“It is now twelve o’clock.”
“It’s twelve o’clock now.”
“Half-past.”
"Half past."
“Hein!—you have a handsome watch!”
“Hey!—you have a nice watch!”
“What were you saying?” said Malicorne, putting his watch quickly back into his fob.
“What were you saying?” Malicorne asked, quickly putting his watch back in his pocket.
“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—”
“Ah! true; I was offering to bet you twenty pistoles against the ones you lent me, that you will have the Comte de Guiche’s letter in—”
“How soon?”
"When will it happen?"
“In eight hours.”
“In 8 hours.”
“Have you a winged horse, then?”
“Do you have a winged horse, then?”
“That is no matter. Will you bet?”
“That doesn’t matter. Will you place a bet?”
“I shall have the comte’s letter in eight hours?”
“I'll have the count's letter in eight hours?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“In hand?”
"On hand?"
“In hand.”
"On hand."
“Well, be it so; I lay,” said Malicorne, curious enough to know how this seller of clothes would get through.
“Well, it’s settled; I’m in,” said Malicorne, too curious to see how this clothes seller would manage.
“Is it agreed?”
"Is that agreed?"
“It is.”
“It is.”
“Pass me the pen, ink, and paper.”
“Pass me the pen, ink, and paper.”
“Here they are.”
"Here they are."
“Thank you.”
“Thanks.”
Manicamp raised himself with a sigh, and leaning on his left elbow, in his best hand, traced the following lines:—
Manicamp got up with a sigh and, propping himself up on his left elbow, traced the following lines with his dominant hand:—
“Good for an order for a place of maid of honor to Madame, which M. le Comte de Guiche will take upon him to obtain at sight. DE MANICAMP.”
“Good for an order for a position as maid of honor for Madame, which M. le Comte de Guiche will take on himself to secure upon request. DE MANICAMP.”
This painful task accomplished, he laid himself down in bed again.
This difficult task done, he lay back down in bed again.
“Well!” asked Malicorne, “what does this mean?”
“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.”
“That means that if you’re in a rush to get the letter from the Comte de Guiche for Monsieur, I’ve won my bet.”
“How the devil is that?”
“How on earth is that?”
“That is transparent enough, I think; you take that paper.”
"That’s clear enough, I think; you take that paper."
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“And you set out instead of me.”
“And you went instead of me.”
“Ah!”
“Wow!”
“You put your horses to their best speed.”
"You made your horses go as fast as they could."
“Good!”
“Awesome!”
“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.”
“In six hours, you’ll be in Etampes; in seven hours, you’ll have the letter from the count, and I’ll have won my bet without getting out of bed, which works for both of us, I’m pretty sure.”
“Decidedly, Manicamp, you are a great man.”
“Definitely, Manicamp, you are an amazing person.”
“Hein! I know that.”
“Hey! I know that.”
“I am to start then for Etampes?”
“I’m supposed to leave for Etampes now?”
“Directly.”
"Straightforwardly."
“I am to go to the Comte de Guiche with this order?”
“I’m supposed to take this order to the Comte de Guiche?”
“He will give you a similar one for Monsieur.”
“He'll give you a similar one for Mr.”
“Monsieur will approve?”
"Will Monsieur approve?"
“Instantly.”
"Right away."
“And I shall have my brevet?”
“And I shall have my brevet?”
“You will.”
"You will."
“Ah!”
“Wow!”
“Well, I hope I behave genteely?”
“Well, I hope I act politely?”
“Adorably.”
“Adorably.”
“Thank you.”
"Thanks."
“You do as you please, then, with the Comte de Guiche, Manicamp?”
"You do whatever you want with the Comte de Guiche, Manicamp?"
“Except making money of him—everything?”
“Except making money off him—everything?”
“Diable! the exception is annoying; but then, if instead of asking him for money, you were to ask—”
“Dang! the exception is frustrating; but then, if instead of asking him for money, you were to ask—”
“What?”
“What?”
“Something important.”
“Something significant.”
“What do you call important?”
“What do you mean by important?”
“Well! suppose one of your friends asked you to render him a service?”
“Well! What if one of your friends asked you to do a favor for him?”
“I would not render it to him.”
“I wouldn’t give it to him.”
“Selfish fellow!”
"Self-centered guy!"
“Or at least I would ask him what service he would render me in exchange.”
“Or at least I would ask him what he would do for me in return.”
“Ah! that, perhaps, is fair. Well, that friend speaks to you.”
“Ah! that might be true. Well, that friend is talking to you.”
“What, you, Malicorne?”
"What, you, Malicorne?"
“Yes; I.”
"Yes, I do."
“Ah! ah! you are rich, then?”
“Oh! So you’re wealthy, huh?”
“I have still fifty pistoles left.”
“I still have fifty pistoles left.”
“Exactly the sum I want. Where are those fifty pistoles?”
“That's exactly the amount I need. Where are those fifty pistoles?”
“Here,” said Malicorne, slapping his pocket.
“Here," said Malicorne, slapping his pocket.
“Then speak, my friend; what do you want?”
“Go ahead and speak, my friend; what do you need?”
Malicorne took up the pen, ink, and paper again, and presented them all to Manicamp. “Write!” said he.
Malicorne picked up the pen, ink, and paper again, and handed them all to Manicamp. “Write!” he said.
“Dictate!”
"Voice command!"
“An order for a place in the household of Monsieur.”
“An order for a spot in Monsieur's household.”
“Oh!” said Manicamp, laying down the pen, “a place in the household of Monsieur for fifty pistoles?”
“Oh!” said Manicamp, putting down the pen, “a position in Monsieur's household for fifty pistoles?”
“You mistook me, my friend; you did not hear plainly.”
"You misunderstood me, my friend; you didn't hear correctly."
“What did you say, then?”
"What did you say?"
“I said five hundred.”
“I said $500.”
“And the five hundred?”
“And the 500?”
“Here they are.”
“Here they are.”
Manicamp devoured the rouleau with his eyes; but this time Malicorne held it at a distance.
Manicamp stared at the rouleau hungrily, but this time Malicorne kept it out of reach.
“Eh! what do you say to that? Five hundred pistoles.”
“Hey! What do you think about that? Five hundred pistoles.”
“I say it is for nothing, my friend,” said Manicamp, taking up the pen again, “and you exhaust my credit. Dictate.”
“I say it's for nothing, my friend,” Manicamp replied, picking up the pen again, “and you’re using up all my patience. Go ahead, dictate.”
Malicorne continued:
Malicorne continued:
“Which my friend the Comte de Guiche will obtain for my friend Malicorne.”
“Which my friend the Comte de Guiche will get for my friend Malicorne.”
“That’s it,” said Manicamp.
"That's it," said Manicamp.
“Pardon me, you have forgotten to sign.”
“Excuse me, you forgot to sign.”
“Ah! that is true. The five hundred pistoles?”
“Ah! that's true. The five hundred pistoles?”
“Here are two hundred and fifty of them.”
"Here are 250 of these."
“And the other two hundred and fifty?”
“And what about the other two hundred and fifty?”
“When I am in possession of my place.”
“When I have my own place.”
Manicamp made a face.
Manicamp grimaced.
“In that case give me the recommendation back again.”
“In that case, give me the recommendation back.”
“What to do?”
"What should I do?"
“To add two words to it.”
“To add two words to it.”
“Two words?”
“Two words?”
“Yes; two words only.”
"Yes; just two words."
“What are they?”
"What are those?"
“In haste.”
"In a hurry."
Malicorne returned the recommendation; Manicamp added the words.
Malicorne returned the recommendation; Manicamp added the details.
“Good,” said Malicorne, taking back the paper.
“Good,” Malicorne said, taking back the paper.
Manicamp began to count out the pistoles.
Manicamp started to count out the pistoles.
“There want twenty,” said he.
“There are twenty needed,” he said.
“How so?”
"How's that?"
“The twenty I have won.”
“The twenty I've won.”
“In what way?”
“How so?”
“By laying that you would have the letter from the Comte de Guiche in eight hours.”
“By saying that you would receive the letter from the Comte de Guiche in eight hours.”
“Ah! that’s fair,” and he gave him the twenty pistoles.
“Ah! that’s fair,” and he handed him the twenty pistoles.
Manicamp began to scoop up his gold by handfuls, and pour it in cascades upon his bed.
Manicamp started to grab his gold by the handful and let it flow in streams onto his bed.
“This second place,” murmured Malicorne, whilst drying his paper, “which, at first glance appears to cost me more than the first, but—” He stopped, took up the pen in his turn, and wrote to Montalais:—
“This second place,” murmured Malicorne, while drying his paper, “which, at first glance, seems to cost me more than the first, but—” He paused, picked up the pen, 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.”
“Miss,—Let your friend know that her request will be here soon; I’m heading out to get it signed: that will be twenty-eight leagues I’ll travel for you.”
Then with his sardonic smile, taking up the interrupted sentence:—“This place,” said he, “at first glance, appears to have cost more than the first; but—the benefit will be, I hope, in proportion with the expense, and Mademoiselle de la Valliere will bring me back more than Mademoiselle de Montalais, or else,—or else my name is not Malicorne. Farewell, Manicamp,” and he left the room.
Then, with his sarcastic smile, picking up the unfinished sentence: “This place,” he said, “at first glance, seems to have cost more than the first; but—I hope the benefits will match the expense, and Mademoiselle de la Valliere will bring me back more than Mademoiselle de Montalais, or else—well, my name isn’t Malicorne. Goodbye, Manicamp,” and he left the room.
Chapter VI. The Courtyard of the Hotel Grammont.
On Malicorne’s arrival at Orleans, he was informed that the Comte de Guiche had just set out for Paris. Malicorne 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 presented himself at the Hotel Grammont. Malicorne arrived just in time, for the Comte de Guiche was on the point of taking leave of Monsieur before setting out for Le Havre, where the principal members of the French nobility had gone to await Madame’s arrival from England. Malicorne pronounced the name of Manicamp, and was immediately admitted. He found the Comte de Guiche 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 appointments, horses, and harness that were being submitted to him; when, in the midst of this important occupation, the name of Manicamp was announced.
On Malicorne’s arrival in Orleans, he learned that the Comte de Guiche had just left for Paris. Malicorne took a couple of hours to rest, then got ready to continue his journey. He reached Paris during the night and checked into a small hotel he had previously stayed at during his trips to the capital. At eight o’clock the next morning, he arrived at the Hotel Grammont. Malicorne arrived just in time, as the Comte de Guiche was about to say goodbye to Monsieur before heading to Le Havre, where the key members of the French nobility had gathered to await Madame’s arrival from England. Malicorne mentioned Manicamp’s name and was immediately let in. He found the Comte de Guiche in the courtyard of the Hotel Grammont, inspecting his horses while his trainers and grooms presented them to him. Surrounded by his tradespeople and servants, the count was busy praising or criticizing the appointments, horses, and gear being shown to him when, in the middle of this important task, the name Manicamp was announced.
“Manicamp!” he exclaimed; “let him enter by all means.” And he advanced a few steps toward the door.
“Manicamp!” he said; “let him come in, definitely.” And he took a few steps toward the door.
Malicorne slipped through the half-open door, and looking at the Comte de Guiche, who was surprised to see a face he did not recognize, instead of the one he expected, said: “Forgive me, monsieur le comte, but I believe a mistake has been made. M. Manicamp himself was announced to you, instead of which it is only an envoy from him.”
Malicorne slipped through the half-open door and, seeing the Comte de Guiche, who was taken aback by a face he didn't recognize instead of the one he expected, said, "Excuse me, Monsieur le Comte, but I think there's been a misunderstanding. M. Manicamp was supposed to come to you, but instead, it's just an envoy from him."
“Ah!” exclaimed De Guiche, coldly; “and what do you bring me?”
“Ah!” said De Guiche, coldly; “and what do you have for me?”
“A letter, monsieur le comte.” Malicorne handed him the first document, and narrowly watched the count’s face, who, as he read it, began to laugh.
“A letter, sir.” Malicorne handed him the first document and closely observed the count’s face, which broke into laughter as he read it.
“What!” he exclaimed, “another maid of honor? Are all the maids of honor in France, then, under his protection?”
“What!” he exclaimed, “another maid of honor? Are all the maids of honor in France, then, under his protection?”
Malicorne bowed.
Malicorne bowed.
“Why does he not come himself?” he inquired.
“Why doesn't he come himself?” he asked.
“He is confined to his bed.”
“He's stuck in bed.”
“The deuce! he has no money then, I suppose,” said De Guiche, shrugging his shoulders. “What does he do with his money?”
“The heck! He has no money then, I guess,” 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 count himself. “Why does he not make use of his credit, then?” continued De Guiche.
Malicorne gestured to show that he was just as clueless about this matter as the count was. “So why doesn’t he leverage his connections?” De Guiche continued.
“With regard to that, I think—”
“With that in mind, I think—”
“What?”
"What?"
“That Manicamp has credit with no one but yourself, monsieur le comte!”
“That Manicamp has credit with no one except you, sir!”
“He will not be at Le Havre, then?” Whereupon Malicorne made another movement.
“He won’t be in Le Havre, then?” At that, Malicorne shifted again.
“But every one will be there.”
“But everyone will be there.”
“I trust, monsieur le comte, that he will not neglect so excellent an opportunity.”
“I trust, Count, that he won’t miss such a great opportunity.”
“He should be at Paris by this time.”
“He should be in Paris by now.”
“He will take the direct road perhaps to make up for lost time.”
“He will probably take the fastest route to make up for lost time.”
“Where is he now?”
“Where is he now?”
“At Orleans.”
"At Orleans."
“Monsieur,” said De Guiche, “you seem to me a man of very good taste.”
“Monsieur,” De Guiche said, “you strike me as a person of great taste.”
Malicorne was wearing some of Manicamp’s old-new clothes. He bowed in return, saying, “You do me a very great honor, monsieur le comte.”
Malicorne was wearing some of Manicamp’s old-but-new clothes. He bowed back, saying, “You honor me greatly, sir count.”
“Whom have I the pleasure of addressing?”
“Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”
“My name is Malicorne, monsieur.”
"I'm Malicorne, sir."
“M. de Malicorne, what do you think of these pistol-holsters?”
“M. de Malicorne, what do you think of these holsters for pistols?”
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.”
Malicorne was a man of quick thinking and immediately grasped the situation. Also, the "de" in front of his name elevated him to the same status as the person he was speaking with. He examined the holsters like an expert and said confidently, "A bit heavy, sir."
“You see,” said De Guiche to the saddler, “this gentleman, who understands these matters well, thinks the holsters heavy, a complaint I had already made.” The saddler was full of excuses.
“You see,” said De Guiche to the saddler, “this gentleman, who knows a lot about these things, thinks the holsters are too heavy, which is a concern I already mentioned.” The saddler had a lot of excuses.
“What do you think,” asked De Guiche, “of this horse, which I have just purchased?”
“What do you think,” asked De Guiche, “about this horse I just bought?”
“To look at it, it seems perfect, monsieur le comte; but I must mount it before I give you my opinion.”
“To look at it, it seems perfect, sir; but I need to ride it before I give you my opinion.”
“Do so, M. de Malicorne, and ride him round the court two or three times.”
“Do that, Mr. de Malicorne, and take him around the courtyard two or three times.”
The courtyard of the hotel was so arranged, that whenever there was any occasion for it, it could be used as a riding-school. Malicorne, with perfect ease, arranged the bridle and snaffle-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 court-yard 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 standing by. “Well,” said the count, “what do you think of it, M. de Malicorne?”
The hotel's courtyard was set up so that it could be used as a riding school whenever needed. Malicorne effortlessly adjusted the bridle and reins, placed his left hand on the horse’s mane, and, with his foot in the stirrup, lifted himself up and sat in the saddle. First, he had the horse walk around the entire courtyard at a slow pace; then he sped it up to a trot; and finally, he galloped. After that, he pulled up next to the count, got off the horse, and handed the bridle to a groom who was nearby. “Well,” said the count, “what do you think of it, M. de Malicorne?”
“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 which 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 blood in him. He stands well on his legs, but he trots high, and may cut himself, which requires attention 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.”
“This horse, Mr. Count, is of the Mecklenburg breed. While checking if the bit fit his mouth, I noticed he is almost seven, the perfect age to start training a horse meant for charging. His front end is light. They say a horse that holds its head high never tires its rider’s hand. The withers are on the lower side. The drooping of the hindquarters makes me question the purity of his German breed, and I suspect he has some English blood. He stands well on his legs, but he trots high and could injure himself, so we need to pay attention to his shoeing. He’s obedient; as I made him turn around and switch his feet, I found him quick and responsive in doing so.”
“Well said, M. de Malicorne,” exclaimed the comte; “you are a judge of horses, I perceive;” then, turning towards him again, he continued, “you are most becomingly dressed, M. 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.”
“Well said, Mr. de Malicorne,” the count exclaimed; “I see you're a horse expert.” Then, turning to him again, he continued, “You’re dressed very nicely, Mr. de Malicorne. I assume that’s not a provincial style. You don’t see that kind of outfit in Tours or Orleans.”
“No, monsieur le comte; my clothes were made at Paris.”
“No, sir; my clothes were made in Paris.”
“There is no doubt about that. But let us resume our own affair. Manicamp wishes for the appointment of a second maid of honor.”
“There’s no doubt about that. But let’s get back to our own situation. Manicamp wants to appoint a second maid of honor.”
“You perceive what he has written, monsieur le comte.”
“You see what he has written, sir.”
“For whom was the first appointment?”
“For whom was the first appointment?”
Malicorne felt the color rise in his face as he answered hurriedly.
Malicorne felt his face flush as he quickly replied.
“A charming maid of honor, Mademoiselle de Montalais.”
“A charming maid of honor, Miss de Montalais.”
“Ah, ah! you are acquainted with her?”
“Ah, you know her?”
“We are affianced, or nearly so.”
“We are engaged, or almost there.”
“That is quite another thing, then; a thousand compliments,” exclaimed De Guiche, upon whose lips a courtier’s jest was already fitting, but to whom the word “affianced,” addressed by Malicorne with respect to Mademoiselle de Montalais, recalled the respect due to women.
“That’s a whole different story, then; a thousand compliments,” exclaimed De Guiche, on whose lips a courtier’s joke was already appropriate, but the word “engaged,” used by Malicorne in reference to Mademoiselle de Montalais, reminded him of the respect that should be shown to women.
“And for whom is the second appointment destined?” asked De Guiche; “is it for anyone 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.”
“And who is the second appointment for?” asked De Guiche; “is it for someone that Manicamp happens to be engaged to? If so, I feel sorry for her, poor girl! She's going to have a pretty miserable husband.”
“No, monsieur le comte; the second appointment is for Mademoiselle de la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere.”
“No, sir; the second appointment is for Miss de la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere.”
“Unknown,” said De Guiche.
“Unknown,” De Guiche replied.
“Unknown? yes, monsieur,” said Malicorne, smiling in his turn.
“Unknown? Yes, sir,” Malicorne replied, smiling back.
“Very good. I will speak to Monsieur about it. By the by, she is of gentle birth?”
“Great. I'll talk to Monsieur about it. By the way, is she from a good family?”
“She belongs to a very good family and is maid of honor to Madame.”
“She comes from a great family and is the maid of honor to Madame.”
“That’s well. Will you accompany me to Monsieur?”
"That’s good. Will you come with me to see Monsieur?"
“Most certainly, if I may be permitted the honor.”
“Absolutely, if I’m allowed the privilege.”
“Have you your carriage?”
"Do you have your car?"
“No; I came here on horseback.”
“No, I rode here on horseback.”
“Dressed as you are?”
“Dressed like that?”
“No, monsieur; I posted from Orleans, and I changed my traveling suit for the one I have on, in order to present myself to you.”
“No, sir; I mailed it from Orleans and changed my travel outfit to the one I'm wearing now to meet with 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.
“True, you already mentioned you came from Orleans;” saying this, he crumpled Manicamp’s letter in his hand and shoved it in his pocket.
“I beg your pardon,” said Malicorne, timidly; “but I do not think you have read all.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” said Malicorne, shyly; “but I don’t think you’ve read everything.”
“Not read all, do you say?”
"Not all read, you say?"
“No; there were two letters in the same envelope.”
“No, there were two letters in the same envelope.”
“Oh! are you sure?”
“Oh! Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
"Pretty sure."
“Let us look, then,” said the count, as he opened the letter again.
“Let’s take a look, then,” said the count, as he opened the letter again.
“Ah! you are right,” he said opening the paper which he had not yet read.
“Ah! you’re right,” he said, opening the paper he hadn’t read yet.
“I suspected it,” he continued—“another application for an appointment under Monsieur. This Manicamp is a regular vampire:—he is carrying on a trade in it.”
“I suspected it,” he continued—“another request for an appointment with the guy. This Manicamp is a total leech; he’s making a business out of it.”
“No, monsieur le comte, he wishes to make a present of it.”
“No, mister count, he wants to give it as a gift.”
“To whom?”
“To who?”
“To myself, monsieur.”
"To me, sir."
“Why did you not say so at once, my dear M. Mauvaisecorne?”
“Why didn’t you say that right away, my dear M. Mauvaisecorne?”
“Malicorne, monsieur le comte.”
"Malicorne, Mr. Count."
“Forgive me; it is that Latin that bothers me—that terrible mine of etymologies. Why the deuce are young men of family taught Latin? Mala and mauvaise—you understand it is the same thing. You will forgive me, I trust, M. de Malicorne.”
“Forgive me; it's that Latin that annoys me—that dreadful source of word origins. Why on earth are well-born young men taught Latin? Mala and mauvaise—you see, it's the same thing. I hope you can forgive me, M. de Malicorne.”
“Your kindness affects me much, monsieur: but it is a reason why I should make you acquainted with one circumstance without any delay.”
“Your kindness means a lot to me, sir: but I have a reason to tell you something important right away.”
“What is it?”
“What's going on?”
“That I was not born a gentleman. I am not without courage, and not altogether deficient in ability; but my name is Malicorne simply.”
“I'm not a gentleman by birth. I have courage and I'm not without skill, but my name is just Malicorne.”
“You appear to me, monsieur!” exclaimed the count, looking at the astute face of his companion, “to be a most agreeable man. Your face pleases me, M. 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.”
“You seem to me, sir!” exclaimed the count, looking at the shrewd face of his companion, “to be a very likable man. I find your face appealing, Mr. Malicorne, and you must have some undeniably great qualities to have impressed that self-centered Manicamp. Be honest and tell me if you’re not a saint come down to earth.”
“Why so?”
“Why’s that?”
“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?”
“For the simple reason that he gives you a gift of anything. Didn’t you say he planned to give you a position in the king’s household?”
“I beg your pardon, count; but, if I succeed in obtaining the appointment, you, and not he, will have bestowed it on me.”
"I’m sorry, Count; but if I manage to get the appointment, it will be you, not him, who gave it to 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.”
“Besides, I guess he won’t have given it to you for free. Wait, I remember; there’s a Malicorne in Orleans who lends money to the prince.”
“I think that must be my father, monsieur.”
"I think that must be my dad, sir."
“Ah! the prince has the father, and that terrible dragon of a Manicamp has the son. Take care, monsieur, I know him. He will fleece you completely.”
“Ah! the prince has the father, and that awful dragon of a Manicamp has the son. Be careful, sir, I know him. He will take everything from you.”
“The only difference is, that I lend without interest,” said Malicorne, smiling.
“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. M. Malicorne, you shall have the post you want, or I will forfeit my name.”
“I was right when I said you were either a saint or looked a lot like one. M. Malicorne, you will get the position you want, or I will give up my name.”
“Ah! monsieur le comte, what a debt of gratitude shall I not owe you?” said Malicorne, transported.
“Ah! Mr. Count, what a huge debt of gratitude I will owe you!” said Malicorne, overwhelmed.
“Let us go to the prince, my dear M. Malicorne.” And De Guiche proceeded toward the door, desiring Malicorne 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 eyebrows. “Good-day,” said he, suddenly, almost pushing De Guiche back into the courtyard again.
“Let’s go see the prince, my dear M. Malicorne.” De Guiche went toward the door, urging Malicorne to follow him. Just as they were about to step outside, a young man appeared on the other side. He was around twenty-four or twenty-five years old, had a pale complexion, bright eyes, and brown hair and eyebrows. “Hello,” he said suddenly, nearly pushing De Guiche back into the courtyard.
“Is that you, De Wardes?—What! and booted, spurred and whip in hand, too?”
“Is that you, De Wardes? Wait! Are you wearing boots and spurs, with a whip in your hand too?”
“The most befitting costume for a man about to set off for Le 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.
“The best outfit for a man getting ready to leave for Le Havre. No one will be left in Paris tomorrow.” With that, he greeted Malicorne with great formality, whose stylish clothing made him look like a prince.
“M. Malicorne,” said De Guiche to his friend. De Wardes bowed.
“M. Malicorne,” De Guiche said to his friend. De Wardes nodded.
“M. de Wardes,” said Guiche to Malicorne, who bowed in return. “By the by, De Wardes,” continued De Guiche, “you who are so well acquainted with these matters, can you tell us, probably, what appointments are still vacant at the court; or rather in the prince’s household?”
“M. de Wardes,” Guiche said to Malicorne, who nodded back. “By the way, De Wardes,” De Guiche continued, “since you’re so familiar with these things, can you let us know what positions are still open at 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.”
“In the prince’s household,” said De Wardes, looking up thoughtfully, “let me see—the position of master of the horse is open, I believe.”
“Oh,” said Malicorne, “there is no question of such a post as that, monsieur; my ambition is not nearly so exalted.”
“Oh,” said Malicorne, “there's no way I'm aiming for a position like that, sir; my ambitions aren't nearly as high.”
De Wardes had a more penetrating observation than De Guiche, and fathomed 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.”
De Wardes had a sharper insight than De Guiche and figured out Malicorne right away. “The truth is,” he said, scanning him from head to toe, “a person has to be either a duke or a peer to hold that position.”
“All I solicit,” said Malicorne, “is a very humble appointment; I am of little importance, and I do not rank myself above my position.”
“All I ask,” said Malicorne, “is a very simple job; I’m not that important, and I don’t consider myself above my role.”
“M. 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 but gentle birth to boast of.”
“M. Malicorne, as you see here,” said De Guiche to De Wardes, “is a really great guy, whose only problem is that he wasn’t born into nobility. As for me, I don’t care much about people who only have noble birth to show for themselves.”
“Assuredly,” said De Wardes; “but will you allow me to remark, my dear count, that, without rank of some sort, one can hardly hope to belong to his royal highness’s household?”
“Definitely,” said De Wardes; “but may I point out, my dear count, that without some kind of rank, it’s hard to expect to be part of his royal highness’s household?”
“You are right,” said the count, “court etiquette is absolute. The devil!—we never so much as gave it a thought.”
“You're right,” said the count, “court etiquette is everything. Damn it!—we never even considered it.”
“Alas! a sad misfortune for me, monsieur le comte,” said Malicorne, changing color.
“Unfortunately, that's a sad misfortune for me, sir,” said Malicorne, changing color.
“Yet not without remedy, I hope,” returned De Guiche.
“Still, I hope there's a solution,” replied 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.”
“The solution is pretty straightforward,” De Wardes exclaimed; “you can be made a gentleman. That’s all His Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin, did from morning till night.”
“Hush, hush, De Wardes,” said the count; “no jests of that kind; it ill becomes us to turn such matters into ridicule. Letters of nobility, it is true, are purchasable; but that is a sufficient misfortune without the nobles themselves laughing at it.”
“Hush, hush, De Wardes,” said the count; “let’s not joke about that; it’s not right for us to make fun of such things. It’s true that you can buy titles of nobility, but that’s already a big enough issue without the nobles themselves laughing at it.”
“Upon my word, De Guiche, you’re quite a Puritan, as the English say.”
"Honestly, De Guiche, you're really a Puritan, like the English say."
At this moment the Vicomte de Bragelonne was announced by one of the servants in the courtyard, in precisely the same manner as he would have done in a room.
At that moment, one of the servants in the courtyard announced the Vicomte de Bragelonne in exactly the same way as he would have in a room.
“Come here, my dear Raoul. What! you, too, booted and spurred? You are setting off, then?”
“Come here, my dear Raoul. What! You’re all geared up and ready to go? Are you leaving, then?”
Bragelonne approached the group of young men, and saluted them with that quiet and serious manner peculiar to him. His salutation was principally addressed to De Wardes, with whom he was unacquainted, and whose features, on his perceiving Raoul, had assumed a strange sternness of expression. “I have come, De Guiche,” he said, “to ask your companionship. We set off for Le Havre, I presume.”
Bragelonne walked up to the group of young men and greeted them with his usual quiet and serious demeanor. His greeting was mainly directed at De Wardes, whom he didn’t know, and whose face had taken on a strangely stern look when he noticed Raoul. “I’ve come, De Guiche,” he said, “to ask for your company. We’re heading to Le Havre, I assume.”
“This is admirable—delightful. We shall have a most enjoyable journey. M. Malicorne, M. Bragelonne—ah! M. de Wardes, let me present you.” The young men saluted each other in a restrained manner. Their very natures seemed, from the beginning, disposed to take exception to each other. De Wardes was pliant, subtle, full of dissimulation; Raoul was calm, grave, and upright. “Decide between us—between De Wardes and myself, Raoul.”
“This is impressive—wonderful. We’re going to have a really great trip. M. Malicorne, M. Bragelonne—ah! M. de Wardes, let me introduce you.” The young men greeted each other with a slight nod. It seemed like their personalities were instantly at odds. De Wardes was flexible, cunning, and full of pretense; Raoul was steady, serious, and honest. “Choose between us—between De Wardes and me, Raoul.”
“Upon what subject?”
"What topic?"
“Upon the subject of noble birth.”
"About noble lineage."
“Who can be better informed on that subject than a De Gramont?”
“Who could be better informed about that topic than a De Gramont?”
“No compliments; it is your opinion I ask.”
“No flattery; I want your honest opinion.”
“At least, inform me of the subject under discussion.”
“At the very least, let me know what the topic is.”
“De Wardes asserts that the distribution of titles is abused; I, on the contrary, maintain that a title is useless to the man on whom it is bestowed.”
“De Wardes claims that the distribution of titles is misused; I, on the other hand, argue that a title is pointless for the person it is given to.”
“And you are correct,” said Bragelonne, quietly.
"And you're right," Bragelonne said softly.
“But, monsieur le vicomte,” interrupted De Wardes, with a kind of obstinacy, “I affirm that it is I who am correct.”
“But, Mr. Viscount,” De Wardes interrupted, with a sort of stubbornness, “I insist that I am right.”
“What was your opinion, monsieur?”
“What’s your opinion, sir?”
“I was saying that everything is done in France at the present moment, to humiliate men of family.”
“I was saying that everything is being done in France right now to humiliate family men.”
“And by whom?”
“By who?”
“By the king himself. He surrounds himself with people who cannot show four quarterings.”
“By the king himself. He surrounds himself with people who can’t prove their lineage.”
“Nonsense,” said De Guiche, “where could you possibly have seen that, De Wardes?”
“Nonsense,” said De Guiche, “where could you have seen that, De Wardes?”
“One example will suffice,” he returned, directing his look fully upon Raoul.
"One example will be enough," he replied, looking directly at Raoul.
“State it then.”
"Say it then."
“Do you know who has just been nominated captain-general of the musketeers?—an appointment more valuable than a peerage; for it gives precedence over all the marechals of France.”
“Do you know who has just been appointed captain-general of the musketeers?—a position more prestigious than a noble title; because it puts them ahead of all the marshals of France.”
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 appointment was vacant eight days ago; a proof of which is, that the king refused Monsieur, who solicited the post for one of his proteges.”
Raoul's face turned red as he realized what De Wardes was aiming for. "No, who got the position? It must have been very recent since the appointment was open eight days ago; the evidence is that the king rejected Monsieur, who was trying to get the job for one of his proteges."
“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 trailing his sword in the ante-chambers during the last thirty years.”
“Well, the king denied it to Monsieur’s protege, so he could give it to the Chevalier d’Artagnan, a younger brother from a Gascon family, who has been hanging around the ante-chambers for 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.”
“Sorry to interrupt you,” said Raoul, giving De Wardes a serious look; “but you seem to be unaware of the gentleman you’re talking about.”
“I not acquainted with M. d’Artagnan? Can you tell me, monsieur, who does not know him?”
“I’m not familiar with M. d’Artagnan? Can you tell me, sir, who doesn’t know him?”
“Those who do know him, monsieur,” replied Raoul, with still greater calmness and sternness of manner, “are in the habit of 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 M. d’Artagnan from my birth.”
“Those who do know him, sir,” replied Raoul, with even more calmness and seriousness, “say that if he isn’t quite as refined a gentleman as the king—which isn’t his fault—he is equal to all the kings of the world in bravery and loyalty. That’s what I believe, sir; and I’m grateful I’ve known M. d’Artagnan since I was born.”
De Wardes was about to reply, when De Guiche interrupted him.
De Wardes was about to respond when De Guiche interrupted him.
Chapter VII. The Portrait of Madame.
The discussion was becoming full of bitterness. De Guiche perfectly understood the whole matter, for there was in Bragelonne’s face a look instinctively hostile, while in that of De Wardes there was something like a determination to offend. Without inquiring into the different feelings 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 each other, I must pay a visit to Monsieur. You, De Wardes, will accompany me to the Louvre, and you, Raoul, will remain here master of the house; and as all that is done here is under your advice, you will bestow the last glance upon my preparations for departure.”
The conversation was turning really bitter. De Guiche fully understood what was going on, as there was a hostile look on Bragelonne’s face, while De Wardes seemed determined to provoke. Without looking into the different feelings driving his two friends, De Guiche decided to prevent the confrontation he sensed was about to happen, possibly from either of them. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we should say our goodbyes. I need to visit Monsieur. You, De Wardes, will come with me to the Louvre, and you, Raoul, will stay here as the host; since everything happening here is based on your advice, make sure to give my preparations for departure one last look.”
Raoul, with the air of one who neither seeks nor fears a quarrel, bowed his head in token of assent, and seated himself upon a bench in the sun. “That is well,” said De Guiche, “remain where you are, Raoul, and tell them to show you the two horses I have just purchased; you will give me your opinion, for I only bought them on condition that you ratified the purchase. By the by, 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 Raoul’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’s eyes. De Guiche, who appeared not to notice the foreboding expression, went up to Raoul, and grasping him by the hand, said,—“It is agreed, then, Bragelonne, is it not, 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 going,” said he, “come, M. Malicorne.” This name made Raoul start; for it seemed that he had already heard it pronounced before, but he could not remember on what occasion. While trying to recall it half-dreamily, yet half-irritated at his conversation with De Wardes, the three young men set out on their way towards the Palais Royal, where Monsieur was residing. Malicorne learned two things; the first, that the young men had something to say to each other; and the second, that he ought not to walk in the same line with them; and therefore he walked behind. “Are you mad?” said De Guiche to his companion, as soon as they had left the Hotel de Grammont; “you attack M. d’Artagnan, and that, too, before Raoul.”
Raoul, with the demeanor of someone who neither seeks nor fears a fight, nodded his head in agreement and sat down on a bench in the sun. "That's good," said De Guiche, "stay where you are, Raoul, and ask them to show you the two horses I just bought; I want your opinion since I only bought them on the condition that you approved the purchase. By the way, I apologize for forgetting to ask about the Comte de la Fere." While saying this, he closely watched De Wardes to see how the mention of Raoul's father would affect him. "Thank you," the young man replied, "the count is doing very well." A flash of intense hatred crossed De Wardes's eyes. De Guiche, who seemed oblivious to the ominous look, approached Raoul, grasped his hand, and said, "So it's settled, Bragelonne, right? You'll meet us in the courtyard of the Palais Royal?" He then gestured for De Wardes to follow him, who had been shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "We're leaving," he said, "come on, M. Malicorne." This name made Raoul jump; it felt familiar, but he couldn't remember when he had heard it before. While he tried to recall it, feeling both dreamy and irritated about his conversation with De Wardes, the three young men headed towards the Palais Royal, where Monsieur was staying. Malicorne picked up two things: first, that the young men had something to discuss among themselves, and second, that he shouldn't walk alongside them; so he followed behind. "Are you crazy?" De Guiche asked his companion as soon as they left the Hotel de Grammont. "You confront M. d'Artagnan, and that too, in front of Raoul."
“Well,” said De Wardes, “what then?”
“Well,” De Wardes said, “what now?”
“What do you mean by ‘what then?’”
“What do you mean by ‘what then?’”
“Certainly, is there any prohibition against attacking M. d’Artagnan?”
“Of course, is there any rule against attacking M. d’Artagnan?”
“But you know very well that M. d’Artagnan was one of those celebrated and terrible four men who were called the musketeers.”
“But you know very well that M. d’Artagnan was one of those famous and formidable four guys known as the musketeers.”
“That they may be; but I do not perceive why, on that account, I should be forbidden to hate M. d’Artagnan.”
“That may be true, but I don’t understand why I should be banned from hating M. d’Artagnan because of it.”
“What cause has he given you?”
“What reason has he given you?”
“Me! personally, none.”
“Not me, personally, none.”
“Why hate him, therefore?”
“Why hate him, then?”
“Ask my dead father that question.”
“Ask my deceased father that question.”
“Really, my dear De Wardes, you surprise me. M. d’Artagnan is not one to leave unsettled any enmity he may have to arrange, without completely clearing his account. Your father, I have heard, carried matters with a high hand. Moreover, there are no enmities so bitter that they cannot be washed away by blood, by a good sword-thrust loyally given.”
“Honestly, my dear De Wardes, you surprise me. M. d’Artagnan isn’t the type to leave any conflicts unresolved; he always makes sure to clear the air. I’ve heard your father was quite forceful in his approach. Besides, there are no grudges so deep that they can’t be settled with blood, through a well-placed sword strike given with honor.”
“Listen to me, my dear De Guiche, this inveterate dislike existed between my father and M. d’Artagnan, and when I was quite a child, he acquainted me with the reason for it, and, as forming part of my inheritance, I regard it as a particular legacy bestowed upon me.”
“Listen to me, my dear De Guiche, this deep-seated dislike existed between my father and M. d’Artagnan, and when I was just a child, he told me the reason for it. I see it as part of my inheritance, a special legacy passed down to me.”
“And does this hatred concern M. d’Artagnan alone?”
“And does this hatred only involve M. d’Artagnan?”
“As for that, M. d’Artagnan was so intimately associated with his three friends, that some portion of the full measure of my hatred falls to their lot, and that hatred is of such a nature, whenever the opportunity occurs, they shall have no occasion to complain of their allowance.”
“As for that, M. d’Artagnan was so closely connected with his three friends that some of my hatred is directed at them as well, and this hatred is such that whenever the chance arises, they won’t have any reason to complain about what they get.”
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 away for grands coups entre gentilshommes; 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 would indeed hate with their hearts, but would no longer combat their enemies save by means of intrigue or treachery. As, therefore, it certainly was not Raoul whom he could suspect either of intrigue or treachery, 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.
De Guiche had been staring at De Wardes and shuddered at the bitter way the young man smiled. A sense of foreboding crossed his mind; he realized that the era of grand duels between gentlemen was over. Yet, the hatred stored in the mind, instead of being expressed outwardly, remained hatred all the same; a smile could sometimes carry as much significance as a threat. In short, the fathers who hated with passion and fought with swords would give way to their sons, who would still hate with intensity but would only fight their enemies through intrigue or betrayal. Since De Guiche could not suspect Raoul of any intrigue or treachery, it was because of Raoul that De Guiche felt uneasy. While these dark thoughts cast a shadow of worry over De Guiche's face, De Wardes had regained complete control over himself.
“At all events,” he observed, “I have no personal ill-will towards M. de Bragelonne; I do not know him even.”
“At any rate,” he remarked, “I don’t have any personal grudge against M. de Bragelonne; I don’t even know him.”
“In any case,” said De Guiche, with a certain amount of severity in his tone of voice, “do not forget one circumstance, that Raoul is my most intimate friend;” a remark at which De Wardes bowed.
“In any case,” said De Guiche, with a bit of seriousness in his tone, “don’t forget one important thing: Raoul is my closest friend;” to which De Wardes nodded.
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 further, and he remained impenetrable. De Guiche therefore promised himself a more satisfactory result with Raoul. In the meantime they had reached the Palais Royal, which was surrounded by a crowd of lookers-on. The household belonging to Monsieur awaited his command to mount their horses, in order to form part of the escort of the ambassadors, 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 compensation 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 were no longer allowed to 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, though he could not endure him, went straight to the prince’s apartments, whom he found engaged in admiring himself in the glass, and rouging 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, De Guiche; come here and tell me the truth.”
The conversation ended there, even though De Guiche did his best to get the secret out of him; but clearly, De Wardes had decided not to say anything more, and he remained tight-lipped. De Guiche then hoped for a better outcome with Raoul. In the meantime, they had arrived at the Palais Royal, which was surrounded by a crowd of onlookers. Monsieur's household was awaiting his order to mount their horses to be part of the escort for the ambassadors tasked with bringing the young princess to Paris. The impressive display of horses, arms, and lavish uniforms provided some compensation during those times, thanks to the people's goodwill and their strong loyalty to their rulers, for the heavy costs imposed on taxes. Mazarin had remarked, “Let them sing, as long as they pay;” while Louis XIV. said, “Let them look.” Sight had replaced sound; the people could still observe, but they were no longer allowed to sing. De Guiche left De Wardes and Malicorne at the bottom of the grand staircase, while he himself, sharing the favor and goodwill of Monsieur with the Chevalier de Lorraine—who always smiled at him warmly, even though he could hardly stand him—went straight to the prince’s rooms, where he found him admiring himself in the mirror and applying makeup. In one corner of the room, the Chevalier de Lorraine reclined on some cushions, having just styled his long hair, playing with it like a woman would. The prince turned around when he saw De Guiche enter and, recognizing him, said: “Ah! It’s you, De Guiche; come here and tell me the truth.”
“You know, my lord, it is one of my defects to speak the truth.”
"You know, my lord, it's one of my flaws to tell the truth."
“You will hardly believe, De Guiche, how that wicked chevalier has annoyed me.”
“You won't believe it, De Guiche, how much that troublesome knight has bothered me.”
The chevalier shrugged his shoulders.
The knight shrugged his shoulders.
“Why, he pretends,” continued the prince, “that Mademoiselle Henrietta is better looking as a woman than I am as a man.”
“Why, he pretends,” the prince continued, “that Mademoiselle Henrietta is better looking as a woman than I am as a man.”
“Do not forget, my lord,” said De Guiche, frowning slightly, “you require me to speak the truth.”
“Don’t forget, my lord,” De Guiche said, frowning slightly, “you need me to be honest.”
“Certainly,” said the prince, tremblingly.
“Definitely,” said the prince, nervously.
“Well, and I shall tell it you.”
"Let me tell you."
“Do not be in a hurry, Guiche,” exclaimed the prince, “you have plenty of time; look at me attentively, and try to 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.
“Don’t rush, Guiche,” the prince said, “you have all the time you need; pay close attention to me, and try to remember Madame. Plus, her portrait is right here. Take a look.” He offered him a beautifully crafted miniature. De Guiche took it and stared at it for a long time, focused.
“Upon my honor, my lord, this is indeed a most lovely face.”
“Honestly, my lord, this is truly a beautiful face.”
“But look at me, count, look at me,” said the prince, endeavoring to direct upon himself the attention of the count, who was completely absorbed in contemplation of the portrait.
“But look at me, Count, look at me,” said the prince, trying to get the count's attention, who was completely engrossed in looking at the portrait.
“It is wonderful,” murmured Guiche.
“It’s amazing,” murmured Guiche.
“Really one would imagine you had never seen the young lady before.”
“Honestly, you’d think you’ve never met the young woman before.”
“It is true, my lord, I have seen her but it was five years ago; there is a great difference between a child twelve years old, and a girl of seventeen.”
“It’s true, my lord, I’ve seen her, but it was five years ago; there’s a big difference between a twelve-year-old child and a seventeen-year-old girl.”
“Well, what is your opinion?”
“Well, what do you think?”
“My opinion is that the portrait must be flattering, my lord.”
“My opinion is that the portrait needs to be flattering, my lord.”
“Of that,” said the prince triumphantly, “there can be no doubt; but let us suppose that it is not, what would your opinion be?”
“Of that,” said the prince triumphantly, “there’s no doubt; but let’s say it isn’t, what would you think?”
“My lord, that your highness is exceedingly happy to have so charming a bride.”
“My lord, your highness is incredibly happy to have such a wonderful bride.”
The Chevalier de Lorraine burst out laughing. The prince understood how severe towards himself this opinion of the Comte de Guiche was, and he looked somewhat displeased, saying, “My friends are not over indulgent.” De Guiche looked at the portrait again, and, after lengthened contemplation, 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 once again.” It seemed as if the chevalier had detected some mystery in these words, which were incomprehensible to the prince, for he exclaimed: “Very well, get married yourself.” Monsieur continued painting 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 bidding me adieu.”
The Chevalier de Lorraine burst out laughing. The prince realized how hard this opinion from the Comte de Guiche was on himself, and he looked somewhat displeased, saying, “My friends are not overly indulgent.” De Guiche glanced at the portrait again, and after a long look, handed it back reluctantly, saying, “Honestly, my lord, I’d much rather look at you ten times than at Madame even once.” It seemed the chevalier had picked up on some hidden meaning in these words that the prince didn’t understand, as he exclaimed, “Well, then get married yourself.” Monsieur kept painting, and when he finished, he looked at the portrait again, turned to admire himself in the mirror, smiled, and was clearly pleased with the comparison. “You’re very kind to have come,” he said to Guiche, “I was afraid you would leave without saying goodbye.”
“Your highness knows me too well to believe me capable of so great a disrespect.”
“Your highness knows me too well to think I could show such disrespect.”
“Besides, I suppose you have something to ask from me before leaving Paris?”
“By the way, I guess you have something to ask me before you leave Paris?”
“Your highness has indeed guessed correctly, for I have a request to make.”
“Your highness guessed right; I have a request to make.”
“Very good, what is it?”
"Sounds great, 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 superintendent of the finances has sent me 500,000 pistoles.”
The Chevalier de Lorraine quickly showed intense interest because he saw any kindness shown to someone else as a theft from him. And as Guiche hesitated, the prince said, “If it’s money, that’s perfect because I have plenty; the financial supervisor just sent me 500,000 pistoles.”
“I thank your highness; but is not an affair of money.”
"I appreciate it, your highness; but it's not a matter of money."
“What is it, then? Tell me.”
“What is it? Just tell me.”
“The appointment of a maid of honor.”
“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.”
“Oh! oh! Guiche, what a protector you've become for young ladies,” said the prince, “you never talk about anyone 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.”
The Chevalier de Lorraine smiled, knowing that nothing upset the prince more than showing any interest in women. “My lord,” said the comte, “I’m not the one personally interested in the lady I just mentioned; I’m doing this for a friend of mine.”
“Ah! that is different; what is the name of the young lady in whom your friend is so interested?”
“Ah! that's different; what's the name of the young woman your friend is so interested in?”
“Mlle. de la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere; she is already maid of honor to the dowager princess.”
“Mademoiselle de la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere; she is already a lady-in-waiting to the dowager princess.”
“Why, she is lame,” said the Chevalier de Lorraine, stretching himself on his cushions.
“Why, she has a limp,” said the Chevalier de Lorraine, lounging 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.”
“Lame,” the prince repeated, “and Madame to have her constantly in sight? Absolutely not; it could be risky for her when she’s in a delicate situation.”
The Chevalier de Lorraine burst out laughing.
The Chevalier de Lorraine laughed out loud.
“Chevalier,” said Guiche, “your conduct is ungenerous; while I am soliciting a favor, you do me all the mischief you can.”
“Knight,” said Guiche, “your behavior is unkind; while I’m asking for a favor, you’re causing me as much trouble as you can.”
“Forgive me, comte,” said the Chevalier de Lorraine, somewhat uneasy at the tone in which 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.”
“Forgive me, count,” said the Chevalier de Lorraine, a bit uneasy at the way Guiche had spoken, “but I had no intention of doing that, and I'm starting to think I've confused one young lady for another.”
“There is no doubt of it, monsieur; and I do not hesitate to declare that such is the case.”
“There’s no doubt about it, sir; and I’m not afraid to say that this is true.”
“Do you attach much importance to it, Guiche?” inquired the prince.
“Do you think it’s that important, Guiche?” the prince asked.
“I do, my lord.”
"I do, my lord."
“Well, you shall have it; but ask me for no more appointments, for there are none to give away.”
“Well, you'll have it; but don’t ask me for any more appointments, because I don’t have any to offer.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the chevalier, “midday already, that is the hour fixed for the departure.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the knight, “it’s already noon, that’s the time we agreed to leave.”
“You dismiss me, monsieur?” inquired Guiche.
“You're dismissing me, sir?” Guiche asked.
“Really, count, you treat me very ill to-day,” replied the chevalier.
“Seriously, Count, you’re treating me really poorly today,” replied the chevalier.
“For heaven’s sake, count, for heaven’s sake, chevalier,” said Monsieur, “do you not see how you are distressing me?”
“For heaven’s sake, count, for heaven’s sake, chevalier,” said Monsieur, “can’t you see how you’re stressing me out?”
“Your highness’s signature?” said Guiche.
"Your Highness's signature?" said Guiche.
“Take a blank appointment from that drawer, and give it to me.” Guiche handed the prince the document indicated, and at the same time presented him with a pen already dipped in ink; whereupon the prince signed. “Here,” he said, returning him the appointment, “but I give it on one condition.”
“Take a blank appointment from that drawer and hand it to me.” Guiche handed the prince the requested document and also offered him a pen that was already dipped in ink; then the prince signed. “Here,” he said, returning the document, “but I’m giving it on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“Name it.”
“That you make friends with the chevalier.”
“That you become friends with the knight.”
“Willingly,” said Guiche. And he held out his hand to the chevalier with an indifference amounting to contempt.
"Willingly," said Guiche. And he extended his hand to the chevalier with an indifference that bordered on contempt.
“Adieu, count,” said the chevalier, without seeming in any way to have noticed the count’s slight; “adieu, and bring us back a princess who will not talk with her own portrait too much.”
“Goodbye, Count,” said the chevalier, without appearing to notice the count’s slight; “goodbye, and bring us back a princess who won't spend too much time talking to her own portrait.”
“Yes, set off and lose no time. By the by, who will accompany you?”
“Yes, go ahead and don’t waste any time. By the way, who’s going with you?”
“Bragelonne and De Wardes.”
“Bragelonne and De Wardes.”
“Both excellent and fearless companions.”
“Both great and fearless friends.”
“Too fearless,” said the chevalier; “endeavor to bring them both back, count.”
“Too fearless,” said the knight; “try to bring them both back, count.”
“A bad heart, bad!” 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 forward, and received it, trembling with delight. When, however, he held in his hand, Guiche observed that he still awaited something further.
“A bad heart, bad!” murmured De Guiche; “he senses trouble everywhere, and faster than anything else.” And saying goodbye to the prince, he left the room. As soon as he got to the hallway, he waved the paper that the prince had signed in the air. Malicorne rushed forward and took it, shaking with joy. However, when he had it in his hand, Guiche noticed that he was still waiting for something more.
“Patience, monsieur,” he said; “the Chevalier de Lorraine was there, and I feared an utter failure if I asked too much at once. Wait until I return. Adieu.”
“Be patient, sir,” he said; “the Chevalier de Lorraine was there, and I worried it would all go wrong if I asked for too much at once. Just wait until I come back. Goodbye.”
“Adieu, monsieur le comte; a thousand thanks,” said Malicorne.
“Goodbye, Mr. Count; thank you so much,” said Malicorne.
“Send Manicamp to me. By the way, monsieur, is it true that Mlle. de la Valliere is lame?” As he said this, he noticed that Bragelonne, who had just at that moment entered the courtyard, 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 count’s voice.
“Send Manicamp to me. By the way, sir, is it true that Mlle. de la Valliere is lame?” As he said this, he noticed that Bragelonne, who had just entered the courtyard, suddenly turned pale. The poor lover had heard the remark, but Malicorne had already moved beyond the range of the count’s voice.
“Why is Louise’s name spoken of here,” said Raoul to himself; “oh! let not De Wardes, who stands smiling yonder, even say a word about her in my presence.”
“Why is Louise’s name being mentioned here?” Raoul thought to himself. “Oh! I hope De Wardes, who’s standing there smiling, doesn’t say a word about her in front of me.”
“Now, gentlemen,” exclaimed the Comte de Guiche, “prepare to start.”
“Alright, gentlemen,” said the Comte de Guiche, “get ready to start.”
At this moment the prince, who had complete his toilette, appeared at the window, and was immediately saluted by the acclamations of all who composed the escort, and ten minutes afterwards, banners, scarfs, and feathers were fluttering and waving in the air, as the cavalcade galloped away.
At that moment, the prince, who had finished getting ready, showed up at the window and was immediately greeted by cheers from everyone in the escort. Ten minutes later, banners, scarves, and feathers were flapping and waving in the air as the procession sped away.
Chapter VIII. Le Havre.
This brilliant and animated company, the members of which were inspired by various feelings, arrived at Le 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 immediately 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, indeed, 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 his violet suit, which was his last resource. Manicamp presented himself to the count under an arch of torches, which set in a blaze, rather than illuminated, the gate by which Le Havre is entered, and which is situated close to the tower of Francis I. The count, remarking the woe-begone expression of Manicamp’s face, could not resist laughing. “Well, my poor Manicamp,” he exclaimed, “how violet you look; are you in mourning?”
This lively and energetic group, whose members were fueled by various emotions, arrived in Le Havre four days after leaving Paris. It was around five in the afternoon, and there was still no word about Madame. They quickly got busy looking for places to stay, but chaos broke out among the leaders and heated arguments erupted among their attendants. In the midst of this mess, the Comte de Guiche thought he recognized Manicamp. It really was Manicamp, but since Malicorne had taken his best outfit, he was stuck wearing a violet velvet suit trimmed with silver. Guiche recognized him as much by his outfit as by his face, as he had seen Manicamp in this violet suit many times before, which was his last option. Manicamp approached the count under a display of torches that lit up rather than illuminated the entrance to Le Havre, near the tower of Francis I. The count, noticing the sad look on Manicamp’s face, couldn't help but laugh. “Well, my poor Manicamp,” he exclaimed, “you look so violet; are you in mourning?”
“Yes,” replied Manicamp; “I am in mourning.”
“Yes,” replied Manicamp, “I’m in mourning.”
“For whom, or for what?”
"For who, or for what?"
“For my blue-and-gold suit, which has disappeared, and in the 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.”
“For my blue-and-gold suit, which is gone, and in its place, I could find nothing but this; and I was even forced to cut back on spending just to get it.”
“Indeed?”
"Really?"
“It is singular you should be astonished at that, since you leave me without any money.”
“It’s surprising you’d be shocked by that, considering you’re leaving me with no money.”
“At all events, here you are, and that is the principal thing.”
“At the end of the day, here you are, and that’s what really matters.”
“By the most horrible roads.”
“Through the worst roads.”
“Where are you lodging?”
“Where are you staying?”
“Lodging?”
“Accommodation?”
“Yes!”
“Absolutely!”
“I am not lodging anywhere.”
"I'm not staying anywhere."
De Guiche began to laugh. “Well,” said he, “where do you intend to lodge?”
De Guiche started to laugh. “So,” he said, “where do you plan to stay?”
“In the same place you do.”
“In the same place you are.”
“But I don’t know, myself.”
“But I don’t know either.”
“What do you mean by saying you don’t know?”
“What do you mean when you say you don’t know?”
“Certainly, how is it likely I should know where I should stay?”
“Of course, how am I supposed to know where I should stay?”
“Have you not retained an hotel?”
“Have you not booked a hotel?”
“I?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you or the prince.”
“Yes, you or the royal.”
“Neither of us has thought of it. Le Havre is of considerable size, I suppose; and provided I can get a stable for a dozen horses, and a suitable house in a good quarter—”
“Neither of us has thought about it. Le Havre is pretty big, I guess; and as long as I can find a stable for a dozen horses and a decent house in a nice neighborhood—”
“Certainly, there are some very excellent houses.”
“Definitely, there are some really great houses.”
“Well then—”
“Well then—”
“But not for us.”
“But not for us.”
“What do you mean by saying not for us?—for whom, then?”
“What do you mean by saying it’s not for us? Who is it for, then?”
“For the English, of course.”
"For the English, obviously."
“For the English?”
"For the Brits?"
“Yes; the houses are all taken.”
“Yes, all the houses are taken.”
“By whom?”
"By who?"
“By the Duke of Buckingham.”
"From the Duke of Buckingham."
“I beg your pardon?” said Guiche, whose attention this name had awakened.
“I beg your pardon?” said Guiche, whose interest this name had sparked.
“Yes, by the Duke of Buckingham. His Grace was preceded by a courier, who arrived here three days ago, and immediately retained all the houses fit for habitation the town possesses.”
“Yes, by the Duke of Buckingham. He was preceded by a courier, who arrived here three days ago and immediately reserved all the houses in town that are suitable for living.”
“Come, come, Manicamp, let us understand each other.”
“Come on, Manicamp, let’s get on the same page.”
“Well, what I have told you is clear enough, it seems to me.”
“Well, what I’ve told you seems pretty clear to me.”
“But surely Buckingham does not occupy the whole of Le Havre?”
"But surely Buckingham doesn't cover all of Le Havre?"
“He certainly does not occupy it, since he has not yet arrived; but, once disembarked, he will occupy it.”
“He definitely doesn’t occupy it since he hasn’t arrived yet; but once he gets off the boat, he will.”
“Oh! oh!”
“Oh my!”
“It is quite clear you are not acquainted with the English; they have a perfect rage for monopolizing everything.”
“It’s obvious you’re not familiar with the English; they have a real obsession with monopolizing everything.”
“That may be; but a man who has the whole of one house, is satisfied with it, and does not require two.”
"That might be true, but a guy who's got an entire house is happy with it and doesn't need two."
“Yes, but two men?”
"Yeah, but two guys?"
“Be it so; for two men, two houses, or four or six, or ten, if you like; but there are a hundred houses at Le Havre.”
“Fine; whether it’s two men, two houses, or four or six, or even ten, if that’s what you prefer; but there are a hundred houses in Le Havre.”
“Yes, and all the hundred are let.”
“Yes, and all one hundred are rented.”
“Impossible!”
“Not a chance!”
“What an obstinate fellow you are. I tell you Buckingham has hired all the houses surrounding the one which the queen dowager of England and the princess her daughter will inhabit.”
“What a stubborn guy you are. I'm telling you, Buckingham has rented all the houses around the one where the queen dowager of England and her daughter, the princess, will stay.”
“He is singular enough, indeed,” said De Wardes, caressing his horse’s neck.
“He is pretty unique, for sure,” said De Wardes, stroking his horse’s neck.
“Such is the case, however, monsieur.”
“That's how it is, however, sir.”
“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 discussion the night had closed in, and the torches, pages, attendants, 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. Amidst all this hesitation of purpose, Bragelonne, as though a perfect stranger to the scene, remained on his horse somewhat in the rear of Guiche, and watched the rays of light reflected on the water, inhaling with rapture the sea breezes, and listening to the waves which noisily broke upon the shore and on the beach, tossing the spray into the air with a noise that echoed in the distance. “But,” exclaimed De Guiche, “what is Buckingham’s motive for providing such a supply of lodgings?”
“Are you really sure about that, Monsieur de Manicamp?” As he asked this, he glanced slyly at De Guiche, as if to gauge how much trust he should place in his friend’s state of mind. During this conversation, night had fallen, and the torches, pages, attendants, squires, horses, and carriages crowded the gate and the open area; the torches reflected in the channel, which the rising tide was gradually filling, while on the other side of the jetty, groups of curious onlookers—sailors and townspeople—could be seen, eager not to miss any part of the spectacle. Amidst all this uncertainty, Bragelonne, as if he were a complete stranger to the situation, remained on his horse a bit behind Guiche, watching the beams of light dancing on the water, breathing in the fresh sea air, and listening to the waves crashing noisily on the shore and beach, sending spray flying into the air with a sound that echoed in the distance. “But,” De Guiche exclaimed, “what’s Buckingham’s reason for providing so many lodgings?”
“Yes, yes,” said De Wardes; “what reason has he?”
“Yes, yes,” De Wardes said. “What reason does he have?”
“A very excellent one,” replied Manicamp.
“A really excellent one,” replied Manicamp.
“You know what it is, then?”
“You know what it is, right?”
“I fancy I do.”
"I think I do."
“Tell us, then.”
"Go ahead, tell us."
“Bend your head down towards me.”
“Lower your head down towards me.”
“What! may it not be spoken except in private?”
“What! Can it only be said in private?”
“You shall judge of that yourself.”
"You should decide that for yourself."
“Very well.” De Guiche bent down.
“Okay.” De Guiche leaned down.
“Love,” said Manicamp.
“Love,” said Manicamp.
“I do not understand you at all.”
“I don’t get you at all.”
“Say rather, you cannot understand me yet.”
"Let's just say you don't understand me yet."
“Explain yourself.”
"Explain yourself."
“Very well; it is quite certain, count, that his royal highness will be the most unfortunate of husbands.”
“Alright; it's pretty clear, Count, that his royal highness will be the most unfortunate husband.”
“What do you mean?”
"What do you mean by that?"
“The Duke of Buckingham—”
“The Duke of Buckingham—”
“It is a name of ill omen to the princes of the house of France.”
“It is a name with a bad reputation among the 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 her but himself.”
“And so the duke is crazily in love with Madame, or so the rumor goes, and he won’t let anyone get close to her except himself.”
De Guiche colored. “Thank you, thank you,” said he to Manicamp, grasping his hand. Then, recovering himself, added, “Whatever you do, Manicamp, be careful that this project of Buckingham’s is not made known to any Frenchman here; for, if so, many a sword would be unsheathed in this country that does not fear English steel.”
De Guiche blushed. “Thank you, thank you,” he said to Manicamp, shaking his hand. Then, regaining his composure, he added, “Whatever you do, Manicamp, make sure that Buckingham’s plan doesn’t get revealed to any Frenchman here; because if it does, many swords would be drawn in this country that doesn’t fear English steel.”
“But after all,” said Manicamp, “I have had no satisfactory proof given me of the love in question, and it may be no more than an idle tale.”
“But after all,” said Manicamp, “I haven't been given any solid proof of the love in question, and it might just be an empty story.”
“No, no,” said De Guiche, “it must be the truth;” and despite his command over himself, he clenched his teeth.
“No, no,” De Guiche said, “it has to be the truth;” and even though he was trying to stay calm, he gritted 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 princess.”
“Well,” said Manicamp, “anyway, what does it matter to you? What does it matter to me if the prince is going to be like the late king? Buckingham the father for the queen, Buckingham the son for the princess.”
“Manicamp! Manicamp!”
“Manicamp! Manicamp!”
“It is a fact, or at least, everybody says so.”
“It’s a fact, or at least, that’s what everyone says.”
“Silence!” cried the count.
"Silence!" yelled 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?”
“But why the silence?” De Wardes asked. “This is a really good thing for the French nation. Don’t you agree with me, Monsieur de Bragelonne?”
“To what circumstance do you allude?” inquired De Bragelonne with an abstracted air.
“To what situation are you referring?” De Bragelonne asked, looking lost in thought.
“That the English should render homage to the beauty of our queens and our princesses.”
“That the English should pay tribute 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.”
“Sorry, but I haven’t been keeping up with what’s happened; could you please explain it to me?”
“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 this.”
“There’s no doubt it was important for Buckingham the father to come to Paris so that King Louis XIII could see that his wife was one of the most beautiful women at the French court; and it seems necessary now for Buckingham the son to honor, through his devoted admiration, the beauty of a princess who has French blood. The fact that he’s inspired a passion across the Channel will now give a title to this beauty.”
“Sir,” replied De Bragelonne, “I do not like to hear such matters treated so lightly. Gentlemen like ourselves should be careful guardians of the honor of our queens and our princesses. If we jest at them, what will our servants do?”
“Sir,” replied De Bragelonne, “I don’t like hearing such things treated so casually. Gentlemen like us should be careful protectors of the honor of our queens and princesses. If we make jokes about them, what will our servants do?”
“How am I to understand that?” said De Wardes, whose ears tingled at the remark.
“How am I supposed to understand that?” said De Wardes, whose ears tingled at the comment.
“In any way you chose, monsieur,” replied De Bragelonne, coldly.
“In any way you want, sir,” replied De Bragelonne, coldly.
“Bragelonne, Bragelonne,” murmured De Guiche.
“Bragelonne, Bragelonne,” whispered De Guiche.
“M. de Wardes,” exclaimed Manicamp, noticing that the young man had spurred his horse close to the side of Raoul.
“M. de Wardes,” exclaimed Manicamp, noticing that the young man had spurred his horse close to the side of Raoul.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said De Guiche, “do not set such an example in public, in the street too. De Wardes, you are wrong.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said De Guiche, “please don’t set such an example in public, especially not in the street. De Wardes, you’re mistaken.”
“Wrong; in what way, may I ask you?”
“Wrong; in what way, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“You are wrong, monsieur, because you are always speaking ill of someone or something,” replied Raoul, with undisturbed composure.
“You're mistaken, sir, because you're constantly criticizing someone or something,” Raoul replied, completely unfazed.
“Be indulgent, Raoul,” said De Guiche, in an undertone.
“Be a little flexible, Raoul,” said De Guiche, in a low voice.
“Pray do not think of fighting, gentlemen!” said Manicamp, “before you have rested yourselves; for in that case you will not be able to do much.”
“Please don’t think about fighting, gentlemen!” said Manicamp, “before you’ve had a chance to rest; otherwise, you won’t be able to do much.”
“Come,” said De Guiche, “forward, gentlemen!” and breaking through the horses and attendants, he cleared the way for himself towards the center of the square, through the crowd, followed by the whole cavalcade. A large gateway looking out upon a courtyard was open; Guiche entered the courtyard, and Bragelonne, 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 the opinion that the right of priority should be respected, while De Wardes suggested that the town should be sacked. This latter proposition appearing to Manicamp rather premature, he proposed instead that they should first rest themselves. This was the wisest thing to do, but, unhappily, to follow his advice, two things were wanting; namely, a house and beds. De Guiche reflected for awhile, and then said aloud, “Let him who loves me, follow me!”
“Come on,” said De Guiche, “let’s go, gentlemen!” and pushing through the horses and attendants, he made his way to the center of the square, leading the entire group. A large gateway that led to a courtyard was open; Guiche entered the courtyard, followed by Bragelonne, De Wardes, Manicamp, and three or four other gentlemen. They held a sort of war council, discussing how to maintain the dignity of the embassy. Bragelonne believed they should respect the right of priority, while De Wardes suggested they sack the town. Manicamp thought that idea was a bit hasty and instead proposed they first take a break. This was the smartest approach, but unfortunately, two things were missing to follow his suggestion: a house and beds. De Guiche thought for a moment and then said loudly, “Let anyone who loves me, follow me!”
“The attendants also?” inquired a page who had approached the group.
“The attendants too?” asked a page who had come up to the group.
“Every one,” exclaimed the impetuous young man. “Manicamp, show us the way to the house destined for her royal highness’s residence.”
“Everyone,” exclaimed the impulsive young man. “Manicamp, show us the way to the house meant for her royal highness’s 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 that project with which they were yet unacquainted. The wind was blowing strongly from the harbor, and moaning in fitful gusts.
Without understanding the count's plan at all, his friends followed him, joined by a crowd of people whose cheers and excitement felt like a good sign for the success of a project they knew nothing about. The wind was blowing hard from the harbor, moaning in sporadic gusts.
Chapter IX. At Sea.
The following day was somewhat calmer, although the gale still continued. The sun had, however, risen through a bank of orange clouds, tingeing with its cheerful rays the crests of the black waves. Watch was impatiently kept from the different look-outs. Towards eleven o’clock in the morning a ship, with sails full set, was signalled 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 direction and then in another. The English fleet was soon recognized by the line 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 next day was a bit calmer, even though the strong winds were still blowing. The sun had risen through a layer of orange clouds, casting its bright rays on the tops of the dark waves. The crew was anxiously watching from different lookout points. Around eleven in the morning, a ship with its sails fully deployed was spotted; two more followed behind it at about half a knot's distance. They moved through the water like arrows shot from a skilled archer, but the high seas made their speed seem trivial compared to the rolling waves that tossed the vessels in every direction. The English fleet was quickly identified by the arrangement of the ships and the colors of their flags; the one carrying the princess and the admiral's flag led the way.
The rumor now spread 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 afterwards, the other vessels had overtaken the flagship, and the three, not venturing perhaps to enter the narrow entrance of the harbor, cast anchor between Le Havre and La Heve. When the maneuver had been completed, the vessel which bore the admiral saluted France by twelve discharges of cannon, which were returned, discharge for discharge, from Fort Francis I. Immediately afterwards a hundred boats were launched; they were covered with the richest stuffs, and destined for the conveyance of the different members of the French nobility towards 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 was readily 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, notwithstanding the wind and the sea, was getting ready to leave the harbor, for the purpose of placing itself at the admiral’s disposal.
The rumor spread that the princess was coming. Everyone at the French court rushed to the harbor, and soon the docks were packed with people. Two hours later, the other ships caught up to the flagship, and the three, perhaps hesitant to navigate the narrow entrance of the harbor, dropped anchor between Le Havre and La Heve. Once this was done, the ship carrying the admiral saluted France with twelve cannon shots, which were echoed back, shot for shot, from Fort Francis I. Shortly after, a hundred boats were launched; they were adorned with the finest fabrics and meant to take various members of the French nobility to the anchored vessels. But when it became clear that even within the harbor the boats were being tossed around, and that outside the jetty the waves were towering high and crashing onto the shore with a deafening roar, it was generally thought that none of those fragile boats could safely make it a quarter of the way to the ships. However, a pilot boat was still getting ready to leave the harbor, despite the wind and the rough sea, intending to make itself available to the admiral.
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 Raoul: “Do you not think, Raoul, that intelligent and vigorous men, as we are, ought to be ashamed to retreat before the brute strength of wind and waves?”
De Guiche, who had been searching among the various boats for one that was stronger than the others, which might provide a chance to reach the English ships, saw the pilot boat preparing to leave and said to Raoul: “Don’t you think, Raoul, that smart and strong men like us should be embarrassed to back down in the face of the raw power of wind and waves?”
“That is precisely the very reflection I was silently making to myself,” replied Bragelonne.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking to myself,” replied Bragelonne.
“Shall we get into that boat, then, and push off? Will you come, De Wardes?”
“Should we get into that boat then and push off? Will you join us, De Wardes?”
“Take care, or you will get drowned,” said Manicamp.
“Be careful, or you’ll get drowned,” said Manicamp.
“And for no purpose,” said De Wardes, “for with the wind in your teeth, as it will be, you will never reach the vessels.”
“And for no reason,” said De Wardes, “with the wind in your face, as it will be, you’ll never reach the ships.”
“You refuse, then?”
"Are you refusing, then?"
“Assuredly I do; I would willingly risk and lose my life in an encounter against men,” he said, glancing at Bragelonne, “but as to fighting with oars against waves, I have no taste for that.”
“Of course I do; I'd gladly put my life on the line in a fight against men,” he said, looking at Bragelonne, “but I have no interest in battling the waves with oars.”
“And for myself,” said Manicamp, “even were I to succeed in reaching the ships, I should not be indifferent to the loss of the only good dress which I have left,—salt water would spoil it.”
“And for myself,” said Manicamp, “even if I manage to get to the ships, I wouldn’t be okay with losing the only nice outfit I have left—saltwater would ruin it.”
“You, then, refuse also?” exclaimed De Guiche.
“You're refusing too?” De Guiche exclaimed.
“Decidedly I do; I beg you to understand that most distinctly.”
“Absolutely I do; I really need you to understand that clearly.”
“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.”
“But,” De Guiche exclaimed, “look, De Wardes—look, Manicamp—look over there, the princesses are watching us from the back of the admiral’s ship.”
“An additional reason, my dear fellow, why we should not make ourselves ridiculous by being drowned while they are looking on.”
“Another reason, my friend, why we shouldn't make fools of ourselves by drowning while they're watching.”
“Is that your last word, Manicamp?”
“Is that your final word, Manicamp?”
“Yes.”
“Sure.”
“And then yours, De Wardes?”
“What's yours, De Wardes?”
“Yes.”
“Yep.”
“Then I go alone.”
“Then I’ll go alone.”
“Not so,” said Raoul, “for I shall accompany you; I thought it was understood I should do so.”
“Not at all,” said Raoul, “because I’m going with you; I thought it was clear that I would.”
The fact is, that Raoul, uninfluenced by devotion, measuring the risk they run, saw how imminent the danger was, but he willingly allowed himself to accept a peril which De Wardes had declined.
The truth is, Raoul, without any sense of loyalty, assessing the risk they faced, recognized how close the danger was, yet he willingly chose to take on a risk that De Wardes had rejected.
The boat was about to set off 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.
The boat was about to leave when De Guiche called to the pilot. “Wait,” he said, “we need two spots in your boat;” and wrapping five or six pistoles in paper, he tossed them from the dock into the boat.
“It seems you are not afraid of salt water, young gentlemen.”
“It looks like you're not afraid of salt water, young gentlemen.”
“We are afraid of nothing,” replied De Guiche.
“We’re afraid of nothing,” replied De Guiche.
“Come along, then.”
"Let's go, 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; the whole population of Le Havre hurried towards the jetties and every look was directed towards the little bark; at one moment it flew suspended on the crest of the foaming waves, then suddenly glided downwards towards the bottom of a raging abyss, where it seemed utterly lost. 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 dispatched towards their aid. Upon the quarter-deck of the flagship, sheltered by a canopy of velvet and ermine, which was suspended by stout supports, Henriette, 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 tossed to the heavens, and the next buried beneath the waves, and against whose dark sail the noble figures of the two French gentlemen stood forth in relief like two luminous apparitions. The crew, leaning against the bulwarks and clinging 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 princess. Respect, 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?” Madame Henriette, 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 M. de Guiche, his favorite.” The princess, at this reply, was constrained to check an instinctive tenderness of feeling which the courage displayed 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 towards 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 betokening royal descent, seemed to thank and to encourage him at one and the same time, than he was, for a moment, so overcome, that, had it not been for Raoul, on whose arm he leant, 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 mission, explained in what way he had become 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 princess.
The pilot pulled up alongside the boat, and the two young men, one after the other, jumped in with enthusiasm. “Courage, my friends,” said De Guiche; “I have twenty pistoles left in this purse, and as soon as we reach the admiral’s ship, they’ll be yours.” The sailors dug in with their oars, and the boat surged over the tops of the waves. Everyone was invested in this risky venture; all of Le Havre rushed to the jetties, eyes fixed on the small vessel. At one moment, it soared on the crest of the frothy waves, then suddenly plunged down into a raging abyss, looking completely lost. After an hour of battling the waves, it finally reached the spot where the admiral’s ship was anchored, from which two boats had already been sent to assist. On the flagship’s quarter-deck, sheltered by a canopy of velvet and ermine held up by sturdy supports, Queen Dowager Henriette and the young princess, along with the admiral and the Duke of Norfolk standing beside them, watched nervously as the fragile boat was tossed high into the air and then submerged beneath the waves, with the noble figures of the two French gentlemen outlined against its dark sail like bright apparitions. The crew, leaning against the sides and gripping the rigging, cheered on the bravery of the two daring young men, the pilot's skill, and the sailors' strength. They were welcomed aboard with a triumphant shout. The Duke of Norfolk, a handsome young man around twenty-six to twenty-eight years old, came forward to greet them. De Guiche and Bragelonne quickly climbed the ladder on the starboard side, and with the Duke of Norfolk leading the way, they approached to pay their respects to the princess. De Guiche had been held back from looking at Madame closely due to a mix of respect and an unexplainable apprehension, but she had noticed him right away and had asked her mother, “Isn’t that Monsieur in the boat over there?” Madame Henriette, who was more familiar with Monsieur than her daughter was, smiled at the misunderstanding her daughter’s vanity had caused and replied, “No; it’s just M. de Guiche, his favorite.” The princess had to suppress an instant touch of emotion sparked by the count’s bravery upon hearing this response. Just when she asked her mother that question, De Guiche finally found the courage to look at her and was able to compare the real person with the portrait he had seen recently. As soon as he took in her pale face, her bright eyes, her beautiful chestnut hair, her expressive lips, and her gestures that both showed her royal lineage and seemed to thank and encourage him at the same time, he was momentarily so overwhelmed that he would have fallen if he hadn’t been leaning on Raoul’s arm. His friend’s surprised expression and the queen’s encouraging gesture brought De Guiche back to his senses. He quickly explained his mission, how he had become an envoy of his royal highness, and addressed the admiral and several of the English noblemen gathered around the princess according to their rank and the reception he received.
Raoul was then presented, and was most graciously received; 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 negotiation of the marriage, by means of which the granddaughter 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 remarkable 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 impatience, said, “It is now time 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 extended to her, with an eagerness which arose from a variety of motives, when the admiral intervened 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 before sunset, and the landing will not be effected, therefore, until this evening.”
Raoul was then introduced and received warmly; everyone knew about the Comte de la Fere's role in restoring Charles II. Moreover, it was the comte who had been tasked with negotiating the marriage that brought the granddaughter of Henry IV. back to France. Raoul spoke perfect English and acted as his friend’s interpreter for the young English nobles, who had only a basic understanding of French. At that moment, a strikingly handsome young man came forward, dressed in an extravagant outfit. He approached the princesses, who were chatting with the Duke of Norfolk, and, with a voice that barely hid his impatience, said, “It’s time to disembark, your royal highness.” The younger princess stood up at this remark and was about to take the hand the young nobleman offered her, eager for several reasons, when the admiral stepped in between them, saying, “A moment, if you please, my lord; the ladies can’t disembark right now, the sea is too rough. The wind might calm down before sunset, so landing won’t happen 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 ambassadors;” and at the same moment he indicated Raoul and Guiche, whom he saluted.
“Let me point out, my lord,” Buckingham said, with an irritation he didn't try to hide, “you are holding these ladies, and you have no right to do that. One of them, unfortunately, now belongs to France, and you can see that France is claiming them through her ambassadors;” and at that moment he nodded to Raoul and Guiche, whom he acknowledged.
“I cannot suppose that these gentlemen intend to expose the lives of their royal highnesses,” replied the admiral.
“I can’t believe that these guys plan to put their royal highnesses’ lives at risk,” replied the admiral.
“These gentlemen,” retorted Buckingham, “arrived here safely, notwithstanding the wind; allow me to believe that the danger will not be greater for their royal highnesses when the wind will be in their favor.”
“These guys,” replied Buckingham, “made it here safely despite the wind; let me think that the risk won’t be greater for their royal highnesses when the wind is on their side.”
“These envoys 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 brave the sea, which is very tempestuous to-day, even for sailors. These gentlemen, however, whom I recommend as an example for my officers to follow, can hardly be so for these ladies.”
“These envoys have really shown how brave they are,” said the admiral. “You might have noticed that there were a lot of people on shore who did not dare to join them. Besides, their eagerness to show their respect to Madame and her distinguished mother as quickly as possible drove them to take on the sea, which is quite rough today, even for experienced sailors. However, these gentlemen, whom I encourage my officers to look up to, might not be quite the same role models 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 Norfolk, of whom he was evidently very jealous; he 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.”
Madame glanced at the Comte de Guiche and noticed that his face was flushed with embarrassment. This observation went unnoticed by Buckingham, who was focused solely on Norfolk, clearly feeling very jealous. He seemed eager to get the princesses off the deck of a ship where the admiral held all the power. “In that case,” Buckingham replied, “I appeal to Madame herself.”
“And I, my lord,” retorted the admiral, “I appeal to my own conscience, and to my own sense of responsibility. I have undertaken to convey Madame safe and sound to France, and I shall keep my promise.”
“And I, my lord,” replied the admiral, “I trust my own conscience and my own sense of responsibility. I’ve committed to bringing Madame safely to France, and I will honor my promise.”
“But, sir—” continued Buckingham.
“But, sir—” Buckingham persisted.
“My lord, permit me to remind you that I command here.”
“My lord, let me remind you that I am in charge here.”
“Are you aware what you are saying, my lord?” replied Buckingham, haughtily.
“Do you realize what you're saying, my lord?” replied Buckingham, arrogantly.
“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. Raoul observed its effect upon Buckingham, who trembled with anger 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 towards the hilt of his sword.
“Exactly; I’ll say it again: I’m the one in charge here, and everyone obeys me; the sea and the winds, the ships, and the crew too.” This was said in a commanding and dignified way. Raoul noticed how it affected Buckingham, who shook with rage from head to toe and leaned against one of the tent poles to keep from collapsing; his eyes were filled with blood, and the hand that wasn’t used for support moved 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 still 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.”
“My lord,” said the queen, “let me point out that I completely agree with the Duke of Norfolk. Even if the skies weren't so overcast and were clear and favorable, we could still take some time to honor the officer who has brought us to the French coast so successfully and attentively, where he will bid us farewell.”
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, having been occupied in watching the Comte de Guiche, who was conversing with Raoul. This was a fresh misfortune for Buckingham, who fancied he perceived in Madame Henrietta’s look a deeper feeling than that of curiosity. He withdrew, almost tottering in his gait, and nearly stumbled against the mainmast of the ship.
Buckingham, instead of responding, seemed to look for guidance in Madame’s expression. However, she, partially hidden behind the heavy velvet and gold curtains that surrounded her, hadn’t paid attention to the conversation, as she was busy watching the Comte de Guiche talk with Raoul. This added to Buckingham's troubles, as he thought he noticed a more profound emotion in Madame Henrietta’s gaze than mere curiosity. He walked away, nearly unsteady on his feet, and almost tripped over the ship's mainmast.
“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 duke hasn't found his footing yet,” said the queen-mother, in French, “and that might be why he wants to be on solid ground again.”
The young man overheard this remark, turned suddenly pale, and, letting his hands fall in great discouragement by his 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 his sovereign, to a position inferior to that which, by rank, he was entitled to. De Guiche, on the other hand, paler still perhaps from happiness, than his rival was from anger, seated himself tremblingly next to 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, Buckingham darted forward to hand Madame Henrietta from the table; but this time it was De Guiche’s turn to give the duke a lesson. “Have the goodness, my lord, from this moment,” said he, “not to interpose between her royal highness and myself. From this moment, indeed, her royal highness belongs to France, and when she deigns to honor me by touching my hand it is the hand of Monsieur, the brother of the king of France, she touches.”
The young man overheard this comment, turned suddenly pale, and, letting his hands fall in disappointment by his side, stepped aside, mixing together his old feelings and his new resentments in one sigh. The admiral, however, not paying any more attention to the duke’s bad mood, led the princesses into the quarters on the deck, where dinner had been served with grandeur worthy of his guests. The admiral sat to the right of the princess and placed the Comte de Guiche on her left. This was the spot Buckingham usually occupied; and when he entered the cabin, he felt deeply unhappy to find himself pushed away by etiquette from the presence of his sovereign, to a position beneath what his rank entitled him to. De Guiche, on the other hand, perhaps even paler from joy than Buckingham was from anger, nervously took his seat next to the princess, whose silken robe lightly brushed against him, sending a shiver of mixed regret and happiness through his whole body. After the meal, Buckingham quickly moved to help Madame Henrietta from the table; but this time it was De Guiche’s chance to teach the duke a lesson. “Please, my lord, from now on,” he said, “do not stand between her royal highness and me. From now on, her royal highness belongs to France, and when she honors me by touching my hand, it is the hand of Monsieur, the brother of the king of France, that she touches.”
And saying this, he presented his hand to Madame Henrietta with such marked deference, and at the same time with a nobleness of mien so intrepid, that a murmur of admiration rose from the English, whilst a groan of despair escaped from Buckingham’s lips. Raoul, who loved, comprehended it all. He fixed upon his friend one of those profound looks which a bosom friend or mother can alone extend, either as protector or guardian, over the one who is about to stray from the right path. Towards two o’clock in the afternoon the sun shone forth anew, the wind subsided, the sea became smooth as a crystal mirror, and the fog, which had shrouded the coast, disappeared like a veil withdrawn before it. The smiling hills of France appeared in full view, with their numerous white houses rendered more conspicuous by the bright green of the trees or the clear blue sky.
And saying this, he offered his hand to Madame Henrietta with such clear respect, and at the same time with a confidence so bold, that a murmur of admiration arose from the English, while a groan of despair escaped from Buckingham's lips. Raoul, who was in love, understood it all. He cast one of those deep looks that only a close friend or a mother can give, either as protector or guardian, to someone who is about to wander off the right path. Around two o'clock in the afternoon, the sun shone brightly again, the wind calmed down, the sea became as smooth as a crystal mirror, and the fog that had covered the coast vanished like a veil being lifted. The smiling hills of France came into full view, with their many white houses made even more noticeable by the bright green of the trees and the clear blue sky.
Chapter X. The Tents.
The admiral, as we have seen, was determined to pay no further attention to Buckingham’s threatening glances and fits of passion. In fact, from the moment they quitted England, he had gradually accustomed himself to his behavior. 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 everywhere 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 insolent Duke of Norfolk is killing me with his attentions and devotions to you?”
The admiral, as we've seen, was determined to ignore Buckingham's threatening looks and outbursts. In fact, from the moment they left England, he had slowly gotten used to his behavior. De Guiche hadn't yet noticed the hostility that seemed to affect that young nobleman towards him, but he instinctively felt there was no connection between him and Charles II's favorite. The queen mother, with more experience and a clearer mind, understood the situation and, recognizing its potential danger, was ready to confront it whenever the right moment came. Calm had been restored everywhere except in Buckingham's heart; in his impatience, he spoke to the princess in a low voice: “For heaven's sake, madame, I urge you to speed up your disembarkation. Don't you see how that arrogant Duke of Norfolk is driving me crazy with his attention and admiration for you?”
Henrietta heard this remark; she smiled, and without turning her head towards him, but giving only to the tone of her voice that inflection of gentle reproach, and languid impertinence, which women and princesses so well know how to assume, she murmured, “I have already hinted, my lord, that you must have taken leave of your senses.”
Henrietta heard this comment; she smiled and, without looking at him, added just the right tone of gentle reproach and lazy indifference that women and princesses know how to do so well. She murmured, “I’ve already hinted, my lord, that you must have lost your mind.”
Not a single detail escaped Raoul’s attention; he heard both Buckingham’s entreaty and the princess’s reply; he remarked Buckingham retire, heard his deep sigh, and saw him pass a hand over his face. He understood everything, and trembled as he reflected on the position of affairs, and the state of the minds of those about him. At last the admiral, with studied delay, gave the last orders for the departure of the boats. Buckingham heard the directions given with such an exhibition of delight that a stranger would really imagine the young man’s reason was affected. As the Duke of Norfolk gave his commands, a large boat or barge, decked with flags, and capable of holding about twenty rowers and fifteen passengers, 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, ornamentation was by no means forgotten in these political pageants. No sooner was this really royal 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. His progress was, however, arrested by the queen. “My lord,” she said, “it is hardly becoming that you should allow my daughter and myself to land without having previously ascertained that our apartments are properly prepared. I beg your lordship to be good enough to precede us ashore, and to give directions that everything be in proper order on our arrival.”
Not a single detail slipped past Raoul; he heard both Buckingham's plea and the princess's response. He noticed Buckingham step back, heard his deep sigh, and saw him run a hand over his face. He understood everything and shivered as he contemplated the situation and the mindset of those around him. Finally, the admiral, taking his time, gave the final orders for the boats to depart. Buckingham listened to the instructions with such joy that anyone unfamiliar with him might think he had lost his mind. As the Duke of Norfolk issued his commands, a large barge, adorned with flags and able to hold about twenty rowers and fifteen passengers, was slowly lowered from the side of the admiral's ship. The barge was lined with velvet and decorated with covers embroidered with the arms of England and garlands of flowers; at that time, decorations were certainly not overlooked in these political displays. No sooner was this genuinely royal boat in the water, with the rowers holding their oars up like soldiers presenting arms, waiting for the princess to board, than Buckingham rushed to the ladder to take his place. However, he was stopped by the queen. “My lord,” she said, “it doesn't look good to let my daughter and me get off without first checking that our rooms are ready. Please go ahead and make sure everything is in order by the time we arrive.”
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 fortune still reserved for him. The 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.
This was another fresh disappointment for the duke, even more so because it was so unexpected. He hesitated, flushed with embarrassment, but couldn’t respond. He had hoped to stay close to Madame during the trip to the shore and, in doing so, enjoy every last moment of the brief time fortune still had in store for him. However, the order was clear; and the admiral, who heard it given, immediately shouted, “Launch the ship’s gig.” His orders were carried out with the swift precision that defines every maneuver on a warship.
Buckingham, in utter hopelessness, cast a look of despair at the princess, of supplication towards the queen, and directed a glance full of anger towards the admiral. The princess pretended not to notice him, while the queen turned aside her head, and the admiral laughed outright, 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.”
Buckingham, utterly hopeless, shot a desperate look at the princess, a pleading glance towards the queen, and an infuriated stare at the admiral. The princess acted as if she didn’t see him, while the queen turned her head away, and the admiral laughed openly, making Buckingham look like he was about to jump at him. The queen-mother stood up and said with authority, “Please leave, sir.”
The young duke hesitated, looked around him, and with a last effort, half-choked by contending emotions, said, “And you, gentlemen, M. de Guiche and M. de Bragelonne, do not you accompany me?”
The young duke hesitated, looked around, and with one last push, almost overwhelmed by his conflicting feelings, said, “And you, gentlemen, M. de Guiche and M. de Bragelonne, aren’t you coming with me?”
De Guiche bowed and said, “Both M. de Bragelonne and myself await her majesty’s orders; whatever the commands she imposes on us, we shall obey them.” Saying this, he looked towards the princess, who cast down her eyes.
De Guiche bowed and said, “Both M. de Bragelonne and I are waiting for her majesty’s orders; whatever she tells us to do, we will follow.” After saying this, he glanced at the princess, who lowered her gaze.
“Your grace will remember,” said the queen, “that M. 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 a terrible stress of weather.”
“Your grace will remember,” said the queen, “that M. de Guiche is here to represent Monsieur; he will take care of the honors for France, just as you have for England; we can't do without his presence; also, we owe him this small favor for the bravery he showed by coming to see 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 syllable escaped them, and turning away, as though out of his mind, he leapt 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.
Buckingham opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, but whether he couldn't find the right words or just lost his train of thought, not a sound came out. He turned away, as if he were off in another world, and jumped from the ship into the boat. The sailors barely caught him in time to steady themselves; his weight and the sudden movement nearly tipped the boat over.
“His grace cannot be in his senses,” said the admiral aloud to Raoul.
“His grace must not be in his right mind,” the admiral said loudly to Raoul.
“I am uneasy on the Duke’s account,” replied Bragelonne.
“I’m worried about the Duke,” replied Bragelonne.
While the boat was advancing towards the shore, the duke kept his eyes immovably fixed on the admiral’s ship, like a miser torn away from his coffers, or a mother separated from her child, about to be lead away to death. No one, however, acknowledged his signals, his frowns, or his pitiful gestures. In very anguish of mind, he sank down in the boat, burying his hands in his hair, whilst the boat, impelled by the exertions of the merry 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 had strength to ask his way. Having once, however, reached the house which had been set apart for him, he shut himself up, like Achilles in his tent. The barge bearing the princess quitted the admiral’s vessel at the very moment Buckingham landed. It was followed by another boat filled with officers, courtiers, and zealous friends. Great numbers of the inhabitants of Le Havre, having embarked in fishing-cobles and boats of every description, set off to meet the royal barge. The cannon from the forts fired salutes, which were returned by the flagship and the two other vessels, and the flashes from the open mouths of the cannon floated in white fumes over the waves, and disappeared in the clear blue sky.
While the boat was heading towards the shore, the duke kept his gaze fixed on the admiral’s ship, like a miser pulled away from his gold or a mother separated from her child, about to face a terrible fate. Nobody acknowledged his signals, his scowls, or his desperate gestures. In sheer anguish, he sank back in the boat, burying his hands in his hair, while the cheerful sailors propelled the boat over the waves. When he finally arrived, he was in such a state of numbness that, if it hadn’t been for the messenger he had sent ahead, he would barely have had the strength to ask for directions. However, once he reached the house that was set aside for him, he shut himself in, like Achilles in his tent. The barge carrying the princess left the admiral’s ship just as Buckingham landed, followed by another boat filled with officers, courtiers, and eager friends. Many residents of Le Havre climbed aboard fishing boats and various small vessels to greet the royal barge. The cannons from the forts fired salutes, which were returned by the flagship and the two other ships, sending bursts of smoke from the cannon that floated over the waves and disappeared into the clear blue sky.
The princess landed at the decorated 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 town, and treading beneath her delicate feet the richest carpets and the gayest flowers, which had been strewn upon the ground, De Guiche and Raoul, escaping from their English friends, hurried through the town and hastened rapidly towards the place intended for the residence of Madame.
The princess arrived at the beautifully decorated dock. Cheerful music welcomed her and followed her with every step. As she walked through the town, stepping on the finest carpets and vibrant flowers that had been scattered on the ground, De Guiche and Raoul, eager to get away from their English friends, rushed through the town towards Madame's residence.
“Let us hurry forward,” said Raoul to De Guiche, “for if I read Buckingham’s character aright, he will create some disturbance, when he learns the result of our deliberations of yesterday.”
“Let’s move quickly,” Raoul said to De Guiche, “because if I understand Buckingham’s character correctly, he’s going to cause some trouble when he finds out the outcome of our meeting yesterday.”
“Never fear,” said De Guiche, “De Wardes is there, who is determination itself, while Manicamp is the very personification of the artless gentleness.”
“Don’t worry,” said De Guiche, “De Wardes is here, who is determination personified, while Manicamp is the perfect example of innocent kindness.”
De Guiche was not, however, the less diligent on that account, and five minutes afterwards they were within sight of the Hotel de Ville. The first thing which struck them was the number of people assembled in the square. “Excellent,” said De Guiche; “our apartments, I see, are prepared.”
De Guiche was still just as diligent, and five minutes later, they could see the City Hall. The first thing that caught their attention was the large crowd gathered in the square. “Great,” said De Guiche; “I see our rooms are ready.”
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, 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 during the night-time. Fitted up, within and without, with the richest materials that De Guiche had been able to procure in Le 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 guarded by two tents, resembling two pavilions, the doorways of both of which opened towards the entrance. These two tents were destined for De Guiche and Raoul; in whose absence they were intended to be occupied, that of De Guiche by De Wardes, and that of Raoul by Manicamp. Surrounding these two tents, and the six others, a hundred officers, gentlemen, and pages, dazzling in their display of silk and gold, thronged like bees buzzing about 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 leaders of the embassy.
In front of the City Hall, in the large open space ahead of it, eight tents had been set up, topped with the flags of France and England together. The hotel was surrounded by tents, creating a colorful border; ten pages and a dozen mounted soldiers stood guard in front of them. It had a strangely enchanting effect, almost like a fairy tale. These tents had been assembled during the night. Decorated inside and out with the finest materials that De Guiche had managed to gather in Le Havre, they completely surrounded the City Hall. The only passage leading up to the steps of the hotel that wasn't enclosed by the silk barriers was guarded by two tents, resembling pavilions, with doorways facing the entrance. These two tents were meant for De Guiche and Raoul; in their absence, De Wardes would occupy De Guiche's tent, and Manicamp would take Raoul's. Surrounding these two tents and the six others were a hundred officers, gentlemen, and pages, dazzling in their silk and gold outfits, buzzing like bees around a hive. Each of them, with their swords at their sides, was ready to respond to any signal from De Guiche or Bragelonne, the 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 perceived, crossing the square at full gallop, a young man on horseback, whose costume was of surprising richness. He pushed hastily thorough 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 Hotel de Ville. At the entrance to the tents, the soldiers barred his passage, and his further progress was arrested. Buckingham, hopelessly infuriated, raised his whip; but his arm was seized by a couple of officers. Of the two guardians of the tent, only one was there. De Wardes was in the interior of the Hotel de Ville, engaging in attending to the execution of some orders by De Guiche. At the noise made by Buckingham, Manicamp, who was indolently reclining upon the cushions at the doorway of one of the tents, rose with his usual indifference, and, perceiving that the disturbance continued, made his appearance from underneath the curtains. “What is the matter?” he said, in a gentle tone of voice, “and who is making this disturbance?”
At the moment the two young men showed up at the end of one of the streets leading to the square, they saw a young man on horseback racing across the square, dressed in an unexpectedly lavish outfit. He hurried through the crowd of onlookers, and upon seeing these unexpected displays, he let out a shout of anger and shock. It was Buckingham, who had snapped out of his daze to put on a strikingly beautiful outfit, eagerly waiting for the princess and the queen-mother to arrive at the City Hall. At the entrance to the tents, soldiers blocked his way, stopping him from moving forward. Buckingham, completely furious, raised his whip, but two officers grabbed his arm. Of the two guards at the tent, only one was present. De Wardes was inside the City Hall, busy carrying out some tasks from De Guiche. Hearing the commotion from Buckingham, Manicamp, who was lazily lounging on the cushions at the entrance of one of the tents, got up with his usual apathy, and noticing the ongoing disturbance, stepped out from under the curtains. “What’s going on?” he asked in a calm voice, “and who’s making all this noise?”
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 touch, every one heard his question. Buckingham turned round, and looked at the tall thin figure, and the listless expression of countenance of his questioner. Probably the personal appearance of Manicamp, who was dressed very plainly, did not inspire him with much respect, for he replied disdainfully, “Who may you be, monsieur?”
It just so happened that when he started to speak, silence had just returned. Even though his voice was soft and gentle, everyone heard his question. Buckingham turned around and looked at the tall, thin figure and the indifferent expression on the face of his questioner. Manicamp's plain appearance probably didn’t earn him much respect from Buckingham, who replied dismissively, “Who are you, sir?”
Manicamp, leaning on the arm of a gigantic trooper, as firm as the pillar of a cathedral, replied in his usual tranquil tone of voice,—“And you, monsieur?”
Manicamp, leaning on the arm of a huge soldier, as solid as the pillar of a cathedral, replied in his usual calm tone, “And you, sir?”
“I, monsieur, am the Duke of Buckingham; I have hired all the houses which surround the Hotel 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 Hotel de Ville, you are not justified in preventing me passing to it.”
“I, sir, am the Duke of Buckingham; I have rented all the houses surrounding the City Hall, where I have business to conduct; and since these houses are rented, they belong to me, and since I rented them to ensure my right to access the City Hall, you have no right to stop me from going there.”
“But who prevents you passing, monsieur?” inquired Manicamp.
“But who’s stopping you from going through, sir?” Manicamp asked.
“Your sentinels.”
“Your watchers.”
“Because you wish to pass on horseback, and orders have been given to let only persons on foot pass.”
“Since you want to pass on horseback, and the instructions are to allow only those on foot to go through.”
“No one has any right to give orders here, except myself,” said Buckingham.
“No one has the right to give orders here, except for me,” said Buckingham.
“On what grounds?” inquired Manicamp, with his soft tone. “Will you do me the favor to explain this enigma to me?”
“On what basis?” asked Manicamp in a gentle tone. “Could you do me the favor of explaining this mystery to me?”
“Because, as I have already told you, I have hired all the houses looking on the square.”
“Because, as I already told you, I’ve rented all the houses facing the square.”
“We are very well aware of that, since nothing but the square itself has been left for us.”
“We know that very well, since only the square itself is what we have left.”
“You are mistaken, monsieur; the square belongs to me, as well as the houses in it.”
“You're wrong, sir; the square belongs to me, along with the houses in it.”
“Forgive me, monsieur, but you are mistaken there. In our country, we say, the highway belongs to the king, therefore this square is his majesty’s; and, consequently, as we are the king’s ambassadors, the square belongs to us.”
“Forgive me, sir, but you’re mistaken there. In our country, we say the highway belongs to the king, so this square is his majesty’s; therefore, since we are the king’s ambassadors, the square belongs to us.”
“I have already asked you who you are, monsieur,” exclaimed Buckingham, exasperated at the coolness of his interlocutor.
“I’ve already asked you who you are, sir,” Buckingham exclaimed, frustrated by the indifference of the person he was speaking to.
“My name is Manicamp,” replied the young man, in a voice whose tones were as harmonious and sweet as the notes of an Aeolian harp.
“My name is Manicamp,” replied the young man, in a voice whose tones were as harmonious and sweet as the notes of a wind harp.
Buckingham shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and said, “When I hired these houses which surround the Hotel de Ville, the square was unoccupied; these barracks obstruct my sight; I hereby order them to be removed.”
Buckingham shrugged his shoulders dismissively and said, “When I rented these houses around the Hotel de Ville, the square was empty; these barracks block my view; I’m ordering them to be taken down.”
A hoarse and angry murmur ran through the crowd of listeners at these words. De Guiche arrived at this moment; he pushed through the crowd which separated him from Buckingham, and, followed by Raoul, arrived on the scene of action from one side, just as De Wardes came up from the other. “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.”
A rough and angry murmur spread through the crowd of listeners at those words. De Guiche arrived at that moment; he pushed through the crowd that was between him and Buckingham and, followed by Raoul, reached the scene from one side, just as De Wardes approached from the other. “Excuse me, my lord; but if you have any complaints, please direct them to me, since I was the one who provided the plans for building these tents.”
“Moreover, I would beg you to observe, monsieur, that the term ‘barrack’ is a highly objectionable one!” added Manicamp, graciously.
“Moreover, I would like to point out, sir, that the term ‘barrack’ is quite offensive!” added Manicamp, politely.
“You were saying, monsieur—” continued De Guiche.
“You were saying, mister—” continued De Guiche.
“I was saying, monsieur le comte,” resumed Buckingham, in a tone of anger more marked than ever, although in some measure moderated by the presence of an equal, “I was saying that it is impossible these tents can remain where they are.”
“I was saying, Count,” resumed Buckingham, his tone angrier than ever but slightly softened by the presence of an equal, “I was saying that it’s impossible for these tents to stay where they are.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed De Guiche, “and why?”
“No way!” shouted De Guiche, “and why not?”
“Because I object to them.”
"Because I object to that."
A movement of impatience escaped De Guiche, but a warning glance from Raoul restrained him.
A wave of impatience broke from De Guiche, but a warning look from Raoul held him back.
“You should the less object to them, monsieur, on account of the abuse of priority you have permitted yourself to exercise.”
“You shouldn't be too upset about them, sir, because of the unfair advantage you allowed yourself to take.”
“Abuse!”
“Harassment!”
“Most assuredly. You commission a messenger, who hires in your name the whole of the town of Le 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 representative of a friendly nation.”
“Absolutely. You send a messenger to hire the entire town of Le Havre in your name, without considering the members of the French court who would surely come here to meet Madame. Your Grace must agree that this isn’t very friendly behavior for a representative of a friendly nation.”
“The right of possession belongs to him who is first on the ground.”
“The right of possession goes to the one who is first on the scene.”
“Not in France, monsieur.”
“Not in France, sir.”
“Why not in France?”
"Why not in France?"
“Because France is a country where politeness is observed.”
“Because France is a country where people are polite.”
“Which means?” exclaimed Buckingham, in so violent a manner that those who were present drew back, expecting an immediate collision.
“Which means?” Buckingham shouted, so forcefully that everyone there stepped back, anticipating a fight.
“Which means, monsieur,” replied De Guiche, now rather pale, “that I caused these tents to be raised as habitations for myself and my friends, as a shelter for the ambassadors 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 remain in them, at least, until an authority more powerful, and more supreme, than your own shall dismiss me from them.”
“Which means, sir,” replied De Guiche, now looking quite pale, “that I had these tents set up as homes for myself and my friends, as a shelter for the ambassadors of France, as the only place of refuge your demands have left us in town; and that I and those with me will stay in them at least until an authority stronger and higher than yours tells me to leave.”
“In other words, until we are ejected, as the lawyers say,” observed Manicamp, blandly.
“In other words, until we get kicked out, as the lawyers say,” Manicamp observed casually.
“I know an authority, monsieur, which I trust is such as you will respect,” said Buckingham, placing his hand on his sword.
“I know someone in authority, sir, who I trust you will respect,” 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, Raoul gently placed his hand on Buckingham’s shoulder. “One word, my lord,” he said.
At that moment, as the goddess of Discord stirred everyone’s emotions and was about to lead them to fight each other, Raoul softly put his hand on Buckingham’s shoulder. “Just one word, my lord,” he said.
“My right, my right, first of all,” exclaimed the fiery young man.
“My right, my right, first of all,” shouted the passionate young man.
“It is precisely upon that point I wish to have the honor of addressing a word to you.”
“It’s exactly on that point that I want to take a moment to speak to you.”
“Very well, monsieur, but let your remarks be brief.”
“Alright, sir, but please keep your comments short.”
“One question is all I ask; you can hardly expect me to be briefer.”
"All I'm asking is one question; you can't really expect me to be more concise."
“Speak, monsieur, I am listening.”
“Go ahead, I’m listening.”
“Are you, or is the Duke of Orleans, going to marry the granddaughter of Henry IV.?”
“Are you, or is the Duke of Orleans, going to marry Henry IV's granddaughter?”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Buckingham, retreating a few steps, bewildered.
“What do you mean?” Buckingham exclaimed, stepping back a few paces, confused.
“Have the goodness to answer me,” persisted Raoul tranquilly.
“Please be so kind as to answer me,” Raoul continued calmly.
“Do you mean to ridicule me, monsieur?” inquired Buckingham.
“Are you trying to mock me, sir?” Buckingham asked.
“Your question is a sufficient answer for me. You admit, then, that it is not you who are going to marry the princess?”
“Your question answers itself for me. So, you admit that it isn’t you who is going to marry the princess?”
“You know it perfectly well, monsieur, I should imagine.”
“You know it very well, sir, I would think.”
“I beg your pardon, but your conduct has been such as to leave it not altogether certain.”
“I’m sorry, but your behavior has made things a bit unclear.”
“Proceed, monsieur, what do you mean to convey?”
“Go ahead, sir, what do you mean to say?”
Raoul approached the duke. “Are you aware, my lord,” he said, lowering his voice, “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 applies with still greater force, when the lady in question is a princess of the blood royal!”
Raoul went up to the duke. “Are you aware, my lord,” he said, lowering his voice, “that your lavishness closely resembles the extremes of jealousy? These jealous outbursts, concerning any woman, don’t suit someone who is neither her lover nor her husband; and I’m sure you’ll agree that my point is even more relevant when the woman in question is a princess of the royal family!”
“Monsieur,” exclaimed Buckingham, “do you mean to insult Madame Henrietta?”
“Monsieur,” shouted Buckingham, “are you trying 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 exhausted the admiral’s patience. I was observing, my lord; and, at first, I concluded you were not in possession of your senses, but I have since surmised the real significance of your madness.”
“Be careful, my lord,” Bragelonne replied coldly, “because you are the one insulting her. A little while ago, when we were on the admiral’s ship, you tired the queen and wore out the admiral’s patience. I was watching you, my lord; and at first, I thought you weren’t in your right mind, but I’ve come to understand the true meaning of your madness.”
“Monsieur!” exclaimed Buckingham.
"Sir!" 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 it.”
“One more moment, because I have one last thing to say. I believe I’m the only one among my friends who has figured it out.”
“Are you aware, monsieur,” said Buckingham, trembling with mingled feelings of anger and uneasiness, “are you aware that you are holding language towards me which requires to be checked?”
“Are you aware, sir,” said Buckingham, trembling with a mix of anger and unease, “are you aware that you are speaking to me in a way that needs to be addressed?”
“Weigh your words well, my lord,” said Raoul, haughtily; “my nature is not such that its vivacities need checking; whilst 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!”
“Weigh your words carefully, my lord,” Raoul said arrogantly; “my nature doesn’t require restrictions on its energy; while you, on the other hand, come from a lineage whose passions are doubted by all true Frenchmen; I will say it again, be cautious!”
“Careful of what, may I ask? Do you presume to threaten me?”
“Careful of what, may I ask? Are you trying to threaten me?”
“I am the son of the Comte de la Fere, my lord, and I never threaten, because I strike first. Therefore, understand me well, the threat that I hold out to you is this—”
“I’m the son of the Comte de la Fere, my lord, and I don’t threaten, because I attack first. So, understand me clearly, the threat I’m presenting to you is this—”
Buckingham clenched his hands, but Raoul continued, as though he had not observed the gesture. “At the very first word, beyond the respect and deference due to her royal highness, which you permit yourself to use towards her,—be patient my lord, for I am perfectly so.”
Buckingham tightened his fists, but Raoul went on, as if he hadn't noticed the gesture. “From the very first word, beyond the respect and courtesy owed to her royal highness, which you allow yourself to use towards her—be patient, my lord, for I am completely so.”
“You?”
"You?"
“Undoubtedly. So long as Madame 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, exhibit towards the royal house of France, I shall have one of two courses to follow;—either I declare, in the presence of every one, the madness with which you are now affected, and I get you ignominiously ordered back to England; or if you prefer it, I will run my dagger through your throat in the presence of all here. This second alternative seems to me the least disagreeable, and I think I shall hold to it.”
“Definitely. As long as Madame was on English soil, I kept quiet; but the moment she set foot on French land, and now that we’ve welcomed her on behalf of the prince, I need to warn you that the first sign of disrespect you show towards the royal house of France, due to your reckless infatuation, will leave me with two options: either I publicly expose the madness you’re currently suffering from and get you sent back to England in disgrace, or, if you prefer, I will stab you in the throat right here in front of everyone. The second option seems the least unpleasant to me, and I think I will choose that one.”
Buckingham had become paler than the lace collar around his neck. “M. de Bragelonne,” he said, “is it, indeed, a gentleman who is speaking to me?”
Buckingham had turned paler than the lace collar around his neck. “M. de Bragelonne,” he said, “is it really a gentleman who is speaking to me?”
“Yes; only the gentleman is speaking to a madman. Get cured, my lord, and he will hold quite another language to you.”
“Yes; the gentleman is just talking to a crazy person. Get better, my lord, and he will speak to you very differently.”
“But, M. de Bragelonne,” murmured the duke, in a voice, half-choked, and putting his hand to his neck,—“Do you not see I am choking?”
“But, M. de Bragelonne,” murmured the duke, in a voice, half-choked, and putting his hand to his neck,—“Do you not see I am choking?”
“If your death were to take place at this moment, my lord,” replied Raoul, with unruffled composure, “I should, indeed, regard it as a great happiness, for this circumstance 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.”
“If you were to die right now, my lord,” Raoul replied calmly, “I would actually see it as a great relief, because it would stop all sorts of nasty comments; not just about you, but also about those esteemed individuals whose honor you are jeopardizing in such a ridiculous way.”
“You are right, you are right,” said the young man, almost beside himself. “Yes, yes; better to die, than to suffer 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.
“You're right, you're right,” said the young man, nearly frantic. “Yes, yes; it's better to die than to suffer like I am right now.” And he grabbed a beautiful dagger, its handle decorated with precious stones, and he partially pulled it from his chest.
Raoul 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.”
Raoul pushed his hand away. “Watch what you’re doing,” he said; “if you don’t end up hurting yourself, you’re just acting foolishly; and if you were to hurt yourself, you’d stain the wedding dress of the princess of England with blood.”
Buckingham remained a minute gasping for breath; during this interval, his lips quivered, his fingers worked convulsively, and his eyes wandered, as though in delirium. Then suddenly, he said, “M. de Bragelonne, I know nowhere a nobler mind than yours; you are, indeed, a worthy son of the most perfect gentleman that ever lived. Keep your tents.” And he threw his arms round Raoul’s neck. All who were present, astounded at this conduct, which was the very reverse of what was 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 meantime, the procession of the princess arrived, and had it not been for Bragelonne, two armies would have been engaged together in conflict, and blood would have been shed upon the flowers with which the ground was covered. At the appearance, however, of the banners borne at the head of the procession, complete order was restored.
Buckingham was left gasping for breath for a moment; during that time, his lips trembled, his fingers moved erratically, and his eyes roamed as if in a frenzy. Then suddenly, he said, “M. de Bragelonne, I know no one with a nobler mind than yours; you truly are a worthy son of the most perfect gentleman who ever lived. Keep your tents.” And he wrapped his arms around Raoul’s neck. Everyone present, shocked by this unexpected behavior, given the ferocity of one opponent and the determination of the other, immediately started clapping, and a thousand cheers and joyful shouts erupted from all around. De Guiche, somewhat reluctantly, embraced Buckingham, but he embraced him nonetheless. This prompted both the French and the English to do the same; those who had been looking at each other with restless uncertainty suddenly became friends. Meanwhile, the princess’s procession arrived, and if it hadn’t been for Bragelonne, two armies would have clashed, and blood would have spilled on the flowers covering the ground. However, with the arrival of the banners leading the procession, total order was restored.
Chapter XI. Night.
Concord returned to its place amidst the tents. English and French rivaled each other in their devotion and courteous attention to the illustrious travelers. The English forwarded to the French baskets of flowers, of which they had made a plentiful provision to greet the arrival 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. From the respect paid her on all sides, she seemed like a queen; and from the adoration with which she was treated by two or three; she appeared an object of worship. The queen-mother gave the French the most affectionate reception. France was her native country, and she had suffered too much unhappiness in England for England to have made her forget France. She taught her daughter, then, by her own affection for it, that love for a country where they had both been hospitably received, and where a brilliant future opened before them. After the public entry was over, and the spectators in the streets had partially 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, wrapping with its star-covered mantle the sea, the harbor, the town, and surrounding country, De Guiche, still excited by the great events of the day, returned to his tent, and seated himself upon one of the stools with so profound an expression of distress that Bragelonne kept his eyes fixed upon 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, with heaving chest and restless limbs.
Concord returned to its spot among the tents. The English and French competed with each other in their devotion and courteous attention to the distinguished travelers. The English sent baskets of flowers to the French, having prepared a generous supply to welcome the young princess; the French, in turn, invited the English to a dinner set for the next day. Congratulations poured in for the princess throughout her journey. Given the respect shown to her from all sides, she seemed like a queen; and in the way a few worshipped her, she appeared as an object of devotion. The queen-mother welcomed the French with the warmest affection. France was her homeland, and she had endured too much heartbreak in England for it to make her forget France. She taught her daughter, through her own love for it, to cherish the country where they had both been warmly received and where a bright future lay ahead of them. Once the public entry was complete, and the crowds in the streets had partly dispersed, with the sound of music and cheering fading into the distance; as night fell, wrapping the sea, the harbor, the town, and the surrounding countryside in its starry cloak, De Guiche, still stirred by the significant events of the day, returned to his tent. He sat on one of the stools with such an intense look of distress that Bragelonne kept his gaze on him until he heard him sigh, prompting him to approach. The count had slumped in his seat, leaning his back against the tent’s partition, his face buried in his hands, with a heaving chest and restless limbs.
“You are suffering?” asked Raoul.
"Are you okay?" asked Raoul.
“Cruelly.”
"Harshly."
“Bodily, I suppose?”
"Physically, I guess?"
“Yes; bodily.”
"Yes; physically."
“This has indeed been a harassing day,” continued the young man, his eyes fixed upon his friend.
“This has really been a stressful day,” the young man said, his eyes focused on his friend.
“Yes; a night’s rest will probably restore me.”
"Yeah, getting a good night's sleep will probably help me feel better."
“Shall I leave you?”
"Should I leave you?"
“No; I wish to talk to you.”
“No, I want to talk to you.”
“You shall not speak to me, Guiche, until you have first answered my questions.”
“You're not allowed to talk to me, Guiche, until you answer my questions first.”
“Proceed then.”
"Go ahead."
“You will be frank with me?”
“You're going to be honest with me?”
“I always am.”
"I'm always."
“Can you imagine why Buckingham has been so violent?”
“Can you imagine why Buckingham has been so aggressive?”
“I suspect.”
"I have a hunch."
“Because he is in love with Madame, is it not?”
“Because he loves Madame, right?”
“One could almost swear to it, to observe him.”
"One could almost swear to it, to see him."
“You are mistaken; there is nothing of the kind.”
"You’re wrong; there's nothing like that."
“It is you who are mistaken, Raoul; I have read his distress in his eyes, in his every gesture and action the whole day.”
“It’s you who are wrong, Raoul; I've seen his distress in his eyes and in everything he’s done all day.”
“You are a poet, my dear count, and find subjects for your muse everywhere.”
“You're a poet, my dear count, and you find inspiration for your muse everywhere.”
“I can perceive love clearly enough.”
“I can see love clearly enough.”
“Where it does not exist?”
“Where doesn't it exist?”
“Nay, where it does exist.”
“No, where it does exist.”
“Do you not think you are deceiving yourself, Guiche?”
“Don't you think you're just fooling yourself, Guiche?”
“I am convinced of what I say,” said the count.
“I am sure of what I’m saying,” said the count.
“Now, inform me, count,” said Raoul, fixing a penetrating look upon him, “what happened to render you so clear-sighted.”
“Now, tell me, Count,” Raoul said, giving him a sharp look, “what happened to make you so insightful?”
Guiche hesitated for a moment, and then answered, “Self-love, I suppose.”
Guiche paused for a moment and then replied, “I guess it’s self-love.”
“Self-love is a pedantic word, Guiche.”
“Self-love is a pretentious term, Guiche.”
“What do you mean?”
"What do you mean?"
“I mean that, generally, you are less out of spirits than seems to be the case this evening.”
"I mean that, for the most part, you seem to be in better spirits than it looks like this evening."
“I am fatigued.”
"I'm tired."
“Listen to me, Guiche; we have been campaigners together; we have been on horseback for eighteen hours at a time, and our horses dying from exhaustion, or hunger, have fallen beneath us, and yet we have laughed at our mishaps. Believe me, it is not fatigue that saddens you to-night.”
“Listen to me, Guiche; we’ve been through a lot together. We’ve spent eighteen hours riding, and our horses, worn out and hungry, have collapsed under us, yet we’ve laughed off our troubles. Trust me, it’s not exhaustion that’s bringing you down tonight.”
“It is annoyance, then.”
"It’s annoying, then."
“What annoyance?”
“What’s the annoyance?”
“That of this evening.”
"This evening's event."
“The mad conduct of the Duke of Buckingham, do you mean?”
"The crazy behavior of the Duke of Buckingham, is that what you mean?"
“Of course; is it not vexations for us, the representatives of our sovereign master, to witness the devotion of an Englishman to our future mistress, the second lady in point of rank in the kingdom?”
“Of course; isn’t it frustrating for us, the representatives of our sovereign master, to see an Englishman’s devotion to our future mistress, the second highest lady in the kingdom?”
“Yes, you are right; but I do not think any danger is to be apprehended from Buckingham.”
“Yes, you’re right; but I don’t think there’s any danger to worry about 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 presence, for your singular decision of character, swords would have been drawn in the very streets of the town.”
“No; he’s still intrusive. Didn’t he almost manage to stir up trouble between the English and us when he first arrived? If it weren’t for you, for your incredible presence, and for your unique decisiveness, swords would have been drawn right in the town’s streets.”
“You observe, however, that he has changed his tactics.”
“You notice, though, that he has changed his approach.”
“Yes, certainly; but this is the very thing that 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 with so marked an expression that Raoul raised his head. The noble character of the young man’s countenance expressed a displeasure which could easily be read.
“Yes, of course; but this is exactly what astonishes me so much. You spoke to him quietly; what did you say? You think he loves her; you acknowledge that kind of passion doesn't fade easily. So, he doesn't love her then!” De Guiche said this with such a strong expression that Raoul lifted his head. The noble look on the young man's face showed a displeasure that was clear to see.
“What I said to him, count,” replied Raoul, “I will repeat to you. Listen to me. I said, ‘You are regarding with wistful feelings, and 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 outraging those who, like ourselves, have come to seek a young lady to escort her to her husband.’”
“What I told him, count,” Raoul replied, “I will tell you again. Listen to me. I said, ‘You are looking at the sister of your prince with longing and a harmful desire—someone you aren’t engaged to, who isn’t and can never be anything to you; you are disrespecting those of us who have come to find a young lady to take to her husband.’”
“You spoke to him in that manner?” asked Guiche, coloring.
“You talked to him like that?” Guiche asked, blushing.
“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?’”
“In those very terms; I even added more. ‘How would you view us,’ I said, ‘if you saw among us a man crazy enough, disloyal enough, to have anything less than the utmost respect for a princess who is set to marry 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 towards Raoul, as he covered his eyes and face with the other.
These words hit De Guiche hard, causing him to go pale, and overwhelmed by a sudden wave of emotion, he could barely stretch out one hand towards Raoul, while covering his eyes and face with the other.
“But,” continued Raoul, not interrupted by this movement 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 said, ‘Learn, my lord, that we gentlemen of France devote ourselves to our sovereigns by sacrificing them our affections, as well as our fortunes and our lives; and whenever it may chance to happen that the tempter suggests one of those vile thoughts that set the heart on fire, we extinguish the flame, even if it has to be done by shedding our blood for the purpose. Thus it is that the honor of three is saved: our country’s, our master’s, and our own. It is thus that we act, your Grace; it is thus that every man of honor ought to act.’ In this manner, my dear Guiche,” continued Bragelonne, “I addressed the Duke of Buckingham; and he admitted I was right, and resigned himself unresistingly to my arguments.”
“But,” Raoul continued, not distracted by his friend's movement, “thankfully, the French, often seen as thoughtless and reckless, are able to apply calm and sound judgment to matters of great importance. I went even further, saying, ‘Know this, my lord: we gentlemen of France commit ourselves to our sovereigns by sacrificing our affections, as well as our fortunes and lives; and whenever the tempter puts forth those vile thoughts that ignite the heart, we extinguish the flame, even if we must shed our blood to do so. This way, we preserve the honor of three: our country’s, our master’s, and our own. This is how we behave, your Grace; this is how every honorable man should act.’ In this way, my dear Guiche,” Bragelonne continued, “I spoke to the Duke of Buckingham; and he acknowledged I was right and passively accepted my arguments.”
De Guiche, who had hitherto sat leaning forward while Raoul was speaking, drew himself up, his eyes glancing proudly; he seized Raoul’s hand, his face, which had been as cold as ice, seemed on fire. “And you spoke magnificently,” he said, in a half-choked voice; “you are indeed a friend, Raoul. But now, I entreat you, leave me to myself.”
De Guiche, who had been sitting forward while Raoul spoke, straightened up, his eyes shining with pride. He took Raoul’s hand, and his face, which had been icy, now seemed ablaze. “You spoke amazingly,” he said, his voice slightly choked; “you truly are a friend, Raoul. But now, I ask you, please leave me alone.”
“Do you wish it?”
"Do you want 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.”
“Yeah; I need some rest. A lot has disturbed me today, both mentally and physically; when you come back tomorrow, I won’t be the same person.”
“I leave you, then,” said Raoul, as he withdrew. The count advanced a step towards his friend, and pressed him warmly in his arms. But in this friendly pressure Raoul could detect the nervous agitation of a great internal conflict.
“I’m leaving now,” said Raoul as he stepped back. The count moved closer to his friend and embraced him warmly. But in that friendly hug, Raoul sensed the anxious turmoil of a deep inner struggle.
The night was clear, starlit, and splendid; the tempest had passed away, and the sweet influences of the evening had restored life, peace and security everywhere. A few 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 shadows of the tents, intersected by the golden moonbeams, formed as it were a huge mosaic of jet and yellow flagstones. Soon, however, the entire 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 life’s anxieties, and in whom the flame of existence sinks placidly as sleep steals over the body.
The night was clear, filled with stars, and beautiful; the storm had passed, and the pleasant vibes of the evening brought life, peace, and security everywhere. A few fluffy clouds floated in the sky, suggesting that lovely weather would continue, with a gentle breeze coming from the east. In the large square in front of the hotel, the shadows of the tents, mixed with the golden moonlight, created a massive mosaic of dark and yellow stones. Soon, though, the whole town fell into sleep; a faint light still flickered in Madame’s room, which overlooked the square, and the soft glow from the dying lamp seemed to reflect the peaceful sleep of a young girl, barely aware of life’s worries, as the flame of her existence quietly dimmed like sleep taking over her body.
Bragelonne quitted the tent with the slow and measured step of a man curious to observe, but anxious not to be seen. Sheltered 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, glittering in the obscurity, fastened ardently upon the princess’s sitting apartment, which was partially lighted by the lamp in the inner room. The soft light which illumined the windows was the count’s star. The fervent aspirations of his nature could be read in his eyes. Raoul, concealed in the shadow, divined the many passionate thoughts that established, between the tent of the young ambassador and the 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 must have caused happy and loving dreams to alight upon the perfumed couch, which the count, with the eyes of his soul, devoured so eagerly.
Bragelonne left the tent with a slow, careful step, curious to observe but careful not to be noticed. Hidden behind the thick curtains of his own tent, he scanned the entire square and saw that, after a moment of stillness, the curtains of De Guiche’s tent rustled and were partially pulled aside. Behind them, he caught sight of De Guiche’s silhouette, his eyes shining in the darkness, intensely focused on the princess’s sitting room, which was dimly lit by the lamp in the inner chamber. The soft light illuminating the windows was the count's star. The passionate desires of his soul were evident in his gaze. Raoul, hidden in the shadows, sensed the many intense thoughts creating a mysterious and magical connection between the young ambassador’s tent and the princess’s balcony—a connection forged by thoughts filled with such strength and determination that they must have sparked blissful and loving dreams on the fragrant couch that the count eagerly devoured with the eyes of his soul.
But De Guiche and Raoul were not the only watchers. The window of one of the houses looking on the square was opened too, the casement of the house where Buckingham resided. By the aid of the rays of light which issued from this latter, the profile of the duke could be distinctly seen, as he indolently reclined upon the carved balcony with its velvet hangings; he also was breathing in the direction of the princess’s apartment his prayers and the wild visions of his love.
But De Guiche and Raoul weren’t the only ones watching. The window of one of the houses facing the square was also open, the window of the house where Buckingham stayed. Thanks to the light coming from this house, you could clearly see the duke's profile as he lazily lounged on the carved balcony with its velvet drapes; he too was sending his prayers and the wild fantasies of his love toward the princess’s room.
Raoul could not resist smiling, as thinking of Madame, 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, that he has an army to safeguard 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 Manicamp, who snored as imperiously as though he was wearing his blue and gold, instead of his violet suit.
Raoul couldn’t help but smile as he thought about Madame, saying to himself, “She really has a heart that’s been well taken by storm.” Then he added compassionately, thinking of Monsieur, “And he’s a husband facing a serious threat too; it’s fortunate for him that he’s a prince of such high status, with an army to protect what’s his.” Bragelonne observed the two lovers for a while and listened to the loud, disrespectful snores of Manicamp, who snored as if he were decked out in his blue and gold instead of his violet suit.
Then he turned towards the night breeze which bore towards him, he seemed to think, the distant song of the nightingale; and, after having laid in a due provision of melancholy, another nocturnal malady, he retired to rest thinking, with regard to his own love affair, that perhaps four or even a larger number of 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 conscientious garrison,” said he to himself, sighing aloud.
Then he turned towards the night breeze that seemed to carry the distant song of the nightingale to him. After indulging in a bit of melancholy, another night-time sickness, he went to bed, pondering that maybe four or even more eyes, just as passionate as those of De Guiche and Buckingham, were also longing for his own beloved in the chateau at Blois. “And Mademoiselle de Montalais is definitely not a very trustworthy guardian,” he thought to himself with a sigh.
Chapter XII. From Le Havre to Paris.
The next day the fetes took place, accompanied by all the pomp and animation that the resources of the town and the cheerful disposition of men’s minds could supply. During the last few hours spent in Le Havre, every preparation 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 her carriage, surrounded by a brilliant escort. De Guiche had hoped that the Duke of Buckingham would accompany the admiral to England; but Buckingham succeeded in demonstrating to the queen that there would be great impropriety in allowing Madame to proceed to Paris, almost unprotected. As soon as it had been settled that Buckingham was to accompany Madame, the young duke selected a corps of gentlemen and officers to form part of his own suite, so that it was almost an army that now set out towards Paris, scattering gold, and exciting the liveliest demonstrations as they passed through the different towns and villages on the route. The weather was very fine. France is a beautiful country, especially along the route by which the procession passed. Spring cast its flowers and its perfumed foliage on their path. Normandy, with its vast variety of vegetation, its blue skies and silver rivers, displayed itself in all the loveliness of a paradise to the new sister of the king. Fetes and brilliant displays received 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 proportion as her affection for France became more deeply engraved on her heart. In fact, it was not difficult to perceive that his most devoted attention awakened no acknowledgement, 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’s eyes were turned towards him. In vain did he try, in order to fix upon himself one of those looks, which were thrown carelessly around, or bestowed elsewhere, to produce in the animal he rode its greatest display of strength, speed, temper 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 observe the cause of it, and then, slightly smiling, again entered into conversation with her faithful guardians, Raoul 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 through 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 absurdity, he mastered his horse, and compelled him, reeking with sweat and flecked with foam, to champ his bit close beside the carriage, amidst the crowd of courtiers. Occasionally he obtained a word from Madame as a recompense, and yet her speech seemed almost a reproach.
The next day, the fetes took place, filled with all the pomp and excitement that the town could provide and that everyone's spirits could muster. In the last few hours in Le Havre, all arrangements for the departure had been finalized. After Madame said goodbye to the English fleet and once more saluted the country by honoring its flags, she got into her carriage, surrounded by a dazzling escort. De Guiche hoped that the Duke of Buckingham would join the admiral on the journey to England, but Buckingham convinced the queen that it would be inappropriate to let Madame travel to Paris almost unprotected. Once it was decided that Buckingham would accompany Madame, the young duke chose a group of gentlemen and officers to be part of his entourage, creating what felt like a small army that set off toward Paris, scattering gold and drawing lively reactions as they passed through towns and villages along the way. The weather was beautiful. France is a gorgeous country, especially along the route taken by the procession. Spring adorned their path with flowers and fragrant foliage. Normandy, with its diverse vegetation, blue skies, and silver rivers, showcased itself in all its paradisiacal beauty to the king’s new sister. Fetes and splendid displays welcomed them at every stop. De Guiche and Buckingham both forgot their worries; De Guiche was anxious to prevent any renewed advances from the duke, while Buckingham wanted to inspire warm memories of the land where she had spent many joyful days. However, the unfortunate duke could see that the images of his beloved country gradually faded from Madame’s mind, even as her affection for France deepened. It was clear that his devoted attention went unnoticed, and that the elegance with which he rode his most spirited horse was wasted; only occasionally did Madame happen to glance in his direction. He tried in vain to catch her eye, hoping to draw her attention away from others, and pushed his horse to its limits to show off its strength, speed, and agility. He risked crashing into trees or tumbling into ditches or over barriers as they passed, but though Madame turned her head momentarily at the commotion, she simply smiled and resumed chatting with her loyal escorts, Raoul and De Guiche, who were riding calmly beside her. Buckingham was tormented by jealousy; an unfamiliar, unbearable anguish coursed through his veins, laying siege to his heart. To acknowledge the absurdity of his behavior and to atone for it through humility, he reined in his sweating, foaming horse to ride alongside the carriage amid the crowd of courtiers. Occasionally, he received a few words from Madame as a reward, yet her remarks felt almost like reproaches.
“That is well, my lord,” she said, “now you are reasonable.”
"That's good, my lord," she said, "now you're being reasonable."
Or from Raoul, “Your Grace is killing your horse.”
Or from Raoul, “Your Grace is ruining your horse.”
Buckingham listened patiently to Raoul’s remarks, for he instinctively felt, without having had any proof that such was the case, that Raoul checked the display of De Guiche’s feelings, and that, had it not been for Raoul, some mad act or proceeding, either of the count, or of Buckingham himself, would have brought about an open rupture, or a disturbance—perhaps even exile itself. From the moment of that excited conversation the two young men had held in front of the tents at Le Havre, when Raoul made the duke perceive the impropriety of his conduct, Buckingham felt himself attracted towards Raoul 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 Raoul. Raoul endeavored, as much as possible, to make the conversation turn upon this subject in De Wardes’s presence, who had, during the whole journey, been exceedingly annoyed at the superior position taken by Bragelonne, and especially by his influence over De Guiche. De Wardes had that keen and merciless penetration most evil natures possess; he had immediately remarked De Guiche’s melancholy, and divined the nature of his regard for the princess. Instead, however, of treating the subject with the same reserve which Raoul practiced; instead of regarding with that respect, which was their due, the obligations and duties of society, De Wardes resolutely attacked in the count the ever-sounding chord of juvenile audacity and pride. It happened one evening, during a halt at Mantes, that while De Guiche and De Wardes were leaning against a barrier, engaged in conversation, Buckingham and Raoul were also talking together as they walked up and down. Manicamp was engaged in devoted attendance on the princess, who already treated him without reserve, on account of his versatile fancy, his frank courtesy of manner, and conciliatory disposition.
Buckingham listened patiently to Raoul’s comments because he had a gut feeling—without any proof—that Raoul was controlling De Guiche’s emotions. If it weren’t for Raoul, he sensed that either the count or Buckingham himself would have done something reckless that could have led to a public fallout or maybe even exile. Ever since that heated conversation the two young men had in front of the tents at Le Havre, when Raoul pointed out the impropriety of Buckingham's behavior, Buckingham felt drawn to Raoul, almost against his will. He often struck up conversations with him, usually to discuss either his father or their mutual friend D’Artagnan, about whom Buckingham was nearly as enthusiastic as Raoul. Raoul tried to steer the discussions towards this topic whenever De Wardes was around, as he had been notably irritated throughout the trip by Bragelonne's superior position and particularly by his influence over De Guiche. De Wardes had that sharp, ruthless insight that many malicious people possess; he immediately noticed De Guiche’s sadness and figured out how he felt about the princess. However, instead of handling the topic with the same discretion that Raoul employed, or respecting the societal obligations that should have been acknowledged, De Wardes chose to confront the count with his youthful boldness and arrogance. One evening, during a stop in Mantes, while De Guiche and De Wardes leaned against a barrier chatting, Buckingham and Raoul were also walking and talking. Manicamp was attentively serving the princess, who was already treating him openly because of his versatile imagination, his straightforward manners, and his pleasant disposition.
“Confess,” said De Wardes, “that you are really ill, and that your pedagogue of a friend has not succeeded in curing you.”
“Admit it,” De Wardes said, “that you’re actually unwell, and that your teacher of a friend hasn’t managed to heal you.”
“I do not understand you,” said the count.
“I don’t understand you,” said the count.
“And yet it is easy enough; you are dying of love.”
“And yet it’s quite simple; you’re dying of love.”
“You are mad, De Wardes.”
"You're crazy, De Wardes."
“Madness it would be, I admit, if Madame were really indifferent 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, M. de Bragelonne may not denounce both of you.”
“Of course, it would be crazy if Madame actually didn’t care about your suffering; but she pays so much attention to it and notices it so much that she puts herself at risk, and I worry that when we arrive in Paris, M. de Bragelonne might expose both of you.”
“For shame, De Wardes, again attacking De Bragelonne.”
“For shame, De Wardes, going after De Bragelonne again.”
“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’s 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 indifferently she slept the previous night.”
“Come on, let’s stop messing around,” replied the count’s evil advisor in a low voice. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Besides, you must have noticed how the princess’s gaze softens when she looks at you; you can tell just by the tone of her voice how much she enjoys listening to you, and you can feel how much she values the poems you recite to her. You can’t deny that every morning she tells you how poorly she slept the night before.”
“True, De Wardes, quite true; but what good is there in your telling me all that?”
“True, De Wardes, really true; but what’s the point in you telling me all that?”
“Is it not important to know the exact position of affairs?”
"Isn't it important to know exactly what's going on?"
“No, no; not when I am a witness of things that are enough to drive one mad.”
“No, no; not when I’m seeing things that could drive anyone crazy.”
“Stay, stay,” said De Wardes; “look, she calls you,—do you understand? Profit by the occasion, while your pedagogue is absent.”
“Wait, wait,” said De Wardes; “look, she's calling you—do you get it? Take advantage of the moment while your teacher is away.”
De Guiche could not resist; an invincible attraction drew him towards the princess. De Wardes smiled as he saw him withdraw.
De Guiche couldn't help himself; an irresistible pull was drawing him toward the princess. De Wardes smiled as he watched him step back.
“You are mistaken, monsieur,” said Raoul, suddenly stepping across the barrier against which the previous moment the two friends had been leaning. “The pedagogue is here, and has overheard you.”
“You're mistaken, sir,” Raoul said, suddenly stepping over the barrier that just moments ago the two friends had been leaning against. “The teacher is here and has overheard you.”
De Wardes, at the sound of Raoul’s voice, which he recognized without having occasion to look at him, half drew his sword.
De Wardes, hearing Raoul's voice, which he recognized without needing to look at him, half drew his sword.
“Put up your sword,” said Raoul; “you know perfectly well that, until our journey is at an end, every demonstration of that nature is useless. Why do you distill into the heart of the man you term your friend all the bitterness that 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. Really, monsieur, I should regard you as a coward, and a traitor too, if I did not, with greater justice, regard you as a madman.”
“Put away your sword,” Raoul said. “You know very well that, until our journey is over, any action like that is pointless. Why are you pouring all the bitterness you carry into the heart of the person you call your friend? As for me, you want to stir up deep hatred against a man of honor—my father's friend and mine; and as for the count, you want him to love someone who is meant for your master. Honestly, sir, I would see you as a coward and a traitor if I didn’t, more fairly, see 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 M. d’Artagnan, because he was guilty of a cowardly act towards my father.”
“Monsieur,” shouted De Wardes, frustrated, “I realize I was wrong to call you a teacher. The way you speak and your unique style are more like a Jesuit than a gentleman. Please stop using that tone when I'm around, I ask you. I can’t stand M. d’Artagnan because he did something cowardly to my father.”
“You lie, monsieur,” said Raoul, coolly.
“You're lying, man,” said Raoul, coolly.
“You give me the lie, monsieur?” exclaimed De Wardes.
“You're calling me a liar, sir?” exclaimed De Wardes.
“Why not, if what you assert is untrue?”
“Why not, if what you’re saying isn’t true?”
“You give me the lie, and will not draw your sword?”
“You're lying to me, and you won't draw your sword?”
“I have resolved, monsieur, not to kill you until Madame shall have been delivered safely into her husband’s hands.”
“I’ve decided, sir, not to kill you until Madame is safely delivered into her husband’s hands.”
“Kill me! Believe me, monsieur, your schoolmaster’s rod does not kill so easily.”
“Kill me! Trust me, sir, your teacher’s ruler doesn’t kill that easily.”
“No,” replied Raoul, sternly, “but M. d’Artagnan’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 will avenge his name—a name you have dishonored.”
“No,” Raoul replied firmly, “but M. d’Artagnan’s sword does the job; and not only do I have his sword, but he taught me how to use it. When the right moment comes, I will avenge his name—a name you have 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.”
“Watch out, sir,” De Wardes exclaimed; “if you don’t give me satisfaction right away, I will use every means to get my revenge.”
“Indeed, monsieur,” said Buckingham, suddenly, appearing upon the scene of action, “that is a threat which savors of assassination, and therefore, ill becomes a gentleman.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Buckingham, suddenly appearing on the scene, “that is a threat that smells of assassination, and so, it doesn't suit a gentleman.”
“What did you say, my lord?” said De Wardes, turning round towards him.
“What did you say, my lord?” De Wardes asked, turning to face him.
“I said, monsieur, that the words you have just spoken are displeasing to my English ears.”
“I said, sir, that the words you just spoke are unpleasing to my English ears.”
“Very well, monsieur, if what you say is true,” exclaimed De Wardes, thoroughly incensed, “I at least find in you one who will not escape me. Understand my words as you like.”
“Fine, mister, if what you’re saying is true,” shouted De Wardes, completely enraged, “at least I see someone here who won’t get away from me. Take my words however you want.”
“I take them in the manner they cannot but be understood,” replied Buckingham, with that haughty tone which characterized him, and which, even in ordinary conversation, gave a tone of defiance to everything he said; “M. de Bragelonne is my friend, you insult M. de Bragelonne, and you shall give me satisfaction for that insult.”
“I take them in a way that can’t be misunderstood,” replied Buckingham, with that arrogant tone that was typical of him, and which, even in casual conversation, added an air of defiance to everything he said; “M. de Bragelonne is my friend, you insult M. de Bragelonne, and you will have to make up for that insult.”
De Wardes cast a look upon De Bragelonne, who, faithful to the character he had assumed, remained calm and unmoved, even after the duke’s defiance.
De Wardes glanced at De Bragelonne, who, staying true to his role, remained calm and unaffected, even after the duke's challenge.
“It would seem that I did not insult M. de Bragelonne, since M. de Bragelonne, who carries a sword by his side, does not consider himself insulted.”
“It seems that I didn't insult M. de Bragelonne, since M. de Bragelonne, who has a sword at his side, doesn’t feel insulted.”
“At all events you insult someone.”
“At any rate, you’re insulting someone.”
“Yes, I insulted M. d’Artagnan,” resumed De Wardes, who had observed that this was the only means of stinging Raoul, so as to awaken his anger.
“Yes, I insulted M. d’Artagnan,” De Wardes continued, having noticed that this was the only way to provoke Raoul and get him riled up.
“That, then,” said Buckingham, “is another matter.”
“That, then,” said Buckingham, “is a different issue.”
“Precisely so,” said De Wardes; “it is the province of M. d’Artagnan’s friends to defend him.”
“Exactly,” said De Wardes; “it’s up to M. d’Artagnan’s friends to stand up for him.”
“I am entirely of your opinion,” replied the duke, who had regained all his indifference of manner; “if M. de Bragelonne were offended, I could not reasonably be expected to espouse his quarrel, since he is himself here; but when you say that it is a quarrel of M. d’Artagnan—”
“I completely agree with you,” replied the duke, who had regained his usual indifference. “If M. de Bragelonne were upset, I couldn’t reasonably be expected to take his side since he’s right here; but when you say that it’s a conflict involving M. d’Artagnan—”
“You will of course leave me to deal with the matter,” said De Wardes.
“You will, of course, let me handle this,” said De Wardes.
“Nay, on the contrary, for I draw my sword,” said Buckingham, unsheathing it as he spoke; “for if M. d’Artagnan injured your father, he rendered, or at least did all that he could to render, a great service to mine.”
“Nah, on the contrary, I'll draw my sword,” said Buckingham, unsheathing it as he spoke. “Because if M. d’Artagnan harmed your father, he did, or at least tried his best to do, a huge service to mine.”
De Wardes was thunderstruck.
De Wardes was shocked.
“M. d’Artagnan,” continued Buckingham, “is the bravest gentleman I know. I shall be delighted, as I owe him many personal obligations, to settle them with you, by crossing my sword with yours.” At the same moment Buckingham drew his sword from its scabbard, saluted Raoul, and put himself on guard.
“M. d’Artagnan,” continued Buckingham, “is the bravest man I know. I’ll be happy, since I owe him a lot, to settle it with you by crossing swords.” At the same moment, Buckingham drew his sword from its scabbard, nodded to Raoul, and got into position.
De Wardes advanced a step to meet him.
De Wardes took a step forward to meet him.
“Stay, gentlemen,” said Raoul, advancing towards them, and placing his own drawn sword between the combatants, “the affair is hardly worth the trouble of blood being shed almost in the presence of the princess. M. de Wardes speaks ill of M. d’Artagnan, with whom he is not even acquainted.”
“Hold on, gentlemen,” Raoul said, stepping toward them and placing his own drawn sword between the fighters. “This isn’t worth the effort of shedding blood right in front of the princess. M. de Wardes is bad-mouthing M. d’Artagnan, someone he doesn’t even know.”
“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 M. d’Artagnan?”
“What, sir,” said De Wardes, clenching his teeth and resting the tip of his sword on the toe of his boot, “are you claiming that I don’t know M. d’Artagnan?”
“Certainly not; you do not know him,” replied Raoul, coldly, “and you are even not aware where he is to be found.”
“Definitely not; you don’t know him,” Raoul replied coolly, “and you’re not even aware of where he is.”
“Not know where he is?”
“Don’t know where he is?”
“Such must be the case, since you fix your quarrel with him upon strangers, instead of seeking M. d’Artagnan where he is to be found.” De Wardes turned pale. “Well, monsieur,” continued Raoul, “I will tell you where M. d’Artagnan is: he is now in Paris; when on duty he is to be met with at the Louvre,—when not on duty, in the Rue des Lombards. M. d’Artagnan can easily be discovered at either of those two places. Having, therefore, as you assert, so many causes of complaint against him, show your courage in seeking him out, and afford him an opportunity of giving you that satisfaction 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, M. de Wardes! so quarrelsome a disposition 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.”
“That's how it is, since you take your fight with him out on strangers instead of looking for M. d’Artagnan where he actually is.” De Wardes turned pale. “Well, sir,” Raoul continued, “I’ll tell you where M. d’Artagnan is: he’s currently in Paris; when he’s on duty, you can find him at the Louvre—and when he’s off duty, he’s in the Rue des Lombards. M. d’Artagnan is easy to find at either of those two places. So, since you claim to have so many complaints against him, prove your courage by seeking him out, and give him a chance to provide you with the satisfaction you seem to want from everyone except him.” De Wardes wiped his forehead, which was sweaty. “For shame, M. de Wardes! Being so eager to fight isn’t fitting, especially after the announcement of the laws against dueling. Please consider that; the king will be furious with our disobedience, especially now—and his majesty would be justified.”
“Excuses,” murmured De Wardes; “mere pretexts.”
“Excuses,” De Wardes muttered; “just fake reasons.”
“Really, M. De Wardes,” resumed Raoul, “such remarks are the idlest bluster. You know very well that the Duke of Buckingham is a man of undoubted courage, who has already fought ten duels, and will probably fight 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 Lens, at Bleneau, at the Dunes in front of the artillery, a hundred paces in front of the line, while you—I say this parenthetically—were a hundred paces behind it. True it is, that on that occasion there was 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 excite remark—you wish that others should talk about you, in what manner you do not care. Do not depend upon me, M. de Wardes to assist you in your designs, for I shall certainly not afford you that pleasure.”
“Honestly, M. De Wardes,” Raoul continued, “those comments are just empty talk. You know perfectly well that the Duke of Buckingham is a man of unquestionable bravery who has already fought ten duels and will likely fight eleven. His reputation alone says a lot. As for me, you know I can fight too. I fought at Lens, at Bleneau, and at the Dunes right in front of the artillery, a hundred paces ahead of the line, while you—I mention this just for context—were a hundred paces behind it. It’s true that there were way too many people around on that occasion for your courage to be noticed, and that might be why it didn’t show; whereas here, it would be a spectacle and would attract attention—you want others to talk about you, no matter how. You can’t count on me, M. de Wardes, to help you with your plans, because I certainly won’t give you that satisfaction.”
“Sensibly observed,” said Buckingham, putting up his sword, “and I ask your forgiveness, M. de Bragelonne, for having allowed myself to yield to a first impulse.”
“Sensibly observed,” said Buckingham, sheathing his sword, “and I ask for your forgiveness, M. de Bragelonne, for allowing myself to act on an initial impulse.”
De Wardes, however, on the contrary, perfectly furious, bounded forward and raised his sword, threateningly, against Raoul, who had scarcely enough time to put himself in a posture of defense.
De Wardes, however, was absolutely furious. He lunged forward and raised his sword menacingly at Raoul, who barely had time to get into a defensive stance.
“Take care, monsieur,” said Bragelonne, tranquilly, “or you will put out one of my eyes.”
“Be careful, mister,” Bragelonne said calmly, “or you'll poke one of my eyes out.”
“You will not fight, then?” said De Wardes.
“You're not going to fight, then?” said De Wardes.
“Not at this moment; but this I promise to do; immediately on our arrival at Paris I will conduct you to M. d’Artagnan, to whom you shall detail all the causes of complaint you have against him. M 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 consider, in a calmer frame of mind, the precepts of the Gospel, which enjoin forgetfulness of injuries.”
“Not right now; but here’s what I promise to do: as soon as we arrive in Paris, I’ll take you to M. d’Artagnan, and you can tell him all the reasons you have to be upset with him. M. d’Artagnan will ask the king for permission to fight you. The king will agree, and once you’ve received your fair share of swordplay, you can think more clearly about the teachings of the Gospel, which advise letting go of past grievances.”
“Ah!” exclaimed De Wardes, furious at this imperturbable coolness, “one can clearly see you are half a bastard, M. de Bragelonne.”
“Ah!” shouted De Wardes, furious at this unshakable calm, “you can clearly see you’re half a bastard, M. de Bragelonne.”
Raoul became as pale as death; his eyes flashed lightning, causing De Wardes involuntarily to fall back. Buckingham, also, who had perceived their expression, threw himself between the two adversaries, whom he had expected to see precipitate themselves on each other. De Wardes had reserved this injury for the last; he clasped his sword firmly in his hand, and awaited the encounter. “You are right, monsieur,” said Raoul, mastering his emotion, “I am only acquainted with my father’s name; but I know too well that the Comte de la Fere is too upright and honorable a man to allow me to fear for a single moment that there is, as you insinuate, any stain upon my birth. My ignorance, therefore, of my mother’s name is a misfortune for me, and not a reproach. You are deficient in loyalty of conduct; you are wanting in courtesy, in reproaching me with misfortune. It matters little, however, the insult has been given, and I consider myself insulted accordingly. It is quite understood, then, that after you shall have received satisfaction from M. d’Artagnan, you will settle your quarrel with me.”
Raoul turned as pale as death; his eyes sparked with fury, causing De Wardes to instinctively step back. Buckingham, who noticed their expressions, jumped in between the two opponents, expecting them to charge at each other. De Wardes had saved this insult for last; he clutched his sword tightly and prepared for the fight. “You’re right, sir,” Raoul said, regaining his composure, “I only know my father’s name; but I know well that the Comte de la Fere is too honorable a man to let me worry for even a moment that, as you suggest, there’s any shame in my birth. My lack of knowledge about my mother’s name is a misfortune for me, not a disgrace. You lack loyalty in your actions; you’re discourteous to accuse me of misfortune. Nonetheless, the insult has been made, and I take it as one. So it’s clear that after you’ve settled your score with M. d’Artagnan, you will deal 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 M. d’Artagnan, and now, after I shall have received his, you offer me one from yourself.”
“I appreciate your caution, sir,” De Wardes replied with a bitter smile; “not long ago, you promised me a sword-thrust from M. d’Artagnan, and now, after I’ve received his, you’re offering me one from yourself.”
“Do not disturb yourself,” replied Raoul, with concentrated anger; “in all affairs of that nature, M. d’Artagnan 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 the heart of a viper, M. de Wardes, and in very truth, too many precautions cannot be taken against you.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Raoul replied, clearly angry. “In matters like this, M. d’Artagnan is extremely skilled, and I’ll ask him as a favor to treat you like he did your father; in other words, to at least spare your life, so that after you recover, I can enjoy the pleasure of killing you myself. You have the heart of a viper, M. de Wardes, and honestly, I can’t be too careful around you.”
“I shall take my precautions against you,” said De Wardes, “be assured of it.”
“I’ll be sure to protect myself against you,” said De Wardes, “count on it.”
“Allow me, monsieur,” said Buckingham, “to translate your remark by a piece of advice I am about to give M. de Bragelonne; M. de Bragelonne, wear a cuirass.”
“Let me, sir,” said Buckingham, “rephrase your comment with a piece of advice I’m about to give Mr. de Bragelonne; Mr. de Bragelonne, put on a breastplate.”
De Wardes clenched his hands. “Ah!” said he, “you two gentlemen intend to wait until you have taken that precaution before you measure your swords against mine.”
De Wardes clenched his hands. “Ah!” he said, “you two gentlemen plan to wait until you’ve taken that precaution before you compare your swords to mine.”
“Very well, monsieur,” said Raoul, “since you positively will have it so, let us settle the affair now.” And, drawing his sword, he advanced towards De Wardes.
“Alright, sir,” said Raoul, “since you insist on it, let’s settle this now.” And, pulling out his sword, he moved towards De Wardes.
“What are you going to do?” said Buckingham.
“What are you going to do?” Buckingham asked.
“Be easy,” said Raoul, “it will not be very long.”
“Just relax,” said Raoul, “it won’t be too long.”
De Wardes placed himself on his guard; their swords crossed. De Wardes flew upon Raoul with such impetuosity, that at the first clashing of the steel blades Buckingham clearly saw that Raoul was only trifling with his adversary. Buckingham stepped aside, and watched the combat. Raoul was as calm as if he were handling a foil instead of a sword; having retreated a step, he parried three or four fierce thrusts which De Wardes made at him, caught the sword of the latter with within his own, and sent 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 his adversary to the other end of the barrier, trembling, and mad with rage.
De Wardes got ready for a fight; their swords clashed. De Wardes charged at Raoul with such force that from the first clash of their blades, Buckingham could tell that Raoul was just playing with his opponent. Buckingham stepped back and observed the duel. Raoul was as relaxed as if he were using a sparring sword instead of a real one; after taking a step back, he deflected three or four aggressive thrusts from De Wardes, trapped De Wardes' sword with his own, and sent it flying twenty feet beyond the barrier. Then, as De Wardes stood there, disarmed and shocked by his loss, Raoul put away his sword, grabbed him by the collar and waistband, and threw his opponent to the other side of the barrier, shaking and furious.
“We shall meet again,” murmured De Wardes, rising from the ground and picking up his sword.
“We will meet again,” murmured De Wardes, getting up from the ground and picking up his sword.
“I have done nothing for the last hour,” said Raoul, rising from the ground, “but say the same thing.” Then, turning towards the duke, he said, “I entreat you to be silent about this affair; I am ashamed to have gone so far, but my anger carried me away, and I ask your forgiveness for it;—forget it, too.”
“I haven't done anything for the last hour,” Raoul said as he got up from the ground, “except repeat the same thing.” Then, looking at the duke, he added, “I beg you to keep this matter quiet; I’m embarrassed for having gone this far, but my anger got the better of me, and I ask for your forgiveness;—please forget it, too.”
“Dear viscount,” said the duke, pressing with 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.”
“Dear viscount,” said the duke, shaking his strong and brave companion's hand, “let me, on the contrary, remember this and make sure you stay safe; that guy is dangerous—he'll kill you.”
“My father,” replied Raoul, “lived for twenty years under the menace of a much more formidable enemy, and he still lives.”
“My dad,” replied Raoul, “lived for twenty years under the threat of a much more intimidating enemy, and he’s still alive.”
“Your father had good friends, viscount.”
“Your dad had good friends, viscount.”
“Yes,” sighed Raoul, “such friends, indeed, that none are now left like them.”
“Yes,” sighed Raoul, “such friends, really, that none are left like them anymore.”
“Do not say that, I beg, at the very moment I offer you my friendship;” and Buckingham opened his arms to embrace Raoul, who delightedly received the proffered alliance. “In my family,” added Buckingham, “you are aware, M. de Bragelonne, we die to save our friends.”
“Please don’t say that, I’m begging you, just as I’m offering you my friendship;” and Buckingham opened his arms to hug Raoul, who happily accepted the offered alliance. “In my family,” Buckingham continued, “you know, M. de Bragelonne, we sacrifice ourselves to save our friends.”
“I know it well, duke,” replied Raoul.
“I know it well, duke,” Raoul replied.
Chapter XIII. An Account of what the Chevalier de Lorraine Thought of Madame.
Nothing further interrupted the journey. Under a pretext that was little remarked, M. de Wardes went forward in advance of the others. He took Manicamp with him, for his equable 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, in the contrast, a repose for their own ill-humor, and the latter a protection for their weakness. Buckingham and Bragelonne, admitting De Guiche into their friendship, in concert with him, sang the praises of the princess during 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 not perhaps so agreeable to the young princess, who was an incarnation of coquetry, and who, without 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 that find gratification in an excess of sensitiveness of feeling, and for whom, also, danger has a certain fascination. And so her glances, her smiles, her toilette, an inexhaustible armory of weapons of offense, were showered on 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, indeed, literally out of their minds. Raoul 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 respecting 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 another, 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 self-assumed character of courtiers, had announced the princess’s arrival. The procession was met at Nanterre by a brilliant escort of cavaliers and carriages. It was Monsieur himself, followed by the Chevalier de Lorraine and by his favorites, the latter being themselves followed by a portion of the king’s military household, who had arrived to meet his affianced bride. At St. Germain, the princess and her mother had changed their heavy traveling carriage, somewhat impaired by the journey, 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 delicate skin to perfection. Monsieur, on reaching the carriage, was struck by her beauty; he showed his admiration in so marked a manner 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 presentations had been carelessly made, and Buckingham, with the rest of the English gentlemen, had been introduced to Monsieur, from whom they had received but very indifferent attention. But, during their progress, as he observed that the duke devoted himself with his accustomed eagerness to the carriage-door, he asked the Chevalier de Lorraine, his inseparable companion, “Who is that cavalier?”
Nothing else interrupted the journey. Under a subtle pretext, M. de Wardes moved ahead of the others. He took Manicamp with him, as his calm and dreamy nature balanced out his own. It's interesting to note that quarrelsome people often seek the company of gentle, timid individuals, as if the former look for peace for their bad moods in the contrast, while the latter seek protection for their vulnerabilities. Buckingham and Bragelonne welcomed De Guiche into their friendship and, together, sang the praises of the princess throughout the trip. However, Bragelonne insisted that their voices should harmonize together rather than sing their separate parts, as De Guiche and his rival had developed a risky habit of doing so. This harmonious style greatly pleased the queen-mother, though it might not have been as enjoyable for the young princess, who embodied flirtation and actively sought ways to stand out with her own voice. She had one of those fearless and reckless personalities that find satisfaction in being overly sensitive and where danger holds an allure. Her glances, smiles, and stylish outfits—an endless arsenal of alluring tactics—were unleashed on the three young men with overwhelming impact. From her well-filled arsenal, she fired off glances, warm greetings, and countless other charming gestures aimed at impressing the escort, the townspeople, military officers from various cities, pages, the general public, and servants; it was a total onslaught, a widespread devastation. By the time Madame reached Paris, she had practically enslaved about a hundred thousand admirers, bringing along half a dozen men who were utterly infatuated with her, and two who were, quite literally, out of their minds. Raoul was the only one who understood the woman's magnetic appeal, and since his heart was already taken, he arrived in the capital indifferent and skeptical. Occasionally during the journey, he discussed Madame's charm with the queen of England, and the queen, having learned from many misfortunes and deceptions, replied: “Henrietta was bound to be remarkable in some way, whether she was born in a palace or in obscurity; she's a woman of great imagination, capricious, and willful.” De Wardes and Manicamp, in their self-styled roles as courtiers, had announced the princess’s arrival. They were met at Nanterre by a dazzling escort of knights and carriages. It was Monsieur himself, followed by the Chevalier de Lorraine and his favorites, who were in turn followed by part of the king’s military entourage, there to greet his fiancée. At St. Germain, the princess and her mother switched their heavy travel carriage, slightly damaged from the journey, for a light, beautifully adorned chariot drawn by six horses with white and gold harnesses. Sitting in the open carriage, almost like on a throne, under a silk parasol trimmed with feathers, was the young and lovely princess, her glowing face reflecting the soft rose hues that perfectly matched her delicate complexion. When Monsieur approached the carriage, he was taken aback by her beauty; he expressed his admiration in such a pronounced manner that the Chevalier de Lorraine raised his eyebrows at his compliments, while Buckingham and De Guiche were nearly heartbroken. After the usual courtesies were exchanged and the formalities completed, the procession slowly resumed its way to Paris. The introductions were somewhat casual, and Buckingham, along with the other English gentlemen, had been presented to Monsieur, who had given them minimal attention. However, during their journey, noticing that the duke was eagerly tending to the carriage door, he asked Chevalier de Lorraine, his constant companion, "Who is that knight?"
“He was presented to your highness a short while ago; it is the handsome Duke of Buckingham.”
“He was introduced to you a little while ago; it’s the handsome Duke of Buckingham.”
“Ah, yes, I remember.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Madame’s knight,” added the favorite, with an inflection of the voice which envious minds can alone give to the simplest phrases.
“Madame’s knight,” added the favorite, with a tone that only jealous people can give to the simplest phrases.
“What do you say?” replied the prince.
“What do you think?” replied the prince.
“I said ‘Madame’s knight’.”
“I said ‘Madam’s knight’.”
“Has she a recognized knight, then?”
“Does she have a recognized knight, then?”
“One would think you can judge of that for yourself; look, only, how they are laughing and flirting. All three of them.”
“One would think you could judge that for yourself; just look at how they're laughing and flirting. All three of them.”
“What do you mean by all three?”
“What do you mean by all three?”
“Do you not see that De Guiche is one of the party?”
“Don't you see that De Guiche is part of the group?”
“Yes, I see. But what does that prove?”
“Yes, I understand. But what does that demonstrate?”
“That Madame has two admirers instead of one.”
"That Madame has two admirers instead of just one."
“You poison the simplest thing!”
"You ruin the simplest thing!"
“I poison nothing. Ah! your royal highness’s mind is perverted. The honors of the kingdom of France are being paid to your wife and you are not satisfied.”
“I poison nothing. Ah! Your royal highness's thinking is twisted. The honors of the kingdom of France are being given to your wife, and you're still not happy.”
The Duke of Orleans dreaded the satirical humor of the Chevalier de Lorraine whenever it reached a certain degree of bitterness, and he changed the conversation abruptly. “The princess is pretty,” said he, very negligently, as if he were speaking of a stranger.
The Duke of Orleans feared the sharp wit of the Chevalier de Lorraine when it became too biting, so he quickly shifted the topic. “The princess is attractive,” he said, quite casually, as if he were talking about someone he didn’t know.
“Yes,” replied the chevalier, in the same tone.
“Yes,” replied the knight, in the same tone.
“You say ‘yes’ like a ‘no’. She has very beautiful black eyes.”
“You say ‘yes’ like it means ‘no’. She has really beautiful black eyes.”
“Yes, but small.”
“Yes, but it’s small.”
“That is so, but they are brilliant. She is tall, and of a good figure.”
“That’s true, but they’re amazing. She’s tall and has a great figure.”
“I fancy she stoops a little, my lord.”
“I think she slouches a bit, my lord.”
“I do not deny it. She has a noble appearance.”
“I won't deny it. She looks impressive.”
“Yes, but her face is thin.”
“Yes, but her face is narrow.”
“I thought her teeth beautiful.”
“I thought her teeth were beautiful.”
“They can easily be seen, for her mouth is large enough. Decidedly, I was wrong, my lord; you are certainly handsomer than your wife.”
“They can easily be seen because her mouth is big enough. I admit, my lord, I was wrong; you are definitely better looking than your wife.”
“But do you think me as handsome as Buckingham?”
“But do you think I’m 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.”
“Definitely, and he thinks that as well; because look, my lord, he’s putting even more effort into charming Madame to make sure you don’t overshadow the impression he’s created.”
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?”
Monsieur shifted in impatience, but when he saw a triumphant smile cross the chevalier’s lips, he slowed his horse to a walk. “Why,” he said, “should I keep worrying about my cousin? Don’t I already know her? Weren’t we raised together? Didn’t I see her at the Louvre when she was just 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 scarcely so proud, either. One evening, particularly, you may remember, my lord, the king refused to dance with her, because he thought her plain and badly dressed!”
“A huge change has happened in her since then, prince. Back then, she was a bit less radiant and not as proud, either. One evening, especially, you might recall, my lord, the king refused to dance with her because he considered her plain and poorly 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 would probably have retorted, 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 imprudence, did not take the trouble to dissimulate. “Count,” he said, “you’re a man of excellent taste.”
These words made the Duke of Orleans frown. It was definitely not flattering for him to marry a princess that, when he was younger, the king didn’t think much of. He probably would have snapped back, but at that moment, De Guiche got out of the carriage to join the prince. He noticed the prince and the chevalier together, and he seemed to be trying hard to guess the nature of their recent conversation. The chevalier, whether he had some sneaky plan in mind or was just being reckless, didn’t bother to hide it. “Count,” he said, “you have great taste.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” replied De Guiche; “but why do you say that?”
“Thanks for the compliment,” De Guiche replied, “but why do you say that?”
“Well I appeal to his highness.”
“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.”
“No doubt about it,” said Monsieur; “and Guiche knows very well that I think of him as a true gentleman.”
“Well, since that is decided, I resume. You have been in the princess’s society, count, for the last eight days, have you not?”
“Well, since that's settled, I'll continue. You've been with the princess, Count, for the last eight days, right?”
“Yes,” replied De Guiche, coloring in spite of himself.
“Yes,” De Guiche replied, blushing despite himself.
“Well then, tell us frankly, what do you think of her personal appearance?”
"Well then, tell us honestly, what do you think of her looks?"
“Of her personal appearance?” returned De Guiche, stupefied.
“Her looks?” De Guiche replied, astonished.
“Yes; of her appearance, of her mind, of herself, in fact.”
“Yes; about her looks, her thoughts, her whole being, really.”
Astounded by this question, De Guiche hesitated answering.
Astounded by this question, De Guiche paused before answering.
“Come, come, De Guiche,” resumed the chevalier, laughingly, “tell us your opinion frankly; the prince commands it.”
“Come on, De Guiche,” the chevalier said with a laugh, “share your honest opinion; the prince insists.”
“Yes, yes,” said the prince, “be frank.”
“Yes, yes,” said the prince, “be honest.”
De Guiche stammered out a few unintelligible words.
De Guiche stumbled over a few unclear 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?”
“I know this topic is sensitive,” replied Monsieur, “but you can share anything with me. What are your thoughts about her?”
In order to avoid betraying his real thoughts, De Guiche had recourse to the only defense which a man taken by surprise 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.”
In order to avoid revealing his true feelings, De Guiche resorted to the only defense a caught-off-guard person really has, and so he told a lie. “I don’t think Madame,” he said, “is either attractive or unattractive, but I’d say she’s more attractive than unattractive.”
“What! count,” exclaimed the chevalier, “you who went into such ecstasies and uttered so many exclamations at the sight of her portrait.”
“What! Count,” the chevalier exclaimed, “you who got so excited and made so many exclamations when you saw 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.
De Guiche flushed with anger. Luckily, his horse, which was a bit restless, made a sudden jump that helped him hide his distress. “What portrait?” he mumbled, rejoining them. The chevalier had kept his eyes on him the whole time.
“Yes, the portrait. Was not the miniature a good likeness?”
“Yes, the portrait. Wasn't the miniature a good likeness?”
“I do not remember. I had forgotten the portrait; it quite escaped my recollection.”
“I don’t remember. I completely forgot about the portrait; it totally slipped my mind.”
“And yet it made a very marked impression upon you,” said the chevalier.
“And yet it made a strong impression on you,” said the chevalier.
“That is not unlikely.”
"That's pretty likely."
“Is she witty, at all events?” inquired the duke.
"Is she witty, anyway?" the duke asked.
“I believe so, my lord.”
"I think so, my lord."
“Is M. de Buckingham witty, too?” said the chevalier.
“Is M. de Buckingham funny, too?” said the chevalier.
“I do not know.”
"I don't know."
“My own opinion is that he must be,” replied the chevalier, “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.”
“My own opinion is that he must be,” replied the knight, “because he makes Madame laugh, and she seems to enjoy his company quite a bit, which never happens to a smart woman when she’s with an idiot.”
“Of course, then, he must be clever,” said De Guiche, simply.
“Of course, he must be clever,” De Guiche said plainly.
At this moment Raoul opportunely arrived, seeing how De Guiche was pressed by his dangerous questioner, to whom he addressed a remark, and in that way changed the conversation. The entree was brilliant and joyous.
At that moment, Raoul conveniently arrived, noticing how De Guiche was under pressure from his risky questioner. He made a comment, which shifted the conversation. The entree was lively and cheerful.
The king, in honor of his brother, had directed that the festivities should be on a scale of the greatest possible 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 uneven floorings, the ceilings matted with cobwebs, the vast dilapidated chimney-places, the cold hearths on which the charity extended to them by parliament hardly permitted a fire to glow, was completely altered in appearance. The richest hangings and the thickest carpets, glistening flagstones, and pictures, with their richly gilded frames; in every direction could be seen candelabra, mirrors, and furniture and fittings of the most sumptuous character; in every direction, also, were guards of the proudest military bearing, with floating plumes, crowds of attendants and courtiers in the ante-chambers and upon the staircases. In the courtyards, where the grass had formerly been allowed to luxuriate, as if the ungrateful Mazarin had thought it a good idea to let the Parisians perceive the solitude and disorder were, with misery and despair, the fit accompaniments of 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, during her widowhood and exile, had sometimes gone without wood for her fire, and bread for her table, whom the meanest attendant at the chateau had treated with indifference and contempt. And so, the Madame Henriette once more returned to the Louvre, with her heart more swollen with bitter recollections than her daughter’s, whose disposition was fickle and forgetful, with triumph and delight. She knew but too well this brilliant reception was paid to the happy mother of a king restored to his throne, a 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 punishment for having been unfortunate. After the princess had been installed in their apartments and had rested, the gentlemen who had formed their escort, having, in like manner, recovered from their fatigue, they resumed their accustomed habits and occupations. Raoul began by setting off to see his father, who had left for Blois. He then tried to see M. d’Artagnan, who, however, being engaged in the organization of a military household for the king, could not be found anywhere. Bragelonne next sought out De Guiche, but the count 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 courteous one, in which, in order to insure success, the duke was ready to spend a million; while the Marechal de Gramont 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.
The king, honoring his brother, ordered the celebrations to be as magnificent as possible. Madame and her mother arrived at the Louvre, where they had sadly endured obscurity, misery, and all kinds of hardships during their exile. The palace, which had been such an unwelcoming home for Henry IV's unfortunate daughter—its bare walls, uneven floors, cobweb-covered ceilings, vast, dilapidated chimneys, and cold hearths barely warmed by the meager fires allowed by Parliament—had completely transformed. Now, it was adorned with the richest tapestries and thickest carpets, shining flagstones, and paintings in ornate, gilded frames. Everywhere there were candelabras, mirrors, and the most lavish furniture; also present were guards with proud military stances, plumes in the air, along with a host of attendants and courtiers filling the waiting areas and staircases. In the courtyards, where grass had previously grown unchecked—thanks to the ungrateful Mazarin, who seemed to think that allowing Parisians to witness the solitude and chaos would remind them of the misery and despair fitting a fallen monarchy—the vast, formerly silent courtyards were now alive with courtiers whose horses pranced around. The carriages were packed with young, beautiful women eager to greet the daughter of France, the one who, during her widowhood and exile, sometimes went without firewood for warmth or bread for meals, and who had been treated with indifference and disdain by even the lowest attendant at the chateau. Thus, Madame Henriette returned to the Louvre, her heart heavier with bitter memories than her daughter’s, whose moods were changeable and forgetful, filled with triumph and joy. She well understood that this glamorous welcome was reserved for the happy mother of a king restored to his throne—one of the most significant thrones in Europe—while the indifferent reception she had once received as Henry IV's daughter was a punishment for her misfortune. After the princess settled into their rooms and took some rest, the gentlemen who had accompanied them also took the time to recover from their exhaustion, resuming their usual habits and activities. Raoul first set off to visit his father, who had gone to Blois. He then attempted to find M. d’Artagnan, but he was unavailable as he was busy organizing a military household for the king. Bragelonne next sought De Guiche, but the count was tied up in a lengthy meeting with his tailors and with Manicamp, which took all his time. His luck was even worse with the Duke of Buckingham, who was busy buying horse after horse and diamond after diamond. He monopolized every embroiderer, jeweler, and tailor in Paris. A vigorous yet courteous contest arose between De Guiche and Buckingham, where to ensure his success, the duke was ready to spend a million, while the Marechal de Gramont had only given his son sixty thousand francs. Buckingham laughed and spent his money freely. Guiche sighed in despair, and would have shown it more openly, but for the advice given to him by De Bragelonne.
“A million!” repeated De Guiche daily; “I must submit. Why will not the marechal advance me a portion of my patrimony?”
“A million!” De Guiche repeated every day; “I have to accept it. Why won’t the marshal give me a part of my inheritance?”
“Because you would throw it away,” said Raoul.
“Because you would just toss it aside,” said Raoul.
“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.”
“What does that matter to him? If I die from it, I die from it, and then I won’t need anything else.”
“But what need is there to die?” said Raoul.
“But why do we need to die?” Raoul asked.
“I do not wish to be conquered in elegance by an Englishman.”
“I don’t want to be outdone in style by an Englishman.”
“My dear count,” said Manicamp, “elegance is not a costly commodity, it is only a very difficult accomplishment.”
“My dear count,” said Manicamp, “elegance isn't an expensive thing; it's just a really tough skill to master.”
“Yes, but difficult things cost a good deal of money, and I have only got sixty thousand francs.”
“Yes, but tough things cost a lot of money, and I only have sixty thousand francs.”
“A very embarrassing state of things, truly,” said De Wardes; “even if you spent as much as Buckingham, there is only nine hundred and forty thousand francs difference.”
“A really embarrassing situation, for sure,” said De Wardes; “even if you spent as much as Buckingham, there’s still only nine hundred and forty thousand francs difference.”
“Where am I to find them?”
“Where am I supposed to find them?”
“Get into debt.”
“Go into debt.”
“I am in debt already.”
"I'm already in debt."
“A greater reason for getting further.”
“A better reason for moving ahead.”
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 shopkeepers in Paris; from the hotel of the Duke of Buckingham to that of the Comte de Gramont nothing but miracles was attempted. While all this was going on, Madame was resting herself, and Bragelonne was engaged in writing to Mademoiselle de la Valliere. He had already dispatched four letters, and not an answer to any one of them had been received, when, on the very morning fixed for the marriage ceremony, which was to take place in the chapel at the Palais Royal, Raoul, who was dressing, heard his valet announce M. de Malicorne. “What can this Malicorne want with me?” thought Raoul; and then said to his valet, “Let him wait.”
Advice like this made De Guiche so excited that he went overboard while Buckingham just spent money. The word about his extravagant spending thrilled all the shopkeepers in Paris; from the Duke of Buckingham's hotel to the Comte de Gramont's, they were all trying to pull off miracles. Meanwhile, Madame was resting, and Bragelonne was busy writing to Mademoiselle de la Valliere. He had already sent four letters, and he hadn’t received a single reply, when on the morning of the wedding ceremony set to take place in the chapel at the Palais Royal, Raoul, while getting dressed, heard his valet announce M. de Malicorne. “What does this Malicorne want with me?” Raoul thought, then told his valet, “Let him wait.”
“It is a gentleman from Blois,” said the valet.
“It’s a gentleman from Blois,” said the valet.
“Admit him at once,” said Raoul, eagerly.
“Let him in right away,” Raoul said eagerly.
Malicorne entered as brilliant as a star, and wearing a superb sword at his side. After having saluted Raoul most gracefully, he said: “M. de Bragelonne, I am the bearer of a thousand compliments from a lady to you.”
Malicorne entered as shining as a star, with a stunning sword at his side. After greeting Raoul with great elegance, he said, “Mr. de Bragelonne, I’m here to deliver a thousand compliments from a lady to you.”
Raoul colored. “From a lady,” said he, “from a lady of Blois?”
Raoul blushed. “From a lady,” he said, “from a lady from Blois?”
“Yes, monsieur; from Mademoiselle de Montalais.”
“Yes, sir; from Miss de Montalais.”
“Thank you, monsieur; I recollect you now,” said Raoul. “And what does Mademoiselle de Montalais require of me.”
“Thank you, sir; I remember you now,” said Raoul. “And what does Miss de Montalais need from me?”
Malicorne drew four letters from his pocket, which he offered to Raoul.
Malicorne took out four letters from his pocket and handed them to Raoul.
“My own letters, is it possible?” he said, turning pale; “my letters, and the seals unbroken?”
“My own letters, is that really possible?” he said, turning pale; “my letters, and the seals still unbroken?”
“Monsieur, your letters did not find at Blois the person to whom they were addressed, and so they are now returned to you.”
“Monsieur, your letters didn’t reach the person they were meant for in Blois, so they are being sent back to you.”
“Mademoiselle de la Valliere has left Blois, then?” exclaimed Raoul.
“Mademoiselle de la Vallière has left Blois, then?” exclaimed Raoul.
“Eight days ago.”
"Eight days ago."
“Where is she, then?”
"Where is she now?"
“In Paris.”
"In Paris."
“How is it known that these letters were from me?”
“How do you know these letters are from me?”
“Mademoiselle de Montalais recognized your handwriting and your seal,” said Malicorne.
“Mademoiselle de Montalais recognized your handwriting and your seal,” Malicorne said.
Raoul colored and smiled. “Mademoiselle de Montalais is exceedingly amiable,” he said; “she is always kind and charming.”
Raoul blushed and smiled. “Mademoiselle de Montalais is incredibly nice,” he said; “she’s always kind and lovely.”
“Always, monsieur.”
"Always, sir."
“Surely she could have given me some precise information about Mademoiselle de la Valliere. I never could find her in this immense city.”
“Surely she could have given me some specific information about Mademoiselle de la Valliere. I could never find her in this huge city.”
Malicorne drew another packet from his pocket. “You may possibly find in this letter what you are anxious to learn.”
Malicorne pulled out another packet from his pocket. “You might find what you're eager to know in this letter.”
Raoul hurriedly broke the seal. The writing was that of Mademoiselle Aure, and inclosed were these words:—“Paris, Palais Royal. The day of the nuptial blessing.”
Raoul quickly broke the seal. The writing was from Mademoiselle Aure, and inside were these words:—“Paris, Palais Royal. The day of the wedding blessing.”
“What does this mean?” inquired Raoul of Malicorne; “you probably know?”
“What does this mean?” Raoul asked Malicorne; “you probably know?”
“I do, monsieur.”
"I do, sir."
“For pity’s sake, tell me, then.”
“For goodness' sake, just tell me, then.”
“Impossible, monsieur.”
"Not possible, sir."
“Why so?”
"Why's that?"
“Because Mademoiselle Aure has forbidden me to do so.”
“Because Mademoiselle Aure has told me I can’t.”
Raoul looked at his strange visitor, and remained silent;—“At least, tell me whether it is fortunate or unfortunate.”
Raoul looked at his unusual visitor and stayed quiet;—“At least, tell me if this is good or bad.”
“That you will see.”
"You'll see."
“You are very severe in your reservations.”
"You are really harsh in your criticisms."
“Will you grant me one favor, monsieur?” said Malicorne.
“Will you do me a favor, sir?” said Malicorne.
“In exchange for that you refuse me?”
“In return for that, you’re turning me down?”
“Precisely.”
"Exactly."
“What is it?”
"What's that?"
“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?”
“I really want to see the ceremony, but I don’t have a ticket to get in, even after trying everything to get one. Could you help me get in?”
“Certainly.”
“Sure.”
“Do me this kindness, then, I entreat.”
“Please do me this favor, I beg you.”
“Most willingly, monsieur; come with me.”
“Of course, sir; come with me.”
“I am exceedingly indebted to you, monsieur,” said Malicorne.
“I am very grateful to you, sir,” said Malicorne.
“I thought you were a friend of M. de Manicamp.”
“I thought you were friends with M. de Manicamp.”
“I am, monsieur; but this morning I was with him as he was dressing, and I let a bottle of blacking fall over his new dress, and he flew at me sword in hand, so that I was obliged to make my escape. That is the reason I could not ask him for a ticket. He wanted to kill me.”
“I am, sir; but this morning I was with him while he was getting dressed, and I accidentally knocked over a bottle of blacking onto his new outfit, and he came at me with a sword, so I had to run away. That's why I couldn't ask him for a ticket. He wanted to kill me.”
“I can well believe it,” laughed Raoul. “I know Manicamp is capable of killing a man who has been unfortunate enough to commit the crime you have to reproach yourself with, but I will repair the mischief as far as you are concerned. I will but fasten my cloak, and shall then be ready to serve you, not only as a guide, but as your introducer, too.”
“I can totally believe that,” laughed Raoul. “I know Manicamp is capable of killing someone who's unfortunate enough to have done what you’re feeling guilty about, but I’ll fix that as far as you’re concerned. Just let me fasten my cloak, and I’ll be ready to help you, not just as a guide, but also as your introducer.”
Chapter XIV. A Surprise for Raoul.
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, notwithstanding 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 approached De Guiche, who, as if in contrast with his magnificent costume, exhibited a countenance so utterly dejected, that the Duke of Buckingham was the only one present who could contend with him as far as pallor and discomfiture were concerned.
Madame’s wedding took place in the chapel of the Palais Royal, in front of a carefully chosen crowd of courtiers. Despite the clear privilege that came with an invitation, Raoul, true to his promise to Malicorne, who was eager to see the ceremony, managed to get him in. After fulfilling this commitment, Raoul went over to De Guiche, who, in stark contrast to his extravagant outfit, wore an expression of utter despair—only the Duke of Buckingham could match him in terms of paleness and distress.
“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 on either side of the nave of the church. The count, after that, kept a more careful watch over himself.
“Take care, Count,” Raoul said as he moved closer to his friend, getting ready to support him when the archbishop blessed the couple. In fact, the Prince of Conde was closely observing the two figures of despair, standing like statues on either side of the church's nave. After that, the Count was more mindful of himself.
At the termination of the ceremony, the king and queen passed onward towards 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 flattering in his compliments to her. Again, it was remarked that the queen-mother, fixing a long and thoughtful gaze upon Buckingham, leaned towards Madame de Motteville as 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 quite discontented. After the reception of the princess and ambassadors, Monsieur solicited the king’s permission to present to him as well as to Madame the persons belonging to their new household.
At the end of the ceremony, the king and queen made their way to the grand reception room, where Madame and her entourage were to be introduced to them. It was noted that the king, who appeared to be taken aback by his sister-in-law’s appearance, was very generous with his compliments to her. Additionally, it was mentioned that the queen-mother, giving a long and thoughtful look at Buckingham, leaned toward Madame de Motteville as if to ask her, “Don’t you see how much he looks like his father?” Finally, it was observed that Monsieur was watching everyone and seemed quite unhappy. After the princess and ambassadors were received, Monsieur requested the king’s permission to introduce him and Madame to the members of their new household.
“Are you aware, vicomte,” inquired the Prince de Conde of Raoul, “whether the household has been selected by a person of taste, and whether there are any faces worth looking at?”
“Are you aware, vicomte,” asked the Prince de Conde of Raoul, “if the household has been chosen by someone with good taste, and if there are any faces worth seeing?”
“I have not the slightest idea, monseigneur,” replied Raoul.
“I have no idea, sir,” replied Raoul.
“You affect ignorance, surely.”
"You definitely act ignorant."
“In what way, monseigneur?”
“How so, sir?”
“You are a friend of De Guiche, who is one of the friends of the prince.”
“You're a friend of De Guiche, who is also a friend of the prince.”
“That may be so, monseigneur; but the matter having no interest whatever for me, I have never questioned De Guiche on the subject; and De Guiche, on his part, never having been questioned, did not communicate any particulars to me.”
“That may be true, sir; but since the matter holds no interest for me, I've never asked De Guiche about it; and De Guiche, for his part, having never been asked, didn't share any details with me.”
“But Manicamp?”
“But Manicamp?”
“It is true I saw Manicamp at Le Havre, and during the journey here, but I was no more inquisitive with him than I had been towards De Guiche. Besides, is it likely that Manicamp should know anything of such matters? for he is a person of only secondary importance.”
“It’s true I saw Manicamp in Le Havre and on the way here, but I was no more curious about him than I had been about De Guiche. Besides, is it likely that Manicamp would know anything about such matters? He’s just a person of 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.”
“My dear vicomte, don’t you know better than that?” said the prince. “It’s these people of lesser importance who hold all the power in situations like this. The reality is that almost everything has been arranged through Manicamp’s introductions to De Guiche, and from De Guiche to Monsieur.”
“I assure you, monseigneur, I was ignorant of that,” said Raoul, “and what your highness does me the honor to impart is perfectly new to me.”
“I assure you, Your Highness, I was unaware of that,” said Raoul, “and what you’re telling me is completely new to me.”
“I will most readily believe you, although it seems incredible; besides we shall not have long to wait. See, the flying squadron is advancing, as good Queen Catherine used to say. Ah! ah! what pretty faces!”
“I’ll totally believe you, even though it sounds unbelievable; plus, we won’t have to wait long. Look, the flying squad is coming, just like good Queen Catherine used to say. Ah! ah! what beautiful faces!”
A bevy of young girls at this moment entered the salon, conducted by Madame de Navailles, and to Manicamp’s credit be it said, if indeed he had taken that part in their selection which the Prince de Conde assigned him, it was a display calculated to dazzle those who, like the prince, could appreciate every character and style of beauty. A young, fair-complexioned girl, from twenty to one-and-twenty 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.
A group of young girls just walked into the salon, led by Madame de Navailles. To Manicamp’s credit, if he really did play the role in their selection that the Prince de Conde assigned to him, it was a sight meant to impress anyone who, like the prince, could appreciate all types and forms of beauty. Leading the group was a young girl, around twenty to twenty-one years old, with a fair complexion and large blue eyes that sparkled brilliantly as she opened them, making her the first to be presented.
“Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente,” said Madame de Navailles to Monsieur, who, as he saluted his wife, repeated “Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.”
“Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente,” said Madame de Navailles to Monsieur, who, as he greeted his wife, repeated “Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.”
“Ah! ah!” said the Prince de Conde to Raoul, “she is presentable enough.”
“Ah! ah!” said Prince de Conde to Raoul, “she looks good enough.”
“Yes,” said Raoul, “but has she not a somewhat haughty style?”
“Yes,” said Raoul, “but doesn’t she have a bit of a haughty attitude?”
“Bah! we know these airs very well, vicomte; three months hence she will be tame enough. But look, there, indeed, is a pretty face.”
“Ugh! we know this behavior all too well, vicomte; in three months she’ll be easy to handle. But look over there, that’s a pretty face.”
“Yes,” said Raoul, “and one I am acquainted with.”
“Yes,” Raoul said, “and one I know well.”
“Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais,” said Madame de Navailles. The name and Christian name were carefully repeated by Monsieur.
“Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais,” said Madame de Navailles. Monsieur carefully repeated both the first and last name.
“Great heavens!” exclaimed Raoul, fixing his bewildered gaze upon the entrance doorway.
“Wow!” exclaimed Raoul, staring in confusion at the entrance doorway.
“What’s the matter?” inquired the prince; “was it Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais who made you utter such a ‘Great heavens’?”
“What’s wrong?” asked the prince. “Was it Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais who made you say such a ‘Great heavens’?”
“No, monseigneur, no,” replied Raoul, pale and trembling.
“No, sir, no,” replied Raoul, pale and shaking.
“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.”
“Well, if it’s not Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais, then it’s that pretty blonde who’s following her. What beautiful eyes! She’s a bit thin, but she has countless charms.”
“Mademoiselle de la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere!” said Madame 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.
“Mademoiselle de la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere!” said Madame de Navailles; and as this name echoed through him, it felt like a cloud rose from his chest to his eyes, making him unable to see or hear anything else. The prince, realizing that he was just an empty echo who remained quiet under his teasing, moved forward to take a closer look at the beautiful girls whom he had already noticed.
“Louise here! Louise a maid of honor to Madame!” murmured Raoul, 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 presentation and for her reverences.
“Louise here! Louise, a maid of honor to Madame!” whispered Raoul, and his eyes, which couldn’t fully satisfy his mind, shifted from Louise to Montalais. The latter had already freed herself from the fake shyness she only needed for the introduction and her curtsies.
Mademoiselle de Montalais, from the corner of the room to which she had retired, was looking with no slight confidence at the different persons present; and, having discovered Raoul, she amused herself with the profound astonishment which her own and her friend’s presence there caused the unhappy lover. Her waggish and malicious look, which Raoul tried to avoid meeting, and which yet he sought inquiringly from time to time, placed him on the rack. As for Louise, whether from natural timidity, or some other reason for which Raoul could not account, she kept her eyes constantly cast down; intimidated, dazzled, and with impeded respiration, she withdrew herself as much as possible aside, unaffected even by the nudges Montalais gave her with her elbow. The whole scene was a perfect enigma for Raoul, 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 finding himself in the presence of so many persons of good birth, and not a little discouraged by Montalais’s bantering glances, had described a circle, and by degrees succeeded in getting a few paces from the prince, behind the group of maids of honor, and nearly within reach of Mademoiselle Aure’s voice, she being the planet around which he, as her attendant satellite, seemed constrained to gravitate. As he recovered his self-possession, Raoul fancied he recognized voices on his right hand side that were familiar to him, and he perceived De Wardes, De Guiche, and the Chevalier de Lorraine 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 may be engaged in conversation, is a talent that cannot be immediately acquired by newcomers. Long study is needed for such conversations, which, without a look, gesture, or movement of the head, seem like the conversation of a group of statues. In fact, the king’s and queen’s grand assemblies, while their majesties were speaking, and while every one present seemed to be listening in the midst of the most profound silence, some of these noiseless conversations took place, in which adulation was not the prevailing feature. But Raoul 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.
Mademoiselle de Montalais, from the corner of the room where she had withdrawn, was confidently observing the different people present. Upon spotting Raoul, she took delight in the deep surprise her and her friend’s presence caused the unhappy lover. Her playful and mischievous look, which Raoul tried to avoid meeting but also sought out occasionally, put him in a tough spot. As for Louise, whether due to natural shyness or some other reason Raoul couldn’t figure out, she kept her eyes downcast. Intimidated, dazzled, and struggling to breathe, she tried to withdraw as much as possible, not even reacting to the nudges Montalais gave her with her elbow. The whole scene was a complete mystery to Raoul, the key to which he would have given anything to possess. But there was no one available to help him, not even Malicorne, who, feeling a bit uneasy in the presence of so many highborn individuals and somewhat discouraged by Montalais’s teasing looks, had created some distance for himself, gradually moving a few steps away from the prince, behind the group of maids of honor, and almost within earshot of Mademoiselle Aure’s voice, around whom he, as her attending satellite, seemed compelled to orbit. As he regained his composure, Raoul thought he recognized familiar voices on his right and noticed De Wardes, De Guiche, and the Chevalier de Lorraine engaged in conversation. It was true they spoke so softly that their words could hardly be heard in the large room. Speaking in that way without bending down, turning around, or looking at the person you’re talking to is a skill newcomers struggle to master. It takes a lot of practice for such conversations, which, without any looks, gestures, or head movements, resemble a dialogue among statues. In fact, during the grand assemblies of the king and queen, while their majesties were speaking and everyone seemed to be listening in complete silence, some of these silent conversations happened, where flattery wasn't the main focus. But Raoul was one of those who was particularly skilled at this art, so much a matter of etiquette that he could often guess the meaning of their words just from the movement of their lips.
“Who is that Montalais?” inquired De Wardes, “and that La Valliere? What country-town have we had sent here?”
“Who is that Montalais?” De Wardes asked, “and that La Valliere? What small town have we had sent here?”
“Montalais?” said the chevalier,—“oh, I know her; she is a good sort of girl, whom we shall find amusing enough. La Valliere is a charming girl, slightly lame.”
“Montalais?” said the chevalier, “oh, I know her; she’s a nice girl, and I think we’ll find her entertaining enough. La Valliere is a lovely girl, a bit lame.”
“Ah! bah!” said De Wardes.
"Ugh! No way!" said De Wardes.
“Do not be absurd, De Wardes, there are some very characteristic and ingenious Latin axioms about lame ladies.”
“Don't be ridiculous, De Wardes, there are some really clever and telling Latin sayings about disabled women.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said De Guiche, looking at Raoul with uneasiness, “be a little careful, I entreat you.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” De Guiche said, glancing at Raoul with concern, “please be a bit careful, I beg you.”
But the uneasiness of the count, in appearance at least, was not needed. Raoul had preserved the firmest and most indifferent countenance, although he had not lost a word that passed. He seemed to keep an account of the insolence and license of the two speakers in order to settle matters with them at the earliest opportunity.
But the count's discomfort, at least on the surface, wasn’t necessary. Raoul maintained the most composed and indifferent expression, even though he didn’t miss a single word spoken. He appeared to be keeping track of the rudeness and arrogance of the two speakers so he could confront them at the earliest chance.
De Wardes seemed to guess what was passing in his mind, and continued:
De Wardes appeared to sense what was on his mind and went on:
“Who are these young ladies’ lovers?”
“Who are these young ladies’ boyfriends?”
“Montalais’s lover?” said the chevalier.
“Montalais’s partner?” said the chevalier.
“Yes, Montalais first.”
“Yeah, Montalais first.”
“You, I, or De Guiche,—whoever likes, in fact.”
“You, me, or De Guiche—whoever wants, really.”
“And the other?”
“And the other one?”
“Mademoiselle de la Valliere?”
“Ms. de la Valliere?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“Take care, gentlemen,” exclaimed De Guiche, anxious to put a stop to the chevalier’s reply; “take care, Madame is listening to us.”
“Be careful, gentlemen,” De Guiche said, eager to interrupt the chevalier’s response; “be careful, Madame is listening to us.”
Raoul had thrust his hand up to the wrist into his justaucorps 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 protection; 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 toward the group of the maids of honor. The presentations were soon over. The king, who had done nothing but look at and admire Madame, shortly afterwards left the reception-room, accompanied by the two queens. The Chevalier de Lorraine resumed his place beside Monsieur, and, as he accompanied him, insinuated a few drops of the venom he had collected during the last hour, while looking at some of the faces in the court, and suspecting that 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 character, and professed a gallantry of disposition, began to approach the ladies of the court. The prince paid his compliments to Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, Buckingham devoted himself to Madame Chalais and Mademoiselle de Lafayette, whom Madame already distinguished by her notice, and whom she held in high regard. As for the Comte de Guiche, who had abandoned Monsieur as soon as he could approach Madame alone, he conversed, with great animation, with Madame de Valentinois, and with Mademoiselle de Crequy and de Chatillon.
Raoul had thrust his hand up to the wrist into his justaucorps in great agitation. But the very malice he saw directed at these poor girls made him decide to take action. “Poor Louise,” he thought, “has come here with only honorable intentions and under honorable protection; I must find out what her intentions are and who is protecting her.” Following Malicorne’s lead, he made his way to the group of maids of honor. The introductions were completed quickly. The king, who had done nothing but watch and admire Madame, soon left the reception room, accompanied by the two queens. The Chevalier de Lorraine returned to his place beside Monsieur and, as they walked together, slipped in a few drops of the poison he had gathered during the last hour while observing some of the faces at court, suspecting that some of their hearts might be content. A few of the people present followed the king as he exited the room; however, those courtiers who embraced a more independent attitude and claimed a gallant disposition began to approach the ladies of the court. The prince complimented Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, Buckingham focused his attention on Madame Chalais and Mademoiselle de Lafayette, who was already receiving recognition from Madame, and whom she held in high regard. As for the Comte de Guiche, who had left Monsieur as soon as he could get close to Madame alone, he engaged in lively conversation with Madame de Valentinois, and with Mademoiselle de Crequy and de Chatillon.
Amid these varied political, and amorous interests, Malicorne was anxious to gain Montalais’s attention; but the latter preferred talking with Raoul, even if it were only to amuse herself with his innumerable questions and his astonishment. Raoul had gone directly to Mademoiselle 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.
Amid these mixed political and romantic interests, Malicorne was eager to catch Montalais's attention, but she preferred chatting with Raoul, even if it was just for entertainment with his endless questions and surprise. Raoul had gone straight to Mademoiselle de la Valliere and greeted her with the utmost respect, causing Louise to blush and leave her speechless. However, Montalais quickly stepped in to help her.
“Well, monsieur le vicomte, here we are, you see.”
“Well, Mr. Viscount, here we are, you see.”
“I do, indeed, see you,” said Raoul smiling, “and it is exactly because you are here that I wish to ask for some explanation.”
“I do see you,” Raoul said with a smile, “and it’s precisely because you’re here that I want to ask for some clarification.”
Malicorne approached the group with his most fascinating smile.
Malicorne walked up to the group with his most charming smile.
“Go away, Malicorne; really you are exceedingly indiscreet.” 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, became mocking in its expression.
“Leave me alone, Malicorne; you’re really being quite rude.” At this comment, Malicorne bit his lips and stepped back a few paces without saying anything. However, his smile changed, evolving from its previous openness to a mocking expression.
“You wished for an explanation, M. Raoul?” inquired Montalais.
“You wanted an explanation, M. Raoul?” Montalais asked.
“It is surely worth one, I think; Mademoiselle de la Valliere is a maid of honor to Madame!”
“It’s definitely worth it, I think; Mademoiselle de la Valliere is a maid of honor to Madame!”
“Why should she not be a maid of honor, as well as myself?” inquired Montalais.
“Why can’t she be a maid of honor, just like me?” asked Montalais.
“Pray accept my compliments, young ladies,” said Raoul, who fancied he perceived they were not disposed to answer him in a direct manner.
“Please accept my compliments, young ladies,” said Raoul, who thought he noticed they weren’t inclined to respond to him directly.
“Your remark was not made in a very complimentary manner, vicomte.”
“Your comment wasn't very flattering, vicomte.”
“Mine?”
"Is this mine?"
“Certainly; I appeal to Louise.”
“Of course; I consult Louise.”
“M. de Bragelonne probably thinks the position is above my condition,” said Louise, hesitatingly.
“M. de Bragelonne probably thinks the position is above my level,” said Louise, hesitantly.
“Assuredly not,” replied Raoul, 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 much greater reason, then, such a position as this? The only circumstance that amazes me is, that I should have learned it only to-day, and that by the merest accident.”
“Definitely not,” Raoul replied eagerly, “you know that’s not how I feel; if you were asked to sit on a queen’s throne, I wouldn’t be surprised; so why would I be surprised about something like this? The only thing that surprises me is that I found out about it just today, and completely by chance.”
“That is true,” replied Montalais, with her usual giddiness; “you know nothing about it, and there is no reason you should. M. 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 prevent these letters from falling into her hands; I intercepted them, and returned them to M. Raoul, so that he believed you were still at Blois while you were here in Paris, and had no idea whatever, indeed, how high you had risen in rank.”
“That’s true,” replied Montalais, with her usual playfulness; “you don’t know anything about it, and there’s no reason for you to. M. de Bragelonne had written several letters to you, but your mother was the only one who stayed behind in Blois, and it was important to make sure those letters didn’t get to her; I intercepted them and sent them back to M. Raoul, so he thought you were still in Blois while you were here in Paris, and had no idea at all how much your status had changed.”
“Did you not inform M. Raoul, as I begged you to do?”
“Did you not tell M. Raoul, like I asked you to?”
“Why should I? to give him opportunity of making some of his severe remarks and moral reflections, and to undo what we have had so much trouble in effecting? Certainly not.”
“Why should I? So he can have the chance to make some of his harsh comments and moral reflections, and to undo all the effort we’ve put in? Definitely not.”
“Am I so very severe, then?” said Raoul, inquiringly.
“Am I really that strict?” Raoul asked, curious.
“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 behind; I received your letters, and returned them to you, adding a few words, promising you a surprise. Your surprise is before you, monsieur, and seems to be a fair one enough; you have nothing more to ask. Come, M. Malicorne, it is now time to leave these young people together: they have many things to talk about; give me your hand; I trust that you appreciate the honor conferred upon you, M. Malicorne.”
“Besides,” Montalais said, “it’s enough to say that it worked for me. I was about to leave for Paris—you were away; Louise was crying her eyes out; interpret that however you want; I asked a friend of mine, someone who got me the position, to request one for Louise as well; the position came through. Louise left to get her costume ready; since mine was already set, I stayed behind; I got your letters and returned them to you with a few words, promising you a surprise. Your surprise is right in front of you, sir, and it looks like a good one; you have nothing more to ask. Come on, M. Malicorne, it’s time to leave these young people together: they have a lot to discuss; give me your hand; I hope you appreciate the honor given to you, M. Malicorne.”
“Forgive me,” said Raoul, arresting the giddy girl, and giving to his voice an intonation, the gravity of which contrasted with that of Montalais; “forgive me, but may I inquire the name of the protector you speak of; for if protection be extended towards you, Mademoiselle de Montalais,—for which, indeed, so many reasons exist,” added Raoul, bowing, “I do not see that the same reasons exist why Mademoiselle de la Valliere should be similarly cared for.”
“Forgive me,” said Raoul, stopping the excited girl, and giving his voice a tone that was serious compared to Montalais's; “forgive me, but can I ask the name of the protector you’re talking about? Because if you’re getting protection, Mademoiselle de Montalais,—and there are indeed many reasons for that,” Raoul added, bowing, “I don’t see why Mademoiselle de la Valliere should be given the same kind of attention.”
“But, M. Raoul,” 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 M. Malicorne who obtained it for me.”
“But, Mr. Raoul,” said Louise, innocently, “there’s no difference in this matter, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t just tell you myself; it was Mr. Malicorne who got it for me.”
Raoul remained for a moment almost stupefied, 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. Mademoiselle de la Valliere attempted to follow her friend, but Raoul, with gentle authority, detained her.
Raoul stood there for a moment, almost in shock, wondering if they were playing games with him. He then turned to ask Malicorne, but Montalais had rushed him away, and he was already far from them. Mademoiselle de la Valliere tried to follow her friend, but Raoul gently but firmly held her back.
“Louise, one word, I beg.”
“Louise, just one word, please.”
“But, M. Raoul,” said Louise, blushing, “we are alone. Every one has left. They will become anxious, and will be looking for us.”
“But, M. Raoul,” Louise said, blushing, “we're alone. Everyone has left. They'll start to worry and will be searching for us.”
“Fear nothing,” said the young man, smiling, “we are neither of us of sufficient importance for our absence to be remarked.”
“Don’t worry,” said the young man with a smile, “we’re not important enough for anyone to notice if we’re gone.”
“But I have my duty to perform, M. Raoul.”
“But I have my duty to fulfill, Mr. Raoul.”
“Do not be alarmed, I am acquainted with these 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 for.”
“Don’t worry, I know how the court works; you won’t be on duty until tomorrow. You have a few minutes free, which will allow you to give me the information I’m about to ask you for.”
“How serious you are, M. Raoul!” said Louise.
“How serious you are, Mr. Raoul!” said Louise.
“Because the circumstances are serious. Are you listening?”
“Because the situation is serious. Are you paying attention?”
“I am listening; I would only repeat, monsieur, that we are quite alone.”
“I’m listening; I just want to emphasize, sir, that we are completely alone.”
“You are right,” said Raoul, and, offering her his hand, he led the young girl into the gallery adjoining the reception-room, the windows of which looked out upon the courtyard. Every one hurried towards the middle window, which had a balcony outside, from which all the details of the slow and formal preparations for departure could be seen. Raoul opened one of the side windows, and then, being alone with Louise, said to her: “You know, Louise, that from my childhood I have regarded you as my sister, as one who has been the confidante of all my troubles, to whom I have entrusted all my hopes.”
“You're right,” Raoul said, extending his hand to her as he guided the young girl into the gallery next to the reception room, where the windows overlooked the courtyard. Everyone rushed to the middle window, which had a balcony outside, offering a view of the slow and formal preparations for departure. Raoul opened one of the side windows, and once he was alone with Louise, he said to her, “You know, Louise, that since childhood I've seen you as my sister, as someone who's been my confidante through all my troubles, to whom I've shared all my hopes.”
“Yes, M. Raoul,” she answered softly; “yes, M. Raoul, I know that.”
“Yes, Mr. Raoul,” she replied softly; “yes, Mr. Raoul, I know that.”
“You used, on your side, to show the same friendship towards me, and had the same confidence in me; why have you not, on this occasion, been my friend,—why have you shown suspicion of me?”
“You used to show me the same friendship and had the same trust in me; why haven’t you been my friend this time—why are you showing suspicion towards me?”
Mademoiselle de la Valliere did not answer. “I fondly thought you loved me,” said Raoul, whose voice became more and more agitated; “I fondly thought you consented to all the plans we had, together, laid down for our own happiness, at the time when we wandered up and down the walks of Cour-Cheverny, under the avenue of poplar trees leading to Blois. You do not answer me, Louise. Is it possible,” he inquired, breathing with difficulty, “that you no longer love me?”
Mademoiselle de la Valliere didn’t respond. “I really thought you loved me,” Raoul said, his voice getting more and more upset; “I really thought you agreed to all the plans we made together for our happiness when we walked through the paths of Cour-Cheverny, under the poplar trees leading to Blois. You’re not answering me, Louise. Is it possible,” he asked, struggling to breathe, “that you don’t love me anymore?”
“I did not say so,” replied Louise, softly.
"I didn't say that," Louise replied 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 too soon becomes corrupt—where all that is young too 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?”
“Oh! Please tell me the truth, I beg you. All my hopes in life are focused on you. I chose you for your kind and simple tastes. Don’t let yourself be dazzled, Louise, now that you’re in the middle of a court where everything pure quickly becomes tainted—where everything young ages too fast. Louise, cover your ears, so you don’t hear what might be said; close your eyes, so you don’t see the examples around you; seal your lips, so you don’t breathe in the corrupting influences near you. Without deceit or tricks, Louise, am I to believe what Mademoiselle de Montalais said? Louise, did you come to Paris because I was no longer in Blois?”
La Valliere blushed and concealed her face in her hands.
La Valliere blushed and covered her face with her hands.
“Yes, it was so, then!” exclaimed Raoul, delightedly; “that was, then, your reason for coming here. I love you as I never yet loved you. Thanks, Louise, for this devotion; but measures must be taken to place you beyond all insult, to shield you from every lure. Louise, a maid of honor, in the court of a young princess in these days of free manners and inconstant affections—a maid of honor is placed as an object of attack without having any means of defence afforded her; this state of things cannot continue; you must be married in order to be respected.”
“Yes, that's how it was!” Raoul exclaimed, thrilled. “That was your reason for coming here. I love you more than I ever have before. Thank you, Louise, for your commitment; but we need to take steps to protect you from any disrespect and to keep you safe from every temptation. Louise, being a maid of honor in the court of a young princess these days, with all the loose morals and fleeting affections—it puts you in a vulnerable position without any way to defend yourself; this can't go on. You need to get married to earn the respect you deserve.”
“Married?”
"Got married?"
“Yes, here is my hand, Louise; will you place yours within it?”
“Yes, here is my hand, Louise; will you put yours in it?”
“But your father?”
“But what about your dad?”
“My father leaves me perfectly free.”
“My dad lets me do whatever I want.”
“Yet—”
“Still—”
“I understand your scruples, Louise; I will consult my father.”
“I get your concerns, Louise; I’ll talk to my dad.”
“Reflect, M. Raoul; wait.”
“Think, M. Raoul; hold on.”
“Wait! it is impossible. Reflect, Louise, when you are concerned! it would be insulting,—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 look from the king.”
“Wait! That's impossible. Think about it, Louise, when you are involved! It would be insulting—give me your hand, dear Louise; I am in charge of my own life. My father will agree, I’m sure; just give me your hand, don’t keep me waiting like this. Just one word in response, just one word; if not, I’ll start to believe that to change you forever, all it took was a single step in the palace, a single breath of favor, a smile from the queen, a glance from the king.”
Raoul had no sooner pronounced this latter word, than La Valliere became as pale as death, no doubt from fear at seeing the young man excite himself. With a movement as rapid as thought, she placed both her hands in those of Raoul, and then fled, without adding a syllable; disappearing without casting a look behind her. Raoul felt his whole frame tremble at the contact of her hand; he received the compact as a solemn bargain wrung by affection from her child-like timidity.
Raoul had barely finished saying this last word when La Valliere turned as pale as a ghost, clearly scared by the sight of the young man getting worked up. In a flash, she put both her hands in Raoul's, then ran away without saying a word, disappearing without a glance back. Raoul felt his entire body shake at the touch of her hand; he saw the agreement as a serious promise born from her innocent shyness.
Chapter XV. The Consent of Athos.
Raoul quitted the Palais Royal full of ideas that admitted no delay in 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 exceeding animation by the courtiers, but to the despair of De Guiche and Buckingham. Raoul lost no time on the road, and in sixteen hours he arrived at Blois. As he traveled along, he marshaled his arguments in the most becoming manner. Fever is an argument that cannot be answered, and Raoul had an attack. Athos was in his study, making additions to his memoirs, when Raoul entered, accompanied by Grimaud. Keen-sighted and penetrating, a mere glance at his son told him that something extraordinary had befallen him.
Raoul left the Palais Royal brimming with ideas that couldn’t wait for execution. He got on his horse in the courtyard and took off for Blois, while the wedding celebrations of Monsieur and the princess of England were in full swing among the courtiers, much to De Guiche and Buckingham's dismay. Raoul didn’t waste any time on the road and reached Blois in just sixteen hours. As he traveled, he organized his thoughts in the best way possible. Fever is an argument that can’t be countered, and Raoul was feeling unwell. Athos was in his study, adding to his memoirs, when Raoul came in with Grimaud. Sharp and observant, a quick glance at his son told him that something incredible had happened.
“You seem to come on a matter of importance,” said he to Raoul, after he had embraced him, pointing to a seat.
“You seem to have something important to discuss,” he said to Raoul, after hugging him and gesturing to a seat.
“Yes, monsieur,” replied the young man; “and I entreat you to give me the same kind attention that has never yet failed me.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the young man; “and I ask you to give me the same kind attention that has always been there for me.”
“Speak, Raoul.”
"Talk, Raoul."
“I present the case to you, monsieur, free from all preface, for that would be unworthy of you. Mademoiselle de la Valliere is in Paris as one of Madame’s maids of honor. I have pondered deeply on the matter; I love Mademoiselle de la Valliere above everything; and it is not proper to leave her in a position where her reputation, her virtue even, may be assailed. It is my wish, therefore, to marry her, monsieur, and I have come to solicit your consent to my marriage.”
“I present my case to you, sir, without any introduction, because that would be beneath you. Mademoiselle de la Valliere is in Paris as one of Madame’s maids of honor. I have thought long and hard about this; I love Mademoiselle de la Valliere more than anything else, and it’s not right to keep her in a situation where her reputation, or even her virtue, could be threatened. Therefore, I want to marry her, sir, and I have come to ask for your approval of my marriage.”
While this communication was being made to him, Athos maintained the profoundest silence and reserve. Raoul, 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.
While this communication was happening, Athos stayed completely silent and reserved. Raoul, who started speaking with calm confidence, ended up showing clear emotion with every word. Athos locked his gaze on Bragelonne with a probing look, though it was tinged with a hint of sadness.
“You have reflected well upon it?” he inquired.
"Have you thought about it carefully?" he asked.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Yeah, sir.”
“I believe you are already acquainted with my views respecting this alliance?”
“I assume you're already familiar with my thoughts on this alliance?”
“Yes, monsieur,” replied Raoul, in a low tone of voice; “but you added, that if I persisted—”
“Yes, sir,” Raoul replied quietly; “but you said that if I kept insisting—”
“You do persist, then?”
"Are you really going to persist?"
Raoul stammered out an almost unintelligible assent.
Raoul stammered out a nearly unintelligible agreement.
“Your passion,” continued Athos, tranquilly, “must indeed be very great, since, notwithstanding my dislike to this union, you persist in wanting it.”
“Your passion,” Athos continued calmly, “must be quite strong, since, despite my objections to this union, you still want it.”
Raoul passed his hand trembling across his forehead to remove the perspiration that collected there. Athos looked at him, and his heart was touched by pity. He rose and said,—
Raoul ran his shaking hand across his forehead to wipe away the sweat that had gathered there. Athos glanced at him, his heart filled with compassion. He stood up and said,—
“It is no matter. My own personal feelings are not to be taken into consideration since yours are concerned; I am ready to give it. Tell me what you want.”
“It doesn’t matter. My personal feelings don’t matter since yours are what count; I’m willing to let it go. Just tell me what you need.”
“Your kind indulgence, first of all, monsieur,” said Raoul, taking hold of his hand.
“Your kind understanding, first of all, sir,” said Raoul, taking hold of his hand.
“You have mistaken my feelings, Raoul, I have more than mere indulgence for you in my heart.”
“You've misunderstood my feelings, Raoul; I feel much more than just indulgence for you in my heart.”
Raoul kissed as devotedly as a lover could have done the hand he held in his own.
Raoul kissed the hand he held in his own as passionately as any lover could.
“Come, come,” said Athos, “I am quite ready; what do you wish me to sign?”
“Come on,” said Athos, “I’m totally ready; what do you want me to sign?”
“Nothing whatever, monsieur, only it would be very kind 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.”
“Nothing at all, sir, but it would be really nice if you could take the time to write to the king, who I belong to, and ask for his majesty’s permission for me to marry Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”
“Well thought, Raoul! After, or rather before myself, you have a master to consult, that master being the king; it is loyal in you to submit yourself voluntarily to this double proof; I will grant your request without delay, Raoul.”
“Well said, Raoul! After, or actually before me, you have a master to consult, and that master is the king; it’s commendable of you to willingly submit to this double test; I will grant your request without hesitation, Raoul.”
The count approached the window, and leaning out, called to Grimaud, who showed his head from an arbor covered with jasmine, which he was occupied in trimming.
The count walked up to the window and leaned out, calling to Grimaud, who poked his head out from a jasmine-covered trellis that he was busy trimming.
“My horses, Grimaud,” continued the count.
“My horses, Grimaud,” the count continued.
“Why this order, monsieur?” inquired Raoul.
“Why this order, sir?” Raoul asked.
“We shall set off in a few hours.”
“We're leaving in a few hours.”
“Whither?”
“Where to?”
“For Paris.”
“For Paris.”
“Paris, monsieur?”
"Paris, sir?"
“Is not the king at Paris?”
“Isn’t the king in Paris?”
“Certainly.”
“Of course.”
“Well, ought we not to go there?”
"Shouldn't we go there?"
“Yes, monsieur,” said Raoul, almost alarmed by this kind condescension. “I do not ask you to put yourself to such inconvenience, and a letter merely—”
“Yes, sir,” Raoul said, almost taken aback by this kind of condescension. “I’m not asking you to go to such trouble, just a letter—”
“You mistake my position, Raoul; it is not respectful that a simple gentleman, such as I am, should write to his sovereign. I wish to speak, I ought to speak, to the king, and I will do so. We will go together, Raoul.”
“You're misunderstanding my stance, Raoul; it's not appropriate for a regular gentleman like me to write to his king. I want to speak, I need to speak, to the king, and I will do it. We'll go together, Raoul.”
“You overpower me with your kindness, monsieur.”
“You overwhelm me with your kindness, sir.”
“How do you think his majesty is affected?”
“How do you think the king is feeling?”
“Towards me, monsieur?”
"Towards me, sir?"
“Yes.”
"Yeah."
“Excellently well disposed.”
"Very well disposed."
“You know that to be so?” continued the count.
“You know that to be true?” continued the count.
“The king has himself told me so.”
“The king himself told me this.”
“On what occasion?”
"When did that happen?"
“Upon the recommendation of M. d’Artagnan, I believe, and on account of an affair in the Place de Greve, when I had the honor to draw my sword in the king’s service. I have reason to believe that, vanity apart, I stand well with his majesty.”
“Based on M. d’Artagnan’s suggestion, I think, and due to an incident in the Place de Greve, when I had the privilege of drawing my sword in the king’s service. I have reason to think that, aside from vanity, I have a good standing with his majesty.”
“So much the better.”
"All the better."
“But I entreat you, monsieur,” pursued Raoul, “not to maintain towards me your present grave and serious manner. Do not make me bitterly regret having listened to a feeling stronger than anything else.”
“But I beg you, sir,” continued Raoul, “please don’t keep up this serious and somber attitude toward me. Don’t make me deeply regret having followed a feeling stronger than anything else.”
“That is the second time you have said so, Raoul; 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, Raoul.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said that, Raoul; it was really unnecessary; you need my official consent, and you have it. So we don’t need to discuss it any further. Come check out my new plantations, Raoul.”
The young man knew very well, that, after the expression 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 perfect repose of manner disconcerted Raoul 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,—
The young man realized that, after his father's wish was stated, there was no room for discussion. He lowered his head and followed his father into the garden. Athos slowly showed him the grafts, the cuttings, and the paths he was planting. This calm demeanor unsettled Raoul immensely; the love in his own heart felt so immense that it seemed like the entire world couldn’t hold it. How, then, could his father's heart be empty and unresponsive to such feelings? Bragelonne, gathering 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?”
“It’s impossible, sir, you must have a good reason to turn down Mademoiselle de la Valliere! For goodness’ sake, she is so kind, so gentle, and so pure that someone as sharp-minded as you should recognize her worth. Is there some hidden aversion or a family grudge between you and her?”
“Look, Raoul, 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 leaves.”
“Look, Raoul, at that beautiful lily of the valley,” Athos said; “notice how the shade and the damp environment are perfect for it, especially the shadow from that sycamore tree that falls over it, allowing warmth, not the harsh glare of the sun, to come through its leaves.”
Raoul 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.”
Raoul stopped, bit his lips, and then, with a flush coming to his face, he said, bravely, “I ask for just one word of explanation, sir. You can't 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 a son. I begged you to wait the opportunity of forming an illustrious alliance. I would 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.”
“In that case,” replied Athos, straightening himself with seriousness, “show me that you are a man, because you don’t seem to act like a son. I asked you to wait for the chance to form a prestigious alliance. I could have found you a wife from the top tier of wealthy nobility. I want you to stand out with the brilliance that comes from glory and fortune, since you already have noble heritage.”
“Monsieur,” exclaimed Raoul, carried away by a first impulse. “I was reproached the other day for not knowing who my mother was.”
“Monsieur,” Raoul exclaimed, caught up in the moment. “The other day, someone criticized me for not knowing who my mother is.”
Athos turned pale; then, knitting his brows like the greatest of all the heathen deities:—“I am waiting to learn the reply you made,” he demanded, in an imperious manner.
Athos went pale and frowned like the most powerful of the pagan gods. “I’m waiting to hear your answer,” he demanded, in a commanding tone.
“Forgive me! oh, forgive me,” murmured the young man, sinking at once from the lofty tone he had assumed.
“Forgive me! Oh, forgive me,” whispered the young man, instantly dropping the grand tone he had taken on.
“What was your reply, monsieur?” inquired the count, stamping his feet upon the ground.
“What did you say, sir?” asked the count, stamping his feet on 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.”
“Sir, I had my sword in hand right away, my opponent got into position, I knocked his sword over the railing, and sent him after it.”
“Why did you suffer him to live?”
“Why did you let him live?”
“The king has prohibited duelling, and, at the moment, I was an ambassador of the king.”
“The king has banned dueling, and at that moment, I was the king’s ambassador.”
“Very well,” said Athos, “but all the greater reason I should see his majesty.”
“Okay,” said Athos, “but that just gives me more reason to see his majesty.”
“What do you intend to ask him?”
“What do you plan to ask him?”
“Authority to draw my sword against the man who has inflicted this injury upon me.”
“Permission to unsheath my sword against the person who caused this harm to me.”
“If I did not act as I ought to have done, I beg you to forgive me.”
“If I didn’t act the way I should have, I ask you to forgive me.”
“Did I reproach you, Raoul?”
“Did I blame you, Raoul?”
“Still, the permission you are going to ask from the king?”
“Still, are you really going to ask the king for permission?”
“I will implore his majesty to sign your marriage-contract, but on one condition.”
“I will ask his majesty to sign your marriage contract, but only under one condition.”
“Are conditions necessary with me, monsieur? Command, and you shall be obeyed.”
“Are there conditions I need to follow, sir? Just give the command, and I’ll follow it.”
“On the condition, I repeat,” continued Athos; “that you tell me the name of the man who spoke of your mother in that way.”
“On the condition, I repeat,” continued Athos; “that you tell me the name of the guy who spoke about your mom like that.”
“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.”
“What do you need to know his name for? The wrong was done to me, and once I have permission from the king to take revenge, it's my business.”
“Tell me his name, monsieur.”
“Tell me his name, sir.”
“I will not allow you to expose yourself.”
“I won’t let you put yourself at risk.”
“Do you take me for a Don Diego? His name, I say.”
"Do you think I'm some kind of Don Diego? That's his name, I’m saying."
“You insist upon it?”
"Do you really want to?"
“I demand it.”
“I want it.”
“The Vicomte de Wardes.”
“The Viscount 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 off at once. Come, monsieur.”
“Alright,” said Athos calmly, “I know him. But our horses are ready, as I can see; and instead of waiting a couple of hours, we’ll leave right away. Come on, sir.”
Chapter XVI. Monsieur Becomes Jealous of the Duke of Buckingham.
While the Comte de la Fere was proceeding on his way to Pairs, accompanied by Raoul, the Palais Royal was the theatre wherein a scene of what Moliere would have called excellent comedy, was being performed. Four days had elapsed since his marriage, and Monsieur, having breakfasted very hurriedly, passed into his ante-chamber, frowning and out of temper. The repast had not been over-agreeable. Madame had had breakfast served in her own apartment, and Monsieur had breakfasted almost alone; the Chevalier de Lorraine and Manicamp were the only persons present at the meal, which 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 detect, 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 appetite which the troubles of one’s friends but stimulates, and enjoyed at the same time both Monsieur’s ill-humor and the vexation of Manicamp. He seemed delighted, while he went on eating, to detain a prince, who was very impatient 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 towards him. Monsieur was now in one of those moods, but he dreaded as much as he liked the chevalier, and contented himself with nursing his anger without betraying it. Every now and then Monsieur raised his eyes to the ceiling, then lowered them towards the slices of pate which the chevalier was attacking, and finally, not caring to betray the resentment, 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 excessive wrath, as we have related, he left the Chevalier de Lorraine to finish his breakfast as he pleased. Seeing Monsieur rise from the table, Manicamp, napkin in hand, rose also. Monsieur ran rather than walked, towards the ante-chamber, where, noticing an usher in attendance, he gave 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.
While the Comte de la Fere was making his way to Paris with Raoul, a scene that Moliere would have called excellent comedy was unfolding at the Palais Royal. Four days had passed since his wedding, and Monsieur, having rushed through breakfast, entered his ante-chamber, frowning and in a bad mood. The meal hadn’t been very pleasant. Madame had eaten in her own room, leaving Monsieur to have breakfast almost alone; only the Chevalier de Lorraine and Manicamp joined him, and they sat in silence for three-quarters of an hour. Manicamp, less familiar with the prince than the Chevalier de Lorraine, tried in vain to read the prince's face to figure out why he was so grumpy. The Chevalier, who had no need to guess since he knew everything, ate his breakfast with the kind of appetite that comes from the troubles of friends and enjoyed both Monsieur’s foul mood and Manicamp's frustration. He seemed pleased to keep a very impatient prince lingering at the table. Monsieur occasionally regretted letting the Chevalier de Lorraine gain such influence over him, which allowed the latter to ignore etiquette. Today, Monsieur was feeling that way, but despite his admiration for the Chevalier, he tried to hold in his anger without showing it. From time to time, Monsieur would look up at the ceiling, then down at the slices of pate the Chevalier was eating, and finally, without wanting to reveal his irritation, he gestured in a way that Harlequin would have envied. Eventually, however, Monsieur could no longer contain himself and, in a fit of rage at dessert, stood up from the table and left the Chevalier de Lorraine to finish his breakfast. When Manicamp saw Monsieur rise, he also got up, napkin in hand. Monsieur hurried, practically running, toward the ante-chamber, where he quietly instructed an usher. Then he turned back, avoiding the breakfast room, and crossed several rooms, intending to seek the queen-mother in her oratory, where she usually stayed.
It was about ten o’clock in the morning. Anne of Austria was engaged in writing as Monsieur entered. The queen-mother was extremely attached to her son, for he was handsome 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 sympathizing attentions 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 attentions, 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 cheeks in the most childlike and endearing 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 right divine. 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, a mother’s heart is the most compassionate and surest. When quite a child he always fled 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 subject indulged in their night-dresses respecting the right to a disputed bed, having their servant Laporte as umpire,—Philip, conqueror, but terrified at victory, used to flee to his mother to obtain reinforcements from her, or at least the assurance of forgiveness, which Louis XIV. granted with difficulty, and after an interval. Anne, from this habit of peaceable intervention, succeeded in arranging the disputes of her sons, and in sharing, at the same time, all their secrets. The king, somewhat jealous of that maternal solicitude which was bestowed particularly on his brother, felt disposed to show towards Anne of Austria more submission and attachment than his character really dictated. Anne of Austria had adopted this line of conduct especially towards the young queen. In this manner she ruled with almost despotic sway over the royal household, and she was already preparing her batteries to govern with the same absolute authority the household of her second son. Anne experienced 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 the most rebellious. She was writing, we have said, when Monsieur entered her oratory, not with red eyes or pale cheeks, but restless, out of temper, and annoyed. With an absent air he kissed his mother’s hands, 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 civilities was a sign of preoccupation, especially on Philip’s part, who, of his own accord, observed a respect towards her of a somewhat exaggerated character. If, therefore, he so notoriously failed in this regard, there must be a serious cause for it.
It was around ten o’clock in the morning. Anne of Austria was writing when Monsieur walked in. The queen-mother was very attached to her son because he was good-looking and had a pleasant personality. He was, in fact, more caring and perhaps a bit more delicate than the king. He made his mother happy with those little gestures of sympathy that all women appreciate. Anne of Austria, who would have been delighted to have a daughter, almost found in this favorite son the attentions, concern, and playful behavior of a twelve-year-old. During their time together, he admired her arms, commented on her makeup, and discussed her recipes for perfumes, which she took very seriously. He also kissed her hands and cheeks in the most childlike and affectionate way, always bringing her treats or suggesting new styles of dress. Anne of Austria loved the king, or rather, she loved the royal power in her eldest son; Louis XIV. represented legitimacy by divine right. With the king, she had the role of queen-mother, but with Philip, she was just a mother. The latter knew that a mother's heart is the most compassionate and reliable. As a child, he would always run to her for comfort when he and his brother argued, often after he had hit him, which was considered a serious offense. After some playful wrestling in their nightclothes over the right to a disputed bed, with their servant Laporte acting as referee, Philip, victorious but frightened by his win, would run to his mother for support or at least for reassurance that all would be forgiven, which Louis XIV would grant only reluctantly and after some time. Anne, through her habit of peaceful intervention, managed to resolve her sons’ disputes while also sharing in their secrets. The king, somewhat jealous of the extra attention their mother gave particularly to his brother, felt inclined to show Anne of Austria more respect and affection than his nature truly allowed. Anne had adopted this approach especially towards the young queen. In this way, she exercised almost absolute control over the royal household and was already preparing to wield the same authority over her second son's household. Anne felt a sense of pride whenever she saw someone enter her room looking distressed, pale, or with red eyes, sensing that help was needed by either the weakest or the most rebellious. She was writing, as we mentioned, when Monsieur entered her room, not with red eyes or pale cheeks, but restless, irritated, and upset. With an absent-minded expression, he kissed his mother’s hands and sat down without waiting for her permission. Given the strict etiquette at Anne of Austria's court, this lapse in customary politeness indicated he was preoccupied, especially for Philip, who typically showed her a somewhat exaggerated level of respect. So, if he noticeably failed in this regard, there must have been a serious reason behind it.
“What is the matter, Philip?” inquired Anne of Austria, turning towards her son.
“What’s wrong, Philip?” asked Anne of Austria, turning to her son.
“A good many things,” murmured the prince, in a doleful tone of voice.
“A lot of things,” the prince said quietly, sounding sad.
“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 that absorbs it more than others.”
“You seem like a guy with a lot on your plate,” said the queen, putting down her pen. Philip frowned but didn’t say anything. “Among all the things you think about,” Anne of Austria continued, “there has to be one that captures your attention more than the rest.”
“One has indeed occupied me more than any other.”
"One has really kept me occupied more than any other."
“Well, what is it? I am listening.”
“Well, what is it? I'm listening.”
Philip opened his mouth as if to express all the troubles his mind was filled with, and which he seemed to be waiting only for an opportunity of declaring. But he suddenly became silent, and a sigh alone expressed all that his heart was overflowing with.
Philip opened his mouth as if to share all the troubles that filled his mind, which he seemed to be waiting for the right moment to voice. But he suddenly fell silent, and a sigh was the only thing that conveyed everything his heart was overflowing 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?”
“Come on, Philip, show some resolve,” said the queen-mother. “When there's something to complain about, it's usually because of a specific person, right?”
“I do not say no, madame.”
“I’m not saying no, ma’am.”
“Whom do you wish to speak about? Come, take courage.”
“Who do you want to talk about? Come on, be brave.”
“In fact, madame, what I might possibly have to say must be kept a profound secret; for when a lady is in the case—”
“In fact, ma'am, what I might have to say has to be kept a deep secret; because when a lady is involved—”
“Ah! you are speaking of Madame, then?” inquired the queen-mother, with a feeling of the liveliest curiosity.
“Ah! Are you talking about Madame then?” the queen-mother asked, her curiosity piqued.
“Yes.”
"Yeah."
“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, rest assured I shall be interested, even were it for your own sake alone, in hearing all you may have to say about her.”
“Well, if you want to talk about Madame, feel free to do so. I am your mother, and she’s just a stranger to me. But since she’s my daughter-in-law, you can be sure I’ll be interested in hearing everything you have to say about her, even if it’s just for your sake.”
“Pray tell me, madame, in your turn, whether you have not remarked something?”
“Please tell me, ma’am, have you noticed something?”
“‘Something’! Philip? Your words almost frighten me, from their want of meaning. What do you mean by ‘something?’”
“‘Something’! Philip? Your words almost scare me because they don’t make any sense. What do you mean by ‘something?’”
“Madame is pretty, certainly.”
"Madame is definitely pretty."
“No doubt of it.”
"Absolutely."
“Yet not altogether beautiful.”
"Still not completely beautiful."
“No, but as she grows older, she will probably become strikingly beautiful. You must have remarked the change which a few years have already made in her. Her beauty will improve more and more; she is now only sixteen years of age. At fifteen I was, myself, very thin; but even as she is at present, Madame is very pretty.”
“No, but as she gets older, she will likely become incredibly beautiful. You must have noticed the changes that just a few years have already made in her. Her beauty will keep getting better; she’s only sixteen right now. At fifteen, I was quite thin myself, but even as she is now, Madame is very pretty.”
“And consequently others have remarked it.”
"And so others have noticed it."
“Undoubtedly, for a woman of ordinary rank is noticed—and with still greater reason a princess.”
“Definitely, a woman of ordinary status gets noticed—and even more so a princess.”
“She has been well brought up, I suppose?”
“She’s been raised properly, I guess?”
“Madame Henriette, her mother, is a woman somewhat cold in manner, slightly pretentious, but full of noble thoughts. The princess’s education may have been neglected, but her principles, I believe, are good. Such at least was the opinion I formed of her when she resided in France; but she afterwards returned to England, and I am ignorant what may have occurred there.”
“Madame Henriette, her mother, is a bit aloof, somewhat showy, but has noble ideas. The princess's education might have been overlooked, but I think her values are solid. That’s what I thought of her when she lived in France; however, she later went back to England, and I don’t know what happened after that.”
“What do you mean?”
"What do you mean?"
“Simply that there are some heads naturally giddy, which are easily turned by prosperity.”
“Basically, some people are just naturally dizzy and can be easily swayed by success.”
“That is the very word, madame. I think the princess rather giddy.”
"That's exactly the word, ma'am. I think the princess is a bit dizzy."
“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 in persons of high rank and position, is a great advantage at a court. A princess who is tinged with coquetry usually forms a brilliant court; her smile stimulates luxury, arouses wit, and even courage; the nobles, too, fight better for a prince whose wife is beautiful.”
“We shouldn't overstate things, Philip; she's smart and funny, and has a bit of flirtation that's completely natural for a young woman. But this trait in people of high status can actually be quite beneficial in a royal court. A princess with a hint of flirtation often creates a magnificent court; her smile encourages luxury, sparks wit, and even inspires bravery. The nobles tend to fight harder for a prince whose wife is attractive.”
“Thank you extremely, madame,” said Philip, with some temper; “you really have drawn some very alarming pictures for me.”
“Thank you so much, ma'am,” said Philip, somewhat irritated; “you’ve really painted a very scary picture for me.”
“In what respect?” asked the queen, with pretended simplicity.
“In what way?” asked the queen, sounding simple on purpose.
“You know, madame,” said Philip, dolefully, “whether I had or had not a very great dislike to getting married.”
“You know, ma'am,” Philip said sadly, “whether I really liked the idea of getting married or not.”
“Now, indeed, you alarm me. You have some serious cause of complaint against Madame.”
“Now, you’re really troubling me. You have a serious complaint against Madame.”
“I do not precisely say it is serious.”
“I'm not exactly saying it's serious.”
“In that case, then, throw aside your doleful looks. If you show yourself to others in your present state, people will take you for a very unhappy husband.”
“In that case, then, put away your sad expressions. If you let others see you like this, they'll think you're a really unhappy husband.”
“The fact is,” replied Philip, “I am not altogether satisfied as a husband, and I shall not be sorry if others know it.”
“The fact is,” replied Philip, “I’m not completely satisfied as a husband, and I won’t be upset if others find out.”
“For shame, Philip.”
"Shame on you, Philip."
“Well, then, madame, I will tell you frankly that I do not understand the life I am required to lead.”
“Well, then, ma’am, I’ll be honest and say that I don’t understand the life I’m expected to live.”
“Explain yourself.”
"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 toilettes; in the evenings, balls and concerts.”
“My wife doesn’t feel like she belongs to me; she’s always off doing something. In the mornings, there are visits, letters, and getting ready; in the evenings, there are parties and concerts.”
“You are jealous, Philip.”
"You're jealous, Philip."
“I! Heaven forbid. Let others act the part of a jealous husband, not I. But I am annoyed.”
“I! No way. Let others play the role of a jealous husband, not me. But I am annoyed.”
“All these things you reproach your wife with are perfectly innocent, and, so long as you have nothing of greater importance—”
“All the things you blame your wife for are completely innocent, and as long as you don’t have anything more important—”
“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.”
“Yet, listen; without being too blameworthy, a woman can cause quite a bit of anxiety. Some visitors may be welcomed, certain preferences displayed, which can draw attention to young women and can drive even the least jealous husbands out of their minds.”
“Ah! now we are coming to the real point at last, and not without some difficulty. 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.”
“Ah! now we’re finally getting to the real issue, though it hasn’t been easy. You mention frequent visits and certain preferences—great; for the past hour, we’ve been avoiding the main topic, and now you’ve brought up the real question.”
“Well then, yes—”
"Okay then, yes—"
“This is more serious than I thought. It is possible, then, that Madame can have given you grounds for these complaints against her?”
“This is more serious than I realized. So, it’s possible that Madame has given you reasons for these complaints against her?"
“Precisely so.”
"Exactly."
“What, your wife, married only four days ago, prefers some other person to yourself? Take care, Philip, you exaggerate your grievances; in wishing to prove everything, you prove nothing.”
“What, your wife, who just married you four days ago, likes someone else more than you? Be careful, Philip, you’re exaggerating your problems; in trying to prove everything, you end up proving nothing.”
The prince, bewildered by his mother’s serious manner, wished to reply, but he could only stammer out some unintelligible words.
The prince, confused by his mother’s serious tone, wanted to respond, but he could only mumble some unclear words.
“You draw back, then?” said Anne of Austria. “I prefer that, as it is an acknowledgement of your mistake.”
“You're backing off, then?” said Anne of Austria. “I prefer that, since it shows you've realized 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.”
“No!” Philip exclaimed, “I won’t back down, and I’ll prove everything I said. I mentioned preference and visits, right? Well, listen.”
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.
Anne of Austria got ready to listen, with that love of gossip that the best woman alive and the best mother, even if she were a queen, always finds in being involved in the petty arguments of a household.
“Well,” said Philip, “tell me one thing.”
“Well,” said Philip, “just tell me one thing.”
“What is that?”
"What’s 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.
“Why does my wife have an English court around her?” said Philip, crossing his arms and looking his mother straight in the eye, as if he believed she couldn’t 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 hardly be polite —not politic, certainly—to dismiss abruptly those members of the English nobility who have not shrunk from any devotion or sacrifice.”
“For a very simple reason,” replied Anne of Austria; “because the English are her fellow countrymen, because they've spent a lot of money to accompany her to France, and because it wouldn’t be very polite—not prudent, for sure—to suddenly dismiss those members of the English nobility who have shown devotion or made sacrifices.”
“A wonderful sacrifice indeed,” returned Philip, “to desert a wretched country to come to a beautiful one, where a greater effect can be produced for a guinea that can be procured elsewhere for four! Extraordinary devotion, really, to travel a hundred leagues in company with a woman one is in love with!”
“A wonderful sacrifice indeed,” replied Philip, “to leave a miserable country to come to a beautiful one, where so much more can be accomplished for a guinea that would cost four elsewhere! Truly extraordinary devotion to travel a hundred leagues with a woman one loves!”
“In love, Philip! think what you are saying. Who is in love with Madame?”
“In love, Philip! Think about what you’re saying. Who is in love with Madame?”
“The Duke of Buckingham. Perhaps you will defend him, too?”
“The Duke of Buckingham. Maybe you'll defend him as well?”
Anne of Austria blushed and smiled at the same time. The name of the Duke of Buckingham recalled certain recollections of a very tender and melancholy nature. “The Duke of Buckingham?” she murmured.
Anne of Austria blushed and smiled at the same time. The name of the Duke of Buckingham brought back some very tender and sad memories. “The Duke of Buckingham?” she murmured.
“Yes; one of those arm-chair soldiers—”
“Yes; one of those armchair soldiers—”
“The Buckinghams are loyal and brave,” said Anne of Austria, courageously.
“The Buckinghams are loyal and brave,” Anne of Austria said, showing courage.
“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.
“This is so unfair; my own mother sides with my wife’s lover against me,” exclaimed Philip, so angry that he was almost in 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 discreet, and the rights of hospitality are sure to be respected by them.”
“Philip, my son,” exclaimed Anne of Austria, “that kind of talk is beneath you. Your wife has no lover; and if she did, it wouldn't be the Duke of Buckingham. I say again, the members of that family are loyal and trustworthy, and they will definitely honor the rules of hospitality.”
“The Duke of Buckingham is an Englishman, madame,” said Philip, “and may I ask if the English so very religiously respect what belongs to princes of France?”
“The Duke of Buckingham is an Englishman, ma'am,” said Philip, “and can I ask if the English really respect what belongs to the princes of France?”
Anne blushed a second time, and turned aside under the pretext of taking her pen from her desk again, but in reality to conceal her confusion from her son. “Really, Philip,” she said, “you seem to discover expressions for the purpose of embarrassing me, and your anger blinds you while it alarms me; reflect a little.”
Anne blushed again and turned away, pretending to grab her pen from her desk, but really to hide her embarrassment from her son. “Honestly, Philip,” she said, “you seem to come up with things just to make me uncomfortable, and your anger makes you lose perspective while it worries me; think about it for a moment.”
“There is no need for reflection, madame. I can see with my own eyes.”
“There’s no need to think it over, ma’am. I can see for myself.”
“Well, and what do you see?”
"Well, 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 sauchets 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 procure 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.”
“Buckingham never leaves my wife alone. He has the nerve to give her gifts, and she dares to accept them. Yesterday, she was talking about sachets a la violette; well, our French perfumers, as you know, madame, have never been able to find this scent, despite you asking for it repeatedly without any luck. But the duke, on the other hand, had a sachet a la violette with him, and I'm certain that the one my wife has came from him.”
“Indeed, monsieur,” said Anne of Austria, “you build your pyramids on needle points; be careful. What harm, I ask you, can there be in a man giving to his countrywoman 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.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Anne of Austria, “you’re constructing your pyramids on needle points; be careful. What harm, I ask you, is there in a man giving his countrywoman a recipe for a new fragrance? These bizarre ideas, I must say, remind me painfully of your father; he who often and 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 his mother’s feelings. The queen turned pale, and pressed her clenched hands upon her bosom; but, recovering herself immediately, she said, “You came here with some intention or another, I suppose?”
“The Duke of Buckingham’s dad was probably more reserved and respectful than him,” Philip said, without realizing how much he had hurt his mother’s feelings. The queen went pale and pressed her clenched hands to her chest; but, regaining her composure right away, she said, “You came here with some purpose or another, I assume?”
“Certainly.”
"Sure."
“What was it?”
“What’s that?”
“I came, madame, intending to complain energetically, and to inform you that I will not submit to such behavior from the Duke of Buckingham.”
“I came, ma'am, planning to express my frustration strongly and to let you know that I won't tolerate such behavior from the Duke of Buckingham.”
“What do you intend to do, then?”
“What are you planning to do, then?”
“I shall complain to the king.”
“I'm going to complain to the king.”
“And what do you expect the king to reply?”
“And what do you think the king will say?”
“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!”
“Alright, then,” said Monsieur, with a look of strong determination on his face that was strikingly different from its usual softness. “Alright. I will make things right!”
“What do you call righting yourself?” inquired Anne of Austria, in alarm.
“What do you call getting yourself back on track?” asked Anne of Austria, concerned.
“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.”
“I'll make sure the Duke of Buckingham leaves the princess, I'll make him leave France, and I'll ensure he knows what I want.”
“You will intimate nothing of the kind, Philip,” said the queen, “for if you act in that manner, and violate hospitality to that extent, I will invoke the severity of the king against you.”
“You won’t suggest anything like that, Philip,” said the queen, “because if you behave that way and disrespect hospitality to that level, I will call on the king to deal with you harshly.”
“Do you threaten me, madame?” exclaimed Philip, almost in tears; “do you threaten me in the midst of my complaints?”
“Are you threatening me, ma'am?” Philip almost shouted, on the verge of tears; “are you threatening me while I’m sharing my troubles?”
“I do not threaten you; I do but place an obstacle in the path of your hasty anger. I maintain, that, to adopt towards the Duke of Buckingham, or any other Englishman, any rigorous measure—to take even a discourteous step towards him, would be to plunge France and England into the most disastrous disagreement. Can it be possible that a prince of the blood, the brother of the king of France, 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.”
“I’m not threatening you; I'm just putting a barrier in the way of your quick anger. I argue that taking any harsh action against the Duke of Buckingham, or any other Englishman, or even doing something rude towards him, would lead France and England into a terrible conflict. Is it really possible that a prince of the blood, the brother of the king of France, doesn’t know how to overlook a slight, even if it did exist, when political necessity calls for it?” Philip shifted. “Besides,” the queen continued, “the slight is neither true nor possible; it’s just a matter of stupid jealousy.”
“Madame, I know what I know.”
“Ma'am, I know what I know.”
“Whatever you may know, I can only advise you to be patient.”
“Whatever you know, I can only suggest that you be patient.”
“I am not patient by disposition, madame.”
“I’m not really patient, ma’am.”
The queen rose, full of severity, and with an icy ceremonious manner. “Explain what you really require, monsieur,” she said.
The queen stood up, looking stern and with an icy formal demeanor. “Please clarify what you actually need, sir,” she said.
“I do not require anything, madame; I simply express what I desire. If the Duke of Buckingham does not, of his own accord, discontinue his visits to my apartments I shall forbid him entrance.”
“I don’t need anything, ma’am; I’m just stating what I want. If the Duke of Buckingham doesn’t, on his own, stop coming to my rooms, I’ll block him from coming in.”
“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.
“That’s a point you should bring up with 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 together, “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.”
“But, ma'am,” exclaimed Philip, clapping his hands together, “please act as my mother and not as the queen, since I’m speaking to you as a son; it’s just a quick conversation between the duke and me.”
“It is that very conversation I forbid,” said the queen, resuming her authority, “because it is unworthy of you.”
“It’s that very conversation I disallow,” said the queen, taking back her authority, “because it’s beneath you.”
“Be it so; I will not appear in the matter, but I shall intimate my will to Madame.”
“Fine; I won’t get involved, but I’ll let Madame know what I want.”
“Oh!” said the queen-mother, with a melancholy arising from reflection, “never tyrannize over a wife—never behave too haughtily or imperiously towards your own. A woman unwillingly convinced, is unconvinced.”
“Oh!” said the queen mother, with a sadness from her thoughts, “never dominate your wife—never act too proudly or arrogantly towards her. A woman who is forced to agree is not truly convinced.”
“What is to be done, then?—I will consult my friends about it.”
“What should we do then? — I’ll talk to my friends about it.”
“Yes, your double-dealing advisers, your Chevalier de Lorraine—your De Wardes. Intrust the conduct of this affair to me. You wish the Duke of Buckingham to leave, do you not?”
“Yes, your two-faced advisors, your Chevalier de Lorraine—your De Wardes. Leave this matter to me. You want the Duke of Buckingham to go, right?”
“As soon as possible, madame.”
“As soon as possible, ma'am.”
“Send the duke to me, then; smile upon your wife, behave to her, to the king, to every one, as usual. But follow no advice but mine. Alas! I too well know what any household comes to, that is troubled by advisers.”
“Send the duke to me, then; be nice to your wife, act towards her, the king, and everyone else as you normally do. But only listen to my advice. Unfortunately, I know all too well how any household struggles when it’s influenced by so-called advisors.”
“You shall be obeyed, madame.”
“You will be obeyed, ma'am.”
“And you will be satisfied at the result. Send the duke to me.”
“And you’ll be pleased with the outcome. Send the duke to me.”
“That will not be difficult.”
“That won’t be hard.”
“Where do you suppose him to be?”
“Where do you think he is?”
“At my wife’s door, whose levee he is probably awaiting.”
“At my wife’s door, where he is probably waiting for her.”
“Very well,” said Anne of Austria, calmly. “Be good enough to tell the duke that I shall be charmed if he will pay me a visit.”
“Very well,” said Anne of Austria, calmly. “Please let the duke know that I would be delighted if he could come to see me.”
Philip kissed his mother’s hand, and started off to find the Duke of Buckingham.
Philip kissed his mother's hand and set off to find the Duke of Buckingham.
Chapter 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 Duc d’Orleans. When his name was announced by the gentleman-usher in attendance, the queen, who was sitting with her elbow resting 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 looked almost 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 prince, who lived for her alone, and died with her name upon his lips. Anne of Austria fixed upon Buckingham a look so tender in its expression, that it denoted, not alone the indulgence of maternal affection, but a gentleness of expression like the coquetry of a woman who loves.
The Duke of Buckingham, responding to the queen-mother's invitation, arrived in her quarters half an hour after the Duc d’Orleans left. When the gentleman-usher announced his arrival, the queen, who had been resting her elbow on a table with her head in her hands, stood up and warmly accepted the duke's graceful and respectful greeting. Anne of Austria was still beautiful. It's well known that at her somewhat older age, her long auburn hair, perfectly shaped hands, and bright ruby lips still captivated everyone who saw her. On this occasion, lost in a memory that brought back all her past, she appeared almost as lovely as in her youth, when her palace welcomed the visits of the Duke of Buckingham's father, a young and passionate man who lived solely for her and died with her name on his lips. Anne of Austria looked at Buckingham with such a tender gaze that it revealed not only a mother's love but also a soft expression reminiscent of a woman in love.
“Your majesty,” said Buckingham, respectfully, “desired to speak to me.”
“Your majesty,” said Buckingham, with respect, “wanted to speak to me.”
“Yes, duke,” said the queen, in English; “will you be good enough to sit down?”
“Yes, duke,” said the queen in English. “Could you please take a seat?”
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 conjectured that the queen had a request to make of him. After having abandoned the first few moments to the irrepressible 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.
The favor that Anne of Austria showed the young man, along with the familiar sound of the language from a country the duke had been away from since his time in France, truly moved him. He quickly guessed that the queen had a favor to ask him. After initially giving in to her overwhelming feelings, the queen returned to the friendly demeanor with which she had welcomed him. “What do you think of France?” she asked, in French.
“It is a lovely country, madame,” replied the duke.
“It’s a beautiful country, ma'am,” replied the duke.
“Had you ever seen it before?”
“Have you ever seen it before?”
“Once only, madame.”
"Just this once, ma'am."
“But, like all true Englishmen, you prefer England?”
“But, like any true Englishman, 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 two cities, London or Pairs, I should prefer as a residence, I should be forced to answer Paris.”
“I prefer my own country to France,” replied the duke; “but if Your Majesty were to ask me which of the two cities, London or Paris, I would choose to live in, I would have to say 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 place.”
Anne of Austria noticed the passionate way those words were spoken. “I've heard, my lord, that you have wealthy estates in your homeland, and that you reside in a magnificent and historic location.”
“It was my father’s residence,” replied Buckingham, casting down his eyes.
“It was my dad’s house,” replied Buckingham, looking down.
“Those are indeed great advantages and souvenirs,” replied the queen, alluding, in spite of herself, to recollections from which it is impossible voluntarily to detach one’s self.
“Those are definitely great perks and souvenirs,” replied the queen, hinting, despite herself, at memories from which it is impossible to willingly detach one’s self.
“In fact,” said the duke, yielding to the melancholy influence of this opening conversation, “sensitive persons live as much in the past or the future, as in the present.”
“In fact,” said the duke, giving in to the sad mood of the conversation, “sensitive people live as much in the past or the future as they do 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.”
“That is very true,” said the queen in a quiet voice. “So it follows, my lord,” she continued, “that you, being a man of feeling, will soon leave France to isolate yourself with your riches and your memories of the past.”
Buckingham raised his head and said, “I think not, madame.”
Buckingham lifted his head and said, “I don’t think so, ma’am.”
“What do you mean?”
"What do you mean?"
“On the contrary, I think of leaving England in order to take up my residence in France.”
“Actually, I’m thinking about leaving England to move to France.”
It was now Anne of Austria’s turn to exhibit surprise. “Why?” she said. “Are you not in favor with the new king?”
It was now Anne of Austria’s turn to express surprise. “Why?” she asked. “Aren’t you in favor with the new king?”
“Perfectly so, madame, for his majesty’s kindness to me is unbounded.”
“Absolutely, madam, because the king’s kindness to me knows no limits.”
“It cannot,” said the queen, “be because your fortune has diminished, for it is said to be enormous.”
“It can't,” said the queen, “be because your fortune has gone down, since it's said to be huge.”
“My income, madame, has never been so large.”
“My income, ma'am, has never been this high.”
“There is some secret cause, then?”
"Is there a hidden reason?"
“No, madame,” said Buckingham, eagerly, “there is nothing secret in my reason for this determination. I prefer residence in France; I like a court so distinguished by its refinement and courtesy; I like the amusements, somewhat serious in their nature, which are not the amusements of my own country, and which are met with in France.”
“No, madam,” Buckingham said eagerly, “there’s nothing secret about my reason for this decision. I prefer living in France; I enjoy a court known for its elegance and politeness; I like the more refined entertainment that you don’t find in my own country, and which is available 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. “There is no amusement so serious,” continued the queen, “as to prevent a man of your rank—”
Anne of Austria smiled knowingly. “Serious amusements?” she said. “Have you really thought about how serious they are?” The duke paused. “There’s no amusement more serious,” the queen continued, “than to keep a man of your status—”
“Your majesty seems to insist greatly on that point,” interrupted the duke.
“Your majesty really seems to be insisting on that point,” interrupted the duke.
“Do you think so, my lord?”
“Do you really think that, my lord?”
“If you 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.”
“If you don’t mind me saying, this is the second time you’ve bragged about the benefits of England while overlooking the joy that everyone experiences living 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 occasion 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 I have not regretted Spain.”
Anne of Austria walked up to the young man, gently resting her beautiful hand on his shoulder, which shook at her touch, and said, “Believe me, sir, nothing compares to living in your own homeland. I’ve often wished I were in Spain. I’ve been away for a long time, my lord, a really long time for a woman, and I’ll confess to you that not a year has gone by without me missing 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?”
“Not a single year, ma’am?” the young duke said coldly. “Not one of those years when you were the Queen of Beauty—as you still are, really?”
“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.”
“A truce to flattery, duke, because I’m old enough to be your mother.” She stressed those last words in a way, and with a kindness, that touched Buckingham’s heart. “Yes,” she said, “I’m old enough to be your mother; and for this reason, I’ll offer you some advice.”
“That advice being that I should return to London?” he exclaimed.
"Are you saying that I should go back to London?" he exclaimed.
“Yes, my lord.”
“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.
The duke clasped his hands in a terrified way, which definitely impacted the queen, who was already leaning towards softer emotions due to her own tender memories. “It has to be this way,” the queen added.
“What!” he again exclaimed, “am I seriously told that I must leave,—that I must exile myself,—that I am to flee at once?”
“What!” he exclaimed again, “am I really being told that I have to leave,—that I have to exile myself,—that I need to run away right now?”
“Exile yourself, did you say? One would fancy France was your native country.”
“Exile yourself, did you say? One might think France was your home country.”
“Madame, the country of those who love is the country of those whom they love.”
“Madam, the land of the lovers is the land of those they adore.”
“Not another word, my lord; you forget whom you are addressing.”
“Not another word, my lord; you’re forgetting who you’re talking to.”
Buckingham threw himself on his knees. “Madame, you are the source of intelligence, of goodness, 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 you should answer with such a cruel remark? What have I betrayed?”
Buckingham dropped to his knees. “Madame, you are the source of knowledge, kindness, and compassion; you are the most important person in this kingdom, not just because of your status, but also because of your angelic qualities. I haven’t said anything, madame. Have I really said something that deserves such a harsh response? What have I betrayed?”
“You have betrayed yourself,” said the queen, in a low tone of voice.
“You've betrayed yourself,” said the queen, in a low voice.
“I have said nothing,—I know nothing.”
“I haven’t said anything—I don’t know anything.”
“You forget you have spoken and thought in the presence of a woman; and besides—”
“You forget you’ve spoken and thought in front of a woman; and also—”
“Besides,” said the duke, “no one knows you are listening to me.”
“Besides,” said the duke, “no one knows you’re listening to me.”
“On the contrary, it is known; you have all the defects and all the qualities of youth.”
“On the contrary, it's well known that you have all the flaws and all the strengths of being young.”
“I have been betrayed or denounced, then?”
“I’ve been betrayed or called out, then?”
“By whom?”
"Who did it?"
“By those who, at Le Havre, had, with infernal perspicacity, read my heart like an open book.”
“By those who, at Le Havre, had, with incredible insight, read my heart like an open book.”
“I do not know whom you mean.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“M. de Bragelonne, for instance.”
“M. de Bragelonne, for example.”
“I know the name without being acquainted with the person to whom it belongs. M. de Bragelonne has said nothing.”
“I know the name without knowing the person it belongs to. M. de Bragelonne hasn’t said anything.”
“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—”
“Who could it be, then? If anyone, ma'am, had the audacity to point out in me what I do not wish to see myself—”
“What would you do, duke?”
“What would you do, Duke?”
“There are secrets which kill those who discover them.”
“There are secrets that can destroy those who uncover 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 Duc du Orleans.”
“He, who has found out your secret, crazy as you are, is still alive; and what’s more, you won’t kill him, because he’s protected on all sides—he’s a husband, a jealous man—he’s the second most important guy in France—he’s my son, the Duc du Orleans.”
The duke turned pale as death. “You are very cruel, madame,” he said.
The duke went pale as a ghost. “You’re being really cruel, ma'am,” 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.”
“You see, Buckingham,” said Anne of Austria, sadly, “how you go from one extreme to another and battle with illusions, when it seems so simple to just be at peace with yourself.”
“If we fight, madame, we die on the field of battle,” replied the young man, gently, abandoning himself to the most gloomy depression.
“If we fight, ma’am, we die on the battlefield,” replied the young man softly, giving in to a deep sense of despair.
Anne ran towards him and took him by the hand. “Villiers,” she said, in English, with a vehemence of tone which nothing could resist, “what is it you 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 dream of it. What! in order to spare your tears am I to commit these 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 possession, because the despair was caused by the woman they loved, and because death, thus deceptive, was like a gift of a favor conferred upon them.”
Anne ran towards him and took his hand. “Villiers,” she said, in English, with a forceful tone that could not be ignored, “what are you asking? Are you asking a mother to sacrifice her son—a queen to agree to the dishonor of her house? You’re just a child; don’t even think about it. What? To spare your tears, am I supposed to commit these crimes? Villiers! You talk about the dead; the dead at least had respect and acceptance; they accepted their exile; they carried their despair in their hearts like a precious possession because that despair was caused by the woman they loved, and because death, in its deceptive nature, felt like a special gift bestowed 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.”
Buckingham stood up, his face twisted in emotion, his hands pressed to his chest. “You’re right, madame,” he said, “but the people you’re talking about got their order of exile from the person they loved; they weren’t forced out; they were asked to leave and weren’t mocked.”
“No,” murmured Anne of Austria, “they were not forgotten. But who says you are driven away, or that you are exiled? Who says that your devotion will not be remembered? 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 this also, be indebted to one of your name.”
“No,” whispered Anne of Austria, “they haven't been forgotten. But who says you are being chased away, or that you are in exile? Who says your loyalty won’t be remembered? I’m not speaking for anyone but myself when I ask you to go. Please do me this favor—let me owe something to someone from your family.”
“It is for your sake, then, madame?”
“It’s for your benefit, then, ma’am?”
“For mine alone.”
"For me only."
“No one whom I shall leave behind me will venture to mock,—no prince even who shall say, ‘I required it.’”
“No one I leave behind will dare to mock—no prince will even say, ‘I demanded it.’”
“Listen to me, duke,” and hereupon the dignified features 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. Rely upon me, duke, as I rely upon you.”
“Listen to me, Duke,” and with that, the queen's dignified expression turned serious. “I promise you that no one has authority in this matter but me. I promise that not only will no one laugh or brag in any way, but no one will even fail to show the respect that your rank deserves. Trust me, Duke, just as I trust 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.”
“You don't need to explain yourself, ma'am; my heart is heavy with bitterness, and I am completely hopeless; no comfort, no matter how kind and loving, can bring me relief.”
“Do you remember your mother, duke?” replied the queen, with a winning smile.
“Do you remember your mother, Duke?” the queen asked, flashing a charming smile.
“Very slightly, madame; yet I remember how she used to cover me with her caresses and her tears whenever I wept.”
“Just a bit, ma'am; but I remember how she would shower me with her affection and tears whenever I cried.”
“Villiers,” murmured the queen, passing her arm round the young man’s neck, “look upon me as your mother, and believe that no one shall ever make my son weep.”
“Villiers,” whispered the queen, wrapping her arm around the young man’s neck, “think of me as your mother, and trust that no one will ever make my son cry.”
“I thank you, madame,” said the young man affected and almost suffocated by his emotion; “I feel there is still room in my heart for a gentler and nobler sentiment than love.”
“I thank you, ma'am,” said the young man, overwhelmed and almost breathless with emotion; “I feel there’s still space in my heart for a gentler and nobler feeling than love.”
The queen-mother looked at him and pressed his hand. “Go,” she said.
The queen mother looked at him and squeezed his hand. “Go,” she said.
“When must I leave? Command me.”
“When should I leave? Just tell me.”
“At any time that may suit you, my lord,” resumed the queen; “you will choose your own day of departure. Instead, 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.”
“At any time that works for you, my lord,” the queen continued; “you can pick your own day to leave. However, instead of leaving today, as I’m sure you would prefer, or tomorrow, as others might expect, leave the day after tomorrow in the evening; but let it be known today that you intend to leave.”
“My wish?” murmured the young duke.
“My wish?” whispered the young duke.
“Yes, duke.”
“Sure, duke.”
“And shall I never return to France?”
“And will I never go back to France?”
Anne of Austria reflected for a moment, seemingly absorbed in sad and serious thought. “It would be a consolation for me,” she said, “if you were to return on the day when I shall be carried to my final resting-place at Saint-Dennis beside the king, my husband.”
Anne of Austria pondered for a moment, appearing lost in deep and serious thought. “It would bring me comfort,” she said, “if you were to come back on the day when I am laid to rest at Saint-Dennis next to 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.”
“Ma'am, you are pure kindness; good fortune is coming your way; your life is overflowing with happiness, and you have many long years ahead of you.”
“In that case you will not come for some time, then,” said the queen, endeavoring to smile.
“In that case, you won’t be coming for a while,” said the queen, trying to smile.
“I shall not return,” said Buckingham, “young as I am. Death does not reckon by years; it is impartial; some die young, some reach old age.”
“I won’t come back,” said Buckingham, “even though I’m young. Death doesn’t care about age; it’s fair to everyone; some die young, while others live to old age.”
“I will not harbor any sorrowful ideas, duke. Let me comfort you; return in two years. I perceive from your face that the very idea which saddens you so much now, will have disappeared before six months have passed, and will be not only dead but forgotten in the period of absence I have assigned you.”
“I won’t hold onto any sad thoughts, duke. Let me reassure you; come back in two years. I can tell from your expression that the very thought that troubles you so much right now will be gone within six months, and it will not only be dead but also forgotten by the time you return.”
“I think you judged me better a little while ago, madame,” replied the young man, “when you said that time is powerless against members of the family of Buckingham.”
"I think you judged me better earlier, madam," replied the young man, "when you said that time has no hold over the Buckingham family."
“Silence,” said the queen, kissing the duke upon the forehead with an affection she could not restrain. “Go, go; spare me and forget yourself no longer. I am the queen; you are the subject of the king of England; King Charles awaits your return. Adieu, Villiers,—farewell.”
“Silence,” said the queen, kissing the duke on the forehead with an affection she couldn’t hold back. “Go, go; please spare me and stop forgetting yourself. I’m the queen; you’re the subject of the king of England; King Charles is waiting for you to come back. Goodbye, Villiers—farewell.”
“Forever!” replied the young man, and he fled, endeavoring to master his emotions.
“Forever!” replied the young man as he ran away, trying to control his feelings.
Anne leaned her head upon her hands, and then looking at herself in the glass, murmured, “It has been truly said, that a woman who has truly loved is always young, and that the bloom of the girl of twenty years ever lies concealed in some secret cloister of the heart.” 1
Anne rested her head on her hands, and then, glancing at her reflection in the mirror, she murmured, “It’s been rightly said that a woman who has genuinely loved is always young, and that the freshness of a twenty-year-old girl always hides in a secret corner of the heart.” 1
Chapter XVIII. King Louis XIV. does not think Mademoiselle de la Valliere either rich enough or pretty enough for a Gentleman of the Rank of the Vicomte de Bragelonne.
Raoul and the Comte de la Fere reached Paris the evening of the same day on which Buckingham had held the conversation with the queen-mother. The count had scarcely arrived, when, through Raoul, he solicited an audience of the king. His majesty had passed a portion of the morning in looking 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 afterwards, according to his usual custom, the king, leaving the card-tables at eight o’clock, passed into his cabinet in order to work with M. Colbert and M. Fouquet. Raoul entered the ante-chamber at the very moment the two ministers quitted it, and the king, perceiving him through the half-closed door, said, “What do you want, M. de Bragelonne?”
Raoul and the Count de la Fère arrived in Paris on the evening of the same day that Buckingham had talked with the Queen Mother. The count had barely arrived when, through Raoul, he requested an audience with the king. His Majesty had spent part of the morning reviewing various goods made in Lyon with Madame and the ladies of the court, which he had gifted to his sister-in-law. Afterward, there was a court dinner, followed by card games, and then, as was his usual routine, the king left the card tables at eight o'clock and went to his study to work with M. Colbert and M. Fouquet. Raoul entered the ante-chamber just as the two ministers were leaving, and the king, noticing him through the half-closed door, asked, “What do you want, M. 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 anxious to have an interview with your majesty.”
The young man stepped forward: “An audience, Your Majesty,” he said, “for the Comte de la Fere, who just got here from Blois and is very eager to meet with you.”
“I have an hour to spare between cards and supper,” said the king. “Is the Comte de la Fere at hand?”
“I have an hour to kill between cards and dinner,” said the king. “Is the Comte de la Fere around?”
“He is below, and awaits your majesty’s permission.”
“He is downstairs, waiting for your majesty’s permission.”
“Let him come up at once,” said the king, and five minutes afterwards 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, reserved 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.”
“Let him come in right away,” said the king, and five minutes later, Athos stepped into the presence of Louis XIV. The king greeted him with that gracious charm that Louis, with an understanding beyond his years, used to win over those who couldn't be swayed by simple gestures. “I hope, Comte,” said the king, “that you've come to ask me for something.”
“I will not conceal from your majesty,” replied the comte, “that I am indeed come for that purpose.”
“I won’t hide from you, Your Majesty,” replied the comte, “that I have indeed come for that purpose.”
“That is well,” said the king, joyously.
"That’s great," said the king, happily.
“It is not for myself, sire.”
"That's not for me, sir."
“So much the worse; but, at least, I will do for your protege what you refuse to permit me to do for you.”
“So much the worse; but at least I will do for your protege what you won’t let me do for you.”
“Your majesty encourages me. I have come to speak on behalf of the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
“Your majesty inspires me. I have come to speak for the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
“It is the same as if you spoke on your own behalf, comte.”
“It’s like you’re speaking for yourself, comte.”
“Not altogether so, sire. I am desirous of obtaining from your majesty that which I cannot ask for myself. The vicomte thinks of marrying.”
“Not exactly, your majesty. I want to get something from you that I can’t ask for myself. The viscount is considering marriage.”
“He is still very young; but that does not matter. He is an eminently distinguished man; I will choose a wife for him.”
“He’s still very young, but that doesn't matter. He’s an incredibly distinguished man; I’ll choose a wife for him.”
“He has already chosen one, sire, and only awaits your consent.”
“He's already picked one, sir, and is just waiting for your approval.”
“It is only a question, then, of signing the marriage-contract?” Athos bowed. “Has he chose a wife whose fortune and position accord with your own anticipation?”
“It’s just a matter of signing the marriage contract, then?” Athos nodded. “Has he chosen a wife whose wealth and status match your expectations?”
Athos hesitated for a moment. “His affirmed wife is of good birth, but has no fortune.”
Athos paused for a moment. “His confirmed wife comes from a good family, but she has no money.”
“That is a misfortune we can remedy.”
"That's a problem we can fix."
“You overwhelm me with gratitude, sire; but your majesty will permit me to offer a remark?”
“You’re making me feel incredibly grateful, your majesty; but may I offer a comment?”
“Do so, comte.”
"Do it, comte."
“Your majesty seems to intimate an intention of giving a marriage-portion to this young lady.”
“Your majesty seems to suggest an intention to provide a dowry for this young lady.”
“Certainly.”
"Of course."
“I should regret, sire, if the step I have taken towards your majesty should be attended by this result.”
“I would feel upset, sir, if my actions towards you led to this outcome.”
“No false delicacy, comte; what is the bride’s name?”
“No false modesty, comte; what is the bride’s name?”
“Mademoiselle de la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere,” said Athos, coldly.
“Mademoiselle de la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere,” Athos said, coldly.
“I seem to know that name,” said the king, as if reflecting; “there was a Marquis de la Valliere.”
“I feel like I know that name,” said the king, as if thinking aloud; “there was a Marquis de la Valliere.”
“Yes, sire, it is his daughter.”
“Yes, sir, it is his daughter.”
“But he died, and his widow married again M. de Saint-Remy, I think, steward of the dowager Madame’s household.”
“But he died, and his widow married M. de Saint-Remy, I believe, who was the steward of the dowager Madame’s household.”
“Your majesty is correctly informed.”
“Your majesty is correctly informed.”
“More than that, the young lady has lately become one of the princess’s maids of honor.”
“More than that, the young lady has recently become one of the princess’s maids of honor.”
“Your majesty is better acquainted with her history than am I.”
“Your majesty knows her history better than I do.”
The king again reflected, and glancing at the comte’s anxious countenance, said: “The young lady does not seem to me to be very pretty, comte.”
The king thought for a moment and, looking at the comte’s worried face, said, “The young lady doesn’t seem very pretty to me, comte.”
“I am not quite sure,” replied Athos.
“I’m not really sure,” replied Athos.
“I have seen her, but she hardly struck me as being so.”
“I’ve seen her, but she didn’t really seem that way to me.”
“She seems to be a good and modest girl, but has little beauty, sire.”
"She appears to be a decent and humble girl, but she's not very pretty, sir."
“Beautiful fair hair, however.”
"Beautiful blonde hair, however."
“I think so.”
"I believe so."
“And her blue eyes are tolerably good.”
“And her blue eyes are pretty nice.”
“Yes, sire.”
“Yes, sir.”
“With regard to her beauty, then, the match is but an ordinary one. Now for the money side of the question.”
“With respect to her beauty, the match is just average. Now let's look at the financial aspect.”
“Fifteen to twenty thousand francs dowry at the very outset, sire; the lovers are disinterested enough; for myself, I care little for money.”
“Fifteen to twenty thousand francs as a dowry right at the start, your majesty; the lovers are pretty selfless; as for me, I’m not that concerned about 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.
“For excess, you mean; but having the right amount is important. With fifteen thousand francs, without any property, a woman can’t survive at court. We can make up the difference; I’ll do it for De Bragelonne.” The king noted again how coldly Athos reacted to this comment.
“Let us pass from the question of money to that of rank,” said Louis XIV.; “the daughter of the Marquis de la Valliere, that is well enough; but there is that excellent Saint-Remy, who somewhat damages the credit of the family; and you, comte, are rather particular, I believe, about your own family.”
“Let’s move from the topic of money to that of status,” said Louis XIV; “the daughter of the Marquis de la Valliere is fine, but there’s also that troublesome Saint-Remy, who somewhat tarnishes the family name; and you, comte, are quite particular, I believe, about your own family.”
“Sire, I no longer hold to anything but my devotion to your majesty.”
“Sire, I am only devoted to your majesty now.”
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, pardon 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 it success.”
The king paused again. “One moment, comte. You’ve really caught me off guard since the start of your conversation. You came to ask me to approve a marriage, and you seem quite anxious about making that request. No offense, comte, but I’m not easily fooled, even at my age; while I offer my friendship to some based on my judgment, with others, I rely on my skepticism, which sharpens my insight. I’ll say it again, you’re not presenting your request as if you genuinely want it to succeed.”
“Well, sire, that is true.”
"Well, sir, that's true."
“I do not understand you, then; refuse.”
“I don’t understand you, so I’m refusing.”
“Nay, sire; I love De 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 objectionable to me, but I implore your majesty to consent to it forthwith, and thus make Raoul happy.”
“Nah, Your Majesty; I love De Bragelonne with all my heart; he's in love with Mademoiselle de la Valliere, dreaming of a happy future; I'm not someone who wants to shatter the hopes of youth. I don't approve of this marriage, but I beg you to agree to it right away, so you can make Raoul happy.”
“Tell me, comte, is she in love with him?”
“Tell me, Count, is she in love with him?”
“If your majesty requires me to speak candidly, I do not believe in Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s affection; the delight 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 Bragelonne wishes it, and so let it be.”
“If your majesty wants me to be honest, I don’t believe in Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s feelings; the joy of being at court and the honor of serving Madame overshadow any feelings she might have in her heart. It’s a relationship like many others that already exist at court; but if De Bragelonne wants it, then so be it.”
“And yet you do not resemble those easy-tempered fathers who volunteer as stepping-stones for their children,” said the king.
“And yet you don’t seem like those easygoing dads who are willing to be stepping-stones for their kids,” said the king.
“I am determined enough against the viciously disposed, but not so against men of upright character. Raoul is suffering; he is in great distress of mind; his disposition, naturally light and cheerful, has become gloomy and melancholy. I do not wish to deprive your majesty of the services he may be able to render.”
“I’m strong enough to stand up to those who are cruel, but not so much against good people. Raoul is in pain; he’s really struggling right now; his usual light and happy nature has turned dark and sad. I don’t want to take away from your majesty the help he could provide.”
“I understand you,” said the king; “and what is more, I understand your heart, too, comte.”
“I get you,” said the king; “and what’s more, I 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.”
“There’s no need, then,” replied the count, “to tell your majesty that my goal is to make these kids, or rather Raoul, happy.”
“And I, too, as much as yourself, comte, wish to secure M. de Bragelonne’s happiness.”
“And I, just like you, Count, want to ensure M. 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.”
“I’m just waiting for your signature, Your Majesty. Raoul will have the honor of coming before you to get your approval.”
“You are mistaken, comte,” said the king, firmly; “I have just said that I desire to secure M. de Bragelonne’s happiness, and from the present moment, therefore, I oppose his marriage.”
“You're wrong, Count,” the king said firmly. “I just stated that I want to ensure M. de Bragelonne’s happiness, and from this moment on, I am against his marriage.”
“But, sire,” exclaimed Athos, “your majesty has promised!”
“But, Your Majesty,” Athos exclaimed, “you promised!”
“Not so, comte, I did not promise you, for it is opposed to my own views.”
“Not at all, count, I didn’t promise you that, because it goes against my own beliefs.”
“I appreciate your majesty’s considerate and generous intentions on my behalf; but I take the liberty of recalling to you that I undertook to approach you as an ambassador.”
“I appreciate your majesty’s thoughtful and generous intentions for me, but I want to remind you that I came to you as an ambassador.”
“An ambassador, comte, frequently asks, but does not always obtain what he asks.”
“An ambassador, count, often requests things, but doesn't always get what he requests.”
“But, sire, it will be such a blow for De Bragelonne.”
“But, sir, it will be such a shock for De Bragelonne.”
“My hand shall deal the blow; I will speak to the vicomte.”
“My hand will deliver the blow; I’ll talk to the viscount.”
“Love, sire, is overwhelming in its might.”
"Love, sir, is incredibly strong."
“Love can be resisted, comte. I myself can assure you of that.”
“Love can be resisted, comte. I can assure you of that myself.”
“When one has the soul of a king,—your own, for instance, sire.”
“When you have the soul of a king—like yours, for example, 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 favor, such as I wish to confer upon him. In a word, comte, I wish them to wait.”
“Don’t stress about it. I have some plans for De Bragelonne. I’m not saying he shouldn’t marry Mademoiselle de la Valliere, but I don’t want him to get married so young; I’d rather he waits until she has some wealth. He also deserves to receive the benefits I want to give him. In short, comte, I want them to wait.”
“Yet once more, sire.”
"Once more, sire."
“Comte, you told me you came here to request a favor.”
“Comte, you said you came here to ask for a favor.”
“Assuredly, sire.”
"Definitely, my lord."
“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 fire a married man, or a father of a family. I should hesitate also, on De Bragelonne’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 amongst my nobility.” Athos bowed, and remained silent.
“Give me one request then; let’s not discuss this anymore. It’s likely that, soon, war will be declared. I need men around me who are free. I would think twice about sending a married man or a father into danger. I would also hesitate, for De Bragelonne’s sake, to give a fortune to a young girl I don’t know without a good reason; that would create jealousy among my nobles.” Athos nodded and stayed silent.
“Is that all you wished to ask me?” added Louis XIV.
“Is that all you wanted to ask me?” added Louis XIV.
“Absolutely all, sire; and I take my leave of your majesty. Is it, however, necessary that I should inform Raoul?”
“Absolutely everyone, sire; and I take my leave of your majesty. Is it necessary for me to inform Raoul?”
“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.”
“Save yourself the trouble and hassle. Let the viscount know that at my levee tomorrow morning, I’ll talk to him. I’ll be expecting you this evening, count, to join my card game.”
“I am in traveling-costume, sire.”
"I'm in travel clothes, 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 hospitality to men of your merit.”
“A day will come, I hope, when you won’t leave me anymore. Soon, comte, the monarchy will be set up in a way that allows me to offer a fitting hospitality to men of your quality.”
“Provided, sire, a monarch reigns grandly in the hearts of his subjects, the palace he inhabits matters little, since he is worshipped in a temple.” With these words Athos left the cabinet, and found De Bragelonne, who was awaiting him anxiously.
“Provided, sir, a king rules magnificently in the hearts of his people, the palace he lives in doesn't matter much, since he's revered in a temple.” With these words, Athos left the room and found De Bragelonne, who was anxiously waiting for him.
“Well, monsieur?” said the young man.
“Well, sir?” said the young man.
“The king, Raoul, is well intentioned towards us both; not, perhaps, in the sense you suppose, but he is kind, and generously disposed to our house.”
“The king, Raoul, means well towards both of us; maybe not in the way you think, but he is kind and has a generous attitude towards our family.”
“You have bad news to communicate to me, monsieur,” said the young man, turning very pale.
“You have some bad news to tell me, sir,” said the young man, turning very pale.
“The king himself will inform you to-morrow morning that it is not bad news.”
“The king himself will let you know tomorrow morning that it’s not bad news.”
“The king has not signed, however?”
"The king hasn't signed yet?"
“The king wishes himself to settle the terms of the contract, and he desires to make it so grand that he requires time for consideration. Throw the blame rather on your own impatience, than on the king’s good feelings towards you.”
“The king wants to determine the terms of the contract himself, and he wants it to be so impressive that he needs time to think it over. Blame your own impatience instead of the king’s goodwill towards you.”
Raoul, in utter consternation, on account of his knowledge of the count’s frankness as well as his diplomacy, remained plunged in dull and gloomy stupor.
Raoul, completely bewildered, given his awareness of the count’s honesty as well as his tact, stayed stuck in a dull and gloomy daze.
“Will you not go with me to my lodgings?” said Athos.
“Will you come with me to my place?” said Athos.
“I beg your pardon, monsieur; I will follow you,” he stammered out, following Athos down the staircase.
“I’m sorry, sir; I’ll follow you,” he stammered, trailing Athos down the stairs.
“Since I am here,” said Athos, suddenly, “cannot I see M. d’Artagnan?”
“Since I’m here,” said Athos suddenly, “can’t I see M. d’Artagnan?”
“Shall I show you his apartments?” said De Bragelonne.
“Should I show you his rooms?” De Bragelonne asked.
“Do so.”
"Go for it."
“They are on the opposite staircase.”
“They're on the other stairs.”
They altered their course, but on reaching the landing of the grand staircase, Raoul perceived a servant in the Comte de Guiche’s livery, who ran towards him as soon as he heard his voice.
They changed their direction, but when they reached the landing of the grand staircase, Raoul noticed a servant in the Comte de Guiche’s uniform, who hurried towards him as soon as he heard his voice.
“What is it?” said Raoul.
“What’s up?” said Raoul.
“This note, monsieur. My master heard of your return and wrote to you without delay; I have been looking for you for the last half-hour.”
“This note, sir. My boss heard you were back and wrote to you right away; I’ve been searching for you for the last half hour.”
Raoul approached Athos as he unsealed the letter, saying, “With your permission, monsieur.”
Raoul walked over to Athos as he opened the letter and said, “If it’s okay with you, sir.”
“Certainly.”
"Sure."
“Dear Raoul,” wrote 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.”
“Dear Raoul,” wrote the Comte de Guiche, “I have a situation that needs your immediate attention; I know you’re back; come see me as soon as you can.”
Hardly had he finished reading it, when a servant in the livery of the Duke of Buckingham, turning out of the gallery, recognized Raoul, and approached him respectfully, saying, “From his Grace, monsieur.”
Hardly had he finished reading it when a servant wearing the Duke of Buckingham's livery came out of the gallery, recognized Raoul, and approached him respectfully, saying, “From his Grace, sir.”
“Well, Raoul, as I see you are already as busy as a general of an army, I shall leave you, and will find M. d’Artagnan myself.”
“Well, Raoul, since I see you’re already as busy as a general of an army, I’ll leave you and go find M. d’Artagnan myself.”
“You will excuse me, I trust,” said Raoul.
“You'll excuse me, I hope,” said Raoul.
“Yes, yes, I excuse you; adieu, Raoul; you will find me at my apartments until to-morrow; during the day I may set out for Blois, unless I have orders to the contrary.”
“Yes, yes, it’s fine; goodbye, Raoul; you can find me at my place until tomorrow; during the day I might head to Blois, unless I hear otherwise.”
“I shall present my respects to you to-morrow, monsieur.”
“I will show you my respects tomorrow, sir.”
As soon as Athos had left, Raoul opened Buckingham’s letter.
As soon as Athos left, Raoul opened Buckingham's letter.
“Monsieur de Bragelonne,” it ran, “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.
“Monsieur de Bragelonne,” it said, “You are, out of all the Frenchmen I’ve met, the one I’m most pleased with; I’m about to test our friendship. I’ve received a message, written in very good French. Since I’m English, I’m worried I might not understand it completely. The letter has a good name signed on it, and that’s all I can tell you. Would you be kind enough to come see me? I’ve been told you’ve just arrived from Blois.”
“Your devoted
“Your dedicated”
“VILLIERS, Duke of Buckingham.”
“VILLIERS, Duke of Buckingham.”
“I am going now to see your master,” said Raoul to De Guiche’s servant, as he dismissed him; “and I shall be with the Duke of Buckingham in an hour,” he added, dismissing with these words the duke’s messenger.
“I’m off to see your master now,” Raoul said to De Guiche’s servant as he sent him away. “I’ll be with the Duke of Buckingham in an hour,” he added, sending the duke’s messenger on his way.
Chapter XIX. Sword-Thrusts in 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 Raoul as a stranger; they behaved as if they were not acquainted. As Raoul entered, De Guiche walked up to him; and Raoul, as he grasped his friend’s hand, glanced rapidly at his two companions, hoping to be able to read on their faces what was passing in their minds. De Wardes was cold and impenetrable; Manicamp seemed absorbed in the contemplation of some trimming to his dress. De Guiche led Raoul to an adjoining cabinet, and made him sit down, saying, “How well you look!”
Raoul, when he approached De Guiche, found him chatting with De Wardes and Manicamp. Since the incident at the barricade, De Wardes had treated Raoul like a stranger; they acted as if they didn’t know each other. As Raoul walked in, De Guiche stepped over to him, and Raoul, while shaking his friend's hand, quickly glanced at the two companions, hoping to catch a hint of their thoughts from their expressions. De Wardes was distant and unreadable; Manicamp seemed focused on adjusting some detail of his outfit. De Guiche took Raoul to a nearby room and had him sit down, saying, “You look great!”
“That is singular,” replied Raoul, “for I am far from being in good spirits.”
"That's unusual," Raoul replied, "because I'm not feeling very happy."
“It is your case, then, Raoul, as it is my own,—our love affairs do not progress.”
“It’s your situation, Raoul, just like mine—our romantic lives aren’t moving forward.”
“So much the better, count, as far as you are concerned; the worst news would be good news.”
“So much the better, Count, as far as you are concerned; the worst news 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.”
“In that case, don’t stress yourself out, because not only am I really unhappy, but on top of that, I see other people around me who are happy.”
“Really, I do not understand you,” replied Raoul; “explain yourself.”
“Honestly, I don’t get you,” Raoul said. “Can you explain what you mean?”
“You will soon learn. I have tried, but in vain, to overcome the feeling you saw dawn in me, increase, and take entire possession of me. I have summoned all your advice and 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 aware, but it matters little for I shall pursue my own course.”
“You will soon see. I’ve tried, but it hasn’t worked, to shake off the feeling you noticed in me, which has grown stronger and taken over. I’ve called upon all your advice and my own strength to help me. I’ve considered the unfortunate situation I’ve gotten myself into; I’ve explored its depths; I know it’s a bottomless pit, but it doesn’t matter because I will follow my own path.”
“This is madness, De Guiche! you cannot advance another step without risking your own ruin to-day, perhaps your life to-morrow.”
“This is crazy, De Guiche! You can't take another step without putting yourself at serious risk today, maybe even your life tomorrow.”
“Whatever may happen, I have done with reflections; listen.”
“Whatever happens, I've finished with thinking about it; listen.”
“And you hope to succeed; you believe that Madame will love you?”
“And you hope to succeed; you think that Madame will love you?”
“Raoul, I believe nothing; I hope, because hope exists in man, and never abandons him until death.”
“Raoul, I don’t believe in anything; I hope, because hope is a part of being human, and it never leaves us until we die.”
“But, admitting that you obtain the happiness you covet, even then, you are more certainly lost than if you had failed in obtaining it.”
“But, even if you get the happiness you desire, you are actually more lost than if you hadn’t achieved it at all.”
“I beseech you, Raoul, 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 I cannot recede; I have suffered so much, death itself would be a boon. I no longer love to madness, Raoul, I am being engulfed by a whirlpool of jealousy.”
“I’m begging you, Raoul, please stop interrupting me; you will never change my mind because I’m telling you now, I don’t want to be convinced. I’ve come too far to turn back; I’ve suffered so much that death itself would be a relief. I no longer love like I used to, Raoul; I’m being pulled under by a storm of jealousy.”
Raoul struck his hands together with an expression resembling anger. “Well?” said he.
Raoul clapped his hands together, looking frustrated. “Well?” he said.
“Well or ill matters little. This is what I claim from you, my friend, my almost brother. During the last three days Madame has been living in a perfect intoxication of gayety. On the first day, I dared not look at her; I hated her for not being as unhappy as myself. The next day I could 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 hers. Beside her horse another’s always gallops, which is not mine; in her ear another’s caressing voice, not mine, unceasingly vibrates. Raoul, for three days past my brain has been on fire; flame, not blood, courses through my veins. That shadow must be driven away, that smile must be quenched; that voice must be silenced.”
“Well or poorly, it doesn't matter much. This is what I ask of you, my friend, my almost brother. For the past three days, Madame has been in a constant state of joy. On the first day, I couldn't even look at her; I was upset that she wasn't as sad as I was. The next day, I couldn’t stand being away from her; and she, Raoul—at least I think I noticed it—she looked at me, if not with pity, at least with kindness. But between her gaze and mine, a shadow loomed; someone else's smile drew hers. Next to her horse, another always rides alongside, and it’s not me; in her ear, another's tender voice, not mine, constantly resonates. Raoul, for the past three days my mind has been on fire; not blood, but flame courses through my veins. That shadow has to go, that smile needs to fade; that voice has to be silenced.”
“You wish Monsieur’s death,” exclaimed Raoul.
“You want Monsieur to die,” exclaimed Raoul.
“No, no, I am not jealous of the husband; I am jealous of the lover.”
“No, no, I’m not jealous of the husband; I’m jealous of the boyfriend.”
“Of the lover?” said Raoul.
"About the lover?" said Raoul.
“Have you not observed it, you who were formerly so keen-sighted?”
“Have you not noticed it, you who used to be so perceptive?”
“Are you jealous of the Duke of Buckingham?”
“Are you jealous of the Duke of Buckingham?”
“To the very death.”
"Until the very end."
“Again jealous?”
"Still jealous?"
“This time the affair will be easy to arrange between us; I have taken the initiative, and have sent him a letter.”
“This time, it will be easy to set things up between us; I've taken the lead and sent him a letter.”
“It was you, then, who wrote to him?”
“It was you who wrote to him, right?”
“How do you know that?”
"How do you know?"
“I know it, because he told me so. Look at this;” and he handed De Guiche the letter 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.”
“I know it because he told me. Look at this;” and he handed De Guiche the letter he had received almost at the same time as his own. De Guiche read it eagerly and said, “He is a brave man, and more than that, a chivalrous man.”
“Most certainly the duke is a gallant man; I need not ask if you wrote to him in a similar style.”
“Definitely, the duke is a charming man; I don’t have to ask if you wrote to him in a similar way.”
“He will show you my letter when you call on him on my behalf.”
“He will show you my letter when you visit him for me.”
“But that is almost out of the question.”
“But that's pretty much out of the question.”
“What is?”
"What is it?"
“That I shall call on him for that purpose.”
“That I will visit him for that reason.”
“Why so?”
"Why's that?"
“The duke consults me as you do.”
“The duke asks for my advice just like you do.”
“I suppose you will give me the preference! Listen to me, Raoul, 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 will meet him at Vincennes.”
“I guess you’ll choose me first! Listen, Raoul, I want you to tell his Grace—it’s really straightforward—that today, tomorrow, the day after, or any other day he wants, I’ll meet him at Vincennes.”
“Reflect, De Guiche.”
"Think, De Guiche."
“I thought I told you I have reflected.”
“I thought I told you I’ve thought it over.”
“The duke is a stranger here; he is on a mission which renders his person inviolable.... Vincennes is close to the Bastile.”
“The duke is a stranger here; he’s on a mission that makes him untouchable.... Vincennes is close to the Bastille.”
“The consequences concern me.”
"The consequences concern me."
“But the motive for this meeting? What motive do you wish me to assign?”
“But what’s the reason for this meeting? What reason do you want me to give?”
“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, seek the duke, and if it is necessary to entreat him, to accept my offer, I will do so.”
“Don’t worry about that; he won’t ask for anything. The duke must be as tired of me as I am of him. I urge you, please find the duke, and if it’s necessary to beg him to accept my offer, I will do that.”
“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 pointless. The duke has already let me know that he wants to talk to me. Right now, he’s playing cards with the king. Let’s go over there. I’ll pull him aside in the gallery; you stay back. A couple of words will do.”
“That is well arranged. I will take De Wardes to keep me in countenance.”
"That sounds good. I’ll take De Wardes to back me up."
“Why not Manicamp? De Wardes can join us at any time; we can leave him here.”
“Why not Manicamp? De Wardes can join us whenever; we can leave him here.”
“Yes, that is true.”
“Yeah, that's true.”
“He knows nothing?”
"Does he know nothing?"
“Positively nothing. You continue still on an unfriendly footing, then?”
“Nothing at all. Are you still not on friendly terms, then?”
“Has he not told you anything?”
“Hasn’t he said anything to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Zero.”
“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.”
“I don’t like the man, and since I never liked him, the result is that I'm no worse off with him today than I was yesterday.”
“Let us go, then.”
"Let's go, then."
The four descended the stairs. De Guiche’s carriage was waiting at the door, and took them to the Palais Royal. As they were going along, Raoul was engaged in devising his scheme of action. The sole depositary 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 hopeless. 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 own atmosphere, Raoul could not prevent himself for a moment forgetting De Guiche in order to seek out Louise, who, amidst her companions, like a dove completely fascinated, gazed long and fixedly upon the royal circle, which glittered with jewels and gold. All its members were standing, the king alone being seated. Raoul perceived Buckingham, who was standing a few paces from Monsieur, in a group of French and English, who were admiring his aristocratic carriage and the incomparable magnificence of his costume. Some of the older courtiers remembered having seen his father, but their recollections were not prejudicial to the son.
The four went down the stairs. De Guiche’s carriage was waiting at the door and took them to the Palais Royal. As they traveled, Raoul was busy planning his next move. Holding two secrets, he still hoped to broker some kind of agreement between the two sides. He was aware of the influence he had over Buckingham and the sway he had gained over De Guiche; things didn’t seem completely hopeless. When they arrived in the brightly lit gallery, where the most beautiful and illustrious women of the court moved like stars in their own space, Raoul couldn’t help but briefly forget about De Guiche as he looked for Louise, who, among her friends, gazed intently at the royal circle, captivated like a dove, glittering with jewels and gold. Everyone was standing, except for the king, who was seated. Raoul spotted Buckingham standing a few steps from Monsieur, surrounded by a mix of French and English admirers who were commenting on his noble demeanor and the incredible splendor of his outfit. Some of the older courtiers remembered seeing his father, but those memories didn’t taint their view of the son.
Buckingham was conversing with Fouquet, who was talking with him aloud about Belle-Isle. “I cannot speak to him at present,” said Raoul.
Buckingham was having a conversation with Fouquet, who was speaking to him out loud about Belle-Isle. “I can't talk to him right now,” said Raoul.
“Wait, then, and choose your opportunity, but finish everything speedily. I am on thorns.”
“Wait for the right moment and take your chance, but wrap things up quickly. I'm on edge.”
“See, our deliverer approaches,” said Raoul, perceiving D’Artagnan, who, magnificently dressed in his new uniform of captain of the musketeers, had just made his entry in the gallery; and he advanced towards D’Artagnan.
“Look, our savior is coming,” said Raoul, spotting D’Artagnan, who, dressed impressively in his new captain of the musketeers uniform, had just walked into the gallery; and he moved towards D’Artagnan.
“The Comte de la Fere has been looking for you, chevalier,” said Raoul.
“The Comte de la Fere has been looking for you, knight,” said Raoul.
“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan, “I have just left him.”
“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan, “I just left him.”
“I thought you would have passed a portion of the evening together.”
“I thought you would have spent part of the evening together.”
“We have arranged to meet again.”
"We've scheduled another meeting."
As he answered Raoul, 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. Raoul 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 lingering and haughty glance was aimed.
As he answered Raoul, his distracted gaze roamed everywhere, as if he were searching for someone in the crowd or looking for something in the room. Suddenly, his eyes locked onto something, like an eagle focusing on its prey. Raoul followed his gaze and saw that De Guiche and D’Artagnan acknowledged each other, but he couldn’t tell who the captain’s lingering and arrogant stare was directed at.
“Chevalier,” said Raoul, “there is no one here but yourself who can render me a service.”
“Chevalier,” Raoul said, “there’s no one here but you who can help me.”
“What is it, my dear vicomte?”
“What is it, my dear viscount?”
“It is simply to go and interrupt the Duke of Buckingham, to whom I wish to say two words, and, as the duke is conversing with M. Fouquet, you understand that it would not do for me to throw myself into the middle of the conversation.”
“It’s just to go and interrupt the Duke of Buckingham, to whom I want to say a couple of words, and since the duke is talking with M. Fouquet, you see that it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to jump into the middle of their conversation.”
“Ah, ah, is M. Fouquet there?” inquired D’Artagnan.
“Hey, is M. Fouquet here?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Do you not see him?”
"Can't you see him?"
“Yes, now I do. But do you think I have a greater right than you have?”
“Yes, I do now. But do you think I have a greater right than you do?”
“You are a more important personage.”
“You are a more significant person.”
“Yes, you’re right; I am captain of the musketeers; I have had the post promised me so long, and have enjoyed it for so brief a period, that I am always forgetting my dignity.”
“Yes, you’re right; I am the captain of the musketeers; I've been promised this position for so long, and I've only enjoyed it for such a short time, that I keep forgetting my status.”
“You will do me this service, will you not?”
“You’ll do me this favor, right?”
“M. Fouquet—the deuce!”
“M. Fouquet—what the heck!”
“Are you not on good terms with him?”
“Are you not getting along 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—”
“It’s actually him who might not be on good terms with me; still, since it has to be done eventually—”
“Stay; I think he is looking at you; or is it likely that it might be—”
“Wait; I think he’s looking at you; or is it possible that it might be—”
“No, no; don’t deceive yourself, it is indeed me for whom this honor is intended.”
“No, no; don’t fool yourself, it’s really me that this honor is meant for.”
“The opportunity is a good one, then?”
“The opportunity is a good one, right?”
“Do you think so?”
"Do you really think that?"
“Pray go.”
"Please go."
“Well, I will.”
"Sure, I will."
De Guiche had not removed his eyes from Raoul, who made a sign to him that all was arranged. D’Artagnan walked straight up to the group, and civilly saluted M. Fouquet as well as the others.
De Guiche hadn't taken his eyes off Raoul, who signaled to him that everything was set. D’Artagnan approached the group directly and politely greeted M. Fouquet and the others.
“Good evening, M. d’Artagnan; we were speaking of Belle-Isle,” said Fouquet, 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.
“Good evening, Mr. d’Artagnan; we were talking about Belle-Isle,” said Fouquet, with that social ease and that perfect understanding of nonverbal communication, which takes a lifetime to master, and which some people, despite all their efforts, never achieve.
“Of Belle-Ile-en-Mer! Ah!” said D’Artagnan. “It belongs to you, I believe, M. Fouquet?”
“Of Belle-Ile-en-Mer! Ah!” said D’Artagnan. “I think it’s yours, M. Fouquet?”
“M. Fouquet has just told us that he had presented it to the king,” said Buckingham.
“M. Fouquet just told us that he presented it to the king,” said Buckingham.
“Do you know Belle-Isle, chevalier?” inquired Fouquet.
“Do you know Belle-Isle, chevalier?” asked Fouquet.
“I have only been there once,” replied D’Artagnan, with readiness and good-humor.
“I’ve only been there once,” D’Artagnan replied, cheerfully and with a smile.
“Did you remain there long?”
“Did you stay there long?”
“Scarcely a day.”
"Hardly a day."
“Did you see much of it while you were there?”
“Did you see a lot of it while you were there?”
“All that could be seen in a day.”
“All that could be seen in a day.”
“A great deal can be seen with observation as keen as yours,” said Fouquet; at which D’Artagnan bowed.
“A lot can be noticed with observation as sharp as yours,” said Fouquet; to which D’Artagnan nodded.
During this Raoul made a sign to Buckingham. “M. Fouquet,” said Buckingham, “I leave the captain with you, he is more learned than I am in bastions, scarps, and counter-scarps, and I will join one of my friends, who has just beckoned me.” Saying this, Buckingham disengaged himself from the group, and advanced towards Raoul, stopping for a moment at the table where the queen-mother, the young queen, and the king were playing together.
During this, Raoul signaled to Buckingham. “Mr. Fouquet,” said Buckingham, “I’ll leave the captain with you; he knows more about bastions, scarps, and counter-scarps than I do, and I need to join one of my friends who just waved me over.” With that, Buckingham stepped away from the group and walked towards Raoul, pausing briefly at the table where the queen mother, the young queen, and the king were playing together.
“Now, Raoul,” said De Guiche, “there he is; be firm and quick.”
“Now, Raoul,” De Guiche said, “there he is; be strong and swift.”
Buckingham, having made some complimentary remark to Madame, continued his way towards Raoul, 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 groups of players and the gallery, where they walked, stopping now and then for the purpose of saying a few words to some of the graver courtiers who were walking there. At the moment when the two lines were about to unite, they were broken by a third. It was Monsieur who advanced towards the Duke of Buckingham. Monsieur had his most engaging smile on his red and perfumed lips.
Buckingham, after saying something nice to Madame, made his way toward Raoul, who came to meet him, while De Guiche stayed where he was, watching them. The plan was set up so that the young men would meet in an open area between the groups of players and the gallery, where they walked, occasionally stopping to exchange a few words with some of the more serious courtiers nearby. Just as the two lines were about to come together, a third line disrupted them. It was Monsieur, who approached the Duke of Buckingham with his most charming smile on his red, perfumed lips.
“My dear duke,” said he, with the most affectionate politeness; “is it really true what I have just been told?”
“My dear duke,” he said with the utmost polite warmth, “is what I just heard really true?”
Buckingham turned round; he had not noticed Monsieur approach; but had merely heard his voice. He started in spite of his command over himself, and a slight pallor overspread his face. “Monseigneur,” he asked, “what has been told you that surprises you so much?”
Buckingham turned around; he hadn’t seen Monsieur come up; he had only heard his voice. He jumped slightly despite his self-control, and a faint pallor crossed his face. “Monseigneur,” he asked, “what have you been told that surprises you so much?”
“That which throws me into despair, and will, in truth, be a real cause of mourning for the whole court.”
“That really puts me in despair, and will genuinely be a reason for mourning for the whole court.”
“Your highness is very kind, for I perceive that you allude to my departure.”
“Your highness is very kind, as I see that you’re referring to my departure.”
“Precisely.”
“Exactly.”
Guiche had overheard the conversation from where he was standing, and started in his turn. “His departure,” he murmured. “What does he say?”
Guiche had heard the conversation from where he was standing and reacted. “His departure,” he murmured. “What does he mean?”
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.”
Philip continued with the same gracious demeanor, “I can easily understand, sir, why the king of Great Britain is recalling you; we all know that King Charles II, who values true gentlemen, cannot do without you. However, we can’t let you leave without significant sorrow, and I ask you to accept my personal expression of it.”
“Believe me, monseigneur,” said the duke, “that if I quit the court of France—”
“Believe me, sir,” said the duke, “that if I leave the court of France—”
“Because you are recalled; but, if you suppose the expression of my own wish on the subject might possibly have any influence with the king, I will gladly volunteer to entreat his majesty Charles II. to leave you with us a little while longer.”
“Because you are being called back; but, if you think my personal request on the matter could sway the king, I would happily offer to ask his majesty Charles II. to keep you with us a bit longer.”
“I am overwhelmed, monseigneur, by so much kindness,” replied Buckingham; “but I have received positive commands. My residence in France was limited; I have prolonged it at the risk of displeasing my gracious sovereign. It is only this very day that I recollected I ought to have set off four days ago.”
“I’m really grateful for all this kindness, sir,” replied Buckingham; “but I've been given clear orders. My stay in France was supposed to be short; I’ve extended it at the risk of upsetting my generous sovereign. Just today I realized that I should have left four days ago.”
“Indeed,” said Monsieur.
“Definitely,” 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, but who one day awoke, if not completely cured, in some respects rational at least. The court of France 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 to do.”
“Yes; but,” Buckingham said, raising his voice so the princess could hear him, “I’m like that person from the East who went crazy for several days because of a wonderful dream he had. Yet one day he woke up, not entirely cured, but somewhat rational at least. The French court has its intoxicating effects, similar to that dream, my lord; but eventually I wake up and leave it. Therefore, I won’t be able to extend my stay, even though your highness has so kindly invited me to do so.”
“When do you leave?” inquired Philip, with an expression full of interest.
“When are you leaving?” Philip asked, clearly interested.
“To-morrow, monseigneur. My carriages have been ready for three days.”
“Tomorrow, sir. My carriages have been ready for three days.”
The Duc 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. Raoul feared that the impatient young man might possibly make the proposition himself, and hurried forth before him.
The Duc d’Orleans nodded, which seemed to mean, “Since you’re set on this, there’s nothing more to discuss.” Buckingham mirrored the gesture, hiding a tight feeling in his chest behind a smile, and then Monsieur walked away in the direction he had come from. At that same moment, though, De Guiche approached from the other side. Raoul worried that the eager young man might propose something himself, so he rushed ahead to get in front of him.
“No, no, Raoul, all is useless now,” said Guiche, holding both his hands towards the duke, and leading him behind a column. “Forgive me, duke, for what I wrote to you, I was mad; give me back my letter.”
“No, no, Raoul, it’s all pointless now,” said Guiche, holding both his hands up to the duke and guiding him behind a column. “Forgive me, duke, for what I wrote to you, I was out of my mind; please give me back my letter.”
“It is true,” said the duke, “you cannot owe me a grudge any longer now.”
“It’s true,” said the duke, “you can’t hold a grudge against me anymore.”
“Forgive me, duke; my friendship, my lasting friendship is yours.”
“Sorry, duke; my friendship, my loyal 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.”
“There's really no reason for you to hold any bad feelings toward me once I leave her and never see her again.”
Raoul heard these words, and comprehending that his presence was now useless between the 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 respecting the departure of Buckingham. “A strategic retreat,” said De Wardes.
Raoul heard these words and realized that his presence was no longer needed among the young men, who now had only friendly things to say to each other. He stepped back a bit, which brought him closer to De Wardes, who was talking to the Chevalier de Lorraine about Buckingham's departure. “A strategic retreat,” De Wardes said.
“Why so?”
"Why is that?"
“Because the dear duke saves a sword-thrust by it.” At which reply both laughed.
“Because the dear duke avoids a sword thrust by it.” At this response, both laughed.
Raoul, indignant, turned round frowningly, flushed with anger and his lip curling with disdain. The Chevalier de Lorraine turned on his heel, but De Wardes remained and waited.
Raoul, angry, turned around with a frown, his face flushed and his lip curling in disdain. The Chevalier de Lorraine pivoted on his heel, but De Wardes stayed behind and waited.
“You will not break yourself of the habit,” said Raoul to De Wardes, “of insulting the absent; yesterday it was M. d’Artagnan, to-day it is the Duke of Buckingham.”
“You won’t stop making fun of people who aren’t here,” Raoul said to De Wardes. “Yesterday it was M. d’Artagnan, today it’s the Duke of Buckingham.”
“You know very well, monsieur,” returned De Wardes, “that I sometimes insult those who are present.”
“You know very well, sir,” replied De Wardes, “that I sometimes insult those who are here.”
De Wardes was close to Raoul, their shoulders met, their faces approached, as if to mutually inflame each other by the fire of their looks and of their anger. It could be seen that the one was at the height of fury, 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.”
De Wardes was close to Raoul, their shoulders brushed together, their faces leaned in, as if they were trying to ignite each other with the intensity of their glares and anger. It was clear that one was filled with rage, while the other had reached the limit of his patience. Suddenly, a voice full of grace and courtesy came from behind them, saying, “I think I just heard my name mentioned.”
They turned round and saw D’Artagnan, who, with a smiling eye and a cheerful face, had just placed his hand on De Wardes’s shoulder. Raoul 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 Raoul had abandoned to him.
They turned around and saw D’Artagnan, who, with a sparkling eye and a friendly face, had just put his hand on De Wardes’s shoulder. Raoul stepped back to make room for the musketeer. De Wardes shook from head to toe, turned pale, but didn’t move. D’Artagnan, still smiling, took the spot that Raoul had left open for him.
“Thank you, my dear Raoul,” he said. “M. de Wardes, I wish to talk with you. Do not leave us, Raoul; every one can hear what I have to say to M. de Wardes.” His smile immediately faded away, and his glace became cold and sharp as a sword.
“Thank you, my dear Raoul,” he said. “M. de Wardes, I want to speak with you. Don’t go, Raoul; everyone can hear what I have to say to M. de Wardes.” His smile quickly disappeared, and his gaze turned cold and sharp like a sword.
“I am at your orders, monsieur,” said De Wardes.
“I’m at your service, sir,” 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 accompany me to my apartments, which are on the staircase at the end of this gallery.”
“For a long time,” D’Artagnan continued, “I've been looking for a chance to talk with you; today is the first time I've found it. I know this place isn’t ideal, but maybe you’ll consider coming to my room, which is up the stairs at the end of this hall.”
“I follow you, monsieur,” said De Wardes.
“I’m following you, sir,” said De Wardes.
“Are you alone here?” said D’Artagnan.
“Are you by yourself here?” said D’Artagnan.
“No; I have M. Manicamp and M. de Guiche, two of my friends.”
“No; I have M. Manicamp and M. de Guiche, two of my friends.”
“That’s well,” said D’Artagnan; “but two persons are not sufficient; you will be able to find a few others, I trust.”
“That’s good,” said D’Artagnan; “but two people aren’t enough; I trust you can find a few others.”
“Certainly,” said the young man, who did not know what object D’Artagnan had in view. “As many as you please.”
“Sure,” said the young man, who didn’t know what D’Artagnan was aiming for. “As many as you want.”
“Are they friends?”
"Are they friends now?"
“Yes, monsieur.”
"Yes, sir."
“Real friends?”
"True friends?"
“No doubt of it.”
"Definitely."
“Very well, get a good supply, then. Do you come, too, Raoul; bring M. de Guiche and the Duke of Buckingham.”
“Alright, make sure to get enough supplies. Are you coming too, Raoul? Bring M. de Guiche and the Duke of Buckingham with you.”
“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. 2
“What a commotion,” replied De Wardes, trying to smile. The captain subtly gestured to him with his hand, as if to suggest he should be patient, and then led the way to his rooms. 2
Chapter 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.
D’Artagnan’s apartment wasn't empty; the Comte de la Fere was sitting in a window nook, waiting for him. “Well,” he said to D’Artagnan as he walked in.
“Well,” said the latter, “M. 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. Raoul was accompanied by two or three gentlemen; and, as he entered, glanced round the room, and perceiving the count, 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 present 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, he turned towards De Wardes, who, in spite of his customary self-command, could not prevent his face betraying some surprise mingled with not a little uneasiness.
“Well,” said the latter, “M. de Wardes has honored me with a visit, along with some of his friends and ours.” In fact, behind the musketeer were De Wardes and Manicamp, followed by De Guiche and Buckingham, who looked surprised, not knowing what was expected of them. Raoul was accompanied by two or three gentlemen; as he entered, he glanced around the room, and upon seeing the count, he went and sat next to him. D’Artagnan greeted his visitors with all the courtesy he could muster, maintaining his calm and indifferent demeanor. Everyone present was a distinguished man, holding positions of honor and respect at court. After he apologized to each of them for any inconvenience he might have caused, he turned to De Wardes, who, despite his usual self-control, couldn't hide the surprise and a fair amount of unease on his face.
“Now, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “since we are no longer within the precincts of the king’s palace, and since we can speak out without failing in respect to propriety, I 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 friend, 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.”
“Now, sir,” D’Artagnan said, “since we’re no longer in the king’s palace and can speak freely without worrying about decorum, I want to tell you why I took the liberty of inviting you here and why I asked these gentlemen to join us. My friend, the Comte de la Fere, has informed me about the harmful rumors you’re spreading about me. You’ve said that you see me as your enemy because, as you claim, I was your father’s enemy.”
“Perfectly true, monsieur, I have said so,” replied De Wardes, whose pallid face became slightly tinged with color.
“Absolutely right, sir, I’ve said that,” responded De Wardes, his pale face becoming slightly flushed.
“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.”
“You're accusing me of a crime, a mistake, or some low and cowardly act. Please be kind enough to clearly state your accusation against me.”
“In the presence of witnesses?”
“Are there witnesses present?”
“Most certainly in the presence of witnesses; and you see I have selected them as being experienced in affairs of honor.”
“Definitely in front of witnesses; and you see I’ve chosen them because they are knowledgeable about matters 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 entered into no details; but have rested satisfied by expressing my hatred in the presence of those on whom a duty was almost imposed 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, M. d’Artagnan.”
“You don’t appreciate my subtlety, sir. I have accused you, it’s true; but I’ve kept the details of the accusation completely hidden. I didn’t go into specifics; I simply made it clear how much I despised you in front of those who almost had to inform you about it. You haven’t taken into account the discretion I’ve shown, even though you were keen on keeping quiet. I can hardly see your usual caution in that, M. d’Artagnan.”
D’Artagnan, who was quietly biting the corner of his moustache, said, “I have already had the honor to beg you to state the particulars of the grievances you say you have against me.”
D’Artagnan, who was calmly biting the edge of his mustache, said, “I’ve already had the honor of asking you to elaborate on the complaints you claim to have against me.”
“Aloud?”
"Out loud?"
“Certainly, aloud.”
“Sure, out loud.”
“In that case, I will speak.”
"I'll speak then."
“Speak, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, bowing; “we are all listening to you.”
“Speak, sir,” said D’Artagnan, bowing; “we’re all listening to you.”
“Well, monsieur, it is not a question of a personal injury towards myself, but one towards my father.”
“Well, sir, it’s not about a personal injury to me, but one to my father.”
“That you have already stated.”
"You've already said that."
“Yes; but there are certain subjects which are only approached with hesitation.”
“Yes; but there are some topics that are only addressed with reluctance.”
“If that hesitation, in your case, really does exist, I entreat you to overcome it.”
“If you really are feeling hesitant, I urge you to get past it.”
“Even if it refer to a disgraceful action?”
“Even if it refers to a shameful action?”
“Yes; in every and any case.”
"Yes, in each case."
Those who were present at this scene had, at first, looked at each other with a good deal of uneasiness. They were reassured, however, when they saw that D’Artagnan manifested no emotion whatever.
Those who were there at this scene initially exchanged glances filled with a fair amount of anxiety. They felt relieved, however, when they noticed that D’Artagnan showed no emotion at all.
De Wardes still maintained the same unbroken silence. “Speak, monsieur,” said the musketeer; “you see you are keeping us waiting.”
De Wardes still kept the same unbroken silence. “Speak, sir,” said the musketeer; “you see you're making us wait.”
“Listen, then:—My father loved a lady of noble birth, and this lady loved my father.” D’Artagnan and Athos exchanged looks. De Wardes continued: “M. d’Artagnan found some letters which indicated a rendezvous, substituted himself, under disguise, for the person who was expected, and took advantage of the darkness.”
“Listen, then:—My father loved a woman of noble birth, and this woman loved my father.” D’Artagnan and Athos exchanged glances. De Wardes went on: “M. d’Artagnan discovered some letters that pointed to a meeting, disguised himself as the person who was supposed to be there, and took advantage of the darkness.”
“That is perfectly true,” said D’Artagnan.
"That's totally true," D'Artagnan said.
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 one-and-twenty years of age.”
A quiet murmur spread among those present. “Yes, I was guilty of that dishonorable act. You should have mentioned, sir, since you are so fair, that at the time when the event you just described took place, I was not yet twenty-one years old.”
A renewed murmur was heard, but this time of astonishment, and almost of doubt.
A new murmur was heard, but this time it was one of surprise, and almost of disbelief.
“It was a most shameful deception, I admit,” said D’Artagnan, “and I have not waited for M. de Wardes’s 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 yourselves, known to you by tradition only, at a period when love was not over-scrupulous, when consciences did not distill, 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, M. de Wardes.”
“It was a really shameful deception, I admit,” said D’Artagnan, “and I didn’t need M. de Wardes to point it out for me to feel guilty about it, and I feel it very deeply. However, age has made me more reasonable, and above all, more upright; this wrong has been atoned for by a long and lasting regret. But I ask you, gentlemen; this happened in 1626, at a time, luckily for you, that you only know through stories, when love wasn’t overly careful, and when consciences didn’t, as they do today, produce poison and bitterness. We were young soldiers, always in battle or being attacked, our swords constantly in our hands, or at least ready to be drawn from their sheaths. Death was always right in front of us, war toughened us up, and the cardinal put a lot of pressure on us. I have regretted it, and more than that—I still regret it, M. 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 speaking, covered with shame, borne down by the affront you brought upon her, fled, quitted France, and no one ever knew what became of her.”
“I can totally get that, sir, because the act itself required some remorse; but you were still the reason for that lady’s shame. The woman you were talking about, filled with humiliation, weighed down by the insult you caused her, ran away, left France, and no one ever found out what happened to her.”
“Stay,” said the Comte de la Fere, stretching his hand towards 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 five-and-twenty years of age, slender in form, of a pale complexion, and fair-haired; she was married in England.”
“Stay,” said the Count de la Fere, extending his hand toward De Wardes with a strange smile on his face, “you’re wrong; she was seen; and there are people here now who, having often heard about her, will easily recognize her from the description I’m about to give. She was about 25 years old, slim, with a pale complexion and fair hair; she was married in England.”
“Married?” exclaimed De Wardes.
"Married?" De Wardes exclaimed.
“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 addition of any name to that description?”
“So, you didn’t know she was married? You see, we’re much better informed than you are. Did you happen to know she was usually referred to as ‘My Lady,’ without any name added to that title?”
“Yes, I know that.”
"Yeah, I know that."
“Good Heavens!” murmured Buckingham.
"OMG!" murmured Buckingham.
“Very well, monsieur. That woman, who came from England, returned to England after having thrice attempted M. d’Artagnan’s life. That was but just, you will say, since M. d’Artagnan had insulted her. But that which was not just was, that, when in England, this woman, by her seductions, completely enslaved a young man in the service of Lord de Winter, by name Felton. You change color, my lord,” said Athos, turning to the Duke of Buckingham, “and your eyes kindle with anger and sorrow. Let your Grace finish the recital, then, and tell M. de Wardes who this woman was who placed the knife in the hand of your father’s murderer.”
“Alright, sir. That woman, who came from England, went back to England after trying to kill M. d’Artagnan three times. You might say that was fair since M. d’Artagnan had insulted her. But what wasn’t fair was that while in England, this woman completely controlled a young man serving Lord de Winter, named Felton, through her charms. You’re looking pale, my lord,” Athos said, turning to the Duke of Buckingham, “and your eyes are filled with anger and sadness. Please, Your Grace, continue the story and tell M. de Wardes who this woman was that handed the knife to 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.
A gasp came from everyone there. The young duke wiped his forehead, which was slick with sweat. A heavy silence fell over the crowd.
“You see, M. de Wardes,” said D’Artagnan, whom this recital had impressed more and more, as his own recollection 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 altogether lost before my regret. It is, however, an act of conscience 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 France, subsequent to the death of King Charles I.”
“You see, M. de Wardes,” D’Artagnan said, feeling increasingly moved as his own memories surfaced while Athos spoke, “you see that my wrongdoing didn’t ruin anyone’s soul, and that soul was already lost before I felt any regret. However, I consider it a matter of conscience for me. Now that this is settled, I humbly ask for your forgiveness for this disgraceful act, as I certainly would have asked it of your father if he were still alive and if I had met him after returning to France following the death of King Charles I.”
“That is too much, M. d’Artagnan,” exclaimed many voices, with animation.
"That's way too much, M. d'Artagnan," many voices exclaimed eagerly.
“No, gentlemen,” said the captain. “And now, M. 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?”
“No, gentlemen,” said the captain. “And now, M. de Wardes, I hope this is all over between us, and that you won’t have any reason to speak poorly of me again. Do you think it’s completely settled?”
De Wardes bowed, and muttered to himself inarticulately.
De Wardes bowed and mumbled to himself quietly.
“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 can reproach an old soldier for a youthful freak five-and-thirty years after it 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 the principle of honor. And now, listen attentively to what I am going to say, M. de Wardes, in conclusion. Take care that no tale, with which your name may be associated, reaches my ear.”
“I trust,” said D’Artagnan, stepping closer to the young man, “that you won’t speak badly of anyone anymore, since it seems you have the unfortunate habit of doing so. For someone as strictly principled as you, who can criticize an old soldier for a youthful mistake that happened thirty-five years ago, I have to ask whether you, who promote such extreme purity of conscience, will also commit to doing nothing that goes against either your conscience or the principle of honor. And now, pay close attention to what I’m about to say, M. de Wardes, to wrap things up. Make sure that no story associated with your name ever reaches me.”
“Monsieur,” said De Wardes, “it is useless threatening to no purpose.”
“Monsieur,” De Wardes said, “there’s no point in threatening if it won’t lead to anything.”
“I have not yet finished, M. de Wardes, and you must listen to me still further.” The circle of listeners, full of eager curiosity, drew closer. “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 sentiment of delicacy and rectitude, and which did not exist, it seems, in our minds, lives in our children; and it is delightful, 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.”
“I’m not done yet, M. de Wardes, and you need to hear me out.” The group of listeners, full of eager curiosity, moved in closer. “You just mentioned the honor of a woman and your father’s honor. We were glad to hear you say that; it’s nice to think that such a sense of delicacy and integrity, which seems absent from our minds, still exists in our children. It’s also wonderful to see a young man, at an age when men often become the ones who tarnish the honor of women, respect and defend it.”
De Wardes bit his lip and clenched his hands, evidently much disturbed to learn how this discourse, the commencement of which was announced in so threatening a manner, would terminate.
De Wardes bit his lip and clenched his hands, clearly upset to find out how this conversation, which started off so threateningly, would end.
“How did it happen, then, that you allowed yourself to say to M. de Bragelonne that he did not know who his mother was?”
“How did it happen that you allowed yourself to tell M. de Bragelonne that he didn't know who his mother was?”
Raoul’s eyes 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’s face.
Raoul's eyes lit up as he charged forward and said, "Knight, this is a personal matter for me!" At his outburst, a smirk, full of malice, crossed De Wardes's face.
D’Artagnan put Raoul aside, saying,—“Do not interrupt me, young man.” And looking at De Wardes 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 honor, 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 M. de Wardes. What was the subject of conversation when you offended this young man, in offending his father and mother at the same time?”
D’Artagnan pushed Raoul aside, saying, “Don’t interrupt me, young man.” Then, looking at De Wardes with authority, he continued, “I’m dealing with a matter that can’t be resolved with a sword. I’m discussing it in front of men of honor, all of whom have had their swords drawn in matters of honor before. I chose them for this reason. These gentlemen know well that any secret worth fighting over stops being a secret. I’ll ask M. de Wardes again: What was the topic of conversation when you offended this young man, while also disrespecting his father and mother at the same time?”
“It seems to me,” returned De Wardes, “that liberty of speech is allowed, when it is supported by every means which a man of courage has at his disposal.”
“It seems to me,” De Wardes replied, “that freedom of speech is granted when it is backed by every tool a brave person has at their disposal.”
“Tell me what the means are by which a man of courage can sustain a slanderous expression.”
“Tell me how a brave person can handle a slanderous remark.”
“The sword.”
“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 duelling 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 chivalrous notions, you will at once apologize to M. 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, M. de Wardes, as I, an old officer, did and said just now to your boy’s moustache.”
"You’re failing not just in logic and your argument, but also in your values and honor. You put many others at risk without considering your own life, which seems quite dangerous. Besides, trends come and go, my friend, and the trend of dueling is over, regardless of the king's orders against it. So, to stay true to your own ideas of chivalry, you should apologize to M. de Bragelonne right away; you should tell him how much you regret speaking so casually and that the nobility and purity of his lineage are not only in his heart but also evident in every action he takes. You will do and say this, M. de Wardes, just as I, an old officer, just did to that young man's mustache."
“And if I refuse?” inquired De Wardes.
“And what if I say no?” De Wardes asked.
“In that case the result will be—”
“In that case, the outcome 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.”
“That which you think you can stop,” De Wardes said with a laugh; “the outcome will be that your attempt to smooth things over will just end up breaking the king’s orders.”
“Not so,” said the captain, “you are quite mistaken.”
“Not really,” said the captain, “you are completely wrong.”
“What will be the result, then?”
“What will the outcome be, 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 in blank for M. Baisemeaux de Montlezun, governor of the Bastile; and I shall say to the king: ‘Sire, a man has in a most cowardly way insulted M. de Bragelonne by insulting his mother; I have written this man’s name upon the lettre de cachet which your majesty has been kind enough to give me, so that M. de Wardes is in the Bastile for three years.” And D’Artagnan, drawing the order signed by the king from his pocket, held it towards De Wardes.
“The result will be that I’ll go to the king, with whom I get along fairly well and to whom I’ve been fortunate enough to offer some services dating back to a time before you were born. He has just sent me a blank order for M. Baisemeaux de Montlezun, the governor of the Bastille, at my request. I’ll say to the king: ‘Sire, a man has insulted M. de Bragelonne in a cowardly way by insulting his mother. I’ve written this man’s name on the lettre de cachet that your majesty kindly gave me, so M. de Wardes is going to the Bastille for three years.’” And D’Artagnan, pulling the order signed by the king from his pocket, held it out towards De Wardes.
Remarking that the young man was not quite convinced, and received the warning as an idle threat, he shrugged his shoulders and walked leisurely towards 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 towards Raoul, and, in an almost unintelligible voice, said,—“I offer my apologies in the terms which M. d’Artagnan just now dictated, and which I am forced to make to you.”
Noticing that the young man wasn't fully convinced and took the warning as an empty threat, he shrugged and strolled over to the table, where a writing case and a pen lay—the kind of pen that would have scared even the topographical Porthos. De Wardes then realized that the threat was very serious, as the Bastille was already feared even at that time. He took a step closer to Raoul and, in a nearly inaudible voice, said, “I apologize using the words M. d’Artagnan just dictated, which I’m compelled to say 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 latter 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.”
“One moment, sir,” said the musketeer, remaining completely calm, “you’re misunderstanding the terms of the apology. I didn’t say, ‘and which I am forced to make’; I said, ‘and which my conscience urges me to make.’ This second expression, trust me, is better than the first; and it will be far more suitable, as it will be the truest reflection of your own feelings.”
“I subscribe to it,” said De Wardes; “but submit, gentlemen, that a thrust of the sword through the body, as was the custom formerly, was far better than tyranny like this.”
“I agree with that,” said De Wardes; “but I submit, gentlemen, that getting stabbed with a sword, as was the custom in the past, was far better than this kind of tyranny.”
“No, monsieur,” replied Buckingham; “for the sword-thrust, when received, was no indication that a particular person was right or wrong; it only showed that he was more or less skillful in the use of the weapon.”
“No, sir,” replied Buckingham; “because getting stabbed does not prove that someone was right or wrong; it just shows how skilled they were with the weapon.”
“Monsieur!” exclaimed De Wardes.
“Sir!” exclaimed De Wardes.
“There, now,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “you are going to say something very rude, and I am rendering a service by stopping you in time.”
“There, now,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “you’re about to say something really rude, and I’m doing you a favor by stopping you before you do.”
“Is that all, monsieur?” inquired De Wardes.
“Is that all, sir?” asked De Wardes.
“Absolutely everything,” replied D’Artagnan; “and these gentlemen, as well as myself, are quite satisfied with you.”
“Absolutely everything,” replied D’Artagnan; “and these gentlemen, just like me, are really pleased with you.”
“Believe me, monsieur, that your reconciliations are not successful.”
“Trust me, sir, your attempts at making peace are not working.”
“In what way?”
“How so?”
“Because, as we are now about to separate, I would wager that M. de Bragelonne and myself are greater enemies than ever.”
“Because, since we are about to part ways now, I bet that M. de Bragelonne and I are bigger enemies than ever.”
“You are deceived, monsieur, as far as I am concerned,” returned Raoul; “for I do not retain the slightest animosity in my heart against you.”
“You're mistaken, sir, as far as I'm concerned,” Raoul replied; “because I don't hold any animosity in my heart toward you.”
This last blow overwhelmed De Wardes. He cast his eyes around him like a man 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 towards De Wardes. “Oh!” exclaimed the young man, “can I not find some one on whom to wreak my vengeance?”
This final blow shattered De Wardes. He looked around like someone who was completely lost. D’Artagnan politely greeted the gentlemen who had been there for the discussion; everyone shook his hand as they left the room, but no one offered their hand to De Wardes. “Oh!” the young man exclaimed, “Can’t I find someone to take my revenge on?”
“You can, monsieur, for I am here,” whispered a voice full of menace in his ear.
“You can, sir, because I’m here,” whispered a voice full of threat in his ear.
De Wardes turned round, and saw the Duke of Buckingham, who, having probably remained behind with that intention, had just approached him. “You, monsieur?” exclaimed De Wardes.
De Wardes turned around and saw the Duke of Buckingham, who had likely stayed back on purpose and had just come up to him. “You, sir?” 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 setting off 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 M. d’Artagnan’s principles profoundly, 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.”
“Yes, me! I am not a subject of the King of France; I’m not going to stay here because I’m about to leave for England. I’ve built up so much despair and anger inside me that I, like you, need to take revenge on someone. I completely agree with M. d’Artagnan’s beliefs, but I’m not obligated to apply them to you. I’m English, and I’m offering you what you suggested to others that came to nothing. Since you’re so furious, consider me a solution. In thirty-four hours, I’ll be in Calais. Join me; the journey will feel shorter together than alone. We can fight when we get there, on the sands covered by the rising tide, which belong to French territory for six hours of the day and to Heaven for the other six.”
“I accept willingly,” said De Wardes.
“I accept willingly,” De Wardes said.
“I assure you,” said the duke, “that if you kill me, you will be rendering me an infinite service.”
“I promise you,” said the duke, “that if you kill me, you will be doing me a huge favor.”
“I will do my utmost to make myself agreeable to you, duke,” said De Wardes.
“I will do my best to be pleasant to you, duke,” said De Wardes.
“It is agreed, then, that I carry you off with me?”
“It’s settled, then, that I’m taking you with me?”
“I shall be at your commands. I needed some real danger and some mortal risk to run, to tranquilize me.”
"I'll be at your service. I needed some real danger and a life-threatening risk to calm me down."
“In that case, I think you have met with what you are looking for. Farewell, M. de Wardes; to-morrow morning, my valet will tell you the exact hour of our departure; we can travel together like two excellent friends. I generally travel as fast as I can. Adieu.”
“In that case, I think you've found what you're looking for. Goodbye, M. de Wardes; tomorrow morning, my assistant will inform you of the exact time of our departure; we can travel together like two good friends. I usually travel as quickly as I can. Bye.”
Buckingham saluted De Wardes, and returned towards the king’s apartments; De Wardes, irritated beyond measure, left the Palais Royal, and hurried through the streets homeward to the house where he lodged.
Buckingham nodded to De Wardes and headed back to the king’s rooms; De Wardes, extremely frustrated, left the Palais Royal and rushed through the streets to the place where he was staying.
Chapter XXI. Baisemeaux de Montlezun.
After the austere 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.”
After the harsh lesson given to De Wardes, Athos and D’Artagnan went down the staircase that led to the courtyard of the Palais Royal. “You see,” said Athos to D’Artagnan, “that Raoul can’t avoid a duel with De Wardes, sooner or later, because De Wardes is as courageous as he is cruel and wicked.”
“I know such fellows well,” replied D’Artagnan; “I had an affair with the father. I assure you that, although at that time I had good muscles and a sort of brute courage—I assure you that 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 than a piece of steel; it was a serpent that assumed every form and every length, seeking 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.”
“I know those guys well,” replied D’Artagnan; “I had a run-in with the father. I can tell you that, even though I was fit and had a kind of animal bravery back then—I assure you the father really gave me a hard time. But you should have seen how I fought him. Ah, Athos, we don’t have battles like that anymore! I had a hand that never stayed still, a hand like mercury—you knew how I was, because you’ve seen me in action. My sword was no longer than a piece of steel; it was like a serpent, taking on any shape and length, looking for the right spot to strike, in other words, where it could sink its fangs. I advanced a few steps, then three more, and then, right up against him, I pressed my opponent closely, only to leap back again ten paces. No one could withstand that wild intensity. Well, De Wardes the father, with the courage of his lineage and his stubborn bravery, made me work pretty hard; and by the end of the fight, my fingers were definitely tired."
“It is, then, as I said,” resumed Athos, “the son will always be looking out for Raoul, and will end by meeting him; and Raoul can easily be found when he is sought for.”
“It is, just as I said,” Athos continued, “the son will always be looking out for Raoul, and will eventually run into him; and Raoul can easily be found when someone is looking for him.”
“Agreed; but Raoul 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; besides we shall know how to pacify his majesty. But why so full of these fears and anxieties? You don’t easily get alarmed.”
“Agreed; but Raoul is good at calculating; he holds no resentment against De Wardes—he's mentioned that. He’ll wait until he’s pushed, and when that happens, he’ll be in a strong position. The king won’t lose his temper over this; plus, we’ll know how to calm him down. But why are you so anxious and worried? You don’t usually get scared easily.”
“I will tell you what makes me anxious; Raoul is to see the king to-morrow, when his majesty will inform him of his wishes respecting a certain marriage. Raoul, loving as he does, will get out of temper, and once in an angry mood, if he were to meet De Wardes, the shell would explode.”
“I’ll tell you what makes me anxious; Raoul is seeing the king tomorrow, when his majesty will share his thoughts about a certain marriage. Raoul, being as passionate as he is, will get upset, and once he’s angry, if he were to run into De Wardes, things would blow up.”
“We will prevent the explosion.”
“We’ll stop the explosion.”
“Not I,” said Athos, “for I must return to Blois. All this gilded elegance of the court, all these intrigues, sicken me. I am no longer a young man who can make terms with the meanness of the day. I have read in the Great Book many things too beautiful and too comprehensive to longer take any interest in the trifling phrases which these men whisper among themselves when they wish to deceive others. In one word, I am weary of Paris wherever and whenever you are not with me; and as I cannot have you with me always, I wish to return to Blois.”
“Not me,” said Athos, “because I need to go back to Blois. All this fancy elegance of the court, all these schemes, make me sick. I’m no longer a young man who can put up with the pettiness of the day. I’ve read many beautiful and profound things in the Great Book, so I’m no longer interested in the petty nonsense these men whisper to each other when they want to fool others. In short, I’m tired of Paris, wherever and whenever you’re not with me; and since I can’t have you with me all the time, I want to go back 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 La Rochelle; it served me for thirty years without fail; one day in the winter it fell upon the marble floor on 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. Remain here; Monsieur Fouquet will not last as long as my Spanish blade.”
“How wrong you are, Athos; how you deny your origins and the greatness of your noble character. Men like you are meant to persevere, right up until the very end, fully aware of their remarkable abilities. Look at my sword, a Spanish blade, the one I carried at La Rochelle; it served me faithfully for thirty years. One winter day, it fell on the marble floor of the Louvre and broke. I had a hunting knife made from it that will last another hundred years. You, Athos, with your loyalty, honesty, calm bravery, and wise insight, are exactly the kind of person kings need to guide and advise them. Stay here; Monsieur Fouquet won’t last as long as my Spanish blade.”
“Is it possible,” said Athos, smiling, “that my friend, D’Artagnan, who, after having raised me to the skies, making me an object of worship, casts me down from the top of Olympus, and hurls me to the ground? I have more exalted ambition, D’Artagnan. To be a minister—to be a slave,—never! Am I not still greater? I am nothing. I remember having heard you occasionally call me ‘the great Athos’; I defy you, therefore, if I were minister, to continue to bestow that title upon me. No, no; I do not yield myself in this manner.”
“Is it possible,” said Athos, smiling, “that my friend, D’Artagnan, who has made me feel so elevated and admired, now brings me crashing down from my high pedestal? I have greater ambitions, D’Artagnan. To be a minister—to be a servant—never! Am I not still more? I am nothing. I remember you sometimes calling me ‘the great Athos’; I challenge you, if I were a minister, to keep calling me that. No, no; I won’t submit like this.”
“We will not speak of it any more, then; renounce everything, even the brotherly feeling which unites us.”
“We won't talk about it anymore, then; let's give up everything, even the bond of brotherhood that connects us.”
“It is almost cruel what you say.”
"It’s pretty harsh what you’re saying."
D’Artagnan pressed Athos’s hand warmly. “No, no; renounce everything without fear. Raoul can get on without you. I am at Paris.”
D’Artagnan shook Athos’s hand warmly. “No, no; give up everything without worry. Raoul will be fine without you. I’m in 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.”
“In that case, I will head back to Blois. We will say goodbye tonight; tomorrow at dawn, I’ll be back on my horse.”
“You cannot return to your hotel alone; why did you not bring Grimaud with you?”
“You can’t go back to your hotel by yourself; why didn’t you 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 without a murmur. But I don’t want to lose Grimaud.”
“Grimaud is resting now; he goes to bed early because my poor old servant gets tired easily. He came from Blois with me, and I insisted that he stay indoors; because if, while covering the forty leagues that separate us from Blois, he needs to catch his breath, he would pass away without a sound. But I don’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’Artagnan.
“You’ll have one of my musketeers to carry a torch for you. Hola! Is someone there?” shouted D’Artagnan, leaning over the gilded railing. The heads of seven or eight musketeers showed up. “I’d like a gentleman, if anyone’s up for it, to escort the Comte de la Fere,” called D’Artagnan.
“Thank you for your readiness, gentlemen,” said Athos; “I regret to have occasion to trouble you in this manner.”
“Thanks for being ready, gentlemen,” said Athos; “I’m sorry to trouble you like this.”
“I would willingly escort the Comte de la Fere,” said some one, “if I had not to speak to Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“I would gladly accompany the Comte de la Fere,” said someone, “if I didn’t have to talk to Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“Who is that?” said D’Artagnan, looking into the darkness.
“Who’s that?” D’Artagnan asked, peering into the darkness.
“I, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“I am, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“Heaven forgive me, if that is not Monsieur Baisemeaux’s voice.”
“Heaven help me, if that’s not Monsieur Baisemeaux’s voice.”
“It is, monsieur.”
“It is, sir.”
“What are you doing in the courtyard, my dear Baisemeaux?”
“What are you doing in the courtyard, my dear Baisemeaux?”
“I am waiting your orders, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“I’m waiting for 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?”
“Wretched as I am,” thought D’Artagnan; “it’s true, you must have heard that someone was supposed to be arrested, and you came here yourself instead of sending an officer?”
“I came because I had occasion to speak to you.”
"I came because I needed to talk to you."
“You did not send to me?”
“You didn't send it to me?”
“I waited until you were disengaged,” said Monsieur Baisemeaux, timidly.
“I waited until you were free,” said Monsieur Baisemeaux, shyly.
“I leave you, D’Artagnan,” said Athos.
“I’m leaving you, D’Artagnan,” said Athos.
“Not before I have present Monsieur Baisemeaux de Montlezun, the governor of the Bastile.”
“Not before I introduce Monsieur Baisemeaux de Montlezun, the governor of the Bastille.”
Baisemeaux and Athos saluted each other.
Baisemeaux and Athos greeted each other.
“Surely you must know each other,” said D’Artagnan.
“Surely you guys know each other,” said D’Artagnan.
“I have an indistinct recollection of Monsieur Baisemeaux,” said Athos.
“I have a vague memory of Monsieur Baisemeaux,” said Athos.
“You remember, my dear, Baisemeaux, the king’s guardsman with whom we used formerly to have such delightful meetings in the cardinal’s time?”
“You remember, my dear, Baisemeaux, the king’s guardsman we used to have such great meetings with back in the cardinal’s days?”
“Perfectly,” said Athos, taking leave of him with affability.
“Perfectly,” said Athos, bidding him farewell with friendliness.
“Monsieur le Comte de la Fere, whose nom de guerre was Athos,” whispered D’Artagnan to Baisemeaux.
“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.”
“Yes, yes, a brave man, one of the famous four.”
“Precisely so. But, my dear Baisemeaux, shall we talk now?”
“Exactly. But, my dear Baisemeaux, can we talk now?”
“If you please.”
"Please."
“In the first place, as for the orders—there are none. The king does not intend to arrest the person in question.
“In the first place, regarding the orders—there aren't any. The king does not plan to arrest the person involved.”
“So much the worse,” said Baisemeaux with a sigh.
“So much worse,” said Baisemeaux with a sigh.
“What do you mean by so much the worse?” exclaimed D’Artagnan, laughing.
“What do you mean by 'so much the worse'?” D'Artagnan said, laughing.
“No doubt of it,” returned the governor, “my prisoners are my income.”
“No doubt about it,” replied the governor, “my prisoners are my income.”
“I beg your pardon, I did not see it in that light.”
"I’m sorry, I didn’t see it that way."
“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.”
“And so there are no orders,” Baisemeaux repeated with a sigh. “What an amazing situation you have, 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 France.”
“Oh, it's good enough; but I don’t understand why you should be envious of me; you, the governor of the Bastille, the most important fortress in France.”
“I am well aware of that,” said Baisemeaux, in a sorrowful tone of voice.
“I know that all too well,” said Baisemeaux, in a sad tone.
“You say that like a man confessing his sins. I would willingly exchange my profits for yours.”
“You say that like someone admitting their mistakes. I would gladly swap my gains for yours.”
“Don’t speak of profits to me, if you wish to save me the bitterest anguish of mind.”
“Don’t talk to me about profits if you want to spare me the deepest pain of my thoughts.”
“Why do you look first on one side and then on the other, as if you were afraid of being arrested yourself, you whose business it is to arrest others?”
“Why do you keep looking one way and then the other, like you’re worried about getting arrested yourself, when it’s your job 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.”
“I was checking to see if anyone could see or hear us; it would be better to talk more privately, if you could do me that favor.”
“Baisemeaux, you seem to forget we are acquaintances of five and thirty years’ standing. Don’t assume such sanctified airs; make yourself quite comfortable; I don’t eat governors of the Bastile raw.”
“Baisemeaux, it looks like you’re forgetting that we’ve known each other for thirty-five years. Don’t act all high and mighty; just relax; I don’t eat governors of the Bastille for breakfast.”
“Heaven be praised!”
“Thank goodness!”
“Come into the courtyard with me; it’s a beautiful moonlit 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?”
“Come into the courtyard with me; it’s a beautiful moonlit night; we’ll stroll back and forth, arm in arm, under the trees while you share your sad story.” He pulled the gloomy governor into the courtyard, took him by the arm as promised, and, in his rough but cheerful manner, said: “Spill it, go ahead, Baisemeaux; what do you have to say?”
“It’s a long story.”
"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.”
“You prefer your own complaints, then; I think it’s going to take even longer. I bet you’re making fifty thousand francs off your pigeons in the Bastille.”
“Would to heaven that were the case, M. d’Artagnan.”
“Would to heaven that were the case, M. d’Artagnan.”
“You surprise me, Baisemeaux; just look at you, acting the anchorite. 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.”
“You surprise me, Baisemeaux; just look at you, acting all hermit-like. I’d love to show you your reflection in a mirror so you could see how plump and rosy you look, as round and fat as a cheese, with eyes like glowing coals; and if it weren’t for that awful wrinkle you’re trying to grow on your forehead, you wouldn’t even look fifty, and you’re sixty, if I’m not mistaken.”
“All quite true.”
"That's all true."
“Of course I knew it was true, as true as the fifty thousand francs profit you make;” at which remark Baisemeaux stamped on the ground.
“Of course I knew it was true, as true as the fifty thousand francs profit you make;” at which remark Baisemeaux stamped on the ground.
“Well, well,” said D’Artagnan, “I will add up your accounts for you: you were captain of M. Mazarin’s guards; and twelve thousand francs a year would in twelve years amount to one hundred and forty thousand francs.”
“Well, well,” said D’Artagnan, “let me do the math for you: you were captain of M. Mazarin’s guards, and earning twelve thousand francs a year for twelve years would total one hundred and forty thousand francs.”
“Twelve thousand francs! Are you mad?” cried Baisemeaux; “the old miser gave me no more than six thousand, and the expenses of the post amounted to six thousand five hundred francs. M. Colbert, who deducted the other six thousand francs, condescended to allow me to take fifty thousand francs as a gratification; so that, if it were not for my little estate at Montlezun, which brings me in twelve thousand francs a year, I could not have met my engagements.”
“Twelve thousand francs! Are you crazy?” shouted Baisemeaux. “The old miser only gave me six thousand, and the costs of the post were six thousand five hundred francs. M. Colbert, who took away the other six thousand francs, graciously let me take fifty thousand francs as a bonus. So, if it weren't for my small estate in Montlezun, which makes me twelve thousand francs a year, I wouldn't have been able to meet my obligations.”
“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.”
“Well, then, what about the fifty thousand francs from the Bastille? I hope you're settled in and getting your six thousand francs salary on top of that.”
“Admitted!”
"Accepted!"
“Whether the year be good or bad, there are fifty prisoners, who, on the average, bring you in a thousand francs a year each.”
“Regardless of whether the year is good or bad, there are fifty prisoners who, on average, each bring you a thousand francs a year.”
“I don’t deny it.”
"I won'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.”
“Well, there's an income of fifty thousand francs; you've held the position for three years and must have received one hundred and fifty thousand francs during that time.”
“You forget one circumstance, dear M. d’Artagnan.”
“You're missing one thing, dear M. d’Artagnan.”
“What is that?”
"What’s that?"
“That while you received your appointment as captain from the king himself, I received mine as governor from Messieurs Tremblay and Louviere.”
“That while you got your appointment as captain directly from the king, I got mine as governor from Messieurs Tremblay and Louviere.”
“Quite right, and Tremblay was not a man to let you have the post for nothing.”
“That's true, and Tremblay wasn't the kind of guy to give you the position for free.”
“Nor Louviere either: the result was, that I gave seventy-five thousand francs to Tremblay as his share.”
“Nor Louviere either: the result was that I gave Tremblay seventy-five thousand francs as his share.”
“Very agreeable that! and to Louviere?”
“That's very agreeable! And what about Louviere?”
“The very same.”
"Exactly the same."
“Money down?”
“Deposit?”
“No: that would have been impossible. The king did not wish, or rather M. Mazarin did not wish, to have the appearance of removing those two gentlemen, who had sprung from the barricades; he permitted them, therefore, to make certain extravagant conditions for their retirement.”
“No: that would have been impossible. The king didn’t want, or rather M. Mazarin didn’t want, to seem like he was getting rid of those two gentlemen, who had come from the barricades; he therefore allowed them to set some outrageous conditions for their departure.”
“What were those conditions?”
"What were those terms?"
“Tremble... three years’ income for the good-will.”
“Tremble... three years’ salary for the good-will.”
“The deuce! so that the one hundred and fifty thousand francs have passed into their hands.”
“The heck! So those one hundred and fifty thousand francs have gone to them.”
“Precisely so.”
"Exactly."
“And beyond that?”
"And what else?"
“A sum of one hundred and fifty thousand francs, or fifteen thousand pistoles, whichever you please, in three payments.”
“A total of one hundred fifty thousand francs, or fifteen thousand pistoles, whichever you prefer, paid in three installments.”
“Exorbitant.”
“Overpriced.”
“Yes, but that is not all.”
"Yes, but that's not all."
“What besides?”
"What else?"
“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.”
“In the event that I fail to meet any of those conditions, those gentlemen will resume their duties. The king has been persuaded to sign that.”
“It is monstrous, incredible!”
“It’s outrageous, unbelievable!”
“Such is the fact, however.”
"Such is the reality, though."
“I do indeed pity you, Baisemeaux. But why, in the name of fortune, did M. Mazarin grant you this pretended favor? It would have been far better to have refused you altogether.”
“I really do feel sorry for you, Baisemeaux. But why, for heaven's sake, did M. Mazarin give you this so-called favor? It would have been much better to have just turned you down completely.”
“Certainly, but he was strongly persuaded to do so by my protector.”
“Sure, but my protector really convinced him to do it.”
“Who is he?”
"Who’s he?"
“One of your own friends, indeed; M. d’Herblay.”
"One of your own friends, for sure; M. d’Herblay."
“M. d’Herblay! Aramis!”
“M. d’Herblay! Aramis!”
“Just so; he has been very kind towards me.”
“Exactly; he has been really nice to me.”
“Kind! to make you enter into such a bargain!”
“Really! To get you to agree to such a deal!”
“Listen! I wished to leave the cardinal’s service. M. d’Herblay spoke on my behalf to Louviere and Tremblay—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 M. d’Herblay, and he offered to become my surety for the different payments.”
“Listen! I wanted to leave the cardinal’s service. M. d’Herblay spoke on my behalf to Louviere and Tremblay—they opposed it; I really wanted the position because I knew what it could achieve; in my frustration, I confided in M. d’Herblay, and he offered to guarantee the various payments.”
“You astound me! Aramis became your surety?”
“You surprise me! Aramis became your guarantor?”
“Like a man of honor; he procured the signature; Tremblay and Louviere resigned their appointments; I have paid every year twenty-five thousand francs to these two gentlemen; on the thirty-first of May, every year, M. d’Herblay himself comes to the Bastile, and brings me five thousand pistoles to distribute between my crocodiles.”
“Like an honorable man, he got the signature; Tremblay and Louviere stepped down from their positions; I've paid these two gentlemen twenty-five thousand francs every year; on May 31st each year, M. d’Herblay himself comes to the Bastille and brings me five thousand pistoles to share among my crocodiles.”
“You owe Aramis one hundred and fifty thousand francs, then?”
“You owe Aramis one hundred and fifty thousand francs, right?”
“That is the very thing which is the cause of my despair, for I only owe him one hundred thousand.”
"That's exactly what's causing my despair, because I only owe him a hundred thousand."
“I don’t quite understand you.”
“I don’t really get you.”
“He came and settled with the vampires only two years. To-day, however, is the thirty-first of May, and he has not been yet, and to-morrow, at midday, 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 nothing at all, dear M. d’Artagnan.”
“He came and settled with the vampires only two years ago. Today, however, is the thirty-first of May, and he hasn't shown up yet, and tomorrow at noon, the payment is due; if I don’t pay tomorrow, those gentlemen can, according to the terms of the contract, call off the deal; I will lose everything; I will have worked for three years and given two hundred and fifty thousand francs for nothing, absolutely for nothing at all, dear M. d’Artagnan.”
“This is very strange,” murmured D’Artagnan.
“This is really weird,” murmured D’Artagnan.
“You can now imagine that I may well have wrinkles on my forehead, can you not?”
"You can probably picture that I might have wrinkles on my forehead, right?"
“Yes, indeed!”
"Absolutely!"
“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 my eyes will be left me only to weep with.”
“And you can imagine that even though I might be as round as a cheese, with a complexion like an apple and my eyes burning like coals, I can't help but worry that I won't have a cheese or an apple left to eat, and that my eyes will only be left to cry with.”
“It is really a very grievous affair.”
“It’s really a very serious matter.”
“I have come to you, M. d’Artagnan, for you are the only man who can get me out of my trouble.”
“I’ve come to you, M. d’Artagnan, because you’re the only person who can help me out of my situation.”
“In what way?”
“How so?”
“You are acquainted with the Abbe d’Herblay, and you know that he is a somewhat mysterious gentleman.”
“You know the Abbe d’Herblay, and you’re aware that he’s a bit of a mysterious guy.”
“Yes.”
“Yup.”
“Well, you can, perhaps, give me the address of his presbytery, for I have been to Noisy-le-Sec, and he is no longer there.”
“Well, maybe you could give me the address of his presbytery, because I’ve been to Noisy-le-Sec, and he’s not there anymore.”
“I should think not, indeed. He is Bishop of Vannes.”
"I really don't think so. He is the Bishop of Vannes."
“What! Vannes in Bretagne?”
“What! Vannes in Brittany?”
“Yes.”
“Yep.”
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.”
The little man started pulling at his hair, saying, “How can I get to Vannes from here by noon tomorrow? I'm doomed.”
“Your despair quite distresses me.”
“Your sadness really bothers me.”
“Vannes, Vannes!” cried Baisemeaux.
“Vannes, Vannes!” shouted Baisemeaux.
“But listen; a bishop is not always a resident. M. d’Herblay may not possibly be so far away as you fear.”
“But listen; a bishop isn’t always around. M. d’Herblay might not be as far away as you think.”
“Pray tell me his address.”
“Please tell me his address.”
“I really don’t know it.”
“I honestly don’t know it.”
“In that case I am lost. I will go and throw myself at the king’s feet.”
“In that case, I'm doomed. I'll go and throw myself at the king’s feet.”
“But, Baisemeaux, I can hardly believe what you tell me; besides, since the Bastile is capable of producing fifty thousand francs a year, why have you not tried to screw one hundred thousand out of it?”
“But, Baisemeaux, I can hardly believe what you're saying; besides, since the Bastille can generate fifty thousand francs a year, why haven’t you tried to squeeze one hundred thousand out of it?”
“Because I am an honest man, M. d’Artagnan, and because my prisoners are fed like ambassadors.”
“Because I’m an honest man, M. d’Artagnan, and because my prisoners are treated like ambassadors.”
“Well, you’re in a fair way to get out of your difficulties; give yourself a good attack of indigestion with your excellent living, and put yourself out of the way between this and midday to-morrow.”
“Well, you’re on track to get out of your troubles; give yourself a nice bout of indigestion with your fancy meals, and make yourself unavailable between now and noon tomorrow.”
“How can you be hard-hearted enough to laugh?”
“How can you be so cold-hearted that you 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.”
“Nah, you really upset me. Come on, Baisemeaux, if you can promise me on your honor, then do so, that you won’t say a word to anyone about what I’m about to tell you.”
“Never, never!”
"Absolutely not!"
“You wish to put your hands on Aramis?”
“You want to get your hands on Aramis?”
“At any cost!”
"At any cost!"
“Well, go and see where M. Fouquet is.”
“Well, go find out where M. Fouquet is.”
“Why, what connection can there be—”
“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 M. Fouquet, and M. Fouquet nominated M. d’Herblay to that bishopric!”
“How foolish 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 Mr. Fouquet, and Mr. Fouquet appointed Mr. d’Herblay to that bishopric!”
“I see, I see; you restore me to life again.”
“I see, I see; you bring me back to life again.”
“So much the better. Go and tell M. Fouquet very simply that you wish to speak to M. d’Herblay.”
“So much the better. Go and tell M. Fouquet very casually that you want to speak to M. d’Herblay.”
“Of course, of course,” exclaimed Baisemeaux, delightedly.
“Of course, of course,” Baisemeaux exclaimed, thrilled.
“But,” said D’Artagnan, checking him by a severe look, “your word of honor?”
“But,” said D’Artagnan, stopping him with a serious glance, “your word of honor?”
“I give you my sacred word of honor,” replied the little man, about to set off running.
“I give you my word of honor,” replied the little man, ready to take off running.
“Where are you going?”
“Where are you headed?”
“To M. Fouquet’s house.”
"To M. Fouquet's place."
“It is useless doing that; M. Fouquet is playing at cards with the king. All you can do is to pay M. Fouquet a visit early to-morrow morning.”
“It’s pointless to do that; M. Fouquet is playing cards with the king. The only thing you can do is visit M. Fouquet early tomorrow morning.”
“I will do so. Thank you.”
"I'll handle that. Thanks!"
“Good luck attend you,” said D’Artagnan.
“Good luck to you,” said D’Artagnan.
“Thank you.”
"Thanks."
“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 Baisemeaux in this manner? Well, I suppose we shall learn some day or another.”
“This is a weird situation,” D’Artagnan murmured as he slowly walked up the stairs after leaving Baisemeaux. “What could Aramis possibly gain from helping Baisemeaux like this? I guess we’ll find out eventually.”
Chapter XXII. The King’s Card-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 on the lacerated hearts of the previous 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 resolution, listened to the count, and from time to time cast a look full of regret and hopeless affection 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 winnings, and De Guiche, who exhibited an extravagant delight. Of Buckingham she took but little notice; for her, this fugitive, this exile, was now simply a remembrance, no longer a man. Light hearts are thus constituted; while they themselves continue untouched, they roughly break off with every one who may possibly interfere with their little calculations of self comfort. Madame had 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 mighty vessels to and fro, carry such sighs as these? The duke could not fail to mark this change, and his heart was cruelly hurt. Of a sensitive character, proud and susceptible of deep attachment, he cursed the day on which such a passion had entered his heart. The looks he cast, from time to time at Madame, became colder by degrees at the chilling 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 she was about to lose; her timid and indecisive mind was 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. Madame Henriette, the queen-mother, was dazzled by the brilliancy which cast distinction upon her family, thanks to the wit of the grand-daughter of Henry IV. The king, jealous, as a young man and as a monarch, of the superiority of those who surrounded him, could not resist admitting himself vanquished by a petulance so thoroughly French in its nature, whose energy more than ever increased by English humor. Like a child, he was captivated by her radiant beauty, which her wit made still more dazzling. Madame’s eyes flashed like lightning. Wit and humor escaped from her scarlet lips like persuasion from the lips of Nestor of old. The whole court, subdued by her enchanting 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 people in Europe.
Fouquet was there, just as D’Artagnan had said, at the king’s card table. It seemed like Buckingham’s departure had eased the wounded hearts from the night before. Monsieur, beaming with joy, showered his mother with affectionate gestures. The Count de Guiche couldn’t pull himself away from Buckingham, and while playing, he chatted with him about his upcoming voyage. Buckingham, thoughtful and kind, like a man who had made up his mind, listened to the count and occasionally shot a look filled with regret and unrequited love at Madame. The princess, caught up in her cheerful mood, split her attention between the king, who was playing with her, Monsieur, who teasingly commented on her big winnings, and De Guiche, who was overly delighted. She hardly paid attention to Buckingham; to her, this fleeting exile was merely a memory, no longer a real person. That’s how light-hearted people are; as long as they stay unaffected, they easily cut ties with anyone who might disrupt their little plans for comfort. Madame had welcomed Buckingham’s smiles, attentions, and sighs while he was there; but what good were sighs, smiles, and kneeling from afar? Who can say where the winds in the Channel, which toss great ships around, carry sighs like those? The duke couldn’t help but notice this shift, and his heart was painfully wounded. Being sensitive, proud, and capable of deep affection, he cursed the day he let such a passion take hold of him. The glances he occasionally threw at Madame gradually turned colder as his thoughts became more chilling. He could hardly yet despair, but he was strong enough to silence the chaotic cries of his heart. As Madame sensed this change in his feelings, she intensified her efforts to regain the spotlight she was about to lose; her hesitant and wavering mind shone through in bursts of wit and humor. She felt she had to stand out above everything and everyone, even the king himself. And she did, as the queens, despite their dignity, and the king, despite what etiquette required, were all overshadowed by her. The queens, majestic and formal, softened and couldn’t hold back their laughter. Madame Henriette, the queen-mother, was dazzled by the brilliance that elevated her family, thanks to her granddaughter, the descendant of Henry IV. The king, jealous both as a young man and as a monarch, couldn’t help but admit defeat to her distinctly French sass, which was made even more vibrant by English humor. Like a child, he was captivated by her radiant beauty, which her wit made even more sparkling. Madame’s eyes flashed like lightning. Wit and humor flowed from her scarlet lips like charm from the lips of Nestor of old. The entire court, enchanted by her graceful charm, noticed for the first time that laughter could be enjoyed in front of the greatest monarch in the world, like those who truly deserved to be known as the wittiest and most refined people in Europe.
Madame, from that evening, achieved and enjoyed a success capable of bewildering all not born to those altitudes termed thrones; which, in spite of their elevation, are sheltered from such giddiness. From that very moment Louis XIV. acknowledged Madame as a person to be recognized. Buckingham regarded her as a coquette deserving the cruelest tortures, and De Guiche looked upon her as a divinity; the courtiers as a star whose light might some day 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 Buckingham had worshipped this coquette “on both knees.” De Guiche had once looked upon this divinity as a mere woman; and the courtiers had not dared to extol this star in her upward progress, fearful to disgust the monarch whom such a dull star had formerly displeased.
Madame, from that evening on, achieved and relished a level of success that could dazzle anyone not born to the heights known as thrones; which, despite their lofty status, are shielded from such dizziness. From that very moment, Louis XIV recognized Madame as someone worthy of acknowledgment. Buckingham saw her as a flirt who deserved the harshest punishments, while De Guiche viewed her as a goddess; the courtiers regarded her as a star whose brilliance might someday become the center of all favor and power. And yet, just a few years earlier, Louis XIV hadn’t even bothered to extend his hand to that “ugly girl” for a ballet; meanwhile, Buckingham had worshipped this flirt “on both knees.” De Guiche had once considered this goddess to be just a woman; and the courtiers had been too afraid to praise this star in her ascent, worried they might offend the king, who had previously found such a dull star displeasing.
Let us see what was taking place during this memorable evening at the king’s card-table. The young queen, although Spanish by birth, and the niece of Anne of Austria, loved the king, and could not conceal her affection. Anne of Austria, a keen observer, like all women, and imperious, like every queen, was sensible of Madame’s power, and acquiesced in it immediately, a circumstance which induced the young queen to raise the siege and retire to her apartments. The king hardly paid any attention to her departure, notwithstanding the pretended symptoms of indisposition 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 relation of life, Louis XIV. did not disturb himself; he offered 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 not equal to the situation, sighed very deeply. The ladies present—nothing escapes a woman’s glance—Mademoiselle Montalais, for instance—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 repose. 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 towards the king, whose face at that moment visibly heightened in color. The consequence of these blushes, of those interchanged sighs, and of this royal agitation, was, that Montalais had committed an indiscretion which had certainly affected her companion, for Mademoiselle 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 required her to do. True it is that the young country girl might allege as her excuse the agitation into which the king seemed to be thrown, for Mademoiselle de la Valliere, busily engaged in closing the door, had involuntarily fixed her eyes upon the king, who, as he retired backwards, had his face towards 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 was easy to see 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 Monsieur Mazarin—who had a poor memory, but was a good calculator. In this way, Monsieur Manicamp, with a thoughtless and absent air—for M. Manicamp was the honestest man in the world, appropriated twenty thousand francs, which were littering the table, and which did not seem to belong to any person in particular. In the same way, Monsieur de Wardes, whose head was doubtless a little bewildered by the occurrences of the evening, somehow forgot to leave behind him 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 Monsieur Colbert, who had been narrowly observant for some minutes, approached, 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?”
Let’s take a look at what was happening on that unforgettable evening at the king’s card table. The young queen, though Spanish by birth and the niece of Anne of Austria, was in love with the king and couldn’t hide her feelings. Anne of Austria, a keen observer like all women and dominant like every queen, recognized Madame’s influence and accepted it right away, prompting the young queen to end her siege and return to her rooms. The king barely noticed her departure, despite the fake signs of illness accompanying it. Encouraged by the rules of etiquette that he had started to introduce at court, Louis XIV didn’t let it bother him; he offered his hand to Madame without looking at his brother Monsieur and led the young princess to the door of her rooms. It was noted that at the threshold, the king, either freed from all constraints or unable to handle the moment, let out a deep sigh. The ladies present—nothing escapes a woman’s notice—like Mademoiselle Montalais—whispered to each other, “The king sighed,” and “Madame sighed too.” This was indeed true. Madame had sighed very softly, but with a much more dangerous implication for the king's peace. Madame had sighed, first closing her beautiful black eyes, then opening them again, and finally, with an indescribable sadness in her expression, she raised her gaze to the king, whose face visibly flushed at that moment. The result of these blushes, their exchanged sighs, and this royal unease was that Montalais had made a mistake that clearly affected her companion; for Mademoiselle de la Valliere, perhaps less perceptive, turned pale when the king blushed. Being called to attend to Madame, she nervously followed the princess, forgetting to take the gloves that court etiquette required her to pick up. It's true that the young country girl could argue her distraction was due to the king’s agitation, as she had involuntarily fixed her gaze on him while closing the door, with the king facing her as he stepped back. The king returned to the room where the card tables were set up. He wanted to speak to the various people there, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere. He mixed up different accounts, which some nobles took advantage of, having retained habits from the time of Monsieur Mazarin, who had a bad memory but was a good accountant. In this way, Monsieur Manicamp, with a thoughtless and absent-minded air—since he was the most honest man around—appropriated twenty thousand francs that were scattered on the table and didn’t seem to belong to anyone in particular. Similarly, Monsieur de Wardes, whose head was probably a bit muddled from the evening’s events, somehow forgot to leave behind the sixty double louis he had won for the Duke of Buckingham, which the duke, like his father, was incapable of touching directly and had left on the table in front of him. The king only regained some focus when Monsieur Colbert, who had been observing intently for a few minutes, approached and, with great respect but persistence, whispered some advice into the king’s still buzzing ears. At this suggestion, the king listened with renewed focus and immediately looked around, asking, “Is Monsieur Fouquet no longer here?”
“Yes, sire, I am here,” replied the superintendent, till then engaged with Buckingham, and approached the king, who advanced a step towards him with a smiling yet negligent air. “Forgive me,” said Louis, “if I interrupt your conversation; but I claim your attention wherever I may require your services.”
“Yes, Your Majesty, I’m here,” replied the superintendent, who had been talking with Buckingham, and approached the king, who took a step towards him with a light smile but a casual demeanor. “I apologize,” said Louis, “if I’m interrupting your conversation; but I expect your attention whenever I need your help.”
“I am always at the king’s service,” replied Fouquet.
“I’m always at the king’s service,” replied Fouquet.
“And your cash-box, too,” said the king, laughing with a false smile.
“And your cash box, too,” the king said, laughing with a fake smile.
“My cash-box more than anything else,” said Fouquet, coldly.
“My cash box more than anything else,” said Fouquet, coldly.
“The fact is, I wish to give a fete at Fontainebleau—to keep open house for fifteen days, and I shall require—” and he stopped, glancing at Colbert. Fouquet waited without showing discomposure; and the king resumed, answering Colbert’s icy smile, “four million francs.”
“The fact is, I want to throw a party at Fontainebleau—to open my doors for fifteen days, and I’ll need—” and he paused, looking at Colbert. Fouquet waited without showing any discomfort; the king continued, responding to Colbert’s cold smile, “four million francs.”
“Four million,” repeated Fouquet, bowing profoundly. And his nails, buried in his bosom, were thrust into his flesh, but the tranquil expression of his face remained unaltered. “When will they be required, sire?”
“Four million,” repeated Fouquet, bowing deeply. His nails dug into his chest, piercing his skin, but his calm expression stayed unchanged. “When will you need them, sir?”
“Take your time,—I mean—no, no; as soon as possible.”
“Take your time—I mean, no, no; as soon as you can.”
“A certain time will be necessary, sire.”
“A certain amount of time will be needed, sir.”
“Time!” exclaimed Colbert, triumphantly.
“Time!” shouted Colbert, triumphantly.
“The time, monsieur,” said the superintendent, with the haughtiest disdain, “simply to count the money; a million can only be drawn and weighed in a day.”
“The time, sir,” said the superintendent, with the utmost disdain, “is simply to count the money; a million can only be withdrawn and weighed in a day.”
“Four days, then,” said Colbert.
“Four days, then,” Colbert said.
“My clerks,” replied Fouquet, addressing himself to the king, “will perform wonders on his majesty’s service, and the sum shall be ready in three days.”
“My assistants,” replied Fouquet, addressing the king, “will do amazing things for his majesty’s service, and the money will 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 countenances 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. Drops of blood beneath his coat stained the fine linen that clothed 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 a man-of-war, commanded during a storm by an ill-tempered captain. The carriage, therefore, did not simply roll along—it flew. Fouquet had hardly 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 off a roast leg of mutton, two pheasants, and a perfect heap of cray-fish; he then directed his body to be anointed with perfumed oils, in the manner of the wrestlers of old; and when this anointment was completed, he had himself wrapped in flannels and placed in a warm 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 superintendent appeared, pale, agitated, anxious. Aramis looked up: “Good-evening,” said he; and his searching look detected his host’s sadness and disordered state of mind. “Was your play as good as his majesty’s?” asked Aramis, by way of beginning the conversation.
It was now Colbert's turn to go pale. Louis looked at him in shock. Fouquet left without any fanfare or weakness, smiling at his many friends, whose faces were the only place he found genuine support—an interest mixed with compassion. However, one shouldn't judge Fouquet by his smile, because deep down, he felt as if he had been dealt a death blow. Drops of blood soaked through his coat, staining the fine linen that covered his chest. His clothing hid the blood, and his smile masked the anger that consumed him. His servants noticed from the way he approached his carriage that their master was not in a good mood; as a result, they carried out his orders with the precision you'd expect from a battleship commanded by a grumpy captain during a storm. So, the carriage didn't just roll along—it sped away. Fouquet barely had time to gather himself during the ride; upon arriving, he immediately went to see Aramis, who hadn't gone to bed yet. As for Porthos, he had just enjoyed a delicious dinner of roast leg of mutton, two pheasants, and a mountain of crayfish; afterward, he had his body treated with scented oils like the wrestlers of old and, once that was done, he wrapped himself in flannel and got into a warm bed. As we mentioned, Aramis had not gone to bed. Relaxing in a velvet dressing gown, he wrote letter after letter in his neat, hurried handwriting, each page containing a quarter of a volume. The door was flung open, and the superintendent entered, pale, restless, and anxious. Aramis looked up: “Good evening,” he said, and his keen gaze picked up on his host's sadness and disarray. “Was your play as good as the king's?” asked Aramis to start 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, “Excellent.”
Fouquet flopped onto a couch and then gestured toward the door for the servant who had followed him; once the servant left, he said, “Excellent.”
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.
Aramis, who had been watching every move closely, saw that he sprawled out on the cushions with a kind of restless impatience. “You lost again, as usual?” Aramis asked, still holding his pen.
“Even more than usual,” replied Fouquet.
“Even more than usual,” replied Fouquet.
“You know how to support losses?”
“You know how to handle losses?”
“Sometimes.”
"Sometimes."
“What, Monsieur Fouquet a bad player!”
“What, Monsieur Fouquet is a bad player!”
“There is play and play, Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“There are different kinds of play, Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“How much have you lost?” inquired Aramis, with a slight uneasiness.
“How much have you lost?” Aramis asked, a bit uneasy.
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.
Fouquet took a moment to gather himself, and then, without showing any emotion, said, “The evening has cost me four million,” and a bitter laugh muffled the final echo of his words.
Aramis, who did not expect such an amount, dropped his pen. “Four millions,” he said; “you have lost four millions,—impossible!”
Aramis, taken aback by the figure, dropped his pen. “Four million,” he said; “you’ve lost four million—unbelievable!”
“Monsieur Colbert held my cards for me,” replied the superintendent, with a similar bitter laugh.
“Monsieur Colbert is holding my cards for me,” the superintendent replied, with a similarly bitter laugh.
“Ah, now I understand; so, so, a new application for funds?”
“Ah, now I get it; so, a new request for funding?”
“Yes, and from the king’s own lips. It was impossible to ruin a man with a more charming smile. What do you think of it?”
“Yes, and from the king himself. It was impossible to destroy a man with such a charming smile. What do you think?”
“It is clear that your destruction is the object in view.”
“It’s obvious that your downfall is the goal.”
“That is your opinion?”
"Is that your opinion?"
“Still. Besides, there is nothing in it which should astonish you, for we have foreseen it all along.”
“Still. Besides, there’s nothing in it that should surprise you, because we’ve seen it all coming.”
“Yes; but I did not expect four millions.”
"Yes, but I didn't expect four million."
“No doubt the amount is serious, but, after all, four millions are not quite the death of a man, especially when the man in question is Monsieur Fouquet.”
“No doubt the amount is serious, but, after all, four million isn’t exactly the end of the world, especially when the person in question is Monsieur Fouquet.”
“My dear D’Herblay, if you knew the contents of my coffers, you would be less easy.”
“My dear D’Herblay, if you knew what was in my coffers, you would be less relaxed.”
“And you promised?”
"And you said you would?"
“What could I do?”
“What could I do?”
“That’s true.”
"That's right."
“The very day I refuse, Colbert will procure the money; whence I know not, but he will procure it: and I shall be lost.”
“The very day I say no, Colbert will get the money; I don't know how, but he will get it: and I’ll be done for.”
“There is no doubt of that. In how many days did you promise the four millions?”
“There’s no doubt about that. In how many days did you promise the four million?”
“In three days. The king seemed exceedingly pressed.”
“In three days. The king seemed really stressed.”
“In three days?”
“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.”
“When I think,” continued Fouquet, “that just a moment ago as I walked through the streets, people shouted, ‘There’s the wealthy Mr. Fouquet,’ it’s enough to make me dizzy.”
“Stay, monsieur, the matter is not worth so much trouble,” said Aramis, calmly, sprinkling some sand over the letter he had just written.
“Hold on, sir, it’s not worth all this hassle,” said Aramis, calmly, sprinkling some sand over the letter he had just written.
“Suggest a remedy, then, for this evil without a remedy.”
“Then suggest a solution for this problem that seems impossible to fix.”
“There is only one remedy for you,—pay.”
“There’s only one solution for you—pay up.”
“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 accounts of those who farm the revenue, is scarce. Besides, admitting that 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 everything. The day will arrive—must arrive—when I shall have to say, ‘Impossible, sire,’ and on that very day I am a lost man.”
“But it’s really uncertain whether I have the funds. Everything has been drained; Belle-Isle is settled; the pension has been taken care of; and money is tight since the audit of those managing the revenue. Plus, even if I can pay this time, how can I do it again in the future? Once kings get a taste for money, they're like tigers that have tasted meat—they consume everything. The day will come—must come—when I'll have to say, ‘Impossible, sire,’ and on that very day, I will be a doomed man.”
Aramis raised his shoulders slightly, saying:
Aramis shrugged a bit and said:
“A man in your position, my lord, is only lost when he wishes to be so.”
“A man in your position, my lord, is only lost when he wants to be.”
“A man, whatever his position may be, cannot hope to struggle against a king.”
“A man, no matter his rank, can't expect to fight against a king.”
“Nonsense; when I was young I wrestled successfully with the Cardinal Richelieu, who was king of France,—nay more—cardinal.”
“Nonsense; when I was young, I successfully wrestled with Cardinal Richelieu, who was the king of France—and even more—a cardinal.”
“Where are my armies, my troops, my treasures? I have not even Belle-Isle.”
“Where are my armies, my troops, my treasures? I don’t even have Belle-Isle.”
“Bah! necessity is the mother of invention, and when you think all is lost, something will be discovered which will retrieve everything.”
“Ugh! Necessity is the mother of invention, and when you think all is lost, something will be found that will bring everything back.”
“Who will discover this wonderful something?”
“Who will find this amazing thing?”
“Yourself.”
"Yourself."
“I! I resign my office of inventor.”
“I! I quit my role as inventor.”
“Then I will.”
“Then I will.”
“Be it so. But set to work without delay.”
“Fine. But get started right away.”
“Oh! we have time enough!”
“Oh! We have plenty of time!”
“You kill me, D’Herblay, with your calmness,” said the superintendent, passing his handkerchief over his face.
“You're driving me crazy, D’Herblay, with your calmness,” said the superintendent, wiping his face with his handkerchief.
“Do you not remember that I one day told you not to make yourself uneasy, if you possessed courage? Have you any?”
“Don’t you remember that I once told you not to worry if you had courage? Do you have any?”
“I believe so.”
“I think so.”
“Then don’t make yourself uneasy.”
"Then don't stress yourself out."
“It is decided then, that, at the last moment, you will come to my assistance.”
“It’s settled then, that at the last minute, you’ll come to help me.”
“It will only be the repayment of a debt I owe you.”
“It will just be paying back a debt I owe you.”
“It is the vocation of financiers to anticipate the wants of men such as yourself, D’Herblay.”
“It’s the job of financiers to anticipate the needs of people like you, D’Herblay.”
“If obligingness is the vocation of financiers, charity is the virtue of the clergy. Only, on this occasion, do you act, monsieur. You are not yet sufficiently reduced, and at the last moment we will see what is to be done.”
“If being helpful is what financiers do, then generosity is the virtue of the clergy. But this time, you need to take action, sir. You're not quite in a desperate situation yet, and at the last moment, we’ll figure out what needs to be done.”
“We shall see, then, in a very short time.”
“We'll see, then, in just a little while.”
“Very well. However, permit me to tell you that, personally, I regret exceedingly that you are at present so short of money, because I myself was about to ask you for some.”
“Alright. But let me tell you that I really regret that you're currently low on cash because I was actually about to ask you for some.”
“For yourself?”
"For you?"
“For myself, or some of my people, for mine or for ours.”
“For me, or some of my people, for mine or for ours.”
“How much do you want?”
“How much do you want?”
“Be easy on that score; a roundish sum, it is true, but not too exorbitant.”
"Take it easy on that; it's a decent amount, that's true, but not too outrageous."
“Tell me the amount.”
"Tell me the total."
“Fifty thousand francs.”
“50,000 francs.”
“Oh! a mere nothing. Of course one has always fifty thousand francs. Why the deuce cannot that knave Colbert be as easily satisfied as you are—and I should give myself far less trouble than I do. When do you need this sum?”
“Oh! It's nothing at all. Of course, I always have fifty thousand francs. Why can't that trickster Colbert be as easily satisfied as you are—and I would save myself a lot of trouble. When do you need this amount?”
“To-morrow morning; but you wish to know its destination?”
“Tomorrow morning; but do you want to know where it’s going?”
“Nay, nay, chevalier, I need no explanation.”
“Nah, nah, knight, I don't need an explanation.”
“To-morrow is the first of June.”
"Tomorrow is the first of June."
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“One of our bonds becomes due.”
“One of our bonds is maturing.”
“I did not know we had any bonds.”
“I didn’t know we had any bonds.”
“Certainly, to-morrow we pay our last third instalment.”
“Sure thing, tomorrow we’ll pay our final third installment.”
“What third?”
"What third one?"
“Of the one hundred and fifty thousand francs to Baisemeaux.”
“Of the one hundred and fifty thousand francs to Baisemeaux.”
“Baisemeaux? Who is he?”
“Baisemeaux? Who’s that?”
“The governor of the Bastile.”
“The governor of the Bastille.”
“Yes, I remember. On what grounds am I to pay one hundred and fifty thousand francs for that man.”
“Yes, I remember. Why should I pay one hundred and fifty thousand francs for that guy?”
“On account of the appointment which he, or rather we, purchased from Louviere and Tremblay.”
“Because of the position that he, or rather we, bought from Louviere and Tremblay.”
“I have a very vague recollection of the matter.”
“I have a very unclear memory of the situation.”
“That is likely enough, for you have so many affairs to attend to. However, I do not believe you have any affair in the world of greater importance than this one.”
"That makes sense, since you have so many things to take care of. But I really don’t think you have anything in your life that’s more important than this."
“Tell me, then, why we purchased this appointment.”
“Tell me, then, why we got this appointment.”
“Why, in order to render him a service in the first place, and afterwards ourselves.”
“First, to help him, and then to help ourselves.”
“Ourselves? You are joking.”
"Ourselves? You must be joking."
“Monseigneur, the time may come when the governor of the Bastile may prove a very excellent acquaintance.”
“Your Excellency, there may come a time when the governor of the Bastille turns out to be a very good acquaintance.”
“I have not the good fortune to understand you, D’Herblay.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you, D’Herblay.”
“Monseigneur, we had 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.”
“Your Excellency, we had 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 Bastille.”
“Do you think so?”
"Do you really think that?"
“Let us not deceive ourselves, monseigneur; we are very much opposed to paying the Bastile a visit,” added the prelate, displaying, beneath his pale lips, teeth which were still the same beautiful teeth so much admired thirty years previously by Marie Michon.
“Let’s not fool ourselves, monseigneur; we really don’t want to pay a visit to the Bastille,” the prelate added, showing his beautiful teeth, which were still the same ones that Marie Michon had admired thirty years ago, beneath his pale lips.
“And you think it is not too much to pay one hundred and fifty thousand francs for that? I thought you generally put out money at better interest than that.”
“And you really think it's okay to pay one hundred and fifty thousand francs for that? I thought you usually invested money for better returns than that.”
“The day will come when you will admit your mistake.”
“The day will come when you will acknowledge your mistake.”
“My dear D’Herblay, the very day on which a man enters the Bastile, he is no longer protected by his past.”
“My dear D’Herblay, the very day a man enters the Bastille, he is no longer shielded by his past.”
“Yes, he is, if the bonds are perfectly regular; besides, that good fellow Baisemeaux has not a courtier’s heart. I am certain, my lord, that he will not remain ungrateful for that money, without taking into account, I repeat, that I retain the acknowledgements.”
“Yes, he is, if the bonds are completely valid; besides, that good guy Baisemeaux doesn’t have a courtier’s heart. I’m sure, my lord, that he won’t be ungrateful for that money, not to mention, I remind you, that I still have the receipts.”
“It is a strange affair! usury in a matter of benevolence.”
“It’s a weird situation! charging interest in something meant to be helpful.”
“Do not mix yourself up with it, monseigneur; if there be usury, it is I who practice it, and both of us reap the advantage from it—that is all.”
“Don’t get involved with it, sir; if there’s any usury, it’s me who does it, and we both benefit from it—that’s all.”
“Some intrigue, D’Herblay?”
"Got some intrigue, D’Herblay?"
“I do not deny it.”
"I can't deny it."
“And Baisemeaux an accomplice in it?”
“And Baisemeaux was in on it?”
“Why not?—there are worse accomplices than he. May I depend, then, upon the five thousand pistoles to-morrow?”
“Why not?—there are worse partners in crime than him. Can I count on the five thousand pistoles tomorrow?”
“Do you want them this evening?”
“Do you want them this evening?”
“It would be better, for I wish to start early; poor Baisemeaux will not be able to imagine what has be become of me, and must be upon thorns.”
“It would be better, because I want to leave early; poor Baisemeaux won’t be able to understand what has happened to me and must be really anxious.”
“You shall have the amount in an hour. Ah, D’Herblay, the interest of your one hundred and fifty thousand francs will never pay my four millions for me.”
“You'll have the money in an hour. Oh, D’Herblay, the interest on your one hundred and fifty thousand francs will never cover my four million for me.”
“Why not, monseigneur?”
“Why not, my lord?”
“Good-night, I have business to transact with my clerks before I retire.”
“Good night, I have some work to take care of with my staff before I go to bed.”
“A good night’s rest, monseigneur.”
"Sleep well, monseigneur."
“D’Herblay, you wish things that are impossible.”
“D’Herblay, you desire things that aren’t possible.”
“Shall I have my fifty thousand francs this evening?”
“Will I get my fifty thousand francs this evening?”
“Yes.”
Yes.
“Go to sleep, then, in perfect safety—it is I who tell you to do so.”
“Go to sleep safely, then—I'm the one telling you to do it.”
Notwithstanding this assurance, and the tone in which it was given, Fouquet left the room shaking his head, and heaving a sigh.
Notwithstanding this assurance, and the tone in which it was given, Fouquet left the room shaking his head and sighing.
Chapter XXIII. M. Baisemeaux de Montlezun’s Accounts.
The clock of St. Paul 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 Rue du Petit-Musc, and stopped opposite the Rue des Tournelles, at the gate of the Bastile. Two sentinels were on duty at the gate; they made 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 other words, to the real entrance. The drawbridge was down, and the duty of the day was about being entered upon. The sentinel at the outer guardhouse stopped Aramis’s further progress, asking him, in a rough tone of voice, what had brought him there. Aramis explained, 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, stationed within an inner lodge, who showed his face at the grating, and inspected the new arrival most attentively. Aramis reiterated the expression of his wish to see the governor; whereupon the sentinel called to an officer of lower grade, who was walking about in a tolerably spacious courtyard and who, in 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’s request, begged him to wait a moment, then went away a short distance, but returned to ask his name. “I cannot tell it you, monsieur,” said Aramis; “I need only mention that I have matters of such importance to communicate to the governor, that I can only rely beforehand upon one thing, that M. de Baisemeaux will be delighted to see me; nay, more than that, when you have told him that it is the person whom he expected on the first of June, I am convinced he will hasten here himself.” The officer could not possibly believe that a man of the governor’s importance should put himself out for a person of so little importance as the citizen-looking visitor 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 courtyard 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, and got into the carriage, which immediately prepared to start. The same ceremony was observed for the governor himself as with a suspected 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 no one 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 again been stopped, and said something to the governor, who immediately put his head out of the door-way, and perceived Aramis on horseback at the end of the drawbridge. He immediately uttered almost a shout of delight, and got out, or rather darted out of his carriage, running towards Aramis, whose hands he seized, making a thousand apologies. He almost embraced 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?”
The clock of St. Paul was striking seven when Aramis, on horseback, dressed as a regular citizen—in a colorful suit without any distinguishing marks, except for a hunting knife at his side—passed the Rue du Petit-Musc and stopped at the gate of the Bastille, opposite the Rue des Tournelles. Two sentinels were on duty at the gate; they didn’t make it difficult for Aramis to enter, allowing him to do so without dismounting, and they indicated the way he should take through a long passage flanked by buildings on both sides. This passage led to the drawbridge, or the main entrance. The drawbridge was down, and the day’s duties were about to begin. The sentinel at the outer guardhouse halted Aramis’s progress, asking him in a gruff voice why he was there. Aramis politely explained that he wished to speak with M. Baisemeaux de Montlezun. The first sentinel then called a second sentinel stationed in an inner lodge, who peered through the grating and carefully inspected the newcomer. Aramis reiterated his desire to see the governor; in response, the sentinel summoned a lower-ranking officer who was walking around the somewhat spacious courtyard. Once informed of the situation, the officer ran off to find someone from the governor’s staff. After hearing Aramis’s request, this officer asked him to hold on for a moment, then moved a short distance away, only to return to ask Aramis for his name. “I can’t tell you that, sir,” Aramis replied. “I just need to mention that I have very important matters to discuss with the governor, which I’m sure will make M. de Baisemeaux happy to see me. In fact, when you tell him that it’s the person he was expecting on the first of June, I’m sure he’ll hurry over here himself.” The officer found it hard to believe that someone of the governor’s status would go out of his way for someone who appeared so unremarkable. “Fortunately, sir,” he said, “the governor is just about to leave, and you can see his carriage with the horses already harnessed in the courtyard; there’s no need for him to come meet you, as he can see you as he passes by.” Aramis bowed to show his agreement; he didn’t want to give anyone too high an impression of himself, so he waited patiently and silently, leaning on the saddle of his horse. It was hardly ten minutes later when the governor’s carriage was seen moving. The governor came out, got into the carriage, which readied to leave. The same procedure was followed for the governor as for a suspicious stranger; the sentinel at the lodge moved forward as the carriage was about to go under the arch, and the governor opened the carriage door, setting an example of obedience himself, so that the sentinel could ensure that no one was leaving the Bastille improperly. The carriage rolled under the archway, but just as the iron gate opened, the officer approached the stopped carriage and said something to the governor, who immediately poked his head out the door and spotted Aramis on horseback at the end of the drawbridge. He let out a shout of joy and leaped out of the carriage, rushing toward Aramis, grabbing his hands and apologizing profusely. He nearly embraced him. “What a challenge it is to enter the Bastille!” said Aramis. “Is it the same for those who are brought here against their will as for those who come voluntarily?”
“A thousand pardons, my lord. How delighted I am to see your Grace!”
“A thousand apologies, my lord. I'm so happy to see you!”
“Hush! What are you thinking of, my dear M. Baisemeaux? What do you suppose would be thought of a bishop in my present costume?”
“Hush! What are you thinking about, my dear M. Baisemeaux? What do you think people would say about a bishop in my current outfit?”
“Pray, excuse me, I had forgotten. Take this gentleman’s horse to the stables,” cried Baisemeaux.
“Sorry, I completely forgot. Take this gentleman's horse to the stables,” shouted Baisemeaux.
“No, no,” said Aramis; “I have five thousand pistoles in the saddle-bags.”
“No, no,” said Aramis; “I have five thousand pistoles in the saddle bags.”
The governor’s countenance became so radiant, that if the prisoners had seen him they would have imagined some prince of the royal blood had arrived. “Yes, you are right, the horse shall be taken to the government house. Will you get into the carriage, my dear M. d’Herblay? and it shall take us back to my house.”
The governor's face lit up so much that if the prisoners had seen him, they would have thought some royal prince had shown up. "Yes, you're right, the horse will be taken to the government house. Will you get into the carriage, my dear M. d’Herblay? It will take us back to my house."
“Get into a carriage to cross a courtyard! do you believe I am so great an invalid? No, no, we will go on foot.”
“Let’s just walk across the courtyard! Do you really think I’m such a big invalid? No way, we’ll walk.”
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 bleak bare walls. A tolerably handsome vestibule and a staircase of white stone led to the governor’s apartments, who crossed the ante-chamber, 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 all-inclusive politeness of which a good man, or a grateful man, alone possesses the secret. An arm-chair, 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 much solicitude, the bag containing 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 steadfastly at Aramis to see if the prelate required anything further.
Baisemeaux then offered his arm for support, but the prelate didn't take it. They arrived at the government house this way, with Baisemeaux rubbing his hands and occasionally glancing at the horse, while Aramis looked at the stark, bare walls. A fairly handsome entrance and a white stone staircase led to the governor’s rooms. He crossed the waiting area and the dining room, where breakfast was being prepared, opened a small side door, and shut himself in with his guest in a large office, the windows of which looked out towards the courtyard and the stables. Baisemeaux settled the prelate in with that kind of complete politeness that only a good man or a grateful man truly knows how to express. An armchair, a footstool, a small table for him to rest his hand on—everything was arranged by the governor himself. With his own hands, he carefully placed the bag containing gold on the table, which one of the soldiers had brought in with the utmost respect; and after the soldier left the room, Baisemeaux himself closed the door behind him, pulled aside one of the window curtains, and looked intently at Aramis to see if the prelate needed anything else.
“Well, my lord,” he said, still standing up, “of all men of their word, you still continue to be the most punctual.”
“Well, my lord,” he said, still standing, “of all the people who keep their promises, you’re still the most punctual.”
“In matters of business, dear M. de Baisemeaux, exactitude is not a virtue only, it is a duty as well.”
“In business, dear M. de Baisemeaux, accuracy is not just a virtue; it’s a responsibility too.”
“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.”
“Yes, in business matters, definitely; but what we have here isn’t like that; it’s a favor you’re doing for me.”
“Come, confess, dear M. de Baisemeaux, that, notwithstanding this exactitude, you have not been without a little uneasiness.”
“Come on, admit it, dear M. de Baisemeaux, that even with this precision, you haven’t been entirely at ease.”
“About your health, I certainly have,” stammered out Baisemeaux.
“About your health, I definitely do,” Baisemeaux stammered.
“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.”
“I wanted to come here yesterday, but I couldn't because I was too tired,” Aramis continued. Baisemeaux nervously placed another cushion behind his guest’s back. “But,” Aramis added, “I promised myself I would come and visit you today, early in the morning.”
“You are really very kind, my lord.”
“You're really very kind, my lord.”
“And it was a good thing for me I was punctual, I think.”
“And I think it was a good thing that I was on time.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean?”
“Yes, you were going out.” At which latter remark Baisemeaux colored and said, “It is true I was going out.”
“Yes, you were going out.” At this comment, Baisemeaux flushed and replied, “It’s true I was going out.”
“Then I prevent you,” said Aramis; whereupon the embarrassment of Baisemeaux became visibly greater. “I am putting you to inconvenience,” he continued, fixing a keen glace upon the poor governor; “if I had known that, I should not have come.”
“Then I'll stop you,” said Aramis; at which point Baisemeaux's embarrassment clearly intensified. “I’m causing you a hassle,” he added, staring intently at the poor governor; “if I had known that, I wouldn’t have come.”
“How can your lordship imagine that you could ever inconvenience me?”
“How could you possibly think that you could bother me?”
“Confess you were going in search of money.”
“Admit you were looking for money.”
“No,” stammered out Baisemeaux, “no! I assure you I was going to—”
“No,” Baisemeaux stammered, “no! I promise I was going to—”
“Does the governor still intend to go to M. Fouquet?” suddenly called out the major from below. Baisemeaux ran to the window like a madman. “No, no,” he exclaimed in a state of desperation, “who the deuce is speaking of M. Fouquet? are you drunk below there? why am I interrupted when I am engaged on business?”
“Does the governor still plan to meet with M. Fouquet?” the major suddenly shouted from below. Baisemeaux rushed to the window like a crazy person. “No, no,” he exclaimed in desperation, “who on earth is talking about M. Fouquet? Are you drunk down there? Why am I being interrupted when I’m trying to work?”
“You were going to M. Fouquet’s,” said Aramis, biting his lips, “to M. Fouquet, the abbe, or the superintendent?”
“You were headed to M. Fouquet’s,” Aramis said, biting his lips, “to M. Fouquet, the abbe, or the superintendent?”
Baisemeaux almost made up his mind to tell an untruth, but he could not summon courage to do so. “To the superintendent,” he said.
Baisemeaux almost decided to lie, but he couldn't find the courage to do it. “To the superintendent,” he said.
“It is true, then, that you were in want of money, since you were going to a person who gives it away!”
“It’s true, then, that you needed money, since you were going to someone who hands it out!”
“I assure you, my lord—”
"I promise you, my lord—"
“You were afraid?”
"Were you scared?"
“My dear lord, it was the uncertainty and ignorance in which I was as to where you were to be found.”
“My dear lord, it was the uncertainty and ignorance I had about where you could be found.”
“You would have found the money you require at M. Fouquet’s, for he is a man whose hand is always open.”
“You would have found the money you need at M. Fouquet’s, since he is a guy who is always generous.”
“I swear that I should never have ventured to ask M. Fouquet for money. I only wished to ask him for your address.”
“I swear I should never have dared to ask M. Fouquet for money. I just wanted to ask him for your address.”
“To ask M. Fouquet for my address?” exclaimed Aramis, opening his eyes in real astonishment.
“To ask M. Fouquet for my address?” exclaimed Aramis, opening his eyes in genuine surprise.
“Yes,” said Baisemeaux, greatly disturbed by the glance which the prelate fixed upon him,—“at M. Fouquet’s certainly.”
“Yes,” said Baisemeaux, clearly unsettled by the look the prelate gave him, “at M. Fouquet’s for sure.”
“There is no harm in that, dear M. Baisemeaux, only I would ask, why ask my address of M. Fouquet?”
“There’s nothing wrong with that, dear M. Baisemeaux, but I’d like to know, why do you need my address from M. Fouquet?”
“That I might write to you.”
“That I could 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 M. Fouquet for it?”
“I get it,” said Aramis with a smile, “but that’s not what I meant; I’m not asking why you needed my address: I’m just wondering why you would go to M. Fouquet for it?”
“Oh!” said Baisemeaux, “as Belle-Isle is the property of M. Fouquet, and as Belle-Isle is in the diocese of Vannes, and as you are bishop of Vannes—”
“Oh!” said Baisemeaux, “since Belle-Isle belongs to M. Fouquet, and since Belle-Isle is in the diocese of Vannes, and since you are the bishop of Vannes—”
“But, my dear Baisemeaux, since you knew I was bishop of Vannes, you had no occasion to ask M. Fouquet for my address.”
“But, my dear Baisemeaux, since you knew I was the bishop of Vannes, you didn't need to ask M. Fouquet for my address.”
“Well, monsieur,” said Baisemeaux, completely at bay, “if I have acted indiscreetly, I beg your pardon most sincerely.”
“Well, sir,” said Baisemeaux, feeling totally trapped, “if I have acted thoughtlessly, I sincerely apologize.”
“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 shall clear all this up,” he said to himself; and then speaking aloud, added,—“Well, my dear governor shall we now arrange our little accounts?”
“Nonsense,” Aramis replied calmly. “How could you have possibly acted indiscreetly?” While he composed his expression and continued to smile cheerfully at the governor, he was pondering how Baisemeaux, who didn’t know his address, still knew that Vannes was where he lived. “I’ll figure this all out,” he thought to himself; then, speaking aloud, he added, “Well, my dear governor, shall we now sort out 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?”
“I’m at your service, my lord; but please let me know in advance, my lord, if you will honor me by having breakfast with me as you usually do?”
“Very willingly, indeed.”
“Absolutely, without a doubt.”
“That’s well,” said Baisemeaux, as he struck the bell before him three times.
“That’s good,” said Baisemeaux, as he rang the bell in front of him three times.
“What does that mean?” inquired Aramis.
“What does that mean?” Aramis asked.
“That I have some one to breakfast with me, and that preparations are to be made accordingly.”
“That I have someone to have breakfast with me, and that plans need to be made accordingly.”
“And you rang thrice. Really, my dear governor, I begin to think you are acting ceremoniously with me.”
“And you rang three times. Honestly, my dear governor, I’m starting to think you’re being overly formal with me.”
“No, indeed. Besides, the least I can do is to receive you in the best way I can.”
“No, of course not. Besides, the least I can do is welcome you in the best way possible.”
“But why so?”
“But why is that?”
“Because not even a prince could have done what you have done for me.”
“Because not even a prince could have done what you’ve done for me.”
“Nonsense! nonsense!”
"Nonsense! Nonsense!"
“Nay, I assure you—”
"No, I promise you—"
“Let us speak of other matters,” said Aramis. “Or rather, tell me how your affairs here are getting on.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” said Aramis. “Or rather, update me on how things are going for you here.”
“Not over well.”
"Not going well."
“The deuce!”
"What the heck!"
“M. de Mazarin was not hard enough.”
“M. de Mazarin wasn't strict enough.”
“Yes, I see; you require a government full of suspicion—like that of the old cardinal, for instance.”
“Yes, I get it; you want a government that's full of suspicion—like that of the old cardinal, for example.”
“Yes; matters went on better under him. The brother of his ‘gray eminence’ made his fortune here.”
“Yes; things improved under his leadership. The brother of his ‘gray eminence’ made his fortune here.”
“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 Louvidre and Tremblay?”
“Trust me, my dear governor,” Aramis said as he moved closer to Baisemeaux, “a young king is definitely more valuable than an old cardinal. Youth comes with its doubts, its moments of anger, and its biases, just as old age brings its resentments, its caution, and its anxieties. Have you handed over the profits from the last three years to Louvidre and Tremblay?”
“Most certainly I have.”
"Absolutely, I have."
“So that you have nothing more to give them than the fifty thousand francs I have brought with me?”
“So you have nothing else to give them besides the fifty thousand francs I brought with me?”
“Nothing.”
“Null.”
“Have you not saved anything, then?”
“Have you saved anything?”
“My lord, in giving the fifty thousand francs of my own to these gentlemen, I assure you that I gave them everything I gain. I told M. d’Artagnan so yesterday evening.”
“My lord, by giving these gentlemen fifty thousand francs of my own, I assure you that I gave them everything I have earned. I told M. d’Artagnan that yesterday evening.”
“Ah!” said Aramis, whose eyes sparkled for a moment, but became immediately afterwards as unmoved as before; “so you have been to see my old friend D’Artagnan; how was he?”
“Ah!” said Aramis, whose eyes lit up for a moment but quickly returned to their usual indifference; “So, you went to see my old friend D’Artagnan; how is he?”
“Wonderfully well.”
“Really great.”
“And what did you say to him, M. de Baisemeaux?”
“And what did you say to him, Mr. de Baisemeaux?”
“I told him,” continued the governor, not perceiving his own thoughtlessness; “I told him that I fed my prisoners too well.”
“I told him,” the governor went on, not realizing his own lack of awareness; “I told him that I was being too lenient with my prisoners.”
“How many have you?” inquired Aramis, in an indifferent tone of voice.
“How many do you have?” Aramis asked, sounding indifferent.
“Sixty.”
"60."
“Well, that is a tolerably round number.”
“Well, that's a pretty decent round number.”
“In former times, my lord, there were, during certain years, as many as two hundred.”
“In the past, my lord, there were, in some years, as many as two hundred.”
“Still a minimum of sixty is not to be grumbled at.”
“Still, a minimum of sixty isn't something to complain about.”
“Perhaps not; for, to anybody but myself, each prisoner would bring in two hundred and fifty pistoles; for instance, for a prince of the blood I have fifty francs a day.”
“Maybe not; because, for anyone but me, each prisoner would bring in two hundred and fifty pistoles; for example, for a prince of the blood I get fifty francs a day.”
“Only you have no prince of the blood; at least, I suppose so,” said Aramis, with a slight tremor in his voice.
“Only you don’t have a royal prince; at least, I think so,” said Aramis, with a slight quaver in his voice.
“No, thank heaven!—I mean, no, unfortunately.”
“No, thank goodness!—I mean, no, sadly.”
“What do you mean by unfortunately?”
"What do you mean by unfortunately?"
“Because my appointment would be improved by it. So fifty francs per day for a prince of the blood, thirty-six for a marechal of France—”
“Because my position would be better because of it. So fifty francs a day for a prince of the blood, thirty-six for a marshal of France—”
“But you have as many marechals of France, I suppose, as you have princes of the blood?”
“But I assume you have as many marshals of France as you have princes of the blood?”
“Alas! no more. It is true lieutenant-generals and brigadiers pay twenty-six francs, and I have two of them. After that, come councilors of parliament, who bring me fifteen francs, and I have six of them.”
“Unfortunately, that’s it. It’s true that lieutenant-generals and brigadiers pay twenty-six francs, and I have two of them. After that, there are councilors of parliament, who contribute fifteen francs, and I have six of them.”
“I did not know,” said Aramis, “that councilors were so productive.”
“I didn’t 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.”
“Yes; but I go straight down from fifteen francs to ten francs; that is, for a regular judge and for a clergyman.”
“And you have seven, you say; an excellent affair.”
“And you have seven, you say? That sounds great.”
“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 parliament?”
“Nah, a bad one, and for this reason. How can I possibly treat these poor guys, who are at least somewhat decent, any differently than as a member of parliament?”
“Yes, you are right; I do not see five francs difference between them.”
“Yes, you’re right; I don’t see a five-franc 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 cost me a franc and a half. I fatten a good deal of poultry, but I have to buy grain, and you cannot imagine the army of rats that infest this place.”
“You get it; if I have a nice fish, I pay four or five francs for it; if I get a nice chicken, it costs me a franc and a half. I raise quite a bit of poultry, but I have to buy grain, and you wouldn’t believe the number of rats that plague this place.”
“Why not get half a dozen cats to deal with them?”
“Why not get six cats to handle 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. I have been obliged to have some terrier dogs sent me from England to kill the rats. These dogs, unfortunately, have tremendous appetites; they eat as much as a prisoner of the fifth order, without taking into account the rabbits and fowls they kill.”
“Cats, sure; yeah, they eat them, but I had to let go of that idea because of how they treated my grain. I had to get some terrier dogs sent over from England to deal with the rats. Unfortunately, these dogs have huge appetites; they eat as much as a prisoner in the fifth order, not even counting the rabbits and chickens they kill.”
Was Aramis really listening or not? No one could have told; his downcast eyes showed the attentive man, but the restless hand betrayed the man absorbed in thought—Aramis was meditating.
Was Aramis really listening or not? No one could say; his downcast eyes showed he was paying attention, but his restless hand revealed he was deep in thought—Aramis was pondering.
“I was saying,” continued Baisemeaux, “that a good-sized fowl costs me a franc and a half, and that a fine fish costs me four or five francs. Three meals are served at the Bastile, and, as the prisoners, having nothing to do, are always eating, a ten-franc man costs me seven francs and a half.”
“I was saying,” continued Baisemeaux, “that a decent-sized chicken costs me a franc and a half, and that a nice fish costs me four or five francs. Three meals are served at the Bastille, and since the prisoners have nothing to do and are always eating, a ten-franc prisoner costs me seven and a half francs.”
“But did you not say that you treated those at ten francs like those at fifteen?”
"But didn't you say you treated those at ten francs the same way as those at fifteen?"
“Yes, certainly.”
"Of course."
“Very well! Then you gain seven francs and a half upon those who pay you fifteen francs.”
“Alright! So you make seven and a half francs from those who pay you fifteen francs.”
“I must compensate myself somehow,” said Baisemeaux, who saw how he had been snapped up.
“I need to make it up to myself somehow,” said Baisemeaux, who realized how he had been caught off guard.
“You are quite right, my dear governor; but have you no prisoners below ten francs?”
“You're absolutely right, my dear governor; but don't you have any prisoners for under ten francs?”
“Oh, yes! we have citizens and barristers at five francs.”
“Oh, yes! We have citizens and lawyers for five francs.”
“And do they eat, too?”
“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.”
“There's no doubt about it; you know they don’t get fish or poultry, or fine wines at every meal; but at least three times a week they have a nice dish for dinner.”
“Really, you are quite a philanthropist, my dear governor, and you will ruin yourself.”
“Honestly, you’re quite the philanthropist, dear governor, and you’re going to end up ruining yourself.”
“No; understand me; when the fifteen-franc has not eaten his fowl, or the ten-franc has left his dish unfinished, I send it to the five-franc prisoner; it is a feast for the poor devil, and one must be charitable, you know.”
“No; listen to me; when the fifteen-franc person hasn't finished their meal, or the ten-franc person leaves food on their plate, I send it to the five-franc prisoner; it's a treat for the poor guy, and we have to be generous, you know.”
“And what do you make out of your five-franc prisoners?”
“And what do you think of your five-franc prisoners?”
“A franc and a half.”
"One and a half francs."
“Baisemeaux, you’re an honest fellow; in honest truth I say so.”
“Baisemeaux, you’re a good guy; I really mean that.”
“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.”
“Thank you, my lord. But I really feel for the small business owners and clerks, who are paid three francs. They don’t often get to see Rhine carp or Channel sturgeon.”
“But do not the five-franc gentlemen sometimes leave some scraps?”
“But don’t the five-franc guys sometimes leave some leftovers?”
“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 a truffled pasty, dishes which he never tasted except in his dreams; these are the leavings of the twenty-four-franc prisoners; and as he eats and drinks, at dessert he cries ‘Long live the King,’ and blesses the Bastile; with a couple bottles of champagne, which cost me five sous, I make him tipsy every 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 afterwards, got imprisoned again? Why should this be the case, unless it be to enjoy the pleasures of my kitchen? It is really the fact.”
“Oh! my lord, please don’t think I’m that stingy; I love to bring joy to some poor tradesman or clerk by sending him a wing of red partridge, a slice of venison, or a piece of truffled pie—dishes he only dreams about. These are leftovers from the twenty-four-franc prisoners. As he eats and drinks, he raises his glass at dessert and shouts ‘Long live the King!’ while blessing the Bastille. With a couple of bottles of champagne that cost me five sous, I get him tipsy every Sunday. Those folks bless me and hate to leave the prison. You know, I’ve noticed, and it flatters me greatly, that some prisoners who’ve been released almost immediately end up back in prison. Why else would that happen if not to enjoy the delights of my kitchen? It’s really true.”
Aramis smiled with an expression of incredulity.
Aramis smiled in shock.
“You smile,” said Baisemeaux.
"You smile," Baisemeaux said.
“I do,” returned Aramis.
"I do," replied Aramis.
“I tell you that we have names which have been inscribed on our books thrice in the space of two years.”
“I tell you that we have names that have been written in our books three times in the last two years.”
“I must see it before I believe it,” said Aramis.
"I need to see it before I believe it," said Aramis.
“Well, I can show it to you, although it is prohibited to communicate the registers to strangers; and if you really wish to see it with your own eyes—”
“Well, I can show it to you, even though it's not allowed to share the records with outsiders; and if you really want to see it for yourself—”
“I should be delighted, I confess.”
“I should be happy, I admit.”
“Very well,” said Baisemeaux, 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.
“Alright,” said Baisemeaux, and he took a large register out of a cupboard. Aramis watched him anxiously, and Baisemeaux went back, set the register on the table, flipped through the pages for a minute, and stopped at the letter M.
“Look here,” said he, “Martinier, January, 1659; Martinier, June, 1660; Martinier, March, 1661. Mazarinades, etc.; you understand it was only a pretext; people were not sent to the Bastile for jokes against M. Mazarin; the fellow denounced himself in order to get imprisoned here.”
“Look here,” he said, “Martinier, January 1659; Martinier, June 1660; Martinier, March 1661. Mazarinades, etc.; you get that it was just an excuse; people weren't sent to the Bastille for making jokes about M. Mazarin; that guy turned himself in just to get locked up here.”
“And what was his object?”
“What was his goal?”
“None other than to return to my kitchen at three francs a day.”
“Only to go back to my kitchen for three francs a day.”
“Three francs—poor devil!”
"Three francs—poor guy!"
“The poet, my lord, belongs to the lowest scale, the same style of board as the small tradesman and bailiff’s clerk; but I repeat, it is to those people that I give these little surprises.”
“The poet, my lord, is at the bottom rung, on the same level as the small business owner and the bailiff’s clerk; but I’ll say it again, it’s to those people that I offer these little surprises.”
Aramis mechanically turned over the leaves of the register, continuing to read the names, but without appearing to take any interest in the names he read.
Aramis absentmindedly flipped through the pages of the register, reading the names but showing no real interest in what he was seeing.
“In 1661, you perceive,” said Baisemeaux, “eighty entries; and in 1659, eighty also.”
“In 1661, you can see,” said Baisemeaux, “eighty entries; and in 1659, eighty as well.”
“Ah!” said Aramis. “Seldon; I seem to know that name. Was it not you who spoke to me about a certain young man?”
“Ah!” said Aramis. “Seldon; that name sounds familiar. Weren't you the one who told 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?”
“Yes, a poor devil of a student, who made—What do you call that where two Latin verses rhyme together?”
“A distich.”
“A couplet.”
“Yes; that is it.”
"Yep, that’s it."
“Poor fellow; for a distich.”
"Poor guy; for a couplet."
“Do you know that he made this distich against the Jesuits?”
“Did you know that he wrote this couplet against the Jesuits?”
“That makes no difference; the punishment seems very severe. Do not pity him; last year you seemed to interest yourself in him.”
“That doesn’t matter; the punishment seems really harsh. Don’t feel sorry for him; last year you seemed to care about him.”
“Yes, I did so.”
“Yeah, I did that.”
“Well, as your interest is all-powerful here, my lord, I have treated him since that time as a prisoner at fifteen francs.”
“Well, since your interest is so strong here, my lord, I have treated him since then as a prisoner at fifteen francs.”
“The same as this one, then,” said Aramis, who had continued turning over the leaves, and who had stopped at one of the names which followed Martinier.
“The same as this one, then,” said Aramis, who had kept flipping through the pages, and who had paused at one of the names that came after Martinier.
“Yes, the same as that one.”
“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.
“Is that Marchiali an Italian?” Aramis asked, pointing to the name that had caught his eye.
“Hush!” said Baisemeaux.
“Quiet!” said Baisemeaux.
“Why hush?” said Aramis, involuntarily clenching his white hand.
“Why be quiet?” said Aramis, involuntarily clenching his pale hand.
“I thought I had already spoken to you about that Marchiali.”
“I thought I had already talked to you about that Marchiali.”
“No, it is the first time I ever heard his name pronounced.”
“No, it’s the first time I’ve ever heard his name said.”
“That may be, but perhaps I have spoken to you about him without naming him.”
“That might be true, but maybe I’ve talked to you about him without mentioning his name.”
“Is he an old offender?” asked Aramis, attempting to smile.
“Is he a repeat offender?” asked Aramis, trying to smile.
“On the contrary, he is quite young.”
"He's actually pretty young."
“Is his crime, then, very heinous?”
“Is his crime really that terrible?”
“Unpardonable.”
“Unforgivable.”
“Has he assassinated any one?”
“Has he killed anyone?”
“Bah!”
"Ugh!"
“An incendiary, then?”
"A firestarter, then?"
“Bah!”
"Ugh!"
“Has he slandered any one?”
"Has he slandered anyone?"
“No, no! It is he who—” and Baisemeaux approached Aramis’s ear, making a sort of ear-trumpet of his hands, and whispered: “It is he who presumes to resemble the—”
“No, no! It’s him who—” and Baisemeaux leaned in close to Aramis’s ear, shaping his hands into a sort of ear-trumpet, and whispered: “It’s him who dares to think he looks like 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.”
“Yes, yes,” said Aramis; “I remember you mentioned it to me last year; but the crime seemed so minor to me.”
“Slight, do you say?”
"Slight, is that what you mean?"
“Or rather, so involuntary.”
"Or rather, so unintentional."
“My lord, it is not involuntarily that such a resemblance is detected.”
“My lord, it is not by chance that such a resemblance is noticed.”
“Well, the fact is, I had forgotten it. But, my dear host,” said Aramis, closing the register, “if I am not mistaken, we are summoned.”
“Well, the truth is, I completely forgot about it. But, my dear host,” said Aramis, shutting the register, “if I'm not mistaken, we have been called.”
Baisemeaux took the register, hastily restored it to its place in the closet, which he locked, and put the key in his pocket. “Will it be agreeable to your lordship to breakfast now?” said he; “for you are right in supposing that breakfast was announced.”
Baisemeaux grabbed the register, quickly put it back in its spot in the closet, locked it up, and put the key in his pocket. “Would it be okay with you to have breakfast now?” he asked; “because you’re correct in thinking that breakfast has been announced.”
“Assuredly, my dear governor,” and they passed into the dining-room.
“Of course, my dear governor,” and they entered the dining room.
Chapter XXIV. The Breakfast at Monsieur de Baisemeaux’s.
Aramis was generally temperate; but on this occasion, while taking every care of his constitution, he did ample justice to Baisemeaux’s breakfast, which, in all respects, 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, took a few sips of wine from his glass, with the air of a connoisseur. “Let me never hear any ill words against the fare of the Bastile,” said he, half closing his eyes; “happy are the prisoners who can get only half a bottle of such Burgundy every day.”
Aramis was usually moderate, but this time, while being mindful of his health, he fully enjoyed Baisemeaux’s breakfast, which was superb. Baisemeaux, on the other hand, was bursting with joy; glancing at the five thousand pistoles from time to time seemed to lift his spirits. Occasionally, he looked at Aramis with deep gratitude, while Aramis leaned back in his chair, sipping his wine like a connoisseur. “I never want to hear anything bad about the food at the Bastille,” he said, half-closing his eyes; “prisoners are lucky if they get even half a bottle of Burgundy like this every day.”
“All those at fifteen francs drink it,” said Baisemeaux. “It is very old Volnay.”
“All those at fifteen francs drink it,” Baisemeaux said. “It’s very old Volnay.”
“Does that poor student, Seldon, drink such good wine?”
“Does that poor student, Seldon, really drink such good wine?”
“Oh, no!”
“Oh, no!”
“I thought I heard you say he was boarded at fifteen francs.”
“I thought I heard you say he was charged 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.”
“He! No way; a guy who writes couplets—I mean couplets—charging fifteen francs! No way! It's his neighbor who's at fifteen francs.”
“Which neighbor?”
"Which neighbor is it?"
“The other, second Bertaudiere.”
“The other, second Bertaudière.”
“Excuse me, my dear governor; but you speak a language which requires quite an apprenticeship to understand.”
“Sorry, my dear governor, but you’re speaking a language that takes a lot of training to understand.”
“Very true,” said the governor. “Allow me to explain: second Bertaudiere is the person who occupies the second floor of the tower of the Bertaudiere.”
“Very true,” said the governor. “Let me explain: second Bertaudiere is the person who lives on 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 the one you are speaking of?”
“So, Bertaudiere is the name of one of the towers of the Bastille? I think I remember hearing that each tower has its own name. Where is the one you're talking about?”
“Look,” said Baisemeaux, going to the window. “It is that tower to the left—the second one.”
“Look,” Baisemeaux said as he walked over to the window. “It's that tower on the left—the second one.”
“Is the prisoner at fifteen francs there?”
“Is the prisoner at fifteen francs here?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“Since when?”
"Since when?"
“Seven or eight years, nearly.”
"About seven or eight years."
“What do you mean by nearly? Do you not know the dates more precisely?”
“What do you mean by nearly? Don't you know the dates more exactly?”
“It was not in my time, M. d’Herblay.”
“It wasn’t in my time, M. d’Herblay.”
“But I should have thought that Louviere or Tremblay would have told you.”
“But I thought Louviere or Tremblay would have mentioned it to you.”
“The secrets of the Bastile are never handed over with the keys of the governorship.”
“The secrets of the Bastille are never given up along with the keys to the governorship.”
“Indeed! Then the cause of his imprisonment is a mystery—a state secret.”
“Absolutely! So the reason he's in prison is a mystery—a state secret.”
“Oh, no! I do not suppose it is a state secret, but a secret—like everything that happens at the Bastile.”
“Oh, no! I don't think it's a state secret, but it's definitely a secret—like everything that goes on at the Bastille.”
“But,” said Aramis, “why do you speak more freely of Seldon than of second Bertaudiere?”
“But,” Aramis said, “why do you talk more openly about Seldon than about 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—”
“Because, in my view, the crime of the person who writes a couplet isn’t as serious as that of the person who resembles—”
“Yes, yes; I understand you. Still, do not the turnkeys talk with your prisoners?”
“Yes, yes; I get what you’re saying. Still, don’t the guards talk to your prisoners?”
“Of course.”
“Definitely.”
“The prisoners, I suppose, tell them they are not guilty?”
“The prisoners probably tell them they’re innocent?”
“They are always telling them that; it is a matter of course; the same song over and over again.”
“They are always telling them that; it’s just how it is; the same tune over and over again.”
“But does not the resemblance you were speaking about just now strike the turnkeys?”
“But doesn’t the resemblance you were just talking about stand out to the guards?”
“My dear M. d’Herblay, it is only for men attached to the court, as you are, to take trouble about such matters.”
“My dear M. d’Herblay, only those connected to the court, like you, would care about such things.”
“You’re right, you’re right, my dear M. Baisemeaux. Let me give you another taste of this Volnay.”
“You're right, you're right, my dear M. Baisemeaux. Let me pour you another glass of this Volnay.”
“Not a taste merely, a full glass; fill yours too.”
“Not just a sip, a full glass; fill yours too.”
“Nay, nay! You are a musketeer still, to the very tips of your fingers, while I have become a bishop. A taste for me; a glass for yourself.”
“Nah, nah! You're still a musketeer, right to your fingertips, while I've become a bishop. A drink for me; a glass for you.”
“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.”
“As you wish.” Aramis and the governor nodded to each other as they drank their wine. “However,” Aramis said, gazing intently at the ruby-colored wine he held up to his eyes, as if he wanted to savor it with all his senses at once, “what one might see as a resemblance, another might not notice at all.”
“Most certainly he would, though, if it were any one who knew the person he resembles.”
“Most definitely he would, though, if it were someone who knew the person he looks like.”
“I really think, dear M. Baisemeaux, that it can be nothing more than a resemblance of your own creation.”
“I honestly believe, dear M. Baisemeaux, that it can only be a resemblance of something you created.”
“Upon my honor, it is not so.”
“Honestly, that’s not true.”
“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.”
“Stay,” continued Aramis. “I’ve seen many people who look a lot like the one we’re talking about; but out of respect, no one ever mentioned it.”
“Very likely; because there is resemblance and resemblance. This is a striking one, and, if you were to see him, you would admit it to be so.”
“Very likely; because there is similarity and similarity. This one is really noticeable, and if you were to see him, you would agree.”
“If I were to see him, indeed,” said Aramis, in an indifferent tone; “but in all probability I never shall.”
“If I were to see him, sure,” said Aramis, in a casual tone; “but I probably never will.”
“Why not?”
"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.”
“Because if I were to even step inside one of those awful dungeons, I’d feel like I was buried there forever.”
“No, no; the cells are very good places to live in.”
“No, no; the cells are really nice places to live in.”
“I really do not, and cannot believe it, and that is a fact.”
“I really don’t believe it, and I can’t believe it, and that’s a fact.”
“Pray do not speak ill of second Bertaudiere. 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 chance for you.”
“Please don’t say anything bad about second Bertaudiere. It’s actually a nice room, well-furnished and carpeted. The young guy hasn’t been unhappy there at all; it’s the best accommodation the Bastille has to offer. There’s an opportunity 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 only in your imagination. I should find nothing but spiders, rats, and perhaps toads, too.”
“Nah, nah,” Aramis said coolly, “you’ll never convince me that there are any decent rooms in the Bastille; and as for your carpets, they only exist in your imagination. I’d find nothing but spiders, rats, and maybe toads, too.”
“Toads?” cried Baisemeaux.
"Toads?" shouted Baisemeaux.
“Yes, in the dungeons.”
“Yes, in the dungeons.”
“Ah! I don’t say there are not toads in the dungeons,” replied Baisemeaux. “But—will you be convinced by your own eyes?” he continued, with a sudden impulse.
“Ah! I’m not saying there aren’t any toads in the dungeons,” replied Baisemeaux. “But—will you believe what you see?” he continued, with a sudden urge.
“No, certainly not.”
“No way.”
“Not even to satisfy yourself of the resemblance which you deny, as you do the carpets?”
“Not even to convince yourself of the resemblance you deny, just like you do with the carpets?”
“Some spectral-looking person, a mere shadow; an unhappy, dying man.”
“Some ghostly-looking person, just a shadow; an unhappy, dying man.”
“Nothing of the kind—as brisk and vigorous a young fellow as ever lived.”
“Nothing like that—he's as lively and energetic a young guy as you'll ever meet.”
“Melancholy and ill-tempered, then?”
“Sad and grumpy, then?”
“Not at all; very gay and lively.”
“Not at all; very cheerful and lively.”
“Nonsense; you are joking.”
"That's ridiculous; you're joking."
“Will you follow me?” said Baisemeaux.
“Will you come with me?” said Baisemeaux.
“What for?”
"Why?"
“To go the round of the Bastile.”
"To go around the Bastille."
“Why?”
“Why?”
“You will then see for yourself—see with your own eyes.”
"You'll see for yourself—see with your own eyes."
“But the regulations?”
“But what about the regulations?”
“Never mind them. To-day my major has leave of absence; the lieutenant is visiting the post on the bastions; we are sole masters of the situation.”
“Forget about them. Today, my captain is off duty; the lieutenant is checking out the post on the bastions; we’re in complete control of the situation.”
“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 second or fourth Bertaudiere, and then—”
“No, no, my dear governor; just the thought of the sound of the bolts gives me chills. You’ll just need to forget about 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 propose to you gratis, some of the princes of the blood have offered me as much as fifty thousand francs.”
“You're turning down an opportunity that might never come around again. Do you know that to get the favor I'm offering you for free, some of the royal princes have offered me as much as fifty thousand francs?”
“Really! he must be worth seeing, then?”
“Really! He must be worth seeing, then?”
“Forbidden fruit, my lord; forbidden fruit. You who belong to the church ought to know that.”
“Forbidden fruit, my lord; forbidden fruit. You, who are part of the church, should be aware of that.”
“Well, if had any curiosity, it would be to see the poor author of the distich.”
“Well, if I had any curiosity, it would be to see the poor author of the couplet.”
“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.”
“Alright, we'll see him as well; but if I were curious at all, it would be about the beautiful carpeted room and its tenant.”
“Furniture is very commonplace; and a face with no expression in it offers little or no interest.”
“Furniture is pretty ordinary, and a face with no expression on it is not very interesting.”
“But a boarder at fifteen francs is always interesting.”
“But a boarder at fifteen francs is always intriguing.”
“By the by, I forgot to ask you about that. Why fifteen francs for him, and only three francs for poor Seldon?”
“By the way, 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 noble act, and one which displayed the king’s goodness of heart to great advantage.”
“The distinction made in that situation was a genuinely admirable act, showcasing the king’s kindness and compassion perfectly.”
“The king’s, you say.”
"The king's, you say?"
“The cardinal’s, I mean. ‘This unhappy man,’ said M. Mazarin, ‘is destined to remain in prison forever.’”
“The cardinal’s, I mean. ‘This poor guy,’ said M. Mazarin, ‘is going to be stuck in prison forever.’”
“Why so?”
"Why's that?"
“Why, it seems that his crime is a lasting one; and, consequently, his punishment ought to be so, too.”
“Why, it seems that his crime is a lasting one; and, as a result, his punishment should be lasting as well.”
“Lasting?”
"Forever?"
“No doubt of it, unless he is fortunate enough to catch the small-pox, and even that is difficult, for we never get any impure air here.”
“No doubt about it, unless he’s lucky enough to get smallpox, and even that’s tough, because we never breathe any bad air around here.”
“Nothing can be more ingenious than your train of reasoning, my dear M. Baisemeaux. Do you, however, mean to say that this unfortunate man must suffer without interruption or termination?”
“Nothing could be more clever than your line of reasoning, my dear M. Baisemeaux. Do you really mean to say that this unfortunate man must suffer without end or relief?”
“I did not say he was to suffer, my lord; a fifteen-franc boarder does not suffer.”
“I didn’t say he was going to suffer, my lord; a fifteen-franc boarder doesn’t suffer.”
“He suffers imprisonment, at all events.”
“He is definitely in prison.”
“No doubt; there is no help for that, but this suffering is sweetened for him. You must admit that this young fellow was not born to eat all the good things he does eat; for instance, such things as we have on the table now; this pasty that 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 second Bertaudiere, with a bottle of that Volnay which you think so excellent. After you have seen it you will believe it, I hope.”
“No doubt; there’s nothing we can do about that, but this suffering is made easier for him. You have to admit that this young guy wasn’t meant to enjoy all the great food he does; for example, the things we have on the table right now—the untouched pie, these crawfish from the River Marne, of which we’ve hardly had any, and that are almost as big as lobsters; all of this will be taken right away to second Bertaudiere, along with a bottle of that Volnay that you think is so great. After you’ve seen it, I hope you’ll believe it.”
“Yes, my dear governor, certainly; but all this time you are thinking only of your very happy fifteen-franc prisoner, and you forget poor Seldon, my protege.”
“Yes, my dear governor, of course; but all this time you’re only thinking about your very happy fifteen-franc prisoner, and you’re forgetting poor Seldon, 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.”
“Well, to make it nice for you, it will be a special day for him; he will get some cookies and jam with this small bottle of port.”
“You are a good-hearted fellow; I have said so already, and I repeat it, my dear Baisemeaux.”
“You're a kind-hearted guy; I've already told you that, and I’ll say it again, my dear Baisemeaux.”
“Well, let us set off, then,” said the governor, a little bewildered, partly from the wine he had drunk, and partly from Aramis’s praises.
“Alright, let’s get going,” said the governor, a bit confused, partly from the wine he had drunk, and partly from Aramis’s compliments.
“Do not forget that I only go to oblige you,” said the prelate.
“Don’t forget that I’m only doing this to help you,” said the prelate.
“Very well; but you will thank me when you get there.”
"Alright; but you’ll thank me when you arrive."
“Let us go, then.”
“Let’s go, then.”
“Wait until I have summoned the jailer,” said Baisemeaux, as he struck the bell twice; at which summons a man appeared. “I am going to visit the towers,” said the governor. “No guards, no drums, no noise at all.”
“Wait until I've called the jailer,” said Baisemeaux, as he rang the bell twice; at which summons a man appeared. “I'm 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, pretending to be alarmed, “I should really think I was going to prison on my own account.”
“If I didn’t leave my cloak here,” said Aramis, feigning shock, “I would seriously think I was headed to jail for my own reasons.”
The jailer preceded the governor, Aramis walking on his right hand; some of the soldiers who happened to be in the courtyard drew themselves up in a 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 governor with the proper honors. The governor turned toward Aramis, and, speaking in such a tone that the sentinels could not lose a word, he observed,—“I hope you have a good memory, monsieur?”
The jailer walked ahead of the governor, with Aramis on his right. Some soldiers in the courtyard straightened up like statues as the governor passed by. Baisemeaux led them down a few steps to a kind of open area; from there, they reached the drawbridge, where the sentinels on duty greeted the governor with the appropriate honors. The governor turned to Aramis and, speaking loudly enough for the sentinels to hear every word, said, “I hope you have a good memory, sir?”
“Why?” inquired Aramis.
“Why?” asked 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 pencil.”
“Because of your plans and your measurements, you know that no one is allowed, not even architects, to go where the prisoners are, with paper, pens, or pencils.”
“Good,” said Aramis to himself, “it seems I am an architect, then. It sounds like one of D’Artagnan’s jokes, who perceived in me the engineer of Belle-Isle.” Then he added aloud: “Be easy on that score, monsieur; in our profession, a mere glance and a good memory are quite sufficient.”
“Good,” said Aramis to himself, “looks like I’m an architect now. It feels like one of D’Artagnan’s jokes, who thought of me as the engineer of Belle-Isle.” Then he added out loud: “Don’t worry about that, sir; in our line of work, just a quick look and a good memory are more than enough.”
Baisemeaux did not change countenance, and the soldiers took Aramis for what he seemed to be. “Very well; we will first visit la Bertaudiere,” said Baisemeaux, still intending the sentinels to hear him. Then, turning to the jailer, he added: “You will take the opportunity of carrying to No. 2 the few dainties I pointed out.”
Baisemeaux didn’t change his expression, and the soldiers assumed Aramis was exactly who he appeared to be. “Okay; we’ll visit la Bertaudiere first,” Baisemeaux said, making sure the guards could hear him. Then, turning to the jailer, he added, “You’ll take the chance to deliver the few treats I mentioned to No. 2.”
“Dear M. de Baisemeaux,” said Aramis, “you are always forgetting No. 3.”
“Dear M. de Baisemeaux,” Aramis said, “you keep forgetting No. 3.”
“So I am,” said the governor; and upon that, they began 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 which so many unhappy wretches had passed, when he felt himself impregnated, as it were, with the atmosphere of 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 a syllable.
“So I am,” said the governor; and with that, they started to climb. The number of bolts, grates, and locks for this one courtyard would have been enough to secure an entire city. Aramis was not a particularly imaginative or sensitive man; he had been somewhat of a poet in his youth, but his heart had grown hard and indifferent, like any man of fifty-five who has been deeply and passionately involved with women throughout his life, or rather, who has been deeply loved by them. But when he stepped onto the worn stone steps, where so many unfortunate souls had passed, and when he felt enveloped, as if by the very atmosphere of those dark dungeons, soaked with tears, it was clear he was moved, for his head dropped and his eyes became misty as he followed Baisemeaux without saying a word.
Chapter XXV. The Second Floor of la Bertaudiere.
On 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 with this one?” said Baisemeaux; “for since we are going to both, it matters very little whether we ascend from the second to the third story, or descend from the third to the second.”
On the second flight of stairs, whether from exhaustion or emotion, the visitor started to struggle with his breathing and leaned against the wall. “Shall we start with this one?” Baisemeaux said; “since we’re going to both, it doesn’t really matter if we go up from the second to the third floor or down from the third to the second.”
“No, no,” exclaimed Aramis, eagerly, “higher, if you please; the one above is the more urgent.” They continued their ascent. “Ask the jailer for the keys,” whispered Aramis. Baisemeaux did so, took the keys, and, himself, opened the door of the third room. The jailer was the first to enter; he placed upon the table the provisions, which the kind-hearted governor called dainties, and then left the room. The prisoner had not stirred; Baisemeaux then entered, while Aramis remained at the threshold, from which place he 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, endeavoring 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.”
“No, no,” exclaimed Aramis eagerly, “higher, if you please; the one above is more urgent.” They continued climbing. “Ask the jailer for the keys,” Aramis whispered. Baisemeaux did so, took the keys, and opened the door to the third room himself. The jailer was the first to enter; he placed the provisions, which the kind-hearted governor called treats, on the table and then left the room. The prisoner hadn’t moved; Baisemeaux then entered while Aramis stayed at the threshold, where he saw a young man about eighteen years old. When he heard the unusual noise, he jumped off the bed and, seeing the governor, clasped his hands together and began to cry out, “My mother, my mother,” in a tone filled with such deep distress that Aramis, despite his self-control, felt a shudder run through him. “My dear boy,” said Baisemeaux, trying to smile, “I’ve brought you something to take your mind off things and something special for your body; this gentleman is here to take your measurements, 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 year I shall see my mother again.”
“Oh, sir!” the young man exclaimed, “just let me be alone for a year, let me have nothing but bread and water for a year, but promise me that at the end of the year I’ll leave this place, promise me that at the end of the year I’ll see my mother again.”
“But I have heard you say that your mother was very poor, and that you were very badly lodged when you were living with her, while here—upon my word!”
“But I’ve heard you say that your mom was really poor, and that you had terrible living conditions when you were with her, but here—honestly!”
“If she were poor, monsieur, the greater reason to restore her only means of support to her. Badly lodged with her! Oh, monsieur, every one is always well lodged when he is free.”
“If she were poor, sir, that makes it even more important to return her only means of support. She’s in a terrible situation! Oh, sir, everyone is always comfortable when they’re free.”
“At all events, since you yourself admit you have done nothing but write that unhappy distich—”
“At any rate, since you admit that you’ve only written that unfortunate couplet—”
“But without any intention, I swear. Let me be punished—cut off the hand which wrote it, I will work with the other—but restore my mother to me.”
“But I swear I had no intention. Punish me—cut off the hand that wrote it; I’ll work with the other one—but bring my mother back 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 increase your rations, give you a glass of port wine now and then, slip in a biscuit for you between a couple of plates.”
“My boy,” said Baisemeaux, “you know very well that this isn’t up to me; all I can do for you is increase your rations, give you a glass of port wine now and then, and slip a biscuit in for you between a couple of plates.”
“Great heaven!” exclaimed the young man, falling backward and rolling on the ground.
“Wow!” exclaimed the young man, falling backward and rolling on the ground.
Aramis, unable to bear this scene any longer, withdrew as far as the landing. “Unhappy, wretched man,” he murmured.
Aramis, unable to tolerate this situation any longer, stepped back to the landing. “Poor, miserable man,” he whispered.
“Yes, monsieur, he is indeed very wretched,” said the jailer; “but it is his parents’ fault.”
“Yes, sir, he is really very miserable,” said the jailer; “but it’s his parents’ fault.”
“In what way?”
"How so?"
“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 effect produced by his advice and his port wine, he left the dungeon quite upset. “You have forgotten to close the door,” said the jailer.
“No doubt. Why did they let him learn Latin? Too much knowledge, you see; that’s what causes trouble. Now I, for example, can’t read or write, and that’s why I’m not in prison.” Aramis looked at the man, who seemed to think that being a jailer in the Bastille wasn’t the same as being in prison. As for Baisemeaux, noticing that his advice and his port wine had little effect, he left the dungeon feeling quite upset. “You forgot to close the door,” said the jailer.
“So I have,” said Baisemeaux; “there are the keys, do you do it.”
“So I have,” said Baisemeaux; “here are the keys, you can take care of it.”
“I will solicit the pardon of that poor boy,” said Aramis.
“I'll ask for that poor boy's forgiveness,” 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 I shall be gainers.”
“And if you don’t succeed,” said Baisemeaux, “at least ask for him to be moved to the ten-franc list, which would benefit both him and me.”
“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.”
“If the other prisoner calls out for his mother in the same way,” said Aramis, “I’d rather not go in at all, but will judge the situation 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.”
“No need to worry about that, mister architect, the one we’re about to see is as gentle as can be; before he could call for his mother, he’d have to speak, and he never says a word.”
“Let us go in, then,” said Aramis, gloomily.
“Let’s go in, then,” Aramis said, looking gloomy.
“Are you the architect of the prisons, monsieur?” said the jailer.
“Are you the designer of the prisons, sir?” said the jailer.
“I am.”
“I am.”
“It is odd, then, that you are not more accustomed to all this.”
“It’s strange, then, that you’re not more used to all this.”
Aramis perceived that, to avoid giving rise to any suspicions, he must summon all his strength of mind to his assistance. Baisemeaux, who carried the keys, opened the door. “Stay outside,” he said to the jailer, “and wait for us at the bottom of the steps.” The jailer obeyed and withdrew.
Aramis realized that, to prevent raising any suspicions, he needed to rely on all his mental strength. Baisemeaux, who held the keys, opened the door. “Stay outside,” he told the jailer, “and wait for us at the bottom of the steps.” The jailer complied and left.
Baisemeaux entered 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 with 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 indifference; and on recognizing Baisemeaux, 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 pasty 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?”
Baisemeaux entered first and opened the second door himself. Through the light filtering in from the iron-barred window, a handsome young man could be seen, short in stature, with closely cropped hair and a beard just starting to grow. He was sitting on a stool, his elbow resting on an armchair, with the upper part of his body leaning against it. His clothes, tossed onto the bed, were made of rich black velvet, and he was enjoying the fresh air blowing in on his chest through a shirt of the finest cambric. As the governor entered, the young man turned his head with an indifferent expression; upon recognizing Baisemeaux, he stood and greeted him politely. However, when his eyes landed on Aramis, who was standing back, he trembled, turned pale, and dropped his hat on the floor, as if all his strength had suddenly left him. Baisemeaux, used to his prisoner's presence, didn't share in the feelings that Aramis was experiencing. Instead, with the enthusiasm of a good servant, he busied himself arranging the pasty and crawfish he had brought on the table. While he was focused on this task, he didn't notice how disturbed his guest had become. When he finished, he turned to the young prisoner and said, “You’re looking very well—are you?”
“Quite well, I thank you, monsieur,” replied the young man.
“I'm doing well, thank you, sir,” 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 towards him, with his eyes wide open and his lips trembling. The movement he made was so marked that Baisemeaux, notwithstanding his preoccupation, observed it. “This gentleman is an architect who has come to examine your chimney,” said Baisemeaux; “does it smoke?”
The sound of the voice was so intense that it nearly overwhelmed Aramis. Even though he tried to keep himself in check, he took a few steps closer, his eyes wide and his lips shaking. His movement was so obvious that Baisemeaux, despite being preoccupied, noticed it. “This guy is an architect who has come to check your chimney,” Baisemeaux said; “is it smoking?”
“Never, monsieur.”
"Not a chance, sir."
“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, I hope?”
“You were just saying,” said the governor, rubbing his hands together, “that it’s not possible for a man to be happy in prison; here, however, is someone who is. I hope you have nothing to complain about?”
“Nothing.”
"Null."
“Do you ever feel weary?” said Aramis.
“Do you ever feel tired?” said Aramis.
“Never.”
"Not happening."
“Ha, ha,” said Baisemeaux, in a low tone of voice; “was I right?”
“Ha, ha,” said Baisemeaux, in a low 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?”
“Well, my dear governor, it’s impossible not to be swayed by the evidence. Can I ask him any questions?”
“As many as you like.”
"Take as many as you want."
“Very well; be good enough to ask him if he knows why he is here.”
“Sure; could you please ask him if he knows why he’s here?”
“This gentleman requests me to ask you,” said Baisemeaux, “if you are aware of the cause of your imprisonment?”
“This guy asked me to check with you,” said Baisemeaux, “if you know why you're being held?”
“No, monsieur,” said the young man, unaffectedly, “I am not.”
“No, sir,” said the young man, calmly, “I’m 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.”
"That's hardly possible," said Aramis, caught up in his emotions despite himself; "if you truly didn't know why you were being held, you'd be livid."
“I was so during the early days of my imprisonment.”
“I was so during the early days of my imprisonment.”
“Why are you not so now?”
“Why aren’t you like that now?”
“Because I have reflected.”
“Because I’ve thought about it.”
“That is strange,” said Aramis.
“That’s weird,” said Aramis.
“Is it not odd?” said Baisemeaux.
“Isn't that weird?” said Baisemeaux.
“May one venture to ask you, monsieur, on what you have reflected?”
“May I ask you, sir, what you have been thinking about?”
“I felt that as I had committed no crime, Heaven could not punish me.”
“I felt that since I had done nothing wrong, there was no way Heaven could punish me.”
“What is a prison, then,” inquired Aramis, “if it be not a punishment.”
“What is a prison, then,” asked Aramis, “if it isn't 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 years ago.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t say,” said the young man; “all I can tell you now is the complete opposite of what I felt seven years ago.”
“To hear you converse, to witness your resignation, one might almost believe that you liked your imprisonment?”
“To hear you talk, to see your acceptance, one might almost think that you enjoyed your imprisonment?”
“I endure it.”
"I deal with it."
“In the certainty of recovering your freedom some day, I suppose?”
“In the certainty of getting your freedom back someday, I guess?”
“I have no certainty; hope, I have, and that is all; and yet I acknowledge that this hope becomes less every day.”
“I don’t have any certainty; I have hope, and that’s all; and yet I admit that this hope fades a little more each day.”
“Still, why should you not again be free, since you have already been so?”
“Still, why shouldn’t you be free again, since you’ve already been free?”
“That is precisely the reason,” replied the young man, “which prevents me from expecting liberty; why should I have been imprisoned at all if it had been intended to release me afterwards?”
“That is exactly why,” replied the young man, “I can’t expect freedom; why would I have been imprisoned in the first place if they meant to let me go later?”
“How old are you?”
"What's your age?"
“I do not know.”
"I don't know."
“What is your name?”
"What's your name?"
“I have forgotten the name by which I was called.”
“I’ve forgotten the name I was called by.”
“Who are your parents?”
"Who are your folks?"
“I never knew them.”
"I never knew them."
“But those who brought you up?”
“But who brought you up?”
“They did not call me their son.”
“They didn’t call me their son.”
“Did you ever love any one before coming here?”
“Have you ever loved anyone before coming here?”
“I loved my nurse, and my flowers.”
“I loved my nurse and my flowers.”
“Was that all?”
"Is that it?"
“I also loved my valet.”
“I also loved my personal assistant.”
“Do you regret your nurse and your valet?”
“Do you regret your nurse and your servant?”
“I wept very much when they died.”
“I cried a lot when they died.”
“Did they die since you have been here, or before you came?”
“Did they die while you’ve been here, or before you got here?”
“They died the evening before I was carried off.”
“They died the night before I was taken away.”
“Both at the same time?”
"Both at once?"
“Yes, both at the same time.”
"Yes, both at the same time."
“In what manner were you carried off?”
“In what way were you taken?”
“A man came for me, directed me to get into a carriage, which was closed and locked, and brought me here.”
“A man came for me, told me to get into a carriage, which was closed and locked, and brought me here.”
“Would you be able to recognize that man again?”
“Would you be able to recognize that guy again?”
“He was masked.”
"He was wearing a mask."
“Is this not an extraordinary tale?” said Baisemeaux, in a low tone of voice, to Aramis, who could hardly breathe.
“Isn't this an incredible story?” Baisemeaux said quietly to Aramis, who could barely catch his breath.
“It is indeed extraordinary,” he murmured.
"It’s truly extraordinary," he said softly.
“But what is still more extraordinary is, that he has never told me so much as he has just told you.”
“But what's even more amazing is that he has never told me anything close to what he just told you.”
“Perhaps the reason may be that you have never questioned him,” said Aramis.
“Maybe the reason is that you’ve never questioned 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?”
“It’s possible,” Baisemeaux replied. “I’m not curious. Have you seen the room? It’s a nice one, isn’t it?”
“Very much so.”
“Definitely.”
“A carpet—”
“A rug—”
“Beautiful.”
“Gorgeous.”
“I’ll wager he had nothing like it before he came here.”
“I bet he’s never experienced anything like this before he got here.”
“I think so, too.” And then again turning towards the young man, he said, “Do you not remember to have been visited at some time or another by a strange lady or gentleman?”
“I think so, too.” Then, turning to the young man again, he said, “Don’t you remember being visited at some point by a strange lady or gentleman?”
“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.”
“Yes, indeed; three times by a woman, who each time arrived in a carriage and came in with her face covered by a veil, which she lifted when we were alone together.”
“Do you remember that woman?”
“Do you remember her?”
“Yes.”
“Yep.”
“What did she say to you?”
“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.”
The young man smiled sadly and then said, “She asked, like you just did, if I was happy and if I was getting tired.”
“What did she do on arriving, and on leaving you?”
“What did she do when she arrived and when she left you?”
“She pressed me in her arms, held me in her embrace, and kissed me.”
“She hugged me tightly, wrapped me in her arms, and kissed me.”
“Do you remember her?”
"Do you remember her?"
“Perfectly.”
"Absolutely."
“Do you recall her features distinctly?”
“Do you remember her features clearly?”
“Yes.”
"Yup."
“You would recognize her, then, if accident brought her before you, or led you into her person?”
“You would recognize her if by chance you met her or came across her?”
“Most certainly.”
"Definitely."
A flush of fleeting satisfaction passed across Aramis’s face. At this moment Baisemeaux heard the jailer approaching. “Shall we leave?” he said, hastily, to Aramis.
A quick look of satisfaction crossed Aramis's face. Just then, Baisemeaux heard the jailer coming. “Should we go?” he asked Aramis urgently.
Aramis, who probably had learnt all that he cared to know, replied, “When you like.”
Aramis, who had likely learned everything he wanted to know, replied, “Whenever you want.”
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 profoundly. They left the room, Baisemeaux closing the door behind them.
The young man watched them get ready to leave and greeted them politely. Baisemeaux just nodded in response, while Aramis, perhaps out of respect for the unfortunate situation, deeply saluted the prisoner. They exited the room, with Baisemeaux shutting the door behind them.
“Well,” said Baisemeaux, as they descended the staircase, “what do you think of it all?”
“Well,” said Baisemeaux as they walked down the stairs, “what do you think of it all?”
“I have discovered the secret, my dear governor,” he said.
“I've discovered the secret, my dear governor,” he said.
“Bah! what is the secret, then?”
“Ugh! So what's the secret, then?”
“A murder was committed in that house.”
“A murder happened in that house.”
“Nonsense.”
"Nonsense."
“But attend; the valet and nurse died the same day.”
“But listen; the valet and the nurse died on the same day.”
“Well.”
"Okay."
“And by poison. What do you think?”
“And by poison. What do you think?”
“That is very likely to be true.”
"That's probably true."
“What! that that young man is an assassin?”
“What! That young man is a killer?”
“Who said that? What makes you think that poor young fellow could be an assassin?”
“Who said that? What makes you think that poor young guy could be an assassin?”
“The very thing I was saying. A crime was committed in his house,” said Aramis, “and that was quite sufficient; perhaps he saw the criminals, and it was feared that he might say something.”
“The very thing I was saying. A crime was committed in his house,” said Aramis, “and that was more than enough; maybe he saw the criminals, and it was worried that he might say something.”
“The deuce! if I only thought that—”
“The hell! if I only thought that—”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“I would redouble the surveillance.”
"I would increase the surveillance."
“Oh, he does not seem to wish to escape.”
“Oh, he doesn’t seem to want to escape.”
“You do not know what prisoners are.”
“You don’t know what prisoners are.”
“Has he any books?”
“Does he have any books?”
“None; they are strictly prohibited, and under M. de Mazarin’s own hand.”
“None; they are strictly forbidden, and signed by M. de Mazarin himself.”
“Have you the writing still?”
"Do you still have the writing?"
“Yes, my lord; would you like to look at it as you return to take your cloak?”
“Yes, my lord; would you like to see it as you go back to get your cloak?”
“I should, for I like to look at autographs.”
"I should, because I enjoy looking at autographs."
“Well, then, this one is of the most unquestionable authenticity; there is only one erasure.”
“Well, then, this one is definitely authentic; there’s only one correction.”
“Ah, ah! an erasure; and in what respect?”
“Ah, ah! a deletion; and in what way?”
“With respect to a figure. At first there was written: ‘To be boarded at fifty francs.’”
“With regard to a figure. At first, it was written: ‘To be charged fifty francs.’”
“As princes of the blood, in fact?”
“As princes of the blood, really?”
“But the cardinal must have seen his mistake, you understand; for he canceled the zero, and has added a one before the five. But, by the by—”
“But the cardinal must have realized his mistake, you see; because he canceled the zero and added a one before the five. But, by the way—”
“What?”
"Excuse me?"
“You do not speak of the resemblance.”
“You don’t talk about the similarity.”
“I do not speak of it, dear M. de Baisemeaux, for a very simple reason— because it does not exist.”
“I don’t talk about it, dear M. de Baisemeaux, for a very simple reason—because it doesn’t exist.”
“The deuce it doesn’t.”
“Of course 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 of about it.”
“Or, if it does exist, it’s only in your own imagination; but if it were to exist somewhere else, I think it would be better for you not to talk about it.”
“Really.”
"Seriously."
“The king, Louis XIV.—you understand—would be excessively angry with you, if he were to learn that you contributed in any way to spread the report that one of his subjects has the effrontery to resemble him.”
“The king, Louis XIV.—you get it—would be extremely angry with you if he found out that you helped spread the rumor that one of his subjects has the nerve to look like 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 discretion.”
“It’s true, really true,” said Baisemeaux, deeply worried; “but I haven’t mentioned this to anyone other than you, and you understand, monseigneur, that I completely trust your discretion.”
“Oh, be easy.”
“Just relax.”
“Do you still wish to see the note?”
“Do you still want to see the note?”
“Certainly.”
"Of course."
While engaged in this manner in conversation, they had returned to the governor’s apartments; Baisemeaux took from the cupboard a private register, like the one he had already shown Aramis, but fastened by a lock, the key which opened it being one of a small bunch which Baisemeaux always carried with him. Then placing the book upon the table, he opened it at the letter “M,” and showed Aramis the following note in the column of observations: “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. M. de Baisemeaux can claim more if the fifteen francs be not sufficient.”
While they were engaged in this conversation, they returned to the governor’s quarters. Baisemeaux took a private register from the cupboard, similar to the one he had already shown Aramis, but locked. The key to it was one of a small bunch that Baisemeaux always carried. He placed the book on the table, opened it to the letter “M,” and showed Aramis the following note in the observations column: “No books at any time; all linen and clothing of the finest quality to be obtained; no exercise; the same jailer at all times; no communications with anyone. Musical instruments; every liberty and indulgence necessary for his welfare; to be boarded at fifteen francs. M. de Baisemeaux can request more if the fifteen francs is not sufficient.”
“Ah,” said Baisemeaux, “now I think of it, I shall claim it.”
“Ah,” said Baisemeaux, “now that I think about it, I’m going to claim it.”
Aramis shut the book. “Yes,” he said, “it is indeed M. de Mazarin’s handwriting; I recognize it well. Now, my dear governor,” he continued, as if this last communication had exhausted his interest, “let us now turn over to our own little affairs.”
Aramis closed the book. “Yes,” he said, “that’s definitely M. de Mazarin’s handwriting; I know it well. Now, my dear governor,” he added, as if this last message had completely lost his interest, “let’s shift our focus to our own matters.”
“Well, what time for repayment do you wish me to take? Fix it yourself.”
“Well, what time do you want me to pay you back? Set it yourself.”
“There need not be any particular period fixed; give me a simple acknowledgement for one hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
“There doesn’t need to be any specific time frame; just give me a simple acknowledgment for one hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
“When to be made payable?”
“When is it due?”
“When I require it; but, you understand, I shall only wish it when you yourself do.”
“When I need it; but, you know, I'll only want it when you want it too.”
“Oh, I am quite easy on that score,” said Baisemeaux, smiling; “but I have already given you two receipts.”
“Oh, I'm pretty relaxed about that,” said Baisemeaux, smiling; “but I’ve 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 acknowledgement 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 acknowledgement into his pocket without seeming to have read it, which made Baisemeaux perfectly easy. “Now,” said Aramis, “you will not be angry with me if I were to carry off one of your prisoners?”
“Which I’m going to destroy,” Aramis said; and after showing Baisemeaux the two receipts, he destroyed them. Overwhelmed by such a huge sign of trust, Baisemeaux immediately wrote an acknowledgment of a debt of one hundred and fifty thousand francs, payable at the prelate's convenience. Aramis, who had been glancing over the governor’s shoulder as he wrote, slipped the acknowledgment into his pocket without appearing to read it, which made Baisemeaux completely at ease. “Now,” Aramis said, “you won’t be mad at me if I take one of your prisoners, will you?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean?”
“By obtaining his pardon, of course. Have I not already told you that I took a great interest in poor Seldon?”
“By getting his pardon, of course. Haven't I already told you that I was very concerned about poor Seldon?”
“Yes, quite true, you did so.”
“Yes, that's absolutely right, you did.”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“That is your affair; do as you think proper. I see you have an open hand, and an arm that can reach a great way.”
“That’s your business; do what you think is right. I can see you have a generous spirit and the ability to extend your reach far.”
“Adieu, adieu.” And Aramis left, carrying with him the governor’s best wishes.
“Goodbye, goodbye.” And Aramis left, taking the governor’s best wishes with him.
Chapter XXVI. The Two Friends.
At the very time M. de Baisemeaux was showing Aramis the prisoners in the Bastile, a carriage drew up at Madame de Belliere’s door, and, at that still early hour, a young woman alighted, her head muffled in a silk hood. When the servants announced Madame Vanel to Madame de Belliere, the latter was engaged, or rather was absorbed, in reading a letter, which she hurriedly concealed. She had hardly finished her morning toilette, her maid being still in the next room. At the name—at the footsteps of Marguerite Vanel, Madame de Belliere ran to meet her. She fancied she could detect in her friend’s eyes a brightness which was neither that of health nor of pleasure. Marguerite embraced her, pressed her hands, and hardly allowed her time to speak. “Dearest,” she said, “have you forgotten me? Have you quite given yourself up to the pleasures of the court?”
At the same time M. de Baisemeaux was showing Aramis the prisoners in the Bastille, a carriage arrived at Madame de Belliere’s door, and at that early hour, a young woman got out, her head wrapped in a silk hood. When the servants announced Madame Vanel to Madame de Belliere, the latter was busy, or rather preoccupied, reading a letter that she quickly hid away. She had barely finished her morning routine, with her maid still in the next room. At the sound of Marguerite Vanel’s name and footsteps, Madame de Belliere rushed to greet her. She thought she noticed an unusual brightness in her friend's eyes that wasn't entirely from health or happiness. Marguerite hugged her, held her hands, and hardly gave her a moment to respond. “Darling,” she said, “have you forgotten me? Are you totally lost in the pleasures of the court?”
“I have not even seen the marriage fetes.”
“I haven't even seen the wedding celebrations.”
“What are you doing with yourself, then?”
“What are you doing with your life, then?”
“I am getting ready to leave for Belliere.”
“I’m getting ready to leave for Belliere.”
“For Belliere?”
“For Belliere?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“You are becoming rustic in your tastes, then; I delight to see you so disposed. But you are pale.”
“You're becoming more down-to-earth in your tastes, then; I’m glad to see you like this. But you look pale.”
“No, I am perfectly well.”
“No, I'm perfectly fine.”
“So much the better; I was becoming uneasy about you. You do not know what I have been told.”
“So much better; I was starting to worry about you. You have no idea what I've been told.”
“People say so many things.”
"People say a lot."
“Yes, but this is very singular.”
“Yes, but this is really unusual.”
“How well you know how to excite curiosity, Marguerite.”
“How well you know how to spark curiosity, Marguerite.”
“Well, I was afraid of vexing you.”
"Well, I was worried about upsetting you."
“Never; you have yourself always admired me for my evenness of temper.”
“Never; you have always admired me for my calm demeanor.”
“Well, then, it is said that—no, I shall never be able to tell you.”
“Well, then, it’s said that—no, I can never tell you.”
“Do not let us talk about it, then,” said Madame de Belliere, who detected the ill-nature that was concealed by all these prefaces, yet felt the most anxious curiosity on the subject.
“Let’s not discuss it, then,” said Madame de Belliere, who sensed the bad attitude hidden behind all these introductions, yet felt extremely curious about the topic.
“Well, then, my dear marquise, it is said, for some time past, you no longer continue to regret Monsieur de Belliere as you used to.”
“Well, then, my dear marquise, it’s been said that lately, you no longer seem to miss Monsieur de Belliere like you used to.”
“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.”
“It’s a mean-spirited rumor, Marguerite. I do miss my husband, and I always will, but it’s been two years since he passed away. I’m only twenty-eight, and my sorrow over his death shouldn’t dictate every action and thought in my life. You, Marguerite, who are the perfect example of a wife, wouldn’t believe me if I said otherwise.”
“Why not? Your heart is so soft and yielding,” she said, spitefully.
“Why not? Your heart is so soft and easily swayed,” 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 superintendent, and were also a veiled but direct reproach made against her friend’s heart.
“Yours is too, Marguerite, and yet I didn’t see you let yourself be overwhelmed by sadness when your heart got hurt.” These words directly referred to Marguerite’s breakup with the superintendent and were also a subtle but clear criticism aimed at her friend’s heart.
As if she only awaited this signal to discharge her shaft, Marguerite exclaimed, “Well, Elise, it is said you are in love.” And she looked fixedly at Madame de Belliere, who blushed against her will.
As if she had been waiting for this cue to let her words fly, Marguerite exclaimed, “Well, Elise, I hear you’re in love.” And she stared intently at Madame de Belliere, who couldn’t help but blush.
“Women can never escape slander,” replied the marquise, after a moment’s pause.
“Women can never escape gossip,” replied the marquise, after a moment’s pause.
“No one slanders you, Elise.”
"No one talks badly about you, Elise."
“What!—people say that I am in love, and yet they do not slander me!”
“What!—people say I’m in love, and yet they don’t gossip about me!”
“In the first place, if it be true, it 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 but loving woman, defending yourself with claws and teeth, shutting yourself up in your own house as in a fortress; in other respects, as impenetrable as that of Danae, notwithstanding Danae’s tower was made of brass.”
“In the first place, if it’s true, it’s not slander, just a scandalous rumor. Secondly—for you didn’t let me finish what I was saying—the public isn’t saying that you’ve given in to this passion. On the contrary, they portray you as a virtuous but loving woman, fighting back fiercely, isolating yourself in your own home like it’s a fortress; in other respects, as inaccessible as Danae, even though Danae’s tower was made of brass.”
“You are witty, Marguerite,” said Madame de Belliere, angrily.
“You're clever, Marguerite,” said Madame de Belliere, angrily.
“You always flatter me, Elise. In short, however, you are reported to be incorruptible and unapproachable. You cannot decide whether the world is calumniating you or not; but what is it you are musing about while I am speaking to you?”
“You always flatter me, Elise. But the truth is, you’re said to be incorruptible and unapproachable. You can’t tell if the world is slandering you or not; but what are you thinking about while I’m talking to you?”
“I?”
"I?"
“Yes; you are blushing and do not answer me.”
“Yes; you’re blushing and not answering me.”
“I was trying,” said the marquise, raising her beautiful eyes brightened with an indication of growing temper, “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.”
“I was trying,” said the marquise, raising her beautiful eyes brightened with a hint of growing anger, “I was trying to figure out what you could possibly be referring to, you who are so knowledgeable about mythology, in comparing me to Danae.”
“You were trying to guess that?” said Marguerite, laughing.
“You were trying to guess that?” Marguerite said with a laugh.
“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 the other? Therefore do you guess now?”
“Yes; don’t you remember that at the convent, when we were working on our math problems—oh! I have something to share that is also learned, but it’s my turn—don’t you remember that if one of the terms was given, we had to find the other? So, do you guess now?”
“I cannot conjecture what you mean.”
“I can’t guess what you mean.”
“And yet nothing is more simple. You pretend that I am in love, do you not?”
"And yet nothing is simpler. You're pretending that I'm in love, right?"
“So it is said.”
"That's what they say."
“Very well; it is not said, I suppose, that I am in love with an abstraction. There must surely be a name mentioned in this report.”
“Alright; I take it you’re not implying that I'm in love with an idea. There must definitely be a name mentioned in this report.”
“Certainly, a name is mentioned.”
“Definitely, 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.”
"Alright; it's not surprising that I'm trying to guess this name, since you're not telling me."
“My dear marquise, when I saw you blush, I did not think you would have to spend much time in conjectures.”
“My dear marquise, when I saw you blush, I didn’t think you would need to spend much time guessing.”
“It was the word Danae which you used that surprised me. Danae means a shower of gold, does it not?”
“It was the word Danae that surprised me. Danae means a shower of gold, right?”
“That is to say that the Jupiter of Danae changed himself into a shower of gold for her.”
"That means that Jupiter transformed himself into a shower of gold for Danae."
“My lover, then, he whom you assign me—”
"My lover, then, the one you give to me—"
“I beg your pardon; I am your friend, and assign you no one.”
“I’m sorry; I'm your friend and don't assign you to anyone.”
“That may be; but those who are ill disposed towards me.”
"That might be true; but those who have a negative attitude towards me."
“Do you wish to hear the name?”
“Do you want to hear the name?”
“I have been waiting this half hour for it.”
“I’ve been waiting for half an hour for it.”
“Well, then, you shall hear it. Do not be shocked; he is a man high in power.”
“Well, then, you’ll hear it. Don’t be shocked; he’s a powerful man.”
“Good,” said the marquise, as she clenched her hands like a patient at the approach of the knife.
“Good,” said the marquise, as she clenched her hands like someone bracing for surgery.
“He is a very wealthy man,” continued Marguerite; “the wealthiest, it may be. In a word, it is—”
“He's a very rich guy,” continued Marguerite; “the richest, probably. In short, it is—”
The marquise closed her eyes for a moment.
The marquise closed her eyes for a moment.
“It is the Duke of Buckingham,” said Marguerite, bursting into laughter. This perfidy had been calculated with extreme ability; the name that was pronounced, instead of the name which the marquise awaited, had precisely the same effect upon her as the badly sharpened axes, that had hacked, without destroying, Messieurs de Chalais and de Thou upon the scaffold. 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. This joke is a most amusing one, for I have never seen the Duke of Buckingham.”
“It’s the Duke of Buckingham,” Marguerite said, bursting into laughter. This betrayal had been planned with incredible skill; the name that was mentioned, instead of the one the marquise was expecting, had exactly the same effect on her as the poorly sharpened axes that had chopped, without killing, Messieurs de Chalais and de Thou on the scaffold. She collected herself, though, and said, “I was completely right in saying you're a witty woman, because you’re making the time pass very pleasantly. This joke is quite amusing since I’ve never seen the Duke of Buckingham.”
“Never?” said Marguerite, restraining her laughter.
“Never?” Marguerite said, holding back her laughter.
“I have never even left my own house since the duke has been at Paris.”
“I haven’t even left my house since the duke has been in Paris.”
“Oh!” resumed Madame Vanel, stretching out her foot towards a paper which was lying on the carpet near the window; “it is not necessary for people to see each other, 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 superintendent’s arms. As she leaned back on the sofa on which she was sitting, Madame de Belliere covered the paper with the thick folds of her large silk dress, and so concealed it.
“Oh!” Madame Vanel said again, extending her foot toward a piece of paper lying on the carpet near the window. “People don’t need to see each other when they can just write.” The marquise tensed up because this paper was the envelope of the letter she had been reading when her friend walked in, and it was sealed with the superintendent’s coat of arms. Leaning back on the sofa, Madame de Belliere covered the paper with the heavy layers of her large silk dress, hiding it away.
“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?”
“Come on, Marguerite, tell me, did you come to see me this early just to share all these silly rumors?”
“No; I came to see you, in the first place, and to remind you of those habits of our earlier days, so delightful to remember, when we used to wander about together at Vincennes, and, sitting beneath an oak, or in some sylvan shade, used to talk of those we loved, and who loved us.”
“No; I came to see you, first and foremost, and to remind you of those habits from our earlier days, so lovely to recall, when we used to stroll around together at Vincennes, and, sitting under an oak, or in some wooded shade, would talk about those we loved and who loved us.”
“Do you propose that we should go out together now?”
“Are you suggesting that we go out together now?”
“My carriage is here, and I have three hours at my disposal.”
“My ride is here, and I have three hours to spare.”
“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 green sward covered with daisies and violets, the perfume of which can be perceived from where we are sitting.”
“I’m not ready yet, Marguerite, but if you’d like to talk, we don’t need to go all the way to the woods of Vincennes. We can find beautiful trees, shady spots, and a green lawn filled with daisies and violets right here in my garden, and you can smell their fragrance from where we’re sitting.”
“I regret your refusal, my dear marquise, for I wanted to pour out my whole heart into yours.”
“I’m sorry you said no, my dear marquise, because I wanted to share my entire heart with yours.”
“I repeat again, Marguerite, my heart is yours just as much in this room, or beneath the lime-trees in the garden here, as it would be under the oaks in the woods yonder.”
“I’ll say it again, Marguerite, my heart belongs to you just as much in this room, or under the lime trees in the garden here, as it would beneath the oaks in the woods over there.”
“It is not the same thing for me. In approaching Vincennes, marquise, my ardent aspirations approach nearer to that object towards which they have for some days past been directed.” The marquise suddenly raised her head. “Are you surprised, then, that I am still thinking of Saint-Mande?”
“It’s not the same for me. As I get closer to Vincennes, marquise, my intense hopes draw nearer to the goal I’ve been focused on for the past few days.” The marquise suddenly lifted her head. “Are you surprised that I’m still thinking about Saint-Mande?”
“Of Saint-Mande?” exclaimed Madame de Belliere; and the looks of both women met each other like two resistless swords.
“Of Saint-Mande?” exclaimed Madame de Belliere; and the gazes of both women locked onto each other like two unstoppable swords.
“You, so proud!” said the marquise, disdainfully.
“You're so proud!” said the marquise, looking down her nose.
“I, so proud!” replied Madame Vanel. “Such is my nature. I do not forgive neglect—I cannot endure infidelity. When I leave any one who weeps at my abandonment, I feel induced still to love him; but when others forsake me and laugh at their infidelity, I love distractedly.”
“I, so proud!” replied Madame Vanel. “That’s just who I am. I don’t forgive neglect—I can’t stand betrayal. When I leave someone who cries at my departure, I feel compelled to still love him; but when others abandon me and mock their betrayal, I love wildly.”
Madame de Belliere could not restrain an involuntary movement.
Madame de Belliere couldn't help but make an involuntary movement.
“She is jealous,” said Marguerite to herself.
“She’s jealous,” Marguerite thought to herself.
“Then,” continued the marquise, “you are quite enamored of the Duke of Buckingham—I mean of M. Fouquet?” Elise felt the allusion, and her blood seemed to congeal in her heart. “And you wished to go to Vincennes,—to Saint-Mande, even?”
“Then,” continued the marquise, “you're really into the Duke of Buckingham—I mean M. Fouquet?” Elise picked up on the hint, and her heart felt like it had frozen. “And you wanted to go to Vincennes—to Saint-Mande, even?”
“I hardly know what I wished: you would have advised me perhaps.”
“I barely know what I wanted: you might have advised me, maybe.”
“In what respect?”
“In what way?”
“You have often done so.”
“You've done that often.”
“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; when my heart has been once wounded, it remains so always.”
“Honestly, I wouldn’t have done that in this situation, because I don’t forgive like you do. Maybe I’m less loving; once my heart is hurt, it stays that way forever.”
“But M. Fouquet has not wounded you,” said Marguerite Vanel, with the most perfect simplicity.
“But M. Fouquet hasn’t hurt you,” said Marguerite Vanel, with complete simplicity.
“You perfectly understand what I mean. M. Fouquet has not wounded me; I do not know of either obligation or 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.”
“You totally get what I’m saying. M. Fouquet hasn’t hurt me; I don’t feel any sense of obligation or injury from him, but you have every reason to be upset with him. You’re my friend, and I’m worried I wouldn’t give you the advice you want.”
“Ah! you are prejudging the case.”
“Ah! you are jumping to conclusions.”
“The sighs you spoke of just now are more than indications.”
“The sighs you mentioned just now are more than signs.”
“You overwhelm me,” said the young woman suddenly, as if collecting her whole strength, like a wrestler preparing for a last struggle; “you take only my evil dispositions and my weaknesses into calculation, and do not speak of my pure and generous feelings. If, at this moment, I feel instinctively attracted towards the superintendent, if I even make an advance to him, which, I confess, is very probable, my motive for it is, that M. Fouquet’s fate deeply affects me, and because he is, in my opinion, one of the most unfortunate men living.”
“You're overwhelming me,” the young woman suddenly said, as if gathering all her strength, like a wrestler getting ready for a final match. “You only consider my bad traits and weaknesses, and you never mention my genuine and generous feelings. If, right now, I feel drawn to the superintendent, and even make a move towards him—which I admit is quite likely—my reason for this is that M. Fouquet’s situation really affects me, and because I believe he is one of the most unfortunate men alive.”
“Ah!” said the marquise, placing her hand upon her heart, “something new, then, has occurred?”
“Ah!” said the marquise, putting her hand on her heart, “has something new happened?”
“Do you not know it?”
"Don't you know it?"
“I am utterly ignorant of everything about him,” said Madame de Belliere, with the poignant anguish that suspends thought and speech, and even life itself.
“I know absolutely nothing about him,” said Madame de Belliere, with the deep anguish that halts thought and speech, and even life itself.
“In the first place, then, the king’s favor is entirely withdrawn from M. Fouquet, and conferred on M. Colbert.”
“In the first place, then, the king’s favor is completely taken away from M. Fouquet, and given to M. Colbert.”
“So it is stated.”
"That's what it says."
“It is very clear, since the discovery of the plot of Belle-Isle.”
“It’s very clear, since the discovery of the plot at Belle-Isle.”
“I was told that the discovery of the fortifications there had turned out to M. Fouquet’s honor.”
“I was told that finding the fortifications there had brought honor to M. Fouquet.”
Marguerite began to laugh in so cruel a manner that Madame de Belliere could at that moment have delightedly plunged a dagger in her bosom. “Dearest,” continued Marguerite, “there is no longer any question of M. Fouquet’s honor; his safety is concerned. Before three days are passed the ruin of the superintendent will be complete.”
Marguerite started laughing so harshly that Madame de Belliere could have happily stabbed her right then and there. “Darling,” Marguerite went on, “it’s no longer about M. Fouquet’s honor; it’s about his safety. In less than three days, the downfall of the superintendent will be complete.”
“Stay,” said the marquise, in her turn smiling, “that is going a little fast.”
“Hold on,” said the marquise, smiling back, “that's moving a bit too quickly.”
“I said three days, because I wish to deceive myself with a hope; but probably the catastrophe will be complete within twenty-four hours.”
“I said three days because I want to trick myself into hoping for the best; but the truth is, the disaster will probably happen in the next twenty-four hours.”
“Why so?”
“Why is that?”
“For the simplest of all reasons,—that M. Fouquet has no more money.”
“For the simplest reason of all—that M. Fouquet has no more money.”
“In matters of finance, my dear Marguerite, some are without money to-day, who to-morrow can procure millions.”
“In financial matters, my dear Marguerite, some people are broke today, but tomorrow they can come up with millions.”
“That might be M. Fouquet’s case when he had two wealthy and clever friends who amassed money for him, and wrung it from every possible or impossible source; but those friends are dead.”
“That might be M. Fouquet’s situation when he had two wealthy and clever friends who gathered money for him, pulling it from every possible or impossible source; but those friends are gone.”
“Money does not die, Marguerite; it may be concealed, but it can be looked for, bought and found.”
“Money doesn’t disappear, Marguerite; it can be hidden, but it can be searched for, purchased, and discovered.”
“You see things on the bright side, and so much the better for you. It is really very unfortunate that you are not the Egeria of M. Fouquet; you might now show him the source whence he could obtain the millions which the king asked him for yesterday.”
“You see things positively, and that's great for you. It’s really unfortunate that you’re not M. Fouquet’s Egeria; you could help him find the source for the millions the king asked for yesterday.”
“Millions!” said the marquise, in terror.
“Millions!” said the marquise, shocked.
“Four—an even number.”
“Four—an even number.”
“Infamous!” murmured Madame de Belliere, tortured by her friend’s merciless delight.
“Infamous!” whispered Madame de Belliere, tormented by her friend’s relentless joy.
“M. Fouquet, I should think, must certainly have four millions,” she replied, courageously.
“M. Fouquet, I think, probably has four million,” she replied, confidently.
“If he has those which the king requires to-day,” said Marguerite, “he will not, perhaps, possess those which the king will demand in a month or so.”
“If he has what the king needs today,” Marguerite said, “he might not have what the king will want in a month or so.”
“The king will exact money from him again, then?”
“The king is going to demand money from him again, right?”
“No doubt; and that is my reason for saying that the ruin of poor M. Fouquet is inevitable. Pride will induce him to furnish the money, and when he has no more, he will fall.”
“No doubt; and that’s why I say that the downfall of poor M. Fouquet is unavoidable. His pride will drive him to provide the funds, and when he runs out, he will collapse.”
“It is true,” said the marquise, trembling; “the plan is a bold one; but tell me, does M. Colbert hate M. Fouquet so very much?”
“It’s true,” said the marquise, shaking; “the plan is a daring one; but tell me, does M. Colbert really dislike M. Fouquet that much?”
“I think he does not like him. M. Colbert is powerful; he improves on close acquaintance; he has gigantic ideas, a strong will, and discretion; he will rise.”
“I don't think he likes him. M. Colbert is influential; he gets better as you get to know him; he has huge ideas, a strong determination, and good judgment; he will succeed.”
“He will be superintendent?”
"Is he going to be superintendent?"
“It is probable. Such is the reason, my dear marquise, why I felt myself impressed in favor of that poor man, who once loved, and 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 more highly when they are no longer blinded by its influence.”
“It’s likely. That’s why, my dear marquise, I feel drawn to that poor man, who once loved and even adored me; and why, when I see him so unfortunate, I forgive his infidelity, which I believe he also regrets; and why, in addition, I would have been open to offering him some comfort or good advice; he would have understood the choice I made and would have thought kindly of me for it. It’s nice to be loved, you know. Men appreciate love more when they aren’t blinded by its effects.”
The marquise, bewildered and overcome by these cruel attacks, which had been calculated with the greatest nicety and precision, hardly knew what to answer in return; she even seemed to have lost all power of thought. Her perfidious friend’s voice had assumed the most affectionate tone; she spoke as a woman, but concealed the instincts of a wolf.
The marquise, confused and overwhelmed by these harsh criticisms, which had been planned with incredible accuracy, barely knew how to respond; she even appeared to have lost the ability to think. Her treacherous friend's voice had taken on the most caring tone; she spoke like a friend, but hid the instincts of a predator.
“Well,” said Madame de Belliere, who had a vague hope that Marguerite would cease to overwhelm a vanquished enemy, “why do you not go and see M. Fouquet?”
“Well,” said Madame de Belliere, who had a faint hope that Marguerite would stop overwhelming a defeated opponent, “why don’t you go and see M. Fouquet?”
“Decidedly, marquise, you have made me reflect. No, it would be unbecoming for me to make the first advance. M. 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 tell me nothing? Very well, I shall consult M. Colbert on the subject.” Marguerite rose smilingly, as though to take leave, but the marquise had not the strength to imitate her. Marguerite advanced a few paces, in order that she might continue 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 so 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 towards Marguerite Vanel, entered it, closing the door after her. Marguerite said, or rather muttered a few words, which Madame 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 well founded, advanced stealthily like a panther, and seized the envelope. “Ah!” she said, gnashing her teeth, “it was indeed a letter from M. 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 an earthquake, 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.
“Clearly, Marquise, you’ve made me think. No, it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to make the first move. M. Fouquet likely loves me, but he’s too proud. I can’t put myself in a position for a slight... besides, I have my husband to consider. You’re not telling me anything? Alright, I’ll consult M. Colbert about it.” Marguerite stood up with a smile, as if to say goodbye, but the Marquise didn’t have the strength to follow her lead. Marguerite walked a few steps, wanting to savor the humiliating distress her rival was in, and then suddenly said, “Aren’t you going to see me to the door?” The Marquise stood up, pale and nearly lifeless, without remembering the envelope that had occupied her thoughts at the beginning of their conversation, which became apparent with her first step. She then opened the door to her study and without even glancing back at Marguerite Vanel, entered, closing the door behind her. Marguerite muttered a few words that Madame de Belliere didn’t even hear. As soon as the Marquise was gone, her envious opponent, unable to resist the urge to confirm her suspicions, crept forward like a panther and grabbed the envelope. “Ah!” she exclaimed, gritting her teeth, “it was indeed a letter from M. Fouquet she was reading when I got here,” and then dashed out of the room. Meanwhile, the Marquise, once safely behind the barrier of her door, felt her strength giving out; for a moment, she remained stiff, pale, and motionless like a statue, and then, like a statue jolted from its base by an earthquake, wobbled and collapsed lifeless onto the carpet. The sound of her fall coincided with the rumble of Marguerite’s carriage leaving the hotel.
Chapter XXVII. Madame de 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 so heartlessly announced to her. She therefore returned, at the risk even of losing her life in the way, to that train of ideas which her relentless friend had forced her to pursue. Treason, then—deep 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 weapons Marguerite employed. The crooked atoms of Descartes triumphed; to the man without compassion was united a woman without heart. The marquise perceived, with sorrow rather than indignation, 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, no longer overwhelmed by indulgence in compassionate lamentations. The marquise was not one to weep when action was necessary, nor to waste time in bewailing a misfortune as long as means still existed of relieving it. For some minutes she buried her face in her cold fingers, and then, raising her head, rang for her attendants with a steady hand, and with a gesture betraying a fixed determination of purpose. Her resolution was taken.
The blow was even more painful because it was unexpected. It took the marquise some time to gather herself, but once she did, she started to think about the news she had received so harshly. She decided to return to the train of thought that her relentless friend had forced her into, risking even her life in the process. Treachery, then—serious threats hidden behind a facade of public interest—those were Colbert's tactics. A despicable pleasure in an impending downfall, tireless efforts to achieve this goal, and seductive means as wicked as the crime itself—these were the tools Marguerite used. The twisted ideas of Descartes won out; a heartless man was joined by a cold-hearted woman. The marquise realized, more with sorrow than anger, that the king was part of the plot that revealed Louis XIII's deceit in his old age and Mazarin's greed at a time when he hadn't yet had the chance to indulge in French wealth. The spirit of this brave woman soon regained its strength, no longer overwhelmed by indulgent mourning. The marquise wasn’t one to cry when action was needed, nor did she waste time lamenting misfortune as long as there were still ways to address it. For a few minutes, she buried her face in her cold fingers, and then, lifting her head, she rang for her attendants with a steady hand and a gesture that showed her firm determination. Her decision was made.
“Is everything prepared for my departure?” she inquired of one of her female attendants who entered.
“Is everything ready for my departure?” she asked one of her female attendants who came in.
“Yes, madame; but it was not expected that your ladyship would leave for Belliere for the next few days.”
“Yes, ma'am; but it wasn’t expected that you would leave for Belliere for the next few days.”
“All my jewels and articles of value, then, are packed up?”
“All my jewelry and valuable items are packed up, right?”
“Yes, madame; but hitherto we have been in the habit of leaving them in Paris. Your ladyship does not generally take your jewels with you into the country.”
“Yes, ma'am; but until now we've usually left them in Paris. You don't typically take your jewelry with you to the countryside.”
“But they are all in order, you say?”
“But they're all in order, you say?”
“Yes, in your ladyship’s own room.”
“Yes, in your lady’s own room.”
“The gold plate?”
“Is that the gold plate?”
“In the chest.”
"In the chest."
“And the silver plate?”
“And the silver platter?”
“In the great oak closet.”
“In the big oak closet.”
The marquise remained silent for a few moments, and then said calmly, “Let my goldsmith be sent for.”
The marquise was quiet for a moment, then said calmly, “Have my goldsmith brought here.”
Her attendants quitted the room to execute the order. The marquise, however, had entered her own room, and was inspecting her casket of jewels with the greatest attention. Never, until now, had she bestowed such close attention upon riches in which women take so much pride; never, until now, 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. “M. Faucheux,” she said, “I believe you supplied me with my gold service?”
Her attendants left the room to carry out the order. The marquise, however, had gone into her own room and was inspecting her jewelry box with great focus. Never before had she paid such close attention to the treasures that women take so much pride in; never before had she looked at her jewels, except to choose which ones to wear based on their settings or colors. This time, though, she admired the size of the rubies and the sparkle of the diamonds; she lamented every flaw and every imperfection; she found the gold dull and the stones disappointing. The goldsmith, as he entered, found her occupied in this way. “M. Faucheux,” she said, “I believe you provided me with my gold service?”
“I did, your ladyship.”
"I did, my lady."
“I do not now remember the amount of the account.”
“I don’t remember how much was in the account now.”
“Of the new service, madame, or of that which M. de Belliere presented to you on your marriage? for I have furnished both.”
“About the new service, madam, or the one that Mr. de Belliere gave you for your wedding? Because I’ve arranged both.”
“First of all, the new one.”
“First of all, the new one.”
“The covers, the goblets, and the dishes, with their covers, the eau-epergne, the ice-pails, the dishes for the preserves, and the tea and coffee urns, cost your ladyship sixty thousand francs.”
“The covers, the goblets, and the dishes, along with their lids, the eau-epergne, the ice buckets, the containers for the preserves, and the tea and coffee urns, cost you sixty thousand francs, my lady.”
“No more?”
"Not anymore?"
“Your ladyship thought the account very high.”
“Your ladyship thought the bill was very high.”
“Yes, yes; I remember, in fact, that it was dear; but it was the workmanship, I suppose?”
“Yes, yes; I remember, actually, that it was expensive; but was it the craftsmanship, I guess?”
“Yes, madame; the designs, the chasings—all new patterns.”
“Yes, ma'am; the designs, the engravings—all fresh patterns.”
“What proportion of the cost does the workmanship form? Do not hesitate to tell me.”
“What percentage of the cost is made up by the workmanship? Please don’t hesitate to let me know.”
“A third of its value, madame.”
“A third of its value, ma’am.”
“There is the other service, the old one, that which belonged to my husband?”
“There’s the other service, the old one, that belonged to my husband?”
“Yes, madame; there is less workmanship in that than in the other. Its intrinsic value does not exceed thirty thousand francs.”
“Yes, ma'am; there’s less craftsmanship in that piece than in the other one. Its actual value doesn’t go beyond thirty thousand francs.”
“Thirty thousand,” murmured the marquise. “But, M. 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.”
“Thirty thousand,” whispered the marquise. “But, M. Faucheux, there’s also the service that belonged to my mother; all that heavy silverware that I didn’t want to get rid of because of the memories attached to it.”
“Ah! madame, that would indeed be an excellent resource for those who, unlike your ladyship, might not be in position to keep their plate. In chasing that they worked in solid metal. But that service is no longer in fashion. Its weight is its only advantage.”
“Ah! Madame, that would really be a great resource for those who, unlike you, might not be able to afford their meals. In pursuit of that, they worked with solid metal. But that style is no longer popular. Its only advantage is its weight.”
“That is all I care about. How much does it weigh?”
“That’s 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 pair.”
“Fifty thousand livres at the very least. I'm not even mentioning the huge vases for the buffet, which weigh five thousand livres each, or ten thousand for the pair.”
“One hundred and thirty,” murmured the marquise. “You are quite sure of your figures, M. Faucheux?”
"One hundred and thirty," the marquise murmured. "Are you absolutely sure about your numbers, M. Faucheux?"
“The amount is entered in my books. Your ladyship is extremely methodical, I am aware.”
“The amount is recorded in my accounts. I know you’re very organized, my lady.”
“Let us now turn to another subject,” said Madame de Belliere; and she opened one of her jewel-boxes.
“Now, let’s move on to another topic,” said Madame de Belliere; and she opened one of her jewelry 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 Chatillon has the most beautiful set; she had them from Messieurs de Guise; but your set, madame, comes next.”
“I know these emeralds,” said M. Faucheux; “I was the one who had them set. They’re the most gorgeous in the entire court. Wait, I take that back; Madame de Chatillon has the most beautiful set; she got them from the Messieurs de Guise. But your set, madame, is a close second.”
“What are they worth?”
"What’s their value?"
“Mounted?”
"Riding?"
“No; supposing I wished to sell them.”
“No; let’s say I wanted to sell them.”
“I know very well who would buy them,” exclaimed M. Faucheux.
“I know exactly who would buy them,” exclaimed M. Faucheux.
“That is the very thing I ask. They could be sold, then?”
"That's exactly what I'm wondering. So they could be sold, right?"
“All your jewels could be sold, madame. 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.”
“All your jewels could be sold, madame. It’s well known that you own the most beautiful jewels in Paris. Your tastes are consistent; when you make a purchase, it's always the very best; and once you buy something, you don't let it go.”
“What could these emeralds be sold for, then?”
“What could we sell these emeralds for, then?”
“A hundred and thirty thousand francs.”
"130,000 francs."
The marquise wrote down upon her tablets the amount which the jeweler mentioned. “The ruby necklace?” she said.
The marquise recorded the amount the jeweler specified on her notepad. “The ruby necklace?” she asked.
“Are they balas-rubies, madame?”
"Are they rubies, ma'am?"
“Here they are.”
"Here they are."
“They are beautiful—magnificent. I did not know your ladyship had these stones.”
“They're beautiful—absolutely stunning. I didn’t know you had these gems, my lady.”
“What is their value?”
"What are they worth?"
“Two hundred thousand francs. The center one is alone worth a hundred thousand.”
“Two hundred thousand francs. The middle one is worth a hundred thousand by itself.”
“I thought so,” said the marquise. “As for diamonds, I have them in numbers; rings, necklaces, sprigs, ear-rings, clasps. Tell me their value, M. Faucheux.”
“I thought so,” said the marquise. “As for diamonds, I have plenty; rings, necklaces, brooches, earrings, clasps. Tell me their value, M. Faucheux.”
The jeweler took his magnifying-glass and scales, weighed and inspected them, and silently made his calculations. “These stones,” he said, “must have cost your ladyship an income of forty thousand francs.”
The jeweler took his magnifying glass and scales, weighed and examined them, and quietly did his calculations. “These stones,” he said, “must have cost you around forty thousand francs.”
“You value them at eight hundred thousand francs?”
“You think they’re worth eight hundred thousand francs?”
“Nearly so.”
"Almost."
“It is about what I imagined—but the settings are not included?”
“It’s what I imagined—but the settings aren’t 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.”
“No, ma'am; but if I had to sell or buy, I'd be happy with just the value of the gold in the settings as my profit from the deal. I’d make a nice twenty-five thousand francs.”
“An agreeable sum.”
“A fair amount.”
“Very much so, madame.”
“Absolutely, ma'am.”
“Will you then accept that profit, then, on condition of converting the jewels into money?”
“Will you accept the profit on the condition of turning the jewels into cash?”
“But you do not intend to sell you diamonds, I suppose, madame?” exclaimed the bewildered jeweler.
“But you don't plan to sell your diamonds, do you, ma'am?” exclaimed the confused jeweler.
“Silence, M. Faucheux, do not disturb yourself about that; give me an answer simply. You are an honorable man, with whom my family has dealt for thirty years; you knew my father and mother, whom your own father and mother 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?”
“Listen, M. Faucheux, don’t worry about that; just give me a straightforward answer. You’re an honorable man, and my family has been dealing with you for thirty years; you knew my parents, who your own parents served. I'm speaking to you as a friend; will you accept the gold from the settings in exchange for an amount of cash to be given to me?”
“Eight hundred thousand francs! it is enormous.”
“Eight hundred thousand francs! That’s unbelievable.”
“I know it.”
"I get it."
“Impossible to find.”
"Can't find it."
“Not so.”
"Not really."
“But reflect, madame, upon the effect which will be produced by the sale of your jewels.”
“But think about the impact that selling your jewels will have, madam.”
“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.”
“No one has to know. You can have sets of fake jewels made for me, similar to the real ones. Don’t say a word; I insist on it. Sell them separately, just sell the stones.”
“In that way it is easy. Monsieur is looking out for some sets of jewels as well as single stones for Madame’s toilette. 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.”
“In that way, it’s simple. Monsieur is searching for some sets of jewelry as well as individual stones for Madame’s outfit. There will be competition for them. I can easily sell six hundred thousand francs' worth to Monsieur. I’m sure yours are the most beautiful.”
“When can you do so?”
"When can you do that?"
“In less than three days’ time.”
“In under three days.”
“Very well, the remainder you will dispose of among private individuals. For the present, make me out a contract of sale, payment to be made in four days.”
“Alright, you can distribute the rest among private individuals. For now, draft a sale contract for me, with payment due in four days.”
“I entreat you to reflect, madame; for if you force the sale, you will lose a hundred thousand francs.”
“I urge you to think about this, madam; because if you go through with the sale, you’ll lose a hundred thousand francs.”
“If necessary, I will lose two hundred; I wish everything to be settled this evening. Do you accept?”
“If I have to, I’ll give up two hundred; I want everything to be sorted out tonight. Do you agree?”
“I do, your ladyship. I will not conceal from you that I shall make fifty thousand francs by the transaction.”
“I do, your ladyship. I won’t hide from you that I’m going to make fifty thousand francs from the deal.”
“So much the better for you. In what way shall I have the money?”
“So much the better for you. How will I get the money?”
“Either in gold, or in bills of the bank of Lyons, payable at M. Colbert’s.”
“Either in gold or in banknotes from the Bank of Lyons, payable at M. Colbert’s.”
“I agree,” said the marquise, eagerly; “return home and bring the sum in question in notes, as soon as possible.”
“I agree,” said the marquise, eagerly. “Return home and bring back the amount in cash as soon as you can.”
“Yes, madame, but for Heaven’s sake—”
“Yes, ma'am, but for goodness' sake—”
“Not a word, M. Faucheux. By the by, I was forgetting the silver plate. What is the value of that which I have?”
“Not a word, M. Faucheux. By the way, I almost forgot about the silver plate. What’s the worth of what I have?”
“Fifty thousand francs, madame.”
"Fifty thousand francs, ma'am."
“That makes a million,” said the marquise to herself. “M. Faucheux, you will take away with you both the gold and silver plate. I can assign, as a pretext, that I wish it remodeled on patters more in accordance with my own taste. Melt it down, and return me its value in money, at once.”
“That's a million,” the marquise said to herself. “Mr. Faucheux, you’ll be taking both the gold and silver plates with you. I can say that I want it remodeled to better match my taste. Melt it down and give me its value in cash, right away.”
“It shall be done, your ladyship.”
“It will be done, my lady.”
“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 order him to wait for me in a carriage.”
“You will kindly place the money in a chest, instruct one of your clerks to accompany it without my servants noticing him, and tell him to wait for me in a carriage.”
“In Madame de Faucheux’s carriage?” said the jeweler.
“In Madame de Faucheux’s carriage?” said the jeweler.
“If you will allow it, and I will call for it at your house.”
“If you’re okay with it, I’ll come by your place to pick it up.”
“Certainly, your ladyship.”
"Of course, your ladyship."
“I will direct some of my servants to convey the plate to your house.” The marquise rung. “Let the small van be placed at M. 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 hours afterwards she went to M. Faucheux’s house and received from him eight hundred francs in gold inclosed in a chest, which one of the clerks could hardly carry towards Madame Faucheux’s carriage—for Madame Faucheux kept her 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 substantial carriage, built in 1648, ten years after the king’s birth. This carriage, or rather house upon wheels, excited the admiration of the whole quarter in which he resided—it was covered with allegorical paintings, and clouds scattered over with stars. The marquise entered this somewhat extraordinary vehicle, sitting opposite 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 Saint-Mande.
“I'll have some of my staff take the silverware to your house.” The marquise rang the bell. “Have the small van ready for M. Faucheux,” she instructed. The jeweler bowed and left, making sure the van followed closely. He mentioned out loud that the marquise was planning to melt down her silver to create new pieces in a more modern style. Three hours later, she went to M. Faucheux’s house and received eight hundred francs in gold, packed in a chest that one of the clerks struggled to carry to Madame Faucheux’s carriage—because Madame Faucheux had her own carriage. As the daughter of a president of accounts, she had brought a dowry of thirty thousand crowns to her husband, who was a syndic of the goldsmiths. Over twenty years, those thirty thousand crowns had grown quite a bit. The jeweler, despite being a millionaire, was a humble man. He owned a solid carriage built in 1648, ten years after the king was born. This carriage, more like a small house on wheels, amazed everyone in his neighborhood—it was decorated with allegorical paintings and clouds dotted with stars. The marquise stepped into this rather unusual vehicle, sitting across from the clerk, who tried to keep his knees out of the way, worried about even brushing against the marquise’s dress. It was the clerk who informed the coachman, who was very proud to drive a marquise, to head towards Saint-Mande.
Chapter XXVIII. The Dowry.
Monsieur Faucheux’s horses were serviceable animals, with thickset knees and legs that had some difficulty in moving. Like the carriage, they belonged to the earlier part of the century. They were not as fleet as the English horses of M. Fouquet, and consequently it took two hours to get to Saint-Mande. Their progress, it might be said, was majestic. Majesty, however, precludes hurry. The marquise stopped the carriage at the door so well known to her, although she had seen it only once, under circumstances, it will now be remembered, no less painful than those which brought her now to it again. She drew a key from her pocket, and inserted it into 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, ante-room, or boudoir rather, adjoining the saloon where we once saw M. Fouquet at the marquise’s feet. Madame de Belliere gave the coachman 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 an expected guest. The fire was laid, candles in the candelabra, refreshments upon the table, books scattered about, fresh-cut flowers in the vases. One might almost have imagined it an enchanted house.
Monsieur Faucheux’s horses were sturdy animals, with thick knees and legs that struggled to move. Like the carriage, they were from an earlier time in the century. They weren’t as fast as the English horses of M. Fouquet, so it took two hours to reach Saint-Mande. Their progress could be described as majestic. However, majesty doesn’t allow for hurry. The marquise stopped the carriage at the familiar door, even though she had only seen it once, in circumstances, as you may recall, just as painful as those that brought her back now. She took a key from her pocket, inserted it into the lock, pushed open the door which opened silently at her touch, and instructed the clerk to carry the chest upstairs to the first floor. The chest was so heavy that the clerk had to call the coachman for help. They placed it in a small cabinet, or rather a boudoir, next to the room where we once saw M. Fouquet at the marquise’s feet. Madame de Belliere gave the coachman a louis, smiled politely at the clerk, and sent them both away. She closed the door behind them and waited in the room, alone and sealed off. There was no servant in sight, but everything was arranged as if some invisible force had anticipated the wishes and desires of an expected guest. The fire was prepared, candles were lit in the candelabra, refreshments were on the table, books were scattered around, and fresh flowers were in the vases. One might almost think it was 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 vague joy. Spread 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 difficult to carry out, she did not despair of success. She would then ring to summon M. Fouquet and make her escape, happier than if, instead of having given a million, 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 displaced—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 superintendent should comprehend the serious position in which he was placed, in order to yield compliance with the generous fancies of a woman; all the fascinations of an eloquent friendship would be required to persuade him, and, should this be insufficient, the maddening influence of a devoted passion, which, in its resolute determination to carry conviction, would not be turned aside. Was not the superintendent, 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.
The marquise lit the candles, breathed in the fragrance of the flowers, sat down, and soon became lost in deep thought. Her thoughts, although somewhat melancholic, were also mixed with a hint of joy. Before her lay a fortune, a million, taken from her wealth as easily as a gleaner picks a blue cornflower from her bouquet. She imagined the sweetest dreams. Her main thought, which overshadowed all others, was to find a way to leave this money for M. Fouquet without him ever knowing who the gift was from. Naturally, this idea was the first to come to her mind. But even though it seemed challenging upon reflection, she didn’t lose hope for success. She would then ring for M. Fouquet and make her exit, feeling happier than if she had discovered the million herself. However, noting the boudoir was so tastefully decorated that it seemed like the slightest speck of dust had just been cleaned away by the servants; and observing the drawing-room was arranged so perfectly that it felt like her presence had scared off the fairies living there, she wondered if the gaze of those she had displaced—be they spirits, fairies, elves, or humans—had already recognized her. To ensure success, she needed to take serious action, and it was important for the superintendent to realize the serious position he was in to agree to the generous whims of a woman; all the charms of a heartfelt friendship would be necessary to persuade him, and if that wasn’t enough, the overwhelming power of a devoted love, which, in its determination to convince, would not back down. Wasn’t the superintendent known for his delicacy and sense of dignity? Would he allow himself to accept from any woman what she had given up? No! He would resist, and if any voice in the world could break through his resistance, it would be the voice of the woman he loved.
Another doubt, and that a cruel one, suggested itself to Madame de Belliere with a sharp, acute pain, like a 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 victory? “I must learn if it be so, and must judge of that for myself,” said the marquise. “Who can tell whether that heart, so coveted, is not common in its impulses, and full 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 hesitation too much—to the proof,” she said, looking 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 towards the mirror, in which she smiled with a resolute smile of devotedness; 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 afterwards 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, for whom indeed pleasure meant 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 indifference of expression, and had traced dark lines of anxiety around his eyes. Handsome and noble he still was, and the melancholy expression of his mouth, a rare expression with men, gave a new character to his features, by which his youth seemed to be renewed. Dressed in black, the lace in front of his chest much disarranged by his feverishly restless hand, the looks of the superintendent, 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 effect upon Madame de Belliere, who was regarding him at a distance.
Another painful doubt struck Madame de Belliere like a sharp knife. Did he really love her? Would his fickle mind and changing heart ever be stable, even if they looked upon an angel? Was it not the same with Fouquet, despite his genius and integrity, as it is with those warriors on the battlefield who cry after winning a victory? “I must find out for myself,” the marquise thought. “Who can say if that coveted heart isn’t just ordinary in its feelings and compromised? Who knows if that mind, when tested, won’t turn out to be lowly and common? Enough of this doubt and hesitation—time to find out,” she declared, glancing at the clock. “It’s seven o’clock; he must have arrived; it’s time to sign his papers.” With a restless impatience, she got up and walked to the mirror, smiling resolutely as she prepared herself. She pressed the button and pulled the bell’s handle. Then, feeling exhausted from the struggle she just had, she dropped to her knees in complete surrender before a large couch, burying her face in her trembling hands. Ten minutes later, she heard the door latch click. The door swung open, and Fouquet walked in. He looked pale and seemed weighed down by some tough thoughts. He didn’t rush; he simply responded to the call. The burden on his mind must have been heavy for a man so devoted to pleasure—pleasure was everything for him—yet he answered the summoning so indifferently. The night before had been filled with sorrowful thoughts, sharpening his usually noble features and marking dark lines of worry around his eyes. He was still handsome and noble, and the sad expression on his mouth, rare among men, gave a new depth to his features, making him seem more youthful. Dressed in black, with the lace at his chest all messed up from his restless hands, the superintendent’s gaze, lost in thought, was fixed on the threshold of the room that he had often entered in search of happiness. This somber gentleness, this smile tinged with sadness that replaced his previous exuberant joy, had a profound effect on Madame de Belliere, who watched him from a distance.
A woman’s eye can read the face of the man she loves, its every feeling of pride, its every expression 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 glace the whole weight of the unhappiness of the superintendent. She divined a night passed without sleep, a day passed in deceptions. From that moment she was firm in her own strength, and she felt that she loved Fouquet beyond everything else. She arose and approached him, saying, “You wrote to me this morning to say you were beginning 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 in your eyes.”
A woman can read the face of the man she loves, noticing every feeling of pride and every expression of pain; it could almost be said that Heaven has generously given women, due to their very fragility, more insight than it has given to other beings. They can hide their own feelings from a man, but no man can hide his feelings from them. The marquise sensed the deep unhappiness of the superintendent with just one glance. She understood he had spent a sleepless night and a day filled with lies. From that moment on, she felt strong and realized that she loved Fouquet more than anything else. She got up and walked over to him, saying, “You wrote to me this morning to say you were starting to forget me, and that I, whom you hadn’t seen lately, had probably stopped thinking about you. I’ve come to set you straight, monsieur, and I can do this even more thoroughly because there’s one thing I can see in your eyes.”
“What is that, madame?” said Fouquet, astonished.
“What is that, ma’am?” said Fouquet, amazed.
“That you have never loved me so much as at this moment; in the same manner you can read, in my present step towards you, that I have not forgotten you.”
“That you have never loved me as much as you do right now; just as you can see in the way I'm moving toward you now that I haven’t 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.”
“Oh! ma’am,” said Fouquet, whose face was momentarily brightened by a sudden spark of joy, “you are truly an angel, and no man could ever doubt you. All he can do is lower himself before you and ask for 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.”
“Your forgiveness is granted, then,” said the marquise. Fouquet was about to drop to his knees. “No, no,” she said, “sit here next to me. Ah! that’s a troubling thought that just crossed your mind.”
“How do you detect it, madame?”
“How do you find it, ma'am?”
“By the smile that has just marred the expression of your countenance. Be candid, and tell me what your thought was—no secrets between friends.”
“By the smile that just changed your expression. Be honest, and tell me what you were thinking—no secrets between friends.”
“Tell me, then, madame, why you have been so harsh these three or four months past?”
“Tell me, then, madam, why you have been so harsh these past three or four months?”
“Harsh?”
"Too harsh?"
“Yes; did you not forbid me to visit you?”
“Yes; didn’t you tell me I couldn’t visit you?”
“Alas!” said Madame 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 that have seen you already 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, because I know you to be already unhappy enough not to wish to increase your unhappiness further.”
“Alas!” said Madame de Belliere, sighing, “your visit to me led to a great misfortune for you; my house is being watched; the same eyes that have seen you before might see you again; I believe it’s safer for you if I come here instead of you coming to my house; and finally, I know you’re already unhappy enough and wouldn’t want to make that worse.”
Fouquet started, for these words recalled all the anxieties connected with his office of superintendent—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 I am so, judging from your own sadness. Are your beautiful eyes raised upon me merely in pity? I was looking for another expression from them.”
Fouquet flinched, as those words brought back all the worries tied to his role as superintendent—he who, just moments ago, had been lost in the dreams of a lover. “Me unhappy?” he said, trying to smile. “Honestly, marquise, you’re almost convincing me I am, considering your own sadness. Are your beautiful eyes looking at me just out of pity? I was hoping for a different look from you.”
“It is not I who am sad, monsieur; look in the mirror, there—it is yourself.”
“It’s not me who’s sad, sir; take a look in the mirror there—it’s you.”
“It is true I am somewhat pale, marquise; but it is from overwork; the king yesterday required a supply of money from me.”
“It’s true I look a bit pale, marquise; but it’s from working too much; the king asked me for a sum of money yesterday.”
“Yes, four millions; I am aware of it.”
“Yeah, four million; I know.”
“You know it?” exclaimed Fouquet, in a tone of surprise; “how can you have learnt it? It was after the departure of the queen, and in the presence of one person only, that the king—”
“You know it?” exclaimed Fouquet, sounding surprised. “How did you learn that? It was only after the queen left and in front of just one person that the king—”
“You perceive that I do know it; is that not sufficient? Well, go on, monsieur, the money the king has required you to supply—”
“You can tell that I know it; isn’t that enough? Well, go ahead, sir, the money that the king has asked you to provide—”
“You understand, marquise, that I have been obliged to procure it, then to get it counted, afterwards registered—altogether a long affair. Since Monsieur de Mazarin’s death, financial affairs occasion some little fatigue and embarrassment. My administration is somewhat overtaxed, and this is the reason why I have not slept during the past night.”
“You understand, marquise, that I had to get it, then count it, and finally register it—it's been quite a process. Since Monsieur de Mazarin passed away, dealing with finances has become a bit tiring and stressful. My workload is pretty overwhelming, which is why I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
“So you have the amount?” inquired the marquise, with some anxiety.
“So do you have the amount?” the marquise asked, a bit anxiously.
“It would indeed be strange, marquise,” replied Fouquet, cheerfully, “if a superintendent of finances were not to have a paltry four millions in his coffers.”
“It would definitely be odd, marquise,” replied Fouquet, cheerfully, “if a finance superintendent didn't have a measly four million in his coffers.”
“Yes, yes, I believe you either have, or will have them.”
“Yes, yes, I think you either already have them or will get them soon.”
“What do you mean by saying I shall have them?”
“What do you mean by saying I'll have them?”
“It is not very long since you were required to furnish two millions.”
“It hasn’t been long since you were asked to provide two million.”
“On the contrary, it seems almost an age; but do not let us talk of money matters any longer.”
“Actually, it feels like it was ages ago; but let’s not discuss money matters anymore.”
“On the contrary, we will continue to speak of them, for that is my only reason for coming to see you.”
“Actually, we will keep talking about them, because that’s the only reason I came to see you.”
“I am at a loss to compass your meaning,” said the superintendent, whose eyes began to express an anxious curiosity.
“I can’t figure out what you mean,” said the superintendent, his eyes starting to show anxious curiosity.
“Tell me, monsieur, is the office of superintendent a permanent position?”
“Tell me, sir, is the superintendent's position permanent?”
“You surprise me, marchioness, for you speak as if you had some motive or interest in putting the question.”
“You're surprising me, marchioness, because you sound like you have some reason or stake in asking that question.”
“My reason is simple enough; I am desirous of placing some money in your hands, and naturally I wish to know if you are certain of your post.”
“My reason is pretty straightforward; I want to put some money in your hands, and of course, I need to know if you're confident about your position.”
“Really, marquise, I am at a loss what to reply; I cannot conceive your meaning.”
"Honestly, marquise, I'm not sure how to respond; I can't understand what you mean."
“Seriously, then, dear M. Fouquet, I have certain funds which somewhat embarrass me. I am tired of investing my money in lands, and am anxious to intrust it to some friend who will turn it to account.”
“Honestly, dear M. Fouquet, I have some funds that are causing me a bit of trouble. I'm tired of putting my money into real estate, and I want to hand it over to a friend who will make good use of it.”
“Surely it does not press,” said M. Fouquet.
“Surely it doesn't press,” said M. Fouquet.
“On the contrary, it is very pressing.”
“On the other hand, it is very urgent.”
“Very well, we will talk of that by and by.”
“Sure, we'll talk about that later.”
“By and by will not do, for my money is there,” returned the marquise, pointing out the coffer to the superintendent, 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 Madame de Belliere, 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?”
“Eventually won't work for me, as my money is right here,” replied the marquise, pointing to the chest and showing the superintendent the bundles of cash and piles of gold as she opened it. Fouquet, who had stood up at the same time as Madame de Belliere, remained lost in thought for a moment; then suddenly recoiling, he turned pale and sank back into his chair, hiding his face in his hands. “Madame, madame,” he murmured, “what must you think of me to make me such an offer?”
“Of you!” returned the marquise. “Tell me, rather, what you yourself think of the step I have taken.”
“Of you!” replied the marquise. “Tell me, instead, what you think about the choice I made.”
“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. Can I not read your heart?”
“You're bringing me this money for myself, and you’re doing it because you know I'm embarrassed. Don’t deny it, because I’m sure that’s true. Can’t I read your heart?”
“If you know my heart, then, can you not see that it is my heart I offer you?”
“If you know how I feel, then can’t you see that I’m offering you my heart?”
“I have guessed rightly, then,” exclaimed Fouquet. “In truth, madame, I have never yet given you the right to insult me in this manner.”
“I’ve guessed correctly, then,” exclaimed Fouquet. “Honestly, ma’am, I’ve never given you the right to insult me like this.”
“Insult you,” she said, turning pale, “what singular delicacy 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.”
“Insult you,” she said, turning pale, “what a strange sensitivity! You tell me you love me; in the name of that love, you want me to sacrifice my reputation and my honor. Yet, when I offer you money that belongs to me, you turn it down.”
“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 remorse, but, for Heaven’s sake, madame, do not overwhelm me with this last infliction.”
“Madam, you have the right to protect what you call your reputation and honor. Please allow me to protect mine. Let me face my downfall, let me be burdened by the hatred that surrounds me, by the mistakes I've made, even by the weight of my remorse, but for heaven's sake, madam, don't add this final suffering to my burden.”
“A short time since, M. Fouquet, you were wanting in judgment; now you are wanting in feeling.”
“A little while ago, Mr. Fouquet, you lacked good judgment; now you lack emotions.”
Fouquet pressed his clenched hand upon his breast, heaving with emotion, saying: “overwhelm me, madame, for I have nothing to reply.”
Fouquet pressed his clenched hand against his chest, overwhelmed with emotion, saying: “overwhelm me, madame, for I have nothing to say.”
“I offered you my friendship, M. Fouquet.”
“I offered you my friendship, Mr. Fouquet.”
“Yes, madame, and you limited yourself to that.”
“Yes, ma'am, and you only went with that.”
“And what I am now doing is the act of a friend.”
“And what I’m doing now is what a friend would do.”
“No doubt it is.”
“Definitely it is.”
“And you reject this mark of my friendship?”
“And you’re rejecting this sign of my friendship?”
“I do reject it.”
"I reject it."
“Monsieur Fouquet, look at me,” said the marquise, with glistening eyes, “I now offer you my love.”
“Monsieur Fouquet, look at me,” said the marquise, with sparkling eyes, “I’m now offering you my love.”
“Oh, madame,” exclaimed Fouquet.
“Oh, ma'am,” 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 refused you; I was blind, as you were a little while since; but as it was my love that you sought, it is my love I now offer you.”
“I have loved you for a long time; women, just like men, can be overly sensitive at times. For a long time, I loved you but didn’t admit it. Well, you have begged for this love on your knees, and I turned you down; I was blind, just like you were not long ago. But since it was my love you were after, it’s my love I now give to you.”
“Oh! madame, you overwhelm me beneath a load of happiness.”
“Oh! madam, you’re overwhelming me with so much happiness.”
“Will you be happy, then, if I am yours—entirely?”
“Will you be happy if I’m completely yours?”
“It will be the supremest happiness for me.”
“It will be the greatest happiness for me.”
“Take me, then. If, however, for your sake I sacrifice a prejudice, do you, for mine, sacrifice a scruple.”
“Alright, take me then. But if I let go of a prejudice for you, will you give up a scruple for me?”
“Do not tempt me.”
"Don't tempt me."
“Do not refuse me.”
"Don't say no to me."
“Think seriously of what you are proposing.”
“Think carefully about what you're suggesting.”
“Fouquet, but one word. Let it be ‘No,’ and I open this door,” and she pointed to the door which led into the streets, “and you will never see me again. Let that word be ‘Yes,’ and I am yours entirely.”
“Fouquet, just one word. If it’s ‘No,’ I’ll open this door,” and she pointed to the door leading to the streets, “and you’ll never see me again. If it’s ‘Yes,’ then I’m completely yours.”
“Elise! Elise! But this coffer?”
“Elise! Elise! But this chest?”
“Contains my dowry.”
“Has my dowry.”
“It is your ruin,” exclaimed Fouquet, turning over the gold and papers; “there must be a million here.”
“It’s your downfall,” shouted Fouquet, flipping through the gold and papers; “there has to 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.”
“Yes, my jewels, I don't care anymore if you don't love me, and I also don't care if you love me the way 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.”
“This is too much,” exclaimed Fouquet. “I give in, I give in, even if it’s just to honor such dedication. I accept the dowry.”
“And take the woman with it,” said the marquise, throwing herself into his arms.
“And take the woman with you,” 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 journey from Paris to Calais in undisturbed harmony together. Buckingham had hurried his departure, so that the greater part of his adieux 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 distress of any private conversation with Monsieur, and also the danger of seeing Madame again. The carriages containing the luggage had already been sent on beforehand, and in the evening he set off in his traveling carriage with his attendants.
During this time, Buckingham and De Wardes traveled together as great companions, making the trip from Paris to Calais in complete harmony. Buckingham had rushed his departure, so most of his goodbyes were made in a hurry. He had visited Monsieur and Madame, the young queen, and the queen-dowager all at once—a move by the queen-mother that spared him the awkwardness of a private conversation with Monsieur and the risk of seeing Madame again. The carriages with their luggage had already been sent ahead, and in the evening, he left 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 caustic spirit.
De Wardes, annoyed at being pulled away so suddenly by this Englishman, searched in his clever mind for a way to free himself from his restraints; but since no one offered him any help in this regard, he had no choice but to endure the weight of his own negative thoughts and bitter attitude.
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 prohibiting dueling. Others, again, and they the larger number, who, in virtue of charity, or national vanity, might have rendered him assistance, did not care to run the risk of incurring disgrace, 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 towards the barrier, where Buckingham’s carriage was to await him.
Some of his friends, those he could trust, teased him about the duke’s superiority. Others, less clever but more practical, reminded him of the king’s orders against dueling. Still, others, a larger group who might have helped him out of kindness or national pride, didn’t want to risk their own disgrace and, at most, would have reported to the ministers about a situation that could lead to a small-scale massacre. As a result, after considering everything carefully, De Wardes packed his bags, grabbed a couple of horses, and, with only one servant, headed towards the barrier where Buckingham’s carriage was waiting for 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 that had been thrown on the front seat. They then conversed of the court, without 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; of the state of the affections 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 Buckingham, almost a Frenchman from wit and education, was delighted at having so admirably selected his traveling companion. Elegant repasts were served, of which they partook but lightly; trials of horses made in the beautiful meadows that skirted the road; coursing indulged in, for Buckingham had his greyhounds with him; and in such ways did they pass away the pleasant time. The duke somewhat resembled the beautiful river Seine, which folds France a thousand times in its loving embrace, before deciding upon joining its waters with the ocean. In quitting France, it was her recently adopted daughter he had brought to Paris whom he chiefly regretted; his every thought was a remembrance of her—his every memory 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 towards 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, extinguish them; but beneath those ashes the smothered embers rage more furiously. Having exhausted every means of amusement the route offered, they arrived, as we have said, at Calais towards the end of the sixth day. The duke’s attendants, since the previous evening, had traveled in advance, and now chartered a boat, for the purpose of joining the yacht, which had been tacking about in sight, or bore broadside on, whenever it felt its white wings wearied, within cannon-shot of the jetty.
The duke welcomed his opponent as he would a close friend, made space for him on the same seat, offered him snacks, and draped the black cloak that had been on the front seat over his own lap. They chatted about the court without mentioning Madame; about Monsieur without discussing family matters; about the king without bringing up his brother’s wife; about the queen mother while ignoring her daughter-in-law; about the king of England without mentioning his sister; and about the feelings of either traveler without saying any names that could be problematic. This way, the journey, which was taken in short stretches, was very enjoyable, and Buckingham, almost a Frenchman from his charm and upbringing, was thrilled to have chosen such a great travel companion. They had elegant meals that they barely touched; they tried out horses in the beautiful meadows along the road; they indulged in hunting since Buckingham had brought his greyhounds; and they spent the time pleasantly this way. The duke was somewhat like the beautiful Seine River, which wraps around France countless times in a loving embrace before deciding to merge its waters with the ocean. Leaving France, he mostly regretted the newly adopted daughter he had brought to Paris; every thought of hers brought a wave of nostalgia—every memory was a sense of loss. So, whenever he got lost in thought, despite his self-control, De Wardes left him to his reflections. This sensitivity might have moved Buckingham and altered his feelings towards De Wardes if the latter, while staying quiet, had shown a glance less filled with malice and a smile less insincere. However, instinctual dislikes are relentless; nothing calms them down; a few ashes may sometimes seem to put them out, but beneath those ashes, the hidden embers burn hotter. After exhausting all the entertainment available along the way, they reached Calais at the end of the sixth day. The duke’s attendants had traveled ahead since the previous night and had now hired a boat to join the yacht, which had been drifting about in sight or riding broadside whenever it felt its sails needed a rest, within cannon range of 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 not even turned. Eight of these baskets, placed side by side, filled the ship’s hold. It is well known that, in short 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 disposed to embark with the French gentleman; for no one could possibly imagine that the French gentleman would have any other accounts to settle with his Grace other than those of friendship. Buckingham desired the captain to be told to hold himself in readiness, but that, as the sea was beautiful, and as the day promised a splendid sunset, he did not intend to go on board until nightfall, and would avail himself of the evening to enjoy a walk on the strand. He added also, that, finding himself in such excellent company, he had not the least desire to hasten his embarkation.
The boat was meant to transport the duke's gear from the shore to the yacht. The horses had been loaded, lifted from the boat onto the deck in special baskets padded to protect their limbs, even during the most intense moments of fear or impatience, so that their coats weren’t even ruffled. Eight of these baskets, lined up next to each other, filled the ship's hold. It's well-known that horses usually won’t eat on short trips, staying trembling all the while, even with the best food in front of them, which they would have loved on land. Gradually, the duke’s entire equipment was brought on board the yacht; he was then informed that everything was ready, and they were just waiting for him whenever he was ready to board with the French gentleman; nobody would think the French gentleman had any issues to settle with his Grace other than friendship. Buckingham asked to let the captain know to be ready, but since the sea was calm and the day promised a beautiful sunset, he didn't plan to board until nightfall and wanted to take the evening to enjoy a walk on the beach. He also mentioned that being in such good company made him in no rush to embark.
As he said this he pointed out to those who surrounded him the magnificent spectacle which the sky presented, of deepest azure in the horizon, the amphitheatre of fleecy clouds ascending from the sun’s disc to the zenith, assuming the appearance of a range of snowy mountains, whose summits were heaped one upon another. The dome of clouds was tinged at its base with, as it were, the foam of rubies, fading away into opal and pearly tints, in proportion as the gaze was carried from base to summit. The sea was gilded with the same reflection, and upon the crest of every sparkling wave danced a point of light, like a diamond by lamplight. The mildness of the evening, the sea breezes, so dear to contemplative minds, setting in from the east and blowing in delicious gusts; then, in the distance, the black outline of the yacht with its rigging traced upon the empurpled background of the sky—while, dotting the horizon, might be seen, here and there, vessels with their trimmed sails, like the wings of a seagull about to plunge; such a spectacle indeed well merited admiration. A crowd of curious idlers followed the richly dressed attendants, amongst whom they mistook the steward and the secretary for the master and his friend. As for Buckingham, who was 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 in black, like an attorney.
As he said this, he pointed out to those around him the stunning view the sky presented, a deep blue at the horizon, the soft clouds rising from the sun's disk to the top, looking like a snowy mountain range with peaks stacked together. The bottom of the cloud dome was tinged, as if with ruby foam, fading into opal and pearly hues as the gaze moved from the bottom to the top. The sea reflected this beauty, and on the crest of every sparkling wave danced a point of light, like a diamond shining in the lamplight. The evening’s mildness, the delightful sea breezes blowing in from the east, brought a refreshing chill that was cherished by reflective minds. In the distance, the dark outline of the yacht appeared with its rigging set against the purple sky—while, dotted across the horizon, various boats with their trimmed sails resembled the wings of a seagull getting ready to dive; indeed, such a sight was worthy of admiration. A crowd of curious onlookers trailed behind the elegantly dressed attendants, mistakenly thinking the steward and the secretary were the master and his friend. As for Buckingham, dressed simply in a gray satin vest and a violet velvet doublet, with his hat pulled down over his eyes and no adornments or embroidery, he received no more attention than De Wardes, who was dressed in black like a lawyer.
The duke’s attendants had received directions to have a boat in readiness at the jetty head, and to watch the embarkation 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 it will have soaked the sands where we are now walking in such a manner that we shall not be able to keep our footing.”
The duke’s attendants had been instructed to have a boat ready at the jetty and to watch their master board without coming near him until either he or his friend called for them—“no matter what happens,” he emphasized, making sure these words were clear. After walking a short distance along the beach, Buckingham said to De Wardes, “I think it’s time for us to say goodbye. The tide is coming in, and in ten minutes, it will have soaked the sand where we’re walking in a way that we won’t be able to keep our balance.”
“I await your orders, my lord, but—”
“I’m waiting for your orders, my lord, but—”
“But, you mean, we are still upon soil which is part of the king’s territory.”
“But you mean we are still on land that belongs to the king.”
“Exactly.”
"Totally."
“Well, do you see yonder a kind of little island surrounded by a circle 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 charts. Do you observe it?”
“Well, do you see that little island out there surrounded by water? The pool is getting bigger every minute, and the island is slowly vanishing. This island truly belongs to Heaven, as it sits between two seas and isn’t marked on the king’s maps. Do you see it?”
“Yes; but we can hardly reach it now, without getting our feet wet.”
“Yes, but we can barely get to it now without getting our feet wet.”
“Yes; but observe that it forms an eminence tolerably high, and that the tide rises up on every side, leaving the top free. We shall be admirably placed upon that little theatre. What do you think of it?”
“Yes; but notice that it creates quite a high rise, and the tide comes up on all sides, leaving the top clear. We'll be perfectly positioned on that little stage. What do you think?”
“I shall be perfectly happy wherever I may have the honor of crossing my sword with your lordship’s.”
“I’ll be perfectly happy wherever I have the chance to face your lordship.”
“Very well, then, I am distressed to be the cause of your wetting your feet, M. 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 distinction is somewhat subtle, but, since Port-Royal, your nation delights in subtleties 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.”
“Alright then, I’m sorry to be the reason you got your feet wet, M. de Wardes, but it’s really important that you can tell the king: ‘Your Majesty, I did not fight on your land.’ The distinction might be a bit subtle, but since Port-Royal, your country enjoys those kinds of nuances. But let’s not complain about it, as it makes your wit shine and gives it a unique style. If you don’t mind, let’s move quickly because the sea is rising fast, and night is approaching.”
“My reason for not walking faster was, that I did not wish to precede your Grace. Are you still on dry land, my lord?”
“My reason for not walking faster was that I didn't want to get ahead of you, Your Grace. Are you still on solid ground, my lord?”
“Yes, at present I am. Look yonder! My servants are afraid we shall 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 sea-sick, would you permit me to turn my back towards them?”
“Yes, I am at the moment. Look over there! My servants are worried we’ll drown, so they’ve turned the boat into a cruiser. Do you see how it bobs on the tops of the waves? But since it’s making me feel seasick, could you let me turn my back to them?”
“You will observe, my lord, that in turning your back to them, you will have the sun full in your face.”
“You’ll notice, my lord, that by turning your back to them, the sun will be directly in your face.”
“Oh, its rays are very feeble at this hour and it will soon disappear; do not be uneasy on that score.”
“Oh, its rays are really weak right now and it will soon fade away; don’t worry about that.”
“As you please, my lord; it was out of consideration for your lordship that I made the remark.”
“As you wish, my lord; I said that out of respect for you.”
“I am aware of that, M. de Wardes, and I fully appreciate your kindness. Shall we take off our doublets?”
“I know that, Mr. de Wardes, and I really appreciate your kindness. Should we take off our jackets?”
“As you please, my lord.”
"As you wish, my lord."
“Do not hesitate to tell me, M. de Wardes, if you do not feel comfortable upon the wet sand, or if you think yourself a little too close to French territory. We could fight in England, or even upon my yacht.”
“Don’t hesitate to let me know, Mr. de Wardes, if you’re not comfortable on the wet sand, or if you think you’re a bit too close to French territory. We could fight in England, or even on my yacht.”
“We are exceedingly well placed here, my lord; only I have the honor to remark that, as the sea is rising fast, we have hardly time—”
“We're in a great position here, my lord; I just want to point out that with the sea rising quickly, we barely have 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 phantoms to those who were looking at them from the shore, were thrown strongly into relief by a dark red violet-colored shadow with which the sky became overspread.
Buckingham nodded in agreement, took off his jacket, and tossed it on the ground, a move that De Wardes copied. Both of their bodies, which looked like ghosts to the people watching from the shore, were boldly highlighted by a dark red violet shadow that covered the sky.
“Upon my word, your Grace,” said De Wardes, “we shall hardly have time to begin. Do you not perceive how our feet are sinking into the sand?”
“Honestly, Your Grace,” said De Wardes, “we barely have time to start. Don’t you see how our feet are sinking into the sand?”
“I have sunk up to the ankles,” said Buckingham, “without reckoning that the water is even now breaking in upon us.”
“I’ve sunk up to my ankles,” said Buckingham, “not to mention that the water is already starting to come in on 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.
“It has already reached me. So whenever you're ready, your Grace,” said De Wardes, who drew his sword, a move the duke mirrored.
“M. 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 devotional regard I have entertained, and one which I acknowledge that, at this moment, I still retain, and for which I would very willingly die. You are a bad and heartless man, M. de Wardes, and I will do my very utmost to take your life; for I feel assured that, if you survive this engagement, you will, in the future, work great mischief towards my friends. That is all I have to remark, M. de Wardes,” concluded Buckingham as he saluted him.
“M. de Wardes,” Buckingham said, “one last thing. I'm about to fight you because I don't like you—because you've hurt me by mocking a certain devotion I've had, and I admit that, even now, I still hold on to it, and I would gladly die for it. You are a cruel and heartless man, M. de Wardes, and I will do everything I can to take your life; because I know that if you make it through this fight, you will cause a lot of harm to my friends in the future. That's all I wanted to say, M. de Wardes,” Buckingham concluded as he saluted him.
“And I, my lord, have only this to reply to you: I have not disliked you hitherto, but, since you give me such a character, I hate you, and will do all I possibly can to kill you;” and De Wardes saluted Buckingham.
“And I, my lord, only have this to say to you: I haven’t disliked you until now, but since you’ve given me such a reputation, I hate you and will do everything I can to kill you;” and De Wardes saluted Buckingham.
Their swords crossed at the same moment, like two flashes of lightning on 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 dark that they attacked and defended themselves almost instinctively. Suddenly De Wardes felt his word arrested,—he had just touched Buckingham’s shoulder. The duke’s sword sunk, as his arm was lowered.
Their swords clashed at the same time, like two flashes of lightning on a dark night. The swords seemed to search for one another, anticipate their positions, and connect. Both were skilled fighters, and the initial exchanges produced no results. The night was quickly closing in, and it was so dark that they attacked and defended almost on instinct. Suddenly, De Wardes felt his sword stop—he had just grazed Buckingham’s shoulder. The duke's sword dropped as his arm fell.
“You are wounded, my lord,” said De Wardes, drawing back a step or two.
“You're hurt, my lord,” said De Wardes, taking a step or two back.
“Yes, monsieur, but only slightly.”
“Yes, sir, but just a bit.”
“Yet you quitted your guard.”
"Yet you let your guard down."
“Only from the first effect of the cold steel, but I have recovered. Let us go on, if you please.” And disengaging his sword with a sinister clashing of the blade, the duke wounded the marquis in the breast.
“Just from the initial sting of the cold steel, but I've recovered. Let's continue, if you don't mind.” And with a menacing clash of the blade, the duke struck the marquis in the chest.
“A hit?” he said.
"A hit?" he asked.
“No,” cried De Wardes, not moving from his place.
“No,” shouted De Wardes, not moving from his spot.
“I beg your pardon, but observing that your shirt was stained—” said Buckingham.
"I’m sorry, but I noticed that your shirt was stained—" said Buckingham.
“Well,” said De Wardes furiously, “it is now your turn.”
“Well,” said De Wardes angrily, “now it’s your turn.”
And with a terrible lunge, he pierced Buckingham’s arm, the sword passing between the two bones. Buckingham feeling his right arm paralyzed, stretched out his left, 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 tottered, 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 borrowed from the clouds. De Wardes was not dead; he felt the terrible danger that menaced him, for the sea rose fast. The duke, too, perceived the danger. With an effort and an exclamation of pain he tore out the blade which remained in his arm, and turning towards De Wardes said, “Are you dead, marquis?”
And with a violent lunge, he stabbed Buckingham’s arm, the sword sliding between the two bones. Buckingham, feeling his right arm go numb, reached out with his left, grabbed his sword, which was about to slip from his weak grip, and before De Wardes could get back into position, he drove it into his chest. De Wardes stumbled, his knees buckling beneath him, and leaving his sword still embedded in the duke’s arm, he fell into the water, which soon turned crimson with a more genuine reflection than what it had borrowed from the clouds. De Wardes wasn’t dead; he sensed the looming danger as the sea rose quickly. The duke also noticed the threat. With effort and a cry of pain, he pulled the blade out of his arm and turned to De Wardes, saying, “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.”
“No,” replied De Wardes, his voice thick with the blood rushing from his lungs to his throat, “but I was very close.”
“Well, what is to be done; can you walk?” said Buckingham, supporting him on his knee.
“Well, what should we do; can you walk?” said Buckingham, supporting him on his knee.
“Impossible,” he replied. Then falling down again, said, “call to your people, or I shall be drowned.”
“Impossible,” he replied. Then he fell down again and said, “call your people, or I’m going to drown.”
“Halloa! boat there! quick, quick!”
“Hey! Boat over there! Hurry!”
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; he passed his left arm, safe and unwounded, round his body and raised him up. The wave ascended to his waist, but did not move him. The duke immediately began to carry his late antagonist towards the shore. He had hardly gone ten paces, when a second wave, rushing onwards higher, more furious and 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 discovered lying on the strand. De Wardes 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 to the water, with which it was impregnated, flowed towards his knees and feet; they wished to carry him.
The boat raced over the waves, but the sea rose faster than the boat could get closer. Buckingham noticed that De Wardes was about to be overwhelmed by another wave; he safely wrapped his uninjured left arm around him and lifted him up. The wave reached his waist but didn’t push him back. The duke immediately started carrying his former rival toward the shore. He had barely taken ten steps when a second wave, more powerful and threatening than the first, surged up to his chest, knocked him over, and submerged him underwater. When the water receded, however, the duke and De Wardes were found lying on the beach. De Wardes had passed out. At that moment, four of the duke’s sailors, realizing the danger, jumped into the sea and quickly reached him. Their fear was intense when they saw their master getting covered in blood, which mixed with the water and flowed down to his knees and feet; they wanted to carry him.
“No, no,” exclaimed the duke, “take the marquis on shore first.”
“No, no,” the duke exclaimed, “take the marquis ashore first.”
“Death to the Frenchman!” cried the English sullenly.
"Death to the Frenchman!" shouted the English bitterly.
“Wretched knaves!” exclaimed the duke, drawing himself up with a haughty gesture, which sprinkled them with blood, “obey directly! M. de Wardes on shore! M. de Wardes’s safety to be looked to first, or I will have you all hanged!”
“Wretched fools!” the duke shouted, lifting himself up with an arrogant gesture that splattered them with blood, “obey immediately! M. de Wardes is on land! M. de Wardes’s safety comes first, or I will have you all hanged!”
The boat had by this time reached them; the secretary and steward leaped into the sea, and approached the marquis, who no longer showed any sign of life.
The boat had by now reached them; the secretary and steward jumped into the sea and swam toward the marquis, who showed no signs of life anymore.
“I commit him to your care, as you value your lives,” said the duke. “Take M. 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 group of men approaching carrying a wounded man, entered the sea until the water was up to their waists. 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 Buckingham, in order that every possible care may be taken of the Marquis de Wardes.”
“I trust you will take care of him, as you value your lives,” said the duke. “Take M. de Wardes to shore.” They lifted him in their arms and carried him to the dry sand, where the tide never reached. A few onlookers and five or six fishermen had gathered on the shore, drawn in by the unusual sight of two men fighting with the water up to their knees. The fishermen saw a group of men approaching with a wounded man and waded into the sea until the water was up to their waists. The English transferred the wounded man to them just as he began to open his eyes again. The salt water and fine sand had gotten into his wounds, causing him intense pain. The duke’s secretary pulled out a purse filled with gold from his pocket and handed it to the one among the group who seemed most important, saying: “From my master, His Grace the Duke of Buckingham, so that every possible care can be taken of the Marquis de Wardes.”
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; 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’s clothes to the shore, and De Wardes was wrapped in the duke’s doublet, under the belief that it was his own, when the fishermen carried him in their arms towards the town.
Then, he returned to the boat, followed by those who had come with him. Buckingham had managed to reach it with great difficulty, but only after ensuring De Wardes was safe. By this time, it was high tide; embroidered coats and silk sashes were lost, and many hats had also been swept away by the waves. The tide had brought the duke’s and De Wardes’s clothes to the shore, and De Wardes was wrapped in the duke’s doublet, thinking it was his own, as the fishermen carried him toward the town.
Chapter XXX. Threefold Love.
As soon as Buckingham departed, Guiche imagined the coast would be perfectly clear for him without any interference. Monsieur, who no longer retained the slightest 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 exacting could desire. The king, on his side, who had conceived a strong predilection for his sister-in-law’s society, invented a variety of amusements, in quick succession to each other, in order to render her residence in Paris as cheerful as possible, so that in fact, not a day passed without a ball at the Palais Royal, or a reception in Monsieur’s apartments. 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 were idle for a moment. The conversations with De Guiche were gradually assuming a tone of interest which might unmistakably be recognized as the prelude of a deep-seated attachment. When eyes look languishingly while the subject under discussion happens to be colors of materials 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 that 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; this spring was not only the Maytide of nature, 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 mighty monarch was, however, more timid and more reserved than any other person in the kingdom, to such a degree, indeed, that he did not confess his sentiments 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 himself. M. de Guiche took advantage of this, and constituted himself the sovereign prince of the whole laughter-loving court. It had been reported that he was on the best of terms with Mademoiselle de Montalais; that he had been assiduously attentive to Mademoiselle de Chatillon; but now he was not even barely civil to any of the court beauties. He had eyes and ears for one person alone. In this manner, and, as it were, without design, he devoted himself to Monsieur, who had a great regard for him, and kept him as much as possible in his own apartments. Unsociable from natural disposition, he had estranged himself too much previous to the arrival of Madame, 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 exhibited 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 wile the time 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 absence, Monsieur hardly inquired about him, for he had De Guiche with him, and, except that the time given 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.
As soon as Buckingham left, Guiche thought the coast would be completely clear for him without any interference. Monsieur, who no longer felt even a hint of jealousy and who let himself be controlled by the Chevalier de Lorraine, allowed as much freedom in his house as anyone could want. The king, meanwhile, who had developed a strong liking for his sister-in-law’s company, came up with a variety of activities one after the other to make her stay in Paris as enjoyable as possible. In fact, not a day went by without a ball at Palais Royal or a gathering in Monsieur’s rooms. The king had arranged for Fontainebleau to be prepared for the court's arrival, and everyone was doing their best to get an invitation. Madame led a life full of activities; neither her voice nor her pen was ever idle. Conversations with De Guiche were gradually becoming more interesting, which could clearly be seen as the start of a deep attachment. When eyes look dreamy while discussing dress material colors and an entire hour is spent analyzing the merits and fragrance of a sachet or a flower, there are words that everyone can hear, but gestures and sighs that only a few can notice. After spending some time talking with De Guiche, Madame would talk with the king, who visited her every day. They played games, wrote poems, or chose mottos and emblems; this spring was not only the blooming season in nature but also the youthful spirit of an entire group of people, with those at court leading the way. The king was handsome, young, and had unmatched charm. He was passionately affectionate toward all women, even his wife, the queen. This powerful monarch, however, was more shy and reserved than anyone else in the kingdom, to the extent that he didn’t even admit his feelings to himself. This shyness kept him within the bounds of normal politeness, and no woman could claim that he showed her any more preference than the others. It could be predicted that the day he revealed his true character would mark the beginning of a new reign; but for now, he had not shown his true self. M. de Guiche took advantage of this situation and positioned himself as the unofficial prince of the laughter-loving court. It had been said that he was very close to Mademoiselle de Montalais and had been particularly attentive to Mademoiselle de Chatillon, but now he barely acknowledged any of the court's beauties. He focused on just one person. In this way, and almost unintentionally, he devoted himself to Monsieur, who held him in high regard and kept him as close as possible. Naturally unsociable, he had distanced himself too much before Madame's arrival, but after she came, he did not distance himself enough. This behavior, which everyone noticed, particularly caught the eye of the house's troublemaker, the Chevalier de Lorraine, whom Monsieur was fond of because he was cheerful and always knew how to fill the time with entertainment, even when being quite malicious in his comments. Noticing he was at risk of being overshadowed by De Guiche, the Chevalier de Lorraine decided to take drastic action. He disappeared from the court, leaving Monsieur quite perplexed. On the first day of his absence, Monsieur hardly asked about him since he had De Guiche by his side; aside from time spent talking with Madame, his days and nights were exclusively dedicated to the prince. However, on the second day, with no one around, Monsieur began to wonder where the chevalier had gone. 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 some amethysts to be looked at, De Guiche returned to Madame’s cabinet. Monsieur was left quite to himself during the time 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 could tell 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 laughter; at the other end, Manicamp and Malicorne were being pillaged at cards by Montalais and Mademoiselle 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 handful of pearls and precious stones, while the princess, with her white and slender fingers 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 seguedillas, 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 Englishwoman was humming with a smile that well displayed her beautiful teeth. The cabinet presented, in fact, the most perfect representation of unrestrained pleasure and amusement. As he entered, Monsieur was struck at beholding so many persons enjoying themselves without him. He was so jealous at the sight that he could not resist exclaiming, like a child, “What! you are amusing yourselves here, while I am sick and tired of being alone!”
De Guiche, after spending the morning picking out embroideries and fringes with Madame, went to comfort the prince. But after dinner, since there were some amethysts to examine, De Guiche returned to Madame’s room. Monsieur was left completely alone while he took time to dress and groom himself; he felt like the most miserable man and again asked if there was any news about the chevalier, only to be told that no one knew where the chevalier was. Not really knowing where to direct his boredom, Monsieur went to Madame’s rooms dressed in his morning gown. He found a large group of people there, laughing and whispering all over the room; at one end, a cluster of women was gathered around one of the courtiers, chatting together amid muffled bursts of laughter; at the other end, Manicamp and Malicorne were being taken to the cleaners at cards by Montalais and Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, while two others stood nearby, laughing. In another part, Madame sat on some cushions on the floor with De Guiche kneeling beside her, spreading out a handful of pearls and precious stones, while the princess, with her delicate and slender fingers, pointed out the ones she liked best. In yet another corner of the room, a guitarist was playing some Spanish seguedillas, which Madame had become quite fond of ever since hearing them sung by the young queen with a melancholic tone. But while the Spanish princess sang those songs with tears in her eyes, the young Englishwoman hummed them with a smile that showed off her beautiful teeth. The room really showcased the most perfect image of unrestrained pleasure and fun. As he walked in, Monsieur was struck by the sight of so many people enjoying themselves without him. He felt so jealous that he couldn't help exclaiming like a child, "What! You're having fun here while I'm stuck alone and bored!"
The sound of his voice was like a clap of thunder coming to interrupt 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. Manicamp stood bolt upright, and assumed a very ceremonious demeanor. The guitar player thrust his instrument 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 her husband, said, “Is not this the hour you usually devote to your toilette?”
The sound of his voice crashed in like thunder, cutting through the singing of the birds under the leafy cover of the trees; a complete silence followed. De Guiche jumped to his feet immediately. Malicorne tried to hide behind Montalais. Manicamp stood straight, adopting a very formal attitude. The guitarist shoved his instrument under a table, draping a piece of carpet over it to keep it out of the prince’s sight. Madame was the only one who didn’t move, and smiling at her husband, said, “Isn’t this the time you usually spend on your grooming?”
“An hour which others select, it seems, for amusing themselves,” replied the prince, grumblingly.
“An hour that others choose, it seems, to have fun,” replied the prince, grumpily.
This untoward remark was the signal for a general rout; the women fled like a flock of terrified starlings; the guitar player vanished like a shadow; Malicorne, still protected by Montalais, who purposely widened out her dress, glided behind the hanging tapestry. As for Manicamp, he went to the assistance of De Guiche, who naturally remained near Madame, and both of them, with the princess herself, courageously sustained the attack. The count 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.
This unkind comment triggered a general panic; the women ran away like a flock of scared starlings; the guitar player disappeared like a shadow; Malicorne, still shielded by Montalais, who deliberately expanded her dress, slipped behind the hanging tapestry. As for Manicamp, he went to help De Guiche, who naturally stayed close to Madame, and both of them, along with the princess herself, bravely defended against the onslaught. The count was too pleased to hold a grudge against the husband; however, Monsieur was resentful towards his wife. All that was missing was a fight; he looked for one, and the hasty exit of the crowd, which had been so cheerful before he showed up and became so unsettled by his arrival, gave him a reason.
“Why do they run away at the very 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 peal of laugher; Madame followed their example, and even Monsieur himself could not resist it, and he was obliged to sit down, as, for laughing, he could scarcely keep his equilibrium. However, he very soon left off, but his anger had increased. He was still more furious because he had permitted himself to laugh, than from having seen others laugh. He looked at Manicamp steadily, not venturing to show his anger towards De Guiche; but, at a sign which displayed no little amount of annoyance, Manicamp and De Guiche left the room, so that Madame, left alone, began sadly to pick up her pearls and amethysts, no longer smiling, and speaking still less.
“Why do they run away as soon as they see me?” he asked, in a snobby tone; to which Madame responded, “Whenever the master of the house shows up, the family keeps their distance out of respect.” As she said this, she made such a funny and cute face that De Guiche and Manicamp couldn't help themselves; they burst into laughter. Madame joined in, and even Monsieur couldn’t hold back, having to sit down because he was laughing so hard he could hardly stay upright. However, he quickly stopped, but his anger had grown. He was even more furious for having laughed himself than for seeing others laugh. He glared at Manicamp, not daring to show his anger towards De Guiche; but with a sign that showed he was quite annoyed, Manicamp and De Guiche left the room. Left alone, Madame sadly began to pick up her pearls and amethysts, no longer smiling and talking even 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 ante-room. “It is very agreeable to pay you a visit here, but outside the door.”
“I’m really glad,” said the duke, “to be treated like a stranger here, Madame,” and he stormed out of the room. On his way out, he ran into Montalais, who was waiting in the anteroom. “It’s nice to visit you here, just not outside the door.”
Montalais made a very low obeisance. “I do not quite understand what your royal highness does me the honor to say.”
Montalais bowed slightly. “I don’t really understand what Your Royal Highness is saying to me.”
“I say that when you are all laughing together in Madame’s apartment, he is an unwelcome visitor who does not remain outside.”
“I say that when you’re all laughing together in Madame’s apartment, he’s an unwelcome visitor who doesn’t stay outside.”
“Your royal highness does not think, and does not speak so, of yourself?”
“Your royal highness doesn’t think or speak of yourself that way?”
“On the contrary, it is on my own account that I do speak and think. I have no reason, certainly, to flatter myself about the reception 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 take wing as soon as I appear? Is there anything wrong, then, going on in my absence?”
"On the contrary, I'm speaking and thinking for myself. I definitely have no reason to think highly of the welcome I get here at any time. How is it that, on the same day there’s music and a bit of socializing in Madame’s rooms—in my own rooms, actually, because they’re mine—on the very day I want to have a little fun myself, everyone runs away? Are they scared to see me, that they all take off as soon as I show up? Is something wrong happening while I’m not around?"
“Yet nothing has been done to-day, monseigneur, which is not done every day.”
“Yet nothing has been done today, sir, that isn’t done every day.”
“What! do they laugh like that every day?”
“What! Do they really laugh like that every day?”
“Why, yes, monseigneur.”
“Sure, my lord.”
“The same group of people simpering and the same singing and strumming going on every day?”
“The same group of people fawning over each other and the same singing and strumming happening every day?”
“The guitar, monseigneur, was introduced to-day; but when we have no guitars, we have violins and flutes; ladies soon weary without music.”
“The guitar, sir, was introduced today; but when we don’t have guitars, we have violins and flutes; ladies quickly get bored without music.”
“The deuce!—and the men?”
"What the heck!—and the guys?"
“What men, monseigneur?”
"What men, my lord?"
“M. de Guiche, M. de Manicamp, and the rest of them?”
“M. de Guiche, M. de Manicamp, and the others?”
“They all belong to your highness’s household.”
“They all belong to your highness’s household.”
“Yes, yes, you are right,” said the prince, as he returned to his own apartments, full of thought. He threw himself into the largest of his arm-chairs, without looking at himself 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,—
“Yes, yes, you’re right,” said the prince, as he went back to his own rooms, deep in thought. He flopped down into the biggest of his armchairs, without glancing at his reflection in the mirror. “Where could the chevalier be?” he wondered. One of the prince’s attendants happened to be nearby, overheard his comment, and replied,—
“No one knows, your highness.”
“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 candelabrum. The noise summoned every one to the various doors.
“Still the same answer. The first person who tells me again, ‘I don’t know,’ is getting fired.” Everyone rushed out of his room, just like the others had escaped from Madame’s room. The prince then exploded in a fit of rage. He kicked over a cabinet, which fell onto the carpet and shattered into pieces. He then moved into the galleries and calmly tossed down, one after another, an enameled vase, a porphyry pitcher, and a bronze candlestick. The noise drew everyone to the various doorways.
“What is your highness’s pleasure?” said the captain of the guards, timidly.
“What would your highness like?” said the captain of the guards, nervously.
“I am treating myself to some music,” replied the prince, gnashing his teeth.
“I’m treating myself to some music,” replied the prince, grinding his teeth.
The captain of the guards desired his royal highness’s physician to be sent for. But before he came, Malicorne arrived, saying to the prince, “Monseigneur, the Chevalier de Lorraine is here.”
The captain of the guards wanted his royal highness’s doctor to be called. But before he arrived, Malicorne showed up, saying to the prince, “Your Highness, the Chevalier de Lorraine is here.”
The duke looked at Malicorne, and smiled graciously at him, just as the chevalier entered.
The duke looked at Malicorne and smiled warmly at him, just as the chevalier walked in.
Chapter XXXI. M. de Lorraine’s Jealousy.
The Duc d’Orleans uttered a cry of delight on perceiving 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?”
The Duke of Orleans let out a shout of joy when he saw the Chevalier de Lorraine. “How lucky is this!” he said. “What a happy coincidence to find you! Did you really vanish, as everyone told me?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Yes, sir.”
“A caprice?”
“A whim?”
“I to venture upon caprices with your highness! The respect—”
“I to take risks 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?”
“Forget about respect, because you fail at it every day. I forgive you; but why did you leave me?”
“Because I felt that I was of no further use to you.”
“Because I felt that I was no longer useful to you.”
“Explain yourself.”
"Explain yourself."
“Your highness has people about you who are far more amusing that I can ever be. I felt I was not strong enough to enter into contest with them, and I therefore withdrew.”
“Your highness has people around you who are way more entertaining than I could ever be. I felt I wasn't strong enough to compete with them, so I decided to step back.”
“This extreme diffidence shows a want of common sense. Who are those with whom you cannot contend? De Guiche?”
“This extreme shyness shows a lack of common sense. Who are the people you can't face? De Guiche?”
“I name no one.”
“I don’t name anyone.”
“This is absurd. Does De Guiche annoy you?”
“This is ridiculous. Does De Guiche bother you?”
“I do not say he does; do not force me to speak, however; you know very well that De Guiche is one of our best friends.”
“I’m not saying he does; just don’t make me say more, okay? You know very well that De Guiche is one of our closest friends.”
“Who is it, then?”
"Who is it?"
“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 that which quenches it; or in other words, by denying an explanation.
“Excuse me, sir, let’s drop it.” The chevalier knew very well that curiosity is stirred up just like thirst —by taking away what satisfies it; in other words, by refusing an explanation.
“No, no,” said the prince; “I wish to know why you went away.”
“No, no,” said the prince, “I want to know why you left.”
“In that case, monseigneur, I will tell you; but do not get angry. I remarked that my presence was disagreeable.”
“In that case, sir, I’ll tell you; but please don’t get upset. I noticed that my presence was unwelcome.”
“To whom?”
“Who’s it for?”
“To Madame.”
"To the Madam."
“What do you mean?” said the duke in astonishment.
“What do you mean?” the duke said, astonished.
“It is simple enough; Madame is very probably jealous of the regard you are good enough to testify for me.”
“It’s pretty straightforward; Madame is likely jealous of the affection you’re kind enough to show me.”
“Has she shown it to you?”
“Has she shown it to you?”
“Madame never addresses a syllable to me, particularly since a certain time.”
“Madame has never said a word to me, especially since a certain time.”
“Since what time?”
"Since what time?"
“Since the time when, M. de Guiche having made himself more agreeable to her than I could, she receives him at every and any hour.”
“Since M. de Guiche has been more charming to her than I could manage, she welcomes him at all hours.”
The duke colored. “At any hour, chevalier; what do you mean by that?”
The duke blushed. “At any time, knight; what do you mean by that?”
“You see, your highness, I have already displeased you; I was quite sure I should.”
"You see, your highness, I've already upset you; I was totally sure I would."
“I am not displeased; but what you say is rather startling. In what respect does Madame prefer De Guiche to you?”
“I’m not unhappy, but what you’re saying is pretty surprising. How does Madame prefer De Guiche over you?”
“I shall say no more,” said the chevalier, saluting the prince ceremoniously.
“I won’t say anything more,” said the knight, giving the prince a formal salute.
“On the contrary, I require you to speak. If you withdraw on that account, you must indeed be very jealous.”
“On the contrary, I need you to talk. If you hold back because of that, you must really be very jealous.”
“One cannot help being jealous, monseigneur, when one loves. Is not your royal highness jealous of Madame? Would you not, 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 highness has sometimes conferred the distinguished honor upon me of calling me your friend.”
“One can't help feeling jealous, Your Highness, when in love. Aren't you a bit jealous of Madame? Wouldn't you feel uneasy if you saw someone constantly close to her, being treated with special favor? Friends are like lovers. You’ve sometimes honored me by calling me your friend.”
“Yes, yes,; but you used a phrase which has a very equivocal significance; you are unfortunate in your phrases.”
“Yeah, yeah; but you used a phrase that has a really unclear meaning; your choice of words is unfortunate.”
“What phrase, monseigneur?”
“What phrase, my lord?”
“You said, ‘treated with great favor.’ What do you mean by favor?”
“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; whenever the bouquet of the one is always the same color as the ribbons of the other; when music and supper parties are held in 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 the kindest of men, who, a week before, was with him as little as possible; why, then—”
“Nothing could be simpler,” said the knight, looking very straightforward; “for example, whenever a husband notices that his wife calls over a particular man; whenever this man is always by her side or waiting at the door of her carriage; whenever the color of one’s bouquet matches the colors of the other’s ribbons; when they host music and dinner parties in private rooms; whenever there’s a sudden silence as soon as the husband walks into his wife’s rooms; and when the husband suddenly sees that he has the most devoted and kindest man as a companion, who, just a week ago, spent as little time with him as possible; well then—”
“Well, finish.”
"Okay, finish up."
“Why, then, I say, monseigneur, one possibly may get jealous. But all these details hardly apply; for our conversation had nothing to do with them.”
“Why, then, I say, monseigneur, one might get jealous. But all these details barely matter; our conversation didn’t relate to them at all.”
The duke was evidently very much agitated, and seemed to struggle with himself a good deal. “You have not told me,” he then remarked, “why 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 Guiche.”
The duke was clearly very shaken and seemed to be wrestling with his thoughts quite a bit. “You haven’t explained to me,” he then said, “why you stayed away. Earlier, you mentioned it was because you were afraid of imposing; you also pointed out that you noticed Madame encouraging De Guiche.”
“Pardon me, monseigneur, I did not say that.”
“Excuse me, sir, I didn’t say that.”
“You did, indeed.”
"You really did."
“Well, if I did say so, I observed nothing but what was very inoffensive.”
“Well, if I did say so, I noticed nothing but what was very harmless.”
“At all events, you remarked something.”
“At any rate, you noticed something.”
“You embarrass me, monseigneur.”
“You're embarrassing me, sir.”
“What does that matter? Answer me. If you speak the truth, why should you feel embarrassed?”
“What does it matter? Answer me. If you're telling 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.”
“I always tell the truth, my lord; but I always pause when it comes to repeating what others say.”
“Ah! repeat? It appears that it is talked about, then?”
“Ah! Repeat? So, it seems it’s being discussed, then?”
“I acknowledge that others have spoken to me on the subject.”
"I recognize that others have talked to me about this topic."
“Who?” said the prince.
“Who?” asked the prince.
The chevalier assumed almost an angry air, as he replied, “Monseigneur, you are subjecting me to cross-examination; you treat me as a criminal at the bar; the rumors which idly pass by a gentleman’s ears do not remain there. Your highness wishes me to magnify rumors until it attains the importance of an event.”
The knight took on a nearly angry demeanor as he replied, “My lord, you’re interrogating me; you’re treating me like a criminal on trial; the gossip that casually reaches a gentleman's ears doesn’t just stay there. Your highness wants me to inflate rumors until they become significant like an actual event.”
“However,” said the duke, in great displeasure, “the fact remains that you withdrew on account of this report.”
“However,” said the duke, clearly upset, “the fact is that you backed out because of this report.”
“To speak the truth, others have talked to me of the attentions of M. de Guiche to Madame, nothing more; perfectly harmless, I repeat, and more than that, allowable. But do not be unjust, monseigneur, and do not attach any undue importance to it. It does not concern you.”
“To tell you the truth, others have mentioned M. de Guiche's interest in Madame, nothing more; completely harmless, I insist, and moreover, acceptable. But please don't be unfair, my lord, and don't give this more significance than it deserves. It doesn't involve you.”
“M. de Guiche’s attentions to Madame do not concern me?”
“M. de Guiche’s interest in Madame doesn’t bother 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. 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 disposition; 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 handsomest 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 indifference. I have, therefore, made up my mind to give way to the favorite whose happiness I envy, even while I acknowledge 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 conduct that of a sincere friend? Answer me, at least, after having so closely questioned me.”
“No, sir; and what I’m telling you, I would also say to De Guiche himself, that’s how little I care about the attention he gives Madame. In fact, I would say it directly to Madame herself. But you know what I’m worried about—I’m worried about being seen as jealous of the attention, when I’m really just jealous in terms of friendship. I know how you are; when you give your affections, you become totally devoted. You love Madame—and who wouldn’t love her? Pay close attention as I explain: Madame has noticed the most handsome and charming among your friends; she will start to influence you on his behalf so that you’ll ignore the others. Your indifference would crush me; it’s already hard enough dealing with Madame’s indifference. So, I’ve decided to step back for the sake of the favorite, whom I envy for his happiness, even while recognizing my genuine friendship and admiration for him. Well, sir, do you see anything wrong with this reasoning? Isn’t it the logic of an honorable man? Is my behavior that of a true friend? At least answer me after questioning me so thoroughly.”
The duke had seated himself, with his head buried in his hands. After a silence long enough to enable the chevalier to judge the effect of this oratorical display, the duke arose, saying, “Come, be candid.”
The duke had sat down, his head in his hands. After a silence long enough for the chevalier to assess the impact of this speech, the duke stood up and said, “Come on, be honest.”
“As I always am.”
"Like always."
“Very well. You know that we already observed something respecting that mad fellow, Buckingham.”
“Alright. You know we've already seen something about that crazy guy, Buckingham.”
“Do not say anything against Madame, monseigneur, or I shall take my leave. It is impossible you can be suspicious of Madame?”
“Don’t say anything bad about her, sir, or I’ll walk away. There’s no way you can really be suspicious of her, right?”
“No, no, chevalier; I do not suspect Madame; but in fact, I observe—I compare—”
“No, no, knight; I don’t doubt Madame; but actually, I notice—I compare—”
“Buckingham was a madman, monseigneur.”
“Buckingham was crazy, sir.”
“A madman about whom, however, you opened my eyes thoroughly.”
“A madman whom you really helped me see clearly.”
“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.
“No, no,” said the knight quickly. “It wasn't me who opened your eyes; it was De Guiche. Please don’t mix us up.” And he started to laugh in such a harsh way that it sounded like a snake hissing.
“Yes, yes; I remember. You said a few words, but De Guiche showed the most jealousy.”
“Yes, yes; I remember. You said a few words, but De Guiche was the most jealous.”
“I should think so,” continued the chevalier, in the same tone. “He was fighting for home and altar.”
“I think so,” continued the knight, in the same tone. “He was fighting for his home and faith.”
“What did you say?” said the duke, haughtily, thoroughly roused by this insidious jest.
“What did you say?” the duke asked arrogantly, fully stirred by this sneaky joke.
“Am I not right? for does not M. de Guiche hold the chief post of honor in your household?”
“Am I right? Doesn’t M. de Guiche hold the top position of honor in your household?”
“Well,” replied the duke, somewhat calmed, “had this passion of Buckingham been remarked?”
“Well,” replied the duke, feeling a bit calmer, “has anyone noticed this obsession with Buckingham?”
“Certainly.”
"Sure."
“Very well. Do people say that M. de Guiche’s is remarked as much?”
“Alright. Do people say that M. de Guiche’s is noted as much?”
“Pardon me, monseigneur; you are again mistaken; no one says that M. de Guiche entertains anything of the sort.”
“Excuse me, sir; you're mistaken again; no one is saying that M. de Guiche has any such intentions.”
“Very good.”
“Awesome.”
“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 aid of any scruples I may have had, suspicions which Madame will regard as crimes, and she would be in the right, too.”
“You see, sir, it would have been a hundred times better to leave me in my retirement than to have let you stir up, using any doubts I might have had, suspicions that Madame will see as crimes, and she would be justified in thinking so.”
“What would you do?”
"What will you do?"
“Act reasonably.”
"Be reasonable."
“In what way?”
“How so?”
“I should not pay the slightest attention to the society of these new Epicurean philosophers; and, in that way, the rumors will cease.”
“I shouldn’t pay any attention to the company of these new Epicurean philosophers; that way, the rumors will stop.”
“Well, I will see; I will think it over.”
"Well, I'll think about it."
“Oh, you have time enough; the danger is not great; and then, besides, it is not a question of danger or of passion. It all arose from a fear I had to see your friendship for me decrease. From the very moment you restore it, with so kind an assurance of its existence, I have no longer any other idea in my head.”
“Oh, you have plenty of time; the danger isn't serious; and anyway, it's not about danger or passion. It all came from my fear that your friendship for me would fade. The moment you reassured me with such kindness about its existence, I stopped thinking about anything else.”
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; but she returned a message to the effect that she could not be present, but would dine in her own apartment.
The duke shook his head as if to say, “If you’re out of ideas, I’ve got some.” Since it was now dinner time, the prince sent a message to inform Madame, but she replied that she couldn't join them and would have dinner in her own room.
“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.”
“That’s not my fault,” said the duke. “This morning, I caught them off guard during a music party, and I got jealous; so now they’re sulking with me.”
“We will dine alone,” said the chevalier, with a sigh; “I regret De Guiche is not here.”
“We will eat alone,” said the chevalier with a sigh; “I wish De Guiche were here.”
“Oh! De Guiche will not remain long in the sulks; he is a very good-natured fellow.”
“Oh! De Guiche won’t stay moody for long; he’s a really good-natured guy.”
“Monseigneur,” said the chevalier, suddenly, “an excellent 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 mediator. I will go and look for the count, and bring him back with me.”
“Monseigneur,” said the knight suddenly, “an excellent idea just came to me during our conversation. I might have annoyed your highness and caused you some disappointment. It’s only fair that I be the mediator. I’ll go find the count and bring him back with me.”
“Ah! chevalier, you are really a very good-natured fellow.”
“Ah! knight, you are really a very kind person.”
“You say that as if you were surprised.”
“You say that like you’re surprised.”
“Well, you are not so tender-hearted every day.”
“Well, you’re not always so soft-hearted.”
“That may be; but confess that I know how to repair a wrong I may have done.”
“That might be true; but admit that I know how to fix a mistake I might have made.”
“I confess that.”
"I admit that."
“Will your highness do me the favor to wait here a few minutes?”
“Will your highness wait here for a few minutes?”
“Willingly; be off, and I will try on my Fontainebleau costume.”
“Sure thing; go ahead, and I’ll try on my Fontainebleau outfit.”
The chevalier left the room, called his different attendant with the greatest care, as if he were giving them different orders. All went off in various directions; but he retained his valet de chambre. “Ascertain, and immediately, too, of M. de Guiche is not in Madame’s apartments. How can one learn it?”
The knight left the room and summoned his various attendants with great care, as if giving them different instructions. They all dispersed in different directions, but he kept his valet de chambre. “Find out right away if M. de Guiche is in Madame’s rooms. How can we find that out?”
“Very easily, monsieur. I will ask Malicorne, who will find out from Mlle. de Montalais. I may as well tell you, however, that the inquiry will be useless; for all M. de Guiche’s attendants are gone, and he must have left with them.”
“Very easily, sir. I’ll ask Malicorne, who will check with Mlle. de Montalais. I should let you know, though, that the inquiry will be pointless; all of M. de Guiche’s attendants are gone, and he must have left with them.”
“Ascertain, nevertheless.”
"Find out, anyway."
Ten minutes had hardly passed, when the valet returned. He beckoned his master mysteriously towards 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?”
Ten minutes had barely gone by when the valet came back. He gestured for his master to follow him secretly to the servants’ staircase and led him into a small room with a window overlooking the garden. “What’s going on?” asked the chevalier; “why all the fuss?”
“Look, monsieur,” said the valet, “look yonder, under the walnut-tree.”
“Look, sir,” said the valet, “look over there, under the walnut tree.”
“Ah?” said the chevalier. “I see Manicamp there. What is he waiting for?”
“Ah?” said the knight. “I see Manicamp over there. What is he waiting for?”
“You will see in a moment, monsieur, if you wait patiently. There, do you see now?”
“You'll see in a moment, sir, if you wait a little longer. There, do you see it now?”
“I see one, two, four musicians with their instruments, and behind them, urging them on, De Guiche himself. What is he doing there, though?”
“I see one, two, four musicians with their instruments, and behind them, encouraging them, De Guiche himself. What is he doing there, though?”
“He is waiting until the little door of the staircase, belonging 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.”
“He's waiting for the small door of the staircase, which is for the ladies of honor, to open; by that staircase, he'll go up to Madame’s apartments, where some new pieces of music will be performed during dinner.”
“This is admirable news you tell me.”
“This is great news you’re telling me.”
“Is it not, monsieur?”
"Is it not, sir?"
“Was it M. de Malicorne who told you this?”
“Did M. de Malicorne tell you this?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
"Yes, sir."
“He likes you, then?”
"Does he like you?"
“No, monsieur, it is Monsieur that he likes.”
“No, sir, it’s you that he likes.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Because he wishes to belong to his household.”
“Because he wants to be a part of his family.”
“And most certainly he shall. How much did he give you for that?”
“And he definitely will. How much did he give you for that?”
“The secret which I now dispose of to you, monsieur.”
“The secret that I’m now sharing with you, sir.”
“And which I buy for a hundred pistoles. Take them.”
“And I bought them for a hundred pistoles. Here you go.”
“Thank you, monsieur. Look, look, the little door opens; a woman admits the musicians.”
“Thank you, sir. Look, look, the little door is opening; a woman lets in the musicians.”
“It is Montalais.”
"That's Montalais."
“Hush, monseigneur; do not call out her name; whoever says Montalais says Malicorne. If you quarrel with the one, you will be on bad terms with the other.”
“Hush, my lord; don’t shout her name; whoever mentions Montalais mentions Malicorne. If you argue with one, you’ll be on bad terms with the other.”
“Very well; I have seen nothing.”
"Okay; I haven't seen anything."
“And I,” said the valet, pocketing the purse, “have received nothing.”
“And I,” said the valet, putting the purse in his pocket, “haven’t received anything.”
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.”
The knight, now sure that Guiche had arrived, went back to the prince, who was dressed beautifully and glowing with happiness, just like with his good looks. “I heard,” he said excitedly, “that the king has chosen the sun as his emblem; honestly, your highness, it’s you who really fits this emblem best.”
“Where is De Guiche?”
“Where's De Guiche?”
“He cannot be found. He has fled—has evaporated entirely. Your scolding of this morning terrified him. He could not be found in his apartments.”
“He can’t be found. He’s fled—he’s completely vanished. Your scolding this morning scared him to death. He couldn’t be found in his apartment.”
“Bah! the hair-brained fellow is capable of setting off post-haste to his own estates. Poor man! we will recall him. Come, let us dine now.”
“Ugh! That scatterbrained guy is likely to rush off to his own property. Poor guy! We’ll bring him back. Come on, let’s eat now.”
“Monseigneur, to-day is a very festival of ideas; I have another.”
“Lord, today is a grand celebration of ideas; I have another one.”
“What is it?”
"What's that?"
“Madame is angry with you, and she has reason to be so. You owe her revenge; go and dine with her.”
“Madame is upset with you, and she has every right to be. You owe her an apology; go and have dinner with her.”
“Oh! that would be acting like a weak and whimsical husband.”
“Oh! that would be acting like a weak and silly 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 here eyes will get quite red. A husband who is the cause of his wife’s eyes getting red is an odious creature. Come, monseigneur, come.”
“It’s a good husband’s responsibility to do that. The princess is probably really tired; she’ll be crying into her plate, and her eyes will be all puffy. A husband who makes his wife’s eyes puffy is a terrible person. Come on, monseigneur, let’s go.”
“I cannot; for I have directed dinner to be served here.”
“I can’t; I have arranged for dinner to be served here.”
“Yet see, monseigneur, how dull we shall be; I 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 that will be a delightful surprise. I am sure we shall be very merry; you were in the wrong this morning.”
“Yet look, sir, how boring it’s going to be; I’ll feel down because I know that Madame will be alone; you, as tough and harsh as you want to seem, will be sighing the whole time. Take me with you to Madame’s dinner, and that will be a lovely surprise. I’m sure we’ll have a great time; you were wrong this morning.”
“Well, perhaps I was.”
“Well, maybe I was.”
“There is no perhaps at all, for it is a fact you were so.”
“There is no maybe at all, because it’s a fact that you were.”
“Chevalier, chevalier, your advice is not good.”
“Knight, knight, your advice isn't 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 vanquished by the man as by the action. Come, monseigneur.”
“Nah, my advice is solid; all the benefits are in your favor. Your violet suit, embroidered with gold, looks amazing on you. Madame will be just as impressed by the man as by what he does. Come on, monseigneur.”
“You decide me; let us go.”
“You make the decision; let’s go.”
The duke left his room, accompanied by the chevalier and went towards Madame’s apartments. The chevalier hastily whispered to the valet, “Be sure there are some people before that little door, so that no one can escape in that direction. Run, run!” And he followed the duke towards the ante-chambers 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.”
The duke left his room with the chevalier and headed towards Madame’s apartments. The chevalier quickly whispered to the valet, “Make sure there are people in front of that little door so no one can escape that way. Go, go!” Then he followed the duke to the waiting area of Madame’s suite, and just as the attendants were about to announce them, the chevalier said with a laugh, “His highness wants to surprise Madame.”
Chapter XXXII. Monsieur is Jealous of Guiche.
Monsieur entered the room abruptly, as persons do who mean well and think they confer pleasure, or as those who hope to surprise some secret, the terrible reward of jealous people. Madame, almost out of her senses with joy at the first bars of music, was dancing in the most unrestrained 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 effect which the presence of the prince produced upon this gleeful company, and it would be equally impossible to describe the effect which the sight of their happiness produced 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. The Chevalier de Lorraine, leaning his back against the doorway, smiled like a man in the very height of the frankest admiration. The pallor of the prince, and the convulsive twitching of his hands and limbs, were the first symptoms that struck those present. A dead silence succeeded the merry music of the dance. The Chevalier de Lorraine took advantage 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 expecting to find you ill and low-spirited, and I find you abandoning yourself to new amusements; really, it is most fortunate. My house is the pleasantest in the kingdom.” Then turning towards De Guiche, “Comte,” he said, “I did not know you were so good a dancer.” And, again addressing 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.”
Monsieur entered the room suddenly, like someone who means well and thinks they’re bringing joy, or like those who hope to uncover a secret, which can be the terrible result of jealousy. Madame, almost beside herself with joy at the first notes of music, was dancing freely, leaving the dinner, which had already started, unfinished. Her partner was M. de Guiche, who, with his arms raised and eyes half-closed, was kneeling on one knee like a Spanish dancer, filled with passion and making tender gestures. The princess danced around him with a captivating smile, radiating the same seductive charm. Montalais watched admirably; La Valliere, sitting in a corner of the room, observed thoughtfully. It’s impossible to describe the effect of the prince's presence on this joyful gathering, just as it’s equally impossible to convey how their happiness impacted Philip. The Comte de Guiche couldn’t move; Madame stood in the middle of one of the dance figures, unable to say a word. The Chevalier de Lorraine leaned against the doorway, smiling like someone deeply admiring the scene. The prince’s pale face and the shaky twitching of his hands and limbs were the first noticeable signs to those present. A heavy silence fell after the lively music of the dance. The Chevalier de Lorraine took this moment to bow respectfully to Madame and De Guiche, pretending to treat them like the hosts of the gathering. Monsieur then approached them, saying in a hoarse voice, “I’m so pleased; I came here expecting to find you sick and down, and instead, I see you enjoying new entertainment; truly, this is fortunate. My house is the most enjoyable in the kingdom.” Turning to De Guiche, he said, “Comte, I didn’t know you were such a good dancer.” Then addressing his wife again, he remarked, “Be a little more considerate of me, Madame; whenever you plan to have fun here, invite me. I’m a prince, unfortunately, quite neglected.”
Guiche had now recovered his self-possession, and with the spirited boldness which was natural to him, and sat so well upon 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.”
Guiche had regained his composure, and with the confident boldness that came naturally to him, he said, “Your highness knows very well that I am entirely at your service, and whenever you need my life, I’m ready; but today, since it’s just about 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; M. 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.”
“And you’re absolutely right,” said the prince, coldly. “But, Madame,” he continued, “you don't seem to notice that your ladies are taking away my friends; M. de Guiche isn’t yours, Madame, he’s mine. If you want to have dinner without me, you have your ladies. When I dine alone, I have my gentlemen; don’t take away everything from me.”
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 windows barred, even.”
Madame felt the criticism and the lesson, and color flooded her face. “Monsieur,” she replied, “I didn’t realize, when I arrived at the court of France, that princesses of my status were to be treated like women in Turkey. I didn’t know we weren’t allowed to be seen; but, since that’s what you want, I’ll go along with it; please don’t hesitate to have my windows barred if you think it’s necessary.”
This repartee, which made Montalais and De Guiche smile, rekindled the prince’s anger, no inconsiderable portion of which had already evaporated in words.
This exchange, which made Montalais and De Guiche smile, reignited the prince’s anger, a significant part of which had already faded away in conversation.
“Very well,” he said, in a concentrated tone of voice, “this is the way in which I am respected in my own house.”
“Fine,” he said, in a focused tone, “this is how I'm treated in my own home.”
“Monseigneur, monseigneur,” murmured the chevalier in the duke’s ear, in such a manner that every one could observe he was endeavoring to calm him.
“Your Excellency, Your Excellency,” whispered the knight in the duke’s ear, making it clear to everyone that he was trying to soothe 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 Madame. The chevalier followed him to his own apartment, where the prince had no sooner seated himself than he gave free vent to his fury. The chevalier raised his eyes towards the ceiling, joined his hands together, and said not a word.
“Come,” replied the prince, as his only response to the comment, rushing him along, and turning around so abruptly that he almost bumped into Madame. The chevalier followed him to his room, where the prince had barely sat down when he unleashed his anger. The chevalier looked up at the ceiling, clasped his hands together, and said nothing.
“Give me your opinion,” exclaimed the prince.
“Share your thoughts with me,” exclaimed the prince.
“Upon what?”
"On what?"
“Upon what is taking place here.”
"What's happening here?"
“Oh, monseigneur, it is a very serious matter.”
“Oh, sir, it’s a really serious issue.”
“It is abominable! I cannot live in this manner.”
“It’s disgusting! I can't live like this.”
“How miserable all this is,” said the chevalier. “We hoped to enjoy tranquillity after that madman Buckingham had left.”
“How miserable all this is,” said the knight. “We thought we would finally have some peace after that crazy guy Buckingham left.”
“And this is worse.”
“And this is so much worse.”
“I do not say that, monseigneur.”
"I'm not saying that, dude."
“Yes, but I say it; for Buckingham would never have ventured upon a fourth part of what we have just now seen.”
“Yes, but I mean it; because Buckingham would never have attempted even a quarter of what we just witnessed.”
“What do you mean?”
"What do you mean by that?"
“To conceal oneself for the purposes of dancing, and to feign indisposition in order to dine tete-a-tete.”
“To hide away to dance, and to pretend to be unwell so you can have a private dinner.”
“No, no, monseigneur.”
“No, no, sir.”
“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.”
“Yes, yes,” the prince exclaimed, getting worked up like a headstrong child; “but I can’t stand this any longer, I have to find out what’s really happening.”
“Oh, monseigneur, an exposure—”
“Oh, sir, an exposure—”
“By Heaven, monsieur, shall I 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 disappeared in the neighboring apartment and inquired of the gentleman in attendance if the queen-mother had returned from chapel.
“By Heaven, sir, should I inconvenience myself when people are so inconsiderate towards me? Wait for me here, knight, wait for me here.” The prince vanished into the next room and asked the gentleman in attendance if the queen mother had come back from 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 affairs of great importance; the revenues of the state increased; external peace assured; everything seemed to promise a tranquil future. Her thoughts recurred, now and then, to the poor young nobleman whom she had received as a mother, and had driven away as a hard-hearted step-mother, and she sighed as she thought of him.
Anne of Austria felt that her happiness was now complete; peace had returned to her family, a nation delighted by the presence of a young monarch who had shown a knack for handling important matters; the state's revenues had increased; external peace was secured; everything seemed to promise a calm future. Her thoughts occasionally drifted back to the poor young nobleman whom she had welcomed as a mother but had sent away like a cold stepmother, and she sighed as she remembered him.
Suddenly the Duc d’Orleans entered her room. “Dear mother,” he exclaimed hurriedly, closing the door, “things cannot go on as they are now.”
Suddenly, the Duke of Orleans walked into her room. “Dear mother,” he said quickly, closing the door, “things can’t continue like this.”
Anne of Austria raised her beautiful eyes towards him, and with an unmoved suavity of manner, said, “What do you allude to?”
Anne of Austria looked up at him with her beautiful eyes and, maintaining her composed demeanor, said, “What are you referring to?”
“I wish to speak of Madame.”
“I want to talk about Madame.”
“Your wife?”
"Your partner?"
“Yes, madame.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I suppose that silly fellow Buckingham has been writing a farewell letter to her.”
“I guess that foolish guy Buckingham has been writing a goodbye letter to her.”
“Oh! yes, madame; of course, it is a question of Buckingham.”
“Oh! yes, ma'am; of course, it's about Buckingham.”
“Of whom else could it be, then? for that poor fellow was, wrongly enough, the object of your jealousy, and I thought—”
“Then who else could it be? That poor guy was, unfortunately, the target of your jealousy, and I thought—”
“My wife, madame, has already replaced the Duke of Buckingham.”
“My wife, ma'am, has already taken the Duke of Buckingham's place.”
“Philip, what are you saying? You are speaking very heedlessly.”
“Philip, what are you talking about? You’re speaking very thoughtlessly.”
“No, no. Madame has so managed matters, that I am still jealous.”
“No, no. Madame has so arranged things that I’m still jealous.”
“Of whom, in Heaven’s name?”
"Of whom, in Heaven's name?"
“Is it possible you have not remarked it? Have you not noticed that M. de Guiche is always in her apartments—always with her?”
“Have you not noticed? M. de Guiche is always in her rooms—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 disease.”
The queen clapped her hands and started to laugh. “Philip,” she said, “your jealousy isn't just a flaw, it's a sickness.”
“Whether a defect or a disease, madame, I am the sufferer from it.”
"Whether it's a defect or a disease, ma'am, I'm the one dealing with 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.”
“And do you really think that a complaint that only exists in your own mind can be resolved? You want people to agree that your jealousy is justified, even when there’s absolutely no reason for it.”
“Of course, you will begin to say for this gentleman what you already said on the behalf of the other.”
“Of course, you will start to say the same things for this guy that you already said for the other one.”
“Because, Philip,” said the queen dryly, “what you did for the other, you are going to do for this one.”
“Because, Philip,” said the queen dryly, “what you did for the other one, you’re going to do for this one.”
The prince bowed, slightly annoyed. “If I give you facts,” he said, “will you believe me?”
The prince bowed, a little annoyed. “If I give you the facts,” he said, “will you believe me?”
“If it regarded anything else but jealousy, I would believe you without your bringing facts forward; but as jealousy is the case, I promise nothing.”
“If it was about anything other than jealousy, I would trust you without you having to present evidence; but since it is jealousy, I can’t make any promises.”
“It is just the same as if your majesty were to desire me to hold my tongue, and sent me away unheard.”
“It’s exactly like if you were to ask me to stay quiet and then sent me away without letting me speak.”
“Far from it; you are my son, I owe you a mother’s indulgence.”
“Not at all; you are my son, and I owe you a mother’s understanding.”
“Oh, say what you think; you owe me as much indulgence as a madman deserves.”
“Oh, just say what you think; you owe me as much patience as a madman deserves.”
“Do not exaggerate, Philip, and take care how you represent your wife to me as a woman of depraved mind—”
“Don’t exaggerate, Philip, and be careful how you portray your wife to me as a woman with a twisted mind—”
“But facts, mother, facts!”
"But facts, Mom, facts!"
“Well, I am listening.”
"Okay, I'm listening."
“This morning at ten o’clock they were playing music in Madame’s apartments.”
“This morning at ten o’clock, they were playing music in Madame’s rooms.”
“No harm in that, surely.”
"That shouldn't cause any harm."
“M. de Guiche was talking with her alone—Ah! I forgot to tell you, that, during the last ten days, he has never left her side.”
“M. de Guiche was talking to her alone—Oh! I forgot to mention that, over the past ten days, he hasn’t left her side.”
“If they were doing any harm they would hide themselves.”
“If they were causing any trouble, they would keep out of sight.”
“Very good,” exclaimed the duke, “I expected you to say that. Pray remember with precision the words you have just uttered. This morning I took them by surprise, and showed my dissatisfaction in a very marked manner.”
“Very good,” exclaimed the duke, “I expected you to say that. Please remember exactly the words you just said. This morning, I caught them off guard and expressed my dissatisfaction quite clearly.”
“Rely 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 committed is, sometimes, almost equivalent to telling them they might be guilty of even worse.”
“Trust me, that's more than enough; it might even be a bit too much. These young women can be sensitive. Blaming them for a mistake they didn’t make is sometimes almost like suggesting they could be guilty of something even worse.”
“Very good, very good; but wait a minute. Do not forget what you have just this moment said, that this morning’s lesson ought to have been sufficient, and that if they had been doing what was wrong, they would have hidden themselves.”
“Very good, very good; but hold on a second. Don’t forget what you just said a moment ago: that this morning’s lesson should have been enough, and if they had been doing something wrong, they would have tried to hide.”
“Yes, I said so.”
“Yeah, I said that.”
“Well, just now, repenting of my hastiness of the morning, and imagining that 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 Guiche himself—he was concealed there.”
“Well, just now, feeling sorry for my rush this morning and thinking that Guiche was pouting in his own place, I decided to visit Madame. Can you guess what, or who, I found there? Another group of musicians; more dancing, and Guiche himself—he was hiding there.”
Anne of Austria frowned. “It was imprudent,” she said. “What did Madame say?”
Anne of Austria frowned. “That was unwise,” she said. “What did Madame say?”
“Nothing.”
“Zero.”
“And Guiche?”
"And Guiche?"
“As much—oh, no! he muttered some impertinent remark or another.”
“As much—oh, no! he mumbled some rude comment or another.”
“Well, what is your opinion, Philip?”
“Well, what do you think, Philip?”
“That I have been made a fool of; that Buckingham was only a pretext, and that Guiche is the one who is really to blame in the matter.”
“That I’ve been played for a fool; that Buckingham was just an excuse, and that Guiche is the one who’s really to blame here.”
Anne shrugged her shoulders. “Well,” she said, “what else?”
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—”
“I want De Guiche to be removed from my household, just like Buckingham was, and I’ll ask the king, unless—”
“Unless what?”
"Unless what?"
“Unless you, my dear mother, who are so clever and so kind, will execute the commission yourself.”
“Unless you, my dear mom, who are so smart and so kind, will handle the task yourself.”
“I will not do it, Philip.”
"I won't do it, Phil."
“What, madame?”
"What, ma'am?"
“Listen, Philip; I am not disposed to pay people ill compliments every day; I have some influence over young people, but I cannot take advantage of it without running the chances of losing it altogether. Besides, there is nothing to prove that M. de Guiche is guilty.”
“Listen, Philip; I’m not inclined to give people backhanded compliments every day; I have some sway with young people, but I can’t exploit it without risking losing it completely. Besides, there’s no evidence that M. de Guiche is guilty.”
“He has displeased me.”
“He has upset me.”
“That is your own affair.”
"That's your own business."
“Very well, I know what I shall do,” said the prince, impetuously.
“Alright, I know what I’m going to do,” said the prince, impulsively.
Anne looked at him with some uneasiness. “What do you intend to do?” she said.
Anne looked at him with a bit of anxiety. “What are you planning to do?” she asked.
“I will have him drowned in my fish-pond the very 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.
“I’ll have him drowned in my fish pond the next time I catch him in my rooms again.” After making this awful threat, the prince thought his mother would be terrified; however, the queen remained unfazed.
“Do so,” she said.
"Go ahead," 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.”
Philip was as weak as a woman and started to shout, “Everyone betrays me—no one cares about me; even my mother sides with my enemies.”
“Your mother, Philip, sees further in the matter than you do, and does not care about advising you, since you will not listen to her.”
“Your mom, Philip, understands the situation better than you do and doesn’t bother giving you advice since you won’t listen to her.”
“I will go to the king.”
“I’m going to see the king.”
“I was about to propose that to you. I am now expecting his majesty; it is the hour he usually pays me a visit; explain the matter to him yourself.”
“I was just about to suggest that to you. I'm currently waiting for his majesty; it’s the time he usually comes to see me; you can explain the situation to him yourself.”
She had hardly finished when Philip heard the door of the ante-room 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. Anne of Austria could not resist laughing, and was laughing still when the king entered. He came very affectionately 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 vivacious tone himself. Anne of Austria took him by the hand, and, in a voice full of playfulness, said, “Do you know, sire that I am proud of being a Spanish woman?”
She had just finished when Philip heard the door to the waiting room open with a bit of a commotion. He began to feel anxious. At the sound of the king’s footsteps on the carpet, the duke quickly made his exit. Anne of Austria couldn’t help but laugh, and she was still laughing when the king walked in. He approached her warmly to ask about the still uncertain health of the queen-mother and to tell her that the plans for the trip to Fontainebleau were all set. Seeing her laugh eased his concern for her, and he spoke to her in a lively tone. Anne of Austria took his hand and, in a playful voice, said, “Do you know, sire, that I am proud to be a Spanish woman?”
“Why, madame?”
"Why, ma'am?"
“Because Spanish women are worth more than English women at least.”
“Because Spanish women are valued more than English women, at least.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Since your marriage you have not, I believe, had a single reproach to make against the queen.”
“Since you got married, I don’t think you’ve had any complaints about the queen.”
“Certainly not.”
"Definitely not."
“And you, too, have been married some time. Your brother, on the contrary, has been married but a fortnight.”
“And you, too, have been married for a while. Your brother, on the other hand, has only been married for two weeks.”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“He is now finding fault with Madame a second time.”
“He is now criticizing Madame for a second time.”
“What, Buckingham still?”
“Wait, is Buckingham still a thing?”
“No, another.”
“No, another one.”
“Who?”
"Who's that?"
“Guiche.”
“Guiche.”
“Really? Madame is a coquette, then?”
“Really? So, Madame is a flirt, then?”
“I fear so.”
"I'm afraid so."
“My poor brother,” said the king, laughing.
“My poor brother,” said the king, laughing.
“You don’t object to coquettes, it seems?”
“You don’t have a problem with flirtatious people, it seems?”
“In Madame, certainly I do; but Madame is not a coquette at heart.”
“In Madame, I definitely do; but Madame isn't a flirt at heart.”
“That may be, but your brother is excessively angry about it.”
"That might be true, but your brother is really angry about it."
“What does he want?”
"What does he want?"
“He wants to drown Guiche.”
"He wants to kill Guiche."
“That is a violent measure to resort to.”
“That’s a drastic step to take.”
“Do not laugh; he is extremely irritated. Think of what can be done.”
“Don’t laugh; he’s really upset. Think about what can be done.”
“To save Guiche—certainly.”
"To save Guiche—definitely."
“Of, if your brother heard you, he would conspire against you as your uncle did against your father.”
"If your brother heard you, he would plot against you just like your uncle 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 of his request?”
“No; Philip cares too much about me for that, and I, for my part, have a lot of respect for him; we will get along very well. But what exactly does he want?”
“That you will prevent Madame from being a coquette and Guiche from being amiable.”
"That you will stop Madame from being a flirt and Guiche from being charming."
“Is that all? My brother has an exalted idea of sovereign power. To reform a man, not to speak about reforming a woman!”
“Is that it? My brother has a high opinion of sovereign power. To change a man, not to mention changing a woman!”
“How will you set about it?”
“How are you going to do it?”
“With a word to Guiche, who is a clever fellow, I will undertake to convince him.”
“With a word to Guiche, who is a smart guy, I will take on the task of convincing him.”
“But Madame?”
“But ma'am?”
“That is more difficult; a word will not be enough. I will compose a homily and read it to her.”
"That's harder; just a word won't cut it. I'll write a speech and read it to her."
“There is no time to be lost.”
"Time is of the essence."
“Oh, I will use the utmost diligence. There is a repetition of the ballet this afternoon.”
“Oh, I will be very careful. There's a rehearsal for the ballet this afternoon.”
“You will read her a lecture while you are dancing?”
"You’re going to give her a lecture while you’re dancing?"
“Yes, madame.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“You promise to convert her?”
"Will you really convert her?"
“I will root out the heresy altogether, either by convincing her, or by extreme measures.”
“I will completely eliminate the heresy, either by convincing her or by taking drastic action.”
“That is all right, then. Do not mix me up in the affair; Madame would never forgive me all her life, and as a mother-in-law, I ought to desire to live on good terms with my new-found daughter.”
“That’s fine, then. Don’t get me involved in this; Madame would never forgive me for it, and as a mother-in-law, I should want to get along well with my newly found daughter.”
“The king, madame, will take all upon himself. But let me reflect.”
“The king, ma'am, will handle everything himself. But let me think for a moment.”
“What about?”
“What’s up?”
“It would be better, perhaps, if I were to go and see Madame in her own apartment.”
“It might be better if I went to see Madame in her own apartment.”
“Would that not seem a somewhat serious step to take?”
"Doesn't that seem like a pretty serious step to take?"
“Yes; but seriousness is not unbecoming in preachers, and the music of the ballet would drown half 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?”
“Yes; but being serious is appropriate for preachers, and the ballet music would overshadow half my points. Besides, the goal is to keep my brother from taking any drastic actions, so a bit of caution might be wise. Is Madame in her own room?”
“I believe so.”
"Yeah, I think so."
“What is my statement of grievances to consist of?”
“What should my list of grievances include?”
“In a few words, of the following: music uninterruptedly; Guiche’s assiduity; suspicions of treasonable plots and practices.”
“In a few words, here’s what’s going on: music non-stop; Guiche’s constant presence; doubts about betrayal and secret plans.”
“And the proofs?”
"And the evidence?"
“There are none.”
“There aren’t any.”
“Very well; I will 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 radiant as the morning. “I suppose my brother is kept a little at a distance,” said the king.
“Alright; I’ll go see Madame right away.” The king turned to gaze in the mirrors at his lavish outfit and his face, which was bright like the morning. “I guess my brother is being kept at arm’s length,” said the king.
“Fire and water cannot be more opposite.”
“Fire and water couldn’t be more different.”
“That will do. Permit me, madame, to kiss your hands, the most beautiful hands in France.”
“That's enough. Please, ma'am, allow me to kiss your hands, the most beautiful hands in France.”
“May you be successful, sire, as the family peacemaker.”
“Wishing you success, sir, as the one who keeps the peace in the family.”
“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 carelessly adjusted his ruffles as he went along.
“I don’t use an ambassador,” said Louis, “which basically means I’m going to succeed.” He laughed as he walked out of the room, casually fixing his ruffles as he went.
Chapter XXXIII. The Mediator.
When the king made his appearance in Madame’s apartments, the courtiers, whom the news of a conjugal misunderstanding had dispersed through the various apartments, began to entertain the most serious apprehensions. A storm was brewing in that direction, the elements of which the Chevalier de Lorraine, in the midst of the different 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 matter of no inconsiderable moment. 3
When the king showed up in Madame’s apartments, the courtiers, who had scattered to different rooms due to the news of a marital dispute, started to feel serious concerns. A storm was brewing over there, which the Chevalier de Lorraine, amidst the various groups, was enjoying analyzing, as he encouraged the weaker ones and manipulated the stronger ones to create the most disastrous outcomes possible for his own wicked purposes. As Anne of Austria had pointed out, the king’s presence added a serious and solemn tone to the situation. In 1662, the dissatisfaction of Monsieur with Madame and the king’s involvement in Monsieur's private matters was a significant issue. 3
The boldest, even, who had been the associates of the Comte de Guiche, had, from the first moment, held aloof from him, with a sort of nervous apprehension; and the comte himself, infected by the general panic, retired to his own room. 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. Although 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 fall upon them. One only of the number, whose long hair fell in silken masses upon the most beautiful skin imaginable, was pale, and could hardly sustain herself, notwithstanding the knocks which her companion gave her with her elbow. It was La Valliere whom Montalais supported in that manner by whispering some of that courage to her with which she herself was so abundantly 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 Madame’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 honor 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, as soon as he had remarked, with that accuracy of observation which characterized him, the disorder of the apartment, and the no less great disorder of Madame’s countenance, he assumed a playful manner, saying, “My dear sister, at what hour to-day would you wish the repetition of the ballet to take place?”
The boldest ones, who had been friends with the Comte de Guiche, had kept their distance from him from the very beginning, feeling a kind of nervous anxiety; and the comte himself, affected by the widespread fear, retreated to his own room. The king entered Madame’s private quarters, acknowledging and returning the greetings, as was his usual practice. The ladies-in-waiting stood in a line as he passed through the gallery. Although he was quite preoccupied, he scanned the two rows of young and beautiful girls, who modestly lowered their eyes, blushing as they felt the king's gaze fall upon them. One girl among them, with long hair cascading over the most beautiful skin imaginable, was pale and could barely hold herself up, despite the nudges her companion gave her with her elbow. It was La Valliere, being supported by Montalais, who whispered words of encouragement to her, which she had in abundance. The king couldn’t resist glancing back at them. Their faces, which had been raised, dropped again, but the only fair head among them stayed still, as if all her strength and spirit had left her. When he entered Madame’s room, Louis found his sister-in-law lounging on the cushions of her chamber. She stood and made a deep bow, murmuring some words of gratitude for the honor she was receiving. Then she sat back down, suddenly feeble, which was surely an act, since a lovely flush colored her cheeks, and her eyes, still red from recent tears, had never sparkled with more intensity. Once the king was seated, he noticed, with his usual keen observation, the mess in the room and the equally disheveled state of Madame’s appearance. He then adopted a playful tone, saying, “My dear sister, what time today would you like the ballet to be repeated?”
Madame, shaking her charming head, slowly and languishingly said: “Ah! sire, will you graciously excuse my appearance at the repetition? I was about to send to inform you that I could not attend to-day.”
Madame, shaking her charming head, slowly and wearily said: “Ah! Sire, would you kindly excuse my appearance at the meeting? I was about to message you to let you know that I couldn’t make it today.”
“Indeed,” said the king, in apparent surprise; “are you not well?”
“Really?” said the king, seeming surprised. “Are you not feeling well?”
“No, sire.”
“No, sir.”
“I will summon your medical attendants, then.”
“I'll call your doctors now.”
“No, for they can do nothing for my indisposition.”
“No, because they can’t do anything for my condition.”
“You alarm me.”
"You freak me out."
“Sire, I wish to ask your majesty’s permission to return to England.”
“Sire, I would like to request your majesty’s permission to return to England.”
The king started. “Return to England,” he said; “do you really say what you mean?”
The king reacted. “Go back to England,” he said; “are you truly saying what you mean?”
“I say it reluctantly, sire,” replied the grand-daughter of Henry IV., firmly, her beautiful black eyes flashing. “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.”
“I say this with hesitation, Your Majesty,” replied Henry IV's granddaughter, firmly, her beautiful black eyes flashing. “I regret having to share such matters with you, but I feel too unhappy at your court; and I want to return to my family.”
“Madame, madame,” exclaimed the king, as he approached her.
“Madam, madam,” the king exclaimed as he walked over to her.
“Listen to me, sire,” continued the young woman, acquiring by degrees that ascendency over her interrogator which her beauty and her nervous nature conferred; “young as I am, I have already suffered humiliation, and have endured disdain here. Oh! do not contradict me, sire,” she said, with a smile. The king colored.
“Listen to me, Your Majesty,” the young woman continued, gradually gaining the upper hand over her questioner, thanks to her beauty and her anxious demeanor. “Even though I’m young, I’ve already faced humiliation and dealt with disdain here. Oh! Please don’t contradict me, Your Majesty,” she said with a smile. The king flushed.
“Then,” she continued, “I had reasoned myself into the belief that Heaven 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 vowed that if Providence ever placed me in a position of independence, even were it that of a workman 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 to 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 I perceive I have found only a master, and I rebel. My mother shall know nothing of it; you whom I respect, and whom I—love—”
“Then,” she continued, “I convinced myself that Heaven brought me into this world for that purpose—I, the daughter of a powerful king; that since my father was taken from me, Heaven could very well humble my pride. I have suffered a lot; I have also caused my mother to suffer greatly; but I promised that if fate ever put me in a position of independence, even if it meant being a worker of the lower classes, earning my living through hard work, I would never face humiliation again. That day has now come; I have regained the fortune that comes with my status and birth; I have even risen back to a throne, and I thought that by marrying a French prince, I would find a relative, a friend, an equal; but I see that I have found only a master, and I refuse to accept it. My mother will not know anything about this; you, whom I respect, and whom I—love—”
The king started; never had any voice so gratified his ear.
The king was surprised; he had never heard a voice that pleased him so much.
“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 go away. I leave it to your delicacy of feeling to exculpate and to protect me.”
“You, sir, who know everything, since you’ve arrived here; you might understand me. If you hadn’t come, I would have gone to you. I ask for permission to leave. I trust your sensitivity to justify and 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?”
“My dear sister,” the king whispered, taken aback by this bold move, “have you thought about the immense challenge of the plan you’ve come up with?”
“Sire, I do not reflect, I feel. Attacked, I instinctively repel the attack, nothing more.”
“Sire, I don’t think, I just feel. When I’m attacked, I instinctively defend myself, that’s all.”
“Come, tell me, what have they done to you?” said the king.
“Come on, tell me, what did they do to you?” said the king.
The princess, it will have been seen, by this peculiarly feminine maneuver, had escaped every reproach, and advanced on her side a far more serious one; from the 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 such means of turning the tables. The king had forgotten that he was paying her a visit in order to say to her, “What have you done to my brother?” and he was reduced to weakly asking her, “What have they done to you?”
The princess, as you can see, with this uniquely feminine tactic, had dodged all blame and shifted a much more serious accusation onto the accused; she went from being the one blamed to the one accusing. It's a sure sign of guilt; yet, no matter how clever or not, all women seem to know how to find a way to flip the situation. The king had forgotten that he was there to ask her, “What have you done to my brother?” and instead, he found himself weakly asking 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 shed tears;” and, with one of her fingers, whose slenderness and perfect whiteness were unequaled, she pointed to her brilliant eyes swimming with unshed drops, and again began to weep.
“What have they done to me?” replied Madame. “You have to be a woman to get it, sire—they’ve made me cry;” and, with one of her fingers, which was slender and perfectly white, she pointed to her bright eyes filled with unshed tears, and started to cry again.
“I implore you, my dear sister!” said the king, advancing to take her warm and throbbing hand, which she abandoned to him.
“I beg you, my dear sister!” said the king, stepping forward to take her warm and throbbing hand, which she willingly gave 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 we been to pass our days together, with our other friends, upon the beautiful piece of water at St. James’s.”
“In the first place, Your Majesty, I was missing my brother’s friend. The Duke of Buckingham was a pleasant and cheerful guest; he was from my own country and understood my ways; I would even say he was almost a companion, as we had grown so used to spending our days together with our other friends by the lovely lake at St. James’s.”
“But Villiers was in love with you.”
“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! sire, it is not sufficient for a man to love a woman.” And she smiled so tenderly, and with so much archness, that the king felt his heart swell and throb in his breast.
“A pretext! What does it matter,” she said earnestly, “whether the duke was in love with me or not? Is a man in love really that dangerous for me? Ah! Your Highness, it's not enough for a man to love a woman.” And she smiled so sweetly, with such cleverness, that the king felt his heart swell and beat in his chest.
“At all events, if my brother were jealous?” interrupted the king.
“At any rate, what if my brother is jealous?” interrupted the king.
“Very well, I admit that is a reason; and the duke was sent away accordingly.”
“Alright, I admit that’s a reason; so the duke was sent away as a result.”
“No, not sent away.”
“No, not shipped away.”
“Driven away, dismissed, expelled, then, if you prefer it, sire. One of the first gentlemen of Europe obliged 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 a most gallant court; but forgive me, sire; I forgot, that, in speaking thus, I am attacking your sovereign power.”
“Driven away, dismissed, expelled, then, if you prefer, your majesty. One of the foremost gentlemen of Europe forced to leave the court of King Louis XIV of France like a beggar, all because of a look or a bouquet. It doesn’t reflect well on such a chivalrous court; but forgive me, your majesty; I forgot that by saying this, I’m challenging your authority.”
“I assure you, my dear sister, it was not I who dismissed the Duke of Buckingham; I was charmed with him.”
“I promise you, my dear sister, it wasn’t me who let go of the Duke of Buckingham; I was really taken with him.”
“It was not you?” said Madame; “ah! so much the better;” and she emphasized the “so much the better,” as if she had instead said, “so much the worse.”
“It wasn’t you?” said Madame; “oh! that’s great;” and she stressed the “that’s great,” as if she had actually said, “that’s too bad.”
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 found another pretext; all at once—”
A few minutes of silence followed. She then continued: “Now that the Duke of Buckingham has left—I understand why and how—I thought I would regain my peace of mind; but not at all, because suddenly Monsieur found another excuse; just like that—”
“All at once,” said the king, playfully, “some one else presents himself. It is but natural; you are beautiful, and will always meet with men who will madly love you.”
“Suddenly,” said the king, playfully, “someone else appears. It’s only natural; you’re beautiful, and you’ll always attract men who will love you passionately.”
“In that case,” exclaimed the princess, “I will create a solitude around me, which indeed seems to be what is wished, and what is being prepared for me. But no, I prefer to return to London. There I am known and appreciated. I shall 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 a tyrant to a woman.”
“In that case,” shouted the princess, “I will create a solitude around me, which really seems to be what’s wanted and what’s being arranged for me. But no, I’d rather go back to London. There, I’m known and appreciated. I’ll have friends without worrying that they’ll be seen as my lovers. How embarrassing! It’s a disgraceful accusation and unworthy of a gentleman. Monsieur has lost all my respect since he’s shown me he can be a tyrant to a woman.”
“Nay, nay, my brother’s only fault is that of loving you.”
“Nah, nah, my brother’s only mistake is that he loves 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.”
“Love me! Sir, love me! Ah! Your Highness,” and she burst out laughing. “You will never love any woman,” she said; “you love yourself too much; sadly for me, your jealousy is the worst kind—it’s jealousy without love.”
“Confess, however,” said the king, who began to be excited by this varied and animated conversation; “confess that Guiche loves you.”
“Come on, confess,” said the king, who was getting caught up in this lively and animated chat; “admit that Guiche loves you.”
“Ah! sire, I know nothing about that.”
“Ah! Sir, I don’t know anything about that.”
“You must have perceived it. A man who loves readily betrays himself.”
“You must have noticed it. A man who loves easily reveals his true self.”
“M. de Guiche has not betrayed himself.”
“M. de Guiche hasn’t given himself away.”
“My dear sister, you are defending M. de Guiche.”
“My dear sister, you are defending M. de Guiche.”
“I, indeed! Ah, sire, I only needed a suspicion from yourself to crown my wretchedness.”
“I, really! Ah, sir, I just needed a hint from you to complete my misery.”
“No, madame, no,” returned the king, hurriedly; “do not distress yourself. Nay, you are weeping. I implore you to calm yourself.”
“No, ma'am, no,” the king replied quickly; “please don’t upset yourself. No, you're crying. I urge you to relax.”
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 tenderness that he felt his heart giving way under her gaze.
She cried, and big tears fell onto 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 tenderness that he felt his heart melting under her gaze.
“You have no kind of feeling, then, for Guiche?” he said, more disturbed than became his character of mediator.
“You don’t have any feelings for Guiche at all?” he asked, more shaken than was fitting for his role as a mediator.
“None—absolutely none.”
“None—absolutely none.”
“Then I can reassure my brother in that respect?”
“Then I can reassure my brother about that?”
“Nothing will satisfy him, sire. Do not believe he is jealous. Monsieur has been badly advised by some one, and he is of nervous disposition.”
“Nothing will make him happy, sir. Don't think he's jealous. He’s been poorly advised by someone, and he's pretty anxious.”
“He may well be so when you are concerned,” said the king.
“He might be when it comes to you,” said the king.
Madame cast down her eyes, and was silent; the king did so likewise, still holding her hand all the while. Their momentary silence seemed to last an age. Madame gently withdrew her hand, and from that moment, she felt her triumph was certain, and that the field of battle was her own.
Madame looked down and fell silent; the king did the same, still holding her hand the whole time. Their brief silence felt like it lasted forever. Madame slowly pulled her hand away, and from that moment, she sensed her victory was assured and that the battlefield was hers.
“Monsieur complains,” said the king, “that you prefer the society of private individuals to his own conversation and society.”
“Mr. complains,” said the king, “that you prefer being with regular people instead of having conversations and spending time with him.”
“But Monsieur passes his life in looking at his face in the glass, and in plotting all sorts of spiteful things against women with the Chevalier de Lorraine.”
“But the man spends his life staring at his reflection in the mirror and coming up with all sorts of spiteful schemes against women with the Chevalier de Lorraine.”
“Oh, you are going somewhat too far.”
“Oh, you’re going a bit too far.”
“I only tell you what is true. Do you observe for yourself, sire, and you will see that I am right.”
“I’m only telling you what’s true. If you look for yourself, sire, you’ll see that I’m right.”
“I will observe; but, in the meantime, what satisfaction can I give my brother?”
“I'll keep an eye on things; but in the meantime, what can I do to make my brother happy?”
“My departure.”
"My exit."
“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 thoroughly changed.
“You keep saying that word,” the king exclaimed foolishly, as if, in the last ten minutes, there had been such a change that Madame would have completely changed her views on the subject.
“Sire, I cannot be happy here any longer,” she said. “M. de Guiche annoys Monsieur. Will he be sent away, too?”
“Sire, I can't stay here and be happy anymore,” she said. “M. de Guiche is bothering Monsieur. Will he be sent away as well?”
“If it be necessary, why not?” replied the king, smiling.
“If it’s necessary, why not?” replied the king, smiling.
“Well; and after M. de Guiche—whom, by the by, I shall regret—I warn you, sire.”
"Well; and after M. de Guiche—who, by the way, I'll miss—I warn you, sire."
“Ah, you will regret him?”
“Ah, you'll regret him?”
“Certainly; he is amiable, he has a great friendship for me, and he amuses me.”
“Of course; he’s friendly, he’s a good friend to me, and he makes me laugh.”
“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.”
“If the gentleman only knew what you said,” the king replied, a bit annoyed, “you know I wouldn’t even try to fix things between you; in fact, I wouldn’t even make the effort.”
“Sire, can you, even now, prevent Monsieur from being jealous of the first person who may approach? I know very well that M. de Guiche is not the first.”
“Sire, can you, even now, stop Monsieur from getting jealous of the first person who might come close? I know very well that M. de Guiche isn’t the first.”
“Again I warn you that as a good brother I shall take a dislike to De Guiche.”
“Once again, I remind you that as a good brother, I’m going to dislike De Guiche.”
“Ah, sire, do not, I entreat you, adopt either the sympathies or the dislikes of Monsieur. Remain king; better for yourself and for every one else.”
“Ah, Your Majesty, please don’t, I beg you, take on either the likes or dislikes of Monsieur. Stay true to your role as king; it’s better for you and for everyone else.”
“You jest charmingly, madame; and I can well understand how the people you attack must adore you.”
“You joke delightfully, madam; and I can totally see why the people you go after must love you.”
“And is that the reason why you, sire, whom I had regarded as my defender, are about to join these who persecute me?” said Madame.
“And is that the reason why you, my lord, whom I saw as my protector, are about to join those who are after me?” said Madame.
“I your persecutor! Heaven forbid!”
“I’m your persecutor! Heaven forbid!”
“Then,” she continued, languishingly, “grant me a favor.”
“Then,” she continued, with a sigh, “please do me a favor.”
“Whatever you wish.”
"Anything you want."
“Let me return to England.”
“Let me go back to England.”
“Never, never!” exclaimed Louis XIV.
"Never, never!" exclaimed Louis XIV.
“I am a prisoner, then?”
“Am I a prisoner, then?”
“In France—if France is a prison—yes.”
“In France—if France is a prison—then yes.”
“What must I do, then?”
“What should I do now?”
“I will tell you. Instead of devoting yourself to friendships which are somewhat unstable, instead of alarming us by your retirement, remain always in our society, do not leave us, let us live as a united family. M. de Guiche is certainly very amiable; but if, at least, we do not possess his wit—”
“I’ll tell you. Instead of focusing on friendships that are a bit shaky, and instead of scaring us by pulling away, stay with us. Don’t leave, let’s live as a close-knit family. M. de Guiche is definitely very nice, but if we don’t at least have his wit—”
“Ah, sire, you know very well you are pretending to be modest.”
“Ah, sir, you know very well you’re just pretending to be humble.”
“No, I swear to you. One may be a king, and yet feel that he possesses fewer chances of pleasing than many other gentlemen.”
“No, I promise you. A person can be a king and still feel like they have fewer chances of pleasing others than many other guys.”
“I am sure, sire, that you do not believe a single word you are saying.”
“I’m sure, Your Majesty, that you don’t believe a word you’re saying.”
The king looked at Madame tenderly, and said, “Will you promise me one thing?”
The king gazed at Madame affectionately and said, “Will you promise me one thing?”
“What is it?”
"What's it?"
“That you will no longer waste upon strangers, in your own apartments, the time which you owe us. Shall we make an offensive and defensive alliance against the common enemy?”
“Stop wasting time on strangers in your own home that you owe to us. Should we form an alliance to fight against our common enemy?”
“An alliance with you, sire?”
"An alliance with you, Your Majesty?"
“Why not? Are you not a sovereign power?”
“Why not? Aren't you a sovereign power?”
“But are you, sire, a reliable ally?”
“But are you, sir, a trustworthy ally?”
“You shall see, madame.”
"You'll see, ma'am."
“And when shall this alliance commence?”
“And when will this partnership start?”
“This very day.”
"Today."
“I will draw up the treaty, and you shall sign it.”
“I’ll create the treaty, and you’ll sign it.”
“Blindly.”
“Blindly.”
“Then, sire, I promise you wonders; you are the star of the court, and when you make your appearance, everything will be resplendent.”
“Then, sir, I promise you amazing things; you are the star of the court, and when you show up, everything will shine.”
“Oh, madame, madame,” said Louis XIV., “you know well that there is no brilliancy that does not proceed from yourself, and that if I assume the sun as my device, it is only an emblem.”
“Oh, ma'am, ma'am,” said Louis XIV., “you know very well that there’s no brilliance that doesn’t come from you, and that if I take the sun as my symbol, it’s just an emblem.”
“Sire, you flatter your ally, and you wish to deceive her,” said Madame, threatening the king with her finger menacingly raised.
“Sire, you're flattering your ally, and you want 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?”
“What! You really think I’m lying to you when I promise you my love?”
“Yes.”
“Yep.”
“What makes you so suspicious?”
“What makes you so wary?”
“One thing.”
"One thing."
“What is it? I shall indeed be unhappy if I do not overcome it.”
“What is it? I will definitely be unhappy if I don't get through it.”
“That one thing in question, sire, is not in your power, not even in the power of Heaven.”
"That one thing we’re talking about, sire, is beyond your control, not even within the power of Heaven."
“Tell me what it is.”
"Tell me what it is."
“The past.”
"The past."
“I do not understand, madame,” said the king, precisely because he had understood her but too well.
“I don’t understand, ma'am,” said the king, exactly because he understood her all too well.
The princess took his hand in hers. “Sire,” she said, “I have 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.”
The princess took his hand. “Sire,” she said, “I’ve been unfortunate enough to upset you for so long that I can almost question why you were able to accept me as a sister-in-law today.”
“Displease me! You have displeased me?”
“Did you upset me? You’ve upset me?”
“Nay, do not deny it, for I remember it well.”
“Nah, don’t deny it, because I remember it clearly.”
“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 princess before a mirror, in which she saw herself reflected, blushing and beautiful enough to overcome a saint.
“Starting today, we’re allies,” the king said, genuinely excited. “You won’t dwell on the past any longer, right? I’ve made up my mind to leave it behind. I will always cherish the moment we’re in; just look.” He guided the princess to a mirror, where she saw her reflection, blushing and beautiful enough to tempt a saint.
“It is all the same,” she murmured; “it will not be a very worthy alliance.”
“It’s all the same,” she whispered; “it won’t be a very worthwhile alliance.”
“Must I swear?” inquired the king, intoxicated by the voluptuous turn the whole conversation had taken.
“Do I really have to swear?” asked the king, excited by the indulgent direction the whole conversation had gone.
“Oh, I will not refuse to witness a resounding oath,” said Madame; “it has always the semblance of security.”
“Oh, I won’t refuse to witness a strong vow,” said Madame; “it always has the appearance of safety.”
The king knelt upon a footstool and took Madame’s hand. She, with a smile that no painter could ever succeed in depicting, and which a poet might only imagine, gave him both her hands, in which he hid his burning face. Neither 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 de Lorraine, however, hastened to say, “Nay, be comforted, gentlemen, his majesty is always pale when he is angry.”
The king knelt on a footstool and took Madame's hand. She, with a smile that no artist could ever capture, and which only a poet might imagine, offered him both her hands, in which he buried his burning face. Neither of them could say a word. The king felt Madame pull her hands away, gently stroking his face as she did. He stood up immediately and left the room. The courtiers noticed his flushed face and concluded that the moment had been intense. The Chevalier de Lorraine, however, quickly said, “No, don’t worry, gentlemen, his majesty always looks pale when he's angry.”
Chapter XXXIV. The Advisers.
The king left Madame in a state of agitation it would have been difficult even for himself to have explained. It is impossible, in fact, to depict the secret play of those strange sympathies which, suddenly and apparently without 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 captivating? And why, not only were his thoughts occupied about her, but still more, why were they so continuously occupied about her? Why, in fact, had Madame, whose eyes and mind were sought for in another direction, shown during the last week towards the king a semblance of favor which encouraged the belief of still greater regard. It must not be supposed that Louis proposed to himself any plan of seduction; the tie which united Madame to his brother was, or at least, seemed to 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, towards which youth impels us, no one can decide where to stop, not even the man who has in advance calculated all the chances of his own success or 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. Hers was one of those buoyant, impetuous natures, which upon a theatre would leap over the greatest obstacles to obtain an acknowledgement of applause from the spectators. It was not surprising, then, that, after having been adored by Buckingham, by De Guiche, who was superior to Buckingham, even if it were only from that negative merit, so much appreciated by women, that is to say, novelty—it was not surprising, we say, that the princess should raise her ambition to being admired by the king, who not only was the first person in the kingdom, but was one of the handsomest and cleverest men in Europe. As for the sudden passion with which Louis was inspired for his sister-in-law, physiology would perhaps supply an explanation by some hackneyed commonplace reasons, and nature by means of her mysterious affinity of characters. Madame had the most beautiful black eyes in the world; Louis, eyes as beautiful, but blue. Madame was laughter-loving and unreserved in her manners; Louis, melancholy and diffident. Summoned to meet each other for the first time upon the grounds of interest and common curiosity, these two opposite natures were mutually influenced by the mingling 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, whilst 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 wish fulfilled.
The king left Madame feeling agitated in a way even he would have found hard to explain. It's impossible to capture the secret dynamics of those strange attractions that, suddenly and seemingly for no reason, spark to life after many years of calm indifference between two hearts meant to love each other. Why had Louis previously looked down on, even hated, Madame? Why did he now see the same woman as so beautiful and captivating? And why were his thoughts not only focused on her, but why were they so persistently on her? Why had Madame, whose attention was meant to be elsewhere, shown the king a hint of favor over the last week that suggested deeper feelings? It shouldn't be assumed that Louis had any intentions of seduction; the bond tying Madame to his brother was, or at least appeared to him to be, an unbreakable barrier. He was even too far removed from that barrier to notice it. But as one follows the thrilling path of passions that the heart delights in, which youth urges us towards, no one can determine where to stop, not even someone who has already calculated their chances of success or another's capitulation. As for Madame, her admiration for the king is easy to understand: she was young, flirtatious, and loved attention. She had one of those lively, impulsive natures that would leap over any obstacle on stage to gain applause from onlookers. So it’s no surprise that, after being adored by Buckingham and De Guiche—who was more impressive than Buckingham even if only due to the novelty that women appreciate—it makes sense that the princess would aspire to win the king’s admiration. He wasn't just the foremost person in the kingdom; he was also one of the most handsome and intelligent men in Europe. Regarding the sudden passion Louis felt for his sister-in-law, biology might offer a mundane explanation, while nature might suggest a mysterious affinity between their personalities. Madame had the most beautiful black eyes in the world; Louis had equally stunning blue ones. Madame was cheerful and open in her demeanor; Louis was brooding and shy. Brought together for the first time by shared interests and curiosity, these two opposing personalities influenced each other through their contrasting traits. When he returned to his chambers, Louis admitted to himself that Madame was the most attractive woman at his court. Left alone, Madame happily believed she had made a strong impression on the king. This feeling for her had to remain passive, while the king could only act with the intensity of a young man's heated desires, and a young man who just needed to express a wish to see it fulfilled.
The first thing the king did was to announce to Monsieur 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 very careful management.
The first thing the king did was to tell Monsieur that everything was quietly arranged; that Madame had the utmost respect and sincere affection for him; but that she had a proud, impulsive nature, and her sensitivities were so intense that they required very careful handling.
Monsieur replied in the reticent tone of voice he generally adopted with his brother, that he could not very well understand the susceptibilities of a woman whose conduct might, in his opinion, expose her to censorious remarks, and that if any one had a right 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, Madame is above censure.”
Monsieur replied in the reserved tone he usually used with his brother that he couldn't quite understand the sensitivities of a woman whose behavior might, in his view, make her subject to criticism, and that if anyone had a reason to feel hurt, it was him, Monsieur himself. The king responded quickly, showing his concern for his sister-in-law, "Thank goodness, Madame is beyond reproach."
“The censure of others, certainly, I admit,” said Monsieur; “but not above mine, I presume.”
“The criticism of others, I can agree with,” said Monsieur; “but not above my own, I assume.”
“Well,” said the king, “all I have 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 understood in France, and the liberty of English manners sometimes surprises those who do not know the extent to which this liberty is enriched by innocence.”
“Well,” said the king, “all I want to say, Philip, is that Madame’s behavior doesn't deserve your criticism. She’s certainly careless and unique, but she has the best intentions. The English character isn’t always well understood in France, and the freedom of English behavior can sometimes surprise those who aren’t aware of how much this freedom is strengthened 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 say.”
“Ah!” said Monsieur, increasingly annoyed, “the moment your majesty clears my wife, whom I accuse, she is innocent, and I have nothing more to add.”
“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 I have said, has been only for your happiness. I was told that you complained of a want of confidence and attention on Madame’s part, and I did not wish your uneasiness to be prolonged. It is part of my duty to watch over your household, as over that of the humblest of my subjects. I have satisfied myself, therefore, with the sincerest pleasure, that your apprehensions have no foundation.”
“Philip,” the king replied quickly, feeling a twinge of guilt in his heart, realizing that Monsieur wasn’t entirely wrong, “everything I’ve done and said has been for your happiness. I heard you were worried about a lack of attention from Madame, and I wanted to ease your concerns. It’s part of my duty to look after your household just like I do with the least of my subjects. So, I’m genuinely pleased to confirm that your worries are unfounded.”
“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 superior judgment—have you verified for those who have been the cause of the scandal of which I complain?”
“And,” continued Monsieur, in a questioning tone, fixing his gaze on his brother, “what your majesty has found out for Madame —and I respect your superior judgment—have you checked for those who are responsible for the scandal I’m complaining about?”
“You are right, Philip,” said the king; “I will reserve that point for future consideration.”
"You’re right, Philip," said the king. "I'll keep that point for future consideration."
These words comprised an order as well as a consolation; the prince felt it to be so, and withdrew.
These words were both a command and a comfort; the prince realized this and left.
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 for Louis, he went to find his mother because he felt he needed a more thorough forgiveness than what he had just gotten from his brother. Anne of Austria didn’t have the same reasons to be lenient with M. de Guiche as she did for Buckingham. She noticed right from the first words he spoke that Louis wasn’t in the mood to be strict.
To appear in a contradictory humor 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. Listening to Anne of Austria, in order to permit her to disclose her own thoughts, testifying his approval only by look and gesture, he became convinced, from certain piercing 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 important to secure; of all his enemies, Anne of Austria would prove most dangerous. Louis, therefore, changed his maneuvers. He complained of Madame, absolved Monsieur, listened to what his mother had to say of De Guiche, as he had previously listened to what she had to say of Buckingham, and then, when he saw that she thought she had gained a complete victory over him, he left her.
To act in a contradictory way was one of the strategies of the good queen, used to uncover the truth. But Louis was no longer a novice; he had been king for over a year now, and during that time he had learned how to disguise his true feelings. While listening to Anne of Austria, allowing her to express her own thoughts, he showed his approval only through looks and gestures. He became convinced, from certain sharp glances and clever hints, that the queen, who was very perceptive when it came to romantic matters, had at least suspected, if not figured out, his feelings for Madame. Of all his allies, securing Anne of Austria was the most crucial; of all his adversaries, she would be the most dangerous. Louis, therefore, changed his approach. He criticized Madame, defended Monsieur, listened to what his mother had to say about De Guiche just as he had previously listened to her views on Buckingham, and then, when he realized she thought she had outsmarted him, he walked away.
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 the number was one which he hoped and feared nearly to an equal extent. It was that of the Chevalier de Lorraine. About three o’clock in the afternoon the chevalier entered De Guiche’s rooms. His looks were of the most reassuring character. “Monsieur,” said he to De Guiche, “was in an excellent humor, and no none could say that the slightest cloud had passed across the conjugal sky. Besides, Monsieur was not one to bear ill-feeling.”
The entire court, meaning all the favorites and closer associates—who were quite a few since there were already five masters—gathered in the evening for the ballet rehearsal. During this time, poor De Guiche was busy receiving visits; among them was one he anticipated and dreaded almost equally. It was the Chevalier de Lorraine. Around three o’clock that afternoon, the chevalier came into De Guiche’s rooms. He looked very reassuring. “Monsieur,” he said to De Guiche, “was in a great mood, and no one could say that there was the slightest hint of trouble in the marriage. Besides, Monsieur was not one to hold grudges.”
For a 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, indifferently disposed at bottom; but certainly a cipher for his friends. He especially cheered De Guiche, by pointing out to him that Madame would, before long, succeed in governing her husband, and that, consequently, that man would govern Monsieur who should succeed in influencing Madame.
For a long time, while at court, the Chevalier de Lorraine had figured out that of Louis XIII's two sons, Monsieur was the one who took after their father—an uncertain, indecisive personality; impulsively kind but essentially indifferent; and definitely a non-entity to his friends. He particularly encouraged De Guiche by telling him that Madame would soon manage to control her husband, and that, as a result, the person who influenced Madame would be the one who could influence Monsieur.
To this, De Guiche full of mistrust and presence of mind, replied, “Yes, chevalier; but I believe Madame to be a very dangerous person.”
To this, De Guiche, filled with suspicion and quick thinking, replied, “Yes, chevalier; but I think Madame is a very dangerous person.”
“In what respect?”
"In what way?"
“She has perceived that Monsieur is not very passionately inclined towards women.”
“She has noticed that Monsieur isn’t very passionate about women.”
“Quite true,” said the Chevalier de Lorraine, laughing.
"That's true," said the Chevalier de Lorraine, laughing.
“In that case, Madame will choose the first one who approaches, in order to make him the object of her preference, and to bring back her husband by jealousy.”
“In that case, Madame will pick the first person who comes up, so she can make him the focus of her attention and make her husband come back out of jealousy.”
“Deep! deep!” exclaimed the chevalier.
"Deep! Deep!" exclaimed the knight.
“But true,” replied De Guiche.
"But it's true," replied De Guiche.
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 penetration, was leading him, blindfolded, to the brink of the precipice. De Guiche then questioned him more directly upon the effect produced by the scene of the morning, and upon the still more serious effect produced by the scene at dinner.
Neither of them expressed what they really thought. De Guiche, while attacking Madame’s character, was silently asking her for forgiveness from the bottom of his heart. The chevalier, admiring De Guiche’s insight, was leading him blindly to the edge of a dangerous situation. De Guiche then asked him more directly about the impact of the scene from the morning and the even more serious impact of the dinner scene.
“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.”
“But I already told you they’re all laughing at it,” replied the Chevalier de Lorraine, “and Monsieur himself is leading the laughter.”
“Yet,” hazarded De Guiche, “I have heard that the king paid Madame a visit.”
“Yet,” De Guiche said cautiously, “I’ve heard that the king visited Madame.”
“Yes, precisely so. Madame was the only one who did not laugh, and the king went to her in order to make her laugh, too.”
“Yes, exactly. Madame was the only one who didn’t laugh, and the king went over to her to try to make her laugh, too.”
“So that—”
"So that—"
“So that nothing is altered in the arrangements of the day,” said the chevalier.
“So that nothing is changed in the schedule for the day,” said the knight.
“And is there a repetition of the ballet this evening?”
“And is there a repeat of the ballet tonight?”
“Certainly.”
"Sure."
“Are you sure?”
"Are you certain?"
“Quite,” returned the chevalier.
"Definitely," replied the chevalier.
At this moment of the conversation between the two 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.
At that moment during the conversation between the two young men, Raoul walked in, looking very anxious. As soon as the chevalier, who secretly disliked him just like he did with any other noble character, noticed him come in, he got up from his seat.
“What do you advise me to do, then?” inquired De Guiche of the chevalier.
“What do you suggest I do, then?” De Guiche asked the chevalier.
“I advise you to go to sleep in perfect tranquillity, my dear count.”
“I recommend you get some sleep in complete peace, my dear count.”
“And my advice, De Guiche,” said Raoul, “is the very opposite.”
“And my advice, De Guiche,” Raoul said, “is completely the opposite.”
“What is that?”
"What's 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.”
“To get on your horse and head straight for one of your estates; once you arrive, you can take the knight's advice if you want; and what's more, you can stay there and sleep as long and as peacefully as you like.”
“What! set off!” exclaimed the chevalier, feigning surprise; “why should De Guiche set off?”
“What! leave already!” exclaimed the knight, pretending to be surprised; “why would De Guiche leave?”
“Because, and you cannot be ignorant of it—you particularly so— because every one is talking about the scene which has passed between Monsieur and De Guiche.”
“Because, and you can't ignore it—you especially—because everyone is talking about the incident that just happened between Monsieur and De Guiche.”
De Guiche turned pale.
De Guiche went pale.
“Not at all,” replied the chevalier, “not at all; and you have been wrongly informed, M. de Bragelonne.”
“Not at all,” replied the knight, “not at all; and you have been misinformed, M. de Bragelonne.”
“I have been perfectly well informed, on the contrary, monsieur,” replied Raoul, “and the advice I give De Guiche is that of a friend.”
“I’ve been completely informed, actually, sir,” replied Raoul, “and the advice I’m giving De Guiche is from a friend.”
During this discussion, 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.
During this conversation, De Guiche, a bit rattled, glanced back and forth between his advisers. Deep down, he sensed that a game, significant in its impact on the rest of his life, was unfolding right then and there.
“Is it not fact,” said the chevalier, putting the question to the count himself, “is it not fact, De Guiche, that the scene was not so tempestuous as the Vicomte de Bragelonne seems to think, and who, moreover, was not himself there?”
“Is it not a fact,” said the knight, directly asking the count, “is it not a fact, De Guiche, that the situation wasn’t as stormy as the Vicomte de Bragelonne believes, and who, by the way, wasn’t even there himself?”
“Whether tempestuous or not,” persisted Raoul, “it is not precisely of the scene itself that I am speaking, but of the consequences that may ensue. I know that Monsieur has threatened, I know that Madame has been in tears.”
“Whether it’s stormy or not,” Raoul continued, “I’m not really talking about the scene itself, but about the consequences that could follow. I know that Monsieur has made threats, and I know that Madame has been crying.”
“Madame in tears!” exclaimed De Guiche, imprudently clasping his hands.
“Madame is crying!” exclaimed De Guiche, foolishly 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.”
“Ah!” said the knight, laughing, “this is definitely a situation I wasn’t aware of. You are certainly better informed than I am, Mr. de Bragelonne.”
“And it is because I am better informed than yourself, chevalier, that I insist upon De Guiche leaving.”
“And it’s because I know more than you do, knight, that I insist on 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.”
“No, no; I’m sorry, but I have to disagree with you, vicomte; his leaving isn’t needed. Why, really, should he go? Tell us why.”
“The king!”
"King!"
“The king!” exclaimed De Guiche.
“The king!” De Guiche exclaimed.
“Yes; I tell you the king has taken up the affair.”
“Yes; I’m telling you the king is on it.”
“Bah!” said the chevalier, “the king likes De Guiche, and particularly his father; reflect, that, if the count were to leave, it would be an admission that he had done something which merited rebuke.”
“Bah!” said the knight, “the king likes De Guiche, especially his father; remember, if the count were to leave, it would mean he admitted to doing something worthy of criticism.”
“Why so?”
"Why's that?"
“No doubt of it; when one runs away, it is either from guilt or fear.”
“No doubt about it; when someone runs away, it’s either out of guilt or fear.”
“Sometimes, because a man is offended; often 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.”
“Sometimes it's because a man is upset; often it's because he's been wrongly accused,” said Bragelonne. “We’ll say he left because he felt hurt and wronged—nothing could be simpler; we'll claim that we both did everything we could to keep him here, and you, at least, won’t be saying anything but the truth. Come on, De Guiche, you're innocent, and since that's the case, today’s scene must have hurt you. So go on.”
“No, De Guiche, remain where you are,” said the chevalier; “precisely as M. de Bragelonne has put it, because you are innocent. Once more, forgive me, vicomte; but my opinion is the very opposite to your own.”
“No, De Guiche, stay where you are,” said the chevalier; “just as M. de Bragelonne said, because you’re innocent. Once again, I’m sorry, vicomte; but I honestly disagree with you.”
“And you are at perfect liberty to maintain it, monsieur; but be assured that the exile which De Guiche will voluntarily impose upon himself will be of short duration. He can terminate it whenever he pleases, and returning from his voluntary exile, he will meet with smiles from all lips; while, on the contrary, the anger of the king may now draw down a storm upon his head, the end of which no one can foresee.”
“And you’re totally free to keep that opinion, sir; but rest assured that the exile De Guiche chooses for himself won’t last long. He can end it whenever he wants, and when he returns from his self-imposed exile, everyone will greet him with smiles; on the other hand, the king’s anger could bring a storm down on him, and no one knows how that will turn out.”
The chevalier smiled, and muttered to himself, “That is the very thing I wish.” And at the same time he shrugged his shoulders, a movement which did not escape the count, who dreaded, if he quitted the court, to seem to yield to a feeling of fear.
The knight smiled and said to himself, “That’s exactly what I want.” At the same time, he shrugged his shoulders, a gesture that didn't go unnoticed by the count, who was afraid that leaving the court would make him look like he was giving in to fear.
“No, no; I have decided, Bragelonne; I stay.”
“No, no; I’ve made up my mind, Bragelonne; I’m staying.”
“I prophesy, then,” said Raoul, sadly, “that misfortune will befall you, De Guiche.”
“I predict, then,” said Raoul, sadly, “that bad luck will come your way, De Guiche.”
“I, too, am a prophet, but not a prophet of evil; on the contrary, count, I say to you, ‘remain.’”
“I’m also a prophet, but not one of evil; on the contrary, I say to you, ‘stay.’”
“Are you sure,” inquired De Guiche, “that the repetition of the ballet still takes place?”
“Are you sure,” De Guiche asked, “that the ballet is still happening again?”
“Quite sure.”
“Absolutely sure.”
“Well, you see, Raoul,” continued De Guiche, endeavoring 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 assiduity. Come, acknowledge that,” said the count to Raoul, who shook his head, saying, “I have nothing to add.”
“Well, you see, Raoul,” De Guiche continued, trying to smile, “the court isn't that sad or easily stirred up with internal conflicts when everyone is dancing so dedicatedly. Come on, admit it,” the count said to Raoul, who shook his head and replied, “I have nothing to add.”
“But,” inquired the chevalier, curious to learn whence Raoul had obtained his information, the exactitude of which he 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?”
“But,” the chevalier asked, eager to find out where Raoul got his information, which he secretly had to admit was accurate, “since you claim to be well informed, vicomte, how can you know more than I do, being one of the prince’s closest 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 will say no more, but confess myself defeated, and leave you in possession of the field of battle.”
“To such a statement, I submit. You should definitely be well informed, I agree; and since a man of honor cannot say anything he doesn't know is true or speak anything he doesn't genuinely believe, I won’t say anything further. I admit defeat and will leave you in control of the battlefield.”
Whereupon Raoul, who now seemed only to care to be left quiet, threw himself upon a couch, whilst the count summoned his servants to aid him in dressing. The chevalier, finding that time was passing away, wished to leave; but he feared, too, that Raoul, left alone with De Guiche, might yet influence him to change his mind. He therefore made use of his last resource.
Whereupon Raoul, who now seemed only to want some peace and quiet, threw himself onto a couch, while the count called his servants to help him get dressed. The chevalier, noticing that time was slipping away, wanted to leave; but he also worried that Raoul, left alone with De Guiche, might still convince him to change his mind. So, he decided to use his last option.
“Madame,” he said, “will be brilliant; she appears to-day in her costume of Pomona.”
“Madame,” he said, “will look stunning; she is wearing her Pomona costume today.”
“Yes, that is so,” exclaimed the count.
“Yes, that's true,” the count said.
“And she has just given directions in consequence,” continued the chevalier. “You know, Monsieur de Bragelonne, that the king is to appear as Spring.”
“And she just gave directions as a result,” continued the chevalier. “You know, Monsieur de Bragelonne, that the king is going 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 with Madame. I cannot absent myself without the king’s orders, since my departure would interrupt the ballet.”
“It will be impressive,” said De Guiche; “and that’s a better reason for me to stay than any you’ve given so far, because I’m supposed to represent Autumn and will have to dance with Madame. I can’t leave without the king’s orders, since my absence would disrupt the ballet.”
“I,” said the chevalier, “am to be only a simple egypan; 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, count.”
“I,” said the knight, “am just a simple egypan; it's true, I'm a terrible dancer, and my legs aren't well-shaped. Gentlemen, goodbye. Don't forget the basket of fruit that you're supposed to give to Pomona, count.”
“Rest assured,” said De Guiche, delightedly, “I shall forget nothing.”
“Don’t worry,” De Guiche said happily, “I won’t forget anything.”
“I am now quite certain that he will remain,” murmured the Chevalier de Lorraine to himself.
“I’m now pretty sure that he’s going to stay,” the Chevalier de Lorraine murmured to himself.
Raoul, 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 melancholy and melodious voice, “You are embarking in a most dangerous enterprise. I know you well; you go to extremes in everything, and the lady you love does so, too. Admitting for an instant that she should at last love you—”
Raoul, after the knight had left, didn't even try to talk his friend out of it, knowing it would be pointless. He simply said to the count, in his sad and melodic voice, “You’re getting into a very risky situation. I know you well; you always go all in, and the woman you love does the same. Just for a moment, if we assume she might finally love you—”
“Oh, never!” exclaimed De Guiche.
“Oh, no way!” exclaimed De Guiche.
“Why do you say never?”
"Why do you say never?"
“Because it would be a great misfortune for both of us.”
“Because it would be a huge mistake for both of us.”
“In that case, instead of regarding you simply imprudent, I cannot but consider you absolutely mad.”
“In that case, instead of seeing you as just careless, I can’t help but think you’re completely insane.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Are you perfectly sure—mind, answer me frankly—that you do not wish her whom you love to make any sacrifice for you?”
“Are you absolutely sure—seriously, be honest with me—that you don’t want the person you love to make any sacrifices for you?”
“Yes, yes; quite sure.”
“Yep, definitely.”
“Love her, then, at a distance.”
"Love her from a distance."
“What! at a distance?”
"What! From afar?"
“Certainly; what matters being present or absent, since you expect nothing from her? Love her portrait, a memento.”
“Of course; what does it matter if she's here or not, since you don't expect anything from her? Just appreciate her portrait, a keepsake.”
“Raoul!”
“Raoul!”
“Love is a shadow, an illusion, a chimera; be devoted to the affection itself, in giving a name to your ideality.”
“Love is just a shadow, an illusion, a fantasy; focus on the feeling itself when you label your ideal.”
“Ah!”
“Wow!”
“You turn away; your servants approach. I will say no more. In good or bad fortune, De Guiche, depend on me.”
“You look away; your servants come closer. I won’t say anything else. In good times or bad, De Guiche, count on me.”
“Indeed I shall do so.”
"Yes, I will do that."
“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.”
“Alright; that’s everything I needed to tell you. Take good care of yourself, De Guiche, and make sure you look your best. Goodbye.”
“You will not be present, then, at the ballet, vicomte?”
“You won’t be attending the ballet, then, vicomte?”
“No; I shall have a visit to pay in town. Farewell, De Guiche.”
“Not today; I need to make a visit in town. Goodbye, 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 carefully selected. A great number of courtiers, also 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 toilettes designed by different painters for the ballet of “The Demi-Gods,” for thus were termed the kings and queens of which Fontainebleau was about to become the Pantheon. Monsieur arrived, holding in his hand a drawing representing 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 coldness of manner were observed by all. M. de Guiche indemnified 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 interest. It is unquestionable that De Guiche had never looked so handsome, for Madame’s glance had its customary effect of lighting up the features of the son of the Marshal de Gramont. 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, towards one who loved her with such a depth of devotion. In her eyes the moment seemed to have arrived for an acknowledgement to the poor victim of the injustice of the morning. Her heart spoke, and murmured the name of De Guiche; the count 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; De Guiche at that moment reigned without a rival. But although Monsieur also looked very handsome, still he could not be compared to the count. It is well known—indeed all women say so—that a wide difference invariably 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 recognition of the young queen and of the queen-mother, and the careless and indifferent notice of Madame, which all the courtiers had remarked; all these motives gave the lover 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 the greater part of the drawings which were displayed for his inspection on every side, he gave his opinion or made his remarks upon them, and in this manner rendered some happy and others wretched by a single word. Suddenly his glance, which was smilingly directed towards Madame, detected the slight correspondence established between the princess and the count. He bit his lips, but when he opened them again to utter a few commonplace remarks, he said, advancing towards the queens:—
The reception was set to happen in the king's quarters. First, there were the queens, then Madame, and a few carefully chosen ladies from the court. A large number of selected courtiers filled the time before the dancing began by chatting, as people knew how to chat back then. None of the invited ladies showed up in the costumes for the fete, as the Chevalier de Lorraine had predicted, but many conversations were held about the lavish and creative outfits designed by various artists for the ballet of “The Demi-Gods,” referring to the kings and queens that Fontainebleau was about to turn into the Pantheon. Monsieur arrived, holding a drawing that represented his character; he seemed a bit anxious. He bowed politely to the young queen and his mother but greeted Madame almost dismissively. Everyone noticed how he acknowledged her and the coldness of his demeanor. M. de Guiche compensated for this by giving the princess a look full of passionate devotion, and it must be said that Madame, lifting her eyes, returned it with interest. Undoubtedly, De Guiche had never looked so handsome, as Madame’s gaze had its usual effect of lighting up the features of the son of the Marshal de Gramont. The king’s sister-in-law sensed a storm brewing above her, and she also realized that throughout the day, so ripe with future events, she had acted unjustly, if not treasonously, toward someone who loved her so deeply. It felt like the moment had come for her to acknowledge the poor victim of the morning’s injustice. Her heart spoke, whispering De Guiche’s name; the count was genuinely pitied and thus gained the upper hand over everyone else. Neither Monsieur, nor the king, nor the Duke of Buckingham crossed her mind any longer; at that moment, De Guiche reigned supreme. Although Monsieur looked handsome as well, he couldn’t compare to the count. It’s well-known—indeed, all women say so—that there’s a clear distinction between a lover’s looks and a husband’s. Furthermore, in this case, after Monsieur left, following the polite and affectionate greetings from the young queen and the queen mother, and the indifferent acknowledgment from Madame, which all the courtiers noticed, all these factors gave the lover an edge over the husband. Monsieur was too important a figure to pay attention to these details. Nothing is more evident than a firmly held belief in one's superiority proving the inferiority of the man who has such an opinion of himself. The king arrived. Everyone was curious about what might happen in the glance that began to stir the world, like Jupiter Tonans's brow. Louis was far from his brother’s gloom and was completely radiant. After surveying most of the drawings displayed for him on every side, he shared his opinions or made comments about them, bringing happiness to some and misery to others with just a single word. Suddenly, his gaze, which had been smilingly directed toward Madame, caught the slight connection between the princess and the count. He bit his lips, but when he opened them again to make a few standard remarks, he moved toward the queens and said:—
“I have just been informed that everything is now prepared 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, finishing, “all those who are now present to get ready to accompany me.”
“I just found out that everything is ready at Fontainebleau, just like I asked.” A sense of relief spread through the crowd, and the king noticed the eagerness on everyone’s face to get an invitation for the fetes. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” he added. Instantly, there was complete silence. “And I invite,” the king continued, “everyone here to prepare to come with me.”
Smiling faces were now everywhere visible, with the exception 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 conferred upon them by the invitation. When it came to De Guiche’s turn, the king said, “Ah! M. de Guiche, I did not see you.”
Smiling faces were now everywhere, except for Monsieur, who still looked upset. The various noblemen and ladies of the court then lined up to thank the king for the great honor of his invitation. When it was De Guiche’s turn, the king said, “Ah! M. de Guiche, I didn’t 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 will be glad to see you.”
The count bowed, and Madame turned pale. De Guiche was about to speak to express his thanks when the king said, “Count, this is the time for farming in the countryside; I'm sure your tenants in Normandy will be happy to see you.”
The king, after this pitiless attack, turned his back on the poor comte, whose turn it was now to become pale; he advanced a few steps towards the king, forgetting that the king is never spoken to except in reply to questions addressed.
The king, after this merciless attack, turned his back on the unfortunate count, who was now the one turning pale; he took a few steps toward the king, forgetting that the king is only spoken to in response to questions directed at him.
“I have perhaps misunderstood your majesty,” he stammered out.
“I may have misunderstood your majesty,” he stammered.
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,” allowing every syllable to fall slowly one by one.
The king turned his head slightly, and with a cold and stern look that pierced like a sword into the hearts of those in disgrace, repeated, “I said go back to your estates,” letting each word drop 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 Madame de Noailles. She heard nothing, or rather had pretended not to hear at all. The Chevalier de Lorraine looked on also, with one of those looks of fixed hostility that 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 in the king’s cabinet, the whole of the company having departed. Shadows seemed to dance before his eyes. He suddenly broke through the settled despair that overwhelmed him, and flew to hide himself in his own room, where Raoul awaited him, immovable in his own sad presentiments.
A cold sweat covered the comte’s face, his hands opened convulsively, and his hat, which he held between his trembling fingers, dropped to the ground. Louis looked for his mother’s gaze, as if to show her he was in control; he sought his brother’s triumphant expression, as if to ask if he was satisfied with the revenge taken; and finally, his eyes landed on Madame; but the princess was laughing and chatting with Madame de Noailles. She heard nothing, or rather, she pretended not to hear at all. The Chevalier de Lorraine also watched, with one of those stares of fixed hostility that seemed to give a man’s gaze the power of a lever when it lifts an obstacle, wrests it away, and tosses it aside. M. de Guiche was left alone in the king’s cabinet, with the entire company having left. Shadows seemed to dance before his eyes. He suddenly broke through the deep despair that overwhelmed him and rushed to hide in his own room, where Raoul awaited him, unmoving in his own sad premonitions.
“Well?” he murmured, seeing his friend enter, bareheaded, with a wild gaze and tottering gait.
“Well?” he whispered, watching his friend come in, without a hat, with a frantic look and unsteady walk.
“Yes, yes, it is true,” said De Guiche, unable to utter more, and falling exhausted upon the couch.
“Yes, yes, it’s true,” said De Guiche, unable to say anything more, and collapsing tiredly onto the couch.
“And she?” inquired Raoul.
"And her?" asked Raoul.
“She,” exclaimed his unhappy friend, as he raised his hand clenched in anger, towards Heaven. “She!—”
“She,” exclaimed his upset friend, raising his clenched fist in anger towards the sky. “She!—”
“What did she say and do?”
“What did she say and do?”
“She said that her dress suited her admirably, and then she laughed.”
“She said that her dress looked great on her, and then she laughed.”
A fit of hysteric laughter seemed to shatter his nerves, for he fell backwards, completely overcome.
A fit of hysterical laughter seemed to break his composure, as he fell backward, completely overwhelmed.
Chapter XXXV. Fontainebleau.
For four days, every kind of enchantment brought together in the magnificent gardens of Fontainebleau had converted this spot into a place of the most perfect enjoyment. 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, enrolments, payments. M. Colbert had amassed four millions of francs, and dispersed them with sleepless economy. He was horrified at the expenses which mythology involved; not a wood nymph, nor a dryad, that 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 Colbert could not restrain his delight. From time to time, he noticed Madame and the king setting forth on hunting expeditions, or preparing for the reception of different fantastic personages, solemn ceremonials, which had been extemporized a fortnight before, and in which Madame’s sparkling wit and the king’s magnificence were equally well displayed.
For four days, every kind of magic brought together in the stunning gardens of Fontainebleau turned this place into a realm of pure enjoyment. M. Colbert seemed to be everywhere at once. In the morning, he had to handle the expenses from the previous night; during the day, he managed programs, essays, enrollments, and payments. M. Colbert had gathered four million francs and spent them with relentless frugality. He was shocked by the costs associated with mythology; not a wood nymph or a dryad cost less than a hundred francs a day! Just the costume alone amounted to three hundred francs. The expense for powder and sulfur for fireworks reached a hundred thousand francs every night. On top of that, the illuminations along the edges of the water cost thirty thousand francs each evening. The fetes had been magnificent, and Colbert couldn’t contain his excitement. Occasionally, he noticed Madame and the king heading out for hunting trips or getting ready to greet various fantastical characters, elaborate ceremonies that had been quickly organized two weeks earlier, showcasing both Madame’s sparkling wit and the king’s grandeur.
For Madame, the heroine of the fete, replied to the addresses of the deputations from unknown races—Garamanths, Scythians, Hyperboreans, Caucasians, and Patagonians, 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 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 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 attractions 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 king himself proclaimed its truth by his every thought, word, and look. He formed his wishes, he drew his inspirations from Madame’s eyes, and his delight was unbounded when Madame deigned to smile upon him. And was Madame, 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 kingdom, 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, Monsieur 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 of porters. 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 distil 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 Guiche’s departure—subsided into his melancholy state three days after the court was installed at Fontainebleau.
For Madame, the star of the celebration, responded to the greetings from delegations of unfamiliar races—Garamanths, Scythians, Hyperboreans, Caucasians, and Patagonians—who seemed to rise from the ground just to congratulate her; and the king rewarded each representative of these groups with a diamond or some other valuable gift. Then the deputies, in verses that were somewhat amusing, compared the king to the sun and Madame to Phoebe, the sun’s sister, while the queen and Monsieur were hardly mentioned at all, as if the king had married Henrietta of England rather than Maria Theresa of Austria. The happy couple, holding hands and gently squeezing each other's fingers, took deep sips of the sweet brew of flattery, which amplifies the charms of youth, beauty, power, and love. Everyone at Fontainebleau was astonished by the rapid influence Madame had gained over the king and murmured among themselves that she was, in fact, the real queen; and truly, the king showcased this reality through his every thought, word, and glance. He shaped his desires and drew his inspiration from Madame’s gaze, feeling boundless joy whenever she chose to smile at him. And did Madame, intoxicated by the power she wielded as she saw everyone bowing to her, have an answer to whether she felt the same? This was a question she could barely articulate, but what she did know was that she had no wishes and felt completely happy. As a result of all these changes, stemming from the king's will, Monsieur, instead of being the second in command, had effectively become the third. It was now even worse than when De Guiche’s guitars played in Madame’s rooms; at least then, Monsieur could enjoy the satisfaction of intimidating those who bothered him. Since the departure of this rival, driven away thanks to his alliance with the king, Monsieur was now burdened by a heavier weight, though in a very different way. Every evening, Madame returned home utterly drained. Horse-riding, bathing in the Seine, shows, dinners beneath the leafy trees, balls by the grand canal, concerts, and so on; all of this would have worn out not just a slight and delicate woman, but even the strongest porter in the palace. It's true that, when it comes to dancing, concerts, and strolls, a woman can be far more resilient than the strongest of porters. Yet, no matter how strong a woman might be, there is a limit, and she cannot endure such a lifestyle for long. As for Monsieur, he didn't even have the consolation of seeing Madame relinquish her royal status in the evenings, as she stayed in the royal pavilion with the young queen and the queen mother. Unsurprisingly, the Chevalier de Lorraine remained by Monsieur's side, tirelessly pouring bitterness into every wound he suffered. Consequently, Monsieur—who had initially been in high spirits and had fully recovered since Guiche’s departure—sank back into his melancholy just three days after the court settled at Fontainebleau.
It happened, however, that, one day, about two o’clock in the afternoon, Monsieur, who had risen late, and had bestowed 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 project of collecting his own court, and of carrying Madame off with him to Moret, where he possessed a charming country house. He accordingly went to the queen’s pavilion, and was astonished, on entering, to find none of the royal servants 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 sempstress 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 was to be made of the expedition, that all the carriages had been placed at the park gates, and that they had all set out more than an hour ago.
It just so happened that one day, around two o’clock in the afternoon, Monsieur, who had gotten up late and spent more time than usual getting ready, decided, we repeat, that Monsieur, who hadn’t heard of any plans for the day, planned to gather his own entourage and take Madame with him to Moret, where he had a lovely country house. He went to the queen’s pavilion and was surprised to find that none of the royal servants were around when he walked in. Alone, he entered the rooms, with a door on the left leading to Madame’s apartment and the one on the right to the young queen’s. In his wife’s apartment, Monsieur was told by a seamstress who was working there that everyone had left at eleven o’clock to go bathe in the Seine, that there was going to be a big celebration for the outing, that all the carriages had been lined up at the park gates, and that they had all departed over 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.”
“Sounds great,” said Monsieur, “that’s a good idea; the heat is really unbearable, and I wouldn’t mind taking a bath, either.”
He summoned his servants, but no one came. He summoned those in attendance on Madame, but everybody had gone out. He went to the stables, where he was informed by a groom that there were no carriages of any description. He 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 towards the queen’s apartments, and penetrated as far as Anne of Austria’s oratory, where he perceived, through the half-opened tapestry-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 approached 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.”
He called for his servants, but no one came. He called for those with Madame, but everyone had gone out. He went to the stables, where a groom informed him that there were no carriages available. He asked for a couple of horses to 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, headed back to the queen’s quarters and made his way to Anne of Austria’s oratory, where he saw, through the slightly open tapestry, his young and beautiful sister on her knees before the queen-mother, who appeared to be crying bitterly. He hadn’t been seen or heard. He carefully approached the opening and listened, curiosity piqued by so much sorrow. Not only was the young queen crying, but she was also complaining. “Yes,” she said, “the king ignores me; the king only indulges in pleasures and amusements, which I’m not part of.”
“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 banos, which Maria Theresa accentuated with spiteful anger.
“Patience, patience, my daughter,” said Anne of Austria, in Spanish; and then, also in Spanish, added some advice that Monsieur didn’t understand. The queen responded with accusations, mixed with sighs and sobs, among which Monsieur often caught the word banos, which Maria Theresa emphasized 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 phrases which he had been able to understand. It was easy to guess that the queen was complaining bitterly, and that, if Anne of Austria did not console her, she at least endeavored 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 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?”
“The baths,” Monsieur thought to himself; “it seems like it’s the baths that have upset her.” He tried to piece together the jumbled phrases he had managed to understand. It was easy to tell that the queen was complaining intensely, and that, while Anne of Austria wasn’t able to comfort her, she was at least trying. Monsieur was worried about being caught listening at the door, so he decided to cough; the two queens turned at the sound, and Monsieur walked in. When the young queen saw him, she quickly stood up and wiped her tears away. However, Monsieur knew the people he was dealing with all too well, and he was naturally too polite to stay silent, so he greeted them. The queen-mother smiled warmly at him and said, “What do you need, Philip?”
“I?—nothing,” stammered Monsieur. “I was looking for—”
“I?—nothing,” stuttered Monsieur. “I was looking for—”
“Whom?”
"Who?"
“I was looking for Madame.”
“I was looking for the Madame.”
“Madame is at the baths.”
"Madame is at the spa."
“And the king?” said Monsieur, in a tone which made the queen tremble.
“And the king?” said Monsieur, in a tone that made the queen shiver.
“The king also, the whole court as well,” replied Anne of Austria.
“The king and the entire court too,” replied Anne of Austria.
“Except you, madame,” said Monsieur.
"Except for you, madame," said Monsieur.
“Oh! I,” said the young queen, “I seem to terrify all those who amuse themselves.”
“Oh! I,” said the young queen, “I seem to scare everyone who is having fun.”
“And so do I,—judging from appearances,” rejoined Monsieur.
"And so do I—judging by what I see," replied Monsieur.
Anne of Austria made a sigh to her daughter-in-law, who withdrew, weeping.
Anne of Austria sighed at her daughter-in-law, who left in tears.
Monsieur’s brows contracted, as he remarked aloud, “What a cheerless house. What do you think of it, mother?”
Monsieur frowned and said, “What a dreary house. What do you think of it, mom?”
“Why, no; everybody here is pleasure-hunting.”
"Why, no; everyone here is out for fun."
“Yes, indeed, that is the very thing that makes those dull who do not care for pleasure.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what makes those who don’t enjoy pleasure boring.”
“In what a tone you say that, Philip.”
“In what a tone you say that, Philip.”
“Upon my word, madame, I speak as I think.”
“Honestly, ma'am, I say what I truly believe.”
“Explain yourself; what is the matter?”
“Explain yourself; what’s happening?”
“Ask my sister-in-law, rather, who, just now, was detailing all her grievances to you.”
“Ask my sister-in-law, instead, who was just now telling you all her complaints.”
“Her grievances, what—”
"Her complaints, what—"
“Yes, I was listening; accidentally, I confess, but still I listened—so that I heard only too well my sister complain of those famous baths of Madame—”
“Yes, I was listening; I admit it was by accident, but I still listened—so I heard all too well my sister complain about those famous baths of Madame—”
“Ah! folly!”
“Ah! foolishness!”
“No, no, no; people are not always foolish when they weep. The queen said banos, which means baths.”
“No, no, no; people aren’t always foolish when they cry. The queen said banos, which means baths.”
“I repeat, Philip,” said Anne of Austria, “that your sister is childishly jealous.”
“I'll say it again, Philip,” said Anne of Austria, “your sister is being childish and jealous.”
“In that case, madame,” replied the prince, “I, too, must with great humility accuse myself of possessing the same defect.”
“In that case, madam,” replied the prince, “I, too, must humbly admit that I have the same flaw.”
“You also, Philip?”
"Are you in too, Philip?"
“Certainly.”
"Of course."
“Are you really jealous of these baths?”
“Are you actually 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 even invite me? And you enjoin my sister-in-law to be satisfied, and require me to be satisfied, too.”
“And why not, ma'am, when the king goes to the baths with my wife and doesn’t take the queen? Why not, when Madame goes to the baths with the king and doesn’t even honor me with an invitation? And you tell my sister-in-law to be content, and expect me to be content as well.”
“You are raving, my dear Philip,” said Anne of Austria; “you have driven the Duke of Buckingham away; you have been the cause of M. de Guiche’s exile; do you now wish to send the king away from Fontainebleau?”
“You're being dramatic, my dear Philip,” said Anne of Austria; “you’ve scared off the Duke of Buckingham; you caused M. de Guiche’s exile; do you really want to send the king away from Fontainebleau now?”
“I do not pretend to anything of the kind, madame,” said Monsieur, bitterly; “but, at least, I can withdraw, and I shall do so.”
“I’m not claiming anything like that, ma’am,” said Monsieur, bitterly; “but at least I can leave, and I will.”
“Jealous of the king—jealous of your brother?”
“Jealous of the king—jealous of your brother?”
“Yes, madame, I am jealous of the king—of my own brother, and remarkably jealous, too.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m jealous of the king—my own brother, and really jealous, too.”
“Really, Monsieur,” exclaimed Anne of Austria, affecting to be indignant, “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 monomanias.”
“Honestly, Monsieur,” exclaimed Anne of Austria, pretending to be angry, “I’m starting to think you’re crazy and a sworn enemy to my peace of mind. So, I’m leaving this place to you because I have no way to defend myself against such obsessions.”
She arose and left Monsieur a prey to the most extravagant transport of passion. He remained for a moment completely bewildered; then, recovering himself, again went to the stables, found the groom, once more asked him for a carriage or a horse, and upon his reply that there was neither the one or 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’ courtyard, whipping him the while, in spite of his cries and excuses; then, quite out of breath, covered with perspiration, and trembling in every limb, he returned to his own apartments, broke in 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. 4
She got up and left Monsieur overwhelmed by intense emotions. He stood there for a moment, completely confused; then, regaining his composure, he went back to the stables. He found the groom, asked him again for a carriage or a horse, and when the groom replied that there was neither, Monsieur grabbed a long whip from a stable-boy’s hand and started chasing the poor groom around the servants’ courtyard, hitting him despite his shouts and pleas. Out of breath, covered in sweat, and trembling all over, he finally returned to his room, smashed some beautiful pieces of porcelain, and then got into bed, still in his boots and spurs, shouting for someone to come to him. 4
Chapter XXXVI. The Bath.
At Vulaines, 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 admiration, galloped up and down the flowery 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 case, 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 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 respectful homage, imposed silence upon those expatiators, for whom it seemed impossible to exhaust their raptures, and he rode away, for fear of offending, even through the silken curtains, the modesty of the woman and the dignity of the princess. A great blank thereupon ensued in the scene, and 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.
At Vulaines, under the dense shade of flowering osiers and willows, which dipped the ends of their branches into the blue waters, a long flat-bottomed boat with ladders draped with long blue curtains served as a refuge for the bathing goddesses. As they emerged from the water, they were observed by twenty feathered Acteons, who eagerly and admiringly galloped up and down the flower-strewn riverbanks. However, even the chaste Diana, dressed in her long chlamys, was less beautiful and less elusive than Madame, who was as young and lovely as the goddess herself. Despite the huntress's fine tunic, her round, delicate knee could be seen; and despite her resonant quiver, her brown shoulders were visible. In contrast, Madame was enveloped in a long white veil, wrapped around her countless times as she surrendered herself to her female attendants, making her unreachable to both the most indiscreet and the most piercing gaze. When she climbed the ladder, poets were present—and everyone became a poet when discussing Madame. The twenty poets who were galloping around stopped and, in unison, declared that pearls, not drops of water, were falling from her, only to be lost in the joyful river. The king, the focal point of these outpourings and respectful admiration, silenced those eloquent speakers, who seemed unable to contain their enthusiastic praises, and he rode away, afraid of offending, even through the silken curtains, the modesty of the woman and the dignity of the princess. A great silence then fell over the scene, and the boat was perfectly still. From the movements on board—from the fluttering and shifting curtains—the comings and goings of the female attendants attending to their duties could be inferred.
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 curtain-rods announced that Madame was dressed, and that the goddess was about to make her reappearance, than the king, returning to his former post immediately, and running quite close to the river-bank, gave the signal for all those to approach whose duty or pleasure summoned them to Madame’s side. The pages hurried forward, conducting the led horses; the carriages, which had remained sheltered under the trees, advanced towards the tent, followed by a crowd of servants, bearers, and female attendants, who, while their masters had been bathing, had mutually exchanged their own observations, critical remarks, and the discussion of matters personal—the fugitive journal of that period, of which no one now remembers anything, not even by the waves, the witnesses of what went on that day—themselves now sublimed into immensity, as the actors have vanished into eternity.
The king listened to the courtiers chatting around him with a smile, but it was clear he was paying very little, if any, attention to what they were saying. In fact, hardly had the sound of the rings sliding along the curtain rods signaled that Madame was dressed and ready to reappear, than the king quickly returned to his previous spot, moving close to the riverbank and signaling for all those whose duty or pleasure it was to join Madame. The pages hurried forward, leading the horses; the carriages that had been sheltered under the trees moved toward the tent, followed by a crowd of servants, bearers, and female attendants. While their masters had been bathing, they had exchanged their own comments, critical remarks, and discussions of personal matters—the fleeting gossip of that time, of which no one now remembers anything, not even the waves that witnessed the events of that day—they themselves now elevated into the vastness, just as the actors have vanished into eternity.
A crowd of people swarming upon the banks of the river, without reckoning the groups of peasants drawn together by their anxiety to see the king and the princess, was, for many minutes, the most disorderly, but the most agreeable, mob imaginable. The king dismounted from his horse, a movement which was imitated by all the courtiers, and offered his hat 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; composed, yet full of energy, she inhaled the air in deep draughts, under a lace 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, whose white teeth were displayed in continual smiles, and Madame, whose black eyes sparkled like carbuncles in the glittering reflection of the changing hues of the silk. When Madame approached her horse, a magnificent animal of Andalusian breed, of spotless white, somewhat heavy, perhaps, but with a spirited and splendid head, in which the mixture, happily combined, of Arabian and Spanish blood could be readily traced, and whose long tail swept the ground; and as the princess affected difficulty in mounting, the king took her in his arms in such a manner that Madame’s arm was clasped like a circlet of alabaster around the king’s neck. Louis, as he withdrew, involuntarily touched with his lips the arm, which was not withheld, and the princess having thanked her royal equerry, every one sprang to his saddle at the same moment. The king and Madame drew aside to allow the carriages, the outriders, and runners, to pass by. A fair proportion of the cavaliers, released from the restraint 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 virgin huntresses around Diana, and the human whirlwind, laughing, chattering, and noisy, passed onward.
A crowd of people gathered on the riverbank, including groups of peasants eager to catch a glimpse of the king and the princess. For several minutes, it was the most chaotic yet enjoyable mob you could imagine. The king got off his horse, and all the courtiers followed suit, handing his hat to Madame, whose elegant riding outfit beautifully showcased her figure, made of fine wool fabric and embroidered with silver. Her hair, still damp and darker than jet, fell in heavy locks over her delicate white neck. Joy and vitality sparkled in her lovely eyes; composed yet full of energy, she took deep breaths of fresh air under a lace parasol held by one of her attendants. Nothing could have been more charming, graceful, or poetic than the two figures settled under the rosy shade of the parasol: the king, with his bright white smile, and Madame, whose dark eyes shone like precious stones in the shimmering light of changing silk hues. When Madame approached her stunning white Andalusian horse, which was a bit heavy but had a spirited and splendid head reflecting both Arabian and Spanish heritage, her long tail swept the ground. As she pretended to struggle to mount, the king lifted her in such a way that her arm rested delicately around his neck. As Louis pulled away, he inadvertently brushed his lips against her exposed arm, which she didn’t withdraw. After the princess thanked her royal attendant, everyone jumped onto their saddles simultaneously. The king and Madame stepped aside to let the carriages, outriders, and attendants pass by. A good number of the knights, freed from the constraints of etiquette, urged their horses forward, racing after the carriages carrying the maids of honor, who looked like blooming virgin huntresses surrounding Diana, while the lively crowd, full of laughter and chatter, moved on.
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 distance, restraining their impatient horses, regulating their pace by that of the king and Madame, and abandoned themselves 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 atrocious, but laughable remarks about their neighbors. In their stifled laughter, and in the little reticences of their sardonic humor, Monsieur, 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 concerned, was not misplaced. The king and Madame having breathed the horses, and repeated a hundred times over such remarks as the courtiers, who supplied them with talk, suggested to them, set off at a hand gallop, and the leafy coverts of the forest resounded to the footfalls of the mounted party. To the conversations beneath the shade of the trees,—to remarks made in the shape of confidential communications, and observations, mysteriously exchanged, succeeded the noisiest bursts of laughter;—from the very outriders to royalty itself, merriment seemed to spread. Every one began to laugh and to cry out. The magpies and the jays fluttered away uttering their guttural cries, beneath the waving avenues of oaks; the cuckoo staid his monotonous cry in the recesses of the forest; the chaffinch and tomtit flew away in clouds; while the terrified deer bounded riverwards from the midst of the thickets. This crowd, spreading joy, confusion, and light wherever it passed, was heralded, it may be said, to the chateau by its own clamor. As the king and Madame entered the village, they were received by the acclamations of the crowd. Madame hastened to look for Monsieur, for she instinctively understood that he had been far too long kept from 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 Monsieur’s apartments, and she was informed that Monsieur was asleep. The king, instead of being met by Maria Theresa smiling, as was 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 place between them, or rather what it was that the queen-mother said to Louis XIV.; but the general tenor of the interview might certainly be guessed from the annoyed expression of the king’s face as he left her.
The king and Madame, however, kept their horses at a slow walk. Behind the king and his sister-in-law, some courtiers—those who were serious or eager to stay close to the king—followed at a respectful distance, holding back their restless horses, matching their pace to that of the king and Madame, and enjoying the delightful banter of clever people who could, with perfect politeness, make a thousand outrageous but funny comments about their neighbors. In their suppressed laughter and the subtle hints of their sarcastic humor, they did not spare Monsieur, the poor absentee. However, they greatly sympathized with De Guiche’s situation, and it must be said that their compassion for him was well-founded. After letting their horses catch their breath and repeating a hundred times the remarks suggested by the courtiers, who provided them with conversation, the king and Madame took off at a brisk gallop, and the sound of their mounts echoed through the leafy woods. Beneath the shady trees, conversations turned into confidential exchanges, and mysterious observations led to loud bursts of laughter—merriment seemed to spread from the royal outriders to everyone. Laughter and shouts erupted from all sides. The magpies and jays flew off with their harsh cries, under the swaying oak trees; the cuckoo paused its monotonous call deep in the forest; the chaffinches and tomtits scattered in clouds; while frightened deer leaped toward the river from the thickets. This crowd, spreading joy, chaos, and light wherever they went, announced their arrival at the chateau with their own clamor. As the king and Madame entered the village, they were greeted by cheers from the crowd. Madame rushed to find Monsieur, sensing he had been kept from joining in this joy for far too long. The king went to meet the queens, knowing he owed them—especially one of them—a compensation for his long absence. But Madame was not allowed into Monsieur’s quarters and was told he was asleep. Instead of being met by Maria Theresa’s usual smile, the king found Anne of Austria in the gallery waiting for him, who approached him, took his hand, and led him to her apartment. No one ever knew what the conversation between them was about, or rather what the queen-mother said to Louis XIV.; but the annoyed look on the king’s face as he left her made it clear that the meeting was not a pleasant one.
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.
But we, who are tasked with interpreting everything and sharing our insights with our readers, would be neglecting our duty if we left them unaware of the outcome of this interview. We believe it is explained in enough detail in the following chapter.
Chapter XXXVII. The Butterfly-Chase.
The king, on retiring to his apartments to give some directions and to arrange his ideas, found on his toilette-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 sufficiently long time for these thousand things to be the result of the three thousand which they had been saying to each other during the route which separated Vulaines from Fontainebleau. The confused and hurried character of the note gave the king a great deal to reflect upon. He occupied himself but slightly with his toilette, and set off 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 gentlemen he could find, and invited them to follow him. He found Madame engaged in chasing butterflies, 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, with whom she had appointed the rendezvous. The sound of many feet upon the gravel walk made her turn round. Louis XIV. was hatless, he had struck down with his cane a peacock butterfly, which Monsieur de Saint-Aignan had picked up from the ground quite stunned.
The king, after retreating to his private chambers to organize his thoughts and give some instructions, noticed a small note on his dressing table that had a somewhat disguised handwriting. He opened it and read, “Come quickly, I have a thousand things to tell you.” The king and Madame hadn’t been apart long enough for these thousand pieces of information to come from the three thousand things they had said to each other during the journey from Vulaines to Fontainebleau. The hurried and confused nature of the note gave the king much to ponder. He paid little attention to his grooming and set out to visit Madame. The princess, not wanting to seem like she was waiting for him, had gone into the gardens with the ladies of her entourage. When the king learned that Madame had left her rooms to take a walk in the gardens, he gathered all the gentlemen he could find and asked them to follow him. He found Madame chasing butterflies on a large lawn bordered with heliotrope and blooming broom. She was watching as the most daring and youngest of her ladies ran around, her back toward a tall hedge, eagerly anticipating the king’s arrival for their rendezvous. The sound of many footsteps on the gravel path made her turn around. Louis XIV. was hatless, having just struck a peacock butterfly with his cane, which Monsieur de Saint-Aignan had picked up from the ground, quite dazed.
“You see, Madame,” said the king, as he approached her, “that I, too, am hunting on your behalf!” and then, turning towards 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 have been observed; old and corpulent courtiers were seen running after butterflies, 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.
“You see, ma'am,” said the king as he walked up to her, “I’m also hunting for you!” Then, turning to his companions, he said, “Gentlemen, see if you can each catch as much for these ladies,” which was a cue for everyone to leave. What followed was quite a sight; old, heavy-set courtiers were seen chasing after butterflies, losing their hats in the process, and swinging their canes to knock down the myrtles and the gorse, just as they would have done to the Spaniards.
The king offered Madame his arm, and they both selected, as the center of observation, a bench with a roof of boards and 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 the gardening of that period. This sheltered retreat, covered with nasturtiums and climbing roses, screened the bench, so that the spectators, 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 conversations.”
The king offered Madame his arm, and they both picked a bench with a roof made of boards and moss as their observation spot, a sort of hut roughly put together by one of the gardeners who had introduced a charming and whimsical touch amid the formal style of gardening at that time. This cozy retreat, draped in nasturtiums and climbing roses, shielded the bench so that the spectators, isolated in the middle of the lawn, could see and be seen from all sides but could not be overheard without noticing anyone who might come close to listen. Sitting there, the king signaled encouragement to those running around; and then, as if he were discussing the butterfly he had pinned to his hat with a gold pin, he said to her, “How perfectly situated we are here for conversations.”
“Yes, sire, for I wished to be heard by you alone, and yet to be seen by every one.”
“Yes, sir, because I wanted to be heard by you only, but still be seen by everyone.”
“And I also,” said Louis.
"And me too," said Louis.
“My note surprised you?”
“Did my note surprise you?”
“Terrified me rather. But what I have to tell you is more important.”
"That really scared me. But what I need to tell you is more important."
“It cannot be, sire. Do you know that Monsieur refuses to see me?”
“It can't be, sir. Do you know that Monsieur won't see me?”
“Why so?”
"Why's that?"
“Can you not guess why?”
"Can’t you guess why?"
“Ah, Madame! in that case we have both the same thing to say to each other.”
“Ah, Madame! In that case, we have the same thing to say to each other.”
“What has happened to you, then?”
“What happened to you?”
“You wish me to begin?”
"Do you want me to start?"
“Yes, for I have told you all.”
“Yes, I have told you everything.”
“Well, then, as soon as I returned, I found my mother waiting for me, and she led me away to her own apartments.”
“Well, then, as soon as I got back, I found my mom waiting for me, and she took me to her room.”
“The queen-mother?” said Madame, with some anxiety, “the matter is serious then.”
“The queen-mother?” said Madame, feeling a bit anxious. “That means it’s 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?”
“Absolutely, she mentioned it to me... but first, let me start with one comment. Has Monsieur ever mentioned me to you?”
“Often.”
“Frequently.”
“Has he ever spoken to you about his jealousy?”
“Has he ever talked to you about his jealousy?”
“More frequently still.”
"Even more often."
“Of his jealousy of me?”
“About his jealousy of me?”
“No, but of the Duke of Buckingham and De Guiche.”
“No, but about the Duke of Buckingham and De Guiche.”
“Well, Madame, Monsieur’s present idea is a jealousy of myself.”
“Well, ma'am, the current idea of the gentleman is to be jealous of me.”
“Really,” replied the princess, smiling archly.
“Really,” replied the princess, smiling slyly.
“And it really seems to me,” continued the king, “that we have never given any ground—”
“And it honestly feels to me,” the king went on, “that we have never backed down—”
“Never! at least I have not. But who told you that Monsieur was jealous?”
“Never! At least I haven’t. But who told you that Monsieur was jealous?”
“My mother represented to me that Monsieur entered her apartments like a madman, that he uttered a thousand complaints against you, and—forgive me for saying it—against your coquetry. It appears that Monsieur indulges in injustice, too.”
“My mother told me that Monsieur stormed into her rooms like a crazy person, expressing countless complaints about you, and—sorry for saying this—about your flirtation. It seems that Monsieur is also being unfair.”
“You are very kind, sire.”
"You’re very kind, sir."
“My mother reassured him; but he pretended that people reassure him too often, and that he had had quite enough of it.”
“My mom tried to comfort him; but he acted like people comfort him way too often, and that he was really tired of it.”
“Would it not be better for him not to make himself uneasy in any way?”
“Wouldn't it be better for him not to worry at all?”
“The very thing I said.”
"The exact thing I said."
“Confess, sire, that the world is very wicked. Is it possible that a brother and sister cannot converse together, or take pleasure in each other’s company, 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 yet provoking glance that kindles desire in the coldest and wisest of men.
“Admit it, Your Majesty, the world is quite wicked. Is it really possible that a brother and sister can’t talk or enjoy being together without sparking gossip and suspicion? Because truly, Your Majesty, we mean no harm and have no intention of causing any.” And she looked at the king with that proud yet challenging gaze that ignites desire even in the coldest and wisest of men.
“No!” sighed the king, “that is true.”
“No!” sighed the king, “that's 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.”
“You know very well, sir, that if this keeps going, I’ll have to cause a scene. You decide how we should act and tell us if our behavior has been completely acceptable or not.”
“Oh, certainly—perfectly correct.”
“Oh, of course—totally right.”
“Often alone together,—for we delight in the same things,—we might possibly be led away into error, but have we been? I regard you as a brother, and nothing more.”
“Sometimes alone together—because we enjoy the same things—we might get misled, but have we? I see you as a brother, and nothing more.”
The king frowned. She continued:
The king frowned. She went on:
“Your hand, which often meets my own, does not excite in me that agitation and emotion which is the case with those who love each other, for instance—”
“Your hand, which often touches mine, doesn’t stir in me the excitement and feelings that usually come with people who love each other, for example—”
“Enough,” said the king, “enough, I entreat you. You have no pity—you are killing me.”
“Enough,” said the king, “enough, please. You have no mercy—you’re killing me.”
“What is the matter?”
"What's the matter?"
“In fact, then, you distinctly say you experience nothing when near me.”
“In fact, you clearly say you feel nothing when you’re close to me.”
“Oh, sire! I don’t say that—my affection—”
“Oh, sir! I don’t mean that—my love—”
“Enough, Henrietta, I again entreat you. If you believe me to be marble, as you are, undeceive yourself.”
“Enough, Henrietta, I’m begging you again. If you think I’m unfeeling like you are, change your mind.”
“I do not understand you, sire.”
“I don’t get you, sir.”
“Very well,” said the king, casting down his eyes. “And so our meetings, the pressure of each other’s hand, the looks we have exchanged—Yes, yes; you are right, and I understand your meaning,” and he buried his face in his hands.
“Alright,” said the king, looking down. “So our meetings, the squeeze of each other’s hand, the glances we’ve shared—Yes, yes; you’re right, and I get what you mean,” and he buried his face in his hands.
“Take care, sire,” said Madame, hurriedly, “Monsieur de Saint-Aignan is looking at you.”
“Be careful, sir,” said Madame quickly, “Monsieur de Saint-Aignan is watching 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!”
“Of course,” Louis said angrily, “there’s never even a hint of freedom! There’s never any honesty in my interactions with anyone! I think I’ve found a friend, but they’re just a spy; an even closer friend, who’s just a—sister!”
Madame was silent, and cast down her eyes.
Madame was quiet and looked down.
“My husband is jealous,” she murmured, in a tone of which nothing could equal its sweetness and charm.
“My husband is jealous,” she murmured, in a tone that was unmatched in sweetness and charm.
“You are right,” exclaimed the king, suddenly.
“You're right,” the king exclaimed 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.”
“You see,” she said, looking at him in a way that ignited his heart, “you are free, you aren’t under suspicion, and your home is at peace.”
“Alas,” said the king, “as yet you know nothing, for the queen is jealous.”
“Unfortunately,” said the king, “you still don’t understand anything, because the queen is jealous.”
“Maria Theresa!”
“Marie Theresa!”
“Stark 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.”
“Totally mad with jealousy! His jealousy stems from hers; she was crying and venting to my mom, and was blaming us for those beach outings, which have made me so happy.”
“And me too,” answered Madame, by a look.
“And me too,” replied Madame with a glance.
“When, suddenly,” continued the king, “Monsieur, who was listening, heard the word ‘banos,’ which the queen pronounced 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 perpetually present before me a specter of jealousy with swollen eyes, a cadaverous face, and sinister looks.”
“When, all of a sudden,” continued the king, “Monsieur, who was listening, heard the word ‘banos,’ which the queen said with a bit of bitterness that got his attention; he entered the room, looking pretty wild, jumped into the conversation, and started to argue with my mother so fiercely that she had to walk away from him; so, while you have a jealous husband to deal with, I’ll always have a ghost of jealousy in front of me, with swollen eyes, a pale face, and dark 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 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 breaths united, and their hands feverishly throbbed in each other’s grasp. Five minutes passed in this manner.
“Poor king,” Madame murmured, lightly touching the king’s hand. He held onto her hand, and to press it without raising suspicion among the spectators—who were preoccupied enough with the butterflies but still noticed the tension in the king’s and Madame’s conversation—Louis placed the dying butterfly in front of his sister-in-law and leaned over it as if he were counting the multitude of eyes on its wings or the tiny particles of golden dust covering it. They didn't speak; however, their hair blended together, their breaths intertwined, and their hands throbbed feverishly in each other’s grasp. Five minutes passed this way.
Chapter XXXVIII. What Was Caught after the Butterflies.
The two young people remained for a moment with their heads 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. Henrietta gave a side glance, from time to time, at the king. Hers was one of those finely-organized natures capable of looking inwardly at itself, as well as at others at the same moment. She perceived Love lying at the bottom of Louis’s 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. “And so?” she said, interrogatively, breaking the silence.
The two young people stayed silent for a moment, their heads down, like they were under the weight of the budding love in their hearts, which fuels so many joyful dreams at twenty. Henrietta would occasionally glance sideways at the king. She had one of those sensitive natures that could reflect on herself while also observing others. She noticed the love nestled deep in Louis’s heart, just like a skilled diver spots a pearl on the ocean floor. She realized that Louis was hesitating, if not unsure, and that his lazy or timid heart needed some support and encouragement. “So?” she said, questioning, breaking the silence.
“What do you mean?” inquired Louis, after a moment’s pause.
“What do you mean?” Louis asked after a moment of silence.
“I mean, that I shall be obliged to return to the resolution I had formed.”
“I mean that I have to go back to the decision I made.”
“To what resolution?”
"What resolution?"
“To that which I have already submitted to your majesty.”
“To what I have already presented to you, your majesty.”
“When?”
“When?”
“On the very day we had a certain explanation about Monsieur’s jealousies.”
“On the very day we had a specific explanation about Monsieur’s jealousies.”
“What did you say to me then?” inquired Louis, with some anxiety.
“What did you say to me then?” Louis asked, a bit worried.
“Do you not remember, sire?”
"Don't you remember, sire?"
“Alas! if it be another cause of unhappiness, I shall recollect it soon enough.”
“Unfortunately! If it's another reason for unhappiness, I’ll remember it soon enough.”
“A cause of unhappiness for myself alone, sire,” replied Madame Henrietta; “but as it is necessary, I must submit to it.”
“A reason for my own unhappiness, Your Majesty,” Madame Henrietta replied, “but since it’s necessary, I must accept it.”
“At least, tell me what it is,” said the king.
“At least, tell me what it is,” said the king.
“Absence.”
"Missing."
“Still that unkind resolve?”
“Still that harsh determination?”
“Believe me, sire, I have not found it without a violent struggle with myself; it is absolutely necessary I should return to England.”
“Believe me, Your Majesty, it hasn’t been easy for me; I really need to go back to England.”
“Never, never will I permit you to leave France,” exclaimed the king.
“Never, never will I let you leave France,” the king exclaimed.
“And yet, sire,” said Madame, affecting a gentle yet sorrowful determination, “nothing is more urgently necessary; nay, more than that, I am persuaded it is your mother’s desire I should do so.”
“And yet, your majesty,” said Madame, adopting a gentle but sorrowful determination, “nothing is more urgently needed; in fact, I believe it is your mother’s wish that I should do so.”
“Desire!” exclaimed the king; “that is a very strange expression to use to me.”
“Desire!” the king exclaimed. “That’s a really odd thing to say to me.”
“Still,” replied Madame Henrietta, smilingly, “are you not happy in submitting to the wishes of so good a mother?”
“Still,” replied Madame Henrietta with a smile, “aren’t you happy to comply with the wishes of such a wonderful mother?”
“Enough, I implore you; you rend my very soul.”
“Please, I beg you; you tear at my very soul.”
“I?”
"Me?"
“Yes; for you speak of your departure with tranquillity.”
“Yes; because you talk about leaving so calmly.”
“I was not born for happiness, sire,” replied the princess, dejectedly; “and I acquired, in very early life, the habit of seeing my dearest wishes disappointed.”
“I wasn’t meant for happiness, sire,” replied the princess, feeling down; “and from a young age, I got used to having my deepest wishes let down.”
“Do you speak truly?” said the king. “Would your departure gainsay any one of your cherished thoughts?”
“Do you speak the truth?” said the king. “Would leaving contradict any of your treasured thoughts?”
“If I were to say ‘yes,’ would you begin to take your misfortune patiently?”
“If I said ‘yes,’ would you start to deal with your misfortune patiently?”
“How cruel you are!”
"You're so cruel!"
“Take care, sire; some one is coming.”
“Be careful, sir; someone 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—”
The king glanced around and said, “No, there’s no one,” and then added, “Come on, Henrietta, instead of trying to fight against Monsieur’s jealousy with a departure that would break my heart—”
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?”
Henrietta gave a slight shrug, looking like a woman who wasn’t convinced. “Yes,” Louis repeated, “which would ruin me, I mean. Instead of focusing on this departure, doesn’t your imagination—or maybe your heart—suggest some solution?”
“What is it you wish my heart to suggest?”
“What do you want my heart to say?”
“Tell me, how can one prove to another that it is wrong to be jealous?”
“Tell me, how can someone show another person that being jealous is wrong?”
“In the first place, sire, by giving no motive for jealousy; in other words, in loving no one but the person in question.”
“In the first place, Your Majesty, by giving no reason for jealousy; in other words, by loving only the person involved.”
“Oh! I expected more than that.”
“Oh! I was expecting more than that.”
“What did you expect?”
“What were you expecting?”
“That you would simply tell me that jealous people are pacified by concealing the affection which is entertained for the object of jealousy.”
"That you would just tell me that jealous people calm down by hiding the feelings they have for the person they’re jealous of."
“Dissimulation is difficult, sire.”
“Faking it is hard, sir.”
“Yet it is only be 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.”
“Yet it is only by overcoming challenges that any happiness is achieved. As far as I’m concerned, I swear I will prove those who envy me wrong by pretending to treat you like any other woman.”
“A bad, as well as unsafe, means,” said the young princess, shaking her pretty head.
“A bad, and also dangerous, way,” said the young princess, shaking her lovely head.
“You seem to think everything bad, dear Henrietta,” said Louis, discontentedly. “You negative everything I propose. Suggest, at least, something else in its stead. Come, try and think. I trust implicitly to a woman’s invention. Do you invent in your turn?”
“You seem to think everything is terrible, dear Henrietta,” Louis said, sounding frustrated. “You dismiss everything I suggest. At least propose something else to replace it. Come on, give it a shot. I have complete faith in a woman’s creativity. Can you come up with something in return?”
“Well, sire, I have hit upon something. Will you listen to it?”
“Well, sir, I've come up with something. Will you hear me out?”
“Can you ask me? You speak of a matter of life or death to me, and then ask if I will listen.”
“Can you ask me? You’re talking about something that’s a matter of life or death to me, and then you want to know if I’ll listen.”
“Well, I judge of it by my own case. If my husband intended to put me on the wrong scent with regard to another woman, one thing would reassure me more than anything else.”
“Well, I judge it by my own situation. If my husband was trying to mislead me about another woman, one thing would reassure me more than anything else.”
“What would that be?”
"What would that be now?"
“In the first place to see that he never took any notice of the woman in question.”
“In the first place, he made sure to never pay any attention to the woman in question.”
“Exactly. That is precisely what I said just now.”
“Exactly. That’s exactly what I just said.”
“Very well; but in order to be perfectly reassured on the subject, I should like to see him occupy himself with some one else.”
“Alright; but to feel completely reassured about this, I’d like to see him engage with someone else.”
“Ah! I understand you,” replied Louis, smiling. “But confess, dear Henrietta, if the means is at least ingenious, it is hardly charitable.”
“Ah! I get you,” replied Louis, smiling. “But admit it, dear Henrietta, while the method is clever, it’s not exactly generous.”
“Why so?”
"Why's that?"
“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.”
“In treating the fear of a wound in a jealous person’s mind, you create one in the heart. His fear stops, that’s true; but the problem still remains; and that seems to me to be much worse.”
“Agreed; but he does not detect, he does not suspect the real enemy; he does no prejudice to love itself; he concentrates 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 crew of grumblers always equally unhappy, whether with or without a cause? You may remove that cause, but you never can remove their sufferings. It is a disease which lies in the imagination, and, like all imaginary disorders, it is incurable. By the by, 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 ailment is of the greatest service to me, in order to enable me to get rid of the other.’”
“Agreed; but he doesn’t see, he doesn’t suspect the real enemy; he doesn’t harm love itself; he focuses all his energy on the side where his strength won’t hurt anything or anyone. In short, sire, my plan, which I’m surprised you dispute, is indeed a hassle for jealous people; but it’s very beneficial for lovers. Besides, let me ask, sire, who but you has ever thought about feeling sorry for jealous people? Aren’t they just a sad group of complainers, always equally miserable, whether they have a reason or not? You can eliminate that reason, but you can never get rid of their pain. It’s a condition that lives in the imagination, and like all imaginary issues, it’s incurable. By the way, I recall an aphorism on this topic from poor Dr. Dawley, a clever and funny guy, who I would have with me now if it weren’t for my brother, who couldn’t live without him. He used to say, ‘Whenever you’re likely to suffer from two afflictions, choose the one that will give you the least trouble, and I’ll let you keep it; for it’s a fact,’ he said, ‘that very ailment is the most useful for me to help get rid of the other.’”
“Well and judiciously remarked, Henrietta,” replied the king, smiling.
“That's a smart point, Henrietta,” replied the king, smiling.
“Oh! we have some clever people in London, sire.”
“Oh! We have some smart people in London, Your Majesty.”
“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, Henrietta, to begin by choosing the least of your evils. You do not answer—you smile. I guess that the least of your bugbears is your stay in France. I will allow you to retain this information; 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.”
“And those smart people create charming students. I’ll give this Daley, Darley, Dawley, or whatever you want to call him, credit for his saying; but I ask you, Henrietta, to start by picking the lesser of your problems. You’re not answering—you’re smiling. I suspect that the least of your worries is your time in France. I’ll let you keep this in mind; and to start fixing the other issue, I’ll begin today to look for a distraction to keep the jealous people of either gender who bother us both occupied.”
“Hush! this time some one is really coming,” said Madame; and she stooped to gather a flower from the thick grass at her feet. Some one, in fact, was approaching; for, suddenly, a bevy of young girls ran down from the top of the hillock, following the cavaliers—the cause of this interruption being a magnificent hawk-moth, with wings like rose-leaves. The prey in question had fallen into the net of Mademoiselle 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 Madame Henrietta were reclining; and leaned her back against a magnificent oak-tree entwined with ivy, and stuck the butterfly on the long cane she carried in her hand. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-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 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.
“Hush! Someone is really coming this time,” said Madame, as she bent down to pick a flower from the thick grass at her feet. Indeed, someone was approaching; suddenly, a group of young girls came running down from the top of the hill, followed by the young men. The cause of this interruption was a magnificent hawk-moth with wings like rose petals. The creature had fallen into the net of Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, who displayed it proudly to her less fortunate rivals. The queen of the hunt had seated herself about twenty paces from the bank where Louis and Madame Henrietta were lounging, leaning against a grand oak tree wrapped in ivy, with the butterfly perched on the long cane she held. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente was very beautiful, so the young men abandoned their companions and gathered around her under the pretense of complimenting her on her success. The king and princess watched this scene with a gloomy expression, like older spectators observing the games of young children. “They seem to be having fun over there,” said the king.
“Greatly, sire; I have always found that people are amused wherever youth and beauty are to be found.”
“Absolutely, sir; I’ve always noticed that people are entertained wherever youth and beauty are present.”
“What do you think of Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, Henrietta?” inquired the king.
“What do you think of Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, Henrietta?” the king asked.
“I think she has rather too much flax-yellow and lily-whiteness in her complexion,” replied Madame, fixing in a moment upon the only fault it was possible to find in the almost perfect beauty of the future Madame de Montespan.”
“I think she has a bit too much flaxen yellow and lily white in her complexion,” replied Madame, quickly identifying the only flaw one could find in the nearly perfect beauty of the future Madame de Montespan.
“Rather too fair, yes; but beautiful, I think, in spite of that.”
“Maybe a bit too pretty, yes; but I think she’s beautiful anyway.”
“Is that your opinion, sire?”
"Is that your opinion, dude?"
“Yes, really.”
"Yeah, seriously."
“Very well; and it is mine, too.”
“Alright; and it's mine as well.”
“And she seems to be much sought after.”
“And she seems to be in high demand.”
“On, that is a matter of course. Lovers flutter from one to another. If we had hunted for lovers instead of butterflies, you can see, from those who surround her, what successful sport we should have had.”
“Of course. Lovers flit from one to another. If we had searched for lovers instead of butterflies, you can see, from those around her, what a successful hunt we would 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?”
“Tell me, Henrietta, what would people think if the king wanted to become one of those lovers and looked that way? Would someone else get jealous in that situation?”
“Oh! sire, Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente is a very efficacious remedy,” said Madame, with a sigh. “She would cure a jealous man, certainly; but she might possibly make a woman jealous, too.”
“Oh! sire, Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente is a very effective remedy,” said Madame, with a sigh. “She would definitely cure a jealous man; but she might also make a woman jealous as well.”
“Henrietta,” exclaimed Louis, “you fill my heart with joy. Yes, yes; Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente is far too beautiful to serve as a cloak.”
“Henrietta,” shouted Louis, “you make my heart so happy. Yes, yes; Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente is way too beautiful to be just a cloak.”
“A king’s cloak,” said Madame Henrietta, smiling, “ought to be beautiful.”
“A king’s cloak,” said Madame Henrietta, smiling, “should be beautiful.”
“Do you advise me to do it, then?” inquired Louis.
“Are you suggesting I should do it, then?” Louis asked.
“I! what should I say, sire, except that to give such an advice 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 for whom you pretend to feel real regard.”
“I! What can I say, sir, except that giving such advice would be like giving weapons to my own enemy? It would be foolish or arrogant to suggest that you choose a woman who is more beautiful than the one for whom you truly care, just for the sake of an imagined love.”
The king tried to take Madame’s hand in his own; his eyes sought 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 attention, 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. Towards her I will direct the glance I dare not bestow upon you, and which ought to be able to rouse you from your indifference. But, be careful in your selection, lest, in offering her the rose which I may have plucked, I find myself conquered by you; and my looks, my hand, my lips, turn immediately towards you, even were the whole world to guess my secret.”
The king reached for Madame’s hand; his eyes searched for hers; and then he whispered a few words filled with tenderness, but so softly that the historian, who should hear everything, couldn’t catch them. Then, speaking out loud, he said, “You choose for me who will cure our jealous friend. To her, all my devotion, all my attention, and all the time I can spare from my work will be dedicated. She will get the flowers I pick for you, along with the loving thoughts you’ve inspired in me. I will direct the gaze I can’t give you, which should be enough to pull you from your indifference. But be careful in your choice; if I offer her the rose I’ve picked, I might end up being drawn back to you, and my looks, my hand, my lips will immediately shift towards you, even if the whole world were to figure out my secret.”
While these words escaped from the king’s lips, in a stream 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 satisfied. “I shall fail,” she said, raising her beautiful black eyes, “but not as you beg me, for all this incense which you wish to burn on the altar of another divinity. Ah! sire, I too shall be jealous of it, and want restored to me; and would not 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 attention, and who will leave my image intact and unshadowed in your heart.”
While the king spoke these heartfelt words, Madame blushed, breathless, happy, proud, and almost intoxicated with joy. She didn’t know how to respond; her pride and need for admiration were fulfilled. “I may fail,” she said, lifting her beautiful dark eyes, “but not in the way you ask, for all this praise you want to offer to another. Ah! Sire, I too will feel jealous of it and want it back; I wouldn't want a bit of it to be lost along the way. So, sire, with your royal permission, I will choose someone who seems the least likely to take your attention away and who will keep my image clear and unblemished in your heart.”
“Happily for me,” said the king, “your heart is not hard and unfeeling. If it were so, I should be alarmed at the threat you hold out. Precautions were taken on this point, and around you, as around myself, it would be difficult to meet with a disagreeable-looking face.”
“Luckily for me,” said the king, “your heart isn’t cold and unfeeling. If it were, I’d be worried about the threat you pose. Precautions were taken regarding this, and it would be hard to find an unpleasant-looking face near you, just like with me.”
Whilst 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.”
While the king was speaking, Madame had gotten up from her seat, looked around the grassy area, and after a careful and silent look, she called the king over and said, “Look over there, sire, on the slope of that little hill, near that cluster of Guelder roses, that beautiful girl walking alone, her head down, her arms at her sides, with her eyes focused on the flowers, which she crushes underfoot, like someone who is deep in thought.”
“Mademoiselle de Valliere, do you mean?” remarked the king.
“Mademoiselle de Vallière, is that who you mean?” the king remarked.
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“Oh!”
“Oh!”
“Will she not suit you, sire?”
“Will she not be suitable for you, Your Majesty?”
“Why, look how thin the poor child is. She has hardly any flesh upon her bones.”
“Wow, look how skinny the poor kid is. She barely has any meat on her bones.”
“Nay: am I stout then?”
“No: am I strong then?”
“She is so melancholy.”
“She is so sad.”
“The greater contrast to myself, who am accused of being too lively.”
“The bigger contrast to me, who’s being accused of being too lively.”
“She is lame.”
“She is disabled.”
“Do you really think so?”
"Are you serious?"
“No doubt of it. Look; she has allowed every one to pass by her, through fear of her defect being remarked.”
“No doubt about it. Look, she's let everyone walk by her because she's afraid people will notice her flaw.”
“Well, she will not run so fast as Daphne, and will not be as able to escape Apollo.”
“Well, she won’t run as fast as Daphne, and won’t be able to escape Apollo either.”
“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.”
“Henrietta,” the king said, irritated, “out of all your ladies-in-waiting, you’ve really picked the one with the most flaws for me.”
“Still she is one of my maids of honor.”
“Still, she is one of my bridesmaids.”
“Of course; but what do you mean?”
“Of course; but what are you trying to say?”
“I mean that, in order to visit this new divinity, you will not 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, as it were, at 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 go there for Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”
“I mean that, to meet this new goddess, you'll need to come to my place first, and since it's not proper for you to talk to her alone, you’ll have to see her in my company, as if you’re talking to me while you're talking to her. Basically, those who might be jealous will be mistaken if they think you're coming to my apartment for my sake, since you're really coming for Mademoiselle de la Vallière.”
“Who happens to be lame.”
"Who happens to be disabled."
“Hardly that.”
“Not really.”
“Who never opens her lips.”
“Who never speaks.”
“But who, when she does open them, displays a beautiful set of teeth.”
“But when she does open her mouth, she shows off a beautiful set of teeth.”
“Who may serve as a model for an osteologist.”
“Who can serve as a model for an osteologist?”
“Your favor will change her appearance.”
“Your kindness will change her look.”
“Henrietta!”
“Henrietta!”
“At all events you allowed me to choose.”
“At any rate, you let me choose.”
“Alas! yes.”
"Yes."
“Well, my choice is made: I impose her upon you, and you must submit.”
“Well, I've made my choice: I'm putting her in your care, and you have to accept it.”
“Oh! I would accept one of the furies, if you were to insist upon it.”
“Oh! I would take one of the furies if you really wanted me to.”
“La Valliere is as gentle as a lamb: do not fear she will ever contradict you when you tell her you love her,” said Madame, laughing.
“La Valliere is as sweet as can be: don’t worry, she’ll never argue with you when you say you love her,” said Madame, laughing.
“You are not afraid, are you, that I shall say too much to her?”
“You're not worried, are you, that I might say too much to her?”
“It would be for my sake.”
“It would be for my benefit.”
“The treaty is agreed to, then?”
“The treaty is agreed on, then?”
“Not only so, but 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?”
“Not only that, but it's signed. You will keep showing me the friendship of a brother, the care of a brother, and the kindness of a king, won't you?”
“I will preserve for you intact a heart that has already become accustomed to beat only at your command.”
“I will keep my heart intact for you, a heart that has already learned to beat only at your command.”
“Very well, do you not see that we have guaranteed the future by this means?”
“Are you not realizing that we have secured the future through this?”
“I hope so.”
"I really hope so."
“Will your mother cease to regard me as an enemy?”
“Will your mom stop seeing me as an enemy?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“Will Maria Theresa leave off speaking in Spanish before Monsieur, who has a horror of conversation held in foreign languages, because he always thinks he is being ill spoken of? and lastly,” continued the princess, “will people persist in attributing a wrongful affection to the king when the truth is, we can offer nothing to each other, except absolute sympathy, free from mental reservation?”
“Will Maria Theresa stop speaking in Spanish in front of Monsieur, who can’t stand conversations in foreign languages because he always thinks people are talking badly about him? And finally,” the princess continued, “will people keep wrongly assuming that the king has feelings for me when really, we can only offer each other complete sympathy, without any hidden motives?”
“Yes, yes,” said the king, hesitatingly. “But other things may still be said of us.”
“Yes, yes,” said the king, hesitantly. “But there are other things that can still be said about us.”
“What can be said, sire? shall we never be left in tranquillity?”
“What can be said, your majesty? Will we never be able to find peace?”
“People will say I am deficient in taste; but what is my self-respect in comparison with your tranquillity?”
“People will say I lack taste; but what is my self-respect compared to your peace of mind?”
“In comparison with my honor, sire, and that of our family, you mean. Besides, I beg you to attend, do not be so hastily prejudiced against La Valliere. She is slightly lame, it is true, but she is not deficient in good sense. Moreover, all that the king touches is converted into gold.”
“In comparison to my honor, sir, and that of our family, that’s what you mean. Also, please listen, don’t be so quick to judge La Valliere. Yes, she has a slight limp, but she’s not lacking in good sense. Plus, everything the king touches turns to gold.”
“Well, Madame, rest 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.”
“Well, Madame, you can be sure of one thing: I am still grateful to you; you might even make me pay more for your time in France.”
“Sire, some one approaches.”
“Sir, someone is approaching.”
“Well!”
"Wow!"
“One last word.”
“Last word.”
“Say it.”
"Just 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.”
“You are wise and sensible, Your Majesty; but in this situation, you will need to call on all your wisdom and all your judgment.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Louis, laughing, “from this very day 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.”
“Oh!” Louis exclaimed, laughing, “starting today, I’m going to play my role, and you’ll see if I’m not ready to represent the character of a romantic guy. After lunch, we’ll take a stroll in the forest, and then there’s supper and the ballet at ten o’clock.”
“I know it.”
“I get it.”
“The ardor of my passion shall blaze more brilliantly than the fireworks, shall shine more steadily than our friend Colbert’s lamps; it shall shine so dazzlingly that the queens and Monsieur will be almost blinded by it.”
“The intensity of my passion will burn brighter than fireworks, will shine more steadily than our friend Colbert’s lamps; it will shine so brilliantly that the queens and Monsieur will be nearly blinded by it.”
“Take care, sire, take care.”
“Take care, my lord, take care.”
“In Heaven’s name, what have I done, then?”
“In Heaven’s name, what have I done?”
“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?”
“I'll start by remembering the compliments I just gave you. You’re so cautious! You’re so smart! Did I really say that? Yet, you start with the most reckless contradictions! Can a passion ignite like that, like a torch, in an instant? Can a king like you, without any preparation, suddenly 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.”
“Ah! Henrietta, now I get you. We haven’t even started the campaign, and you’re already taking advantage of me.”
“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 lightnings are heard and seen before the palace is set on fire. Everything has its commencements. If you are so easily excited, no one will believe you are really captivated, and every one will think you out of your senses—if even, indeed, the truth itself not be guessed. The public is not so fatuous as they seem.”
“No, I’m just reminding you to stick to common-sense ideas. Let your passion build up slowly, instead of letting it explode all at once. Thunder and lightning are heard and seen before the palace catches fire. Everything has its beginnings. If you get excited too easily, no one will believe you're truly captivated, and everyone will think you've lost your mind—if the truth itself isn’t figured out. The public isn’t as foolish as they appear.”
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 campaign; 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 though a halting-place without stopping.”
The king had to admit that Madame was brilliant in common sense but completely lacking in cleverness. He bowed and said: “Alright, Madame, I’ll think about my strategy: great military leaders—like my cousin De Conde, for example—often look pale while contemplating their plans before they make a single move, which people refer to as armies; so I want to create a complete campaign plan; because as you know, love can take many forms. So, I’ll be stopping at the village of Little Attentions, then at the hamlet of Love-Letters, before I continue down the path of Visible Affection; the route is clear enough, and poor Madame de Scudery would never forgive me for passing through a place without stopping.”
“Oh! now we have returned to our proper senses, shall we say adieu, sire?”
“Oh! now that we’ve come to our senses, should we say goodbye, sir?”
“Alas! it must be so, for see, we are interrupted.”
“Unfortunately, it has to be this way, because look, we are interrupted.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Henrietta, “they are bringing Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente and her sphinx butterfly in grand procession this way.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Henrietta, “they're bringing Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente and her sphinx butterfly in a grand procession this way.”
“It is perfectly well understood, that this evening, during the promenade, I am to make my escape into the forest, and find La Valliere without you.”
“It’s perfectly clear that this evening, during the walk, I’m going to slip away into the forest and find La Valliere without you.”
“I will take care to send her away.”
“I'll make sure 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.”
“Alright! I'll talk to her when she's with her friends, and then I'll take my first shot at her.”
“Be skillful,” said Madame, laughing, “and do not miss the heart.”
“Be clever,” said Madame, laughing, “and don’t miss the mark.”
Then the princess took leave of the king, and went forward to meet the merry troop, which was advancing with much ceremony, and a great many pretended flourishes of trumpets, imitated with their mouths.
Then the princess said goodbye to the king and went ahead to meet the cheerful group, which was coming in with a lot of fanfare and many fake trumpet flourishes made with their mouths.
Chapter XXXIX. The Ballet of the Seasons.
At the conclusion of the banquet, which was 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 result of so much imagination, and had cost so many efforts 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 it. The king had resolved to make it surprise. Hardly, therefore, had he finished his conference, and entered his own apartment, than he desired his two masters of the ceremonies, Villeroy and Saint-Aignan, to be sent for. Both replied that they only awaited his orders, and that everything was ready to begin, but that it was necessary to be sure of fine weather and a favorable night before these orders could be carried out. The king opened his window; the pale-gold hues of the evening were visible on the horizon through the vistas of the wood, and the moon, white as snow, was already mounting the heavens. Not a ripple could be noticed on the surface of the green waters; the swans themselves, even, reposing with folded wings like ships at anchor, seemed inspirations of 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 Saint-Aignan awaited; but with a 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?”
At the end of the banquet, which was served at five o'clock, the king went into his study, where his tailors were waiting to fit him for the famous costume representing Spring. This outfit had taken a lot of creativity and effort from the court's designers and decorators. As for the ballet itself, everyone knew their role and how to perform it. The king planned to make it a surprise. As soon as he finished his meeting and entered his room, he asked for his two masters of ceremonies, Villeroy and Saint-Aignan. They both responded that they were ready and just waiting for his orders, but it was essential to ensure that the weather would be nice and the night favorable before proceeding. The king opened his window; the pale-gold colors of the evening were visible on the horizon through the trees, and the moon, as white as snow, was already rising. The surface of the green waters was completely still; even the swans, resting with their wings folded like ships at dock, seemed to reflect the warmth in the air, the coolness of the water, and the serenity of the beautiful evening. After taking all this in and admiring the stunning scene before him, the king gave the order that De Villeroy and De Saint-Aignan were waiting for; however, to ensure that the order was executed in a royal manner, he needed to ask one last question: “Do you have any money?”
“Sire,” replied Saint-Aignan, “we have arranged everything with M. Colbert.”
“Sire,” replied Saint-Aignan, “we’ve sorted everything out with M. Colbert.”
“Ah! very well!”
“Ah! Alright!”
“Yes, sire, and M. 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.”
“Yes, sir, and Mr. Colbert said he would meet with you as soon as you show an interest in carrying out the fetes for which he has provided the schedule.”
“Let him come in, then,” said the king; and as if Colbert had been listening at the door for the purpose of keeping himself au courant with the conversation, he entered as soon as the king had pronounced his name to the two courtiers.
“Let him come in, then,” said the king; and as if Colbert had been listening at the door to stay au courant with the conversation, he walked in as soon as the king mentioned his name to the two courtiers.
“Ah! M. Colbert,” said the king. “Gentlemen, to your posts,” whereupon Saint-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, M. Colbert.”
“Ah! Mr. Colbert,” said the king. “Gentlemen, to your positions,” and with that, Saint-Aignan and Villeroy took their leave. The king sat down in a comfortable chair by the window, saying: “The ballet will happen this evening, Mr. Colbert.”
“In that case, sire, I will pay all accounts to-morrow.”
“In that case, sir, I will settle all bills tomorrow.”
“Why so?”
“Why is that?”
“I promised the tradespeople to pay their bills the day following that on which the ballet should take place.”
“I promised the workers I would pay their bills the day after the ballet happens.”
“Very well, M. Colbert, pay them, since you have promised to do so.”
“Alright, Mr. Colbert, go ahead and pay them, since you said you would.”
“Certainly, sire; but I must have money to do that.”
“Of course, your Majesty; but I need cash to make that happen.”
“What! have not the four millions, which M. Fouquet promised, been sent? I forgot to ask you about it.”
“What! Haven't the four million that M. Fouquet promised been sent? I forgot to ask you about it.”
“Sire, they were sent at the hour promised.”
“Sire, they were sent at the promised time.”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“Well, sire, the colored lamps, the fireworks, the musicians, and the cooks, have swallowed up four millions in eight days.”
“Well, sir, the colored lights, the fireworks, the musicians, and the cooks have eaten up four million in eight days.”
“Entirely?”
"Completely?"
“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.”
“To the last penny. Every time your majesty ordered the banks of the grand canal to be lit up, the amount of oil used was equal to the amount of water in the basins.”
“Well, well, M. Colbert; the fact is, then, you have no more money?”
“Well, well, Mr. Colbert; the truth is, then, you have no more money?”
“I have no more, sire, but M. Fouquet has,” Colbert replied, his face darkening with a sinister expression of pleasure.
“I don’t have anything else, sir, but M. Fouquet does,” Colbert replied, his face darkening with a sinister look of satisfaction.
“What do you mean?” inquired Louis.
“What do you mean?” Louis asked.
“We have already made M. 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.”
“We have already had M. Fouquet give six million. He has given them with too much ease not to have more available, if needed, which is the situation right now. Therefore, it’s necessary that he comply.”
The king frowned. “M. Colbert,” said he, accentuating the financier’s name, “that is not the way I understood the matter; I 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 M. Fouquet has furnished six millions; that is a good round sum.”
The king frowned. “Mr. Colbert,” he said, stressing the financier’s name, “that’s not how I understood the situation; I don’t want to use any kind of pressure against my servants that might oppress them and limit their contributions. In eight days, Mr. Fouquet has provided six million; that’s a substantial amount.”
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.”
Colbert went pale. “And yet,” he said, “your majesty didn’t use this kind of language some time ago, when the news about Belle-Isle came in, for example.”
“You are right, M. Colbert.”
"You're right, M. Colbert."
“Nothing, however, has changed since then; on the contrary, indeed.”
“Nothing, however, has changed since then; on the contrary, really.”
“In my thoughts, monsieur, everything has changed.”
“In my mind, sir, everything has changed.”
“Does your majesty then no longer believe the disloyal attempt?”
“Does your majesty no longer believe in the disloyal attempt?”
“My affairs concern myself alone, monsieur; and I have already told you I transact them without interference.”
“My matters are my own, sir; and I've already told you I handle them without anyone else's input.”
“Then, I perceive,” said Colbert, trembling with anger and fear, “that I have had the misfortune to fall into disgrace with your majesty.”
“Then, I see,” said Colbert, shaking with anger and fear, “that I have unfortunately fallen out of favor with your majesty.”
“Not at all; you are, on the contrary, most agreeable to me.”
“Not at all; you are, in fact, quite pleasant to me.”
“Yet, sire,” said the minister, with a certain affected bluntness, so successful when it was a question of flattering Louis’s self-esteem, “what use is there in being agreeable to your majesty, if one can no longer be of any use?”
“Yet, sir,” said the minister, with a certain feigned straightforwardness, so effective when it came to boosting Louis’s ego, “what’s the point in being agreeable to your majesty if one can no longer be of any help?”
“I reserve your services for a better occasion; and believe me, they will only be the better appreciated.”
“I’m saving your services for a better occasion, and trust me, they’ll be appreciated even more then.”
“Your majesty’s plan, then, in this affair, is—”
“Your majesty’s plan, then, in this affair, is—”
“You want money, M. Colbert?”
“Do you want money, M. Colbert?”
“Seven hundred thousand francs, sire.”
“700,000 francs, sir.”
“You will take them from my private treasure.” Colbert 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.”
“You will take them from my private treasure.” Colbert bowed. “And,” added Louis, “since it seems difficult for you, despite your carefulness, to cover the expenses I plan to incur with such a limited amount, I will immediately sign an order for three million.”
The king took a pen and signed an order immediately, then handed it to Colbert. “Be satisfied, M. 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 dismissed Colbert for the purpose of giving an audience to his tailors.
The king picked up a pen and quickly signed an order, then handed it to Colbert. “Be satisfied, M. Colbert, the plan I’ve chosen is one fit for a king,” said Louis XIV, pronouncing these words with all the authority he could muster in that moment; and he dismissed Colbert to meet with his tailors.
The order issued by the king was known throughout 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 assistance of those who had received invitations. The king had completed his toilette by 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 dias 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 the different parts connected with the building; the upholsterers had laid down the carpets, erected the seats; and, as if at the wave of an enchanter’s wand, a thousand arms, aiding, instead of interfering with each other, had constructed the building, amidst the sound of music; whilst, 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, illuminated 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 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 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 order issued by the king was known all over Fontainebleau; it was already rumored that the king was trying on his costume and that the ballet would be performed in the evening. The news spread like wildfire, igniting all kinds of flattery, desire, and wild ambition. At the same moment, as if by magic, anyone who knew how to sew or could tell a coat from a pair of trousers was called to help those who had received invitations. The king had finished his preparations by nine o’clock; he appeared in an open carriage decorated with branches and flowers. The queens took their seats on a magnificent platform built along the lake, in an extraordinarily elegant theater. In just five hours, the carpenters had assembled all the different parts of the building; the upholsterers had laid out carpets and set up the seats; and, as if by the wave of an enchanter’s wand, a thousand hands worked together seamlessly to create the venue amidst the music, while other workers lit up the theater and the shores of the lake with countless lamps. As the starry sky was completely clear, and not even a whisper of wind could be heard in the woods, it felt as if Nature itself had happily given in to the king’s whims. The back of the theater had been left open, allowing the stunning sky filled with stars to serve as a backdrop, along with the illuminated water reflecting the lights and the bluish silhouette of the grand woods with their rounded treetops. When the king appeared, the theater was packed, presenting a dazzling display of gold and jewels; yet, at first glance, no single face could be seen. Gradually, as the eyes adjusted to the brilliance, the rarest beauties emerged, just like stars appearing one by one in the evening sky when someone closes their eyes then opens them again.
The theater represented a grove of trees; a few fauns lifting up their cloven feet were jumping about; a dryad made her appearance on the scene, and was immediately pursued by them; others gathered round her for her defense, and they quarrelled as they danced. Suddenly, for the purpose of restoring peace and order, Spring, accompanied by his whole court, made his appearance. The Elements, subaltern powers of mythology, together with their attributes, hastened to follow their gracious sovereign. The Seasons, 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, was delightfully descriptive of 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 graceful and well-formed figure to advantage. His legs, the best-shaped at court, were displayed to great advantage in flesh-colored silken hose, of silk so fine and so transparent that it seemed almost like flesh itself. The most beautiful pale-lilac satin shoes, with bows of flowers and leaves, imprisoned his small feet. The bust of the figure was in harmonious keeping with the base; Louis’s waving hair floated on his shoulders, the freshness of his complexion was 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 that period: justly that evening styled “The King of all the Loves.” There was something in his carriage which resembled the buoyant movements of an immortal, and he did not dance so much as seem to soar along. His entrance produced, therefore, the most brilliant effect. Suddenly the Comte de Saint-Aignan was observed endeavoring to approach either the king or Madame.
The theater looked like a grove of trees; a few fauns were playfully jumping around with their split hooves; a dryad appeared on stage and was immediately chased by them; others gathered around her to protect her, and they argued as they danced. Suddenly, to restore peace and order, Spring showed up with his entire court. The Elements, lesser mythological powers, along with their symbols, hurried to follow their gracious leader. The Seasons, allies of Spring, trailed closely behind to form a quadrille, which, after a flurry of more or less flattering words, kicked off the dance. The music, played on oboes, flutes, and violins, vividly captured the joys of rural life. The king had already made his entrance to thunderous applause. He wore a tunic made of flowers that showcased his graceful and well-proportioned figure. His legs, the best-shaped in court, were elegantly displayed in flesh-colored silk stockings so fine and sheer they almost looked like skin. The most beautiful pale-lilac satin shoes, adorned with floral bows and leaves, hugged his small feet. The upper part of his figure harmonized beautifully with the lower; Louis’s flowing hair cascaded over his shoulders, and the freshness of his complexion was enhanced by the brilliance of his stunning blue eyes, which sparked warmth in everyone’s hearts; his tempting lips parted into smiles. This was the prince of that time: rightly dubbed that evening “The King of all the Loves.” There was something about his stance that mirrored the lively movements of an immortal; he didn’t just dance but seemed to float. His entrance, therefore, made a spectacular impression. Suddenly, the Comte de Saint-Aignan was seen trying to approach either the king or Madame.
The princess—who was robed in a long dress, diaphanous and light as the finest network tissue from the hands of skillful Mechlin workers, one knee occasionally revealed beneath the folds of the tunic, and her little feet encased in silken slippers decked with pearls—advanced radiant with beauty, accompanied by her cortege of Bacchantes, and had already reached the spot assigned to her in the dance. The applause continued so long that the comte had ample leisure to join the king.
The princess—dressed in a long, sheer gown as delicate as the finest lace made by skilled Mechlin artisans, one knee occasionally showing through the folds of her outfit, and her small feet in silk slippers adorned with pearls—moved forward, glowing with beauty, accompanied by her cortege of Bacchantes, and had already arrived at her designated spot in the dance. The applause lasted so long that the count had plenty of time to join the king.
“What is the matter, Saint-Aignan?” said Spring.
"What's wrong, Saint-Aignan?" Spring asked.
“Nothing whatever,” replied the courtier, as pale as death; “but your majesty has not thought of Fruits.”
“Nothing at all,” the courtier replied, as pale as a ghost; “but your majesty hasn’t considered Fruits.”
“Yes; it is suppressed.”
“Yes, it’s suppressed.”
“Far from it, sire; your majesty having given no directions about it, the musicians have retained it.”
“Not at all, your majesty; since you haven't given any instructions about it, the musicians are keeping it.”
“How excessively annoying,” said the king. “This figure cannot be performed, since M. de Guiche is absent. It must be suppressed.”
“How incredibly annoying,” said the king. “This part can't be performed since M. de Guiche is not here. It has to be canceled.”
“Ah, sire, a quarter of an hour’s music without any dancing will produce an effect so chilling as to ruin the success of the ballet.”
“Ah, Your Majesty, a quarter of an hour of music without any dancing will have such a chilling effect that it will ruin the success of the ballet.”
“But, come, since—”
“But, let’s go, 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—”
“Oh, sir, that's not the worst thing; after all, the orchestra could easily skip it if needed; but—”
“But what?”
"But what now?"
“Why, M. de Guiche is here.”
“Hey, M. de Guiche is here.”
“Here?” replied the king, frowning, “here? Are you sure?”
“Here?” replied the king, frowning. “Here? Are you sure?”
“Yes, sire; and ready dressed for the ballet.”
“Yes, sir; and all set for the ballet.”
The king felt himself color deeply, and said, “You are probably mistaken.”
The king felt himself blush and said, “You’re probably wrong.”
“So little is that the case, sire, that if your majesty will look to the right, you will see that the comte is in waiting.”
“So little is that the case, sire, that if your majesty looks to the right, you will see that the count is waiting.”
Louis turned hastily towards 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 give an idea of the stupefaction of the king, and 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 abler hands. The king stood almost gaping with astonishment as he looked at the comte, who, bowing lowly, approached Louis with the profoundest respect.
Louis quickly turned to the side, and indeed, to his right, radiant in his role as Autumn, De Guiche waited for the king to glance his way so he could speak to him. To capture the shock of the king and Monsieur, who was shifting restlessly in his box—to also describe the nervous movement of the audience and Madame's strange feelings upon seeing her partner—is a task better suited for someone more skilled. The king stood almost speechless with amazement as he looked at the comte, who, bowing deeply, approached Louis with the utmost respect.
“Sire,” he said, “your majesty’s most devoted servant approaches to perform a service on this occasion with similar zeal 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 substance of so dark a shadow to your majesty’s elegance, skill, and graceful invention; and I have left my tenants in order to place my services at your majesty’s commands.”
“Your Majesty,” he said, “your most devoted servant comes to offer his services on this occasion with the same passion he has already displayed on the battlefield. By skipping the dance of the Fruits, Your Majesty would miss the most beautiful part of the ballet. I didn’t want to bring such a dark shadow to Your Majesty's elegance, skill, and graceful creativity; I have left my tenants behind to place my services at Your Majesty's disposal.”
Every word fell distinctly, in perfect harmony and eloquence, 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.”
Every word landed clearly, in perfect harmony and eloquence, in Louis XIV’s ears. Their flattery pleased him just as much as De Guiche’s bravery had surprised him, and he simply replied, “I didn’t ask you to come back, comte.”
“Certainly not, sire; but your majesty did not tell me to remain.”
“Definitely not, your majesty; but you didn’t tell me to stay.”
The king perceived that time was passing away, that if this strange scene were prolonged it would complicate everything, and that a single cloud upon the picture would eventually 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 object to 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 he remarked that she pretended not to look at him, and he attributed the pardon which had been conferred upon him to the princess’s kindness of heart. The king seemed only 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 away these illustrious dancers, when the simple, untutored pantomime of that period, only the more natural on account of the very indifferent acting of the august actors, had reached its culminating point of triumph, the theater shook with tumultuous applause.
The king realized that time was slipping away, and if this strange situation continued, it would complicate everything. He knew that even a single issue could ruin the entire scene. Plus, the king’s mind was buzzing with new ideas; he had just been inspired by Madame's expressive glances. Her look had communicated to him: “Since they are jealous of you, confuse their suspicions, because the person who doubts two rivals doesn’t really target either one specifically.” So, Madame’s clever maneuver convinced him. The king smiled at De Guiche, who didn’t understand any of Madame’s silent signals, but noticed that she was pretending not to look at him, and he assumed the forgiveness he received was due to the princess’s kind nature. The king seemed to be pleased with everyone present. Monsieur was the only one who didn’t grasp what was going on. The ballet started; its effect was more than beautiful. When the music, with its bursts of melody, swept away these illustrious dancers, and the simple, untrained pantomime from that time—made even more natural by the mediocre performance of the esteemed actors—reached its peak of success, the theater erupted with enthusiastic applause.
De Guiche shone like a sun, but like a courtly sun, that is resigned to fill a subordinate part. Disdainful of a success of which Madame showed no acknowledgement, he thought of nothing but 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 sides, and his head drooped as though he was 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 accident the triumph of the king and of Madame was assured.
De Guiche shone like the sun, but like a sun that is willing to play a lesser role. Ignoring a success that Madame didn't acknowledge, he focused solely on trying to win back the princess's favor. She, however, didn’t give him a single look. Gradually, all his happiness and brilliance faded into regret and anxiety; his limbs felt weak, his arms hung heavily at his sides, and his head drooped as if he were dazed. The king, who had now truly become the main dancer in the quadrille, glanced at his defeated rival. De Guiche soon stopped even pretending to be a courtier; without any applause, he danced poorly, and before long, he couldn't dance at all, which guaranteed the king and Madame's victory.
Chapter XL: The Nymphs of the Park of Fontainebleau.
The king remained for a moment to enjoy a triumph as complete as it could possibly be. He then turned towards 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 feelings 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 five and thirty years of age. Louis thought of Madame, but only after he had studiously thought of himself; and Madame carefully thought of herself, without bestowing a single thought upon the king. The victim, however, of all these royal affections and affectations, was poor De Guiche. Every one could observe his agitation and prostration—a prostration which was, indeed, the more remarkable since people were not accustomed to see him with his arms hanging listlessly by his side, his head bewildered, and his eyes with all their bright intelligence bedimmed. It rarely happened that any uneasiness was excited on his account, whenever a question of elegance or taste was under discussion; and De Guiche’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 conclusion was that De Guiche was not acting the part of a flatterer. All these sufferings, successes, and remarks were blended, confounded, and lost in the uproar of applause. When, however, the queens expressed their satisfaction and the spectators their enthusiasm, when the king had retired to his dressing-room to change his costume, and whilst Monsieur, dressed as a woman, as he delighted to be, was in his turn dancing about, De Guiche, who had now recovered himself, approached Madame, who, seated at the back of the theater, was waiting for the second part, and had quitted 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 meditation, she did not see, or rather pretended not to notice, anything that was passing around her. De Guiche, observing 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 towards the middle of the circle and saluted her royal highness; but, whether she did or did not observe his salutations, the princess did not even turn her head. A cold shiver passed through poor De Guiche; he was unprepared for such utter indifference, for he had neither seen nor been told of anything that had taken place, and consequently could guess nothing. Remarking, therefore, that his obeisance obtained him no acknowledgement, he advanced one step further, and in a voice which he tried, though vainly, to render calm, said: “I have the honor to present my most humble respects to your royal highness.”
The king paused for a moment to savor a triumph as complete as it could be. He then turned to Madame to admire her in return. Young people tend to love with more energy, perhaps with more intensity and deeper passion than those who are older; but all their other feelings also develop alongside their youth and vigor. This means that vanity often acts as a stand-in for love for them, so love, following the laws of balance, never reaches the level of perfection it does in those around thirty to thirty-five years old. Louis thought of Madame, but only after he had carefully considered himself; and Madame focused on herself without giving the king a second thought. The one truly affected by all these royal feelings and pretensions was poor De Guiche. Everyone noticed his agitation and exhaustion—a weariness that was especially striking since people weren’t used to seeing him with his arms hanging limply by his side, his head dazed, and his eyes dimmed of their usual brightness. It was rare for anyone to worry about him when discussions of elegance or taste arose; thus, most assumed De Guiche’s defeat stemmed from his courtier-like skill and tact. However, there were others—keen observers are always present at court—who noticed his paleness and changed appearance, which he couldn’t fake or hide, leading them to believe that De Guiche was not just pretending to be a flatterer. All these struggles, victories, and comments were drowned out in the applause. When the queens expressed their satisfaction, and the audience showed their excitement, when the king had retired to his dressing room to change outfits, and while Monsieur, who enjoyed dressing as a woman, was dancing, De Guiche, now having regained his composure, approached Madame. She, sitting at the back of the theater, was waiting for the second act, having distanced herself from the others to create a sort of solitude amidst the crowd to reflect on the dance moves. It was clear that, lost in thought, she didn’t see, or rather chose not to notice, anything happening around her. De Guiche, seeing she was alone near a screening made of painted cloth, moved closer. Two of her maids of honor, dressed as hamadryads, stepped back out of respect when they saw De Guiche approach. He then moved to the center of the circle and bowed to her royal highness; however, whether she noticed his bow or not, the princess didn’t even turn her head. A cold wave washed over poor De Guiche; he was caught off guard by such complete indifference, having neither seen nor heard anything that had happened and therefore couldn’t guess at all. Noticing that his greeting went unacknowledged, he stepped even closer, and in a voice he attempted to keep steady, said: “I have the honor to present my most humble respects to your royal highness.”
Upon this Madame deigned to turn her eyes languishingly towards the comte, observing. “Ah! M. de Guiche, is that you? good day!”
Upon this, Madame turned her eyes dreamily towards the comte, saying, “Ah! M. de Guiche, is that you? Good day!”
The comte’s patience almost forsook him, as he continued,—“Your royal highness danced just now most charmingly.”
The count's patience was wearing thin, as he continued, — "Your royal highness danced so beautifully just now."
“Do you think so?” she replied with indifference.
“Do you really think that?” she said, sounding indifferent.
“Yes; the character which your royal highness assumed is in perfect harmony with your own.”
“Yes; the role that your royal highness took on aligns perfectly with who you are.”
Madame again turned round, and, looking De Guiche full in the face with a bright and steady gaze, said,—“Why so?”
Madame turned around again and looked De Guiche straight in the eye with a bright and steady gaze, saying, “Why is that?”
“Oh! there can be no doubt of it.”
“Oh! there’s definitely no doubt about it.”
“Explain yourself?”
"Can you explain?"
“You represented a divinity, beautiful, disdainful, inconstant.”
“You embodied a goddess, stunning, aloof, and unpredictable.”
“You mean Pomona, comte?”
"You mean Pomona, Count?"
“I allude to the goddess.”
“I refer to the goddess.”
Madame remained silent for a moment, with her lips compressed, and then observed,—“But, comte, you, too, are an excellent dancer.”
Madame stayed quiet for a moment, with her lips pressed together, and then said, “But, count, you're also an amazing 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.”
“Nah, Ma'am, I'm just one of those people who are never noticed, or who are quickly forgotten if they ever are noticed.”
With this remark, accompanied by one of those deep sighs which affect 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 withdrew behind the thicket. The only reply Madame condescended to make was by slightly raising her shoulders, and, as her ladies of honor had discreetly retired while the conversation lasted, she recalled them by a look. The ladies were Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente and Mademoiselle de Montalais.
With this comment, along with one of those deep sighs that touch the core of your being, his heart heavy with sadness and racing, his head feeling hot, and his gaze drifting, he bowing breathlessly, stepped back behind the bushes. The only response Madame bothered to give was a slight shrug of her shoulders, and, since her ladies-in-waiting had quietly stepped away during the conversation, she summoned them back with a glance. The ladies were Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente and Mademoiselle de Montalais.
“Did you hear what the Comte de Guiche said?” the princess inquired.
“Did you hear what the Count de Guiche said?” the princess asked.
“No.”
“No.”
“It really is very singular,” she continued, in a compassionate tone, “how exile has affected poor M. 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 afterwards his remarks were very silly.”
“It really is quite unusual,” she went on, in a sympathetic tone, “how exile has impacted poor M. de Guiche’s cleverness.” And then, in a louder voice, worried that her unfortunate victim might miss a word, she said,—“To start with, he danced poorly, and then his comments were really silly.”
She then rose, humming the air to which she was presently going to dance. De Guiche had overheard everything. The arrow 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, as he went along, the branches of vines, mulberry and almond trees, with all the other artificial attributes of his assumed divinity. A quarter of an hour afterwards he returned to the theater; but it will be readily believed that it was only a powerful effort of reason over his great excitement that enabled him to go back; or perhaps, for love is thus strangely constituted, he found it impossible even to remain much longer separated from the presence of one who had broken his heart. Madame was finishing her figure. She saw, but did not look at De Guiche, who, irritated and revengeful, turned his back upon her as she passed him, escorted by her nymphs, and followed by a hundred flatterers. 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.”
She then got up, humming the tune to which she was about to dance. De Guiche had heard everything. The words hit him hard and wounded him deeply. Then, risking disruption of the event because of his anger, he ran from the scene, tearing his beautiful Autumn costume to pieces and scattering the artificial vines, mulberry and almond branches, along with other props of his pretended divinity. A quarter of an hour later, he returned to the theater; but it was only a strong effort of will over his intense emotions that allowed him to go back, or maybe, since love is strange like that, he just couldn’t bear to be apart from the one who had broken his heart. Madame was finishing her dance. She noticed, but didn’t look at De Guiche, who, irritated and seeking revenge, turned his back on her as she passed by, surrounded by her nymphs and followed by a hundred admirers. Meanwhile, at the other end of the theater, near the lake, a young woman sat with her eyes focused on one of the theater's windows, which was streaming with light—the window of the royal box. As De Guiche left the theater to get the fresh air he desperately needed, he walked close to this woman and greeted her. When she saw him, she stood up like someone caught off guard by thoughts she was trying to hide from herself. De Guiche paused as he recognized her and said quickly, “Good evening, Mademoiselle de la Valliere; I’m really lucky to run into you.”
“I, also, M. de Guiche, am glad of this accidental meeting,” said the young girl, as she was about to withdraw.
“I’m also glad for this chance meeting, M. de Guiche,” said the young girl just as she was about to leave.
“Pray do not leave me,” said De Guiche, stretching out his hand towards her, “for you would be contradicting the kind words you have just pronounced. Remain, I implore you: the evening is most lovely. You wish to escape from the merry tumult, and prefer your own society. Well, I can understand it; all women who are possessed of any feeling do, and one never finds them dull or lonely when removed from the giddy vortex of these exciting amusements. Oh! Heaven!” he exclaimed, suddenly.
“Please don’t leave me,” De Guiche said, reaching out his hand toward her. “You’d be going against the nice things you just said. Stay, I beg you: the evening is beautiful. You want to get away from the chaotic fun and would rather be alone. I get it; all women with any emotions do, and you never feel bored or lonely when you step away from the wild excitement of these activities. Oh! My goodness!” he exclaimed suddenly.
“What is the matter, monsieur le comte?” inquired La Valliere, with some anxiety. “You seem agitated.”
“What’s wrong, Count?” La Valliere asked, a bit worried. “You look upset.”
“I! oh, no!”
"Oh no!"
“Will you allow me, M. de Guiche, to return you 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.”
“Will you let me, M. de Guiche, thank you for what I intended to express at the very first chance? I know that it’s because of your recommendation that I’ve been accepted as one of Madame’s maids of honor.”
“Indeed! Ah! I remember now, and I congratulate myself. Do you love any one?”
“Definitely! Ah! I remember now, and I'm proud of myself. Do you love anyone?”
“I!” exclaimed La Valliere.
“I!” La Valliere exclaimed.
“Forgive me, I hardly know what I am saying; a thousand times forgive me; Madame was right, quite right, this brutal exile has completely turned my brain.”
“I'm sorry, I barely know what I'm talking about; forgive me a thousand times. Madame was right, very right, this harsh exile has completely scrambled my mind.”
“And yet it seemed to me that the king received you with kindness.”
“And yet it seemed to me that the king welcomed you with kindness.”
“Do you think so? Received me with kindness—perhaps so—yes—”
“Do you really think that? They welcomed me warmly—maybe that's true—yeah—”
“There cannot be a doubt he received you kindly, for, in fact, you returned without his permission.”
“There’s no doubt he welcomed you warmly because, in reality, you came back without his permission.”
“Quite true, and I believe you are right. But have you not seen M. de Bragelonne here?”
“That's absolutely true, and I think you're correct. But haven’t you seen M. de Bragelonne here?”
La Valliere started at the name. “Why do you ask?” she inquired.
La Valliere jumped at the name. “Why do you want to know?” she asked.
“Have I offended you again?” said De Guiche. “In that case I am indeed unhappy, and greatly to be pitied.”
“Have I upset you again?” De Guiche asked. “If so, then I'm really unhappy, and I deserve pity.”
“Yes, very unhappy, and very much to be pitied, Monsieur de Guiche, for you seem to be suffering terribly.”
“Yes, very unhappy, and definitely deserving of pity, Monsieur de Guiche, because you look like you’re in a lot of pain.”
“Oh! mademoiselle, why have I not a devoted sister, or a true friend, such as yourself?”
“Oh! Miss, why don’t I have a devoted sister or a true friend like you?”
“You have friends, Monsieur de Guiche, and the Vicomte de Bragelonne, of whom you spoke just now, is, I believe, one of the most devoted.”
“You have friends, Monsieur de Guiche, and the Vicomte de Bragelonne, whom you just mentioned, is, I believe, one of the most loyal.”
“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 disappeared, 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 understand why.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right, he’s one of my closest friends. Goodbye, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, goodbye.” And he ran off, as if in a frenzy, along the lake’s edge. His dark figure slipped away, stretching as it vanished among the lit-up yews and shimmering waves of the water. La Valliere watched him leave, saying, “Yes, yes, he’s in pain too, and I’m starting to see why.”
She had hardly finished when her companions, Mademoiselle de Montalais and Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, 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.
She had barely finished when her friends, Mademoiselle de Montalais and Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, rushed over. They were done with their duties and had changed out of their nymph costumes; excited by the lovely night and the successful evening, they came back to check on their friend.
“What, already here!” they said to her. “We thought we should be first at the rendezvous.”
“What, you're already here!” they said to her. “We thought we would be the first to arrive at the meeting place.”
“I have been here this quarter of an hour,” replied La Valliere.
“I have been here for fifteen minutes,” replied La Valliere.
“Did not the dancing amuse you?”
“Didn’t the dancing make you happy?”
“No.”
“No.”
“But surely the enchanting spectacle?”
"But surely the captivating show?"
“No more than the dancing. As far as beauty is concerned, I much prefer that which these dark woods present, in whose depths can be seen, now in one direction and again in another, a light passing by, as though it were an eye, in color like a midnight rainbow, sometimes open, at others closed.”
“No more than the dancing. When it comes to beauty, I much prefer what these dark woods offer, where you can see, now in one direction and then in another, a light moving by, almost like an eye, colored like a midnight rainbow, sometimes open, at other times closed.”
“La Valliere is quite a poetess,” said Tonnay-Charente.
“La Valliere is quite the 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, La Valliere begins to cry; whenever we girls have reason to cry, because, perhaps, we have mislaid our dresses, or because our vanity as been wounded, or our costume fails to produce an effect, La Valliere laughs.”
“In other words,” said Montalais, “she's unbearable. Whenever we want to have a little fun or laugh, La Valliere starts to cry; but when we girls have a reason to cry, whether we've lost our dresses, gotten our feelings hurt, or our outfits don't have the right impact, La Valliere finds it funny.”
“As far as I am concerned, that is not my character,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente. “I am a woman; and there are few like me; whoever loves me, flatters me; whoever flatters me, pleases me; and whoever pleases—”
“As far as I’m concerned, that’s not who I am,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente. “I’m a woman, and there are few like me; whoever loves me flatters me; whoever flatters me makes me happy; and whoever makes me happy—”
“Well!” said Montalais, “you do not finish.”
“Well!” said Montalais, “you're not done yet.”
“It is too difficult,” replied Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, laughing loudly. “Do you, who are so clever, finish for me.”
“It’s too hard,” replied Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, laughing loudly. “You, who are so smart, do it for me.”
“And you, Louise?” said Montalais, “does any one please you?”
“And you, Louise?” Montalais asked. “Is anyone catching your interest?”
“That is a matter that 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 lasted. “Now, mesdemoiselles, we have agreed to amuse ourselves to-night without any one to overlook us, and without any escort. We are three in number, we like one another, 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! sweet liberty! exquisite soft turf of the woods, the happiness which your friendship confers upon me! let us walk arm in arm towards 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 eyes can see us and no step follow ours. Do you not remember, Montalais, the woods of Cheverny and of Chambord, the innumerable rustling poplars of Blois, where we exchanged our mutual hopes?”
“That’s a private matter that concerns only me,” replied the young girl, getting up from the mossy bank where she had been lounging the whole time the ballet was happening. “Now, ladies, we’ve agreed to have fun tonight without anyone watching us or any escort. We’re three in number, we like each other, and the night is beautiful. Look over there, can’t you see the moon slowly rising, casting a silver glow on the highest branches of the chestnuts and oaks? Oh, what a lovely walk! Sweet freedom! The exquisite soft ground of the woods, the happiness your friendship brings me! Let’s walk arm in arm toward those big trees. Over there, everyone is currently seated at the table, fully busy, or getting ready to dress up for a formal stroll; horses are being saddled or hitched to the carriages—the queen’s mules or Madame’s four white ponies. As for us, we’ll soon find a secluded spot where no one can see us and no one can follow us. Don’t you remember, Montalais, the woods of Cheverny and Chambord, the countless rustling poplars of Blois, where we shared our dreams?”
“And confidences too?”
“And secrets too?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Well,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, “I also think a good deal; but I take care—”
“Well,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, “I do a lot of thinking too; but I make sure—”
“To say nothing,” said Montalais, “so that when Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente thinks, Athenais is the only one who knows it.”
“To say nothing,” Montalais said, “so that when Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente thinks, Athenais is the only one who knows.”
“Hush!” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, “I hear steps approaching from this side.”
“Hush!” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, “I hear footsteps coming from this direction.”
“Quick, quick, then, among the high reed-grass,” said Montalais; “stoop, Athenais, you are so tall.”
“Quick, quick, then, among the tall reeds,” said Montalais; “duck down, Athenais, you’re so tall.”
Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente stooped as she was told, and, almost at the same moment, they saw two gentlemen approaching, 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—indeed invisible.
Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente bent down as instructed, and just then, they noticed two men coming their way, heads lowered, walking arm in arm along the smooth gravel path next to the bank. The young girls had really made themselves small—effectively invisible.
“It is Monsieur de Guiche,” whispered Montalais in Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente’s ear.
“It’s Monsieur de Guiche,” Montalais whispered in Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente’s ear.
“It is Monsieur de Bragelonne,” whispered the latter to La Valliere.
“It’s Monsieur de Bragelonne,” whispered the latter to La Valliere.
The two young men approached still closer, conversing in animated tones. “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.”
The two young men moved in even closer, chatting enthusiastically. “She was just here,” the count said. “If I had only seen her, I would have thought it was a vision, but I actually talked to her.”
“You are positive, then?”
"You’re sure, then?"
“Yes; but perhaps I frightened her.”
“Yes; but maybe I scared her.”
“In what way?”
“How so?”
“Oh! I was still half crazy at you know what; so that she could hardly have understood what I was saying, and must have grown alarmed.”
“Oh! I was still half out of my mind about you know what; so she could hardly have understood what I was saying and must have become worried.”
“Oh!” said Bragelonne, “do not make yourself uneasy: she is all kindness, and will excuse you; she is clear-sighted, and will understand.”
“Oh!” said Bragelonne, “don’t worry: she’s really kind and will forgive you; she sees things clearly and will get it.”
“Yes, but if she should have understood, and understood too well, she may talk.”
“Yes, but if she did understand, and understood too well, she might speak.”
“You do not know Louise, count,” said Raoul. “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.
“You don’t know Louise, count,” said Raoul. “Louise has every virtue and not a single flaw.” The two young men continued on their way, and soon their voices faded into the distance.
“How is it, La Valliere,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, “that the Vicomte de Bragelonne spoke of you as Louise?”
“How is it, La Valliere,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, “that the Vicomte de Bragelonne referred to you as Louise?”
“We were brought up together,” replied Louise, blushing; “M. de Bragelonne has honored me by asking my hand in marriage, but—”
“We grew up together,” replied Louise, blushing; “M. de Bragelonne has honored me by asking for my hand in marriage, but—”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“It seems the king will not consent to it.”
“It looks like the king won't agree to it.”
“Eh! Why the king? and what has the king to do with it?” exclaimed Aure, sharply. “Good gracious! has the king any right to interfere in matters of that kind? Politics are politics, as M. de Mazarin used to say; but love is love. If, therefore, you love M. de Bragelonne, marry him. I give my consent.”
“Hey! Why should it matter what the king thinks? What does he have to do with this?” Aure said sharply. “Goodness! Does the king have any right to interfere in these kinds of things? Politics are one thing, as M. de Mazarin used to say; but love is something else. So, if you love M. de Bragelonne, marry him. I give my consent.”
Athenais began to laugh.
Athenais started to laugh.
“Oh! I am speaking seriously,” replied Montalais, “and my opinion in this case is quite as good as the king’s, I suppose; is it not, Louise?”
“Oh! I’m being serious,” replied Montalais, “and my opinion in this case is just as valid as the king’s, right, 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.”
“Come,” said La Valliere, “those guys have gone by; let’s use this chance that we’re alone to cross the open area and find shelter in the woods.”
“So much the better,” said Athenais, “because I see the torches setting out from the chateau and the theater, and they seem as if they were preceding some person of distinction.”
“So much the better,” Athenais said, “because I see the torches coming from the chateau and the theater, and they look like they’re leading someone important.”
“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 more 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 moment, a man, concealed in a dry ditch planted with 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 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 reached them in response, and when the soft notes died away, the nightingale, with throat of pride, poured forth his melodious chants, and his most complicated, learned, and sweetest compositions to those who had met beneath the thick covert of the woods. Near 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 of the whole court was a fete also for the mysterious inhabitants of the forest; for certainly the deer in 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 population from the restless movements that suddenly took place among the leaves. Our sylvan nymphs uttered a slight cry, but, reassured immediately afterwards, they laughed, and resumed their walk. In this manner they reached the royal oak, the venerable relic of a tree which in its prime has listened to the sighs of Henry II. for the beautiful Diana of Poitiers, and later still to those of Henry IV. for the lovely Gabrielle d’Estrees. Beneath this oak the gardeners had piled up the moss and turf in such a manner that never had a seat more luxuriously rested the wearied limbs of man or monarch. The trunk, somewhat rough to recline against, was sufficiently large to accommodate the three young girls, whose voices were lost among the branches, which stretched upwards to the sky.
“Let’s run, then,” all three said. Gracefully lifting the long skirts of their silk dresses, they quickly dashed across the open space between the lake and the thickest part of the park. Montalais was as agile as a deer, and Athenais, eager like a young wolf, leaped through the dry grass. Now and then, a brave Acteon might have caught sight of their well-shaped limbs slightly revealed beneath the heavy folds of their satin petticoats in the dim light. La Valliere, more refined and shy, let her dress flow around her; and being slowed down by the lameness of her foot, it wasn’t long before she called out for her friends to stop, causing them to wait for her. At that moment, a man hidden in a dry ditch lined with young willow saplings scrambled quickly up the sloping side and ran off toward the chateau. The three young girls reached the edge of the park, familiar with every path. The ditches were lined with tall hedges full of flowers, protecting pedestrians from horses and carriages. They could hear the distant sound of Madame’s and the queen’s carriages on the hard dry ground, followed by the mounted horsemen. Distant music responded to them, and when the soft notes faded away, the nightingale, proud and full of song, serenaded those gathered beneath the thick woods with its melodious tunes, intricate compositions, and sweetest melodies. Near the singer, in the dark shadows of the large trees, glistening eyes of an owl could be seen, drawn in by the music. Thus, the festival of the entire court was also a celebration for the mysterious residents of the forest; certainly, the deer in the thicket, the pheasant on the branch, and the fox in its hole were all listening. One could sense the life led by this nocturnal and unseen population from the restless movements among the leaves. The sylvan nymphs let out a slight cry, but soon reassured, they laughed and continued on their walk. In this way, they reached the royal oak, the ancient tree that, in its prime, had heard the sighs of Henry II for the beautiful Diana of Poitiers, and later for Henry IV’s lovely Gabrielle d’Estrees. Beneath this oak, the gardeners had arranged moss and turf so luxuriously that never had a seat offered a more comfortable resting place for weary limbs, whether of man or monarch. The trunk, a bit rough to lean against, was large enough to accommodate the three young girls, whose voices were lost amid the branches stretching up toward the sky.
Chapter 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 the influence; and she began by heaving a deep sigh, and saying:—“What happiness to be here alone, and at liberty, with every right to be frank, especially towards one another.”
The softness of the air and the stillness of the trees quietly compelled these young girls to swap their lighthearted chatter for something more serious. The most lively of them all—Montalais, for example—was the first to succumb to the change, letting out a deep sigh and saying, “What a joy it is to be here alone and free, with every right to be honest, especially with each other.”
“Yes,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente; “for the court, however brilliant it may be, has always some falsehood concealed beneath the folds of its velvet robes, or the glitter of its diamonds.”
“Yes,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente; “because the court, no matter how dazzling it is, always has some lie hidden beneath the folds of its velvet robes or the sparkle of its diamonds.”
“I,” replied La Valliere, “I never tell a falsehood; when I cannot speak the truth, I remain silent.”
“I,” replied La Valliere, “I never lie; when I can’t tell the truth, I just stay quiet.”
“You will not long remain 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. There were certain days when Madame remembered that she herself had been young, and, on those days, whoever 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 that had spread abroad. Poor woman, so simple-minded! she laughed at them, as we did. Where is she now?”
“You won’t stay in favor for long,” said Montalais. “It’s not like it was in Blois, where we shared all our little frustrations and desires with the dowager Madame. There were days when Madame remembered her own youth, and on those days, anyone who spoke with her found a genuine friend. She shared stories of her flirtations with Monsieur, and we talked about her supposed flirtations with others, or at least the gossip that circulated about them. Poor woman, so naive! She laughed at the rumors, just like we did. Where is she now?”
“Ah, Montalais,—laughter-loving Montalais!” cried La Valliere; “you see you are sighing again; the woods inspire you, and you are almost reasonable this evening.”
“Ah, Montalais—always laughing Montalais!” La Valliere exclaimed, “You see you’re sighing again; the woods are getting to you, and you’re almost making sense this evening.”
“You ought not, either of you,” said Athenais, “to regret 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 especially confessors, severely denounce.”
“You shouldn't, either of you,” said Athenais, “regret the court at Blois so much, unless you're not happy with us. A court is a place where men and women gather to discuss things that mothers, guardians, and especially confessors, strongly disapprove of.”
“Oh, Athenais!” said Louise, blushing.
“Oh, Athenais!” Louise said, blushing.
“Athenais is frank to-night,” said Montalais; “let us avail ourselves of it.”
“Athenais is being honest tonight,” said Montalais; “let's take advantage of it.”
“Yes, let us take advantage of it, for this evening I could divulge the softest secrets of my heart.”
“Yes, let’s take advantage of this moment, because tonight I could share the deepest secrets of my heart.”
“Ah, if M. Montespan were here!” said Montalais.
“Ah, if Mr. Montespan were here!” said Montalais.
“Do you think that I care for M. de Montespan?” murmured the beautiful young girl.
“Do you think I care about M. de Montespan?” murmured the beautiful young girl.
“He is handsome, I believe?”
"He's handsome, I think?"
“Yes. And that is no small advantage in my eyes.”
“Yes. And that’s a significant advantage in my opinion.”
“There now, you see—”
“There you go—”
“I will go further, and say, that of all the men whom one sees here, he is the handsomest, and the most—”
“I'll go further and say that of all the men you see here, he’s the most handsome and the most—”
“What was that?” said La Valliere, starting suddenly from the mossy bank.
“What was that?” La Valliere said, suddenly sitting up from the mossy bank.
“A deer hurrying by, perhaps.”
“A deer rushing by, maybe.”
“I am only afraid of men,” said Athenais.
“I’m only afraid of men,” Athenais said.
“When they do not resemble M. de Montespan.”
“When they don’t look like M. de Montespan.”
“A truce to raillery. M. de Montespan is attentive to me, but that does not commit me in any way. Is not M. de Guiche here, he who is so devoted to Madame?”
“A break from the teasing. M. de Montespan is paying attention to me, but that doesn’t obligate me in any way. Isn’t M. de Guiche here, the one who is so devoted to Madame?”
“Poor fellow!” said La Valliere.
"Poor guy!" said La Valliere.
“Why to be pitied? Madame is sufficiently beautiful, and of high enough rank, I suppose.”
“Why pity her? She’s beautiful enough and of a high enough status, I guess.”
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, or of her whom one loves.”
La Valliere shook her head sadly, saying, “When you love, it’s not about beauty or status;—when you love, it should be the heart, or just the eyes, of the person you love.”
Montalais began to laugh loudly. “Heart, eyes,” she said; “oh, sugar-plums!”
Montalais started to laugh out loud. “Heart, eyes,” she said; “oh, sweet treats!”
“I speak for myself;” replied La Valliere.
“I speak for myself,” La Valliere replied.
“Noble sentiments,” said Athenais, with an air of protection, but with indifference.
“Noble sentiments,” Athenais said, sounding protective but indifferent.
“Are they not your own?” asked Louise.
“Are they not yours?” asked 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.”
“Exactly; but to carry on: how can you feel sorry for a guy who focuses his attention on a woman like Madame? If there’s any imbalance, it’s on the count’s part.”
“Oh! no, no,” returned La Valliere; “it is on Madame’s side.”
“Oh! no, no,” La Valliere replied; “it's on Madame’s side.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Explain yourself.”
“I will. Madame has not even a wish to know what love is. She diverts herself with the feeling, as children do with fireworks, form which a spark might set a palace on fire. It makes a display, and that is all she cares about. Besides, pleasure forms the tissue of which she wishes her life to be woven. M. de Guiche loves this illustrious personage, but she will never love him.”
“I will. Madame doesn’t even have a desire to understand what love is. She plays with the feeling, like kids do with fireworks, something that could spark a palace fire. It creates a show, and that’s all she cares about. Besides, pleasure is the fabric she wants her life to be made of. M. de Guiche loves this remarkable woman, but she will never love him.”
Athenais laughed disdainfully. “Do people really ever love?” she said. “Where are the noble sentiments you just now uttered? Does not a woman’s virtue consist in the uncompromising refusal of every intrigue that might compromise her? A properly regulated woman, endowed with a natural 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.’”
Athenais laughed with scorn. “Do people really ever love?” she asked. “Where are the noble feelings you just expressed? Isn’t a woman’s virtue about firmly rejecting any temptation that could tarnish her? A well-balanced woman, with a genuine heart, should attract men, be loved—adored, even—by them, and say at most once in her life, ‘I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have been who I am—I should have disliked this one less than the others.’”
“Therefore,” exclaimed La Valliere, “that is what M. de Montespan has to expect.”
“Therefore,” exclaimed La Valliere, “that’s what M. de Montespan has to look forward to.”
“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 entire 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—”
“Of course; he’s no different from anyone else. What! Haven't I already said that I acknowledge he has a certain superiority, and isn't that enough? My dear child, a woman is a queen for the entire time nature allows her to hold power—from fifteen to thirty-five. After that, we’re free to have a heart when that’s all we have left—”
“Oh, oh!” murmured La Valliere.
“Oh, wow!” murmured La Valliere.
“Excellent,” cried Montalais; “a very masterly woman; Athenais, you will make your way in the world.”
“Awesome,” exclaimed Montalais; “a truly talented woman; Athenais, you’re going to succeed in life.”
“Do you not approve of what I say?”
“Don't you agree with what I'm saying?”
“Completely,” replied her laughing companion.
“Totally,” replied her laughing friend.
“You are not serious, Montalais?” said Louise.
“You can’t be serious, Montalais?” said Louise.
“Yes, yes; I approve everything Athenais has just said; only—”
“Yes, yes; I agree with everything Athenais just said; only—”
“Only what?”
“Only what?”
“Well, I cannot carry it out. I have the firmest principles; I form resolutions beside which the laws of the Stadtholder and of the King of Spain are child’s play; but when the moment arrives to put them into execution, nothing comes of them.”
“Well, I can’t follow through with it. I have the strongest principles; I make resolutions that make the laws of the Stadtholder and the King of Spain seem like nothing; but when the time comes to act on them, nothing happens.”
“Your courage fails?” said Athenais, scornfully.
“Your courage is failing?” Athenais said with scorn.
“Miserably so.”
“So miserable.”
“Great weakness of nature,” returned Athenais. “But at least you make a choice.”
“Such a big flaw in human nature,” Athenais replied. “But at least you get to choose.”
“Why, no. It pleases fate to disappoint me in everything; I dream of emperors, and I find only—”
“Why, no. Fate enjoys disappointing me in everything; 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 affection.”
“Aure, Aure!” shouted La Valliere, “please, for the sake of mercy, don’t sacrifice those who love you so deeply just to make a clever comment.”
“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 weakness for any one, but so much the worse for others if I revenge myself upon them for it.”
“Oh, I don’t worry about that too much; the people who care about me are happy enough that I don’t cut them off completely. Too bad for me if I have a soft spot for someone, but too bad for others if I take it out on them.”
“You are right,” said Athenais, “and, perhaps, you too will reach the 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 love of changing her sentiments as she does her dress. I, for instance, am proud; that is to say, impregnable. I treat my admirers harshly, but without any pretention 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 influenced 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 so recently accepted.”
“You're right,” said Athenais, “and maybe you will reach your goal too. In other words, young ladies, that’s what they call being a flirt. Men, who are pretty foolish in most things, are especially ridiculous when they confuse a woman’s pride and her tendency to change her feelings like she changes her outfits with coquetry. For example, I’m proud; that is to say, untouchable. I treat my admirers harshly, but I don’t pretend I want to keep them around. Men call me a flirt because they’re arrogant enough to think I care about them. Other women—like Montalais, for instance—have let themselves be swayed by flattery; they’d be lost if it weren’t for that lucky instinct that makes them suddenly switch things up and punish the guy whose devotion they just accepted.”
“A very learned dissertation,” said Montalais, in the tone of thorough enjoyment.
“A very insightful essay,” said Montalais, with a tone of complete enjoyment.
“It is odious!” murmured Louise.
"It’s disgusting!" murmured Louise.
“Thanks to that sort of coquetry, for, indeed, that is genuine coquetry,” continued Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente; “the lover who, a little while since, was puffed up with pride, in a minute afterwards is suffering at every pore of his vanity and self-esteem. He was, perhaps, already beginning to assume the airs of a conqueror, but now he retreats defeated; he was about to assume an air of protection towards us, but he is obliged to prostrate himself once more. The result of all this is, that, instead of having a husband who is jealous and troublesome, free from restraint in his conduct towards us, we have a lover always trembling in our presence, always fascinated by our attractions, always submissive; and for this simple reason, that he finds the same woman never twice of the same mind. Be convinced, therefore, of the advantages of coquetry. Possessing that, one reigns a queen among women in cases where Providence has withheld that precious faculty of holding one’s heart and mind in check.”
“Thanks to that kind of flirting, because that's what it truly is,” continued Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente; “the lover who, not long ago, was full of himself, finds himself suffering from every wound to his pride and self-esteem just moments later. He might have just started to act like a conqueror, but now he pulls back, defeated; he was about to act like he was protecting us, but now he has to bow down again. The result is that, instead of having a husband who’s jealous and difficult, behaving without restraint around us, we have a lover who’s always nervous in our presence, constantly drawn in by our charm, and always submissive. And that’s simply because he realizes that the same woman never has the same mindset twice. So believe me, the benefits of flirting are clear. With that, you reign as a queen among women when fate has denied you the precious skill of keeping someone’s heart and mind in check.”
“How clever you are,” said Montalais, “and how well you understand the duty women owe themselves!”
“How clever you are,” said Montalais, “and how well you understand the responsibilities women have to themselves!”
“I am only settling a case of individual happiness,” said Athenais modestly; “and defending myself, like all weak, loving dispositions, against the oppressions of the stronger.”
“I’m just dealing with my own happiness,” Athenais said modestly; “and protecting myself, like anyone who’s weak and loving, against the pressures of those who are stronger.”
“La Valliere does not say a word.”
“La Valliere doesn’t say a word.”
“Does she not approve of what we are saying?”
“Is she not okay with what we're saying?”
“Nay; only I do not understand it,” said Louise. “You talk like people not called upon to live in this world of ours.”
“Nah; I just don’t get it,” said Louise. “You sound like people who aren’t meant to live in our world.”
“And very pretty your world is,” said Montalais.
“And your world is really beautiful,” said Montalais.
“A world,” returned Athenais, “in which men worship a woman until she has fallen,—and insult her when she has fallen.”
“A world,” Athenais replied, “where men worship a woman until she falls—and then insult her after she has fallen.”
“Who spoke to you of falling?” said Louise.
“Who told you about falling?” said Louise.
“Yours is a new theory, then; will you tell us how you intend to resist yielding to temptation, if you allow yourself to be hurried away by feelings of affection?”
“Yours is a new theory, then; will you tell us how you plan to resist giving in to temptation if you let yourself be swept away by feelings of affection?”
“Oh!” exclaimed the young girl, raising towards the dark heavens her beautiful large eyes filled with tears, “if you did but know what a heart is, I would explain, and convince you; a loving heart is stronger than all your coquetry, more powerful than all your pride. A woman is never truly loved, I believe; a man never loves with idolatry, unless he feels sure he is loved in return. Let old men, whom we read of in comedies, fancy themselves adored by coquettes. A young man is conscious of, and knows them; if he has a fancy, or a strong desire, and 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 thus united. It is the perfect abnegation of two who are desirous of blending their beings into one. If ever I love, I shall implore my lover to leave me free and pure; I will tell him, and 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, whilst 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 love 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 would choose. A look from me will repay him for the sacrifices he makes, or will inspire him with the virtues which he would never think he possessed.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the young girl, looking up at the dark sky with her beautiful, tear-filled eyes. “If you only knew what a heart truly is, I would explain it to you and convince you; a loving heart is stronger than all your flirtation and more powerful than all your pride. I believe a woman is never genuinely loved; a man never loves purely unless he's sure he is loved in return. Let old men, like those we read about in comedies, fool themselves into thinking they are adored by flirts. A young man is aware of them and knows exactly what they are; if he has a crush or a deep desire and an all-consuming passion for a flirt, he won’t be confused by her. A flirt might drive him crazy, but she won't make him fall in love. Love, as I see it, is a continuous, complete, and perfect sacrifice, and it’s not just the sacrifice of one person in the relationship. It’s the total giving up of both individuals who want to merge their lives into one. If I ever love, I will ask my partner to let me stay free and pure; I will express to him, and he will understand, that my heart is torn from the refusal, and he, in his love for me, knowing the depth of my sacrifice—he, in turn, will cherish his devotion for me—will honor me and will not seek my downfall, to mock me when I eventually stumble, just as you spoke a moment ago while making your blasphemous remarks about love as I see it. That’s my idea of love. And now you might say that my love will look down on me; I challenge him to do so, unless he is the worst kind of man, and my heart tells me that is not the kind of man I would choose. A glance from me will reward him for the sacrifices he makes or will inspire him with virtues he never thought he had.”
“But, Louise,” exclaimed Montalais, “you tell us this, and do not carry it into practice.”
“But, Louise,” Montalais exclaimed, “you tell us this, but you don’t put it into practice.”
“What do you mean?”
"What do you mean by that?"
“You are adored by Raoul de Bragelonne, who worships you on both 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 Athenais’s pride.”
“You are adored by Raoul de Bragelonne, who worships you on both knees. The poor guy is a victim of your goodness, just like he would be—no, even more so—of my flirting, or Athenais’s arrogance.”
“All this is simply a different shade of coquetry,” said Athenais; “and Louise, I perceive, is a coquette without knowing it.”
“All this is just a different shade of flirting,” said Athenais; “and Louise, I can see, is a flirt without realizing it.”
“Oh!” said La Valliere.
“Oh!” La Valliere said.
“Yes, you may call it instinct, if you please, keenest sensibility, exquisite refinement of feeling, perpetual play of restrained outbreaks of affection, which end in smoke. It is very artful too, and very effective. I should even, now that I reflect upon it, have preferred this system of tactics to my own pride, for waging war on 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 non-complex coquetry of Montalais.” And the two young girls began to laugh.
“Yes, you can call it instinct if you want, sharp sensitivity, a refined sense of feeling, or constant restraint of emotional outbursts that ultimately lead nowhere. It’s very clever and quite effective. Honestly, now that I think about it, I might prefer this approach to my own pride when dealing with members of the opposite sex, because it sometimes manages to convince them completely; but right now, without completely condemning myself, I have to say it’s better than the simple flirtation of Montalais.” And the two young girls started to laugh.
La Valliere alone preserved 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.”
La Valliere remained silent and shook her head gently. After a moment, she added, “If you were to share, in front of a man, even a fraction of what you just said, or if I even thought you believed it, I would die of embarrassment and sorrow right here.”
“Very well; die, poor tender little darling,” replied Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente; “for if there are no men here, there are at least two women, your own friends, who declare you to be attained and convicted of being a coquette from instinct; in other words, the most dangerous kind of coquette the world possesses.”
“Alright then; go ahead and die, you poor sweet little darling,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente. “Because even if there are no men here, there are at least two women, your own friends, who say you’re guilty and proven to be a flirt by nature; in other words, the most dangerous type of flirt that exists.”
“Oh! mesdemoiselles,” replied La Valliere, blushing, and almost ready to weep. Her two companions again burst out laughing.
“Oh! ladies,” replied La Valliere, blushing and almost ready to cry. Her two companions erupted in laughter again.
“Very well! I will ask Bragelonne to tell me.”
“Sounds good! I’ll ask Bragelonne to let me know.”
“Bragelonne?” said Athenais.
“Bragelonne?” Athenais asked.
“Yes! Bragelonne, who is as courageous as Caesar, and as clever and witty as M. Fouquet. 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 your fingers.”
“Yes! Bragelonne, who is as brave as Caesar, and as smart and witty as M. Fouquet. Poor guy! For twelve years he has known you, loved you, and yet—it's almost unbelievable—he has never even kissed the tips of your fingers.”
“Tell us the reason of this cruelty, you who are all heart,” said Athenais to La Valliere.
“Tell us why you’re being so cruel, you who have such a kind heart,” Athenais said to La Valliere.
“Let me explain it by a single word—virtue. You will perhaps deny the existence of virtue?”
“Let me sum it up in one word—virtue. You might argue that virtue doesn’t exist?”
“Come, Louise, tell us the truth,” said Aure, taking her by the hand.
“Come on, Louise, tell us the truth,” said Aure, taking her by the hand.
“What do you wish me to tell you?” cried La Valliere.
“What do you want me to say?” La Valliere cried.
“Whatever you like; but it will be useless for you to say anything, for I persist in my opinion of you. A coquette from instinct; in other words, as I have already said, and I say it again, the most dangerous of all coquettes.”
“Say whatever you want, but it won't change my opinion of you. You're a flirt by nature; in other words, as I’ve said before, and I’ll say it again, the most dangerous kind of flirt.”
“Oh! no, no; for pity’s sake do not believe that!”
“Oh! No, no; please don’t believe that!”
“What! twelve years of extreme severity.”
“What! Twelve years of extreme hardship.”
“How can that be, since twelve years ago I was only five years old? The frivolity of the child cannot surely be placed to the young girl’s account.”
“How can that be? Twelve years ago, I was only five! Surely, the childishness of a kid can't be counted against a young woman.”
“Well! you are now seventeen; three years instead of twelve. During those three years you have remained constantly 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 your fourteen summers, the fire of his glances addressed to yourself.”
“Well! You are now seventeen; three years instead of twelve. During those three years, you have been consistently and relentlessly cruel. Against you stand the silent spirits of Blois, the times when you carefully studied the stars together, the evening strolls under the plantain trees, his passionate twenty years speaking to your fourteen summers, the heat of his looks directed at you.”
“Yes, yes; but so it is!”
“Yes, yes; but that’s just how it is!”
“Impossible!”
"No way!"
“But why impossible?”
“But why is it impossible?”
“Tell us something credible and we will believe you.”
“Share something believable and we’ll trust you.”
“Yet, if you were to suppose one thing.”
“Yet, if you were to assume one thing.”
“What is that?”
"What's that?"
“Suppose that I thought I was in love, and that I am not.”
“Imagine I thought I was in love, but I'm not.”
“What! not in love!”
“What! Not in love?!”
“Well, then! 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 because my hour has not yet come.”
“Well, then! If I've acted differently than others do when they're in love, it's because I don't love; and because my time hasn't come yet.”
“Louise, Louise,” said Montalais, “take care or I will remind you of the remark you made just now. Raoul 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 laugh.
“Louise, Louise,” Montalais said, “be careful or I’ll bring up what you just said. Raoul isn’t here; don’t pile on him while he’s away; be nice, and if you realize you don’t love him after thinking it over, let him know, poor guy!” and she started to laugh.
“Louise pitied M. de Guiche just now,” said Athenais; “would it be possible to detect an explanation of her indifference for the one in this compassion for the other?”
“Louise felt sorry for M. de Guiche just now,” said Athenais; “could we find a reason for her indifference towards one in this sympathy for the other?”
“Say what you please,” said La Valliere, sadly; “upbraid me as you like, since you do not understand me.”
“Say whatever you want,” La Valliere said sadly; “criticize me all you like, since you don’t really understand me.”
“Oh! oh!” replied Montalais, “temper, sorrow, tears; we are jesting, 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 M. de Montespan, it is true, but she would be in despair if M. de Montespan did not continue to love her. Look at me; I laugh at M. Malicorne, but the poor fellow whom I laugh at knows precisely when he will be permitted to press his lips upon my hand. And yet the eldest of us is not twenty yet. What a future before us!”
“Oh! oh!” replied Montalais, “anger, sadness, tears; we’re just joking, Louise, and I assure you, we’re not the monsters you think we are. Look at the proud Athenais, as they call her; she doesn’t love M. de Montespan, it’s true, but she would be devastated if M. de Montespan stopped loving her. Look at me; I laugh at M. Malicorne, but the poor guy I laugh at knows exactly when he can kiss my hand. And yet the oldest of us isn’t even twenty. What a future we have ahead of us!”
“Silly, silly girls!” murmured Louise.
"Silly, silly girls!" murmured Louise.
“You are quite right,” said Montalais; “and you alone have spoken words of wisdom.”
“You're absolutely right,” said Montalais; “and you’re the only one who has shared any wise words.”
“Certainly.”
"Of course."
“I do not dispute it,” replied Athenais. “And so it is clear you do not love poor M. de Bragelonne?”
“I won’t argue with that,” Athenais replied. “So it’s obvious that you don’t love poor M. de Bragelonne?”
“Perhaps she does,” said Montalais; “she is not yet quite certain of it. But, in any case, listen, Athenais; if M. de Bragelonne is ever free, I will give you a little friendly advice.”
“Maybe she does,” said Montalais; “she's still not completely sure about it. But anyway, listen, Athenais; if M. de Bragelonne ever becomes available, I have a piece of friendly advice for you.”
“What is that?”
"What's that?"
“To look at him well before you decide in favor of M. de Montespan.”
“To look at him closely before you choose M. de Montespan.”
“Oh! in that way of considering the subject, M. de Bragelonne is not the only one whom one could look at with pleasure; M. de Guiche, for instance, has his value also.”
“Oh! In that way of looking at things, M. de Bragelonne isn’t the only one who’s enjoyable to watch; M. de Guiche, for example, has his own worth too.”
“He did not distinguish himself this evening,” said Montalais; “and I know from very good authority that Madame thought him insupportable.”
“He didn’t stand out this evening,” Montalais said; “and I know from reliable sources that Madame found him unbearable.”
“M. de Saint-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?”
“M. de Saint-Aignan made a stunning impression, and I’m sure that more than one person who watched him dance tonight will remember it for a long time. Don’t you think so, La Valliere?”
“Why do you ask me? I did not see him, nor do I know him.”
“Why are you asking me? I didn’t see him, and I don’t know him.”
“What! you did not see M. de Saint-Aignan? Don’t you know him?”
“What! You didn’t see M. de Saint-Aignan? Don’t you know him?”
“No.”
“No.”
“Come, come, do not affect a virtue more extravagantly excessive than our vanity!—you have eyes, I suppose?”
“Come on, don’t pretend to have a virtue that’s more excessive than our vanity! You have eyes, I assume?”
“Excellent.”
“Awesome.”
“Then you must have seen all those who danced this evening.”
“Then you must have seen everyone who danced tonight.”
“Yes, nearly all.”
"Yeah, almost all."
“That is a very impertinent ‘nearly all’ for somebody.”
"That’s a really rude ‘almost everyone’ for someone."
“You must take it for what it is worth.”
"You should take it for what it's worth."
“Very well; now, among all those gentlemen whom you saw, which do you prefer?”
“Alright; now, out of all those guys you saw, which one do you prefer?”
“Yes,” said Montalais, “is it M. de Saint-Aignan, or M. de Guiche, or M.—”
“Yeah,” said Montalais, “is it M. de Saint-Aignan, or M. de Guiche, or M.—”
“I prefer no one; I thought them all about the same.”
"I don't really prefer anyone; I thought they were all pretty much the same."
“Do you mean, then, that among that brilliant assembly, the first court in the world, no one pleased you?”
“Are you saying that among that amazing group, the best court in the world, no one impressed you?”
“I do not say that.”
"I won't say that."
“Tell us, then, who your ideal is?”
“Tell us, then, who is your ideal?”
“It is not an ideal being.”
"It’s not an ideal being."
“He exists, then?”
"Is he real, then?"
“In very truth,” exclaimed La Valliere, aroused and excited; “I cannot understand you at all. What! you who have a heart as I have, eyes as I have, and yet you speak of M. de Guiche, of M. de Saint-Aignan, when the king was there.” These words, uttered in a precipitate manner, and in an agitated, fervid tone of voice, made her two companions, between whom she was seated, exclaim in a manner that terrified her, “The king!”
“In truth,” exclaimed La Valliere, awake and excited; “I don’t understand you at all. What! You, who have a heart like mine, eyes like mine, and yet you talk about M. de Guiche, about M. de Saint-Aignan, when the king was there.” These words, spoken hurriedly and in an agitated, passionate tone, caused her two companions, seated beside her, to exclaim in a way that 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?”
La Valliere buried her face in her hands. “Yes,” she murmured; “the king! the king! Have you ever seen anyone who compares 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 hinge themselves.”
“You were right just now in saying you have excellent eyesight, Louise, because you can see a long way; too far, in fact. Unfortunately, the king is not someone our poor eyes should rely on.”
“That is too true,” cried La Valliere; “it is not the privilege of all eyes to gaze upon the sun; but I will look 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 what sounded like some silken material, was heard behind the adjoining bushes. The young girls hastily rose, almost terrified out of their senses. They distinctly saw the leaves move, without being able to see what it was that stirred them.
“That’s so true,” cried La Valliere. “Not everyone gets to look at the sun, but I’ll stare at him, even if it blinds me.” At that moment, as if her words had summoned it, they heard a rustling of leaves and something that sounded like silky fabric behind the nearby bushes. The young girls quickly got up, almost scared out of their minds. They clearly saw the leaves moving, but couldn’t figure out what was causing it.
“It is a wolf or a wild boar,” cried Montalais; “fly! fly!” The three girls, in the extremity of terror, fled by the first path that presented itself, and did not stop until they had reached the verge of the wood. There, breathless, leaning against each other, 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 chateau, they decided to walk towards them. La Valliere was exhausted with fatigue, and Aure and Athenais were obliged to support her.
“It’s a wolf or a wild boar,” shouted Montalais; “run! Run!” The three girls, in sheer panic, bolted down the first path they found and didn’t stop until they reached the edge of the woods. There, breathless and leaning on each other, feeling their hearts race, they tried to gather their thoughts but could only manage it after a few minutes. Finally spotting the lights from the chateau windows, they decided to head toward them. La Valliere was completely worn out, so Aure and Athenais had to help her along.
“We have escaped well,” said Montalais.
“We got away fine,” 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 did?” And saying this her head bowed like the water tossed plume of a bulrush; she felt her limbs fail, and her strength abandoning her, and, gliding almost inanimate from the arms of her companions, sank down upon the turf.
“I’m really scared,” said La Valliere, “that it was something worse than a wolf. Honestly, I would have rather faced the chance of being eaten alive by some wild animal than to have been overheard. What an idiot I am! How could I have thought that, how could I have said what I did?” As she said this, her head drooped like a water-laden bulrush; she felt her limbs weaken, her strength leaving her, and, almost collapsing from the arms of her friends, she sank down onto the grass.
Chapter XLII. The King’s Uneasiness.
Let us leave poor La Valliere, who had fainted in the arms 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 renewed among the branches. A man’s figure might indistinctly be perceived, and putting the branches of the bushes aside, he appeared upon the verge of the wood, and perceiving that the place was empty, burst out into a peal of laughter. It is almost superfluous to add that the form in question was that of a young and handsome cavalier, who immediately made a sign to another, who thereupon made his appearance.
Let’s leave poor La Valliere, who had fainted in the arms of her two friends, and return to the area around the royal oak. The girls had barely run twenty paces when the sound that had scared them so much came back from the trees. A man's figure could be seen faintly, and as he pushed aside the branches of the bushes, he stepped out onto the edge of the woods. Noticing that the spot was empty, he broke into laughter. It's almost unnecessary to say that this figure was a young and handsome gentleman, who immediately signaled to someone else, who then showed up.
“What, sire,” said the second figure, advancing timidly, “has your majesty put our young sentimentalists to flight?”
“What, sir,” said the second figure, stepping forward nervously, “have you driven our young romantics away?”
“It seems so,” said the king, “and you can show yourself without fear.”
“It seems that way,” said the king, “and you can reveal yourself without worry.”
“Take care, sire, you will be recognized.”
“Be careful, sir, you’ll be noticed.”
“But I tell you they are flown.”
“But I’m telling you, they’ve flown.”
“This is a most fortunate meeting, sire; and, if I dared offer an opinion to your majesty, we ought to follow them.”
“This is a very fortunate meeting, Your Majesty; and, if I may share my opinion, we should follow them.”
“They are far enough away by this time.”
“They're far enough away by now.”
“They would quickly allow themselves to be overtaken, especially if they knew who were following them.”
“They would quickly let themselves be caught, especially if they knew who was following them.”
“What do you mean by that, coxcomb that you are?”
“What do you mean by that, you fool?”
“Why, one of them seems to have taken a fancy to me, and another compared you to the sun.”
“Why, one of them seems to be really into me, and another said you remind them of the sun.”
“The greater reason why we should not show ourselves, Saint-Aignan. The sun never shows itself in the night-time.”
“The main reason we shouldn’t reveal ourselves, Saint-Aignan. The sun never shows up at night.”
“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.”
“Honestly, your majesty, you seem to be lacking in curiosity. If I were you, I would want to know who the two nymphs, the two dryads, and the two hamadryads are that hold us in such high regard.”
“I shall know them again very well, I assure you, without running after them.”
“I’ll definitely recognize them again, I promise, without chasing after them.”
“By what means?”
"How?"
“By their voices, of course. They belong to the court, and the one who spoke of me had a remarkably sweet voice.”
“By their voices, of course. They belong to the court, and the one who talked about me had a really lovely voice.”
“Ah! your majesty permits yourself to be influenced by flattery.”
“Ah! Your Majesty allows yourself to be swayed by compliments.”
“No one will ever say it is a means you make use of.”
“No one will ever say it’s a tool you use.”
“Forgive my stupidity, sire.”
"Forgive my foolishness, Your Majesty."
“Come; let us go and look where I told you.”
“Come on; let’s go check out the place I mentioned.”
“Is the passion, then, which your majesty confided to me, already forgotten?”
“Is the passion that you shared with me, your majesty, already forgotten?”
“Oh! no, indeed. How is it possible to forget such beautiful eyes as Mademoiselle de la Valliere has?”
“Oh! No way. How can anyone forget such beautiful eyes like Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s?”
“Yet the other one has a beautiful voice.”
“Yet the other one has a beautiful voice.”
“Which one?”
"Which one?"
“The lady who has fallen in love with the sun.”
“The woman who has fallen in love with the sun.”
“M. de Saint-Aignan!”
“Mr. de Saint-Aignan!”
“Forgive me, sire.”
“Forgive me, your majesty.”
“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 have to pay for the confidence I have shown you.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m sorry you think I’m a fan of sweet voices as much as beautiful eyes. I know you can talk a lot, and tomorrow I’ll have to deal with the consequences of the trust I’ve given you.”
“What do you mean, sire?”
“What do you mean, dude?”
“That to-morrow every one will know that I have designs upon this little La Valliere; but be careful, Saint-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.”
“That tomorrow everyone will know that I have plans for this little La Valliere; but be careful, Saint-Aignan, I have confided my secret to no one but you, and if anyone mentions it to me, I’ll know who has betrayed my secret.”
“You are angry, sire.”
“You're angry, sir.”
“No; but you understand I do not wish to compromise the poor girl.”
“No; but you understand I don’t want to put the poor girl in a difficult position.”
“Do not be afraid, sire.”
"Don't be afraid, sir."
“You promise me, then?”
"Are you promising me, then?"
“I give you my word of honor.”
"I swear."
“Excellent,” thought the king, laughing to himself; “now every one will know to-morrow that I have been running about after La Valliere to-night.”
“Great,” thought the king, chuckling to himself; “now everyone will know tomorrow that I’ve been chasing after La Valliere tonight.”
Then, endeavoring to see where he was, he said: “Why we have lost ourselves.”
Then, trying to figure out where he was, he said, “We’ve lost our way.”
“Not quite so bad as that, sire.”
“Not as bad as that, sir.”
“Where does that gate lead to?”
“Where does that gate lead?”
“To Rond-Point, sire.”
"To Rond-Point, sir."
“Where were we going when we heard the sound of women’s voices?”
“Where were we headed when we heard the sound of women's voices?”
“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.”
"Yes, sir, and the end of a conversation where I had the privilege of hearing my own name mentioned alongside your majesty’s."
“You return to that subject too frequently, Saint-Aignan.”
“You bring that up way too often, Saint-Aignan.”
“Your majesty will forgive me, but I am delighted to know that a woman exists whose thoughts are occupied about me, without my knowledge, and without my having done anything to deserve it. Your majesty cannot comprehend this satisfaction, for your rank and merit attract attention, and compel regard.”
“Your majesty will forgive me, but I’m thrilled to know that there's a woman who thinks about me, without me knowing it, and without me having done anything to deserve it. Your majesty can't understand this happiness, because your position and achievements draw attention and demand respect.”
“No, no, Saint-Aignan, believe me or not, as you like,” said the king, leaning familiarly upon Saint-Aignan’s arm and taking the path he thought would lead them to the chateau; “but this candid confession, this perfectly disinterested preference of one who will, perhaps, never attract 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—”
“No, no, Saint-Aignan, believe me or not, it’s up to you,” said the king, casually leaning on Saint-Aignan’s arm and taking the path he thought would lead them to the chateau. “But this straightforward confession, this completely genuine preference from someone who might never catch my eye— in short, the mystery of this situation fascinates me. The truth is, if I weren’t so into La Valliere—”
“Do not let that interfere with your majesty’s intentions: you have time enough before you.”
“Don’t let that get in the way of your plans, your majesty: you have plenty of time ahead of you.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean?”
“La Valliere is said to be very strict in her ideas.”
“La Valliere is said to have very strict views.”
“You excite my curiosity and I am anxious to see her again. Come, let us walk on.”
“You spark my curiosity, and I can't wait to see her again. Come on, let’s keep walking.”
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. Saint-Aignan followed him at a short distance. Suddenly the king stopped; the courtier followed his example.
The king spoke falsely, as nothing could actually make him less anxious; however, he had a role to fulfill, so he hurried on. Saint-Aignan trailed him at a short distance. Suddenly, the king stopped; the courtier mirrored his action.
“Saint-Aignan,” he said, “do you not hear some one moaning?”
“Saint-Aignan,” he said, “don’t you hear someone moaning?”
“Yes, sire, and weeping, too, it seems.”
“Yes, sir, and it looks like there's crying involved, too.”
“It is in this direction,” said the king. “It sounds like the tears and sobs of a woman.”
“It’s this way,” said the king. “It sounds like a woman crying.”
“Run,” said the king; and, following a by-path, they ran across the grass. As they approached, the cries were more distinctly heard.
“Run,” said the king; and, taking a shortcut, they dashed across the grass. As they got closer, the cries became clearer.
“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 Saint-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 assistance. Perceiving the 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 chateau, a dozen persons were approaching, who had been drawn to the spot by the same cries that had attracted the attention of the king and M. de Saint-Aignan.
“Help, help!” shouted two voices. The king and his companion quickened their pace, and as they got closer, the sighs they had heard turned into loud sobs. The cry of “Help! Help!” was shouted again, prompting the king and Saint-Aignan to speed up even more. Suddenly, on the other side of a ditch, under the branches of a willow tree, they saw a woman on her knees, cradling another woman who appeared to be unconscious. A few steps away, a third woman stood in the middle of the path, calling for help. When she saw the two gentlemen, whose status she couldn't determine, her cries grew more frantic. The king, ahead of his companion, jumped over the ditch and reached the group just as about a dozen people were approaching from the end of the path leading to the chateau, drawn by the same cries that had caught the attention of the king and M. de Saint-Aignan.
“What is the matter, young ladies?” said Louis.
“What’s going on, young ladies?” Louis asked.
“The king!” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Montalais, in her astonishment, letting La Valliere’s head fall upon the ground.
“The king!” shouted Mademoiselle de Montalais, in her shock, dropping La Valliere’s head to the ground.
“Yes, it is the king; but that is no reason why you should abandon your companion. Who is she?”
“Yes, it's the king; but that doesn't mean you should leave your friend behind. Who is she?”
“It is Mademoiselle de la Valliere, sire.”
“It’s Mademoiselle de la Valliere, sir.”
“Mademoiselle de la Valliere!”
“Miss de la Valliere!”
“Yes, sire, she has just fainted.”
“Yes, sir, she just passed out.”
“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 schooled himself but that they appeared, as well as the gesture which accompanied them, somewhat cold to Saint-Aignan, to whom the king had confided the sudden love with which she had inspired him.
“Poor child!” said the king. “Quick, quick, get a surgeon.” But no matter how worried the king sounded to others when he said this, he hadn’t managed to hide that his tone and the gesture that went with it seemed a bit indifferent to Saint-Aignan, to whom the king had shared the sudden love she had inspired in him.
“Saint-Aignan,” continued the king, “watch over Mademoiselle 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 Saint-Aignan was busily engaged in making preparations for carrying Mademoiselle de la Valliere to the chateau, the king hurried forward, happy to have an opportunity of approaching Madame, and of speaking to her under a 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 their seats to Mademoiselle de la Valliere. The current of fresh air produced 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 a while, 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 overhanging branches, and had seated himself by her side.
“Saint-Aignan,” the king continued, “please keep an eye on Mademoiselle de la Vallière for me. Send for a surgeon. I’ll hurry ahead and let Madame know about the accident that happened to one of her maids of honor.” While M. de Saint-Aignan was busy preparing to take Mademoiselle de la Vallière to the chateau, the king rushed ahead, eager for a chance to approach Madame and talk to her under a plausible reason. Luckily, a carriage was passing by; the coachman was instructed to stop, and the passengers, informed of the accident, gladly offered their seats to Mademoiselle de la Vallière. The rush of fresh air from the quick movement of the carriage soon brought her back to her senses. Once they reached the chateau, she managed, although very weak, to get out of the carriage and, with the help of Athenais and Montalais, made her way to the inner rooms. They helped her sit down in one of the ground floor rooms. After a bit, since the accident hadn’t affected those who had been walking much, they resumed their stroll. Meanwhile, the king found Madame sitting beneath a tree with overhanging branches and took a seat next to her.
“Take care, sire,” said Henrietta to him, in a low tone, “you do not show yourself as indifferent as you ought to be.”
“Take care, sir,” Henrietta said to him quietly, “you’re not acting 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?”
“Unfortunately!” replied the king, in the same tone, “I really worry that we’ve made a deal that's too much for us to handle.” He then added loudly, “I assume you’ve heard about the accident, right?”
“What accident?”
“What happened?”
“Oh! in seeing you I forgot I hurried here expressly to tell you of it. I am, however, painfully affected by it; one of your maids of honor, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, has just fainted.”
“Oh! seeing you made me forget I rushed here just to tell you about this. I’m really upset about it; one of your maids of honor, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, just fainted.”
“Indeed! poor girl,” said the princess, quietly, “what was the cause of it?”
“Really! Poor girl,” said the princess softly, “what happened to her?”
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.”
She then added quietly, “You forget, sir, that you want others to believe in your feelings for this girl, and yet you stay here while she’s almost dying, maybe, elsewhere.”
“Ah! Madame,” said the king, sighing, “how much more perfect you are in your part than I am, and how actively you think of everything.”
“Ah! Madam,” said the king, sighing, “you play your role so much better than I do, and you really consider everything.”
He then rose, saying loud enough for every one to hear 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 Valliere, while those who had been present commented upon the king’s remark:—“My uneasiness is very great.”
He then stood up and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Please let me leave, Madame; I’m really worried, and I want to make sure that Mademoiselle de la Valliere is getting the proper attention.” The king then left to go back to La Valliere, while those who were there commented on what the king had said: “I’m really worried.”
Chapter XLIII. The King’s Secret.
On his way Louis met the Comte de Saint-Aignan. “Well, Saint-Aignan,” he inquired, with affected interest, “how is the invalid.”
On his way, Louis ran into the Comte de Saint-Aignan. “So, Saint-Aignan,” he asked, with feigned concern, “how is the sick one?”
“Really, sire,” stammered Saint-Aignan, “to my shame, I confess I do not know.”
“Honestly, sir,” stammered Saint-Aignan, “to my embarrassment, I admit I don’t 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.
“What! You don’t know?” said the king, pretending to take this lack of attention to his favorite seriously.
“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.”
“Will your majesty forgive me; but I just ran into one of our three chatty wood-nymphs, and I admit that my focus has been pulled away from other things.”
“Ah!” said the king, eagerly, “you have found, then—”
“Ah!” said the king, eagerly, “you’ve found, then—”
“The one who deigned to speak of me in such advantageous terms; and, having found mine, I was searching for yours, sire, when I had the happiness to meet your majesty.”
“The person who took the time to speak about me so positively; and, having discovered my feelings, I was looking for yours, sir, when I had the pleasure of meeting your majesty.”
“Very well; but Mademoiselle de la Valliere before everything else,” said the king, faithful to the character he had assumed.
“Alright; but Mademoiselle de la Valliere comes first,” said the king, staying true to the role he had taken on.
“Oh! our charming invalid!” said Saint-Aignan; “how fortunately her fainting fit came on, since your majesty had already occupied yourself about her.”
“Oh! our lovely patient!” said Saint-Aignan; “how lucky that her fainting spell happened just when your majesty was already concerned about her.”
“What is the name of your fair lady, Saint-Aignan? Is it a secret?”
“What’s your lady’s name, Saint-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 exist for you.”
“It should be a secret, a really big one too; however, your majesty knows that no secret can truly be kept from you.”
“Well, what is her name?”
"What's her name?"
“Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.”
“Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.”
“Is she pretty?”
"Is she cute?"
“Exceedingly, sire; and I recognized the voice which pronounced my name in such tender accents. I accosted her, questioned her as well as I was able to do, in the midst of the crowd; and she told me, without suspecting anything, that a little while ago she was under the great oak, with her two friends, when the sound of a wolf or a robber had terrified them, and made them run away.”
“Definitely, sir; and I recognized the voice that spoke my name so sweetly. I approached her and asked her as best as I could in the middle of the crowd; she told me, without realizing anything was wrong, that a little while ago she was by the big oak tree with her two friends when the sound of a wolf or a thief scared them, and they ran away.”
“But,” inquired the king, anxiously, “what are the names of these two friends?”
“But,” asked the king nervously, “what are the names of these two friends?”
“Sire,” said Saint-Aignan, “will your majesty send me forthwith to the Bastile?”
“Sire,” said Saint-Aignan, “will Your Majesty send me immediately to the Bastille?”
“What for?”
"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 importance to what you heard, knowing how much your attention was taken up by Mademoiselle de la Valliere; and then, Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente left me precipitately, to return to Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”
“Because I'm selfish and naive. I was so shocked by this achievement and this lucky find that I didn’t dig any deeper into my questions. Plus, I didn’t think you’d care too much about what you heard, especially since I know how much you’re focused on Mademoiselle de la Valliere; and then, Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente rushed off to go back to Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”
“Let us hope, then, that I shall be as fortunate as yourself. Come, Saint-Aignan.”
“Let’s hope I’ll be as lucky as you are. Come on, Saint-Aignan.”
“Your majesty is ambitions, 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 or the other of those Three Graces we shall learn the names of the rest, and by the names their secrets.”
“Your majesty is ambitious, I see, and doesn’t want to let any conquest slip away. Well, I promise I will thoroughly pursue my investigations; and, in addition, from one or the other of those Three Graces, we will find out the names of the others, and by the names, their secrets.”
“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.”
“I, too,” said the king, “just need to hear her voice to recognize it again. Come on, let’s not talk about it anymore, just show me where poor La Valliere is.”
“Well,” thought Saint-Aignan, “the king’s regard is beginning to display itself, and for that girl too. It is extraordinary; I should never have believed it.” And with this thought passing through his mind, he showed the king the room to which La Valliere had been carried; the king entered, followed by Saint-Aignan. In a low chamber, near a large window looking out upon the gardens, La Valliere, reclining in a large armchair, was inhaling deep draughts of 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, that pass before the mental eye 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 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 passiveness of her arms and bust, she more resembled one whose soul had passed away, than a living being; she seemed not to hear either of the whisperings which arose from the court. She seemed to be communing within herself; and her beautiful, delicate hands trembled from time to time as though at 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.
“Well,” thought Saint-Aignan, “the king is starting to notice her, and it’s incredible; I never would have believed it.” As this thought crossed his mind, he led the king to the room where La Valliere had been taken; the king followed him inside. In a cozy chamber, near a large window overlooking the gardens, La Valliere was resting in a big armchair, breathing in the fragrant evening breeze. The lace from her loosely fitting dress spilled in soft folds, mingling with the lovely strands of her fair hair that draped over her shoulders. Her dreamy eyes glistened with tears; she appeared as lifeless as those beautiful visions we see in dreams, fluttering their wings without moving, parting their lips without a sound. The pearly pallor of La Valliere had an indescribable charm. The turmoil of her mind and body gave her face a soft and dignified look of sorrow; with her arms and chest perfectly still, she resembled someone whose soul had departed, rather than a living person; she seemed unresponsive to the whispers drifting from the court. It was as if she was lost in her own thoughts; her delicate, beautiful hands trembled occasionally as if touched by some invisible force. She was so deeply engrossed in her reverie that the king entered without her noticing. From a distance, he admired her lovely face, illuminated by the pure silvery moonlight.
“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed, with a terror he could not control, “she is dead.”
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, unable to control his terror, “she’s dead.”
“No, sire,” said Montalais, in a low voice; “on the contrary, she is better. Are you not better, Louise?”
“No, sir,” said Montalais softly; “actually, she’s doing better. Aren’t you, Louise?”
But Louise did not answer. “Louise,” continued Montalais, “the king has deigned to express his uneasiness on your account.”
But Louise didn’t respond. “Louise,” Montalais continued, “the king has graciously expressed his concern for you.”
“The king!” exclaimed Louise, starting up abruptly, as if a stream of fire had started through her frame to her heart; “the king uneasy about me?”
“The king!” Louise exclaimed, jumping up suddenly, as if a rush of fire had surged through her body to her heart; “the king is worried about me?”
“Yes,” said Montalais.
“Yep,” said Montalais.
“The king is here, then?” said La Valliere, not venturing to look round her.
“The king is here, then?” La Valliere asked, not daring to look around her.
“That voice! that voice!” whispered Louis, eagerly, to Saint-Aignan.
“Wow, that voice! That voice!” Louis whispered eagerly to Saint-Aignan.
“Yes, it is so,” replied Saint-Aignan; “your majesty is right; it is she who declared her love for the sun.”
“Yes, it’s true,” replied Saint-Aignan. “Your majesty is right; she’s the one who expressed her love for the sun.”
“Hush!” said the king. And then approaching La Valliere, he said, “You are not well, Mademoiselle de la Valliere? Just now, indeed, in the park, I saw that you had fainted. How were you attacked?”
“Hush!” said the king. Then he walked over to La Valliere and said, “You don’t seem well, Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Just a moment ago, in the park, I noticed you fainted. What happened?”
“Sire,” stammered out the poor child, pale and trembling, “I really do not know.”
“Sire,” stuttered the poor child, pale and shaking, “I honestly don't know.”
“You have been walking too far,” said the king; “and fatigue, perhaps—”
"You've been walking too far," said the king, "and maybe you're tired—"
“No, sire,” said Montalais, eagerly, answering for her friend, “it could not be from fatigue, for we passed most of the evening seated beneath the royal oak.”
“No, sir,” said Montalais, eagerly speaking for her friend, “it couldn’t be from exhaustion, because we spent most of the evening sitting under 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.
“Under the royal oak?” the king replied, surprised. “I wasn’t misled; it’s just as I suspected.” And he shot a knowing glance at the comte.
“Yes,” said Saint-Aignan, “under the royal oak, with Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.”
“Yeah,” said Saint-Aignan, “under the royal oak, with Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.”
“How do you know that?” inquired Montalais.
"How do you know that?" Montalais asked.
“In a very simple way. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente told me so.”
“In a very simple way. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente told me that.”
“In that case, she probably told you the cause of Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s fainting?”
“In that case, she probably told you why Mademoiselle de la Valliere fainted?”
“Why, yes; she told me something about a wolf or a robber. I forget precisely which.” La Valliere listened, her eyes fixed, her bosom heaving, as if, gifted with an acuteness of perception, she foresaw a portion of the truth. Louis imagined this attitude and agitation to be the consequence of a terror only partially reassured. “Nay, fear nothing,” 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.”
“Yeah, she mentioned something about a wolf or a robber. I can’t remember exactly which.” La Valliere listened intently, her eyes locked on him, her chest rising and falling, as if she had an intuition about part of the truth. Louis thought her demeanor and anxiety were due to a fear that was only partly calmed. “Don’t be scared,” he said, his rising emotions breaking through; “the wolf that scared you so much was just a wolf on two legs.”
“It was a man, then!” said Louise; “it was a man who was listening?”
“It was a man, then!” said Louise; “it was a man who was listening?”
“Suppose it was so, mademoiselle, what great harm 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?”
“Suppose that’s true, miss, what’s the big deal about him listening? Is it even possible that you think you would have said anything that wasn’t worth hearing?”
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?”
La Valliere wrung her hands and hid her face in them, as if to cover her blushes. “For Heaven's sake,” she said, “who was hiding there? Who was listening?”
The king advanced towards her, to take hold of one of her hands. “It was I,” he said, bowing with marked respect. “Is it likely I could have frightened you?” La Valliere uttered a loud cry; for the second time her strength forsook her; and moaning in utter despair, she again fell lifeless in her chair. The king had just time to hold out his arm; so that she was partially supported by him. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente and Montalais, who stood a few paces from the king and La Valliere, motionless and almost petrified at the recollection of their conversation with La Valliere, did not even think of offering their assistance, feeling restrained by the presence of the king, who, with one knee on the ground, held La Valliere round the waist with his arm.
The king approached her and took her hand. “It was me,” he said, bowing deeply. “Could I really have frightened you?” La Valliere let out a loud gasp; once again, her strength left her, and in complete despair, she slumped lifeless in her chair. The king barely had time to extend his arm, providing her with some support. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente and Montalais, standing a few feet away, were frozen and almost in shock at the memory of their earlier conversation with La Valliere. They didn’t even consider helping her, feeling held back by the king’s presence, who knelt with one knee on the ground, embracing La Valliere around her waist.
“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 quiescent hand in his own.
“You heard, my lord!” whispered Athenais. But the king didn’t answer; he kept his gaze locked on La Valliere’s partially closed eyes and held her still hand in his.
“Of course,” replied Saint-Aignan, who, on his side, hoping that Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, too, would faint, advancing towards her, holding his arms extended,—“of course; we did not even lose a single word.” But the haughty Athenais was not a woman to faint easily; she darted a terrible look at Saint-Aignan, and fled. Montalais, with more courage, advanced hurriedly towards 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,” whispered Saint-Aignan. “This is indeed an adventure; and it will be my own fault if I am not the first to relate it.”
“Of course,” replied Saint-Aignan, who, hoping that Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente would faint as well, moved closer to her with his arms outstretched. “Of course; we didn’t even miss a single word.” But the proud Athenais wasn’t the type to faint easily; she shot a furious glance at Saint-Aignan and ran away. Montalais, with more bravery, hurried over to Louise and took her from the king’s grasp, who was already losing his composure as he felt the perfumed hair of the seemingly fainting girl covering his face. “Perfect,” whispered Saint-Aignan. “This is definitely an adventure, and it’ll be my own fault if I’m not the first to tell the story.”
The king approached him, and, with a trembling voice and a passionate gesture, said, “Not a syllable, comte.”
The king walked up to him and, with a shaky voice and an intense gesture, said, “Not a word, 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 indiscreet. It followed, as a matter of course, that he latter recommendation was quite as unnecessary as the former. Half an hour afterwards, everybody in Fontainebleau knew that Mademoiselle de la Valliere had had a conversation under the royal oak with Montalais and Tonnay-Charente, 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 Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s health had inspired him, had turned pale, and trembled very much as he received the beautiful girl fainting into 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 Mademoiselle 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 the sudden change, hastened to tell the young queen and Philip 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 devoted 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 triumphantly to look after his wife, and it was not yet midnight and the fete was to continue until two in the morning, he offered her his hand for a promenade. At the end of a few paces, however, the first thing he did was to disobey his mother’s injunctions.
The poor king forgot that, just an hour earlier, he had given him a similar suggestion, but for the exact opposite reason; that is, he wanted the comte to be indiscreet. Naturally, this later suggestion was just as unnecessary as the first. Half an hour later, everyone in Fontainebleau knew that Mademoiselle de la Valliere had talked under the royal oak with Montalais and Tonnay-Charente, and in that conversation, she had confessed her love for the king. It was also known that the king, after showing how worried Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s health made him, had turned pale and trembled a lot as he caught the beautiful girl when she fainted into his arms; so it was generally accepted among the courtiers that the biggest news of the time had just come to light: his majesty loved Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and therefore, Monsieur could now sleep soundly. This was what the queen-mother, just as surprised as everyone else by this sudden turn of events, quickly told the young queen and Philip d’Orleans. However, she approached them differently, confronting them with the following:—To her daughter-in-law, she said, “Look, Therese, how wrong you were to accuse the king; now they say he is devoted to someone else; why should today’s rumor be any truer than yesterday’s, or yesterday’s than today’s?” To Monsieur, while recounting the incident at the royal oak, she said, “Aren’t you being ridiculous with your jealousies, my dear Philip? It’s said that the king is madly in love with that little La Valliere. Don’t mention it to your wife; the queen will find out about it very soon.” This private bit of news had an immediate effect. Monsieur, having regained his composure, triumphantly went to find his wife, and before midnight, when the fete was set to continue until two in the morning, he offered her his hand for a walk. However, just after a few steps, the first thing he did was go against his mother’s instructions.
“Do not tell any one, the queen least of all,” he said mysteriously, “what people say about the king.”
“Don’t tell anyone, especially not the queen,” he said mysteriously, “what people are saying about the king.”
“What do they say about him?” inquired Madame.
“What do they say about him?” asked Madame.
“That my brother has suddenly fallen in love.”
“That my brother has unexpectedly fallen in love.”
“With whom?”
"With who?"
“With Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”
"With Mademoiselle de la Valliere."
As it was dark, Madame could smile at her ease.
As it was dark, Madame could smile comfortably.
“Ah!” she said, “and how long is it since this has been the case?”
“Ah!” she said, “and how long has this been going on?”
“For some days, it seems. But that was nothing but nonsense; it is only this evening that he has revealed his passion.”
“For a few days, it feels like. But that was just nonsense; it’s only this evening that he has shown his feelings.”
“The king shows his good taste,” said Madame; “in my opinion she is a very charming girl.”
“The king has great taste,” said Madame; “I think she’s a very charming girl.”
“I verily believe you are jesting.”
“I truly believe you are joking.”
“I! in what way?”
"How am I involved?"
“In any case this passion will make some one very happy, even if it be only La Valliere herself.”
“In any case, this passion will make someone very happy, even if it’s just La Valliere herself.”
“Really,” 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 affection?”
“Honestly,” the princess went on, “you talk as if you know the deepest feelings of La Valliere’s heart. Who told you that she is willing to return the king’s love?”
“And who has told you that she will not return it?”
“And who told you that she won’t give it back?”
“She loves the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
“She loves the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
“You think so?”
“Do you think so?”
“She is even affianced to him.”
“She is even engaged to him.”
“She was so.”
"She was that way."
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean?”
“When they went to ask the king’s permission to arrange the marriage, he refused his permission.”
“When they went to ask the king for permission to set up the marriage, he said no.”
“Refused?”
"Refused?"
“Yes, although the request was preferred by the Comte de la Fere himself, for whom the king has the greatest regard, on account of the part he took in your royal brother’s restoration, and in other events, also, which happened a long time ago.”
“Yes, even though the request was made by the Comte de la Fere himself, someone the king has great respect for because of his role in your royal brother’s return and in other events that took place 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.”
“Well! the poor lovers will have to wait until the king decides to change his mind; they’re young, and there’s plenty of time.”
“But, dear me,” said Philip, laughing, “I perceive you do not know the best part of the affair.”
“But, oh my,” said Philip, laughing, “I can see you don't know the best part of the whole situation.”
“No!”
“Nope!”
“That by which the king was most deeply touched.”
“That which affected the king the most.”
“The king, do you say, has been deeply touched?”
“The king, you say, has been really affected?”
“To the very quick of his heart.”
“To the very core of his heart.”
“But how?—in what manner?—tell me directly.”
“But how?—in what way?—just tell me straight.”
“By an adventure, the romance of which cannot be equalled.”
“Through an adventure, the romance of which cannot be matched.”
“You know how I love to hear of such adventures, and yet you keep me waiting,” said the princess, impatiently.
“You know how much I love hearing about adventures, and yet you keep me waiting,” said the princess, impatiently.
“Well, then—” and Monsieur paused.
"Well, then—" Monsieur paused.
“I am listening.”
"I'm all ears."
“Under the royal oak—you know where the royal oak is?”
“Under the royal oak—you know where that is?”
“What can that matter? Under the royal oak, you were saying?”
“What does that matter? You were talking about under the royal oak?”
“Well! Mademoiselle de la Valliere, fancying herself to be alone with her two friends, revealed to them her affection for the king.”
“Well! Mademoiselle de la Valliere, thinking she was alone with her two friends, shared her feelings for the king.”
“Ah!” said Madame, beginning to be uneasy, “her affection for the king?”
“Ah!” said Madame, starting to feel worried, “her feelings for the king?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“When was this?”
"When did this happen?"
“About an hour ago.”
"About an hour ago."
Madame started, and then said, “And no one knew of this affection?”
Madame started and then said, “And no one knew about this affection?”
“No one.”
“No one.”
“Not even his majesty?”
“Not even the king?”
“Not even his majesty. The artful little puss kept her secret strictly to herself, when suddenly it proved stronger than herself, and so escaped her.”
“Not even his majesty. The clever little cat kept her secret entirely to herself, until suddenly it became too strong for her, and she let it slip.”
“And from whom did you get this absurd tale?”
“And where did you hear this ridiculous story?”
“Why, as everybody else did, from La Valliere herself, who confessed her love to Montalais and Tonnay-Charente, who were her companions.”
“Why did everyone else, including La Valliere herself, confess her love to Montalais and Tonnay-Charente, who were her friends?”
Madame stopped suddenly, and by a hasty movement let go her husband’s hand.
Madame suddenly stopped and quickly pulled her hand away from her husband’s.
“Did you say it was an hour ago she made this confession?” Madame inquired.
“Did you say it was an hour ago she made this confession?” Madame asked.
“About that time.”
“During that time.”
“Is the king aware of it?”
“Does the king know about it?”
“Why, that is the very thing which constitutes the perfect romance of the affair, for the king was behind the royal oak with Saint-Aignan, and heard the whole of the interesting conversation without losing a single word of it.”
“Why, that’s exactly what makes this affair a perfect romance, because the king was behind the royal oak with Saint-Aignan, and he heard every single word of their interesting conversation.”
Madame felt struck to the heart, saying incautiously, “But I have seen the king since, and he never told me a word about it.”
Madame felt heartbroken, saying carelessly, “But I saw the king after that, and he never mentioned a word about it.”
“Of course,” said Monsieur; “he took care not to speak of it to you himself, since he recommended every one not to say a word about it.”
“Of course,” said Monsieur; “he made sure not to mention it to you directly, since he advised everyone not to say a word about it.”
“What do you mean?” said Madame, growing angry.
“What do you mean?” said Madame, getting angry.
“I mean that they wished to keep you in ignorance of the affair altogether.”
“I mean that they wanted to keep you completely in the dark about the situation.”
“But why should they wish to conceal it from me?”
“But why would they want to hide 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.”
“Because of the fear that your friendship for the young queen might lead you to mention 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 looking for him, he approached her in some perturbation, 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?”
Madame lowered her head; her feelings were deeply hurt. She couldn't find a moment's peace until she had seen the king. Just like a king is usually the last person in his kingdom to hear what people say about him, a lover is often the only one unaware of what’s said about his beloved. So, when the king saw Madame searching for him, he approached her, somewhat flustered but still polite and attentive. Madame expected him to mention La Valliere first, but since he didn't, she said, “And the poor girl?”
“What poor girl?” said the king.
“What poor girl?” said the king.
“La Valliere. Did you not tell me, sire, that she had fainted?”
“La Valliere. Didn't you tell me, sir, that she had fainted?”
“She is still very ill,” said the king, affecting the greatest indifference.
“She is still very sick,” said the king, pretending to be completely unconcerned.
“But surely that will prejudicially affect the rumor you were going to spread, sire?”
“But that will definitely hurt the rumor you were planning to spread, Your Majesty?”
“What rumor?”
"What gossip?"
“That your attention was taken up by her.”
"That she had your focus."
“Oh!” said the king, carelessly, “I trust it will be reported all the same.”
“Oh!” said the king, casually, “I hope it will be reported anyway.”
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 it; so that the king took leave of her without having reposed the slightest confidence in her. Hardly had she watched the king move away, than she set out in search of Saint-Aignan. Saint-Aignan was never very difficult to find; he was like the smaller vessels that always follow in the wake of, and as tenders to, the larger ships. Saint-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 in all its details. And so he did not spare Madame a single word of the whole affair. When he had finished, Madame said to him, “Confess, now, that is his all a charming invention.”
Madame continued to wait; she wanted to know if the king would mention the incident with the royal oak. But the king didn’t say anything about it. Madame, for her part, didn’t bring it up either, so the king left without sharing any trust with her. As soon as she saw the king walk away, she went off to find Saint-Aignan. Saint-Aignan was never hard to track down; he was like the smaller boats that always follow and serve the larger ships. Saint-Aignan was exactly who Madame needed in her current state of mind. He was just looking for someone more receptive than others he had encountered to share the whole story in detail. So he didn’t hold back any information from Madame. When he finished, Madame said to him, “Admit it, that is quite a charming story.”
“Invention, no; a true story, yes.”
“Invention, no; a real story, yes.”
“Confess, whether invention or true story, that it was told to you as you have told it to me, but that you were not there.”
“Admit, whether it’s made up or a real story, that it was shared with you just like you shared it with me, but that you weren’t actually there.”
“Upon my honor, Madame, I was there.”
“Honestly, ma'am, I was there.”
“And you think that these confessions may have made an impression on the king?”
“And you think these confessions might have had an impact on the king?”
“Certainly, as those of Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente did upon me,” replied Saint-Aignan; “do not forget, Madame, that Mademoiselle de la Valliere compared the king to the sun; that was flattering enough.”
“Of course, just like Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente did with me,” replied Saint-Aignan; “don't forget, Madame, that Mademoiselle de la Valliere compared the king to the sun; that was quite flattering.”
“The king does not permit himself to be influenced by such flatteries.”
“The king doesn’t allow himself to be swayed by such flattery.”
“Madame, the king is just as much Adonis as Apollo; and I saw plain enough just now when La Valliere fell into his arms.”
“Madam, the king is just as much a heartthrob as he is a god; and I just saw clearly when La Valliere fell into his arms.”
“La Valliere fell into the king’s 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—”
“Oh! it was the most graceful sight you could imagine; just picture it, La Valliere had collapsed, fainting, and—”
“Well! what did you see?—tell me—speak!”
“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.”
“I saw what ten other people saw at the same time as me; I saw that when La Valliere fell into his arms, the king nearly fainted himself.”
Madame smothered a subdued cry, the only indication of her smothered anger.
Madame stifled a quiet cry, the only sign of her suppressed anger.
“Thank you,” she said, laughing in a convulsive manner, “you relate stories delightfully, M. de Saint-Aignan.” And she hurried away, alone, and almost suffocated by painful emotion, towards the chateau.
“Thanks,” she said, laughing uncontrollably, “you tell stories so well, M. de Saint-Aignan.” And she hurried away, alone, nearly overwhelmed by intense emotion, toward the chateau.
Chapter XLIV. Courses de Nuit.
Monsieur quitted the princess in the best possible humor, and feeling greatly fatigued, retired to his apartments, 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 curling his hair, he sang the principal airs of the ballet which the violins had played, and to which the 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 chateau, entered the room, Monsieur overwhelmed him with kindness. The former, after having saluted the prince, remained silent for a moment, like a sharpshooter who deliberates before deciding in what direction he will renew his fire; then, seeming to make up his mind, he said, “Have you remarked a very singular coincidence, monseigneur?”
Monsieur left the princess in a great mood and, feeling very tired, went to his room, allowing everyone else to wrap up the night as they liked. Once he was in his chamber, Monsieur started getting ready for bed with careful attention, occasionally showing bursts of satisfaction. While his attendants curled his hair, he sang some of the main tunes from the ballet that the violins had played and to which the king had danced. Next, he called for his tailors, checked his outfits for the next day, and, to show his happiness, handed out various gifts to them. However, just as the Chevalier de Lorraine, who had seen the prince return to the chateau, entered the room, Monsieur showered him with kindness. The Chevalier, after greeting the prince, paused for a moment like a sharpshooter considering where to aim next; then, appearing to make a decision, he said, “Have you noticed a very strange coincidence, monseigneur?”
“No; what is it?”
“No; what’s going on?”
“The bad reception which his majesty, in appearance, gave the Comte de Guiche.”
“The poor reception that his majesty seemed to give the Comte de Guiche.”
“In appearance?”
"How do I look?"
“Yes, certainly; since, in reality, he has restored him to favor.”
“Yes, definitely; because, in reality, he has brought him back into good graces.”
“I did not notice it,” said the prince.
“I didn’t notice it,” said the prince.
“What, did you not remark, that, instead of ordering him to go away again into exile, as was natural, he encouraged him in his opposition by permitting him to resume his place in the ballet?”
“What, didn’t you notice that, instead of sending him away into exile again, which would be expected, he actually supported him in his defiance by allowing him to return to his place in the ballet?”
“And you think the king was wrong, chevalier?” said the prince.
“And you think the king was wrong, knight?” said the prince.
“Are you not of my opinion, prince?”
“Don’t you agree with me, 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 complained of than his intention.”
“Not entirely like that, my dear knight; and I believe the king was completely correct not to create a fuss over a poor guy whose lack of judgment is more worthy of criticism than his intentions.”
“Really,” said the chevalier, “as far as I am concerned, I confess that this magnanimity astonishes me to the highest degree.”
“Really,” said the knight, “to be honest, I admit that this generosity amazes me completely.”
“Why so?” inquired Philip.
“Why?” asked 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, ignited the powder.
“Because I should have thought the king would be more jealous,” replied the chevalier, spitefully. For the past few minutes, Monsieur had sensed some irritation hidden beneath his favorite’s comments; this last remark, however, lit the fuse.
“Jealous!” exclaimed the prince. “Jealous! what do you mean? Jealous of what, if you please—or jealous of whom?”
“Jealous!” the prince exclaimed. “Jealous! What do you mean? Jealous of what, if you don’t mind me asking—or jealous of whom?”
The chevalier perceived that he had allowed an excessively mischievous remark to escape him, as he was in the habit of doing. He endeavored, therefore, apparently to recall it while it was still possible to do so. “Jealous of his authority,” he said, with an assumed frankness; “of what else would you have the king jealous?”
The knight realized that he had let a particularly cheeky comment slip, which was something he often did. He tried to take it back while he still could. “Jealous of his authority,” he said with a feigned honesty; “of what else should the king be jealous?”
“Ah!” said the prince, “that’s very proper.”
“Ah!” said the prince, “that’s very fitting.”
“Did your royal highness,” continued the chevalier, “solicit dear De Guiche’s pardon?”
“Did your royal highness,” the chevalier continued, “ask dear De Guiche for his forgiveness?”
“No, indeed,” said Monsieur. “De Guiche is an excellent fellow, and full of courage; but as I do not approve of his conduct with Madame, I wish him neither harm nor good.”
“No, really,” said Monsieur. “De Guiche is a great guy and very brave; but since I don’t agree with how he’s acted with Madame, I neither wish him harm nor good.”
The chevalier had assumed a bitterness with regard to De Guiche, as he had attempted to do with regard to the king; but he thought he perceived that the time for indulgence, and even for the utmost indifference, 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, beneath the husband’s very nose.
The knight had taken a dislike toward De Guiche, just as he had with the king; however, he believed it was now the time for tolerance, and even for complete indifference, and that to shed some light on the situation, he might need to place the lamp, as the saying goes, right under the husband’s nose.
“Very well, very well,” said the chevalier to himself, “I must wait for De Wardes; he will do more in one day than I in a month; for I verily believe he is even more envious than I. Then, again, it is not De Wardes 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 is 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 trouble his head about her. The moral of the whole matter is, to remain perfectly neutral, 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 De Lorraine’s wit seemed to have deserted him. Most fortunately Monsieur was in high good-humor, and he had enough for two, until the time arrived for dismissing his 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 again into the park during the remainder of the evening. The chevalier entered the princess’s apartments at the very moment she came in herself. He acquitted himself faithfully of the commission intrusted to him, and, in the first place, remarked all the indifference and annoyance with which Madame received her husband’s communication—a circumstance which appeared to him fraught with something fresh. If Madame had been about to leave her apartments with that strangeness of manner, he would have followed her; but she was returning to them; there was nothing to be done, therefore he turned upon his heel like an unemployed heron, appearing 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 Bragelonne, the sight of whom, as it always did, produced upon the chevalier, instinctively, a feeling of repugnance. He did not, however, the less, on that account, salute them with a very low bow, which they returned with interest. Then, observing that the park was nearly deserted, 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 towards 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 through the silence of the night. The style of their mantles, their graceful figures, a mysterious yet haughty carriage which distinguished them both, especially the one who walked first, struck the chevalier.
“Alright, alright,” said the chevalier to himself, “I need to wait for De Wardes; he can accomplish more in a day than I can in a month; I truly believe he's even more envious than I am. But really, it’s not De Wardes I need as much as I need some event to happen; and in this whole situation, I see none. De Guiche coming back after being sent away is certainly serious, but all the seriousness fades away when I find out he returned just when Madame has stopped caring about him. Clearly, Madame is focused on the king; but she won't be for long if, as they say, the king has stopped being interested in her. The takeaway from all this is to stay completely neutral and wait for some new whim to come along and decide the whole situation.” The chevalier then settled back resignedly in the armchair that Monsieur allowed him to sit in when in his presence, and having no spiteful or malicious comments left to make, it seemed that De Lorraine’s wit had abandoned him. Luckily, Monsieur was in a great mood, enough to share with two, until it was time to send away his servants and gentlemen of the chamber, and he moved into his sleeping quarters. As he left, he asked the chevalier to send his regards to Madame and let her know that since the night was cool, Monsieur, who was wary of toothache, wouldn't venture out into the park for the rest of the evening. The chevalier entered the princess's rooms just as she came in herself. He faithfully carried out the task assigned to him, and first noticed the indifference and annoyance with which Madame received her husband's message—a sign that seemed to indicate something new. If Madame was about to leave her quarters with that odd demeanor, he would have followed her; but since she was returning, there was nothing more to do, so he turned on his heel like an idle heron, seeming to question the earth, air, and water about it; he shook his head and walked away mechanically toward the gardens. He had barely walked a hundred steps when he encountered two young men, walking arm in arm, heads down, idly kicking small stones out of their way, lost in thought. It was De Guiche and De Bragelonne, and as always, their presence instinctively stirred a feeling of distaste in the chevalier. However, he still greeted them with a respectful low bow, which they returned enthusiastically. Then, noticing that the park was almost deserted, the lights were beginning to dim, and a morning breeze was coming in, he turned left and re-entered the chateau through one of the smaller courtyards. The others veered right and continued toward the large park. As the chevalier was climbing the side staircase that led to the private entrance, he saw a woman, followed by another, appear under the arcade linking the small and large courtyards. The two women walked quickly enough that the rustle of their dresses could be heard in the stillness of the night. The style of their cloaks, their elegant figures, and the mysterious yet proud demeanor that characterized them both, especially the one in front, caught the chevalier's attention.
“I certainly know those two,” he said 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.
“I definitely know those two,” he said to himself, stopping at the top of the small staircase. Then, just as he was about to follow them like a bloodhound, one of the servants who had been chasing after him caught his attention.
“Monsieur,” he said, “the courier has arrived.”
“Mister,” he said, “the courier has arrived.”
“Very well,” said the chevalier, “there is time enough; to-morrow will do.”
“Alright,” said the knight, “there's plenty of time; tomorrow works.”
“There are some urgent letters which you would be glad to see, perhaps.”
“There are some important letters you might be interested in seeing, maybe.”
“Where from?” inquired the chevalier.
“Where are you from?” asked the knight.
“One from England, and the other from Calais; the latter arrived by express, and seems of great importance.”
“One from England, and the other from Calais; the latter arrived by express delivery and seems really important.”
“From Calais! Who the deuce can have to write to me from Calais?”
“From Calais! Who on earth could be writing to me from Calais?”
“I think I recognize the handwriting of Monsieur le Comte de Wardes.”
“I think I recognize the handwriting of Mr. Count 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 chevalier 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?”
“Oh!” exclaimed the chevalier, forgetting his plan to act as a spy, “in that case, I’ll come up right away.” He did just that, while the two mysterious figures vanished at the end of the courtyard opposite to where they had just entered. Let’s follow them now and leave the chevalier to his correspondence. When they reached the grove of trees, the first of the two stopped, a bit breathless, and carefully pulled back her hood, asking, “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 rate.”
“Yes, ma’am, over five hundred steps; but please take a break, you won't be able to keep walking like this much longer.”
“You are right,” said the princes, 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.”
“You're right,” said the princes, because it was her; and she leaned against a tree. “And now,” she continued, after catching her breath, “tell me the whole truth, and don’t hide anything from me.”
“Oh, Madame,” cried the young girl, “you are already angry with me.”
“Oh, Madam,” the young girl exclaimed, “you’re already upset 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.”
“No, my dear Athenais, don’t worry, I’m not angry with you at all. These things don’t really affect me personally. You’re worried about what you might have said under the oak; you’re afraid you might have offended the king, and I want to reassure you by finding out if there’s any chance you were overheard.”
“Oh, yes, Madame, the king was close to us.”
“Oh, yes, ma'am, the king was nearby.”
“Still, you were not speaking so loud that some of your remarks may not have been lost.”
“Still, you weren’t speaking so loudly that some of your comments might not have been missed.”
“We thought we were quite alone, Madame.”
“We thought we were all alone, Ma'am.”
“There were three of you, you say?”
“There were three of you, you said?”
“Yes; La Valliere, Montalais, and myself.”
“Yes; La Valliere, Montalais, and I.”
“And you, individually, spoke in a light manner of the king?”
“And you, personally, talked about the king in a casual way?”
“I am afraid so. Should such be the case, will your highness have the kindness to make my peace with his majesty?”
“I’m afraid so. If that's the case, could you please help me make amends with his majesty?”
“If there should be any occasion for it, I promise you I will do so. However, as I have already told you, it will be better not to anticipate evil. The night is now very dark, and the darkness is still greater under the 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.”
“If there’s ever a reason to do it, I promise I will. But as I’ve already said, it’s better not to expect the worst. The night is really dark now, and it’s even darker under the trees. It’s unlikely that the king noticed you. If you’re the first to say something, you’ll just be giving yourself away.”
“Oh, Madame, Madame! if Mademoiselle de la Valliere were recognized, I must have been recognized also. Besides, M. de Saint-Aignan left no doubt on the subject.”
“Oh, Madame, Madame! if Mademoiselle de la Valliere was identified, then I must have been recognized too. Besides, M. de Saint-Aignan made it clear.”
“Did you, then, say anything very disrespectful of the king?”
“Did you say anything really disrespectful about the king?”
“Not at all; it was one of the others who made some very flattering speeches about the king; and my remarks must have been much in contrast with hers.”
“Not at all; it was one of the others who gave some really flattering speeches about the king; and my comments must have been a stark contrast to hers.”
“Montalais is such a giddy girl,” said Madame.
“Montalais is such a silly girl,” said Madame.
“It was not Montalais. Montalais said nothing; it was La Valliere.”
“It wasn't Montalais. Montalais didn't say anything; it was La Valliere.”
Madame started as if she had not known it perfectly well 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.
Madame jumped as if she hadn’t already known perfectly well. “No, no,” she said, “the king must not have heard. Besides, let’s try the experiment we came out for. Show me the oak. Do you know where it is?” she continued.
“Alas! Madame, yes.”
"Unfortunately! Ma'am, yes."
“And you can find it again?”
“And you can find it again?”
“With my eyes shut.”
"With my eyes closed."
“Very well; sit down on the bank where you were, where La Valliere was, and speak in the same tone and to the same effect as you did before; I will conceal myself in the thicket, and if I can hear you, I will tell you so.”
“Alright; sit down on the bank where you were, where La Valliere was, and speak in the same way and with the same intent as you did before; I will hide in the bushes, and if I can hear you, I’ll let you know.”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Yeah, ma'am.”
“If, therefore, you really spoke loud enough for the king to have heard you, in that case—”
“If you actually spoke loudly enough for the king to hear you, then—”
Athenais seemed to await the conclusion of the sentence with some anxiety.
Athenais appeared to be waiting for the end of the sentence with some nervousness.
“In that case,” said Madame, in a suffocated voice, arising 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.
“In that case,” said Madame, in a breathless voice from her fast walking, “in that case, I forbid you—” And Madame quickened her pace again. Suddenly, though, she stopped. “An idea just came to me,” she said.
“A good idea, no doubt, Madame,” replied Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.
“A good idea, no doubt, ma'am,” replied Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.
“Montalais must be as much embarrassed as La Valliere and yourself.”
“Montalais must be just as embarrassed as La Valliere and you.”
“Less so, for she is less compromised, having said less.”
“Not as much, because she is less involved, having said less.”
“That does not matter; she will help you, I dare say, by deviating a little from the exact truth.”
“That doesn’t matter; she’ll help you, I bet, by bending the truth a little.”
“Especially if she knows that your highness is kind enough to interest yourself about me.”
“Especially if she knows that you’re kind enough to care about me.”
“Very well, I think I have discovered what it is best for you all to pretend.”
“Alright, I think I’ve figured out what you all should pretend.”
“How delightful.”
"How lovely."
“You had better 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 M. de Saint-Aignan was there too.”
“You should definitely say that all three of you knew perfectly well that the king was behind the tree, or behind the bushes, whichever it was; and that you also knew M. de Saint-Aignan was there too.”
“Yes, Madame.”
"Yes, ma'am."
“For you cannot disguise it from yourself, Athenais, Saint-Aignan takes advantage of some very flattering remarks you made about him.”
“For you can’t hide it from yourself, Athenais, Saint-Aignan is taking advantage of some really nice things you said about him.”
“Well, Madame, you see very clearly that one can be overheard,” cried Athenais, “since M. de Saint-Aignan overheard us.”
“Well, Madame, you can see clearly that we can be overheard,” shouted Athenais, “because M. de Saint-Aignan overheard us.”
Madame bit her lips, for she had thoughtlessly committed herself. “Oh, you know Saint-Aignan’s character very well,” she said, “the favor the king shows him almost turns his brain, and he talks at random; not only so, he very often invents. That is not the question; the fact remains, did or did not the king overhear?”
Madame bit her lips, realizing she had carelessly put herself in a tough spot. “Oh, you know Saint-Aignan very well,” she said, “the king's favoritism has nearly driven him mad, and he talks nonsense; not only that, he often makes things up. That’s not the issue; the real question is, did the king overhear or not?”
“Oh, yes, Madame, he certainly did,” said Athenais, in despair.
“Oh, yes, Madame, he definitely did,” said Athenais, feeling hopeless.
“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 M. de Saint-Aignan were there, and that you wished to amuse yourself at the expense of those who were listening.”
“In that case, do what I said: firmly insist that all three of you knew—remember, all three of you, because if there's any doubt about one of you, there will be doubt about all of you—keep insisting that you knew the king and M. de Saint-Aignan were there, and that you wanted to have fun at the expense of those who were listening.”
“Oh, Madame, at the king’s expense; we shall never dare say that!”
“Oh, Madame, at the king’s expense; we would never say that!”
“It is a simple jest; an innocent deception readily permitted in young girls whom men wish to take by surprise. In this manner everything explains itself. What Montalais said of Malicorne, a mere jest; what you said of M. de Saint-Aignan, a mere jest too; and what La Valliere might have said of—”
“It’s just a harmless joke; a playful trick that’s easily accepted in young girls when men want to catch them off guard. That’s how everything makes sense. What Montalais said about Malicorne was just a joke; what you said about M. de Saint-Aignan was just a joke too; and what La Valliere might have said about—”
“And which she would have given anything to recall.”
“And she would have given anything to take it back.”
“Are you sure of that?”
"Are you sure about that?"
“Perfectly.”
"Absolutely."
“Very well, an additional reason. Say the whole affair was a mere joke. M. de Malicorne will have no occasion to get out of temper; M. de Saint-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 unworthy of his rank. Let people laugh a little at the king in this affair, and I do not think he will complain of it.”
“Alright, here's another reason. Let’s say the whole situation was just a joke. M. de Malicorne won’t get upset; M. de Saint-Aignan will be totally embarrassed; he’ll be the one laughed at instead of you; and finally, the king will be held accountable for a curiosity that doesn’t match his status. If people can laugh at the king a bit in this situation, I doubt he’ll mind.”
“Oh, Madame, you are indeed an angel of goodness and sense!”
“Oh, Madame, you really are an angel of kindness and common sense!”
“It is to my own advantage.”
“It helps me.”
“In what way?”
“How so?”
“How can you ask me why it is to my advantage to spare my maids of honor the remarks, annoyances, perhaps even calumnies, that might follow? Alas! you well know that the court has no indulgence for this sort of peccadillo. But we have now been walking for some time, shall we be long before we reach it?”
“How can you ask me why it's to my benefit to protect my maids of honor from the remarks, annoyances, and maybe even slander that could come their way? Unfortunately, you know very well that the court has no tolerance for these kinds of minor issues. But we’ve been walking for a while now; how much longer until we get there?”
“About fifty or sixty paces further; turn to the left, Madame, if you please.”
“About fifty or sixty steps ahead; please turn left, ma'am.”
“And you are sure of Montalais?” said Madame.
“And you're sure about Montalais?” said Madame.
“Oh, certainly.”
“Oh, definitely.”
“Will she do what you ask her?”
“Will she do what you’re asking her?”
“Everything. She will be delighted.”
"Everything. She'll be thrilled."
“And La Valliere—” ventured the princess.
“And La Valliere—” the princess began.
“Ah, there will be some difficulty with her, Madame; she would scorn to tell a falsehood.”
“Ah, there will be some trouble with her, Madame; she would refuse to tell a lie.”
“Yet, when it is in her interest to do so—”
“Yet, when it benefits her to do so—”
“I am afraid that that would not make the slightest difference in her ideas.”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t change her mind at all.”
“Yes, yes,” said Madame. “I have been already told that; she is one of those overnice and affectedly particular people who place heaven in the foreground in order to conceal themselves behind it. But if she refuses to tell a falsehood,—as she will expose herself to the jests of the whole court, as she will have annoyed the king by a confession as ridiculous as it was immodest,—Mademoiselle la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere will think it but proper I should send her back again to her pigeons in the country, in order that, in Touraine yonder, or in Le Blaisois,—I know not where it may be,—she may at her ease study sentiment and pastoral life combined.”
“Yes, yes,” said Madame. “I’ve already been told that; she’s one of those overly proper and pretentious people who put heaven front and center to hide behind it. But if she refuses to tell a lie—she’ll end up being the butt of jokes at the court, and she’ll have annoyed the king with a confession that’s as ridiculous as it is shameless—Mademoiselle la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere will probably think it’s only right for me to send her back to her pigeons in the countryside, so that, in Touraine or Le Blaisois—I don’t know where exactly—she can take her time studying sentiment and a pastoral life combined.”
These words were uttered with a vehemence and harshness that terrified Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente; and the consequence was, that, as far as she was concerned, she promised to tell as many falsehoods as might be necessary. It was in this frame of mind that Madame and her companion reached the precincts of the royal oak.
These words were said with such intensity and harshness that it scared Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente; as a result, she promised to tell as many lies as needed. It was in this mindset that Madame and her companion arrived at the area around the royal oak.
“Here we are,” said Tonnay-Charente.
“Here we are,” said Tonnay-Charente.
“We shall soon learn if one can overhear,” replied Madame.
“We'll find out soon if you can eavesdrop,” replied Madame.
“Hush!” whispered the young girl, holding Madame back with a hurried gesture, entirely forgetful of her companion’s rank. Madame stopped.
“Hush!” whispered the young girl, holding Madame back with a quick gesture, completely unaware of her companion’s status. Madame stopped.
“You see that you can hear,” said Athenais.
“You see that you can hear,” Athenais said.
“How?”
“How?”
“Listen.”
“Hey, listen.”
Madame held her breath; and, in fact, the following words pronounced by a gentle and melancholy voice, floated towards them:
Madame held her breath, and, in fact, the next words spoken by a gentle and sad voice floated toward them:
“I tell you, vicomte, I tell you I love her madly; I tell you I love her to distraction.”
“I’m telling you, viscount, I’m telling you I love her like crazy; I’m telling you I’m completely crazy about her.”
Madame started at the voice; and, beneath her hood, a bright joyous smile illumined her features. It was she who now held back her companion, and with a light step leading her some twenty paces away, that is to say, out of the reach of the voice, she said, “Remain here, my dear Athenais, and let no one surprise us. I think it must be you they are conversing about.”
Madame jumped at the sound of the voice, and under her hood, a bright, cheerful smile lit up her face. Now, she was the one holding back her companion, and with a light step, she led her about twenty paces away, out of earshot of the voice. She said, “Stay here, my dear Athenais, and let’s not be caught off guard. I have a feeling they’re talking about you.”
“Me, Madame?”
“Me, ma'am?”
“Yes, you—or rather your adventure. I will go and listen; if we were both there, we should be discovered. Or, stay!—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 reply. Athenais thereupon arranged her dress so as to prevent its rustling being heard; and, by a path beyond 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 such a manner as to form a seat, and waited there, full of anxiety and apprehension. “Now,” she said, “since one can hear from this place, let us listen to what M. de Bragelonne and that other madly-in-love fool, the Comte de Guiche, have to say about me.”
“Yes, you—or rather your adventure. I'll go listen; if we were both there, we’d get caught. Or, hold on!—go get Montalais, and then come back and wait for me with her at the entrance of the forest.” And then, as Athenais hesitated, she said again, “Go!” in a tone that allowed no argument. Athenais then adjusted her dress to avoid making noise and took a path around the group of trees to reach the flower garden. Meanwhile, Madame hid in the thicket, leaning against a huge chestnut tree, one of whose branches had been cut to create a seat, anxiously waiting. “Now,” she said, “since we can hear from here, let’s listen to what M. de Bragelonne and that other lovesick fool, the Comte de Guiche, have to say about me.”
Chapter XLV. In Which Madame Acquires a Proof that Listeners Hear What Is Said.
There was a moment’s silence, as if the mysterious sounds of night were hushed to listen, at the same time as Madame, to the youthful passionate disclosures of De Guiche.
There was a moment of silence, as if the mysterious sounds of the night were quieting down to listen, just like Madame, to De Guiche's youthful, passionate confessions.
Raoul was about to speak. He leaned indolently 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.”
Raoul was about to speak. He leaned casually against the trunk of the large oak and replied in his smooth and melodic voice, “Oh, my dear De Guiche, it really is a huge misfortune.”
“Yes,” cried the latter, “great indeed.”
“Yes,” the latter exclaimed, “truly great.”
“You do not understand me, De Guiche. I say that it is a great misfortune for you, not merely loving, but not knowing how to conceal your love.”
“You don’t understand me, De Guiche. I’m saying that it’s a real disadvantage for you, not just because you love, but because you don’t know how to hide your feelings.”
“What do you mean?” said De Guiche.
“What do you mean?” De Guiche said.
“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 person that approaches you.”
“Yes, you don’t see one thing; that it’s no longer to your only friend—you know, the guy who would rather die than betray you—that you’re sharing your feelings. You don’t realize, I’m saying, that you’re not confiding in your only friend anymore, but in whoever happens to be around.”
“Are you mad, Bragelonne,” exclaimed De Guiche, “to say such a thing to me?”
“Are you crazy, Bragelonne,” shouted De Guiche, “to say something like that to me?”
“The fact stands thus, however.”
“The fact stands, however.”
“Impossible! How, in what manner can I have ever been indiscreet to such an extent?”
“Impossible! How could I have ever been so indiscreet?”
“I mean, that your eyes, your looks, your sighs, proclaim, in spite of yourself, that exaggerated feeling which 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, that makes him confide his grief to the trees, or to the air, from the very moment he has no longer any living being in reach of his voice. Besides, remember this: it very rarely happens that there is not always some one present to hear, especially the 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 one word, your return alone would have been a terrible indiscretion. I persist, then, in drawing this conclusion; that if you do not place a better watch over yourself than you have hitherto done, one day or other something will happen that 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 affection will be an accusation against her in the hands of her enemies.”
“I mean, your eyes, your expressions, your sighs, reveal, despite your attempts to hide it, that intense feeling that pulls a person beyond their own control. In this situation, he loses command of himself; he becomes a victim of a wild passion, making him share his sorrow with the trees or the air, as soon as there’s no one nearby to hear him. Also, keep this in mind: it rarely happens that someone isn’t around to listen, especially to the things that really shouldn’t be heard.” De Guiche let out a deep sigh. “No,” Bragelonne continued, “you’re upsetting me; since you got back, you’ve confessed your love for her a thousand times and in a thousand different ways; and yet, even if you hadn’t said anything, your return alone would have been a huge mistake. So, I continue to conclude this: if you don’t keep a better watch over yourself than you have so far, someday something will happen that will blow up. Who will save you then? Tell me. Who will save her? Because, innocent as she might be of your feelings, your love will become an accusation against her in the hands of her enemies.”
“Alas!” murmured De Guiche; and a deep sigh accompanied the exclamation.
“Alas!” De Guiche murmured, letting out a deep sigh with his words.
“That is not answering me, De Guiche.”
“That doesn't answer my question, De Guiche.”
“Yes, yes.”
"Yes, absolutely."
“Well, what reply have you to make?”
“Well, what do you have to say?”
“This, that when the day arrives I shall be no more a living being than I feel myself now.”
“This means that when the day comes, I won’t be any more alive than I feel right now.”
“I do not understand you.”
"I don't understand you."
“So many vicissitudes have worn me out. At present, I am no more a thinking, acting being; at present, the most worthless of men is better than I am; my remaining strength is exhausted, my latest-formed resolutions 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; afterwards, five or six others arrive unexpectedly, his anger is aroused and he persists; but if six, eight, or ten others should still be met with, he either sets spurs to his horse, if he should still happen to retain one, or lets himself be slain to save an ignominious flight. Such, indeed, is my own case: first, I had to struggle against myself; afterwards, against Buckingham; now, since the king is in the field, I will not contend against the king, nor even, I wish you to understand, will the king retire; nor even against the nature of that woman. Still I do not deceive myself; having devoted myself to the service of such a love, I will lose my life in it.”
“So many ups and downs have worn me out. Right now, I'm no longer a thinking, acting person; at this moment, even the most worthless man is better than I am; my remaining strength is gone, my last resolutions have disappeared, and I’m giving in to my fate. When a man is out on a campaign, as we have been together, and he sets off alone for a skirmish, sometimes he may encounter a group of five or six foragers, and even though he's alone, he fights back; then, five or six more show up unexpectedly, his anger flares, and he keeps fighting; but if he runs into six, eight, or ten more, he either rides away quickly if he still has a horse, or lets himself be killed to avoid a shameful retreat. That’s exactly how it is for me: first, I had to battle against myself; then, against Buckingham; now, since the king is in the field, I won’t fight against him, nor will the king back down; nor even against that woman’s nature. Still, I’m not fooling myself; having committed to this love, I’m willing to lose my life for it.”
“It is not the lady you ought to reproach,” replied Raoul; “it is yourself.”
“It’s not the lady you should blame,” Raoul replied; “it’s yourself.”
“Why so?”
"Why is that?"
“You know the princess’s 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 herself, and lastly, your own safety.”
“You know the princess’s personality—she’s a bit flighty, easily drawn in by new things, and prone to flattery, whether it comes from a blind person or a child. And yet you let your feelings for her consume your life. Look at her—love her, if that’s what you want—because no one whose heart isn’t already taken can see her without falling for her. But while you feel this way, remember to respect, above all, her husband’s status, then her as a person, and finally, your own safety.”
“Thanks, Raoul.”
“Thanks, Raoul.”
“What for?”
"Why?"
“Because, seeing how much I suffer through 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.”
“Because, seeing how much I suffer because of this woman, you try to comfort me by telling me all the good things about her that you believe, and maybe even some things you don’t believe.”
“Oh,” said Raoul, “there you are wrong, comte; what I think I do not always say, but in that case I say nothing; but when I speak, I know not how to feign or to deceive; and whoever listens to me may believe me.”
“Oh,” said Raoul, “you’re mistaken, comte; I don’t always say what I think, but in this case, I’ll say nothing; however, when I do speak, I can’t pretend or lie; and anyone who listens to me can 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.
During this conversation, Madame, leaning forward with an eager ear and wide eyes, tried to understand the situation, eagerly absorbing even the faintest sound of their voices.
“Oh, I know her better than you do, then!” exclaimed Guiche. “She is not merely giddy, but frivolous; she is not only attracted by novelty, she is utterly oblivious, and is without faith; she is not simply susceptible to flattery, she is a practiced and cruel coquette. A thorough coquette! yes, yes, I am sure of it. Believe me, Bragelonne, I am suffering all the torments of hell; brave, passionately fond of danger, I meet a danger greater than my strength and my courage. But, believe me, Raoul, I reserve for myself a victory which shall cost her floods of tears.”
“Oh, I know her better than you do, then!” Guiche exclaimed. “She’s not just flighty; she’s really shallow. She’s not only drawn to something new; she’s completely unaware and lacks any real belief. She’s not just easily swayed by compliments; she’s a skilled and cruel flirt. A total flirt! Yes, yes, I’m sure of it. Trust me, Bragelonne, I’m suffering all the torments of hell. Brave and deeply in love with danger, I’m facing a challenge that’s greater than my strength and courage. But, believe me, Raoul, I’m holding out for a victory that will bring her to tears.”
“A victory,” he asked, “and of what kind?”
“A victory,” he asked, “what kind of victory?”
“Of what kind, you ask?”
"What kind, you ask?"
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“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 myself in the dust, if your looks had not raised me to your hand. I fancied I understood your looks, I rose, and then, without having done anything more towards you than love you yet more devotedly, if that were possible—you, a woman without heart, faith, or love, in very wantonness, dashed me down again from sheer 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 despairing you.’”
“One day I will confront her and say: ‘I was young—madly in love, but I had enough respect to throw myself at your feet and to bow down humbly, if your gaze hadn't lifted me to your level. I thought I understood your gaze, so I stood up, and then, without having done anything more than love you even more passionately, if that was possible—you, a woman without heart, faith, or love, in sheer whimsy, knocked me back down without a second thought. You are unworthy, princess of royal blood though you may be, of the love of an honorable man; I offer my life as a sacrifice for loving you too deeply, and I die in despair over you.’”
“Oh!” cried Raoul, terrified at the accents of profound truth which De Guiche’s words betrayed, “I was right in saying you were mad, Guiche.”
“Oh!” Raoul exclaimed, scared by the deep truth in De Guiche’s words, “I was right to say you were crazy, Guiche.”
“Yes, yes,” exclaimed De Guiche, following out his own idea; “since there are no wars here now, I will flee yonder to the north, seek service in the Empire, where some Hungarian, or Croat, or Turk, will perhaps kindly put me out of my misery.” De Guiche did not finish, or rather as he finished, a sound made him start, and at the same moment caused Raoul to leap to his feet. As for De Guiche, buried in his own thoughts, he remained seated, with his head tightly pressed between his hands. The branches of the tree were pushed aside, and a woman, pale and much agitated, appeared before the two young men. With one hand she held back the branches, which would have struck her face, and, with the other, she raised the hood of the mantle which covered her shoulders. By her clear and lustrous glance, by her lofty carriage, by her haughty attitude, and, more than all that, by the throbbing of his own heart, De Guiche recognized Madame, and, uttering a loud cry, he removed his hands from his temple, and covered his eyes with them. Raoul, trembling and out of countenance, merely muttered a few words of respect.
“Yes, yes,” De Guiche said, following his own train of thought; “since there are no wars here now, I’ll head north, look for work in the Empire, where maybe some Hungarian, Croat, or Turk will kindly end my misery.” De Guiche didn’t finish his sentence, or rather, as he did, a noise startled him, causing Raoul to jump to his feet. De Guiche, lost in thought, stayed seated, pressing his head tightly between his hands. The branches of the tree were pushed aside, and a pale, agitated woman appeared before the two young men. With one hand, she held back the branches that threatened to hit her face, and with the other, she lifted the hood of her cloak from her shoulders. By her bright, shining gaze, her regal posture, her proud demeanor, and more than anything, by the pounding of his own heart, De Guiche recognized Madame. With a loud cry, he took his hands from his head and covered his eyes. Raoul, trembling and flustered, simply murmured a few 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, M. de Guiche, remain here: I am tired, and you will perhaps give me your arm.”
“Monsieur de Bragelonne,” said the princess, “could you please check if my attendants are nearby, either in the paths or in the groves? And you, M. de Guiche, stay here with me: I’m tired, and maybe you could help me with 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 towards him a glance full of resignation and grateful acknowledgement. Instead of immediately answering Madame, he even advanced a step towards the vicomte, and holding out the arm 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 the 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 at an end. Her royal hand remained suspended in the air, and, when Raoul 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 Raoul’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 softly drew De Guiche about a hundred paces away from that indiscreet tree which had heard, and had allowed so many things to be heard, during the 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.”
Had a thunderbolt struck at the feet of the unhappy young man, he would have been less terrified than by her cold, harsh tone. However, as he had just stated, he was brave; and since he had firmly made up his mind deep in his heart, De Guiche stood up. Noticing Bragelonne’s hesitation, he gave him a glance filled with resignation and gratitude. Instead of answering Madame right away, he even stepped closer to the vicomte, and extending the arm that the princess had just asked for, he squeezed his friend’s hand with a sigh, as if to infuse friendship with the last bit of life left in his heart. Madame, who in her pride had never known how to wait, now waited until this silent exchange was over. Her royal hand remained suspended in the air, and when Raoul departed, it lowered without anger, but not without feeling, into De Guiche's. They were alone in the depths of the dark and silent forest, and the only sound was Raoul’s hurried footsteps fading along the shadowy paths. Above them stretched the thick and fragrant canopy of branches, through which stars occasionally twinkled in all their beauty. Madame gently led De Guiche about a hundred paces away from the indiscreet tree that had listened to so much throughout the evening, guiding him to a nearby clearing where they had a better view of their surroundings, and said in a shaky voice, “I brought you here because back there, everything can be overheard.”
“Everything can be overheard, did you say, Madame?” replied the young man, mechanically.
“Everything can be overheard, you said, Madame?” replied the young man, automatically.
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Which means—” murmured De Guiche.
“Which means—” murmured De Guiche.
“Which means that I have heard every syllable you have said.”
"That means I've heard everything you've 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 engulfs him.
“Oh, God! this is all I needed to ruin me,” stammered De Guiche; and he bowed his head, like a weary swimmer under the wave that pulls him under.
“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.
“And so,” she said, “you really judge me like you said?” De Guiche went pale, turned his head away, and stayed silent. He felt like he was about to faint.
“I do not complain,” continued the princess, in a tone of voice full of gentleness; “I prefer a frankness that wounds me, to flattery, which would deceive me. And so, according to your opinion, M. de Guiche, I am a coquette, an a worthless creature.”
“I don’t complain,” the princess continued, her voice full of gentleness; “I’d rather have honesty that hurts me than flattery that would mislead me. So, according to you, M. de Guiche, I’m a flirt and a worthless person.”
“Worthless,” cried the young man; “you worthless! Oh, 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.”
“Worthless,” yelled the young man; “you’re worthless! Oh, no; I definitely did not say that, I couldn’t have said that the most precious thing in my life could be worthless. No, no; I didn’t 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.”
“A woman who watches a man die in the fire she started and doesn’t put that fire out is, in my view, 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?”
“What does it matter to you what I said?” replied the count. “What am I to you, and why should you even bother to care 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 implore you, therefore, to love me no more, and to forget utterly that I have ever addressed a word or a glance towards you.”
“Mr. de Guiche, both you and I are human, and since I know you well, I don’t want you to risk your life; I will change my behavior and character around you. I won’t be open, as I always am, but I will be honest. So I ask you, please stop loving me, and completely forget that I’ve ever spoken or looked your way.”
De Guiche turned around, bending a look full of passionate devotion upon her. “You,” he said; “you excuse yourself; you implore me?”
De Guiche turned around, looking at her with intense devotion. “You,” he said; “you make excuses; you beg me?”
“Certainly; since I have done evil, I ought to repair the evil I have done. And so, comte, this is what we will agree 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 dear.” Madame pronounced this last word in such an accent of frankness, and even of tenderness, that poor De Guiche’s heart felt almost bursting.
“Of course; since I've done wrong, I should make amends for it. So, Count, here's what we'll agree on. You will forgive my silly behavior and my flirtation. No, don’t interrupt me. I will forgive you for calling me silly and a flirt, or something worse, perhaps; and you will give up the thought of dying and instead stay for your family, for the king, and for our kind, as a gentleman who is respected by everyone and cherished by many.” Madame said this last word with such sincerity and even tenderness that poor De Guiche felt like his heart was about to burst.
“Oh! Madame, Madame!” he stammered out.
“Oh! Ma'am, Ma'am!” he stuttered.
“Nay, listen further,” she continued. “When you shall have renounced all thought of me forever, from necessity in the first place, and, next, 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 frivolity of the expression—by a sincere friendship, which you will be ready to offer me, and which, I promise you, shall be cordially accepted.”
“Nay, listen further,” she continued. “When you have completely given up on any thoughts of me, first out of necessity and then because you might give in to my plea, you will see me in a better light. I’m sure you’ll turn this love—sorry for the light tone of that word—into a genuine friendship, which you will be ready to extend to me, and I promise you, I will gladly accept it.”
De Guiche, his forehead bedewed with perspiration, a feeling of death in his 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. “Madame,” he said, “what you offer is impossible, and I cannot accept such conditions.”
De Guiche, his forehead sweating, a heavy feeling in his heart, and a trembling anxiety coursing through his body, bit his lip, stamped his foot on the ground, and, in short, swallowed the bitterness of his sorrow. “Madame,” he said, “what you propose is impossible, and I can’t accept such terms.”
“What!” said Madame, “do you refuse my friendship, then?”
“What!” said Madame, “are you really turning down my friendship, then?”
“No, no! I do not need your friendship, Madame. I prefer to die from love, than to live for friendship.”
“No, no! I don’t need your friendship, Madame. I’d rather die from love than live for friendship.”
“Comte!”
"Count!"
“Oh! Madame,” cried De Guiche, “the present is a moment for me, in which no other consideration and no other respect exist, than the consideration and respect of a man of honor towards the woman he worships. Drive me away, curse me, denounce me, you will be perfectly right. I have uttered complaints against you, but their bitterness has been owing to my passion for you; I have said I wish to die, and die I will. If I lived, you would forget me; but dead, you would never forget me, I am sure.”
“Oh! Madame,” De Guiche exclaimed, “right now, nothing matters to me except the respect and admiration I have for the woman I adore. You can push me away, curse me, or expose me, and you'd be completely justified. I’ve complained about you, but that bitterness came from my love for you; I’ve said I want to die, and I will. If I stay alive, you’d forget me; but if I’m gone, I know you’d never forget me.”
Henrietta, who was standing buried in thought, and nearly as agitated as De Guiche himself, turned aside her head as but a minute before he had turned aside his. Then, after a moment’s pause, she said, “And you love me, then, very much?”
Henrietta, lost in thought and just as upset as De Guiche, turned her head away, just like he had done a minute earlier. After a brief pause, she asked, “So, you really love me a lot?”
“Madly; madly enough to die from it, whether you drive me from you, or whether you listen to me still.”
“Crazy; crazy enough to die from it, whether you push me away or whether you still listen to me.”
“It is a hopeless case,” she said, in a playful manner; “a case which must be treated with soothing application. 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.
“It’s a hopeless case,” she said playfully; “a situation that needs a gentle touch. Give me your hand. It’s as cold as ice.” De Guiche knelt down and kissed not just one, but both of Madame’s hands.
“Love me, then,” said the princess, “since it cannot be otherwise.” And almost imperceptibly she pressed his fingers, raising him thus, partly in the manner of a queen, and partly as a fond and affectionate woman would have done. De Guiche trembled 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.”
“Love me, then,” said the princess, “since it can’t be any other way.” And almost without realizing it, she squeezed his fingers, lifting him up a bit, part like a queen and part like a loving, affectionate woman would. De Guiche shivered from head to toe, and Madame, sensing the passion running through every fiber of his being, knew that he truly loved her. “Give me your arm, comte,” she said, “and let’s head back.”
“Ah! Madame,” said the comte, trembling and bewildered; “you have discovered a third way of killing me.”
“Ah! Madame,” said the count, shaking and confused; “you’ve found a new way to take me down.”
“But, happily, it is the slowest way, is it not?” she replied, as she led him towards the grove of trees they had so lately quitted.
“But, happily, it is the slowest way, isn’t it?” she replied, as she led him towards the grove of trees they had just left.
Chapter XLVI. Aramis’s Correspondence.
When De Guiche’s affairs, which had been suddenly set to right without his having been able to guess the cause of their improvement, assumed the unexpected aspect we have seen, Raoul, in obedience to the request of the princess, had withdrawn in order not to interrupt an explanation, the results of which he was far from guessing; and he soon after joined the ladies of honor who were walking about in the flower-gardens. During this time, the Chevalier de Lorraine, who had returned to his own room, read De Wardes’s latter 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 inform De Guiche and 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 Buckingham, and he finished his letter by declaring that he thought this feeling was returned. The chevalier shrugged his shoulders at the last paragraph, and, in fact, De Wardes was out of date, as we have seen. De Wardes was still only at Buckingham’s affair. The chevalier threw the letter over his shoulder upon an adjoining table, and said in a disdainful tone, “It is really incredible; 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 yet he writes such silly stuff as that. If it had not been for that miserable letter, which has no meaning at all in it, I should have detected in the grove yonder a charming little intrigue, which would have compromised a woman, would have perhaps have been as good as a sword-thrust for a man, and have diverted Monsieur for many days to come.”
When De Guiche’s situation, which had suddenly improved without him knowing why, took the unexpected turn we’ve seen, Raoul, following the princess’s request, stepped away so he wouldn’t interrupt an explanation whose outcome he couldn’t predict. He soon joined the ladies-in-waiting who were strolling through the flower gardens. Meanwhile, Chevalier de Lorraine, who had returned to his room, read De Wardes’s letter with surprise. The letter, delivered by his valet, informed him about the sword strike received in Calais, all the details of the adventure, and encouraged him to update De Guiche and Monsieur on anything in the matter that might be particularly troublesome for them. De Wardes was especially keen to convince the chevalier of Madame’s intense feelings for Buckingham, concluding his letter by stating that he believed those feelings were mutual. The chevalier shrugged at the last part and realized that De Wardes was out of touch, as we’ve seen. De Wardes was still stuck on the Buckingham situation. The chevalier tossed the letter over his shoulder onto a nearby table and said disdainfully, “It’s truly unbelievable; and yet poor De Wardes isn’t lacking in talent. The truth is, talent doesn't show much when you get rusty in the countryside. What a fool he is, writing to me about trivial matters instead of significant issues. If it weren’t for that pointless letter, which doesn’t mean anything at all, I would have uncovered a delightful little intrigue over there in the grove that could have compromised a woman, possibly been as damaging as a sword strike for a man, and kept Monsieur entertained for quite a while.”
He looked at his watch. “It is now too late,” he said. “One o’clock in the morning; every one must have returned to the king’s apartments, where the night is to be finished; well, the scent is lost, and unless some extraordinary chance—” And thus saying, as if to appeal to his good star, the chevalier, greatly out of temper, approached the window, which looked out upon a somewhat solitary part of the garden. Immediately, and as if some evil genius was at his orders, he perceived returning towards the chateau, accompanied by a man, a silk mantle of a dark color, and recognized the figure which had struck his attention half an hour previously.
He checked his watch. “It’s too late now,” he said. “One o’clock in the morning; everyone must have gone back to the king’s quarters, where the night is coming to an end; well, the opportunity is lost, and unless something extraordinary happens—” While saying this, as if to call on his good fortune, the chevalier, feeling very annoyed, walked over to the window that overlooked a rather isolated part of the garden. Right then, as if some malicious force was guiding him, he spotted a figure returning toward the chateau, wearing a dark silk cloak and accompanied by a man. He recognized the figure that had caught his eye half an hour earlier.
“Admirable!” he thought, striking his hands together, “this is my providential mysterious affair.” And he started out precipitately, along the staircase, hoping to reach the courtyard in time to recognize the woman in the mantle, and her companion. But as he arrived at the door of the little court, he 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 occupied 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 horizon as he possibly could. He was just in time; the gentleman who had accompanied Madame was still in sight; only he was hurrying towards one of the wings of the chateau, behind which he was on the point of disappearing. There was not an instant to lose; the chevalier 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.
“Admirable!” he thought, clapping his hands together, “this is my amazing, mysterious situation.” He quickly rushed down the stairs, hoping to get to the courtyard in time to recognize the woman in the cloak and her companion. But when he reached the courtyard door, he nearly bumped into Madame, whose glowing face seemed full of delightful secrets beneath the cloak that shielded her without hiding her. Unfortunately, Madame was alone. The chevalier knew that since he had seen her just five minutes earlier with a gentleman, that gentleman couldn't be far away. So he barely took a moment to greet the princess as he stepped aside for her to pass; then, as she moved a few steps forward, like a woman who fears being recognized, and when the chevalier realized she was too lost in her own thoughts to pay him any mind, he rushed into the garden, glancing quickly around in every direction, trying to take in as much of the horizon as he could. He was just in time; the gentleman who had been with Madame was still in sight, but he was hurrying toward one of the wings of the chateau and was about to disappear behind it. There was no time to waste; the chevalier chased after him, planning to slow down as he got closer to the unknown man. But despite his efforts, the unknown had vanished behind the steps before he could reach him.
It was evident, however, that as the man pursued was walking quietly, in a pensive manner, with his head bent down, either beneath the weight of grief or happiness, when once the angle was passed, unless, indeed, he were to enter by some door or another, the chevalier could not fail to overtake him. And this, certainly, would have happened, if, at the very moment he turned the angle, the chevalier had not run against two persons, who were themselves wheeling in the opposite direction. The chevalier was ready to seek a quarrel with these two troublesome intruders, when, looking up, he recognized the superintendent. Fouquet was accompanied by a person whom the chevalier now saw for the first time. This stranger was the bishop of Vannes. Checked by the important character of the individual, and obliged out of politeness to make his own excuses when he expected to receive them, the chevalier stepped back a few paces; and as Monsieur 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 consideration, the chevalier did what the king himself would have done, namely, he bowed 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 immediately afterwards, having recognized the Chevalier de Lorraine, he made a few civil remarks, to which the chevalier was obliged to reply. Brief as the conversation was, De Lorraine saw, with the most unfeigned displeasure, the figure of his unknown becoming dimmer 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 clear, however, that as the man being pursued walked quietly, in a thoughtful way, with his head down, either weighed down by grief or happiness, once the turn was made, unless he entered through some door or another, the chevalier would easily catch up to him. And this definitely would have happened if, at the exact moment he turned the corner, the chevalier hadn’t bumped into two people who were moving in the opposite direction. The chevalier was ready to pick a fight with these annoying intruders when, looking up, he recognized the superintendent. Fouquet was with someone the chevalier was seeing for the first time: the bishop of Vannes. Stopped by the significance of the individual, and needing to politely offer his excuses when he expected to receive some, the chevalier stepped back a few paces. Since Monsieur Fouquet had, if not friends, at least the respect of everyone— even the king, who was more of an enemy than a friend, treated M. Fouquet as a man of great importance— the chevalier did what the king would have done: he bowed to M. Fouquet, who returned the greeting with warm politeness, realizing the gentleman had bumped into him by mistake and without any intention to be rude. Almost immediately after recognizing the Chevalier de Lorraine, he made a few polite remarks, which the chevalier had to respond to. Brief as the conversation was, De Lorraine felt genuine annoyance as he saw the figure of his unknown target fading into the distance and quickly disappearing into the dark. The chevalier accepted this, and once he did, he focused entirely on Fouquet: “You’re late, monsieur,” he said. “Your absence has raised quite a stir, and I heard Monsieur express his astonishment that, having been invited by the king, you hadn’t shown up.”
“It was impossible for me to do so; but I came as soon as I was free.”
“It was impossible for me to do that; but I came as soon as I was free.”
“Is Paris quiet?”
"Is Paris peaceful?"
“Perfectly so. Paris has received the last tax very well.”
“Exactly. Paris has responded very positively to the last tax.”
“Ah! I understand you wished to assure yourself of this good feeling before you came to participate in our fetes.”
“Ah! I get that you wanted to make sure of this good feeling before you joined us for our celebrations.”
“I have arrived, however, somewhat late to enjoy them. I will ask you, therefore, to inform me if the king is in the chateau or not, if I am likely to be able to see him this evening, or if I shall have to wait until to-morrow.”
“I've arrived, but a bit late to enjoy them. So, I’ll ask you to let me know if the king is in the chateau or not, if I might be able to see him this evening, or if I’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
“We have lost sight of his majesty during the last half-hour nearly,” said the chevalier.
“We haven’t seen his majesty for almost half an hour,” said the chevalier.
“Perhaps he is in Madame’s apartments?” inquired Fouquet.
“Maybe he's in Madame’s rooms?” Fouquet asked.
“Not in Madame’s apartments, I should think, for I just now met Madame as she was entering by the small staircase; and unless the gentleman whom you a moment ago encountered 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 had not recognized De Guiche, simply replied, “No, monsieur, it was not the king.”
“Not in Madame’s rooms, I don’t think, because I just saw her coming in through the small staircase; and unless the gentleman you just ran into was the king himself—” and the chevalier stopped, hoping to find out who he had been chasing after. But Fouquet, whether he had recognized De Guiche or not, simply replied, “No, sir, it wasn’t the king.”
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, he said to the superintendent: “Stay, monsieur; there is some one under the trees yonder, who will be able to inform you better than myself.”
The knight, let down by his hopes, greeted them; but as he did, he took a final look around and spotted M. Colbert in the middle of a group. He said to the superintendent, “Wait, sir; there’s someone under the trees over there who can tell you more than I can.”
“Who?” asked Fouquet, whose near-sightedness prevented him from seeing through the darkness.
“Who?” asked Fouquet, whose poor vision kept him from seeing through the darkness.
“M. Colbert,” returned the chevalier.
“M. Colbert,” replied the chevalier.
“Indeed! That person, then, who is speaking yonder to those men with torches in their hands, is M. Colbert?”
“Absolutely! That person over there, talking to those guys with torches, is M. Colbert?”
“M. Colbert himself. He is giving orders personally to the workmen who are arranging the lamps for the illuminations.”
“M. Colbert himself. He is giving direct orders to the workers who are setting up the lamps for the lights.”
“Thank you,” said Fouquet, with an inclination of the head, which indicated that he had obtained all the information he wished. The chevalier, on his side, having, on the contrary, learned nothing at all, withdrew with a profound salutation.
“Thank you,” said Fouquet, nodding his head, showing that he had gotten all the information he wanted. The chevalier, on the other hand, having not learned anything at all, left with a deep bow.
He had scarcely left when Fouquet, knitting his brows, fell into a deep reverie. Aramis looked at him for a moment with a mingled feeling of compassion and silence.
He had barely stepped out when Fouquet, frowning, sank into a deep thought. Aramis watched him for a moment, feeling a mix of compassion and silence.
“What!” he said to him, “the fellow’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 dispiriting you? Tell me, have you faith in your good star?”
“What!” he said to him, “just hearing that guy’s name seemed to affect you. Is it really possible that, as triumphant and joyful as you were just a moment ago, just seeing that man can bring you down? Tell me, do you believe in your good luck?”
“No,” replied Fouquet, dejectedly.
“No,” Fouquet replied, dejectedly.
“Why not?”
"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 history 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 wish for nothing beyond what I have... I have risen so high... You know my motto: ‘Quo non ascendam?’ I have risen so high that nothing is left me but to descend from my elevation. I cannot believe in the progress of a success already more than human.”
“Because I’m so overwhelmed with happiness right now,” he replied, his voice shaking. “You, my dear D’Herblay, who are so knowledgeable, will remember the story of a certain tyrant from Samos. What can I toss into the sea to ward off impending trouble? Yes! I’ll say it again, I’m too filled with joy! so happy that I want nothing more than what I already have... I’ve gone so far... You know my motto: ‘Quo non ascendam?’ I’ve gone so far that all that’s left for me is to come down from this height. I can’t accept the idea of a success that’s already beyond human limits.”
Aramis smiled as he fixed his kind and penetrating glance upon him. “If I were aware of the cause of your happiness,” he said, “I should probably fear for your grace; 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, I have a just right to beg you to confide in me, from time to time, any fortunate circumstances that befall you, in which I should rejoice, you know, more than if they had befallen myself.”
Aramis smiled as he fixed his kind and sharp gaze on him. “If I knew what made you happy,” he said, “I would probably worry about you; but you see me as a true friend; I mean, you reach out to me in tough times, nothing more. Even that is an enormous and valuable gift, I understand; but honestly, I feel I have the right to ask you to share with me, from time to time, any good things that happen to you, which I would celebrate more than if they happened to me.”
“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.”
“My dear bishop,” said Fouquet, laughing, “my secrets are too worldly to share them with a bishop, no matter how much of a materialist he might be.”
“Bah! in confession.”
"Ugh! in confession."
“Oh! I should blush too much if you were my confessor.” And Fouquet began to sigh. Aramis again looked at him without further betrayal of his thoughts than a placid smile.
“Oh! I would be way too embarrassed if you were my confessor.” And Fouquet started to sigh. Aramis looked at him once more, showing no more of his thoughts than a calm smile.
“Well,” he said, “discretion is a great virtue.”
“Well,” he said, “being discreet is a valuable quality.”
“Silence,” said Fouquet; “yonder venomous reptile has recognized us, and is crawling this way.”
“Silence,” said Fouquet; “that venomous snake has spotted us and is slithering our way.”
“Colbert?”
"Colbert?"
“Yes; leave me, D’Herblay; I do not wish that fellow to see you with me, or he will take an aversion to you.”
“Yes; leave me, D’Herblay; I don’t want that guy to see you with me, or he’ll develop a dislike for you.”
Aramis pressed his hand, saying, “What need have I of his friendship, while you are here?”
Aramis pressed his hand and said, “What do I need his friendship for when you’re here?”
“Yes, but I may not always be here,” replied Fouquet, dejectedly.
“Yes, but I might not always be around,” replied Fouquet, sadly.
“On that day, then, if that day should ever dawn,” said Aramis, tranquilly, “we will think over a means of dispensing with the friendship, or of braving the dislike of M. Colbert. But tell me, my dear Fouquet, instead of conversing with this reptile, as you did him the honor of styling him, a conversation the need for which I do not perceive, why do you not pay a visit, if not to the king, at least to Madame?”
“On that day, if that day ever comes,” said Aramis calmly, “we’ll figure out how to get around the friendship, or how to handle M. Colbert's disapproval. But tell me, my dear Fouquet, instead of talking to this snake, as you honored him by calling him, a conversation I don’t see the need for, why don’t you visit, if not the king, at least Madame?”
“To Madame,” said the superintendent, his mind occupied by his souvenirs. “Yes, certainly, to Madame.”
“To Madame,” said the superintendent, his mind lost in his memories. “Yes, definitely, to Madame.”
“You remember,” continued Aramis, “that we have been told that Madame stands high in favor during the last two or three days. It enters into your policy, and forms part of our plans, that you should assiduously devote yourself to his majesty’s friends. It is a means of counteracting the growing influence of M. Colbert. Present yourself, therefore, as soon as possible to Madame, and, for our sakes, treat this ally with consideration.”
“You remember,” continued Aramis, “that we’ve heard that Madame has been in good favor for the last couple of days. It's in your best interest and part of our strategy to actively engage with the king’s friends. This will help counter M. Colbert’s increasing influence. So, please, introduce yourself to Madame as soon as you can, and for our sake, treat this ally with respect.”
“But,” said Fouquet, “are you quite sure that it is upon her that the king has his eyes fixed at the present moment?”
“But,” Fouquet said, “are you completely sure that it's her the king is focused on right now?”
“If the needle has turned, it must be since the morning. You know I have my police.”
“If the needle has moved, it must have happened since morning. You know I have my police.”
“Very well! I will go there at once, and, at all events, I shall have a means of introduction in the shape of a magnificent pair of antique cameos set with diamonds.”
“Alright! I’ll head there right away, and, in any case, I’ll have a way to introduce myself with a stunning pair of antique cameos adorned with diamonds.”
“I have seen them, and nothing could be more costly and regal.”
“I have seen them, and nothing could be more extravagant and royal.”
At this moment they were interrupted by a servant followed by a courier. “For you, monseigneur,” said the courier aloud, presenting a letter to Fouquet.
At that moment, they were interrupted by a servant followed by a courier. “For you, sir,” said the courier loudly, handing a letter to Fouquet.
“For your grace,” said the lackey in a low tone, handing Aramis a letter. And as the lackey carried a torch in his hand, he placed himself between the superintendent and the bishop of Vannes, so that both of them could read at the same time. As Fouquet looked at the fine and delicate writing on the envelope, he started with delight. Those who love, or who are beloved, will understand his anxiety in the first place, and his happiness 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 how much I love you.” And that was all. Madame de Belliere had, in fact, left Fouquet about an hour previously, after having passed two days with him; and apprehensive lest his remembrance of her might 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:
“For your grace,” said the servant in a quiet voice, handing Aramis a letter. With a torch in his hand, he positioned himself between the superintendent and the bishop of Vannes so both could read at the same time. As Fouquet observed the elegant and delicate handwriting on the envelope, he felt a surge of joy. Those who are in love or are loved will understand his initial anxiety and then his happiness. He quickly tore open the letter, which only contained these words: “I left you just an hour ago, but it feels like forever since I told you how much I love you.” That was all. Madame de Belliere had actually left Fouquet about an hour earlier, after spending two days with him; concerned that his memory of her might fade too soon from the heart she missed, she sent a messenger with this important message. Fouquet kissed the letter and rewarded the messenger with a handful of gold. As for Aramis, he was reading his letter, but with a more composed and thoughtful attitude:
“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 her companions; and his majesty has entirely abandoned himself to his new caprice. The girl’s name is Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and she is sufficiently pretty to warrant this caprice becoming a strong attachment. Beware of Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”
“The king has tonight been hit by a strange whim; a woman loves him. He found out by chance while listening to this young girl talk with her friends, and now he has completely surrendered to this new obsession. The girl’s name is Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and she is pretty enough for this whim to turn into a serious attachment. Watch out for 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 delightedly inhaling the perfume of his epistle.
There wasn't a single mention of Madame. Aramis carefully folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket. Fouquet was still happily savoring the scent of his letter.
“Monseigneur,” said Aramis, touching Fouquet’s arm.
“Monseigneur,” Aramis said, touching Fouquet’s arm.
“Yes, what is it?” he asked.
"Yes, what's up?" he asked.
“An idea has just occurred to me. Are you acquainted with a young girl of the name of La Valliere?
“An idea just came to me. Do you know a young girl named La Valliere?”
“Not at all.”
"Not at all."
“Reflect a little.”
“Take a moment to reflect.”
“Ah! yes, I believe so; one of Madame’s maids of honor.”
“Ah! yes, I think so; one of Madame’s ladies-in-waiting.”
“That must be the one.”
"That has to be the one."
“Well, what then?”
"Okay, so what now?"
“Well, monseigneur, it is to that young girl that you must pay your visit this evening.”
“Well, sir, it is to that young girl you need to visit this evening.”
“Bah! why so?”
"Why the heck?"
“Nay, more than that, it is to her you must present your cameos.”
"Nah, more than that, you have to give your cameos to her."
“Nonsense.”
“Nonsense.”
“You know, monseigneur, that my advice is not to be regarded lightly.”
“You know, sir, that you shouldn't take my advice lightly.”
“But this is unforeseen—”
“But this is unexpected—”
“That is my affair. Pay your court in due form, and without loss of time, to Mademoiselle de la Valliere. I will be your guarantee with Madame de Belliere that your devotion is altogether politic.”
“That’s my business. Show your respect properly and without delay to Mademoiselle de la Valliere. I’ll vouch for you with Madame de Belliere that your devotion is purely strategic.”
“What do you mean, my dear D’Herblay, and whose name have you just pronounced?”
“What do you mean, my dear D’Herblay, and whose name did you just say?”
“A name which ought to convince you that, as I am so well informed about yourself, I may possibly be just as well informed about others. Pay your court, therefore, to La Valliere.”
“A name that should make you realize that since I know so much about you, I might also know just as much about others. So, flatter La Valliere.”
“I will pay my court to whomsoever you like,” replied Fouquet, his heart filled with happiness.
“I'll court whoever you want,” replied Fouquet, his heart full of happiness.
“Come, come, descend again to the earth, traveler in the seventh heaven,” said Aramis; “M. Colbert is approaching. He has been recruiting while we were reading; see, how he is surrounded, praised, congratulated; he is decidedly becoming powerful.” In fact, Colbert was advancing, escorted by all the courtiers who remained in the gardens, every one of whom complimented him upon the arrangements of the fete: all of which so puffed him up that he could hardly contain himself.
“Come on, come down to earth again, traveler in the seventh heaven,” said Aramis; “M. Colbert is coming. He’s been making connections while we were reading; look how he's surrounded, praised, and congratulated; he’s definitely gaining influence.” In fact, Colbert was approaching, accompanied by all the courtiers who were still in the gardens, each one complimenting him on how he organized the fete: all of this inflated his ego to the point where he could barely hold it together.
“If La Fontaine were here,” said Fouquet, smiling, “what an admirable opportunity for him to recite his fable of ‘The Frog that wanted to make itself as big as the Ox.’”
“If La Fontaine were here,” said Fouquet, smiling, “what a fantastic chance for him to share his fable of ‘The Frog that wanted 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.
Colbert stepped into the middle of the circle, glowing with intensity; Fouquet stood there, unfazed, with a hint of a mocking smile. Colbert smiled back; he had been watching his rival for the last fifteen minutes and was slowly making his way toward him. Colbert's smile hinted at underlying hostility.
“Oh, oh!” said Aramis, in a low tone of voice to the superintendent; “the scoundrel is going to ask you again for 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.
“Oh, oh!” said Aramis, in a quiet voice to the superintendent; “the jerk is going to ask you again for more millions to pay for his fireworks and his colored lights.” Colbert was the first to greet them, trying to appear respectful. Fouquet barely nodded his head.
“Well, monseigneur, what do your eyes say? Have we shown our good taste?”
“Well, sir, 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.
“Perfect taste,” replied Fouquet, without allowing even the slightest hint of sarcasm to show in his tone.
“Oh!” said Colbert, maliciously, “you are treating us with indulgence. We are poor, we servants of the king, and Fontainebleau is no way to be compared as a residence with Vaux.”
“Oh!” Colbert said, with a hint of malice, “You’re being indulgent with us. We’re just poor servants of the king, and Fontainebleau doesn’t compare to Vaux as a place to live.”
“Quite true,” replied Fouquet coolly.
"Very true," replied Fouquet coolly.
“But what can we do, monseigneur?” continued Colbert, “we have done our best on slender resources.”
“But what can we do, sir?” Colbert continued, “we’ve done our best with limited resources.”
Fouquet made a gesture of assent.
Fouquet nodded in agreement.
“But,” pursued Colbert, “it would be only a proper display of your magnificence, monseigneur, if you were to offer to his majesty a fete in your wonderful gardens—in those gardens which have cost you sixty millions of francs.”
“But,” continued Colbert, “it would be a fitting show of your grandeur, your excellency, if you were to host a celebration for his majesty in your amazing gardens—in those gardens that have cost you sixty million francs.”
“Seventy-two,” said Fouquet.
"72," said Fouquet.
“An additional reason,” returned Colbert; “it would, indeed, be truly magnificent.”
“Another reason,” Colbert replied; “it would really be amazing.”
“But do you suppose, monsieur, that his majesty would deign to accept my invitation?”
“But do you think, sir, that his majesty would be willing to accept my invitation?”
“I have no doubt whatever of it,” cried Colbert, hastily; “I will guarantee that he does.”
“I have no doubt about it,” Colbert exclaimed quickly; “I’ll guarantee that he does.”
“You are exceedingly kind,” said Fouquet. “I may depend on it, then?”
“You're really kind,” said Fouquet. “I can count on that, right?”
“Yes, monseigneur; yes, certainly.”
“Yes, sir; yes, definitely.”
“Then I will consider the matter,” yawned Fouquet.
“Then I’ll think about it,” yawned Fouquet.
“Accept, accept,” whispered Aramis, eagerly.
“Accept, accept,” whispered Aramis, excitedly.
“You will consider?” repeated Colbert.
"Are you going to consider?" repeated Colbert.
“Yes,” replied Fouquet; “in order to know what day I shall submit my invitation to the king.”
“Yes,” replied Fouquet; “so I can know what day to send my invitation to the king.”
“This very evening, monseigneur, this very evening.”
“This very evening, sir, this very evening.”
“Agreed,” said the superintendent. “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.
“Agreed,” said the superintendent. “Gentlemen, I would like to send out my invitations; but you know that wherever the king goes, he’s in his own palace; so it’s up to his majesty to extend the invitations.” A murmur of excitement immediately followed. Fouquet bowed and left.
“Proud and dauntless man,” thought Colbert, “you accept, and yet you know it will cost you ten millions.”
“Proud and fearless man,” thought Colbert, “you agree, and yet you know it will cost you ten million.”
“You have ruined me,” whispered Fouquet, in a low tone, to Aramis.
“You've ruined me,” whispered Fouquet, in a quiet voice, to Aramis.
“I have saved you,” replied the latter, whilst Fouquet ascended the flight of steps and inquired whether the king was still visible.
“I've saved you,” replied the latter, as Fouquet climbed the steps and asked if the king was still in sight.
Chapter 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 withdrawn to his own apartments, where M. de Saint-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 Guiche for Madame, that of La Valliere for the king, that of Malicorne for Montalais, that of Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente for himself, was not all this, truly, more than enough to turn the head of any courtier? Besides, Saint-Aignan was the model of courtiers, past, present, and to come; and, moreover, showed himself such an excellent narrator, and so discerningly appreciative that the king listened to him with an appearance of great interest, particularly when he described the excited manner with which Madame had sought for him to converse about the affair of Mademoiselle de la Valliere. While 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, great gratification for his vanity, from which he could not free himself. He experienced this pleasure then, but nothing more, and his heart was not, for a single moment, alarmed at what Madame might, or might not, think of his adventure. When, however, Saint-Aignan had finished, the king, while preparing to retire to rest, asked, “Now, Saint-Aignan, you know what Mademoiselle de la Valliere is, do you not?”
The king, eager to be alone again to reflect on what was in his heart, had retreated to his chambers, where M. de Saint-Aignan had gone to meet him after his conversation with Madame. This conversation has already been covered. The favorite, proud of his dual importance and realizing that he had become the king's confidant over the last two hours, started to approach court matters with a bit of indifference. From the position he found himself in, he saw nothing but love and flowers around him. The king’s love for Madame, Madame’s love for the king, Guiche's love for Madame, La Vallière's love for the king, Malicorne's love for Montalais, and Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente's love for him—wasn't all this enough to make any courtier dizzy? Besides, Saint-Aignan was the ideal courtier, past, present, and future; he was also an excellent storyteller with a keen sense of appreciation, causing the king to listen with great interest, especially when he described how eagerly Madame sought him out to discuss the matter of Mademoiselle de la Vallière. Although the king no longer felt any remnants of the passion he once had for Madame, her eagerness to gather information about him brought him a sense of gratification for his vanity that he could not shake off. He felt this pleasure but nothing more, and his heart was never truly worried about what Madame might think of his situation. However, after Saint-Aignan finished, as the king was getting ready for bed, he asked, “So, Saint-Aignan, you know what Mademoiselle de la Vallière is, don’t you?”
“Not only what she is, but what she will be.”
“Not just who she is, but who she will become.”
“What do you mean?”
"What do you mean?"
“I mean that she is everything that 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.”
“I mean that she is everything a woman could want to be—that is to say, loved by your majesty; I mean, she will be everything your majesty wants 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.”
“That’s not what I’m asking. I don't want to know what she is today or what she will be tomorrow; as you pointed out, that's my concern. But tell me what others say about her.”
“They say she is well conducted.”
“They say she acts nicely.”
“Oh!” said the king, smiling, “that is mere report.”
“Oh!” said the king, smiling, “that’s just hearsay.”
“But rare enough, at court, sire, to believe when it is spread.”
“But it’s rare enough at court, sire, to believe it when it’s rumored.”
“Perhaps you are right. Is she well born?”
“Maybe you’re right. Is she from a good family?”
“Excellently; the daughter of the Marquis de la Valliere, and step-daughter of that good M. de Saint-Remy.”
“Excellent; the daughter of the Marquis de la Valliere, and step-daughter of that good M. de Saint-Remy.”
“Ah, yes! my aunt’s major-domo; I remember; 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 the attention she deserved.”
“Ah, yes! my aunt’s head servant; I remember now that I saw her when I passed through Blois. She was introduced to the queens. I even have to regret not giving her the attention she deserved at that time.”
“Oh, sire! I trust that your majesty will now repair time lost.”
“Oh, Your Majesty! I hope you will make up for the time that has been lost.”
“And the report—you tell me—is, that Mademoiselle de la Valliere never had a lover.”
“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.”
“In any case, I don’t think your majesty would be very worried about the rivalry.”
“Yet, stay,” said the king, in a very serious tone of voice.
“Hold on,” said the king, in a very serious tone.
“Your majesty?”
"Your Majesty?"
“I remember.”
"I remember."
“Ah!”
“Wow!”
“If she has no lover, she has, at least, a betrothed.”
“If she doesn't have a lover, she at least has a fiancé.”
“A betrothed!”
“Engaged!”
“What! Count, do you not know that?”
“What! Count, don’t you know that?”
“No.”
“Nope.”
“You, the man who knows all the news?”
“You, the guy who knows all the gossip?”
“Your majesty will excuse me. You know this betrothed, then?”
“Your majesty will forgive me. Do you know this fiancé, then?”
“Assuredly! his father came to ask me to sign the marriage contract: it is—” The king was about to pronounce the Vicomte de Bragelonne’s name, when he stopped, and knitted his brows.
“Of course! His father came to ask me to sign the marriage contract: it is—” The king was about to say the Vicomte de Bragelonne’s name, but then he stopped and frowned.
“It is—” repeated Saint-Aignan, inquiringly.
“It is—” repeated Saint-Aignan, curiously.
“I don’t remember now,” replied Louis XIV., endeavoring to conceal an annoyance he had some trouble to disguise.
“I don’t remember now,” replied Louis XIV, trying to hide an annoyance that he found difficult to mask.
“Can I put your majesty in the way?” inquired the Comte de Saint-Aignan.
“Can I get in your way, Your Majesty?” asked the Comte de Saint-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.”
“No; because I no longer remember who I meant to refer to; in fact, I only vaguely remember that one of the maids of honor was supposed to get married—the name, though, has slipped my mind.”
“Was it Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente he was going to marry?” inquired Saint-Aignan.
“Was he going to marry Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente?” asked Saint-Aignan.
“Very likely,” said the king.
"Most likely," said the king.
“In that case, the intended was M. 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.”
“In that case, the person she meant was M. de Montespan; but Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente didn't talk about it in a way that would scare off potential suitors.”
“At all events,” said the king, “I know nothing, or almost nothing, about Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Saint-Aignan, I rely upon you to procure me every information about her.”
“At any rate,” said the king, “I know nothing, or almost nothing, about Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Saint-Aignan, I’m counting on you to get me all the information about her.”
“Yes, sire, and when shall I have the honor of seeing your majesty again, to give you the latest news?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, when will I have the honor of seeing you again to share the latest news?”
“Whenever you have procured it.”
"Whenever you have obtained it."
“I shall obtain it speedily, then, if the information can be as quickly obtained as my wish to see your majesty again.”
"I'll get it soon, then, if the information can be obtained as quickly as I want to see you again, Your Majesty."
“Well said, count! By the by, has Madame displayed any ill-feeling against this poor girl?”
“Well said, Count! By the way, has Madame shown any bad feelings towards this poor girl?”
“None, sire.”
"None, sir."
“Madame did not get angry, then?”
“Did Madame not get angry, then?”
“I do not know; I only know that she laughed continually.”
"I don't know; I just know that she kept laughing."
“That’s well; but I think I hear voices in the ante-rooms—no doubt a courier has just arrived. Inquire, Saint-Aignan.” The count ran to the door and exchanged a few words with the usher; he returned to the king, saying, “Sire, it is M. Fouquet who has this moment arrived, by your majesty’s orders, he says. He presented himself, but, because of the lateness of the hour, he does not press for an audience this evening, and is satisfied to have his presence here formally announced.”
“That’s good; but I think I hear voices in the waiting rooms—there’s probably a courier who just arrived. Check, Saint-Aignan.” The count hurried to the door and spoke briefly with the usher; he came back to the king and said, “Sire, it’s M. Fouquet who has just arrived, as per your majesty’s orders, he says. He has introduced himself, but because it’s late, he’s not asking for an audience tonight and is fine with just having his presence officially acknowledged.”
“M. Fouquet! I wrote to him at three o’clock, inviting him to be at Fontainebleau the following day, and he arrives at Fontainebleau at two o’clock in the morning! This is, indeed, zeal!” exclaimed the king, delighted to see himself so promptly obeyed. “On the contrary, M. 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.”
“M. Fouquet! I wrote to him at three o’clock, inviting him to be at Fontainebleau the next day, and he shows up at Fontainebleau at two in the morning! This is really being eager!” the king exclaimed, pleased to see such prompt compliance. “On the contrary, M. Fouquet will have his audience. I called him, and I will meet with him. Let him be brought in. As for you, count, continue your inquiries and be here tomorrow.”
The king placed his finger on his lips; and Saint-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.
The king put his finger to his lips, and Saint-Aignan, filled with joy, quickly left the room, instructing the usher to let M. Fouquet in, who then entered the king’s chamber. Louis stood up to greet him.
“Good evening, M. Fouquet,” he said, smiling graciously; “I congratulate you on your punctuality; and yet my message must have reached you late?”
“Good evening, Mr. Fouquet,” he said, smiling warmly; “I commend you on your punctuality; and yet my message must have arrived late?”
“At nine in the evening, sire.”
“9 PM, Your Majesty.”
“You have been working very hard lately, M. Fouquet, for I have been informed that you have not left your rooms at Saint-Mande during the last three or four days.”
“You've been working really hard lately, M. Fouquet, because I've heard that you haven't left your rooms at Saint-Mande for the past three or four days.”
“It is perfectly true, your majesty, that I have kept myself shut up for the past three days,” replied Fouquet.
“It’s completely true, your majesty, that I’ve stayed locked away for the past three days,” replied Fouquet.
“Do you know, M. Fouquet, that I had a great many things to say to you?” continued the king, with a most gracious air.
“Do you know, Mr. Fouquet, that I had a lot to talk to you about?” the king continued, with a very friendly demeanor.
“Your majesty overwhelms me, and since you are so graciously disposed towards me, will you permit me to remind you of the promise made to grant an audience?”
“Your majesty amazes me, and since you are so kindly inclined towards me, will you allow me to remind you of the promise to grant an audience?”
“Ah, yes! some church dignitary, who thinks he has to thank me for something, is it not?”
“Ah, yes! A church official who thinks he needs to thank me for something, right?”
“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—”
“Exactly, sir. The timing might not be ideal, but the schedule of the companion I brought with me is important, and since Fontainebleau is on the way to his diocese—”
“Who is it, then?”
“Who is it?”
“The bishop of Vannes, whose appointment your majesty, at my recommendation, deigned, three months since, to sign.”
“The bishop of Vannes, whose appointment your majesty signed at my suggestion three months ago.”
“That is very possible,” said the king, who had signed without reading; “and he is here?”
"That's definitely possible," said the king, who had signed without reading; "and he's here?"
“Yes, sire; Vannes is an important diocese; the flock belonging to this pastor needed his religious consolation; they are savages, whom it is necessary to polish, at the same time that he instructs them, and M. d’Herblay is unequalled in such kind of missions.”
“Yes, sir; Vannes is an important diocese; the people in this pastor’s care need his spiritual support; they are rough individuals who need to be refined while he teaches them, and Mr. d’Herblay is unmatched in this type of mission.”
“M. d’Herblay!” said the king, musingly, as if his name, heard long since, was not, however, unknown to him.
“M. d’Herblay!” said the king, thoughtfully, as if the name he had heard long ago was still somewhat familiar to him.
“Oh!” said Fouquet, promptly, “your majesty is not acquainted with the obscure name of one of your most faithful and valuable servants?”
“Oh!” said Fouquet immediately, “Your majesty isn't familiar with the lesser-known name of one of your most loyal and valuable servants?”
“No, I confess I am not. And so he wishes to set off again?”
“No, I admit I’m not. So, does he want to leave again?”
“He has this very day received letters which will, perhaps, compel him to leave, so that, before setting off for that unknown region called Bretagne, he is desirous of paying his respects to your majesty.”
“He has received letters today that may force him to leave, so before heading off to that unknown place called Brittany, he wants to pay his respects to your majesty.”
“Is he waiting?”
“Is he waiting?”
“He is here, sire.”
“He's here, sire.”
“Let him enter.”
“Let him in.”
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.
Fouquet signaled to the usher waiting behind the tapestry. The door opened, and Aramis walked in. The king let him finish his compliments and gave a lengthy gaze at a face that no one could forget after seeing it just once.
“Vannes!” he said: “you are bishop of Vannes, I believe?”
“Vannes!” he said. “You’re the bishop of Vannes, right?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Vannes is in Bretagne, I think?” Aramis bowed.
“Vannes is in Brittany, right?” Aramis said, bowing.
“Near the coast?” Aramis again bowed.
“Near the coast?” Aramis nodded again.
“A few leagues from Bell-Isle, is it not?”
“A few leagues from Bell-Isle, right?”
“Yes, sire,” replied Aramis; “six leagues, I believe.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Aramis; “six leagues, I believe.”
“Six leagues; a mere step, then,” said Louis XIV.
"Six leagues; just a quick 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.”
“Not for us poor Bretons, sire,” replied Aramis. “Six leagues is a long way, especially if it’s six leagues on land; and it’s even longer if it’s six leagues across the sea. Plus, I must remind your majesty that there are six leagues of sea from the river to Belle-Isle.”
“It is said that M. Fouquet has a very beautiful house there?” inquired the king.
“It’s said that M. Fouquet has a really beautiful house there?” asked the king.
“Yes, it is said so,” replied Aramis, looking quietly at Fouquet.
“Yes, that’s what they say,” replied Aramis, looking calmly at Fouquet.
“What do you mean by ‘it is said so?’” exclaimed the king.
“What do you mean by ‘it is said so?’” the king exclaimed.
“He has, sire.”
“He has, sir.”
“Really, M. Fouquet, I must confess that one circumstance surprises me.”
“Honestly, Mr. Fouquet, I have to admit that one thing surprises me.”
“What may that be, sire?”
“What could that be, sir?”
“That you should have at the head of the diocese a man like M. d’Herblay, and yet should not have shown him Belle-Isle.”
“That you should have at the head of the diocese a man like M. 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.”
“Oh, sir,” replied the bishop, without giving Fouquet a chance to respond, “we poor Breton bishops hardly ever leave our homes.”
“M. de Vannes,” said the king, “I will punish M. Fouquet for his indifference.”
“M. de Vannes,” said the king, “I will punish M. Fouquet for his lack of concern.”
“In what way, sire?”
“How, my lord?”
“I will change your bishopric.”
“I'll change your bishopric.”
Fouquet bit his lips, but Aramis only smiled.
Fouquet bit his lips, but Aramis just smiled.
“What income does Vannes bring you in?” continued the king.
“What income does Vannes bring in for you?” continued the king.
“Sixty thousand livres, sire,” said Aramis.
“Sixty thousand livres, sir,” said Aramis.
“So trifling an amount as that; but you possess other property, Monsieur de Vannes?”
“So small an amount as that; but do you have other assets, Monsieur de Vannes?”
“I have nothing else, sire; only M. Fouquet pays me one thousand two hundred livres a year for his pew in the church.”
“I have nothing else, sir; only Mr. Fouquet pays me one thousand two hundred livres a year for his seat in the church.”
“Well, M. d’Herblay, I promise you something better than that.”
“Well, M. d’Herblay, I promise you something better than that.”
“Sire—”
"Your Majesty—"
“I will not forget you.”
"I won't forget you."
Aramis bowed, and the king also bowed to him in a respectful manner, as he was accustomed to do towards 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.
Aramis bowed, and the king returned the gesture with a respectful nod, as was his habit with women and church members. Aramis realized his meeting was over; he said goodbye to the king in the straightforward, humble manner of a country pastor and left.
“He is, indeed, a remarkable face,” said the king, following 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.
“He's definitely a remarkable guy,” said the king, tracking him with his eyes for as long as he could see him, and even to some extent after he was out of sight.
“Sire,” replied Fouquet, “if that bishop had been educated early in life, no prelate in the kingdom would deserve the highest distinctions better than he.”
“Sire,” replied Fouquet, “if that bishop had been educated earlier in life, no bishop in the kingdom would deserve the highest honors more than he.”
“His learning is not extensive, then?”
“His knowledge isn't very broad, then?”
“He changed the sword for the crucifix, and that rather late in life. But it matters little, if your majesty will permit me to speak of M. de Vannes again on another occasion—”
“He traded the sword for the crucifix, and that quite late in life. But it’s not a big deal, if your majesty will allow me to mention M. de Vannes again at another time—”
“I beg you to do so. But before speaking of him, let us speak of yourself, M. Fouquet.”
“I urge you to do that. But before we talk about him, let’s talk about you, M. Fouquet.”
“Of me, sire?”
"Me, sir?"
“Yes, I have to pay you a thousand compliments.”
“Yes, I have to pay you a thousand compliments.”
“I cannot express to your majesty the delight with which you overwhelm me.”
“I can’t tell you how much joy you bring me, Your Majesty.”
“I understand you, M. Fouquet. I confess, however, to have had certain prejudices against you.”
“I get you, M. Fouquet. I have to admit, though, I had some biases against you.”
“In that case, I was indeed unhappy, sire.”
“In that case, I was definitely unhappy, sir.”
“But they exist no longer. Did you not perceive—”
“But they don't exist anymore. Didn't you notice—”
“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.”
“I did, indeed, sir; but I patiently waited for the day when the truth would come out; and it looks like that day has finally come.”
“Ah! you knew, then, you were in disgrace with me?”
“Ah! So you knew you were in trouble with me?”
“Alas! sire, I perceived it.”
“Unfortunately! Sir, I noticed it.”
“And do you know the reason?”
“And do you know why?”
“Perfectly well; your majesty thought that I had been wastefully lavish in expenditure.”
“Exactly; your majesty believed that I had been overly extravagant in my spending.”
“Not so; far from that.”
"Not at all; quite the opposite."
“Or, rather an indifferent administrator. In a word, you thought that, as the people had no money, there would be none for your majesty either.”
“Or, more like a careless administrator. In short, you believed that since the people had no money, there would be none for your majesty either.”
“Yes, I thought so; but I was deceived.”
“Yes, I thought so; but I was misled.”
Fouquet bowed.
Fouquet bowed.
“And no disturbances, no complaints?”
“Are there no disturbances or complaints?”
“And money enough,” said Fouquet.
"And plenty of money," said Fouquet.
“The fact is that you have been profuse with it during the last month.”
“The truth is that you’ve been very generous with it over the last month.”
“I have more, not only for all your majesty’s requirements, but for all your caprices.”
“I have more, not just for all your royal needs, but for all your whims.”
“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 appreciate it, Monsieur Fouquet,” the king replied earnestly. “I won’t put you to the test. For the next two months, I don’t plan 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.”
“I will take advantage of this time to gather five or six million, which will be useful as cash on hand in case of war.”
“Five or six millions!”
"Five or six million!"
“For the expenses of your majesty’s household only, be it understood.”
“For the expenses of your majesty’s household only, this should be clear.”
“You think war probable, M. Fouquet?”
“You think war is likely, Mr. Fouquet?”
“I think that if Heaven has bestowed on the eagle a beak and claws, it is to enable him to show his royal character.”
“I believe that if Heaven has given the eagle a beak and claws, it's so he can demonstrate his majestic nature.”
The king blushed with pleasure.
The king blushed with joy.
“We have spent a great deal of money these few days past, Monsieur Fouquet; will you not scold me for it?”
“We’ve spent a lot of money these past few days, Monsieur Fouquet; won’t you scold me for it?”
“Sire, your majesty has still twenty years of youth to enjoy, and a thousand million francs to lavish in those twenty years.”
“Sire, you still have twenty years of youth to enjoy, and a billion francs to spend in those twenty years.”
“That is a great deal of money, M. Fouquet,” said the king.
"That's a lot of money, Mr. Fouquet," said the king.
“I will economize, sire. Besides, your majesty as two valuable servants in M. 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 M. Colbert’s province.”
“I will save money, sir. Also, your majesty has two valuable servants in Mr. Colbert and me. One of us will encourage you to spend freely—this will be me, as long as my services remain to your majesty’s liking; the other will manage your finances, and that will be Mr. Colbert’s responsibility.”
“M. Colbert?” returned the king, astonished.
“M. Colbert?” replied the king, astonished.
“Certainly, sire; M. Colbert is an excellent accountant.”
“Of course, your majesty; M. Colbert is a great accountant.”
At this commendation, bestowed by the traduced on the traducer, the king felt himself penetrated with confidence 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 comprehended him, and yielding to so much generosity and address, he said, “You praise M. Colbert, then?”
At this compliment, given by the accused to the accuser, the king felt a surge of confidence and admiration. Additionally, there was nothing in Fouquet’s voice or expression that negatively impacted a single word of his comment; he didn’t offer one praise just to earn the right to make two criticisms. The king understood him, and yielding to such generosity and skill, he said, “So you’re praising M. Colbert, then?”
“Yes, sire, I praise him; for, besides being a man of merit, I believe him to be devoted to your majesty’s interests.”
“Yes, sir, I admire him; because, in addition to being a man of value, I believe he is committed to your majesty’s interests.”
“Is that because he has often interfered with your own views?” said the king, smiling.
“Is that because he has often gotten in the way of your own opinions?” said the king, smiling.
“Exactly, sire.”
"Exactly, your majesty."
“Explain yourself.”
"Explain yourself."
“It is simple enough. I am the man who is needed to make the money come in; he is the man who is needed to prevent it leaving.”
“It’s pretty straightforward. I’m the one who brings in the money; he’s the one who keeps it from going out.”
“Nay, nay, monsieur le surintendant, you will presently say something which will correct this good opinion.”
“Nah, nah, Mr. Superintendent, you're about to say something that will change this positive impression.”
“Do you mean as far as administrative abilities are concerned, sire?”
“Are you referring to administrative abilities, your majesty?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah.”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Not at all.”
“Really?”
“Seriously?”
“Upon my honor, sire, I do not know throughout France a better clerk than M. Colbert.”
“On my honor, sire, I don’t know a better clerk in all of France than M. Colbert.”
This word “clerk” did not possess, in 1661, the somewhat subservient signification attached to it in the present day; but, as spoken by Fouquet, whom the king had addressed as the superintendent, it seemed to acquire an insignificant and petty character, that at this juncture served admirably to restore Fouquet to his place, and Colbert to his own.
This word “clerk” didn’t have the somewhat subordinate meaning it has today in 1661; however, when spoken by Fouquet, who the king referred to as the superintendent, it took on a trivial and minor character that, at this moment, perfectly restored Fouquet to his position and Colbert to his.
“And yet,” said Louis XIV., “it was Colbert, however, that, notwithstanding his economy, had the arrangement of my fetes here at Fontainebleau; and I assure you, Monsieur Fouquet, that in no way has he checked the expenditure of money.” Fouquet bowed, but did not reply.
“And yet,” said Louis XIV, “it was Colbert who, despite his frugality, organized my fetes here at Fontainebleau; and I assure you, Monsieur Fouquet, he has not held back on spending money in any way.” Fouquet bowed but did not respond.
“Is it not your opinion too?” said the king.
“Don’t you think so too?” said the king.
“I think, sire,” he replied, “that M. 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.”
“I think, sir,” he replied, “that Mr. Colbert has handled his tasks in a very organized way, and that he deserves, in this regard, all the praise your majesty might give him.”
The word “orderly” was a proper accompaniment for the word “clerk.” The king possessed that extreme sensitiveness 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 arrangements; in other words, that the magnificent fetes of Fontainebleau 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, only to find 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 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 a quarter to three in the morning, and the king went to bed a little uneasy and confused at the indirect lesson he had received; and a good hour was employed by him in going over again in memory the embroideries, the tapestries, the bills of fare of the various banquets, the architecture of the triumphal arches, the arrangements for the illuminations and fireworks, all the offspring of the “Clerk Colbert’s” invention. The result was, the king passed in review before him everything that had taken place during the last eight days, and decided that faults could be found in his fetes. But Fouquet, 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 yet succeeded in hurting Fouquet.
The word “orderly” perfectly matched the word “clerk.” The king had an extreme sensitivity to organization and a keen perception that could detect the regular flow of feelings and sensations even before they were experienced. He understood that, in Fouquet’s view, the clerk had been overly methodical and organized in his preparations; in other words, the extravagant fetes of Fontainebleau could have been even more spectacular. As a result, the king sensed there was something about the events he had organized that someone could criticize; he felt a bit of the discomfort that someone arriving in Paris from the provinces might feel, dressed in the finest clothes only to find that those in trendy outfits look at him either too closely or not at all. This part of the conversation, which Fouquet had managed with both restraint and great tact, earned the king’s utmost respect for the man’s character and the minister's capability. Fouquet took his leave at a quarter to three in the morning, and the king went to bed feeling a bit uneasy and confused by the indirect lesson he had received; he spent a full hour mentally revisiting the embroideries, the tapestries, the menus of the various banquets, the design of the triumphal arches, and the plans for the illuminations and fireworks, all products of “Clerk Colbert’s” creativity. Consequently, the king reviewed everything that had happened over the past eight days and concluded that there were indeed flaws in his fetes. However, by being polite, considerate, and generous, Fouquet had hurt Colbert far more than Colbert, through his cunning, malice, and relentless animosity, had ever managed to harm Fouquet.
Chapter XLVIII. Fontainebleau at Two o’Clock in the Morning.
As we have seen, Saint-Aignan had quitted the king’s apartment at the very moment the superintendent entered it. Saint-Aignan was charged with a mission that required dispatch, and he was going to do his utmost to turn his time to the best advantage. He whom we have introduced as the king’s friend was indeed an uncommon personage; he was one of those valuable courtiers whose vigilance and acuteness of perception threw all other favorites into the shade, and counterbalanced, by his close attention, the servility of Dangeau, who was not the favorite, but the toady of the king. M. de Saint-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, and who seemed to have returned to his own apartments, had not entered the chateau. Saint-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 engaged in looking at a window, although its curtains were closely drawn. As this window happened to be Madame’s, Saint-Aignan concluded that the form in question must be that of De Guiche. He advanced cautiously, and found he was not mistaken. De Guiche had, after his conversation with Madame, carried away such a weight of happiness, that all of his strength of mind was hardly sufficient to enable him to support it. On his side, Saint-Aignan knew that De Guiche had had something to do with La Valliere’s introduction to Madame’s household, for a courtier knows 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 something, Saint-Aignan reckoned upon learning much or little, as the case might be, if he questioned De Guiche with that extreme tact, and, at the same time, with that persistence in attaining an object, of which he was capable. Saint-Aignan’s plan was as follows: If the information obtained was satisfactory, he would inform the king, with alacrity, that he had lighted 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 the ladies of the court who might have the least pretensions to 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 information he had obtained, but would let La Valliere know that this damaging information was carefully preserved in a secret drawer of her confidant’s memory. In this manner, he would be able to air his generosity before the poor girl’s eyes, and so keep her in constant suspense between gratitude and apprehension, to such an extent as to make her a friend at court, interested, as an accomplice, in trying to make his fortune, while she was making her own. As far as concerned the day when the bombshell of the past should burst, if ever there were any occasion, Saint-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 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 in half an hour, that Saint-Aignan, the son of earth, as La Fontaine would have said, determined to get De Guiche into conversation: in other words, to trouble him in his happiness—a happiness of which Saint-Aignan was quite ignorant. It was long past one o’clock in the morning when Saint-Aignan perceived De Guiche, standing, motionless, leaning against the trunk of a tree, with his eyes fastened upon the lighted window,—the sleepiest hour of night-time, which painters crown with myrtles and budding poppies, the hour when eyes are heavy, hearts throb, and heads feel dull and languid—an hour which casts upon the day which has passed away a look of regret, while addressing a loving greeting to the dawning light. For De Guiche it was the dawn of unutterable happiness; he would have bestowed a treasure upon a beggar, had one stood before him, to secure him uninterrupted indulgence in his dreams. It was precisely at this hour that Saint-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.
As we've seen, Saint-Aignan left the king's room just as the superintendent entered. He had a mission that needed urgency, and he was determined to make the most of his time. The person we’ve introduced as the king's friend was truly exceptional; he was one of those valuable courtiers whose alertness and sharp insight overshadowed all other favorites, compensating for the servile nature of Dangeau, who was not a favorite but merely a sycophant of the king. M. de Saint-Aignan started to think about what to do in the current situation. He considered that his first information should come from De Guiche. So, he set off to find him, but De Guiche, whom we saw disappear behind one of the wings and who seemed to have returned to his rooms, had not entered the chateau. Saint-Aignan then searched for him, and after turning and looking in every direction, he spotted what looked like a human form leaning against a tree. This figure was as still as a statue and seemed deeply focused on a window, even though its curtains were tightly drawn. Since this window belonged to Madame, Saint-Aignan assumed the figure must be De Guiche. He approached carefully and confirmed his guess. De Guiche, after talking to Madame, was carrying such a heavy load of happiness that it was barely possible for him to bear it. On the other hand, Saint-Aignan knew that De Guiche had played a role in La Valliere’s introduction to Madame’s household, as courtiers know everything and remember everything; however, he had never found out the specifics on what grounds De Guiche had offered his protection to La Valliere. But, as it's unusual not to learn anything if you ask many questions, Saint-Aignan hoped to find out some information, whether substantial or not, by questioning De Guiche with the extreme tact and persistence he was known for. Saint-Aignan's plan was as follows: If the information he obtained was satisfying, he would quickly inform the king that he had found a gem and claim the right to set this gem in the royal crown. If the information was unsatisfactory, which was still a possibility, he would gauge how much the king cared for La Valliere and use that knowledge to eliminate her altogether, thus gaining favor from all the court ladies who might have claims on the king’s heart, starting with Madame and ending with the queen. If the king remained stubborn in his affections, he would hold back the compromising information but let La Valliere know that this damaging information was carefully stored in a secret compartment of her confidante's memory. This way, he could display his generosity to the poor girl and keep her in a constant state of suspense between gratitude and fear, making her an ally at court, as she would be invested in helping him advance while trying to secure her own position. As for the day when the truth from the past should come out, if that ever happened, Saint-Aignan promised himself that by then he would take all necessary precautions and would pretend not to know anything when speaking to the king; meanwhile, he would still have a chance to be seen as the embodiment of generosity in La Valliere’s eyes. With thoughts like these—sparked by greed in just half an hour—Saint-Aignan, the earthly man as La Fontaine would describe him, decided to engage De Guiche in conversation: in other words, to disrupt his happiness—of which Saint-Aignan was completely unaware. It was long past one in the morning when Saint-Aignan noticed De Guiche, standing still, leaning against the trunk of a tree, with his eyes fixed on the illuminated window—at the sleepiest hour of the night, which painters celebrate with myrtles and budding poppies, the hour when eyes grow heavy, hearts race, and heads feel dull and weary—an hour that casts a longing glance at the day that has passed while offering a tender greeting to the light coming. For De Guiche, it was the dawn of unfathomable happiness; he would have given a fortune to a beggar if one had appeared, just to ensure he could indulge in his dreams uninterrupted. It was precisely at this hour that Saint-Aignan, poorly guided—selfishness always gives bad advice—came and tapped him on the shoulder, right as he was softly murmuring a word, or rather a name.
“Ah!” he cried loudly, “I was looking for you.”
“Ah!” he shouted, “I’ve been looking for you.”
“For me?” said De Guiche, starting.
“For me?” said De Guiche, startled.
“Yes; and I find you seemingly moon-struck. Is it likely, my dear comte, you have been attacked by a poetical malady, and are making verses?”
“Yes; and you seem a bit dazed. Is it possible, my dear count, that you’ve been struck by a poetic illness and are writing poetry?”
The young man forced a smile upon his lips, while a thousand conflicting sensations were muttering defiance of Saint-Aignan in the deep recesses of his heart. “Perhaps,” he said. “But by what happy chance—”
The young man forced a smile on his lips, while a thousand mixed feelings were silently challenging Saint-Aignan in the depths of his heart. “Maybe,” he said. “But by what lucky chance—”
“Ah! your remark shows that you did not hear what I said.”
“Ah! your comment shows that you didn't hear what I said.”
“How so?”
"How's that?"
“Why, I began by telling you I was looking for you.”
“Honestly, I started by saying I was looking for you.”
“You were looking for me?”
“Did you need me?”
“Yes: and I find you now in the very act.”
“Yes: and I see you right in the middle of it.”
“Of doing what, I should like to know?”
“Of doing what, I’d like to know?”
“Of singing the praises of Phyllis.”
"Praising Phyllis."
“Well, I do not deny it,” said De Guiche, laughing. “Yes, my dear comte, I was celebrating Phyllis’s praises.”
“Well, I won’t deny it,” De Guiche said with a laugh. “Yes, my dear comte, I was celebrating Phyllis’s praises.”
“And you have acquired the right to do so.”
“And you have the right to do that.”
“I?”
“Me?”
“You; no doubt of it. You; the intrepid protector of every beautiful and clever woman.”
“You; there's no doubt about it. You; the brave defender of every beautiful and smart woman.”
“In the name of goodness, what story have you got hold of now?”
“In the name of goodness, what story do you have now?”
“Acknowledged truths, I am well aware. But stay a moment; I am in love.”
“Sure, I know that's true. But wait a second; I’m in love.”
“You?”
"You?"
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“So much the better, my dear comte; tell me all about it.” And De Guiche, afraid that Saint-Aignan might perhaps presently observe the window, where the light was still burning, took the comte’s arm and endeavored to lead him away.
“So much the better, my dear comte; tell me everything.” And De Guiche, worried that Saint-Aignan might notice the window, where the light was still on, took the comte’s arm and tried to steer him away.
“Oh!” said the latter, resisting, “do not take me towards 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 chateau.
“Oh!” said the latter, resisting, “don’t take me toward those dark woods, it's too damp there. Let’s stay in the moonlight.” And while he gave in to the pressure of De Guiche’s arm, he stayed in the flower garden next to the chateau.
“Well,” said De Guiche, resigning himself, “lead me where you like, and ask me what you please.”
“Well,” said De Guiche, giving in, “take me wherever you want and ask me anything you like.”
“It is impossible to be more agreeable than you are.” And then, after a moment’s silence, Saint-Aignan continued, “I wish you to tell me something about a certain person in who you have interested yourself.”
“It’s impossible to be more charming than you are.” And then, after a moment of silence, Saint-Aignan continued, “I want you to tell me something about a certain person you’ve become interested in.”
“And with whom you are in love?”
“And who are you in love with?”
“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 that it is most essential he should take measures of security in advance.”
“I won’t confirm or deny it. You know that a man doesn’t easily invest his heart in something that won’t give back, and it’s really important for him to take precautions beforehand.”
“You are right,” said De Guiche with a sigh; “a man’s heart is a very precious gift.”
“You're right,” De Guiche said with a sigh; “a man's heart is a really precious gift.”
“Mine particularly is very tender, and in that light I present it to you.”
“Mine is especially tender, and in that light, I offer it to you.”
“Oh! you are well known, comte. Well?”
“Oh! You’re quite famous, comte. Well?”
“It is simply a question of Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.”
“It’s just a matter of Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.”
“Why, my dear Saint-Aignan, you are losing your senses, I should think.”
“Why, my dear Saint-Aignan, I think you must be losing your mind.”
“Why so?”
"Why is that?"
“I have never shown or taken any interest in Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.”
“I have never shown or taken any interest in Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.”
“Bah!”
"Ugh!"
“Never.”
"Not a chance."
“Did you not obtain admission for Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente into Madame’s household?”
“Did you not get 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 desirable, and her admittance very easy.”
“Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente—and you should know this better than anyone else, my dear count—is from a respectable family, which makes her presence here welcome and her acceptance quite easy.”
“You are jesting.”
"You're joking."
“No; and upon my honor I do not know what you mean.”
“No; and I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And you had nothing, then, to do with her admission?”
“And you had nothing to do with her admission?”
“No.”
“No.”
“You do not know her?”
"Don't you know 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.
“I saw her for the first time the day she was presented to Madame. So, since I’ve never been interested in her, and since I don’t know her, I can’t provide you with the information you want.” And De Guiche began to move as if he were about to walk away from his questioner.
“Nay, nay, one moment, my dear comte,” said Saint-Aignan; “you shall not escape me in this manner.”
“Nah, nah, just a moment, my dear count,” said Saint-Aignan; “you’re not getting away from me like this.”
“Why, really, it seems to me that it is now time to return to our apartments.”
“Honestly, I think it’s time for us to head back to our rooms.”
“And yet you were not going in when I—did not meet, but found you.”
“And yet you weren’t going in when I—didn’t meet you, 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.”
“Therefore, my dear count,” said De Guiche, “as long as you have anything to say to me, I’m completely 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?”
“And you’re totally right to do that. What difference does it make if it’s half an hour more or less? Can you promise that you have nothing harmful to tell me about her, and that any harmful things you might have to share aren’t why you’re being silent?”
“Oh! I believe the poor child to be as pure as crystal.”
“Oh! I think the poor child is as innocent as crystal.”
“You overwhelm me with joy. And yet I do not wish to have towards you the appearance of a man so badly informed as I seem. It is quite certain that you supplied the princess’s household with the ladies of honor. Nay, a song has even been written about it.”
“You fill me with joy. But I don’t want to come off as someone so poorly informed as I appear. It’s clear that you provided the princess’s household with the ladies of honor. In fact, a song has even been written about it.”
“Oh! songs are written about everything.”
“Oh! Songs are written about everything.”
“Do you know it?”
"Do you know about it?"
“No: sing it to me and I shall make its acquaintance.”
“No: sing it to me and I will get to know it.”
“I cannot tell you how it begins; I only remember how it ends.”
“I can't tell you how it starts; I only remember how it finishes.”
“Very well, at all events, that is something.”
“Okay, that’s something.”
“When Maids of Honor happen to run short, Lo!—Guiche will furnish the entire Court.”
“When there are not enough Maids of Honor, look!—Guiche will provide for the whole Court.”
“The idea is weak, and the rhyme poor,” said De Guiche.
"The idea is weak, and the rhyme is bad," said De Guiche.
“What can you expect, my dear fellow? it is not Racine’s or Moliere’s, but La Feuillade’s; and a great lord cannot rhyme like a beggarly poet.”
“What can you expect, my dear friend? It’s not Racine's or Molière's, but La Feuillade's; and a great lord can't rhyme like a poor poet.”
“It is very unfortunate, though, that you only remember the termination.”
“It’s really unfortunate that you only remember the end.”
“Stay, stay, I have just recollected the beginning of the second couplet.”
“Wait, wait, I just remembered the start of the second couplet.”
“Why, there’s the birdcage, with a pretty pair, The charming Montalais, and...”
“Look, there’s the birdcage, with a nice couple, The charming Montalais, and...”
“And La Valliere,” exclaimed Guiche, impatiently, and completely ignorant besides of Saint-Aignan’s object.
“And La Valliere,” Guiche exclaimed impatiently, completely unaware of Saint-Aignan’s intention.
“Yes, yes, you have it. You have hit upon the word, ‘La Valliere.’”
“Yes, yes, you got it. You hit upon the word, ‘La Valliere.’”
“A grand discovery indeed.”
“A major discovery indeed.”
“Montalais and La Valliere, these, then, are the two young girls in whom you interest yourself,” said Saint-Aignan, laughing.
“Montalais and La Valliere, these are the two young girls you’re interested in,” said Saint-Aignan, laughing.
“And so Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente’s name is not to be met with in the song?”
“And so Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente’s name isn’t mentioned in the song?”
“No, indeed.”
“No way.”
“And are you satisfied, then?”
“Are you satisfied, then?”
“Perfectly; but I find Montalais there,” said Saint-Aignan, still laughing.
“Exactly; but I see Montalais over there,” Saint-Aignan said, still laughing.
“Oh! you will find her everywhere. She is a singularly active young lady.”
“Oh! you’ll see her everywhere. She’s an especially energetic young woman.”
“You know her?”
"Do you know her?"
“Indirectly. She was the protegee of a man named Malicorne, who is a protegee 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, for you know very well that I have a weakness for that droll fellow Manicamp.”
“Indirectly. She was the protegee of a guy named Malicorne, who is a protegee of Manicamp; Manicamp asked me to arrange for Montalais to be maid of honor in Madame’s household, and to secure a position for Malicorne as an officer in Monsieur’s household. So, I requested the appointments because you know I have a soft spot for that funny guy Manicamp.”
“And you obtained what you sought?”
“And you got what you wanted?”
“For Montalais, yes; for Malicorne, yes and no; for as yet he is only on trial. Do you wish to know anything else?”
“For Montalais, yes; for Malicorne, yes and no; because he is still just being tested. Do you want to know anything else?”
“The last word of the couplet still remains, La Valliere,” said Saint-Aignan, resuming the smile that so tormented Guiche.
“The last word of the couplet is still La Valliere,” Saint-Aignan said, bringing back the smile that so troubled Guiche.
“Well,” said the latter, “it is true that I obtained admission for her in Madame’s household.”
“Well,” said the latter, “it’s true that I got her a place in Madame’s household.”
“Ah!” said Saint-Aignan.
"Wow!" said Saint-Aignan.
“But,” continued 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.”
“But,” Guiche continued, adopting a very frosty demeanor, “I must ask you, comte, not to make jokes about that name. Mademoiselle la Baume le Blanc de la Valliere is a young lady of impeccable conduct.”
“Perfectly well-conducted do you say?”
"Perfectly well done, you say?"
“Yes.”
“Yep.”
“Then you have not heard the last rumor?” exclaimed Saint-Aignan.
“Then you haven't heard the latest rumor?” exclaimed Saint-Aignan.
“No, and you will do me a service, my dear comte, in keeping this report to yourself and to those who circulate it.”
“No, and you will be doing me a favor, my dear count, by keeping this report to yourself and between those who are sharing it.”
“Ah! bah! you take the matter up very seriously.”
“Ugh! Come on, you’re taking this way too seriously.”
“Yes; Mademoiselle de Valliere is beloved by one of my best friends.”
“Yeah; Mademoiselle de Valliere is loved by one of my closest friends.”
Saint-Aignan started. “Aha!” he said.
Saint-Aignan began. “Aha!” he said.
“Yes, comte,” continued Guiche; “and consequently, you, the most distinguished man in France for polished courtesy of manner, will understand that I cannot allow my friend to be placed in a ridiculous position.”
“Yes, Count,” Guiche continued; “and because of that, you, the most respected man in France for your refined manners, will realize that I can't let my friend be put in a embarrassing situation.”
Saint-Aignan began to bite his nails, partially from vexation, and partially from disappointed curiosity. Guiche made him a very profound bow.
Saint-Aignan started biting his nails, partly out of frustration and partly from curiosity that had been let down. Guiche gave him a very deep bow.
“You send me away,” said Saint-Aignan, who was dying to know the name of the friend.
“You send me away,” said Saint-Aignan, who really wanted to know the name of the friend.
“I do not send you away, my dear fellow. I am going to finish my lines to Phyllis.”
“I’m not sending you away, my good friend. I’m just going to finish my lines for Phyllis.”
“And those lines—”
“And those lines—”
“Are a quatrain. You understand, I trust, that a quatrain is a serious affair?”
“Are a quatrain. You understand, I hope, that a quatrain is a serious matter?”
“Of course.”
"Definitely."
“And as, of these four lines, of which it is composed, I have yet three and a half to make, I need my undivided attention.”
“And since I still have three and a half lines left to write out of these four, I need to focus completely.”
“I quite understand. Adieu! comte. By the by—”
“I totally understand. Goodbye, count. By the way—”
“What?”
“What?”
“Are you quick at making verses?”
“Are you fast at writing poetry?”
“Wonderfully so.”
"Absolutely."
“Will you have quite finished the three lines and a half to-morrow morning?”
“Will you have finished the three and a half lines by tomorrow morning?”
“I hope so.”
“I hope so.”
“Adieu, then, until to-morrow.”
"Goodbye, then, until tomorrow."
“Adieu, adieu!”
"Goodbye, goodbye!"
Saint-Aignan was obliged to accept the notice to quit; he accordingly did so, and disappeared behind the hedge. Their conversation had led Guiche and Saint-Aignan a good distance from the chateau.
Saint-Aignan had to accept the eviction notice; he did so and moved behind the hedge. Their conversation had taken Guiche and Saint-Aignan quite far from the chateau.
Every mathematician, every poet, and every dreamer has his own subjects of interest. Saint-Aignan, on leaving Guiche, found himself at the extremity of the grove,—at the very spot where the outbuildings of the servants begin, and where, behind the 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 was erected. Saint-Aignan, alone, took the path which led towards these buildings; De Guiche going off in the opposite direction. The one proceeded to the flower-garden, while the other bent his steps towards the walls. Saint-Aignan walked on between rows of mountain-ash, lilac, and hawthorn, which formed an almost impenetrable roof above his head; his feet were buried in the soft gravel and thick moss. He was deliberating a means of taking his revenge, which seemed difficult for him to carry out, and was vexed with himself for not having learned more about La Valliere, notwithstanding the ingenious measures he had resorted to in order to acquire more 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-stilted exclamations of surprise; but above them all, the woman’s voice prevailed. Saint-Aignan stopped to look about him; he perceived from the greatest surprise that the voices proceeded, 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. 5
Every mathematician, poet, and dreamer has their own interests. As Saint-Aignan left Guiche, he found himself at the edge of the grove—at the exact spot where the servants' outbuildings began, and where, behind the clusters of acacias and intertwined chestnut trees, hidden by thick clematis and young vines, stood the wall separating the woods from the courtyard. Saint-Aignan, alone, took the path toward these buildings, while De Guiche went off in the opposite direction. One headed for the flower garden, while the other directed his steps toward the walls. Saint-Aignan walked on between rows of mountain ash, lilac, and hawthorn, which created an almost impenetrable roof above him; his feet sunk into the soft gravel and thick moss. He was figuring out how to take his revenge, a task that seemed difficult, and he was frustrated with himself for not learning more about La Valliere, despite all the clever tactics he had used to gather information about her. Suddenly, the sound of a human voice caught his attention. He heard whispers, the pleading tones of a woman’s voice mixed with muffled laughter, sighs, and half-suppressed exclamations of surprise; but above it all, the woman’s voice stood out. Saint-Aignan paused to look around; to his great surprise, he realized that the voices were coming, not from the ground, but from the branches of the trees. As he glided along under the covered path, he raised his head and noticed at the top of the wall a woman perched on a ladder, eagerly talking to a man sitting on a branch of a chestnut tree, whose head was the only part visible, as the rest of him was hidden in the thick foliage of the chestnut. 5
Chapter XLIX. The Labyrinth.
Saint-Aignan, who had only been seeking for information, had met with an adventure. This was indeed a piece of good luck. Curious to learn why, and particularly what about, this man and woman were conversing at such an hour, and in such a singular position, Saint-Aignan made himself as small as he possibly could, and approached almost under 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.
Saint-Aignan, who was just looking for information, stumbled into an adventure. This was definitely a stroke of good luck. Curious to find out why, and especially what this man and woman were discussing at such a late hour and in such an unusual situation, Saint-Aignan tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible and crept closer, almost hiding beneath the ladder. Once he found a comfortable spot, he leaned back against a tree and listened in on their conversation. The woman spoke first.
“Really, Monsieur Manicamp,” she said, in a voice which, notwithstanding the reproaches she addressed to him, preserved a marked tone of coquetry, “really your indiscretion is of a very dangerous character. We cannot talk long in this manner without being observed.”
“Honestly, Monsieur Manicamp,” she said, her voice, despite the reproaches she directed at him, still had a distinct flirtatious tone, “your lack of discretion is quite risky. We can’t keep talking like this for much longer without someone noticing.”
“That is very probable,” said the man, in the calmest and coolest of tones.
“That’s very likely,” 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 of very shame.”
“In that case, what would people think? Oh! If anyone saw me, I swear I would die of embarrassment.”
“Oh! that would be very silly; I do not believe you would.”
“Oh! that would be very silly; I don’t believe you would.”
“It might have been different if there had been anything between us; but to injure myself gratuitously is really very foolish of me; so, adieu, Monsieur Manicamp.”
“It could have been different if there had been something between us; but harming myself for no good reason is truly foolish; so, goodbye, Monsieur Manicamp.”
“So far so good; I know the man, and now let me see who the woman is,” said Saint-Aignan, watching the rounds of the ladder, on which were standing two pretty little feet covered with blue satin shoes.
“So far so good; I know the man, and now let me see who the woman is,” said Saint-Aignan, watching the rounds of the ladder, on which stood two pretty little feet in 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.”
“Nah, nah, for goodness’ sake, my dear Montalais,” cried Manicamp, “damn it, don’t leave; I have a lot to tell you, really important stuff, still.”
“Montalais,” said Saint-Aignan to himself, “one of the three. Each of the three gossips had her adventure, only I imagined the hero of this one’s adventure was Malicorne and not Manicamp.”
“Montalais,” Saint-Aignan thought to himself, “one of the three. Each of the three gossipers had her own story, but I assumed the hero of this one’s story was Malicorne and not Manicamp.”
At her companion’s appeal, Montalais stopped in the middle of her descent, and Saint-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 inconvenient position.
At her friend's request, Montalais paused halfway down, and Saint-Aignan could see the poor Manicamp scrambling from one branch of the chestnut tree to another, either to better his situation or to deal with the exhaustion from his awkward position.
“Now, listen to me,” said he; “you quite understand, I hope, that my intentions are perfectly innocent?”
“Now, listen to me,” he said; “you understand, I hope, that my intentions are completely innocent?”
“Of course. But why did you write me a letter stimulating my gratitude towards you? Why did you ask me for an interview at such an hour and in such a place as this?”
“Of course. But why did you write me a letter making me feel grateful to you? Why did you ask me for a meeting 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 you have been kind enough to grant me, I employed the means which appeared to me 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.”
“I reminded you of your gratitude because I was the one who helped you become part of Madame’s household. Wanting very much to have the meeting you graciously agreed to, I used the methods I thought would most reliably ensure it. The reason I asked for it at this time and in this place was that this hour seemed the most sensible, and the location the least likely to attract attention. Additionally, I needed to discuss some topics that call for both discretion and privacy.”
“Monsieur Manicamp!”
"Mr. Manicamp!"
“But everything I wish to say is perfectly honorable, I assure you.”
“But everything I want to say is totally honorable, I promise you.”
“I think, Monsieur Manicamp, it will be more becoming in me to take my leave.”
“I think, Mr. Manicamp, it would be better for me to take my leave.”
“No, no!—listen to me, or I will 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 annoyance, and may provoke me to extreme measures. Do not follow the example of this branch, then, but listen to me.”
“No, no!—listen to me, or I will jump from my spot here to yours; and be careful how you challenge me, because a branch of this chestnut tree is really bothering me and might drive me to take drastic action. So don't mimic this branch, just listen to what I have to say.”
“I am listening, and I 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.”
“I’m listening, and I’m on board with that; but please keep it short, because if you have a branch from the chestnut tree that’s bothering you, I want you to know that one of the rungs of the ladder is hurting the soles of my feet, and my shoes are getting worn out.”
“Do me the kindness to give me your hand.”
“Please be kind enough to give me your hand.”
“Why?”
"Why?"
“Will you have the goodness to do so?”
"Can you please do that?"
“There is my hand, then; but what are you going to do?”
“There’s my hand, then; but what are you going to do?”
“To draw you towards me.”
"To pull you closer to me."
“What for? You surely do not wish me to join you in the tree?”
“What for? You can’t want me to climb the tree with you?”
“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; but I want you to sit down on the wall; there, that works; there's plenty of room, and I would give a lot just to be able to sit next to you.”
“No, no; you are very well where you are; we should be seen.”
“No, no; you're perfectly fine where you are; we shouldn't be seen.”
“Do you really think so?” said Manicamp, in an insinuating voice.
“Do you actually think that?” said Manicamp, in a suggestive tone.
“I am sure of it.”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Very well, I remain in my tree, then, although I cannot be worse placed.”
“Alright, I’ll stay in my tree, even though I couldn’t be in a worse spot.”
“Monsieur Manicamp, we are wandering away from the subject.”
“Monsieur Manicamp, we are straying off topic.”
“You are right, we are so.”
"You’re right, we totally are."
“You wrote me a letter?”
"You wrote me a letter?"
“I did.”
"I did."
“Why did you write?”
"Why did you write this?"
“Fancy, at two o’clock to-day, De Guiche left.”
“Just imagine, at two o’clock today, De Guiche left.”
“What then?”
"What's next?"
“Seeing him set off, I followed him, as I usually do.”
“Watching him leave, I followed him, like I usually do.”
“Of course, I see that, since you are here now.”
“Of course, I see that now that you’re here.”
“Don’t be in a hurry. You are aware, I suppose, that De Guiche is up to his very neck in disgrace?”
“Don’t rush. You know, I suppose, that De Guiche is in deep trouble?”
“Alas! yes.”
"Unfortunately! Yes."
“It was the very height of imprudence on his part, then, to come to Fontainebleau to seek those who had at Paris sent him away into exile, and particularly those from whom he had been separated.”
“It was extremely reckless of him to come to Fontainebleau to look for those who had exiled him from Paris, especially the ones he had been cut off from.”
“Monsieur Manicamp, you reason like Pythagoras.”
“Monsieur Manicamp, you think like Pythagoras.”
“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 anything. Oh, the deuce!”
“Moreover, De Guiche is as stubborn as a man in love can be, and he refused to listen to any of my objections. I begged him, I pleaded with him, but he wouldn't hear any of it. Oh, for goodness' sake!”
“What’s the matter?”
"What's wrong?"
“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.”
“I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Montalais, but this annoying branch, which I’ve already mentioned to you, just snagged a part of my dress.”
“It is quite dark,” replied Montalais, laughing; “so, pray continue, M. Manicamp.”
“It’s pretty dark,” Montalais replied with a laugh; “so please go on, M. Manicamp.”
“De Guiche set off on horseback as 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, at the same headlong rate 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 proceeded 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 went, without having, myself, gone much farther than Ris or Melun—and that even was a good distance you will admit, for it is eleven leagues to get there and as many to return.”
“De Guiche took off on horseback as fast as he could, and I followed him at a slower pace. You completely understand that jumping into the water with a friend at the same reckless speed would be an act of either a fool or a madman. So, I allowed De Guiche to get ahead, and I continued on my way at a sensible pace, confident that my unfortunate friend wouldn't be welcomed, or if he was, he would ride off again at the first rude reply; and that I would see him returning much faster than he left, without having gone much farther than Ris or Melun—and that was still a good distance, you have to admit, since it's eleven leagues there and eleven to come back.”
Montalais shrugged her shoulders.
Montalais shrugged.
“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.”
“Laugh as much as you want; but if, instead of being comfortably perched on top of the wall like you are, you were sitting on this branch as if you were on a horse, you would, like Augustus, want to get down.”
“Be patient, my dear M. Manicamp; a few minutes will soon pass away; you were saying, I think, that you had gone beyond Ris and Melun.”
“Just be patient, my dear M. Manicamp; a few minutes will pass quickly; if I remember correctly, you were saying that you had gone past Ris and Melun.”
“Yes, I went through Ris and Melun, and I continued to go on, more and more surprised that I did not see him returning; 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 riding at full gallop, he entered the chateau; and there he has disappeared. 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 with 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 servants’ 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.”
“Yes, I went through Ris and Melun, and I kept going, more and more surprised that I didn’t see him coming back; and here I am at Fontainebleau. I’m looking for and asking about De Guiche everywhere, but no one has seen him, no one in town has spoken to him; he arrived riding at full speed, he entered the chateau; and there he has vanished. I’ve been here at Fontainebleau since eight o’clock this evening asking about De Guiche in every direction, but there’s no sign of him. I’m dying of worry. You understand that I haven’t recklessly thrown myself into danger by going into the chateau as my foolish friend did; I went straight to the servants’ offices, and I managed to get a letter sent to you; and now, for Heaven’s sake, my dear young lady, ease my anxiety.”
“There will be no difficulty in that, my dear M. Manicamp; your friend De Guiche has been admirably received.”
“There won't be any trouble with that, my dear M. Manicamp; your friend De Guiche has been received extremely well.”
“Bah!”
"Ugh!"
“The king made quite a fuss over him.”
“The king made a big deal about him.”
“The king, who exiled him!”
“The king who exiled him!”
“Madame smiled upon him, and Monsieur appears to like him better than ever.”
“Madame smiled at him, and Monsieur seems to like him more than ever.”
“Ah! ah!” said Manicamp, “that explains to me, then, why and how he has remained. And did he not say anything about me?”
“Ah! ah!” said Manicamp, “that explains to me, then, why and how he has stayed. And didn’t he say anything about me?”
“Not a word.”
"Not a word."
“That is very unkind. What is he doing now?”
"That's really unkind. What is he doing now?"
“In all probability he is asleep, or, if not asleep, dreaming.”
“In all likelihood, he is asleep, or, if he's not asleep, he's dreaming.”
“And what have they been doing all the evening?”
“And what have they been up to all evening?”
“Dancing.”
"Dance."
“The famous ballet? How did De Guiche look?”
“The famous ballet? How did De Guiche look?”
“Superb!”
“Awesome!”
“Dear fellow! And now, pray forgive me, Mademoiselle Montalais; but all I now have to do is pass from where I now am to your apartment.”
“Dear friend! Now, please forgive me, Mademoiselle Montalais; all I need to do is move from where I am to your room.”
“What do you mean?”
"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 boa-constrictor to do it.”
“I can’t imagine the chateau door will be opened for me at this hour; and while I might not mind spending the night on this branch, I honestly think it’s impossible for any animal other than a boa constrictor to manage it.”
“But, M. Manicamp, I cannot introduce a man over the wall in that manner.”
“But, M. Manicamp, I can’t bring a guy over the wall like that.”
“Two, if you please,” said a second voice, but in so timid a tone that it seemed as if its owner felt the utter impropriety of such a request.
“Two, if you don’t mind,” said a second voice, but in such a timid tone that it sounded like the speaker realized how inappropriate the request was.
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Montalais, “who is that speaking to me?”
“Good grief!” Montalais exclaimed, “who's that talking to me?”
“Malicorne, Mademoiselle Montalais.”
"Malicorne, Miss Montalais."
And as Malicorne spoke, he raised himself from the ground to the lowest branches, and thence to the height of the wall.
And as Malicorne talked, he lifted himself off the ground to the lowest branches, and from there he climbed up to the top of the wall.
“Monsieur Malicorne! why, you are both mad!”
“Monsieur Malicorne! What’s wrong with you both?!”
“How do you do, Mademoiselle Montalais?” inquired Malicorne.
“How are you, Mademoiselle Montalais?” Malicorne asked.
“I needed but this!” said Montalais, in despair.
“I only needed this!” said Montalais, in despair.
“Oh! Mademoiselle Montalais,” murmured Malicorne; “do not be so severe, I beseech you.”
“Oh! Mademoiselle Montalais,” Malicorne said quietly, “please don’t be so harsh, I beg you.”
“In fact,” said Manicamp, “we are your friends, and you cannot possibly wish your friends to lose their lives; and to leave us to pass the night on these branches is in fact condemning us to death.”
“In fact,” said Manicamp, “we're your friends, and you can’t possibly want your friends to die; leaving us to spend the night on these branches is basically sentencing us 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.”
“Oh!” said Montalais, “Monsieur Malicorne is so strong that spending a night outside under the beautiful stars won’t hurt him at all, and it will be a fair punishment for the prank he pulled on 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 assistance 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, moreover, he succeeded. Having taken possession of the ladder, 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 succeed him in the one he now occupied. Manicamp and Montalais descended a few rounds of the ladder, Manicamp insisting, and Montalais laughing and objecting.
“Alright then; let Malicorne handle things with you as best he can; I’ll step aside,” said Manicamp. He bent down against the famous branch he had previously complained about so harshly and managed, using his hands and feet, to sit next to Montalais, who tried to push him away while he fought to keep his spot—and he succeeded. After claiming the ladder, he stepped onto it and gallantly extended his hand to his charming opponent. Meanwhile, Malicorne had settled into the chestnut tree, right where Manicamp had just been, planning to take over the spot he now occupied. Manicamp and Montalais went down a few rungs of the ladder, with Manicamp insisting, and Montalais laughing and protesting.
Suddenly Malicorne’s voice was heard in tones of entreaty:
Suddenly, Malicorne's voice was heard, pleading:
“I entreat you, Mademoiselle Montalais, not to leave me here. My position is very insecure, and some accident will be certain 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 M. de Guiche’s wardrobe; but I shall not be able to use even those belonging to M. Manicamp, for they will be torn.”
“I beg you, Mademoiselle Montalais, please don’t leave me here. My situation is really precarious, and something bad is definitely going to happen if I try to get to the other side of the wall on my own; it doesn’t matter if Manicamp rips his clothes because he can borrow from M. de Guiche’s wardrobe; but I won’t even be able to use M. Manicamp’s clothes because they’ll just get torn.”
“My opinion,” said Manicamp, 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.”
“My opinion,” said Manicamp, ignoring Malicorne’s complaints, “is that we should go find De Guiche right away because, eventually, I might not be able to reach his place.”
“That is my own opinion, too,” replied Montalais; “so, go at once, Monsieur Manicamp.”
“That’s my opinion too,” replied Montalais. “So go ahead, Monsieur Manicamp.”
“A thousand thanks. Adieu Mademoiselle Montalais,” said Manicamp, jumping to the ground; “your condescension cannot be repaid.”
“A thousand thanks. Goodbye, Mademoiselle Montalais,” said Manicamp, jumping down; “your kindness can’t be repaid.”
“Farewell, M. Manicamp; I am now going to get rid of M. Malicorne.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Manicamp; I’m going to take care of Mr. Malicorne now.”
Malicorne sighed. Manicamp went away a few paces, but returning to the foot of the ladder, he said, “By the by, how do I get to M. de Guiche’s apartments?”
Malicorne sighed. Manicamp walked away a bit, but returning to the base of the ladder, he said, “By the way, how do I get to M. de Guiche’s place?”
“Nothing easier. You go along by the hedge until you reach a place where the paths cross.”
“It's simple. Just walk along the hedge until you get to where the paths intersect.”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“You will see four paths.”
"You'll see four paths."
“Exactly.”
“Exactly.”
“One of which you will take.”
“One of which you will take.”
“Which of them?”
“Which one?”
“That to the right.”
"That to the right."
“That to the right?”
"Is that to the right?"
“No, to the left.”
“No, to the left.”
“The deuce!”
"What the heck!"
“No, no, wait a minute—”
“Hold on a second—”
“You do not seem to be quite sure. Think again, I beg.”
“You don’t seem very sure. Please think again.”
“You take the middle path.”
"Choose the balanced approach."
“But there are four.”
“But there are four.”
“So there are. All I know is, that one of the four paths leads straight to Madame’s apartments; and that one I am well acquainted with.”
“So there are. All I know is that one of the four paths goes directly to Madame’s apartments, and I know that one very well.”
“But M. de Guiche is not in Madame’s apartments, I suppose?”
“But M. de Guiche isn’t in Madame’s rooms, I guess?”
“No, indeed.”
“No way.”
“Well, then the path which leads to Madame’s apartments is of no use to me, and I would willingly exchange it for the one that leads to where M. de Guiche is lodging.”
“Well, then the path that leads to Madame’s apartments is pointless to me, and I’d gladly trade it for the one that leads to where M. de Guiche is staying.”
“Of course, and I know that as well; but as for indicating it from where we are, it is quite impossible.”
“Of course, I know that too; but there's no way to point it out from where we are.”
“Well, let us suppose that I have succeeded in finding that fortunate path.”
“Well, let’s say I’ve managed to find that lucky path.”
“In that case, you are almost there, for you have nothing else to do but cross the labyrinth.”
“In that case, you’re almost there, because all you have to do now is get through the maze.”
“Nothing more than that? The deuce! so there is a labyrinth as well.”
Nothing more than that? Seriously! So there’s a maze, too.
“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 M. de Guiche is lodging.”
“Yes, it’s complicated for sure; even during the day you can get lost sometimes—there are endless twists and turns. First, you have to turn three times to the right, then twice to the left, and then you need to turn—wait, is it once or twice? Anyway, once you get out of the maze, you’ll see an avenue of sycamores, and this avenue goes straight to the pavilion where M. de Guiche is staying.”
“Nothing could be more clearly indicated,” said Manicamp; “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.”
“Nothing could be more obvious,” said Manicamp; “and I have no doubt at all that if I followed your instructions, I would get lost right away. So, I have a small favor to ask of you.”
“What may that be?”
“What could that be?”
“That you will offer me your arm and guide me yourself, like another— like another—I used to know mythology, but other important matters have made me forget it; pray come with me, then?”
“Will you offer me your arm and guide me yourself, like someone I used to know? I used to understand mythology, but other important things have made me forget it; please come with me, then?”
“And am I to be abandoned, then?” cried Malicorne.
“And am I going to be left behind, 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?”
“It’s really impossible, sir,” Montalais said to Manicamp; “if I were seen with you at this hour, what would people say about me?”
“Your own conscience would acquit you,” said Manicamp, sententiously.
“Your own conscience would clear you,” said Manicamp, decisively.
“Impossible, monsieur, impossible.”
"Impossible, sir, 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 should be met by any one, we shall look as if we had some matter of business in hand; whilst alone I should have the appearance either of a lover or a robber. Come, Malicorne, here is the ladder.”
“In that case, let me help Malicorne get down; he’s a sharp guy with a great sense of direction. He’ll lead me, and if we get lost, we’ll both be in trouble, but we’ll help each other out. If we’re together and run into anyone, we’ll seem like we’re up to something important; if I'm alone, I’d just look like either a lover or a thief. Come on, Malicorne, here’s the ladder.”
Malicorne had already stretched out one of his legs towards the top of the wall, when Manicamp said, in a whisper, “Hush!”
Malicorne had already extended one of his legs toward the top of the wall when Manicamp whispered, “Quiet!”
“What’s the matter?” inquired Montalais.
"What's wrong?" asked Montalais.
“I hear footsteps.”
“I hear footsteps.”
“Good heavens!”
“Wow!”
In fact the fancied footsteps soon became a reality; the foliage was pushed aside, and Saint-Aignan appeared, with a smile on his lips, and his hand stretched out towards them, taking every one by surprise; that is to say, Malicorne upon the tree with his head stretched out, Montalais upon the round of the ladder and clinging to it tightly, and Manicamp 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. Mademoiselle de Montalais, your most obedient servant.”
In fact, the imagined footsteps quickly became real; the leaves were pushed aside, and Saint-Aignan appeared, smiling and reaching out his hand toward them, catching everyone off guard. That is to say, Malicorne was perched on the tree with his head stretched out, Montalais was on the rung of the ladder, holding on tightly, and Manicamp was on the ground with one foot ready to take off. “Good evening, Manicamp,” said the comte, “I’m glad to see you, my dear friend; we missed you tonight, and a lot of people have been asking about you. Mademoiselle de Montalais sends her regards.”
Montalais blushed. “Good heavens!” she exclaimed, hiding her face in both her hands.
Montalais blushed. “Oh my gosh!” 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. Manicamp, 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.”
“Please reassure yourself; I know how completely innocent you are, and I will speak highly of you. Manicamp, do you understand me: the hedge, the side paths, and the maze, I'm familiar with all of them; I will be your Ariadne. There you go, your mythological name is finally found.”
“Perfectly true, comte.”
“Totally true, comte.”
“And take M. Malicorne away with you at the same time,” said Montalais.
“And take M. Malicorne with you at the same time,” Montalais said.
“No, indeed,” said Malicorne; “M. 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.”
“No, really,” said Malicorne; “M. Manicamp has talked with you as long as he wanted, and now it's my turn, if that's okay with you; I have a lot to share about our future plans.”
“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 Montalais knew so well, and indicated so badly. Montalais followed them with her eyes as long as she could perceive them.
“You hear,” said the count, laughing; “stay with him, Miss Montalais. This is definitely a night for secrets.” And, taking Manicamp’s arm, the count quickly led him away in the direction of the road Montalais knew so well but pointed out so poorly. Montalais watched them with her eyes for as long as she could see them.
Chapter L: How Malicorne Had Been Turned Out of the Hotel of the Beau Paon.
While Montalais was engaged in looking after the comte and Manicamp, Malicorne had taken advantage of the young girl’s attention being drawn away 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, the foliage of the wild vine and honeysuckle curled around his head like a faun, while the twisted ivy branches represented tolerably enough his cloven feet. Montalais required nothing to make her resemblance to a dryad as complete as possible. “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?”
While Montalais was busy taking care of the comte and Manicamp, Malicorne used the distraction to make his situation a bit more bearable. When she turned around, she quickly noticed the change; he had perched himself on the wall like a monkey, with the wild vine and honeysuckle foliage wrapped around his head like a faun, while the twisted ivy branches did a decent job of representing his cloven feet. Montalais needed nothing more to look just like a dryad. “Well,” she said, climbing another rung of the ladder, “are you determined to make me miserable? Haven’t you bothered me enough, you tyrant?”
“I a tyrant?” said Malicorne.
“Am I a tyrant?” said Malicorne.
“Yes, you are always compromising me, Monsieur Malicorne; you are a perfect monster of wickedness.”
“Yes, you always put me in a tough spot, Monsieur Malicorne; you are a total monster of evil.”
“I?”
"Me?"
“What have you to do with Fontainebleau? Is not Orleans your place of residence?”
“What do you have to do with Fontainebleau? Isn’t Orleans where you live?”
“Do you ask me what I have to do here? I wanted to see you.”
“Are you asking me what I'm doing here? I wanted to see you.”
“Ah, great need of that.”
“Ah, really need 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 happen to have. As you, therefore, are staying at Fontainebleau at the present moment, I have come to Fontainebleau.”
“Maybe it doesn't matter to you, but for me, Mademoiselle Montalais, you know very well that I have left my home and that, from now on, I have no other place to stay except where you might be. Since you are currently at Fontainebleau, I have come to Fontainebleau.”
Montalais shrugged her shoulders. “You wished to see me, did you not?” she said.
Montalais shrugged. “You wanted to see me, right?” she said.
“Of course.”
"Totally."
“Very well, you have seen me,—you are satisfied; so now go away.”
“Alright, you’ve seen me—you’re satisfied; now, please leave.”
“Oh, no,” said Malicorne; “I came to talk with you as well as to see you.”
“Oh, no,” Malicorne said. “I came to talk to you as well as to see you.”
“Very well, we will talk by and by, and in another place than this.”
“Alright, we’ll talk later, and somewhere else.”
“By and by! Heaven only knows if I shall meet you by and by in another place. We shall never find a more favorable one than this.”
“Eventually! Only heaven knows if I’ll see you again in another place. We’ll never find a better one than this.”
“But I cannot this evening, nor at the present moment.”
“But I can't this evening, nor right now.”
“Why not?”
"Why not?"
“Because a thousand things have happened to-night.”
“Because a thousand things have happened tonight.”
“Well, then, my affair will make a thousand and one.”
“Well, then, my situation will make a thousand and one.”
“No, no; Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente is waiting for me in our room to communicate something of the very greatest importance.”
“No, no; Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente is waiting for me in our room to share something really important.”
“How long has she been waiting?”
“How long has she been waiting?”
“For an hour at least.”
“At least an hour.”
“In that case,” said Malicorne, tranquilly, “she can wait a few minutes longer.”
“In that case,” said Malicorne calmly, “she can wait a few more minutes.”
“Monsieur Malicorne,” said Montalais, “you are forgetting yourself.”
“Monsieur Malicorne,” Montalais said, “you’re forgetting yourself.”
“You should rather say that it is you who are forgetting 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, and you have not once deigned to notice my presence.”
“You should really say that it’s you who are forgetting me, and that I’m growing impatient with the role you’ve made me play here! For the past week, I’ve been wandering around among the crowd, and you haven’t once bothered to acknowledge I’m here.”
“Have you been prowling about here for a week, M. Malicorne?”
“Have you been hanging around here for a week, M. Malicorne?”
“Like a wolf; sometimes I have been burnt by the fireworks, 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,—half-famished, 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, a salamander, nor an otter; and since you drive your inhumanity so far as to wish to make me renounce my condition as a man, I declare it openly. A man I am, indeed, and a man I will remain, unless by superior orders.”
“Like a wolf; sometimes I’ve been burned by fireworks that singed two of my wigs; other times, I’ve been completely soaked by the evening damp or the spray from the fountains—half-starved, exhausted, with a wall always in front of me and the likelihood of having to climb it. Honestly, this isn’t the kind of life for anyone who is neither a squirrel, a salamander, nor an otter; and since you are so cruel as to want me to give up my humanity, I declare it plainly. I am a man, and I will stay a man, unless ordered otherwise.”
“Well, then, tell me, what do you wish,—what do you require,—what do you insist upon?” said Montalais, in a submissive tone.
“Well, then, tell me, what do you want—what do you need—what do you demand?” said Montalais, in a submissive tone.
“Do you mean to tell me that you did not know I was at Fontainebleau?”
“Are you seriously telling me that you didn’t know I was at Fontainebleau?”
“I?”
"I?"
“Nay, be frank.”
"Come on, be honest."
“I suspected so.”
"I thought so."
“Well, then, could you not have contrived during the last week to have seen me once a day, at least?”
“Well, couldn't you have managed to see me at least once a day over the past week?”
“I have always been prevented, M. Malicorne.”
"I've always been held back, M. Malicorne."
“Fiddlesticks!”
“Seriously!”
“Ask my companion, if you do not believe me.”
"Ask my friend if you don't believe me."
“I shall ask no one to explain matters, I know better than any one.”
“I won’t ask anyone to explain things; I know better than anyone.”
“Compose yourself, M. Malicorne: things will change.”
“Calm down, M. Malicorne: things will get better.”
“They must indeed.”
“They definitely must.”
“You know that, whether I see you or not, I am thinking of you,” said Montalais, in a coaxing tone of voice.
“You know that, whether I see you or not, I’m thinking about you,” said Montalais, in a gentle tone.
“Oh, you are thinking of me, are you? well, and is there anything new?”
“Oh, you’re thinking about me, huh? Well, is there anything new?”
“What about?”
"What’s up?"
“About my post in Monsieur’s household.”
“About my position in the Monsieur's household.”
“Ah, my dear Malicorne, no one has ventured lately to approach his royal highness.”
“Ah, my dear Malicorne, no one has dared to approach his royal highness lately.”
“Well, but now?”
“Well, what now?”
“Now it is quite a different thing; since yesterday he has left off being jealous.”
“Now it’s a whole other story; since yesterday he has stopped being jealous.”
“Bah! how has his jealousy subsided?”
“Ugh! How has his jealousy faded?”
“It has been diverted into another channel.”
“It has been redirected into another path.”
“Tell me all about it.”
"Tell me everything."
“A report was spread that the king had fallen in love with some one else, and Monsieur was tranquillized immediately.”
“A report circulated that the king had fallen for someone else, and Monsieur was instantly calmed.”
“And who spread the report?”
“Who spread the rumor?”
Montalais lowered her voice. “Between ourselves,” she said, “I think that Madame and the king have come to a secret understanding about it.”
Montalais lowered her voice. “Just between us,” she said, “I think Madame and the king have come to a secret agreement about it.”
“Ah!” said Malicorne; “that was the only way to manage it. But what about poor M. de Guiche?”
“Ah!” said Malicorne; “that was the only way to handle it. But what about poor Mr. de Guiche?”
“Oh, as for him, he is completely turned off.”
"Oh, regarding him, he's totally not interested."
“Have they been writing to each other?”
“Have they been messaging each other?”
“No, certainly not; I have not seen a pen in either of their hands for the last week.”
“No, definitely not; I haven’t seen a pen in either of their hands for the past week.”
“On what terms are you with Madame?”
“What's your relationship like with Madame?”
“The very best.”
“The absolute best.”
“And with the king?”
"And what about the king?"
“The king always smiles at me whenever I pass him.”
“The king always smiles at me whenever I walk by him.”
“Good. Now tell me whom have the two lovers selected to serve as their screen?”
“Good. Now tell me whom the two lovers have chosen to be their screen?”
“La Valliere.”
“La Valliere.”
“Oh, oh, poor girl! We must prevent that!”
“Oh, no, poor girl! We have to stop that!”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Because, if M. Raoul Bragelonne were to suspect it, he would either kill her or kill himself.”
“Because if M. Raoul Bragelonne found out, he would either kill her or himself.”
“Raoul, poor fellow! do you think so?”
“Raoul, poor guy! Do you really think that?”
“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 M. de Bragelonne loves La Valliere to such a degree that, if she deceived him, he would, I repeat, either kill himself or kill her.”
“Women act like they understand how people feel,” said Malicorne, “but they don’t even know how to figure out their own thoughts and feelings. Well, I can tell you that M. de Bragelonne loves La Valliere so much that if she betrayed him, I’m serious, he would either take his own life or hers.”
“But the king is there to defend her,” said Montalais.
“But the king is there to protect her,” said Montalais.
“The king!” exclaimed Malicorne; “Raoul would kill the king as he would a common thief.”
“The king!” Malicorne exclaimed; “Raoul would kill the king just like he would a common thief.”
“Good heavens!” said Montalais; “you are mad, M. Malicorne.”
“Good heavens!” said Montalais. “You’re crazy, M. Malicorne.”
“Not in the least. Everything I have told you is, on the contrary, perfectly serious; and, for my own part, I know one thing.”
“Not at all. Everything I've told you is, on the contrary, completely serious; and as for me, I know one thing.”
“What is that?”
“What’s that?”
“That I shall quietly tell Raoul of the trick.”
“That I will calmly inform Raoul about the trick.”
“Hush!” said Montalais, mounting another round of the ladder, so as to approach Malicorne more closely, “do not open your lips to poor Raoul.”
“Hush!” said Montalais, climbing another rung of the ladder to get closer to Malicorne, “don’t say a word to poor Raoul.”
“Why not?”
"Why not?"
“Because, as yet you know nothing at all.”
“Because, you still don’t know anything at all.”
“What is the matter, then?”
"What's the matter, then?"
“Why, this evening—but no one is listening, I hope?”
“Why, this evening—but I hope no one is listening?”
“No.”
“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.’”
“This evening, then, under the royal oak, La Valliere said out loud, and quite innocently, ‘I can’t imagine that once you’ve seen the king, you could ever love another man.’”
Malicorne almost jumped off the wall. “Unhappy girl! did she really say that?”
Malicorne almost jumped off the wall. “Unfortunate girl! Did she really say that?”
“Word for word.”
"Word for word."
“And she thinks so?”
"Does she really think that?"
“La Valliere always thinks what she says.”
“La Valliere always considers her words carefully.”
“That positively cries aloud for vengeance. Why, women are the veriest serpents,” said Malicorne.
"That clearly calls for revenge. Honestly, women are the biggest snakes," said Malicorne.
“Compose yourself, my dear Malicorne, compose yourself.”
“Calm down, my dear Malicorne, calm down.”
“No, no; let us take the evil in time, on the contrary. There is time enough yet to tell Raoul of it.”
“No, no; let's deal with the bad news later. There's still plenty of time to tell Raoul about it.”
“Blunderer, on the contrary, it is too late,” replied Montalais.
“Blunderer, on the other hand, it's too late,” replied Montalais.
“How so?”
"How come?"
“La Valliere’s remark, which was intended for the king, reached its destination.”
“La Valliere’s comment, meant for the king, got through.”
“The king knows it, then? The king was told of it, I suppose?”
“The king knows about it, right? I guess the king was informed?”
“The king heard it.”
“The king heard that.”
“Ahime! as the cardinal used to say.”
“Ahime! as the cardinal used to say.”
“The king was hidden in the thicket close to the royal oak.”
“The king was hiding in the bushes near the royal oak.”
“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.”
“It follows, then,” said Malicorne, “that from now on, the plan that the king and Madame have set up will go smoothly as if it were on wheels, and will roll right over poor Bragelonne’s body.”
“Precisely so.”
"Exactly."
“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 pieces.”
“Well,” said Malicorne, after a moment of thinking, “let's not put ourselves between a huge oak tree and a great king, because we’d definitely get crushed.”
“The very thing I was going to say to you.”
“The exact thing I was about to tell you.”
“Let us think of ourselves, then.”
“Let’s reflect on ourselves, then.”
“My own idea.”
"My personal idea."
“Open your beautiful eyes, then.”
"Open your gorgeous eyes, then."
“And you your large ears.”
“And you, your big ears.”
“Approach your little mouth for a kiss.”
“Come here so I can kiss your little mouth.”
“Here,” said Montalais, who paid the debt immediately in ringing coin.
“Here,” said Montalais, as she promptly paid the debt with shiny coins.
“Now let us consider. First, we have M. 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.”
“Now let’s think about this. First, we have M. de Guiche, who loves Madame; then La Valliere, who loves the king; next, the king, who loves both Madame and La Valliere; and finally, Monsieur, who only loves himself. Among all these loves, a fool could succeed: so it makes even more sense for smart people like us to act accordingly.”
“There you are with your dreams again.”
“There you are with your dreams again.”
“Nay, rather with realities. Let me still lead you, darling. I do not think you have been very badly off hitherto?”
“Nah, let's stick to the facts. Let me continue to guide you, my dear. I don't think things have been too rough for you up until now?”
“No.”
“No.”
“Well, the future is guaranteed by the past. Only, since all here think of themselves before anything else, let us do so too.”
“Well, the future is assured by the past. However, since everyone here prioritizes themselves above all else, let's do the same.”
“Perfectly right.”
"Absolutely correct."
“But of ourselves only.”
“But only ourselves.”
“Be it so.”
"Let it be."
“An offensive and defensive alliance.”
"An offensive and defensive alliance."
“I am ready to swear it.”
“I’m ready to say it.”
“Put out your hand, then, and say, ‘All for Malicorne.’”
"Go ahead and extend your hand, then say, 'All for Malicorne.'"
“All for Malicorne.”
“All for Malicorne.”
“And I, ‘All for Montalais,’” replied Malicorne, stretching out his hand in his turn.
“And I, ‘All for Montalais,’” replied Malicorne, reaching out his hand in response.
“And now, what is to be done?”
“And now, what should we do?”
“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.”
“Always stay alert and aware; gather every possible tactic that can be useful against others; never leave anything around that could be used against us.”
“Agreed.”
"Sounds good."
“Decided.”
"Made a decision."
“Sworn to. And now the agreement entered into, good-bye.”
“Sworn to it. And now the agreement's made, goodbye.”
“What do you mean by ‘good-bye?’”
“What do you mean by ‘goodbye?’”
“Of course you can now return to your inn.”
“Of course, you can go back to your inn now.”
“To my inn?”
"To my place?"
“Yes; are you not lodging at the sign of the Beau Paon?”
“Yes; aren't you staying at the Beau Paon?”
“Montalais, Montalais, you now betray that you were aware of my being at Fontainebleau.”
“Montalais, Montalais, you now reveal that you knew I was at Fontainebleau.”
“Well; and what does that prove, except that I occupy myself about you more than you deserve?”
“Well, what does that prove, except that I care about you more than you deserve?”
“Hum!”
"Hum!"
“Go back, then, to the Beau Paon.”
“Go back, then, to the Beau Paon.”
“That is now quite out of the question.”
"That's definitely not an option anymore."
“Have you not a room there?”
“Don’t you have a room there?”
“I had, but have it no longer.”
“I had it, but I don’t have it anymore.”
“Who has taken it from you, then?”
“Who took it from you?”
“I will tell you. Some little time ago I was returning there, after I had been running about after you; and having reached my hotel quite out of breath, I perceived a litter, upon which four peasants were carrying a sick monk.”
“I'll tell you. Not long ago, I was on my way back there after running around looking for you. When I finally got to my hotel, I was completely out of breath, and I saw a litter that four peasants were carrying with a sick monk on it.”
“A 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.”
“Yes, an old gray-bearded Franciscan. As I was watching the monk, they walked into the hotel; and as they carried him up the staircase, I followed. When I reached the top of the stairs, I noticed they took him into my room.”
“Into your room?”
"Into your room?"
“Yes, into my own apartment. Supposing it to be a mistake, 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.”
“Yes, into my own apartment. Assuming it was a mistake, I called the landlord, who said that the room I had been renting for the past eight days was rented to the Franciscan for the ninth.”
“Oh, oh!”
“Oh no!”
“That was exactly what I said; nay, I did even more, for I was inclined to get out of temper. I went up-stairs 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, immediately by the landlord and the four porters, who made me descend the staircase somewhat faster than was agreeable. This is how it happens, dearest, that I have no lodging.”
"That’s exactly what I said; actually, I even did more because I was getting really angry. I went upstairs again. I talked to the Franciscan himself and tried to show him how inappropriate it was to take that step; when that monk, despite looking like he was dying, propped himself up on his arm, fixed a pair of piercing eyes on me, and, with a voice that was perfect for commanding a cavalry charge, said, ‘Get this guy out of here;’ and that’s exactly what the landlord and the four porters did, making me go down the stairs a lot faster than I would’ve liked. This is how it turns out, my dear, that I have no place to stay."
“Who can this Franciscan be?” said Montalais. “Is he a general?”
“Who could this Franciscan be?” asked 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.”
“That’s exactly the title that one of the people carrying the litter gave him as he spoke to him in a quiet voice.”
“So that—” said Montalais.
"So that—" said Montalais.
“So that I have no room, no hotel, no lodging; and I am as determined as my friend Manicamp was just now, not to pass the night in the open air.”
“So I have no place to stay, no hotel, no accommodation; and I’m just as determined as my friend Manicamp was a moment ago, not to spend the night outdoors.”
“What is to be done, then?” said Montalais.
“What should we do now?” asked Montalais.
“Nothing easier,” said a third voice; whereupon Montalais and Malicorne uttered a simultaneous cry, and Saint-Aignan appeared. “Dear Monsieur Malicorne,” said Saint-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 lady, rest 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.” Malicorne and Montalais looked at each other, like 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 assent, which she returned. Malicorne then descended the ladder, round by round, reflecting at every step on the means of obtaining piecemeal from M. de Saint-Aignan all he might possibly know about the famous secret. Montalais had already darted away like a deer, and neither cross-road nor labyrinth was able to lead her wrong. As for Saint-Aignan, he carried off Malicorne with him to his apartments, showing him a thousand attentions, enchanted to have so close at hand the very two men who, even supposing De Guiche were to remain silent, could give him the best information about the maids of honor.
“Nothing easier,” said a third voice; at that, Montalais and Malicorne gasped in unison, and Saint-Aignan appeared. “Dear Monsieur Malicorne,” said Saint-Aignan, “a lucky coincidence has brought me back to get you out of your trouble. Come, I can offer you a room in my own suite, which I assure you no Franciscan can take away from you. As for you, my dear lady, don’t worry. I already knew Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s secret and that of Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente; the one you just shared with me is also appreciated, and thank you for that. I can keep three just as well as I can keep one.” Malicorne and Montalais exchanged glances, like kids caught stealing; but since Malicorne saw a significant advantage in what was offered, he signaled his agreement to Montalais, who nodded back. Malicorne then climbed down the ladder, step by step, thinking about how to get as much information as possible from M. de Saint-Aignan about the famous secret. Montalais had already dashed away like a deer, and no backroad or maze could lead her astray. As for Saint-Aignan, he took Malicorne with him to his quarters, showering him with countless attentions, pleased to have the two men who could provide him with the best information about the maids of honor right at hand, even if De Guiche stayed quiet.
Chapter LI. What Actually Occurred at the Inn Called the Beau Paon.
In the first place, let us supply our readers with a few details about the inn called Beau Paon. It owed its name to its sign, which represented a peacock spreading its tail. But, in imitation of certain painters who bestowed the face of a handsome young man on the serpent which tempted Eve, the limner of the sign had conferred upon the peacock the features of a woman. This famous inn, an architectural epigram against that half of the human race which renders existence delightful, was situated at Fontainebleau, in the first turning on the left-hand side, which divides the road from Paris, the large artery that constitutes in itself alone the entire town of Fontainebleau. The side street in question was then known as the Rue de Lyon, doubtless because, geographically, it led in the direction of the second capital of 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 bordered with hedges running round them. Apparently, however, there were three houses in the street. Let us explain, notwithstanding appearances, how there were in fact only two. The inn of the Beau Paon had its principal front towards 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 received some check at the court, they wished to shut themselves up to their own society, either to devour an affront, or to brood on revenge. From the windows of this part of the building 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 flowery arms, the house of which we have spoken; and then, in the spaces between those houses, forming the groundwork of the picture, and appearing an almost impassable barrier, a line of thick trees, the advanced sentinels of the vast forest which extends in front of Fontainebleau. 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 Rue 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 be knocking at the principal door in the Rue de Paris, one could make one’s escape by the little door in the Rue 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, being then absorbed in his own affairs, had not told Montalais all that could be said about this curious inn; and we will try to repair the omission. With the exception of the few words he had said about the Franciscan friar, Malicorne had not given any particulars about the travelers who were staying in the inn. The manner in which they had arrived, the manner in which they had lived, the difficulty which existed for every one but certain privileged travelers, of entering the hotel without a password, or living there without certain preparatory precautions, must have struck Malicorne; and, we will venture to say, really did so. But Malicorne, as we have already said, had 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 incommunicative in their address, with countenances full of thoughtful preoccupation, and not one of whom was known to Malicorne. Every one of these travelers had reached 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 indiscreet 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, when he had observed, since his residence there, admission refused to so many. He asked himself, too, how it was that Manicamp, who, in his opinion, must be a man to be looked upon with veneration by everybody, having wished to bait his horse at the Beau Paon, on arriving there, both horse and rider had been incontinently turned away with a nescio vos of the most positive character. All this for Malicorne, whose mind being fully occupied by his own love affair and personal ambition, was a problem he had not applied himself to solve. Had he wished to do so, we should hardly venture, notwithstanding the intelligence we have accorded as his due, to say he would have succeeded. A few words will prove to the reader that no one but Oedipus 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 persons, accompanied by a suitable retinue, were the following:—
In the first place, let us provide our readers with some details about the inn called Beau Paon. It got its name from its sign, which depicted a peacock spreading its tail. However, just like some painters who gave the face of a handsome young man to the serpent that tempted Eve, the artist of the sign had given the peacock the features of a woman. This famous inn, an architectural nod to that part of humanity that makes life enjoyable, was located in Fontainebleau, at the first turn on the left side of the road from Paris, which is the main artery that makes up the entire town of Fontainebleau. The side street in question was then known as Rue de Lyon, likely because, geographically, it led toward the second capital of the kingdom. The street itself consisted of two houses inhabited by tradespeople, separated by two large gardens with hedges surrounding them. However, it appeared that there were three houses on the street. Let us clarify, despite appearances, that there were in fact only two. The Beau Paon inn had its main facade facing the main street; but along Rue de Lyon, there were two sets of buildings divided by courtyards, which housed apartments for all types of travelers, whether on foot, horseback, or in their own carriages; and it offered not only food and lodging but also options for exercise or solitude for even the wealthiest courtiers, whenever, after facing a setback at court, they wanted to retreat into their own company to sulk about an insult or dwell on revenge. From the windows of this part of the building, travelers could first see the street with grass growing through the stones, which were being gradually loosened; next, the beautiful hedges of elder and thorn that embraced the house like two green, flowery arms; and finally, in the spaces between those houses, forming the background of the picture and appearing as a nearly impassable barrier, a line of dense trees, the advanced sentinels of the vast forest that stretches in front of Fontainebleau. It was therefore easy, if one secured a room at the corner of the building, to obtain a view of, as well as hear, the passersby and the fetes by the main street from Paris, and by Rue de Lyon, to enjoy the tranquility of the countryside. Not to mention that in cases of urgent need, while people might be knocking at the main door on Rue de Paris, one could make an escape through the small door on Rue de Lyon and, sneaking along the gardens of the private houses, reach the edge of the forest. Malicorne, who will be remembered as the first to mention this inn in lamenting his eviction, being absorbed in his own affairs, had not told Montalais everything that could be said about this intriguing inn; and we will try to fill in that gap. Except for the brief mention of the Franciscan friar, Malicorne hadn't provided any details about the travelers staying at the inn. The way they had arrived, how they lived, and the challenges that existed for everyone except a select few to enter the hotel without a password, or to stay there without certain precautions, must have struck Malicorne; and we dare say it really did. But Malicorne, as we noted, was preoccupied with his own matters that kept him from paying much attention to others. In fact, all the rooms in the hotel were occupied by certain strangers, who didn’t go out, were reticent in their speech, and had faces full of deep thought, none of whom Malicorne knew. Each of these travelers had arrived at the hotel after him; each man had entered after giving a sort of password, which initially drew Malicorne’s attention; but after he had inquired, somewhat indiscreetly, about it, he learned that the host had explained this extreme caution by saying that since the town was packed with wealthy nobles, it was likely also filled with cunning and persistent pickpockets. The reputation of a respectable inn like Beau Paon mandated that its guests not be robbed. Occasionally, Malicorne wondered, as he pondered things carefully, how it was that they had allowed him to stay at the hotel when he had observed that so many others were refused entry. He also questioned why Manicamp, whom he thought deserved respect from everyone, when he wanted to rest his horse at Beau Paon, had been promptly turned away, both horse and rider, with a firm nescio vos. All of this was a puzzle for Malicorne, whose mind was fully engaged with his own love life and personal ambitions, and solving it was not something he had prioritized. Had he attempted to figure it out, we wouldn't dare say, despite our acknowledgment of his intelligence, that he would have succeeded. A few words will show the reader that only Oedipus himself could have unraveled the mystery at hand. During that week, seven travelers took up residence in the inn, all of whom arrived the day after Malicorne, with his lucky choice of Beau Paon. These seven individuals, each 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 Comte de Wostpur.—A Spanish cardinal, with two nephews, two secretaries, an officer of his household, and twelve horses. The cardinal’s name was Monseigneur Herrebia.—A rich merchant of Bremen, with his man-servant and two horses. This merchant’s name was Meinheer Bonstett.—A Venetian senator with his wife and daughter, both extremely beautiful. The senator’s name was Signor Marini.—A Scottish laird, with seven highlanders of his clan, all on foot. The laird’s name was MacCumnor.— 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.
First of all, there was a brigadier in the German army, along with his secretary, physician, three servants, and seven horses. The brigadier’s name was the Comte de Wostpur. Then there was a Spanish cardinal, accompanied by two nephews, two secretaries, an officer of his household, and twelve horses. The cardinal’s name was Monseigneur Herrebia. A wealthy merchant from Bremen was there too, with his man-servant and two horses. This merchant was named Meinheer Bonstett. A Venetian senator arrived with his wife and daughter, both incredibly beautiful. The senator’s name was Signor Marini. A Scottish laird was present as well, with seven highlanders from his clan, all on foot. The laird’s name was MacCumnor. There was also an Austrian from Vienna who had no title or coat of arms; he came in a carriage, resembling both a priest and a soldier. He was known as the Councilor. Finally, there was a Flemish lady, accompanied by a man-servant, a lady’s maid, a female companion, and a large entourage of servants, creating a great display with huge horses. She was simply referred to as 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 secretaries, who had arrived the previous evening or that very morning. Malicorne, who had arrived the previous day, 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 hearing these words, had smiled as if he were perfectly well acquainted either with Malicorne or his friend the nobleman, and had said to him, “Since you are the first arrival, monsieur, 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 but simply his due, he said, “My dear host, I shall take the best and the gayest room in the house.”
All these travelers had arrived on the same day, yet their arrival caused no confusion at the inn, nor any delay in the street; their rooms had been reserved in advance by their couriers or assistants, who had gotten there the night before or that very morning. Malicorne, having arrived the previous day on a poorly conditioned horse with a small suitcase, introduced himself at the Beau Paon hotel as a friend of a nobleman eager to see the fetes, who would arrive shortly. The landlord, upon hearing this, smiled as if he knew both Malicorne and his noble friend very well, and said, “Since you’re the first to arrive, sir, pick any room you like.” This was said with that fawning attitude that landlords often have, which communicates, “Make yourself at home, sir: we understand who you are, and you'll be treated accordingly.” Malicorne found these words and the gesture quite friendly but a bit vague. However, not wanting to be overly extravagant with his spending, and sensing that if he asked for a small room he might be turned down due to his lack of status, he quickly agreed with the innkeeper’s suggestion and decided to outsmart him as well. So, smiling as someone would who feels entitled to whatever is offered, he said, “My dear host, I’ll take the best and brightest room in the house.”
“With a stable?”
"With a stable?"
“Yes, with a stable.”
“Yes, with a stable.”
“And when will you take it?”
“And when are you going to take it?”
“Immediately if it be possible.”
“As soon as possible.”
“Quite so.”
"Exactly."
“But,” said Malicorne, “I shall leave the large room unoccupied for the present.”
“But,” said Malicorne, “I’ll leave the big room empty for now.”
“Very good!” said the landlord, with an air of intelligence.
“Great!” said the landlord, sounding quite knowledgeable.
“Certain reasons, which you will understand by and by, oblige me to take, at my own cost, this small room only.”
“Some reasons, which you'll understand later, require me to take this small room at my own expense.”
“Yes, yes,” said the host.
“Yes, yes,” the host said.
“When my friend arrives, he will occupy the large apartment: and as a matter of course, as this larger apartment will be his own affair, he will settle for it himself.”
“When my friend arrives, he will take the big apartment: and naturally, since this bigger apartment will be his own responsibility, he will handle it himself.”
“Certainly,” said the landlord, “certainly; let it be understood in that manner.”
"Sure," said the landlord, "sure; let's agree on that."
“It is agreed, then, that such shall be the terms?”
“It’s agreed, then, that these will be the terms?”
“Word for word.”
“Exact words.”
“It is extraordinary,” said Malicorne to himself. “You quite understand, then?”
“It’s amazing,” Malicorne said to himself. “So you really understand, then?”
“Yes.”
"Yeah."
“There is nothing more to be said. Since you understand,—for you do clearly understand, do you not?”
“There’s nothing more to say. Since you get it — you do understand clearly, right?”
“Perfectly.”
"Absolutely."
“Very well; and now show me to my room.”
“Alright; now please show me to my room.”
The landlord, cap in hand, preceded Malicorne, who installed himself in his room, and became more and more surprised to observe that the landlord, at every ascent or descent, looked and winked at him in a manner which indicated the best possible intelligence between them.
The landlord, with his hat in hand, led the way for Malicorne, who settled into his room. Malicorne grew increasingly surprised to see that the landlord, with each step up or down, glanced at him and winked in a way that suggested they had a solid understanding 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 a scent, in search of all the news and curiosities of the court, getting himself burnt in one place and drowned in another, as he had told Mademoiselle de Montalais. The day after he had been installed in his room, he had noticed the seven travelers arrive successively, who speedily filled the whole hotel. When he saw this perfect multitude of people, of carriages, and retinue, Malicorne rubbed his hands delightedly, thinking that, one day later, he should not have found a bed to lie upon after his 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?”
“There’s some mistake here,” Malicorne thought to himself, “but until it’s sorted out, I might as well take advantage of it, which is the best thing I can do.” And he rushed out of his room like a hunting dog on a scent, eager to gather all the news and gossip from the court, getting himself burned in one place and drowned in another, as he had mentioned to Mademoiselle de Montalais. The day after he moved into his room, he noticed the seven travelers arrive one after another, quickly filling the entire hotel. When he saw the huge crowd of people, carriages, and their entourages, Malicorne rubbed his hands together with delight, thinking that in just one day, he wouldn’t have found a place to sleep when he returned from his explorations. Once all the travelers were settled in, the landlord came into Malicorne’s room and, with his usual politeness, said to him, “You know, my dear sir, that the large room in the third detached building is still reserved for you?”
“Of course I am aware of it.”
“Of course I know about it.”
“I am really making you a present of it.”
“I’m really giving it to you as a gift.”
“Thank you.”
“Thanks.”
“So that when your friend comes—”
“So that when your friend comes—”
“Well!”
"Well!"
“He will be satisfied with me, I hope: or, if he be not, he will be very difficult to please.”
“He will be happy with me, I hope; or if he isn’t, he’s going to be very hard to please.”
“Excuse me, but will you allow me to say a few words about my friend?”
“Excuse me, but can I say a few words about my friend?”
“Of course, for you have a perfect right to do so.”
“Of course, you have every right to do that.”
“He intended to come, as you know.”
“He planned to come, as you know.”
“And he does so still.”
"And he still does."
“He may possibly have changed his opinion.”
“He might have changed his mind.”
“No.”
“No.”
“You are quite sure, then?”
"Are you sure about that?"
“Quite sure.”
"Pretty sure."
“But in case you should have some doubt.”
“But just in case you have any doubt.”
“Well!”
"Wow!"
“I can only say that I do not positively assure you that he will come.”
“I can only say that I can’t guarantee he will come.”
“Yet he told you—”
“Still, he told you—”
“He certainly did tell me; but you know that man proposes and God disposes,—verba volant, scripta manent.”
“He definitely told me; but you know that man makes plans and God decides,—words fly away, writing remains.”
“Which is as much to say—”
"That means—"
“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 specifically instructing you,’ you must feel that it places me in a very embarrassing position.”
“That what is spoken vanishes, while what is written lasts; and since he didn’t write to me but just told me, ‘I’ll authorize you, but without giving you specific instructions,’ you can understand that it puts me in a really awkward situation.”
“What do you authorize me to do, then?”
“What do you want me to do, then?”
“Why, to let your rooms if you find a good tenant for them.”
“Why, to rent out your rooms if you find a good tenant for them.”
“I?”
“I?”
“Yes, you.”
“Yes, you.”
“Never will I do such a thing, monsieur. If he has not written to you, he has written to me.”
“Never will I do such a thing, sir. If he hasn’t written to you, he’s written to me.”
“Ah! what does he say? Let us see if his letter agrees with his words.”
“Ah! What does he say? Let’s check if his letter matches his words.”
“These are almost his very words. ‘To the landlord of the Beau Paon Hotel,—You will have been informed of the meeting arranged to take place in your inn between some people of importance; I shall be one of those who will meet with 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:
“These are almost his exact words. ‘To the landlord of the Beau Paon Hotel,—You will have heard about the meeting set to happen in your inn with some important people; I’ll be one of those meeting at Fontainebleau. Please save a small room for a friend who will arrive either before or after me—’ and I assume you are that friend,” 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.
“‘And a big apartment for myself. The big apartment is my own business, but I want the price of the smaller room to be reasonable, as it’s meant for a guy who’s really struggling.’ He’s still talking about you, isn’t he?” said the host.
“Oh, certainly,” said Malicorne.
“Oh, definitely,” said Malicorne.
“Then we are agreed; your friend will settle for his apartment, and you for your own.”
“Then it’s settled; your friend will take care of his apartment, and you will handle yours.”
“May I be broken alive on 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?”
“May I be broken alive on the wheel,” Malicorne said to himself, “if I understand anything at all about it,” and then he said aloud, “So, are you happy with the name?”
“With what name?”
“What’s the name?”
“With the name at the end of the letter. Does it give you the guarantee you require?”
“With the name at the end of the letter. Does it provide the assurance you need?”
“I was going to ask you the name.”
“I was going to ask you for your name.”
“What! was the letter not signed?”
“What! Was the letter not signed?”
“No,” said the landlord, opening his eyes very wide, full of mystery and curiosity.
“No,” said the landlord, his eyes wide open, filled with mystery and curiosity.
“In that case,” said 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.”
“In that case,” said Malicorne, copying his gesture and his mysterious expression, “if he hasn’t told you his name, you get it, he must have his reasons for that.”
“Oh, of course.”
“Oh, totally.”
“And, therefore, I, his friend, his confidant, must not betray him.”
“And so, I, his friend, his confidant, must not betray him.”
“You are perfectly right, monsieur,” said the landlord, “and I do not insist upon it.”
“You're absolutely right, sir,” said the landlord, “and I won’t push the issue.”
“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 long friends. How much is it?”
“I appreciate your sensitivity. As for me, as my friend mentioned, my room is a separate matter, so let's settle this. Short accounts make for lasting friendships. How much is it?”
“There is no hurry.”
"No rush."
“Never mind, let us reckon it all up all the same. Room, my own board, a place in the stable for my horse, and his feed. How much per day?”
“Never mind, let’s calculate everything anyway. A room, my own meals, a spot in the stable for my horse, and his feed. How much is that per day?”
“Four livres, monsieur.”
"Four livres, sir."
“Which will make twelve livres for the three days I have been here?”
“Does that make it twelve livres for the three days I've been here?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
"Yes, sir."
“Here are your twelve livres, then.”
“Here are your twelve bucks, then.”
“But why settle now?”
“Why settle for less now?”
“Because,” said Malicorne, lowering his voice, and resorting to his former air of mystery, because he saw that the mysterious had succeeded, “because if I had to set off suddenly, to decamp at any moment, my account would be settled.”
“Because,” said Malicorne, lowering his voice and adopting his previous air of mystery, since he realized that the mystery had worked, “because if I had to leave suddenly, to pack up and go at any moment, my affairs would be taken care of.”
“You are right, monsieur.”
"You’re right, sir."
“I may consider myself at home, then?”
“I can think of myself as at home, right?”
“Perfectly.”
"Absolutely."
“So far so well. Adieu!” And the landlord withdrew. Malicorne, left alone, reasoned with himself in the following 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 intrusted him with his commission. And De Guiche or Manicamp will have argued in this manner. The large apartment would serve for the reception, in a befitting manner, of a lady thickly veiled, reserving to the lady in question a double means of exit, either in a street somewhat deserted, or closely adjoining the forest. The smaller room might either shelter Manicamp for a time, who is De Guiche’s confidant, and would be the vigilant keeper of the door, or De Guiche himself, acting, for greater safety, the part of a master and confidant at the same time. Yet,” he continued, “how about this meeting which is to take place, and which 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 a purse string between Manicamp and Malicorne.” After he had thus reasoned the matter out, Malicorne 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 writing letters which he could never find an opportunity of delivering to the people they were intended for, he returned home to his comfortable little room, and leaning upon the balcony, which was filled with nasturtiums and white pinks, for whom Fontainebleau seemed to possess no attractions with all its illuminations, amusements, and fetes.
“So far so good. Goodbye!” And the landlord left. Malicorne, now alone, thought to himself: “No one but De Guiche or Manicamp could have sent this guy. De Guiche wants a place to stay away from the court, whether he succeeds or fails; and Manicamp, because De Guiche must have given him this job. They must have reasoned like this: The large room would be perfect for welcoming a lady in a thick veil, giving her two ways to get out—either through a quiet street or right next to the forest. The smaller room could either be a temporary spot for Manicamp, who is De Guiche’s trusted friend and would keep an eye on the door, or for De Guiche himself, taking on both roles for added safety. But,” he continued, “what about this meeting that's supposed to happen, and seems to have already happened, in this hotel? They’re probably people who will be presented to the king. And the ‘poor guy,’ who is meant for the smaller room, is a ruse to better hide De Guiche or Manicamp. If that’s true, and it likely is, then only half the trouble is done, because there’s just a purse string’s distance between Manicamp and Malicorne.” After thinking this through, Malicorne fell asleep soundly, leaving the seven travelers to occupy and, in every sense, stroll through their respective rooms in the hotel. Whenever there was nothing at court to bother him, after exhausting himself with excursions and investigations, tired of writing letters he never had the chance to deliver, he would go home to his cozy little room. Leaning on the balcony, filled with nasturtiums and white pinks, he found Fontainebleau unappealing, despite its lights, entertainment, and festivities.
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 morning, when Manicamp appeared on horseback, with a thoughtful and listless air.
Things continued like this until the seventh day, a day we’ve described in detail, along with its night, in the earlier chapters. That night, Malicorne was enjoying the fresh air, sitting at his window around one o’clock in the morning, when Manicamp rode up on horseback, looking thoughtful and indifferent.
“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 immediately recognized Malicorne.
“Great!” Malicorne said to himself, spotting him right away; “there’s my friend, who has come to take over his apartment, which means my room.” He called out to Manicamp, who looked up and immediately recognized Malicorne.
“Ah! by Jove!” said the former, his countenance clearing up, “glad to see you, Malicorne. I have been wandering about Fontainebleau, looking for three things I cannot find: De Guiche, a room, and a stable.”
“Ah! by Jove!” said the former, his expression brightening, “good to see you, Malicorne. I've been wandering around Fontainebleau, trying to find three things I can’t locate: De Guiche, a room, and a stable.”
“Of M. 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.”
“About M. de Guiche, I can't give you any good or bad news since I haven't seen him. But regarding your room and a stable, that's a different story because they’ve been saved for you here.”
“Retained—and by whom?”
"Kept—and by who?"
“By yourself, I presume.”
"Just you, I assume."
“By me?”
"By me?"
“Do you mean to say you did not take lodgings here?”
“Are you saying you didn't stay here?”
“By no means,” said Manicamp.
“Absolutely not,” said Manicamp.
At this moment the landlord appeared on the threshold of the door.
At that moment, the landlord showed up in the doorway.
“I want a room,” said Manicamp.
“I want a room,” said Manicamp.
“Did you engage one, monsieur?”
"Did you hire one, sir?"
“No.”
“No.”
“Then I have no rooms to let.”
“Then I don't have any rooms available.”
“In that case, I have engaged a room,” said Manicamp.
“In that case, I’ve booked a room,” said Manicamp.
“A room simply, or lodgings?”
"Just a room or rentals?"
“Anything you please.”
"Anything you want."
“By letter?” inquired the landlord.
"By mail?" asked the landlord.
Malicorne nodded affirmatively to Manicamp.
Malicorne nodded in agreement to Manicamp.
“Of course by letter,” said Manicamp. “Did you not receive a letter from me?”
“Of course by letter,” said Manicamp. “Did you not get a letter from me?”
“What was the date of the letter?” inquired the host, in whom Manicamp’s hesitation had aroused some suspicion.
“What was the date of the letter?” the host asked, feeling a bit suspicious due to Manicamp’s hesitation.
Manicamp 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 moment, a traveler, wrapped in a large Spanish cloak, appeared at the porch, near enough to hear the conversation.
Manicamp rubbed his ear and glanced up at Malicorne’s window, but Malicorne had already stepped away and was heading down the stairs to help his friend. At that very moment, a traveler, cloaked in a large Spanish cape, appeared at the porch, close enough to catch the conversation.
“I ask you what was the date of the letter you wrote to me to retain apartments here?” repeated the landlord, pressing the question.
“I’m wondering, what was the date of the letter you sent me to keep the apartments here?” the landlord pressed on.
“Last Wednesday was the date,” said the mysterious stranger, in a soft and polished tone of voice, touching the landlord on the shoulder.
“Last Wednesday was the date,” said the mysterious stranger, in a smooth and refined voice, lightly 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.
Manicamp stepped back, and now it was Malicorne's turn, who stood at the doorway, scratching his ear. The landlord greeted the newcomer like someone who recognizes their genuine 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?”
“Mister,” he said politely, “your apartment is ready for you, and so are the stables, but—” He glanced around and asked, “Where are 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 lower still.
“My horses might show up or they might not. But that doesn't really matter to you, as long as you're paid for what we've agreed on.” The landlord bowed even lower.
“You have,” continued the unknown traveler, “kept for me in addition, the small room I asked for?”
“You have,” the unknown traveler continued, “saved the small room I asked for, right?”
“Oh!” said Malicorne, endeavoring to hide himself.
“Oh!” said Malicorne, trying 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.”
“Your friend has been using it for the past week,” said the landlord, pointing to Malicorne, who was trying to shrink away. The traveler, pulling his cloak around him to hide the lower part of his face, quickly glanced at Malicorne and said, “This guy is not my friend.”
The landlord started violently.
The landlord reacted violently.
“I am not acquainted with this gentleman,” continued the traveler.
“I don’t know this guy,” the traveler continued.
“What!” exclaimed the host, turning to Malicorne, “are you not this gentleman’s friend, then?”
“What!” the host exclaimed, turning to Malicorne, “aren’t you this gentleman’s friend?”
“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.
“What does it matter if I am or not, as long as you get paid?” said Malicorne, mocking the stranger’s comment in a very grand way.
“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.”
“It matters only in this way,” said the landlord, who began to realize that one person had been mistaken for another, “that I kindly ask you, sir, to vacate the rooms, which had been booked in advance, by someone else instead of you.”
“Still,” said Malicorne, “this gentleman cannot require at the same time a room on the first floor and an apartment 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.”
“Still,” said Malicorne, “this gentleman can’t ask for both a room on the first floor and an apartment on the second at the same time. If he takes the room, I’ll take the apartment; if he prefers the apartment, I’ll be fine with the room.”
“I am exceedingly distressed, monsieur,” said the traveler in his soft voice, “but I need both the room and the apartment.”
“I’m really upset, sir,” said the traveler in his gentle voice, “but I need both the room and the apartment.”
“At least, tell me for whom?” inquired Malicorne.
“At least, tell me who it’s for?” Malicorne asked.
“The apartment I require for myself.”
“The apartment I need for myself.”
“Very well; but the room?”
"Alright; what about the room?"
“Look,” said the traveler, pointing towards a sort of procession which was approaching.
“Look,” said the traveler, pointing to a kind of procession that was coming closer.
Malicorne looked in the direction indicated, and observed borne 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 uselessly 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 had carried the Franciscan. The details have already been given of what followed this expulsion; of Manicamp’s conversation with Montalais; how Manicamp, with greater cleverness than Malicorne had shown, had succeeded in obtaining news of De Guiche, of the subsequent conversation of Montalais with Malicorne, and, finally, of the billets with which the Comte de Saint-Aignan had furnished Manicamp and Malicorne. It remains for us to inform our readers who was the traveler in the cloak—the principal tenant of the double apartment, of which Malicorne had only occupied a portion—and the Franciscan, quite as mysterious a personage, whose arrival, together with that of the stranger, unfortunately upset the two friends’ plans.
Malicorne looked in the direction indicated and noticed the arrival of the Franciscan, who was being carried on a litter. He had shared some details about this man with Montalais in hopes of changing his views to something more modest, but that had been pointless. The arrival of the stranger and the sick Franciscan led to Malicorne being unceremoniously kicked out of the inn by the landlord and the peasants who had brought the Franciscan. We've already discussed what happened after his expulsion, including Manicamp's conversation with Montalais, how Manicamp, with more cleverness than Malicorne, managed to get news about De Guiche, and the following discussion between Montalais and Malicorne. Finally, we’ve mentioned the notes that the Comte de Saint-Aignan provided to Manicamp and Malicorne. Now, we need to tell our readers who the traveler in the cloak was—the main tenant of the double apartment that Malicorne occupied only partly—and the Franciscan, who was just as mysterious, and whose arrival alongside the stranger unfortunately disrupted the plans of the two friends.
Chapter LII. A Jesuit of the Eleventh Year.
In the 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 taken from a portmanteau, which his servant had opened, a cavalier’s complete costume, quitted the chateau, and went to the hotel of the Beau Paon, where, by letters, seven or eight days previously, he had, as the landlord had stated, directed a room and an apartment to be retained for him. Immediately after Malicorne and Manicamp had been turned out, Aramis approached the Franciscan, and asked him whether he would prefer the apartment or the room. The Franciscan inquired where they were both situated. He was told that the room was on the first, and the apartment on the second floor.
In the first place, to avoid boring the reader, we'll quickly answer the first question. The traveler with the cloak covering his face was Aramis. After leaving Fouquet, he took a full cavalier's outfit from a suitcase his servant had opened, left the chateau, and headed to the Beau Paon hotel. According to the landlord, he had requested a room and an apartment to be reserved for him about seven or eight days earlier. Right after Malicorne and Manicamp had been sent away, Aramis approached the Franciscan and asked him whether he preferred the apartment or the room. The Franciscan asked where both were located. He was informed that the room was on the first floor, while the apartment was on the second.
“The room, then,” he said.
“The room, then,” he stated.
Aramis did not contradict him, but, with great submissiveness, 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, can one explain 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 he suffered very much, and that every time the litter knocked against the wall or the railing of the staircase, 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 in that armchair.” The bearers of the litter placed it on the ground, and lifting the sick man up as gently as possible, carried him to the chair he had indicated, which was situated at the head of the bed. “Now,” he added, with a marked benignity of gesture and tone, “desire the landlord to come.”
Aramis didn’t argue with him. Instead, he respectfully said to the landlord, “The room.” He bowed and stepped into the apartment, and the Franciscan was immediately taken into the room. Isn’t it amazing that a Church prelate would show such respect to a simple monk, particularly one from a mendicant order? He was given a room that so many travelers wanted without even having to ask for it. And how can we explain Aramis’s unexpected arrival at the hotel—he who had entered the chateau with M. Fouquet and could’ve stayed there if he wanted? The Franciscan bore his transport up the stairs without complaining, even though it was clear he was in great pain, and each time the litter bumped against the wall or the railing, it sent a jolt through his body. Finally, when they got to the room, he said to those carrying him, “Help me into that armchair.” The bearers set the litter down and gently lifted the sick man to the chair he pointed out, which was at the head of the bed. “Now,” he added, with a kind gesture and tone, “please ask the landlord to come.”
They obeyed, and five minutes afterwards the landlord appeared at the door.
They complied, and five minutes later the landlord showed up at the door.
“Be kind enough,” said the Franciscan to him, “to send these excellent fellows away; they are vassals of the Vicomte de Melun. They found me when I had fainted on the road overcome by the heat, and without thinking of whether they would be paid for their trouble, they wished to carry me to their own home. But I know at what cost to themselves is the hospitality which the poor extend to a sick monk, and I preferred this hotel, where, moreover, I was expected.”
“Please be kind,” the Franciscan said to him, “and send these good people away; they are servants of the Vicomte de Melun. They found me when I had fainted on the road from the heat, and without thinking about whether they would be compensated for their trouble, they wanted to take me to their home. But I know how much it costs the poor to show hospitality to a sick monk, and I would rather stay at this hotel, where, by the way, 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 his breast. The host replied by making 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.
The landlord stared at the Franciscan in disbelief, but the monk made the sign of the cross on his chest in an unusual way with his thumb. The host responded by making a similar sign on his left shoulder. “Yes, we were expecting you,” he said, “but we hoped you would come in better health.” As the peasants watched the innkeeper, who was usually so arrogant, they noticed how respectful he had become in front of a poor monk. The Franciscan then reached into a deep pocket and pulled out three or four gold coins, which he offered.
“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.”
“My friends,” he said, “I have something to thank you for all the care you’ve given me. So relax and don’t worry about leaving me here. The order I belong to, and for which I’m traveling, doesn't expect me to beg; however, because of the kindness you’ve shown me, please take these two louis and leave 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, all 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 sickness and inquietude, seemed to peruse in the vague distance a mournful and fixed idea.
The peasants didn't dare take them; the landlord took the two louis from the monk's hand and put them in one of the peasants’ hands, all four of whom stepped back with their eyes wider than ever. The door was then shut; and while the innkeeper stood respectfully nearby, the Franciscan took a moment to collect himself. He then ran a hand that looked worn out by fever across his sallow face and rubbed his nervous, restless fingers across his beard. His large eyes, hollow from illness and anxiety, seemed to search the vague distance for a sad, lingering thought.
“What physicians have you at Fontainebleau?” he inquired, after a long pause.
“What doctors do you have at Fontainebleau?” he asked after a long pause.
“We have three, holy father.”
"We have three, Father."
“What are their names?”
“What are their names?”
“Luiniguet first.”
“Luiniguet goes first.”
“The next one?”
"What's next?"
“A brother of the Carmelite order, named Brother Hubert.”
“A brother of the Carmelite order, named Brother Hubert.”
“The next?”
“Next one?”
“A secular member, named Grisart.”
“A secular member named Grisart.”
“Ah! Grisart?” murmured the monk, “send for M. Grisart immediately.”
“Ah! Grisart?” whispered the monk, “call for M. Grisart right away.”
The landlord moved in prompt obedience to the direction.
The landlord moved in quick compliance with the instruction.
“Tell me what priests are there here?”
“Tell me which priests are here?”
“What priests?”
“What pastors?”
“Yes; belonging to what orders?”
“Yes; part of which 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?”
“There are Jesuits, Augustinians, and Cordeliers; but the Jesuits are the easiest to reach. Should I call for a confessor from the Jesuit order?”
“Yes, immediately.”
"Yes, right away."
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 the well-known Society of Jesus. Left to himself, the Franciscan 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 backwards 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 hardly allowed time to dress himself. The noise they made in entering the room, the current of air, which the opening of the door occasioned, 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.
It can be imagined that, at the sign of the cross they exchanged, the landlord and the sick monk recognized each other as two connected members of the well-known Society of Jesus. Left alone, the Franciscan pulled out a bundle of papers from his pocket, some of which he read over with intense focus. However, the severity of his condition overwhelmed his composure; his eyes rolled back, a cold sweat drenched his face, and he nearly fainted, lying back with his head thrown and his arms hanging down on either side of the chair. He stayed still for over five minutes when the landlord came back, bringing the doctor, hardly giving him time to get ready. The noise they made entering the room and the rush of air from the door opening brought the Franciscan back to his senses. He quickly grabbed the papers scattered around and with his long, bony hand hid them under the cushions of the chair. The landlord left the room, leaving the patient and the doctor 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.”
“Come here, Mr. Grisart,” said the Franciscan to the doctor; “get closer, because we don’t have time to waste. Try with your hands and ears, think it over, and give your verdict.”
“The landlord,” replied the doctor, “told me I had the honor of attending an affiliated brother.”
“The landlord,” replied the doctor, “told me I had the privilege of attending a fellow 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.”
“Yes,” replied the Franciscan, “that’s true. Tell me the truth, then; I feel really sick, and I think I'm about to die.”
The physician took the monk’s hand, and felt his pulse. “Oh, oh,” he said, “a dangerous fever.”
The doctor took the monk's hand and checked his pulse. "Oh no," he said, "that's a serious fever."
“What do you call a dangerous fever?” inquired the Franciscan, with an imperious look.
“What do you call a deadly fever?” asked the Franciscan, with an authoritative gaze.
“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.”
“To a first or second-year member,” the physician replied, looking at the monk with curiosity, “I would say—a fever that can be cured.”
“But to me?” said the Franciscan. The physician hesitated.
“But for me?” said the Franciscan. The doctor paused.
“Look at my grey hair, and my forehead, full of anxious thought,” 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 science has no more secrets, the society no further barriers to present—temporal obedience, no more trammels.
“Look at my gray hair and my forehead, filled with anxiety,” he continued. “Check out the lines on my face; each one marks the trials I've faced. I’m an eleventh-year Jesuit, Monsieur Grisart.” The doctor was taken aback because, in reality, an eleventh-year Jesuit was someone who had been introduced to all the secrets of the order, a person for whom science holds no mysteries, and the society has no more barriers—no more temporal obedience, no more restrictions.
“In that case,” said Grisart, saluting him with respect, “I am in the presence of a master?”
“In that case,” said Grisart, nodding respectfully, “I’m in the presence of a master?”
“Yes; act, therefore, accordingly.”
"Yes; act accordingly."
“And you wish to know?”
“Do you want to know?”
“My real state.”
"My true state."
“Well,” said the physician, “it is a brain fever, which has reached its highest degree of intensity.”
“Well,” said the doctor, “it's a severe brain fever that has reached its peak intensity.”
“There is no hope, then?” inquired the Franciscan, in a quick tone of voice.
“There’s no hope, then?” asked the Franciscan, in a quick tone.
“I do not say that,” replied the doctor; “yet, considering the disordered state of the brain, the hurried respiration, the rapidity of the pulse, and the burning nature of the fever which is devouring you—”
“I’m not saying that,” replied the doctor, “but given the chaotic condition of your mind, the fast breathing, the quick pulse, and the intense fever that’s consuming you—”
“And which has thrice prostrated me since this morning,” said the monk.
“And which has knocked me down three times since this morning,” said the monk.
“All things considered, I shall call it a terrible attack. But why did you not stop on your road?”
"All things considered, I'm calling it a terrible attack. But why didn't you stop on your way?"
“I was expected here, and I was obliged to come.”
"I was expected here, and I had to come."
“Even at the risk of your life?”
“Even if it puts your life on the line?”
“Yes, at the risk of dying on the way.”
“Yes, even if it means risking my life along the way.”
“Very well. Considering all the symptoms of your case, I must tell you that your condition is almost desperate.”
“Alright. Given all the symptoms of your situation, I need to tell you that your condition is pretty serious.”
The Franciscan smiled in a strange manner.
The Franciscan smiled in a peculiar way.
“What you have just told me is, perhaps, sufficient 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.”
“What you just told me is probably enough for what is owed to an affiliated member, even after eleven years; but for what is owed to me, Monsieur Grisart, it’s too little, and I have the right to ask for more. So, let’s be even more honest and as straightforward as if you were confessing to God. Plus, I’ve already called for a confessor.”
“Oh! I have hopes, however,” murmured the doctor.
“Oh! I still have hopes, though,” the doctor whispered.
“Answer me,” said the sick man, displaying with a dignified 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.
“Answer me,” said the sick man, showing with a dignified gesture a golden ring, the stone of which had been turned inward until that moment, and which had the distinguishing mark of the Society of Jesus engraved on it.
Grisart uttered loud exclamation. “The general!” he cried.
Grisart shouted, “The general!”
“Silence,” said the Franciscan., “you can now understand that the whole truth is all important.”
“Silence,” said the Franciscan, “you can now see that the whole truth is crucial.”
“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 its course.”
“Monseigneur, monseigneur,” whispered Grisart, “call for the confessor, because in two hours, during the next seizure, you’ll be struck by delirium and will pass away from it.”
“Very well,” said the patient, for a moment contracting his eyebrows, “I have still two hours to live then?”
“Alright,” said the patient, momentarily furrowing his brows, “so I have two hours left to live then?”
“Yes; particularly if you take the potion I will send you presently.”
“Yes, especially if you take the potion I’ll send you soon.”
“And that will give me two hours of life?”
“And that will give me two more hours to live?”
“Two hours.”
"2 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.”
“I would take it, even if it were poison, because those two hours are essential, not just for me, but for the honor of the organization.”
“What a loss, what a catastrophe for us all!” murmured the physician.
“What a loss, what a disaster for all of us!” the doctor murmured.
“It is the loss of one man—nothing more,” replied the Franciscan, “for Heaven will enable the poor monk, who is about to leave you, to find a worthy successor. Adieu, Monsieur Grisart; already even, through the goodness 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, confident that existence would be 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.”
“It’s just the loss of one man—nothing more,” replied the Franciscan, “because Heaven will help the poor monk, who is about to leave you, find someone worthy to take his place. Goodbye, Monsieur Grisart; I’ve already been fortunate enough to meet you, thanks to Heaven. A doctor who wasn’t part of our holy order would have left me unaware of my condition; and, believing that I had a few more days to live, I wouldn’t have taken the necessary precautions. You’re a knowledgeable man, Monsieur Grisart, and that brings honor to us all; it would have upset me to find one of our order lacking in professional standing. Goodbye, Monsieur Grisart; please send me the tonic right away.”
“Give me your blessing, at least, monseigneur.”
“Just give me your blessing, at least, sir.”
“In my mind, I do; go, go; in my mind, I do so, I tell you—animo, Maitre Grisart, viribus impossibile.” 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 decided in favor of the cordial, for he darted out of the room and disappeared down the staircase. 6
“In my mind, I do; go, go; in my mind, I really do, I tell you—animo, Maitre Grisart, viribus impossibile.” Then he slumped back into the armchair, nearly unconscious. M. Grisart hesitated, unsure whether to help him right away or to rush to get the tonic he had promised. He chose to go for the tonic and quickly left the room, disappearing down the stairs. 6
Chapter LIII. The State Secret.
A few moments after the doctor’s departure, the confessor 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 if I die 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 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 movement of his hand. “Sit down, there, my father,” he said, “and listen to me.” The Jesuit confessor, a good priest, a recently initiated member of the order, who had merely seen the beginning of its mysteries, yielded to the superiority assumed by the penitent.
A few moments after the doctor left, the confessor arrived. He had barely stepped through the door when the Franciscan fixed a piercing gaze on him and, shaking his head, murmured, "A weak mind, I see; may Heaven forgive me if I die without the help of this living example of human frailty." The confessor, for his part, looked at the dying man in astonishment, almost in fear. He had never seen eyes so intensely bright just before they were about to close, nor looks so terrifying right before they were snuffed out by death. The Franciscan made a quick and commanding gesture with his hand. "Sit down, my father," he said, "and listen to me." The Jesuit confessor, a good priest and a recent member of the order, who had only just begun to learn its mysteries, conceded to the authority that the penitent was asserting.
“There are several persons staying in this hotel,” continued the Franciscan.
“There are several people staying in this hotel,” continued the Franciscan.
“But,” inquired the Jesuit, “I thought I had been summoned to listen to a confession. Is your remark, then, a confession?”
“But,” asked the Jesuit, “I thought I was called here to hear a confession. Is what you just said a confession?”
“Why do you ask?”
"Why do you want to know?"
“In order to know whether I am to keep your words secret.”
“In order to know if I should keep your words secret.”
“My remarks are part of my confession; I confide them to you in your character of a confessor.”
“My comments are part of my confession; I’m sharing them with you as my 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.
“Okay,” said the priest, sitting down in the chair that the Franciscan had just vacated with a lot of effort to lie down on the bed.
The Franciscan continued,—“I repeat, there are several persons staying in this inn.”
The Franciscan continued, “I say again, there are several people staying at this inn.”
“So I have heard.”
"Heard that."
“They ought to be eight in number.”
“They should be eight in total.”
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.
The Jesuit nodded to show he understood. “The first person I want to speak to,” said the dying man, “is a German from Vienna named Baron de Wostpur. Please go to him and let him know the person he was expecting has arrived.” The confessor, surprised, looked at his penitent; the confession seemed unusual.
“Obey,” said the Franciscan, in a tone of command impossible to resist. The good Jesuit, completely subdued, rose and left the room. As soon as he had gone, the Franciscan again took up the papers which a crisis of the fever had already, once before, obliged him to put aside.
“Obey,” said the Franciscan, in a commanding tone that was impossible to resist. The well-meaning Jesuit, fully subdued, stood up and left the room. Once he was gone, the Franciscan picked up the papers again that a bout of fever had previously forced him to set aside.
“The Baron de Wostpur? Good!” he said; “ambitious, a fool, and straitened in means.”
“The Baron de Wostpur? Good!” he said; “ambitious, foolish, and low on funds.”
He folded up the papers, which he thrust under his pillow. Rapid 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 discussing with himself the possibility of touching the ceiling with the feather in his hat. Therefore, at the appearance of the Franciscan, at his melancholy look, and seeing the plainness of the room, he stopped, and inquired,—“Who has summoned me?”
He folded the papers and shoved them under his pillow. He could hear rapid footsteps coming down the corridor. The confessor came back, followed by the Baron de Wostpur, who walked in with his head held high, as if he were contemplating whether he could touch the ceiling with the feather in his hat. So, when he saw the Franciscan, noticed his sad expression, and took in the simplicity of the room, he stopped and asked, “Who called for me?”
“I,” said the Franciscan, who turned towards the confessor, saying, “My good father, leave us for a moment together; 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 strange 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.
“I,” said the Franciscan, turning to the confessor, “My good father, please leave us alone for a moment; when this gentleman departs, you can come back.” The Jesuit exited the room and likely took this brief moment away from the dying man to ask the host for some insight about this unusual penitent, who treated his confessor no better than a servant. The baron came closer to the bed and wanted to speak, but the Franciscan gestured for him to be quiet.
“Every moment is precious,” said the latter, hurriedly. “You have come here for the competition, have you not?”
“Every moment is valuable,” said the latter, quickly. “You came here for the competition, right?”
“Yes, my father.”
"Yeah, my dad."
“You hope to be elected general of the order?”
“Do you want to be elected as the leader of the order?”
“I hope so.”
“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?”
"You know what conditions you need to meet to reach this high position that makes one person the master of kings and equal to popes?"
“Who are you,” inquired the baron, “to subject me to these interrogations?”
“Who are you,” asked the baron, “to put me through these questions?”
“I am he whom you expected.”
“I am the one you were expecting.”
“The elector-general?”
“The chief elector?”
“I am the elected.”
"I'm the elected."
“You are—”
"You are—"
The Franciscan did not give him time to reply; he extended his shrunken hand, on which glittered the ring of the general of the order. The baron drew back in surprise; and then, immediately afterwards, bowing with the profoundest 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?”
The Franciscan didn’t give him a chance to respond; he reached out with his thin hand, where the ring of the general of the order sparkled. The baron stepped back in shock, and then, almost instantly, bowing deeply with respect, he exclaimed, “Is it really you here, monseigneur? You, in this dismal room; you, on this pitiful bed; you, choosing and selecting the future general, your own successor?”
“Do not distress yourself about that, monsieur, but fulfil immediately the principal condition, of furnishing the order with a secret of importance, of such importance that one of the greatest courts of Europe will, by your instrumentality, forever be subjected to the order. Well! do you possess the secret which you promised, in your request, addressed to the grand council?”
“Don’t worry about that, sir, but please fulfill the main condition right away: provide the order with a secret of great importance, one that will ensure that one of the largest courts in Europe will, through your efforts, always be bound to the order. So, do you have the secret you promised in your request to the grand council?”
“Monseigneur—”
"Your Excellency—"
“Let us proceed, however, in due order,” said the monk. “You are the Baron de Wostpur?”
“Let's continue in the right order,” said the monk. “You are the Baron de Wostpur?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
"Yes, my lord."
“And this letter is from you?”
“And this letter is from you?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Yes, sir.”
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.”
The Jesuit general took a paper from his bag and handed it to the baron, who looked at it and nodded, saying, “Yes, my lord, this letter is mine.”
“Can you show me the reply which the secretary of the grand council returned to you?”
“Can you show me the response that the secretary of the grand council sent you?”
“Here it is,” said the baron, holding towards the Franciscan a letter bearing simply the address, “To his excellency the Baron de Wostpur,” and containing only this phrase, “From the 15th to the 22nd May, Fontainebleau, the hotel of the Beau Paon.—A. M. D. G.” 7
“Here it is,” said the baron, holding out a letter to the Franciscan that simply had the address, “To his excellency the Baron de Wostpur,” and only included this phrase, “From the 15th to the 22nd May, Fontainebleau, the hotel of the Beau Paon.—A. M. D. G.” 7
“Right,” said the Franciscan, “and now speak.”
“Okay,” said the Franciscan, “now go ahead and speak.”
“I have a body of troops, composed of 50,000 men; all the officers are gained over. 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.
“I have an army of 50,000 men, and all the officers are on our side. I’m camped by the Danube. In four days, I can take down the emperor, who, as you know, is against the advancement of our order, and I can replace him with whichever prince from his family the order decides on.” The Franciscan listened, unfazed.
“Is that all?” he said.
"Is that it?" he said.
“A revolution throughout Europe is included in my plan,” said the baron.
“A revolution all across Europe is part of 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 backwards, as obsequiously as if he were taking leave of the emperor he was ready to betray.
“Alright, Monsieur de Wostpur, you will get a response; go back to your room and leave Fontainebleau within the next fifteen minutes.” The baron backed away, as servilely as if he were bidding farewell to the emperor he was prepared to betray.
“There is no secret there,” murmured the Franciscan, “it is a plot. Besides,” he added, after a moment’s reflection, “the future of Europe is no longer in the hands of the House of Austria.”
“There’s no secret to it,” murmured the Franciscan, “it’s a conspiracy. Besides,” he added after a moment of thought, “the future of Europe isn’t in the hands of the House of Austria anymore.”
And with a pencil he held in his hand, he struck the Baron de Wostpur’s name from the list.
And with a pencil in his hand, he crossed out the Baron de Wostpur’s name from the list.
“Now for the cardinal,” he said; “we ought to get something more serious from the side of Spain.”
“Now for the cardinal,” he said; “we should expect something more substantial from Spain.”
Raising his head, he perceived the confessor, who was awaiting his orders as respectfully as a school-boy.
Raising his head, he noticed the confessor, who was waiting for his orders as respectfully as a schoolboy.
“Ah, ah!” he said, noticing his submissive air, “you have been talking with the landlord.”
“Ah, ah!” he said, noticing his submissive demeanor, “you’ve been chatting with the landlord.”
“Yes, monseigneur; and to the physician.”
“Yes, sir; and to the doctor.”
“To Grisart?”
"To Grisart?"
“Yes.”
“Yep.”
“He is here, then?”
"Is he here, then?"
“He is waiting with the potion he promised.”
“He's waiting with the potion he promised.”
“Very well; if I require him, I will call; you now understand the great importance of my confession, do you not?”
“Alright; if I need him, I'll call; you understand how important my confession is, right?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“Yes, sir.”
“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.”
“Then go and get me the Spanish Cardinal Herrebia. Hurry up. But now that you understand what's going on, you'll stay close to me, because I'm starting to feel faint.”
“Shall I summon the physician?”
"Should I call the doctor?"
“Not yet, not yet... the Spanish cardinal, no one else. Fly.”
“Not yet, not yet... the Spanish cardinal, no one else. Go.”
Five minutes afterwards, the cardinal, pale and disturbed, entered the little room.
Five minutes later, the cardinal, looking pale and shaken, walked into the small room.
“I am informed, monseigneur,—” stammered the cardinal.
“I’ve been told, sir,” stammered 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?”
“To the point,” said the Franciscan, in a quiet voice, showing the cardinal a letter he had written to the grand council. “Is that your handwriting?”
“Yes, but—”
“Yeah, but—”
“And your summons?”
“And your invitation?”
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 to the greatness of the person over whom the Franciscan exercised his influence.
The cardinal hesitated to respond. His purple robes clashed with the humble clothing of the poor Franciscan, who extended his hand and showed the ring, which had a greater impact depending on the status of the person the Franciscan influenced.
“Quick, the secret, the secret!” said the dying man, leaning upon his confessor.
“Quick, the secret, the secret!” said the dying man, leaning on his confessor.
“Speak in Spanish,” said the Franciscan, showing the liveliest attention.
“Speak in Spanish,” said the Franciscan, showing the utmost attention.
“You are aware, monseigneur,” said the cardinal, continuing the conversation in Castilian, “that the condition of the marriage of the Infanta with the king of France was 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.
“You know, sir,” the cardinal said, continuing the conversation in Spanish, “that the condition for the Infanta to marry the king of France was the complete giving up of her rights, as well as those of King Louis XIV., to any claim to the Spanish throne.” The Franciscan nodded in agreement.
“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.” Another movement of the dying man’s head.
“The result is,” the cardinal went on, “that the peace and alliance between the two kingdoms rely on keeping that part of the agreement.” A similar gesture from the Franciscan. “Not just France and Spain,” the cardinal continued, “but all of Europe would be severely torn apart by the betrayal of either side.” Another slight 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 certain that which is no more than a vague idea floating in the mind of man, that is to say, the idea of a 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.”
“It also means,” the speaker continued, “that a person who can predict events and clarify what is just a vague thought in people's minds—the idea of a future benefit or harm—could save the world from a major disaster; and the event, which lacks solid certainty even in the mind of the one who came up with it, could be turned to benefit our organization.”
“Pronto, pronto!” murmured the Franciscan, in Spanish, who suddenly 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 very 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 inheritance, and I have in my possession, already prepared, the plan of policy agreed upon by Louis XIV. for this occasion.”
“Quickly, quickly!” whispered the Franciscan in Spanish, suddenly growing pale and leaning on the priest. The cardinal leaned in close to the dying man and said, “Well, monseigneur, I know that the king of France has decided that at the very first opportunity, like a death—either that of the king of Spain or a brother of the Infanta—France will, with force, claim the inheritance. I already have in my possession the policy plan prepared by Louis XIV. for this situation.”
“And this plan?” said the Franciscan.
“And this plan?” asked the Franciscan.
“Here it is,” returned the cardinal.
“Here it is,” the cardinal replied.
“In whose handwriting is it?”
“Whose handwriting is it?”
“My own.”
"My own."
“Have you anything further to say to me?”
“Do you have anything else to say to me?”
“I think I have said a good deal, my lord,” replied the cardinal.
“I think I've said quite a bit, 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?”
“Yes, you have done a great service. But how did you get the details that helped you put your plan together?”
“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 burnt.”
“I have the king of France's under-servants on my payroll, and I get all the waste papers from them that would otherwise have been burned.”
“Very ingenious,” murmured the Franciscan, endeavoring to smile; “you will leave this hotel, cardinal, in a quarter of an hour, and a reply shall be sent you.” The cardinal withdrew.
“Very clever,” muttered the Franciscan, trying to smile; “you will be leaving this hotel, cardinal, in fifteen minutes, and a response will be sent to you.” The cardinal walked away.
“Call Grisart, and desire the Venetian Marini to come,” said the sick man.
“Call Grisart, and ask the Venetian Marini to come,” said the sick man.
While the confessor obeyed, the Franciscan, instead of 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 effort, 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 the door. The Venetian submitted to the same formalities as his two predecessors, 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 different 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 transported, together with thirty-two of the principal affiliated members of Rome. The Franciscan thanked the Signor 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 possessed 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 moral superiority alone 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 for 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 half-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, whilst Grisart, with a mind of higher order, devoured them as the revelations of an unknown world, in which his looks were plunged without ability to comprehend. Suddenly the Franciscan recovered himself.
While the confessor followed orders, the Franciscan, instead of crossing out the cardinal’s name like he did with the baron’s, simply marked a cross beside it. Then, worn out from the effort, he fell back onto his bed, murmuring Dr. Grisart’s name. When he regained his senses, he had consumed about half of the potion, with the rest still in the glass, and he found himself being supported by the physician while the Venetian and the confessor stood near the door. The Venetian went through the same formalities as the two before him, hesitating just like they had at the sight of the two strangers. But, feeling reassured by the general’s orders, he revealed that the pope, frightened by the order's power, was plotting to expel the Jesuits and was trying to gain help from various courts across Europe. He detailed the pope’s allies, his methods, and pointed out a specific location in the Archipelago where, by surprise, two cardinals, experienced after eleven years, along with thirty-two of Rome's leading affiliates, were to be captured. The Franciscan thanked Signor Marini; he had done a significant service to the society by exposing this papal scheme. The Venetian was then given instructions to leave in fifteen minutes and departed looking as joyful as if he already had the ring, the symbol of the society's highest authority. However, as he was leaving, the Franciscan murmured to himself: “All these men are just spies or some kind of police; none of them are generals. They’ve revealed a plot but no actual secret. The Society of Jesus can't be governed through ruin, war, or force, but by the mysterious power that only moral superiority brings. No, that man hasn’t been found yet, and to make matters worse, Heaven is bringing me down, and I’m dying. Oh! Is the society really going to collapse with me because there’s no one to support it? Must death, which is waiting for me, take the future of the order with me; a future that ten more years of my life could have made eternal? That future, with the rise of the new king, is unfolding bright and glorious.” These words, partly thought and partly spoken aloud, were heard by the Jesuit confessor with the same fear one feels listening to the ramblings of someone with a fever, while Grisart, with his higher intellect, absorbed them like the insights from an unknown world, into which his thoughts dived without any understanding. Suddenly, the Franciscan snapped back to reality.
“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... Grisart, Grisart, give me to live a single hour longer.”
“Let’s finish this,” he said; “death is coming. Oh! Just a moment ago, I was dying peacefully, because I had hope... but now I’m sinking into despair, unless those who are left... Grisart, Grisart, let me live for just one more hour.”
Grisart approached the dying monk, and made him swallow a few drops, not of the potion which was still left in the glass, but of the contents of a small bottle he had upon his person.
Grisart went over to the dying monk and made him swallow a few drops, not of the potion that was still in the glass, but from a small bottle he had on him.
“Call the Scotchman!” exclaimed the Franciscan; “call the Bremen merchant. Call, call quickly. I am dying. I am suffocated.”
“Call the Scotsman!” shouted the Franciscan; “call the Bremen merchant. Hurry, hurry! I’m dying. I can’t breathe.”
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 looks, made a movement as if to push Aramis aside, who, however, with two signs of the cross, each made in a different manner, transfixed them both in their places.
The confessor rushed forward to get help, as if there were any human strength that could stop death from closing in on the sick man. But at the door, he encountered Aramis, who, with his finger to his lips like the statue of Harpocrates, the god of silence, signaled him to return to the back of the room. The physician and the confessor exchanged glances, preparing to push Aramis aside, but he held them both in place with two different signs of the cross, each made in a distinct way.
“A chief!” they both murmured.
“A boss!” they both whispered.
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 temperature 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 but the sixth upon your list.”
Aramis slowly walked into the room where the dying man was struggling with the first wave of agony that had taken hold of him. As for the Franciscan, whether it was the effect of the elixir or if Aramis's appearance had given him strength, he moved, his eyes wide, his mouth half open, and his hair damp with sweat as he sat up in bed. Aramis noticed that the air in the room was stifling; the windows were closed, the fire was crackling in the hearth, and a pair of yellow wax candles were dripping down in the copper candlesticks, thickening the smoke and making the room even warmer. Aramis opened the window and, looking at the dying man with a gaze full of understanding and respect, said, “Monseigneur, please forgive me for coming in like this before you called for me, but your condition worries me, and I feared you might pass away before we had a chance to meet since I am only the sixth on your list.”
The dying man started and looked at the list.
The dying man jolted and glanced at the list.
“You are, therefore, he who was formerly called Aramis, and since, the Chevalier d’Herblay? You are the bishop of Vannes?”
“You are, then, the one who was previously known as Aramis, and later, the Chevalier d’Herblay? You are the bishop of Vannes?”
“Yes, my lord.”
"Yes, my lord."
“I know you, I have seen you.”
“I know you, I've seen you.”
“At the last jubilee, we were with the Holy Father together.”
“At the last jubilee, we were with the Holy Father together.”
“Yes, yes, I remember; and you place yourself on the list of candidates?”
“Yes, yes, I remember; and are you putting yourself on the list of candidates?”
“Monseigneur, I have heard it said that the order required to become possessed of a great state secret, and knowing that from modesty you had in anticipation resigned your functions in favor of the person who should be the depositary of such a secret, I wrote to say that I was ready to compete, possessing alone a secret I believe to be important.”
“Your Excellency, I have heard that there's a certain protocol to follow in order to obtain a significant state secret, and knowing that you had graciously stepped down from your position in anticipation of someone who would hold such a secret, I wanted to let you know that I'm prepared to compete, as I possess a secret I believe to be important.”
“Speak,” said the Franciscan; “I am ready to listen to you, and to judge the importance of the secret.”
“Go ahead,” said the Franciscan; “I’m here to listen to you and assess how important the secret is.”
“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.”
“A secret about the value of what I’m honored to share with you can’t be expressed just through speech. Once an idea is spoken, it loses its protection and becomes common through any form of sharing or communication, no longer belonging solely to the person who conceived it. My words could be overheard by someone, maybe even an enemy; therefore, one should be cautious about what they say, because in that case, the secret wouldn't remain a secret.”
“How do you propose, then, to convey your secret?” inquired the dying monk.
“How do you plan to share your secret?” asked 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 enclosed in a double envelope.
With one hand, Aramis signaled to the doctor and the priest to leave, and with the other, he passed the Franciscan a document sealed in a double envelope.
“Is not writing more dangerous still than language?”
“Isn’t writing even more dangerous than language?”
“No, my lord,” said Aramis, “for you will find within this envelope characters which you and I alone can understand.” The Franciscan looked at Aramis with an astonishment which momentarily increased.
“No, my lord,” said Aramis, “because inside this envelope are symbols that only you and I can understand.” The Franciscan stared at Aramis in growing astonishment.
“It is a cipher,” continued the latter, “which you used in 1655, and which your secretary, Juan Jujan, who is dead, could alone decipher, if he were restored to life.”
“It’s a code,” the other continued, “that you used in 1655, and only your secretary, Juan Jujan, who is dead, could decode it if he were brought back to life.”
“You knew this cipher, then?”
"You knew this code, then?"
“It was I who taught it him,” said Aramis, bowing with a gracefulness full of respect, and advancing towards the door as if to leave the room: but a gesture of the Franciscan accompanied by a cry for him to remain, restrained him.
“It was I who taught him,” said Aramis, bowing with a graceful respect and moving toward the door as if he were about to leave the room. But a gesture from the Franciscan, along with a cry for him to stay, stopped him.
“Ecce homo!” he exclaimed; then reading the paper a second time, he called out, “Approach, approach quickly!”
“Look at the man!” he exclaimed; then reading the paper a second time, he called out, “Come here, come here quickly!”
Aramis returned to the side of the Franciscan, with the same calm countenance and the same respectful manner, unchanged. The Franciscan, extending his arm, burnt by the flame of the candle the paper which Aramis had handed him. Then, taking hold of Aramis’s hand, he drew him towards him, and inquired: “In what manner and by whose means could you possibly become acquainted with such a secret?”
Aramis went back to the Franciscan, maintaining the same calm expression and respectful demeanor as before. The Franciscan, extending his arm, burned the paper that Aramis had given him with the flame of the candle. Then, grabbing Aramis's hand, he pulled him closer and asked, "How did you come to know such a secret?"
“Through Madame de Chevreuse, the intimate friend and confidante of the queen.”
“Through Madame de Chevreuse, the close friend and confidante of the queen.”
“And Madame de Chevreuse—”
“And Madame de Chevreuse—”
“Is dead.”
"Is deceased."
“Did any others know it?”
“Did anyone else know it?”
“A man and a woman only, and they of the lower classes.”
“A man and a woman only, and they from the lower classes.”
“Who are they?”
"Who are they?"
“Persons who had brought him up.”
“People who raised him.”
“What has become of them?”
"What happened to them?"
“Dead also. This secret burns like vitriol.”
“Dead too. This secret burns like acid.”
“But you survive?”
"But you made it?"
“No one is aware that I know it.”
“No one knows that I know it.”
“And for what length of time have you possessed this secret?”
“And how long have you had this secret?”
“For the last fifteen years.”
“For the past fifteen years.”
“And you have kept it?”
“And you have held onto it?”
“I wished to live.”
"I wanted to live."
“And you give it to the order without ambition, without acknowledgement?”
“And you just hand it over to the order without any ambition, without even acknowledging it?”
“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.”
“I submit my request with ambition and a hope for a response,” said Aramis; “for if you survive, my lord, you will turn me into what I can and should be, now that you understand me.”
“And as I am dying,” exclaimed the Franciscan, “I constitute you my successor... Thus.” And drawing off the ring, he passed it on Aramis’s finger. Then, turning towards 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 voluntarily bestowed this ring, the token of supreme authority, upon Monseigneur d’Herblay, bishop of Vannes, whom I nominate my successor, and before whom I, an humble sinner, about to appear before Heaven, prostrate myself, as an example for all to follow.” And the Franciscan bowed lowly and submissively, whilst the physician and the Jesuit fell on their knees. Aramis, even while he became paler than the dying man himself, bent his looks successively upon all the actors of this scene. Profoundly gratified ambition flowed with life-blood towards his heart.
“And as I’m dying,” exclaimed the Franciscan, “I name you my successor... Like this.” And taking off the ring, he slid it onto Aramis’s finger. Then, facing the two witnesses to this scene, he said: “You are to witness this, and if necessary, testify that, though sick in body, my mind is clear, and I have freely and voluntarily given this ring, the symbol of supreme authority, to Monseigneur d’Herblay, bishop of Vannes, whom I choose as my successor. Before him, I, a humble sinner, am about to stand before Heaven, bowing down as an example for all to follow.” And the Franciscan bowed deeply and submissively, while the physician and the Jesuit knelt down. Aramis, even as he paled more than the dying man himself, cast his gaze sequentially upon all the participants in this scene. Deeply satisfied, ambition surged through his heart.
“We must lose no time,” said the Franciscan; “what I had still to do on earth was urgent. I shall never succeed in carrying it out.”
“We can't waste any time,” said the Franciscan; “what I still need to do on earth is urgent. I’m never going to be able to accomplish it.”
“I will do it,” said Aramis.
“I’ll do it,” said Aramis.
“It is well,” said the Franciscan, and then turning towards the Jesuit and the doctor, he added, “Leave us alone,” a direction they instantly obeyed.
“It’s fine,” said the Franciscan, and then turning to the Jesuit and the doctor, he added, “Leave us alone,” a command they immediately followed.
“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!” 9
“With this sign,” he said, “you are the person needed to change the world from one end to the other; with this sign you will conquer; with this sign you will build up; in hoc signo vinces!” 9
“Close the door,” continued the Franciscan after a pause. Aramis shut and bolted the door, and returned to the side of the Franciscan.
“Close the door,” the Franciscan said after a moment. Aramis shut and locked the door, then went back to the Franciscan’s side.
“The pope is conspiring against the order,” said the monk; “the pope must die.”
“The pope is plotting against the order,” said the monk; “the pope has to die.”
“He shall die,” said Aramis, quietly.
“He's going to 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.”
“Seven hundred thousand livres are owed to a Bremen merchant named Bonstett, who came here to get my signature as a guarantee.”
“He shall be paid,” said Aramis.
“He will be paid,” said Aramis.
“Six knights of Malta, whose names are written here, have discovered, by the indiscretion of one of the affiliated of the eleventh year, the three mysteries; it must be ascertained what else these men have done with the secret, to get it back again and bury it.”
“Six knights of Malta, whose names are listed here, have uncovered, due to the carelessness of one of the members from the eleventh year, the three mysteries; it needs to be determined what else these men have done with the secret, to recover it and conceal it again.”
“It shall be done.”
"Consider it done."
“Three dangerous affiliated members must be sent away into Tibet, there to perish; they stand condemned. Here are their names.”
“Three dangerous affiliated members need to be sent away to Tibet, where they will meet their end; they are condemned. Here are their names.”
“I will see that the sentence be carried out.”
“I will make sure the sentence is carried out.”
“Lastly, there is a lady at Anvers, grand-niece of Ravaillac; she holds certain papers in her hands that compromise the order. There has been payable to the family during the last fifty-one years a pension of fifty thousand livres. The pension is a heavy one, and the order is not wealthy. Redeem the papers, for a sum of money paid down, or, in case of refusal, stop the pension—but run no risk.”
“Finally, there's a woman in Anvers, the grand-niece of Ravaillac; she has some documents that could jeopardize the order. For the past fifty-one years, the family has been receiving a pension of fifty thousand livres. This pension is significant, and the order isn't rich. Buy back the documents for a lump sum of cash, or if she refuses, cut off the pension—but don't take any chances.”
“I will quickly decide what is best to be done,” said Aramis.
“I'll quickly figure out what's best to do,” said Aramis.
“A vessel chartered from Lima entered the port of Lisbon last week; ostensibly it is laden with chocolate, in reality with gold. Every ingot is concealed by a coating of chocolate. The vessel belongs to the order; it is worth seventeen millions of livres; you will see that it is claimed; here are the bills of landing.”
“A ship rented from Lima arrived at the port of Lisbon last week; it looks like it's carrying chocolate, but in reality, it's filled with gold. Each bar is hidden under a layer of chocolate. The ship belongs to the order; it's worth seventeen million livres; you'll see that it's being claimed; here are the shipping documents.”
“To what port shall I direct it to be taken?”
"To what port should I send it?"
“To Bayonne.”
"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 and his head, and gushed from his mouth, his nostrils, and his eyes. The dying man had barely time to press Aramis’s 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 burnt. He picked it up, and burnt it to the last atom. Then, summoning the confessor and the physician, he said to the former: “Your penitent is in heaven; he needs nothing more than prayers and the burial bestowed upon the pious dead. Go and prepare what is necessary for a simple interment, such as a poor monk only would require. Go.”
“Before three weeks are up, it should be there, weather permitting. Is that it?” The Franciscan nodded in agreement, as he could no longer speak; blood surged to his throat and head, spilling from his mouth, nostrils, and eyes. The dying man barely had time to squeeze Aramis's hand before he convulsed and fell from his bed onto the floor. Aramis placed his hand on the Franciscan’s heart, but it had stopped beating. As he leaned down, Aramis noticed that a piece of the paper he’d given the Franciscan had survived the fire. He picked it up and burned it completely. Then, calling for the confessor and the doctor, he said to the former: “Your penitent is in heaven; he needs nothing more than prayers and the burial given to the faithful dead. Go and make arrangements for a simple burial, just like a poor monk would need. Go.”
The Jesuit left the room. Then, turning towards 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.”
The Jesuit left the room. Then, turning towards the doctor and noticing his pale and worried face, he said in a quiet voice: “Monsieur Grisart, empty and clean this glass; there is too much left in it of what the grand council wanted you to put in.”
Grisart, amazed, overcome, completely astounded, almost fell backwards 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.
Grisart, shocked, overwhelmed, completely stunned, almost fell backwards in his sheer terror. Aramis shrugged his shoulders in pity, took the glass, and poured its contents into the ashes of the fireplace. He then exited the room, taking the dead man's papers with him.
Chapter LIV. A Mission.
The next day, or rather the same day (for the events we have just described were 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 off for the river, to take one of those celebrated baths with which the ladies of the court were so infatuated, as, in fact, no one remained in the chateau, with the exception of Madame who, under the pretext of indisposition, would not leave her room; Montalais was seen, or rather not was not seen, to glide stealthily out of the room appropriated to the maids of honor, leading La Valliere after her, who tried to conceal herself as much as possible, and both of them, hurrying secretly through the gardens, succeeded, looking round them at every step they took, in reaching the thicket. The weather was cloudy, a warm breeze bowed the flowers and the shrubs, the burning dust, swept along in clouds by the wind, was whirled in eddies towards 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 on 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 M. Malicorne to M. de Saint-Aignan, every one wishes to get hold of our secret. Come, Louise, let us take counsel, you and I, together, in order that I may know what to do.”
The next day, or technically the same day (since the events we just described wrapped up around three in the morning), before breakfast was served and while the king was getting ready to go to mass with the two queens; Monsieur, along with the Chevalier de Lorraine and a few close friends, was getting on his horse to head to the river for one of those famous baths that the court ladies were so obsessed with. In fact, the only person left in the chateau was Madame, who stayed in her room pretending to be unwell. Montalais was spotted, or rather not spotted, sneaking out of the maids of honor's room, leading La Valliere, who tried to hide as much as she could. They both hurried through the gardens, constantly looking around, and managed to reach the thicket. The sky was overcast, a warm breeze bent the flowers and shrubs, and the hot dust was whipped up in clouds by the wind, swirling towards the trees. Montalais, acting as a clever scout during their escape, took a few steps ahead, then turned back to make sure no one was listening or coming near, and said to her companion, “Thank goodness, we’re all alone! Since yesterday, everyone has been spying on us here, and it feels like there’s a circle drawn around us, as if we had the plague.” La Valliere lowered her head and sighed. “It’s absolutely outrageous,” continued Montalais; “from M. Malicorne to M. de Saint-Aignan, everyone wants to find out our secret. Come on, Louise, let’s talk this over together so I can figure out what to do.”
La Valliere lifted towards her companion her beautiful eyes, pure and deep as the azure of a spring sky, “And I,” she said, “will ask you why we have been summoned to Madame’s own room? 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?”
La Valliere looked at her companion with her beautiful eyes, clear and deep like the blue of a spring sky. "And I," she said, "want to know why we've been called to Madame's own room. Why did we sleep close to her apartment instead of in our usual spots? Why did you come back so late, and what’s with the strict oversight that’s been put in place for both of us since this morning?"
“My dear Louise, you answer my question by another, or rather, by ten others, which is not answering me at all. I will tell you all you want to know later, and as it is 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?”
“My dear Louise, you respond to my question with another one, or rather, with ten others, which doesn’t really answer me at all. I’ll tell you everything you want to know later, and since it’s of secondary importance, you can wait. What I need from you—because everything will depend on that—is whether there is any secret or not?”
“I do not know if there is any secret,” said La Valliere; “but I do know, for my part at least, that there has been great imprudence committed. Since the foolish remark I made, and my still more silly fainting yesterday, every one here is making remarks about us.”
“I don’t know if there’s any secret,” said La Valliere; “but I do know, at least from my perspective, that a lot of foolishness has happened. Since the dumb thing I said and my even dumber fainting spell yesterday, everyone here is talking about us.”
“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, which unfortunately were intercepted.”
“Speak for yourself,” Montalais said with a laugh, “speak for yourself and for Tonnay-Charente; both of you made your love declarations to the skies, which unfortunately were intercepted.”
La Valliere hung down her head. “Really you overwhelm me,” she said.
La Valliere lowered her head. “You really overwhelm me,” she said.
“I?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you torture me with your jests.”
“Yes, you torture me with your jokes.”
“Listen to me, Louise. These are no jests, for nothing is more serious; on the contrary, I did not drag you out of the chateau; I did not miss attending mass; I did not pretend to have a cold, as Madame did, which she has no more than I have; and, lastly, I did not display ten times more diplomacy than M. Colbert inherited from M. de Mazarin, and makes use of with respect to M. Fouquet, in order to find means of confiding my perplexities to you, for the sole end and purpose that, when at last we were alone, with no one to listen to us, you should deal hypocritically with me. No, no; believe me, that when I ask you a question, 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 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 Scudery and her brother burst from very spite, if they were faithfully reported.”
“Listen to me, Louise. This is no joke; nothing is more serious. I didn’t pull you out of the chateau, I didn’t skip mass, and I didn’t fake a cold like Madame did, who is no more sick than I am. Lastly, I didn’t use ten times more diplomacy than M. Colbert inherited from M. de Mazarin, which he uses with respect to M. Fouquet, just to find a way to share my concerns with you, only for you to act hypocritically with me when we were finally alone. No, no; believe me, when I ask you something, it’s not just out of curiosity, but because the situation is critical. What you said yesterday is now common knowledge—it’s a topic everyone’s talking about. Everyone is adding their own touch to it, according to their own imagination; you had the honor last night, and you still do today, of being the focus of the entire court, my dear Louise. The number of sweet and clever comments attributed to you would make Mademoiselle de Scudery and her brother jealous if they were accurately reported.”
“But, dearest Montalais,” said the poor girl, “you know better than any one exactly what I said, since you were present when I said it.”
“But, dear Montalais,” said the poor girl, “you know better than anyone exactly what I said, since you were there when I said it.”
“Yes, I know. But that is not the question. I have not forgotten a single syllable you uttered, but did you think what you were saying?”
“Yes, I know. But that’s not the point. I haven’t forgotten a single word you said, but did you consider what you were saying?”
Louise became confused. “What,” she exclaimed, “more questions still! Oh, heavens! when I would give the world to forget what I did say, how does it happen that every one does all he possibly can to remind me of it? Oh, this is indeed terrible!”
Louise was confused. “What,” she exclaimed, “more questions still! Oh, my gosh! When I would give anything to forget what I said, why does everyone do everything they can to remind me of it? Oh, this is truly awful!”
“What is?”
"What's that?"
“To have a friend who ought to spare me, who might advise me and help me to save myself, and yet who is undoing me—is killing me.”
“To have a friend who should be there for me, who could give me advice and help me save myself, and yet is actually bringing me down—is destroying me.”
“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 Manicamp and Malicorne colloquies terminated, when I learned, on my return, rather late, it is true, that Madame had sequestered her maids of honor, and that we were to sleep in her apartments, instead of our own. Moreover, Madame has shut up 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?”
“There, there, that’s enough,” Montalais said. “After saying too little, now you’re saying too much. Nobody wants to kill you, or even rob you of your secret; I want you to share it willingly, and no other way will do. This isn’t just about you—it’s about us too. Tonnay-Charente would say the same if she were here. The truth is, last night she wanted to have a private conversation in our room, and I was on my way there after the talks with Manicamp and Malicorne ended when I found out, a bit late, that Madame had isolated her maids of honor and decided we would sleep in her rooms instead of ours. Plus, Madame locked up her maids of honor so they wouldn’t have time to come up with any plans, and this morning she was with Tonnay-Charente for the same reason. So, tell me, how much can Athenais and I count on you? We’ll let you know how you can rely on us.”
“I do not clearly understand the question you have put,” said Louise, much agitated.
"I don't really understand the question you've asked," said Louise, feeling quite upset.
“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 M. de Bragelonne? That is plain enough, is it not?”
“Hmm! And yet, on the other hand, you seem to understand me really well. Anyway, I'll ask my questions more clearly so you can't avoid them at all. Listen: Do you love M. de Bragelonne? That's pretty straightforward, right?”
At this question, which fell like the first bombshell of a besieging army into a doomed town, Louise started. “You ask me,” she exclaimed, “if I love Raoul, the friend of my childhood,—my brother almost?”
At this question, which landed like the first bombshell from a besieging army into a doomed town, Louise jumped. “You want to know,” she exclaimed, “if I love Raoul, my childhood friend—almost like a brother?”
“No, no, no! Again you evade me, or rather, you wish to escape me. I do not ask if you love Raoul, your childhood’s friend,—your brother; but I ask if you love the Vicomte de Bragelonne, your affianced husband?”
“No, no, no! You’re dodging me again, or rather, you want to get away from me. I’m not asking if you love Raoul, your childhood friend—your brother; I’m asking if you love the Vicomte de Bragelonne, your fiancé?”
“Good heavens! dear Montalais,” said Louise, “how severe your tone is!”
“Good heavens! dear Montalais,” Louise said, “why is your tone so harsh?”
“You deserve no indulgence,—I am neither more nor less severe than usual. I put a question to you, so answer it.”
“You don’t deserve any leniency—I’m not being any stricter than usual. I’m asking you a question, so just 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.”
“You definitely don’t,” said Louise, her voice catching, “talk to me like a friend; but I will respond to you as a true friend.”
“Well, do so.”
"Alright, go ahead."
“Very well; my heart is full of scruples and silly feelings of pride, with respect to everything that a woman ought to keep secret, and in this respect no one has ever read into the bottom of my soul.”
“Alright; my heart is filled with doubts and silly feelings of pride about everything a woman should keep private, and in this regard, no one has ever seen into the depths 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 M. de Bragelonne, who is an excellent young man, and an advantageous match for a girl without fortune. M. 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 M. de Bragelonne; that is to say, to the altar to which he will lead you. Afterwards, why— afterwards, according to his disposition, you will be emancipated or enslaved; in other words, you will have a right to commit any piece of folly 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.”
“I know that very well. If I had read it, I wouldn’t be questioning you like I am; I would simply say, ‘My dear Louise, you have the fortune of knowing M. de Bragelonne, who is a wonderful young man and a great match for a girl without money. M. de la Fere will leave about fifteen thousand livres a year to his son. So, in the future, as this son’s wife, you will have fifteen thousand livres a year, which isn’t bad at all. So don’t hesitate—just go straight to M. de Bragelonne; in other words, to the altar he will take you to. After that, well—after that, depending on his nature, you’ll either be free or tied down; in other words, you’ll have the right to make all the mistakes that people make when they have either too much freedom or too little.’ That’s what I would have told you from the start, my dear Louise, if I had been able to see into your heart.”
“And I should have thanked you,” stammered out Louise, “although the advice does not appear to me to be altogether sound.”
“And I should have thanked you,” Louise stammered, “although the advice doesn’t seem all that solid to me.”
“Wait, wait. But immediately after having given you that advice, I should have added,—‘Louise, it is very dangerous to pass whole days with your head drooping, your hands unoccupied, your eyes restless and full of thought; it is dangerous to prefer the least frequented paths, and no longer be amused with such diversions as gladden young girls’ hearts; it is dangerous, Louise, to scrawl with the point of your foot, as you do, upon the gravel, certain letters 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 heartache; these fancies, while they sink into a young girl’s mind, make her cheeks sink in also, so that it is not unusual, on such occasions, to find the most delightful persons in the world become the most disagreeable, and the wittiest to become the dullest.’”
“Wait, wait. But right after giving you that advice, I should have added, ‘Louise, it’s really dangerous to spend whole days with your head down, your hands idle, your eyes restless and filled with thoughts; it’s risky to choose the least traveled paths and no longer enjoy the things that bring joy to young girls’ hearts; it’s dangerous, Louise, to scratch letters in the gravel with your foot, letters that you don’t need to erase but which come back under your heel, especially when those letters look more like the letter L than the letter B; and finally, it’s risky to let your mind wander through all sorts of wild thoughts, born from solitude and heartbreak; these thoughts, as they settle into a young girl’s mind, can also make her cheeks lose their brightness, so that it’s common to see the most delightful people turn into the most annoying, and the wittiest 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.”
“I appreciate it, my dear Aure,” replied La Valliere softly; “it’s just like you to talk to me this way, and I’m grateful for it.”
“It was only for the benefit of wild dreamers, such as I have just described, that I spoke; do not take any of my words, then, to yourself, except such as you think you deserve. Stay, I hardly know what story recurs to my memory of some silly or melancholy 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 matter much which—had fallen in love with her; while on the contrary, the prince, or the king, or the emperor, whichever 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 perceived 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?”
“It was only for the benefit of wild dreamers, like the ones I just described, that I spoke; don't take any of my words personally, except for those you feel you deserve. Hold on, I can hardly recall a story about some foolish or sad girl who was slowly wasting away because she thought that the prince, or the king, or the emperor—whoever it was, and it doesn’t really matter—had fallen in love with her; meanwhile, the prince, or the king, or the emperor, whichever you prefer, was clearly in love with someone else, and—this is quite ironic—used her as a cover for his own romance, a fact she couldn’t see, even though everyone around her noticed it perfectly well. You laugh at this poor silly girl just like I do, right, Louise?”
“I?—oh! of course,” stammered Louise, pale as death.
“I?—oh! of course,” stuttered Louise, pale as a ghost.
“And you are right, too, for the thing is amusing enough. The story, whether true or false, amused me, and so I remembered it and told it to you. Just imagine then, my good Louise, the mischief that such a melancholy would create in anybody’s 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 would become a jest and mockery, the next day it would mean death itself.” La Valliere started again, and became, if possible, still paler.
“And you’re right, too, because this is pretty entertaining. The story, whether it’s true or not, amused me, and so I remembered it and shared it with you. Just think, my dear Louise, about the chaos that kind of sadness could stir up in anyone’s mind. As for me, I decided to tell you the story; because if something like that were to happen to either of us, it would be crucial to know if it’s true. Today it’s a trap, tomorrow it would turn into a joke and mockery, and the next day it could mean actual death.” La Valliere gasped again and turned even paler if that was possible.
“Whenever a king takes notice of us,” continued Montalais, “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 circumstances, 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 towards melancholy may watch over those likely to become so.”
“Whenever a king pays attention to us,” Montalais continued, “he makes it clear, and if we happen to be what he desires, he knows exactly how to get what he wants. So, you see, Louise, that in situations like this, young girls facing such a risk need to have complete trust in each other, so that those who aren't inclined towards sadness can look out for those who might be.”
“Silence, silence!” said La Valliere; “some one approaches.”
“Quiet, quiet!” said La Valliere; “someone's coming.”
“Some one is approaching fast, in fact,” said Montalais; “but who can it possibly be? Everybody is away, either at mass with the king, or bathing with Monsieur.”
“Someone is coming fast, actually,” said Montalais; “but who could it be? Everyone is gone, either at mass with the king or swimming with Monsieur.”
At the end of the walk the young girls perceived almost immediately, beneath the arching trees, the graceful carriage and noble stature of a young man, who, with his sword under his arm and a cloak thrown across his shoulders, booted and spurred besides, saluted them from the distance with a gentle smile. “Raoul!” exclaimed Montalais.
At the end of the walk, the young girls noticed right away, under the arching trees, the elegant carriage and impressive posture of a young man who, with his sword under his arm and a cloak draped over his shoulders, dressed in boots and spurs, greeted them from afar with a warm smile. “Raoul!” exclaimed Montalais.
“M. de Bragelonne!” murmured Louise.
“M. de Bragelonne!” whispered Louise.
“A very proper judge to decide upon our difference of opinion,” said Montalais.
“A very suitable judge to settle our difference 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, effaced all trace of irony, if not from Montalais’s heart, at least from her face.
“Oh! Montalais, Montalais, please,” La Valliere cried, “after being so harsh, show me a little mercy.” These words, spoken with all the intensity of a prayer, wiped away any hint of irony, if not from Montalais’s heart, at least from her face.
“Why, you are as handsome as Amadis, Monsieur de Bragelonne,” she cried to Raoul, “and armed and booted like him.”
“Wow, you’re as handsome as Amadis, Monsieur de Bragelonne,” she exclaimed to Raoul, “and all geared up and booted like him.”
“A thousand compliments, young ladies,” replied Raoul, bowing.
"A thousand compliments to you, young ladies," replied Raoul, bowing.
“But why, I ask, are you booted in this manner?” repeated Montalais, whilst La Valliere, although she looked at Raoul with a surprise equal to that of her companion, nevertheless uttered not a word.
“But why, I ask, are you dressed like this?” Montalais repeated, while La Vallière, although she looked at Raoul with the same surprise as her friend, said nothing.
“Why?” inquired Raoul.
"Why?" asked Raoul.
“Yes!” ventured Louise.
“Yeah!” ventured Louise.
“Because I am about to set off,” said Bragelonne, looking at Louise.
“Since I'm about to leave,” said Bragelonne, looking at Louise.
The young girl seemed as though smitten by some superstitious feeling of terror, and tottered. “You are going away, Raoul!” she cried; “and where are you going?”
The young girl appeared to be overwhelmed by some superstitious sense of fear and stumbled. “You’re leaving, Raoul!” she exclaimed; “where are you going?”
“Dearest Louise,” he replied, with that quiet, composed manner which was natural to him, “I am going to England.”
“Dear Louise,” he replied, with that calm, collected demeanor that was typical for him, “I’m going to England.”
“What are you going to do in England?”
“What are you going to do in England?”
“The king has sent me there.”
“The king sent me there.”
“The king!” exclaimed Louise and Aure together, involuntarily exchanging glances, the conversation which had just been interrupted recurring to them both. Raoul intercepted the glance, but could not understand its meaning, and, naturally enough, attributed it to the interest both the young girls took in him.
“The king!” Louise and Aure shouted at the same time, involuntarily exchanging looks, with the conversation that had just been interrupted coming back to both of them. Raoul caught the glance but couldn’t figure out its meaning and, quite naturally, thought it was because both young women were interested in him.
“His majesty,” he said, “has been good enough to remember that the Comte de la Fere is high in favor with King Charles II. This morning, 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, ‘you will call upon M. 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.’”
“His majesty,” he said, “has kindly remembered that the Comte de la Fere is favored by King Charles II. This morning, as he was on his way to mass, the king, noticing me as he passed, signaled for me to come closer, which I did. ‘Monsieur de Bragelonne,’ he said to me, ‘you will visit M. Fouquet, who has received letters from me for the king of Great Britain; you will deliver them.’ I bowed. ‘Oh!’ his majesty added, ‘before you leave, please take any requests that Madame may have for her brother the king.’”
“Gracious heaven!” murmured Louise, much agitated, and yet full of thought at the same time.
“Gracious heavens!” Louise murmured, feeling quite shaken but also deep in thought at the same time.
“So quickly! You are desired to set off in such haste!” said Montalais, almost paralyzed by this unforeseen event.
“So fast! You need to leave in such a hurry!” said Montalais, nearly frozen by this unexpected situation.
“Properly to obey those whom we respect,” said Raoul, “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-Charente that it was likely you would be in this direction, I came here, and am happy to find you both.”
“To really obey those we respect,” Raoul said, “you need to act quickly. Within ten minutes of getting the order, I was ready. Madame, already informed, is writing the letter that she graciously entrusted to me. In the meantime, I learned from Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente that you might be in this area, so I came here and I'm glad to see you both.”
“And both of us very sad, as you see,” said Montalais, going to Louise’s assistance, whose countenance was visibly altered.
“And both of us very sad, as you can see,” said Montalais, moving to help Louise, whose face clearly showed her distress.
“Suffering?” responded Raoul, pressing Louise’s hand with a tender curiosity. “Your hand is like ice.”
“Suffering?” Raoul asked, holding Louise’s hand with gentle curiosity. “Your hand is so cold.”
“It is nothing.”
"It's 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 the question had been inspired by some suspicion, and had aroused a feeling of remorse.
“This coldness doesn’t affect your heart, Louise, does it?” the young man asked with a gentle smile. Louise quickly lifted her head, as if the question had been prompted by some doubt and had sparked a sense of guilt.
“Oh! you know,” she said, with an effort, “that my heart will never be cold towards a friend like yourself, Monsieur de Bragelonne.”
“Oh! you know,” she said, struggling a bit, “that my heart will never turn cold towards a friend like you, Monsieur de Bragelonne.”
“Thank you, Louise. I know both your heart and your mind; 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 reserve my life for you; will you not forgive me, then, for speaking to you with something like the frankness of a child?”
“Thank you, Louise. I know you well, both your heart and your mind; you can’t truly assess an affection like yours just by a touch of the hand. You know, Louise, how deeply I love you and how completely I dedicate my life to you; will you not forgive me for speaking to you with the honesty of a child?”
“Speak, Monsieur Raoul,” said Louise, trembling painfully, “I am listening.”
“Speak, Monsieur Raoul,” Louise said, trembling with pain, “I’m listening.”
“I cannot part from you, carrying away with me a thought that tortures me; absurd I know it to be, and yet one which rends my very heart.”
“I can’t leave you with a thought that haunts me; I know it’s ridiculous, but it tears at my heart.”
“Are you going away, then, for any length of time?” inquired La Valliere, with faltering utterance, while Montalais turned her head aside.
“Are you leaving for a while?” asked La Valliere, her voice shaking, while Montalais looked away.
“No; 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.
“No; I probably won’t be gone for more than two weeks.” La Valliere pressed her hand against her heart, which felt like it was breaking.
“It is strange,” pursued Raoul, looking at the young girl with a melancholy expression; “I have often left you when setting off on adventures fraught with danger. Then I started joyously enough—my heart free, my mind intoxicated by thoughts of happiness in store for me, hopes of which the future was full; and yet 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 sunniest path 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 before my very eyes like mist—like an idle dream; and I feel here, here at the very bottom of my heart, a deep-seated grief, a dejection I cannot overcome— something heavy, passionless, death-like,—resembling 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!”
“It’s strange,” Raoul continued, looking at the young girl with a sad expression. “I’ve often left you for dangerous adventures. Back then I set out with a light heart, my mind buzzing with thoughts of future happiness, full of hopeful expectations; yet I was about to face Spanish cannons or the halberds of the Walloons. But today, with no danger or worry in sight and on the sunniest path, I’m heading off in search of a glorious prize, which this mark of the king’s favor seems to suggest, because I might be about to win you, Louise. What greater gift could the king give me than you? Yet, Louise, I truly don’t know how or why, but this happiness and future seem to dissolve before my eyes like mist—like a fleeting dream; and I feel a deep sadness here, deep in my heart, a gloom I can’t shake off—something heavy, emotionless, lifeless—like a corpse. Oh! Louise, I know all too well why; it’s because I’ve never loved you as truly as I do 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’s arms. The latter, although she was not easily moved, felt the tears rush to her eyes. Raoul noted only the tears Louise shed; his look, however, did not penetrate—nay, sought not to penetrate—beyond those tears. He bent his knee before her, and tenderly kissed her hand; and it was evident that in that kiss he poured out his whole heart.
At this last outburst, which came from a broken heart, Louise broke down in tears and threw herself into Montalais’s arms. Montalais, who was not easily moved, felt tears welling up in her eyes too. Raoul only noticed the tears Louise was shedding; however, he didn’t look beyond those tears. He knelt before her and gently kissed her hand, and it was clear that in that kiss, he poured out all his emotions.
“Rise, rise,” said Montalais to him, ready to cry, “for Athenais is coming.”
“Get up, get up,” Montalais said to him, on the verge of tears, “because Athenais is coming.”
Raoul 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’s hand gratefully, he turned round to salute Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, the sound of whose silken robe was already heard upon the gravel walk. “Has Madame finished her letter?” he inquired, when the young girl came within reach of his voice.
Raoul got up, wiped his knee with the back of his hand, smiled again at Louise, who was looking down at the ground, and after thanking Montalais with a grateful squeeze of her hand, he turned to greet Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, whose silken dress could already be heard rustling on the gravel path. “Has Madame finished her letter?” he called out when the young girl came within earshot.
“Yes, the letter is finished, sealed, and her royal highness is ready to receive you.”
“Yes, the letter is done, sealed, and her royal highness is ready to see you.”
Raoul, at this remark, hardly gave himself time to salute Athenais, cast one look at Louise, bowed to Montalais, and withdrew in the direction of the chateau. As he withdrew 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 widely different feelings, watched him disappear.
Raoul, at this comment, barely took a moment to greet Athenais, glanced at Louise, nodded to Montalais, and headed toward the chateau. As he left, he turned back one last time, but ultimately, at the end of the grand path, it was pointless to look again since he could no longer see them. The three young women, for their part, watched him disappear with a mix of feelings.
“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 advisable for us to pursue. Besides, if you will listen to me,” she continued, looking round on all sides, “I 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 Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente pronounced these words in such a tone as to leave no doubt, in her companion’s minds, upon the official character with which she was invested.
“At last,” said Athenais, the first to break the silence, “finally, we’re alone, free to discuss yesterday’s big event and figure out what we should do next. Additionally, if you’ll hear me out,” she continued, scanning the area, “I’ll explain briefly our responsibilities as I see them, and if you don’t catch on to a hint, what Madame wants us to do about it.” And Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente said this in a way that left no doubt in her companions’ minds about the official role she held.
“Madame’s desire!” exclaimed Montalais and La Valliere together.
“Madame’s wish!” shouted Montalais and La Valliere in unison.
“Her ultimatum,” replied Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, diplomatically.
“Her ultimatum,” replied Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, diplomatically.
“But,” murmured La Valliere, “does Madame know, then—”
“But,” whispered La Valliere, “does Madame know, then—”
“Madame knows more about the matter than we said, even,” said Athenais, in a formal, precise manner. “Therefore let us come to a proper understanding.”
“Madame knows more about the situation than we mentioned, even,” said Athenais, in a formal, precise way. “So let’s reach a proper understanding.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Montalais, “and I am listening in breathless attention.”
“Yes, definitely,” said Montalais, “and I’m listening with rapt attention.”
“Gracious heavens!” murmured Louise, trembling, “shall I ever survive this cruel evening?”
“Good heavens!” whispered Louise, shaking, “Am I ever going to make it through this awful evening?”
“Oh! do not frighten yourself in that manner,” said Athenais; “we have found a remedy.” So, seating herself between her two companions, and taking each of them by the hand, which she held in her own, she began. The first words were hardly spoke, when they heard a horse galloping away over the stones of the public high-road, outside the gates of the chateau.
“Oh! don't scare yourself like that,” said Athenais; “we have a solution.” She sat down between her two friends and took each of their hands in hers, and began. The first words were barely spoken when they heard a horse galloping away over the stones of the public road outside the gates of the chateau.
Chapter LV. Happy as a Prince.
At the very moment he was about entering the chateau, Bragelonne met De Guiche. But before having been met by Raoul, 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 Saint-Aignan. When they met, they congratulated each other upon their good fortune, and Manicamp 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, which he perhaps expected, answered that every pocket which is always being drawn upon without anything ever being put in it, resembles those wells which supply water during the winter, but which gardeners render useless by exhausting 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!”
At the exact moment he was about to enter the chateau, Bragelonne ran into De Guiche. But before De Guiche encountered Raoul, he had met Manicamp, who had met Malicorne. How did Malicorne meet Manicamp? It’s simple because he had been waiting for him to return from mass, where he had gone with M. de Saint-Aignan. When they crossed paths, they congratulated each other on their good luck, and Manicamp used the opportunity to ask his friend if he still had a few crowns left at the bottom of his pocket. The latter, without showing any surprise at the question, which he might have expected, replied that any pocket that is always being emptied without anything ever being added to it is like those wells that provide water in winter but are drained by gardeners in summer; that Malicorne’s pocket was certainly deep, and it would be enjoyable to draw from it in times of plenty, but unfortunately, overuse had led to its emptiness. To this comment, Manicamp, lost in thought, responded, “That’s true!”
“The question, then, is how to fill it?” Malicorne added.
“The question is, how do we fill it?” Malicorne added.
“Of course; but in what way?”
"Sure, but how?"
“Nothing easier, my dear Monsieur Manicamp.”
“Nothing could be easier, my dear Mr. Manicamp.”
“So much the better. How?”
"That's even better. How?"
“A post in Monsieur’s household, and the pocket is full again.”
“A position in the Monsieur's household, and the pocket is full again.”
“You have the post?”
"Do you have the post?"
“That is, I have the promise of being nominated.”
"That means I have a guarantee of being nominated."
“Well!”
“Well!”
“Yes; but the promise of nomination, without the post itself, is like a purse with no money in it.”
“Yes; but the promise of a nomination, without the actual position, is like a wallet with no cash in it.”
“Quite true,” Manicamp replied a second time.
"Exactly," Manicamp said again.
“Let us try for the post, then,” the candidate had persisted.
"Let's go for the position, then," the candidate had insisted.
“My dear fellow,” sighed Manicamp, “an appointment in his royal highness’s household is one of the gravest difficulties of our position.”
“My dear friend,” sighed Manicamp, “a position in his royal highness’s household is one of the biggest challenges we face.”
“Oh! oh!”
“Oh my!”
“There is no question that, at the present moment, we cannot ask Monsieur for anything.”
“There’s no doubt that, right now, we can’t ask Monsieur for anything.”
“Why so?” “Because we are not on good terms with him.”
“Why is that?” “Because we don’t get along with him.”
“A great absurdity, too,” said Malicorne, promptly.
“A huge absurdity, too,” said Malicorne, quickly.
“Bah! and if we were to show Madame any attention,” said Manicamp, “frankly speaking, do you think we should please Monsieur?”
“Ugh! And if we were to pay any attention to Madame,” said Manicamp, “to be honest, do you think that would make Monsieur happy?”
“Precisely; if we show Madame any attention, and do it adroitly, Monsieur ought to adore us.”
“Exactly; if we give Madame any attention, and do it skillfully, Monsieur should love us.”
“Hum!”
"Hum!"
“Either that or we are great fools. Make haste, therefore, M. Manicamp, you who are so able a politician, and make M. de Guiche and his royal highness friendly again.”
“Either that or we're really foolish. So hurry up, M. Manicamp, you who are such a skilled politician, and help M. de Guiche and his royal highness make up.”
“Tell me, what did M. de Saint-Aignan tell you, Malicorne?”
“Tell me, what did Mr. de Saint-Aignan tell you, Malicorne?”
“Tell me? nothing; he asked me several questions, and that was all.”
“Tell me? Nothing; he asked me a few questions, and that was it.”
“Well, was he less discreet, then, with me.”
“Well, was he less careful with me, then?”
“What did he tell you?”
“What did he say to you?”
“That the king is passionately in love with Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”
“That the king is deeply in love with Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”
“We knew that already,” replied Malicorne, ironically; “and everybody talks about it loud enough for all to know it; but in the meantime, do what I advise you; speak to M. de Guiche, and endeavor to get him to make advances to Monsieur. Deuce take it! he owes his royal highness that, at least.”
“We already know that,” Malicorne replied, sarcastically; “and everyone talks about it loudly enough for everyone to be aware; but in the meantime, do what I suggest; talk to M. de Guiche and try to get him to make moves toward Monsieur. For heaven's sake! He at least owes that to his royal highness.”
“But we must see De Guiche, then?”
“But we have to see De Guiche, right?”
“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.”
“There doesn’t seem to be any major difficulty in that; try to see him the way I tried to see you; wait for him; you know he really enjoys walking.”
“Yes; but whereabouts does he walk?”
“Yes, but where does he walk?”
“What a question to ask! Do you not know that he is in love with Madame?”
“What a question to ask! Don’t you know that he’s in love with Madame?”
“So it is said.”
"That's what they say."
“Very well; you will find him walking about on the side of the chateau where her apartments are.”
“Alright; you’ll find him strolling around the side of the chateau where her rooms are.”
“Stay, my dear Malicorne, you were not mistaken, for here he is coming.”
“Wait, my dear Malicorne, you were right, because here he comes.”
“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?”
“Why should I be wrong? Have you ever seen me make a mistake? Come on, we just need to understand each other. Do you need money?”
“Ah!” exclaimed Manicamp, mournfully.
“Ah!” Manicamp exclaimed, sadly.
“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.”
“Well, I want my appointment. Let Malicorne take the appointment, and Manicamp will get the money. There’s no bigger issue than that.”
“Very well; in that case make yourself easy. I will do my best.”
“Alright; in that case, don’t worry. I’ll try my best.”
“Do.”
"Just do it."
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 walked over, Malicorne moved aside, and Manicamp grabbed De Guiche, who looked pensive and downcast. “Hey, my dear comte, what rhyme were you trying to come up with?” asked Manicamp. “I have a great one that goes with yours, especially 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 something very different from a rhyme.”
De Guiche shook his head and, spotting a friend, took him by the arm. “My dear Manicamp,” he said, “I’m looking for something very different from a rhyme.”
“What is it you are looking for?”
“What are you searching for?”
“You will help me to find what I am in search of,” continued the comte: “you who are such an idle fellow, in other words, a man with a mind full of ingenious devices.”
“You're going to help me find what I'm looking for,” the count continued. “You, who are such a lazy guy, or in other words, a person with a mind full of clever ideas.”
“I am getting my ingenuity ready, then, my dear comte.”
“I’m preparing my creativity, then, my dear count.”
“This is the state of the case, then: I wish to approach a particular house, where I have some business.”
“This is the situation: I want to go to a specific house, where I have something to take care of.”
“You must get near the house, then,” said Manicamp.
“You need to get close to the house, then,” said Manicamp.
“Very good; but in this house dwells a husband who happens to be jealous.”
“Very good; but in this house lives a husband who is jealous.”
“Is he more jealous than the dog Cerberus?”
“Is he more jealous than the dog Cerberus?”
“Not more, but quite as much so.”
“Not more, but just as much.”
“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 an excellent reason, since poets pretend that, in order to soften Monsieur Cerberus, the visitor must take something enticing 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.”
“Does he have three mouths like that stubborn guardian of the underworld? Don’t shrug your shoulders, my dear count: I’m asking you for a good reason, since poets claim that to soften Monsieur Cerberus, a visitor must bring something tempting with them—a cake, for example. So, I, who look at things quite practically, meaning in terms of reality, say: one cake is not enough for three mouths. If your jealous husband has three mouths, count, bring three cakes.”
“Manicamp, I can get such advice as that from M. de Beautru.”
“Manicamp, I can get advice like that from M. de Beautru.”
“In order to get better advice,” said Manicamp, with a comical seriousness of expression, “you will be obliged to adopt a more precise formula than you have used towards me.”
“In order to get better advice,” said Manicamp, with a funny seriousness on his face, “you will need to use a clearer formula than the one you've used with me.”
“If Raoul were here,” said De Guiche, “he would be sure to understand me.”
“If Raoul were here,” De Guiche said, “he would definitely get what I’m saying.”
“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.’”
“So I think, especially if you said to him: ‘I would really like to see Madame a bit closer, but I'm worried about Monsieur, since he’s jealous.’”
“Manicamp!” cried the comte, angrily, and endeavoring to overwhelm his tormentor by a look, who did not, however, appear to be in the slightest degree disturbed by it.
“Manicamp!” shouted the count, angrily, trying to intimidate his tormentor with a glare, but the person didn’t seem to be affected at all.
“What is the matter now, my dear comte?” inquired Manicamp.
“What’s wrong now, my dear comte?” asked Manicamp.
“What! is it thus you blaspheme the most sacred of names?”
“What! Is this how you disrespect the most sacred of names?”
“What names?”
"What names are you talking about?"
“Monsieur! Madame! the highest names in the kingdom.”
“Mister! Misses! the most prominent 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 replied to you, in order to see Madame, you must get a little more intimate with Monsieur.”
“You're quite mistaken, my dear comte. I never brought up the most prominent names in the kingdom. I only responded to you regarding a jealous husband, whose name you didn't share, and who, understandably, has a wife. So, I told you that to see Madame, you'll need to get a bit closer with Monsieur.”
“Double-dealer that you are,” said the comte, smiling; “was that what you said?”
“Two-faced as you are,” said the count, smiling; “was that what you said?”
“Nothing else.”
"Nothing more."
“Very good; what then?”
"Sounds good; what's next?"
“Now,” added Manicamp, “let the question be regarding 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.”
“Now,” added Manicamp, “let’s discuss the Duchess—or the Duke—; fine, I’ll say this: Let’s find a way to get into the house, because that tactic can’t hurt your love life.”
“Ah! Manicamp, if you could but find me a pretext, a good pretext.”
“Ah! Manicamp, if only you could find me an excuse, a good excuse.”
“A pretext; I can find you a hundred, nay, a thousand. If Malicorne were here, he would have already hit upon a thousand excellent pretexts.”
“A reason; I can come up with a hundred, no, a thousand. If Malicorne were here, he would have already thought of a thousand great reasons.”
“Who is Malicorne?” replied De Guiche, half-shutting his eyes, like a person reflecting, “I seem to know the name.”
“Who is Malicorne?” De Guiche replied, half-closing his eyes, like someone deep in thought. “That name sounds familiar.”
“Know him! I should think so: you owe his father thirty thousand crowns.”
“Know him? I would think so: you owe his father thirty thousand crowns.”
“Ah, indeed! so it’s that worthy fellow from Orleans.”
“Ah, indeed! So it’s that good guy from Orleans.”
“Whom you promised an appointment in Monsieur’s household; not the jealous husband, but the other.”
“Whom you promised a position in the Monsieur’s household; not the jealous husband, but the other one.”
“Well, then, since your friend Malicorne is such an inventive genius, let him find me a means of being adored by Monsieur, and a pretext to make my peace with him.”
“Well, since your friend Malicorne is such a creative genius, let him figure out a way for me to win Monsieur’s affection and a reason to make amends with him.”
“Very good: I’ll talk to him about it.”
“Sounds great: I’ll talk to him about it.”
“But who is that coming?”
“But who’s that coming?”
“The Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
“Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
“Raoul! yes, it is he,” said De Guiche, as he hastened forward to meet him. “You here, Raoul?” said De Guiche.
“Raoul! Yes, it's really you,” De Guiche said as he rushed forward to greet him. “You’re here, Raoul?” De Guiche asked.
“Yes: I was looking for you to say farewell,” replied Raoul, warmly, pressing the comte’s hand. “How do you do, Monsieur Manicamp?”
“Yes: I was hoping to say goodbye to you,” Raoul replied warmly, shaking the comte’s hand. “How’s it going, Monsieur Manicamp?”
“How is this, vicomte, you are leaving us?”
“How is this, viscount, you’re leaving us?”
“Yes, a mission from the king.”
“Yes, a mission from the king.”
“Where are you going?”
“Where are you headed?”
“To London. On leaving you, I am going to Madame; she has a letter to give me for his majesty, Charles II.”
“To London. After I leave you, I'm heading to Madame; she has a letter for me to deliver to his majesty, Charles II.”
“You will find her alone, for Monsieur has gone out; gone to bathe, in fact.”
“You’ll find her by herself because Monsieur has gone out; he’s actually gone to take a bath.”
“In that case, you, who are one of Monsieur’s gentlemen in waiting, will undertake to make my excuses to him. I would have waited in order to receive any directions he might have to give me, if the desire for my immediate departure had not been intimated to me by M. Fouquet on behalf of his majesty.”
“In that case, you, who are one of Monsieur’s attendants, will take it upon yourself to apologize to him for me. I would have waited to hear any instructions he might have for me, if it hadn’t been hinted to me by M. Fouquet on behalf of his majesty that I should leave immediately.”
Manicamp touched De Guiche’s elbow, saying, “There’s a pretext for you.”
Manicamp tapped De Guiche on the elbow and said, “There’s your excuse.”
“What?”
"What?"
“M. de Bragelonne’s excuses.”
“De Bragelonne's excuses.”
“A weak pretext,” said De Guiche.
“A weak excuse,” said De Guiche.
“An excellent one, if Monsieur is not angry with you; but a paltry one if he bears you ill-will.”
“It's great if the man isn't mad at you, but it's not worth much if he has a grudge against you.”
“You are right, Manicamp; a pretext, however poor it may be, is all I require. And so, a pleasant journey to you, Raoul!” And the two friends took a warm leave of each other.
“You're right, Manicamp; I just need a reason, no matter how flimsy it is. So, have a great trip, Raoul!” And the two friends said their goodbyes warmly.
Five minutes afterwards Raoul entered Madame’s apartments, as Mademoiselle 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 she had used to seal it. Only in her deep reflection, for Madame seemed to be buried in thought, she had forgotten to extinguish the light. 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 Le Havre to Paris. Madame preserved therefore an excellent recollection of him.
Five minutes later, Raoul walked into Madame's rooms, as Mademoiselle de Montalais had asked him to. Madame was still sitting at the table where she had written her letter. The rose-colored candle she used to seal it was still burning in front of her. Lost in deep thought, Madame had forgotten to put out the flame. Bragelonne was the epitome of elegance in every way; it was impossible to see him just once without always remembering him. Not only had Madame seen him once, but it's worth noting he was one of the first to greet her and had accompanied her from Le Havre to Paris. So, Madame had a very good memory of him.
“Ah! M. 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 contracted with the father.”
“Ah! Mr. de Bragelonne,” she said to him, “you’re going to see my brother, who will be happy to repay part of the debt of gratitude he owes to your 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 manifested towards him, and it is I who will have to convey to his majesty the assurance of the respect, devotion, and gratitude of both father and son.”
“The Count de la Fère, ma’am, has been more than rewarded for the small service he was lucky enough to provide to the king through the kindness shown to him, and I will have to convey to His Majesty the assurance of the respect, devotion, and gratitude from both father and son.”
“Do you know my brother?”
"Do you know my bro?"
“No, your highness; I shall have the honor of seeing his majesty for the first time.”
“No, your highness; I will have the honor of meeting 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.”
“You don’t need a reference for him. Still, if you have any doubts about your own worth, feel free to count on me as your guarantee.”
“Your royal highness overwhelms me with kindness.”
“Your royal highness is so kind, it overwhelms me.”
“No! M. de Bragelonne, I well remember that we were fellow-travelers once, and that I remarked your extreme prudence in the midst of the extravagant absurdities committed, on both sides, by two of the greatest simpletons in the world,—M. 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 permanently? Forgive my inquiry: it is not curiosity, but a desire to be of service to you in anything I can.”
“No! Mr. de Bragelonne, I clearly remember that we were traveling companions at one point, and I noted your incredible caution amidst the outrageous foolishness displayed by two of the biggest fools in the world—Mr. de Guiche and the Duke of Buckingham. But let’s not talk about them; let’s talk about you. Are you planning to stay in England permanently? I hope you don’t mind my asking; it’s not out of curiosity, but because I genuinely want to help you in any way I can.”
“No, Madame; I am going to England to fulfil a mission which his majesty has been kind enough to confide to me—nothing more.”
“No, ma'am; I'm going to England to carry out a mission that His Majesty has kindly entrusted to me—nothing more.”
“And you propose to return to France?”
“And you're planning to go back to France?”
“As soon as I have accomplished my mission; unless, indeed, his majesty, King Charles II., should have other orders for me.”
“As soon as I finish my mission; unless, of course, his majesty, King Charles II, gives me different instructions.”
“He well beg you, at the very least, I am sure, to remain near him as long as possible.”
“He will definitely ask you, at the very least, to stay near him for as long as you can.”
“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 devoted servants is far away from him.”
“In that case, since I won’t know how to say no, I kindly ask your royal highness to please remind the king of France that one of his loyal servants is far from him.”
“Take care that when you are recalled, you do not consider his command an abuse of power.”
“Make sure that when you are called back, you don’t see his command as an abuse of power.”
“I do not understand you, Madame.”
“I don’t get you, ma’am.”
“The court of France is not easily matched, I am aware, but yet we have some pretty women at the court of England also.”
“The court of France is hard to beat, I know, but we have some lovely women at the court of England too.”
Raoul smiled.
Raoul grinned.
“Oh!” said Madame, “yours is a smile which portends no good to my countrywomen. It is as though you were telling 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?”
“Oh!” said Madame, “your smile suggests trouble for my countrywomen. It's as if you're saying, Monsieur de Bragelonne: ‘I’m here to see you, but my heart is back across the Channel.’ Didn't your smile imply that?”
“Your highness is gifted with the power of reading the inmost depths of the soul, and you will understand, therefore, why, at present, any prolonged residence at the court of England would be a matter of the deepest regret.”
“Your highness has the ability to see into the deepest parts of the soul, and you will understand, then, why staying at the court of England for an extended time would be a source of great regret right now.”
“And I need not inquire if so gallant a knight is recompensed in return?”
“And I don't need to ask if such a brave knight is rewarded in return?”
“I have been brought up, Madame, with her whom I love, and I believe our affection is mutual.”
“I grew up, Madame, alongside the one I love, and I believe our feelings are 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.”
“In that case, don’t put off your departure, Monsieur de Bragelonne, and don’t take too long to come back, because when you do, we’ll have two happy people to celebrate; I hope nothing is standing in the way of your happiness.”
“There is a great obstacle, Madame.”
“There is a big obstacle, Ma'am.”
“Indeed! what is it?”
“Absolutely! What’s going on?”
“The king’s wishes on the subject.”
“The king’s wishes on the subject.”
“The king opposes your marriage?”
“Does the king oppose your marriage?”
“He postpones it, at least. I solicited his majesty’s consent through the Comte de la Fere, and, without absolutely refusing it, he positively said it must be deferred.”
“He puts it off for now. I asked for his majesty’s approval through the Comte de la Fere, and although he didn’t outright refuse, he definitely said it has to be delayed.”
“Is the young lady whom you love unworthy of you, then?”
“Is the young woman you love not good enough for you, then?”
“She is worthy of a king’s affection, Madame.”
“She deserves a king’s love, Madame.”
“I mean, she is not, perhaps, of birth equal to your own.”
“I mean, she isn’t exactly of the same birth as you.”
“Her family is excellent.”
"Her family is great."
“Is she young, beautiful?”
“Is she young and beautiful?”
“She is seventeen, and, in my opinion, exceedingly beautiful.”
"She's seventeen, and I personally think she's incredibly beautiful."
“Is she in the country, or at Paris?”
“Is she in the country or in Paris?”
“She is here at Fontainebleau, Madame.”
"She's here at Fontainebleau, ma'am."
“At the court?”
“At the courthouse?”
“Yes.”
“Yep.”
“Do I know her?”
"Do I know her?"
“She has the honor to form one of your highness’s household.”
“She has the honor of being part of your highness’s household.”
“Her name?” inquired the princess, anxiously; “if indeed,” she added, hastily, “her name is not a secret.”
“Her name?” asked the princess, nervously; “if it’s not,” she added quickly, “her name isn’t a secret.”
“No, Madame, my affection is too pure for me to make a secret of it to any one, and with still greater reason to your royal highness, whose kindness towards me has been so extreme. It is Mademoiselle Louise de la Valliere.”
“No, Your Highness, my feelings are too genuine for me to hide them from anyone, especially you, whose kindness to me has been so extraordinary. It is Mademoiselle Louise de la Valliere.”
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 taken ill, I believe.”
Madame couldn't hold back an exclamation, one that revealed a feeling stronger than surprise. “Ah!” she said, “La Valliere—she who was unwell yesterday—” she paused, then added, “she who I think was taken ill.”
“Yes, Madame; it was only this morning that I heard of the accident that had befallen her.”
“Yes, ma'am; I only heard about the accident that happened to her this morning.”
“Did you see her before you came to me?”
“Did you see her before you came to me?”
“I had the honor of taking leave of her.”
“I had the privilege of saying goodbye to her.”
“And you say,” resumed Madame, making a powerful effort over herself, “that the king has—deferred your marriage with this young girl.”
“And you say,” continued Madame, making a strong effort to compose herself, “that the king has postponed your marriage with this young girl.”
“Yes, Madame, deferred it.”
“Yes, ma'am, I postponed it.”
“Did he assign any reason for this postponement?”
“Did he give any reason for this delay?”
“None.”
“None.”
“How long is it since the Comte de la Fere preferred his request to the king?”
“How long has it been since the Comte de la Fere made his request to the king?”
“More than a month, Madame.”
“Over a month, Madame.”
“It is very singular,” said the princess, as something like a film clouded her eyes.
“It’s really strange,” said the princess, as a film seemed to cloud her eyes.
“A month?” she repeated.
“A month?” she echoed.
“About a month.”
“About a month ago.”
“You are right, vicomte,” said the princess, with a smile, in which De Bragelonne might have remarked a kind of restraint; “my brother must not keep you too long in England; set off at once, and in the first letter I write to England, I will claim you in the king’s name.” And Madame rose to place her letter in Bragelonne’s hands. Raoul understood that his audience was at an end; he took the letter, bowed lowly to the princess, and left the room.
“You're right, vicomte,” said the princess, smiling, though De Bragelonne might have noticed a hint of restraint; “my brother shouldn’t keep you in England for too long; leave right away, and in the first letter I send to England, I'll request you in the king’s name.” And Madame stood up to hand her letter to Bragelonne. Raoul realized his time was up; he took the letter, bowed deeply to the princess, and exited 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 postscript of which was a summons for Bragelonne to return.
“A month!” the princess whispered; “Could I really have been so blind, and did he truly love her for this past month?” And since Madame had nothing else to do, she sat down to start a letter to her brother, with a postscript asking Bragelonne to come back.
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 towards the chateau, wearing a woman’s veil to protect his face from getting burnt by the sun, which was shining very brightly. Monsieur was in one of those fits of good humor to which the admiration of his own good looks sometimes gave occasion. As he was bathing he had been able to compare the whiteness of his body with that of the courtiers, and, thanks to the care which his royal highness took of himself, no one, not even the Chevalier de Lorraine, was able to stand the comparison. Monsieur, moreover, had been tolerably successful in swimming, and his muscles having 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 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.
The Comte de Guiche, as we’ve seen, had given in to Manicamp's persistent urging and let himself be led to the stables, where they wanted their horses to be saddled up. Then, following one of the side paths, which we’ve previously described, they made their way to meet Monsieur, who had just finished bathing and was heading back to the chateau, wearing a woman’s veil to shield his face from the bright sun. Monsieur was in one of those good moods that sometimes came from admiring his own looks. While bathing, he had compared the whiteness of his skin with that of the courtiers, and thanks to the care he took of himself, not even the Chevalier de Lorraine could compare. Monsieur had also done pretty well in the water, and after exercising his muscles with a refreshing swim, he felt light and cheerful. So, when he saw Guiche approaching on a stunning white horse at a brisk gallop, the prince couldn't help but exclaim with delight.
“I think matters look well,” said Manicamp, who fancied he could read this friendly disposition upon his royal highness’s countenance.
“I think things look good,” said Manicamp, who believed he could read this friendly attitude on his royal highness's face.
“Good day, De Guiche, good day,” exclaimed the prince.
“Good day, De Guiche, good day,” the prince exclaimed.
“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.”
“Long life to your royal highness!” replied De Guiche, feeling encouraged by the tone of Philip’s voice; “wishing you health, joy, happiness, and prosperity, 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.”
“Welcome, De Guiche, come to my right side, but keep your horse in check, because I want to go back 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 as he had been invited to do.
“As you wish, sir,” said De Guiche, taking his seat on the prince’s right as he had 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.”
“Now, my dear De Guiche,” said the prince, “update me on that De Guiche I used to know back in the day, the one who used to pay attention to my wife.”
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 company, and only terminating with the last. De Guiche, although blushing scarlet, put a good countenance on the matter; Manicamp looked at him.
Guiche blushed all the way to the whites of his eyes, while Monsieur started laughing as if he had just made the funniest joke in the world. The few favored courtiers around Monsieur felt they had to join in, even though they hadn't heard what was said, and a loud wave of laughter erupted, beginning with the first courtier and spreading through the entire group, only stopping with the last. De Guiche, despite turning bright red, managed to keep a straight face; Manicamp watched him.
“Ah! monseigneur,” replied De Guiche, “show a little charity towards such a miserable fellow as I am: do not hold me up to the ridicule of the Chevalier de Lorraine.”
“Ah! my lord,” replied De Guiche, “have a little compassion for a miserable guy like me: please don’t make me the target of the Chevalier de Lorraine’s ridicule.”
“How do you mean?”
"What do you mean?"
“If he hears you ridicule me, he will go beyond your highness, and will show no pity.”
“If he hears you make fun of me, he'll go even further than you, and he won't show any mercy.”
“About your passion and the princess, do you mean?”
“Are you talking about your passion and the princess?”
“For mercy’s sake, monseigneur.”
“For heaven’s sake, sir.”
“Come, come, De Guiche, confess that you did get a little sweet upon Madame.”
“Come on, De Guiche, admit that you did have a bit of a crush on Madame.”
“I will never confess such a thing, monseigneur.”
“I will never confess to that, sir.”
“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 Chalais or Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”
“Out of respect for me, I guess; but I free you from that respect, De Guiche. Just admit it, as if it were just a matter about Mademoiselle de Chalais or Mademoiselle de la Valliere.”
Then breaking off, he said, beginning to laugh again, “Comte, that wasn’t at all bad!—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 affianced bride and his future lady love.”
Then breaking off, he said, starting to laugh again, “Comte, that was actually pretty good!—a remark like a sword, which cuts both ways. I hit you and my brother at the same time, Chalais and La Valliere, your fiancée and his future sweetheart.”
“Really, monseigneur,” said the comte, “you are in a most brilliant humor to-day.”
“Seriously, sir,” said the count, “you’re in a really great mood today.”
“The fact is, I feel well, and then I am pleased to see you again. But you were angry with me, were you not?”
“The truth is, I feel great, and I'm happy to see you again. But you were upset with me, weren't you?”
“I, monseigneur? Why should I have been so?”
“I, sir? Why should I have been that way?”
“Because I interfered with your sarabands and your other Spanish amusements. Nay, do not deny it. On that day you left the princess’s apartments with your eyes full of fury; that brought you ill-luck, for you danced in the ballet yesterday in a most wretched manner. Now don’t get sulky, De Guiche, for it does you no good, but makes you look like a tame bear. If the princess did not look at you attentively yesterday, I am quite sure of one thing.”
“Because I messed things up for your sarabands and your other Spanish fun. Come on, don’t deny it. That day you left the princess’s rooms with fire in your eyes; that brought you bad luck, because you danced in the ballet yesterday in a really awful way. Now don’t sulk, De Guiche, it doesn’t help and just makes you look like a sad bear. If the princess didn’t pay much attention to you yesterday, I’m definitely sure of one thing.”
“What is that, monseigneur? Your highness alarms me.”
“What is that, Your Highness? You’re scaring me.”
“She has quite forsworn you now,” said the prince, with a burst of loud laughter.
“She has totally sworn you off now,” said the prince, laughing loudly.
“Decidedly,” thought Manicamp, “rank has nothing to do with it, and all men are alike.”
“Definitely,” thought Manicamp, “rank doesn’t matter, and all men are the same.”
The prince continued: “At all events, you have now returned, and it is to be hoped that the chevalier will become amiable again.”
The prince continued, “Anyway, you’re back now, and hopefully the knight will be friendly again.”
“How so, monseigneur: and by what miracle can I exercise such an influence over M. de Lorraine?”
“How so, sir: and by what miracle can I have such an influence over M. de Lorraine?”
“The matter is very simple, he is jealous of you.”
“The issue is straightforward, he’s jealous of you.”
“Bah! it is not possible.”
“Ugh! That’s not possible.”
“It is the case, though.”
"However, it is the case."
“He does me too much honor.”
"He respects me too much."
“The fact is, that when you are here, he is full of kindness 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 that has struck me?”
“The fact is, when you’re here, he’s really kind and attentive, but when you’re gone, he makes me suffer tremendously. I feel like a see-saw. By the way, do you know the idea that just hit me?”
“I do not even suspect it.”
“I don’t even think so.”
“Well, then; when you were in exile—for you really were exiled, my poor De Guiche—”
“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.
“I would think so, for sure; but whose fault was it?” said De Guiche, pretending to sound angry.
“Not mine, certainly, my dear comte,” replied his royal highness, “upon my honor, I did not ask for the king to exile you—”
“Not mine, certainly, my dear count,” replied his royal highness, “I swear, I did not ask the king to send you into exile—”
“No, not you, monseigneur, I am well aware; but—”
“No, not you, sir, I know that; but—”
“But Madame; well, as far as that goes, I do not say it was not the case. Why, what the deuce did you do or say to Madame?”
“But Madame; well, I’m not saying it didn’t happen. What on earth did you do or say to Madame?”
“Really, monseigneur—”
“Seriously, sir—”
“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.”
“Women, I know, can hold onto grudges, and my wife isn’t without her quirks in that regard. But if she were the reason for your exile, I hold no resentment towards you.”
“In that case, monseigneur,” said De Guiche. “I am not altogether unhappy.”
“In that case, sir,” said De Guiche. “I’m not really unhappy.”
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.
Manicamp, who was closely trailing De Guiche and didn't miss a word the prince was saying, leaned forward over his horse's neck to hide the laughter he couldn't hold back.
“Besides, your exile started a project in my head.”
“Besides, your exile sparked an idea in my mind.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
“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 towards me who had neglected her so much, the idea occurred to me of becoming a model husband—a rarity, a curiosity, at the court; and I had an idea of getting very fond of my wife.”
“When the knight noticed you weren’t around anymore and felt safe to act out, he started to pick on me. I saw that my wife, in stark contrast to him, was really sweet and kind to me even though I had neglected her for so long. That’s when it hit me that I should try to be a model husband—a rare sight at court; and I started to think I could actually grow to love my wife.”
De Guiche looked at the prince with a stupefied expression of countenance, which was not assumed.
De Guiche looked at the prince with a genuinely shocked expression on his face.
“Oh! monseigneur,” De Guiche stammered out; “surely, that never seriously occurred to you.”
“Oh! sir,” De Guiche stammered; “that can’t have seriously crossed your mind.”
“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 grandfather, Henry IV., sojourned with La Belle Gabrielle. What do you think of that idea, De Guiche?”
“Absolutely. I have some land that my brother gave me when I got married; she has her own money, and quite a bit of it too, since she receives funds from her brother and brother-in-law in England and France at the same time. Well! We should have left the court. I would have retreated to my chateau in Villers-Cotterets, located in the heart of a forest, where we could have lived a very romantic life in the same place where my grandfather, Henry IV., stayed with La Belle Gabrielle. What do you think of that idea, De Guiche?”
“Why, it is enough to make one shiver, monseigneur,” replied De Guiche, who shuddered in reality.
“Honestly, it’s enough to give you chills, sir,” replied De Guiche, who actually shuddered.
“Ah! I see you would never be able to endure being exiled a second time.”
“Ah! I see you could never handle being exiled again.”
“I, monseigneur?”
“I, your grace?”
“I will not carry you off with us, as I had first intended.”
“I won't take you with us like I originally planned.”
“What, with you, monseigneur?”
"What’s up with you, sir?"
“Yes; if the idea should occur to me again of taking a dislike to the court.”
“Yes; if I ever feel like disliking the court again.”
“Oh! do not let that make any difference, monseigneur; I would follow your highness to the end of the world.”
“Oh! don't let that change anything, your highness; I would follow you to the ends of the earth.”
“Clumsy fellow that you are!” said Manicamp, grumblingly, pushing his horse towards De Guiche, so as almost to unseat him, and then, as he passed close to him, as if he had lost command over the horse, he whispered, “For goodness’ sake, think what you are saying.”
“Clumsy guy you are!” said Manicamp, grumbling, nudging his horse toward De Guiche, nearly throwing him off balance, and then, as he rode past him, as if he had lost control of the horse, he whispered, “For goodness’ sake, think about what you’re saying.”
“Well, it is agreed, then,” said the prince; “since you are so devoted to me, I shall take you with me.”
“Alright, it’s settled then,” said the prince; “since you’re so loyal to me, I’ll take you with me.”
“Anywhere, monseigneur,” replied De Guiche in a joyous tone, “whenever you like, and at once, too. Are you ready?”
“Anywhere, your grace,” replied De Guiche with a cheerful tone, “whenever you want, and right now, too. Are you ready?”
And De Guiche, laughingly, gave his horse the rein, and galloped forward a few yards.
And De Guiche, laughing, loosened the reins of his horse and galloped ahead a few yards.
“One moment,” said the prince. “Let us go to the chateau first.”
“One moment,” said the prince. “Let’s go to the chateau first.”
“What for?”
"Why?"
“Why, to take my wife, of course.”
“Why, to take my wife, of course.”
“What for?” asked De Guiche.
“What’s that for?” asked De Guiche.
“Why, since I tell you that it is a project of conjugal affection, it is necessary I should take my wife with me.”
“Look, since I'm saying this is a plan of marital love, I need to take my wife with me.”
“In that case, monseigneur,” replied the comte, “I am greatly concerned, but no De Guiche for you.”
“In that case, sir,” replied the count, “I’m very worried, but no De Guiche for you.”
“Bah!”
"Ugh!"
“Yes.—Why do you take Madame with you?”
“Yes. Why are you taking Madame with you?”
“Because I begin to fancy I love her,” said the prince.
“Because I’m starting to think I love her,” said the prince.
De Guiche turned slightly pale, but endeavored to preserve his seeming cheerfulness.
De Guiche turned a little pale, but tried to keep up his appearance of 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.”
“If you love her, my lord,” he said, “that should be more than enough for you, and you don’t need your friends anymore.”
“Not bad, not bad,” murmured Manicamp.
“Not bad, not bad,” Manicamp said quietly.
“There, your fear of Madame has begun again,” replied the prince.
“There, your fear of Madame has started up again,” replied the prince.
“Why, monseigneur, I have experienced that to my cost; a woman who was the cause of my being exiled!”
“Why, sir, I have suffered because of that; a woman who caused my exile!”
“What a revengeful disposition you have, De Guiche, how virulently you bear malice.”
“What a vengeful nature you have, De Guiche, how intensely you hold grudges.”
“I should like the case to be your own, monseigneur.”
“I’d like the case to be yours, sir.”
“Decidedly, then, that was the reason why you danced so badly yesterday; you wished to revenge yourself, I suppose, by trying to make Madame make a mistake in her dancing; ah! that is very paltry, De Guiche, and I will tell Madame of it.”
“Clearly, that’s why you danced so poorly yesterday; you wanted to get back at her, I guess, by trying to make Madame mess up her dancing; ah! that’s really petty, De Guiche, and I’ll let Madame know about it.”
“You may tell her whatever you please, monseigneur, for her highness cannot hate me more than she does.”
“You can tell her anything you want, sir, because she can't hate me any more than she already does.”
“Nonsense, you are exaggerating; and this because merely of the fortnight’s sojourn in the country she imposed on you.”
“Nonsense, you’re exaggerating, and that’s only because of the two weeks you spent in the countryside.”
“Monseigneur, a fortnight is a fortnight; and when the time is passed in getting sick and tired of everything, a fortnight is an eternity.”
“Monseigneur, two weeks is two weeks; and when the time is spent feeling sick and tired of everything, two weeks feels like forever.”
“So that you will not forgive her?”
“So you’re not going to forgive her?”
“Never!”
"Not a chance!"
“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 unkindness in her nature, and that she is very talented.”
“Come on, De Guiche, be in a better mood than that. I want to help you make things right with her; you'll see, when you talk to her, that she has no ill will or unkindness in her nature and that she’s really talented.”
“Monseigneur—”
“Your Excellency—”
“You will see that she can receive her friends like a princess, and laugh like a citizen’s wife; you will see that, when she pleases, she can make the pleasant hours pass like minutes. Come, De Guiche, you must really make up your differences with my wife.”
“You'll see that she can welcome her friends like a princess and laugh like any housewife; you'll see that, when she wants to, she can make good times fly by like minutes. Come on, De Guiche, you really need to patch things up 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 tiger beside his royal highness.”
“Honestly,” Manicamp said to himself, “the prince is a husband whose wife's name will bring him bad luck, and King Candaules, back in the day, was a tiger compared to his royal highness.”
“At all events,” added the prince, “I 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 commonplace about her: it is not every one who takes her fancy.”
“At any rate,” the prince added, “I’m sure you’ll patch things up with my wife: I can promise you that. But I need to show you the way now. There’s nothing ordinary about her: not everyone captures her interest.”
“Monseigneur—”
"Your Excellency—"
“No resistance, De Guiche, or I shall get out of temper,” replied the prince.
“Don’t resist, De Guiche, or I’ll lose my temper,” replied the prince.
“Well, since he will have it so,” murmured Manicamp, in Guiche’s ear, “do as he wants you to do.”
“Well, since he’s going to insist on it,” Manicamp whispered to Guiche, “just do what he wants.”
“Well, monseigneur,” said the comte, “I obey.”
“Well, sir,” said the count, “I will comply.”
“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.”
“And to start,” the prince continued, “there will be cards tonight in Madame’s apartment; you’ll have dinner with me, and I’ll take you there with me.”
“Oh! as for that, monseigneur,” objected De Guiche, “you will allow me to object.”
“Oh! about that, sir,” responded De Guiche, “please allow me to disagree.”
“What, again! this is positive rebellion.”
“What, again! This is outright rebellion.”
“Madame received me too indifferently, yesterday, before the whole court.”
“Madame greeted me too indifferently yesterday, in front of the entire court.”
“Really!” said the prince, laughing.
“Seriously!” 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.”
“Nah, it’s so true that she didn’t even respond when I spoke to her; it might be fine to have no self-respect at all, but having too little isn’t enough, as the saying goes.”
“Comte! after dinner, you will go to your own apartments and dress yourself, and then you will come to fetch me. I shall wait for you.”
“Comte! After dinner, you'll go to your own room and get dressed, and then you'll come get me. I'll be waiting for you.”
“Since your highness absolutely commands it.”
“Since you absolutely command it, your highness.”
“Positively.”
“Definitely.”
“He will not lose his hold,” said Manicamp; “these are the things to which husbands cling most obstinately. Ah! what a pity M. Moliere could not have heard this man; he would have turned him into verse if he had.”
“He's not going to let go,” said Manicamp; “these are the things that husbands hold onto most stubbornly. Ah! what a shame M. Moliere couldn't have heard this guy; he would have put him in a poem if he had.”
The prince and his court, chatting in this manner, returned to the coolest apartments of the chateau.
The prince and his court, talking like this, went back to the coolest rooms in the chateau.
“By the by,” said De Guiche, as they were standing by the door, “I had a commission for your royal highness.”
“By the way,” said De Guiche, as they stood by the door, “I had a message for your royal highness.”
“Execute it, then.”
"Go ahead and do it."
“M. de Bragelonne has, by the king’s order, set off for London, and he charged me with his respects for you; monseigneur.”
“M. de Bragelonne has, by the king’s order, left for London, and he asked me to pass on his regards to you; monseigneur.”
“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—”
“A pleasant trip to the viscount, whom I really like. Go get ready, De Guiche, and come back for me. If you don’t return—”
“What will happen, monseigneur?”
“What will happen, sir?”
“I will have you sent to the Bastile.”
“I will have you sent to the Bastille.”
“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.”
“Well,” said De Guiche, laughing, “his royal highness, monseigneur, is definitely the opposite of her royal highness, Madame. Madame sends me into exile because she doesn’t care for me enough; 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 I cannot do without you. Return as soon as you can.”
“Come on,” said the prince, “you’re such a great companion, and you know I can’t manage without you. Come back as soon as you can.”
“Very well; but I am in the humor to prove myself difficult to be pleased, in my turn, monseigneur.”
“Alright; but I’m in the mood to be hard to please, in my turn, sir.”
“Bah!”
“Ugh!”
“So, I will not return to your royal highness, except upon one condition.”
“Okay, I won’t come back to your royal highness unless it’s on one condition.”
“Name it.”
"Name it."
“I want to oblige the friend of one of my friends.”
“I want to do a favor for a friend of one of my friends.”
“What’s his name?”
"What's his name?"
“Malicorne.”
"Malicorne."
“An ugly name.”
“An unappealing name.”
“But very well borne, monseigneur.”
“But very well said, sir.”
“That may be. Well?”
"That might be. Well?"
“Well, I owe M. Malicorne a place in your household, monseigneur.”
"Well, I owe M. Malicorne a position in your household, sir."
“What kind of a place?”
“What type of place?”
“Any kind of a place; a supervision of some sort or another, for instance.”
“Any kind of place; some sort of supervision, for example.”
“That happens very fortunately, for yesterday I dismissed my chief usher of the apartments.”
"That's actually quite lucky because yesterday I let go of my head usher for the apartments."
“That will do admirably. What are his duties?”
"That will work perfectly. What are his responsibilities?"
“Nothing, except to look about and make his report.”
“Nothing, except to look around and give his report.”
“A sort of interior police?”
"A kind of internal security?"
“Exactly.”
"Exactly."
“Ah, how excellently that will suit Malicorne,” Manicamp ventured to say.
“Ah, that will suit Malicorne perfectly,” Manicamp dared to say.
“You know the person we are speaking of, M. Manicamp?” inquired the prince.
“You know who we’re talking about, M. Manicamp?” the prince asked.
“Intimately, monseigneur. He is a friend of mine.”
“Closely, sir. He’s a friend of mine.”
“And your opinion is?”
“What’s your opinion?”
“That your highness could never get a better usher of the apartments than he will make.”
“That your highness could never find a better guide to the apartments than he will be.”
“How much does the appointment bring in?” inquired the comte of the prince.
“How much does the appointment pay?” the comte asked 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 thoroughly in earnest.”
“I really have no idea, but I've always been told that he could earn as much as he wanted when he was completely committed.”
“What do you call being thoroughly in earnest, prince?”
“What do you call being completely serious, prince?”
“It means, of course, when the functionary in question is a man who has his wits about him.”
“It means, of course, when the official in question is a man who is sharp.”
“In that case I think your highness will be content, for Malicorne is as sharp as the devil himself.”
“In that case, I think your highness will be pleased, because Malicorne is as clever 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.”
“Great! This appointment is going to cost me a lot, then,” replied the prince, laughing. “You’re giving me a real gift, count.”
“I believe so, monseigneur.”
“I think so, sir.”
“Well, go and announce to your M. Melicorne—”
“Well, go and tell your M. Melicorne—”
“Malicorne, monseigneur.”
"Malicorne, my lord."
“I shall never get hold of that name.”
“I'll never be able to remember that name.”
“You say Manicamp very well, monseigneur.”
“You say Manicamp really well, sir.”
“Oh, I ought to say Malicorne very well, too. The alliteration will help me.”
“Oh, I should mention Malicorne too. The alliteration will be helpful.”
“Say what you like, monseigneur, I can promise you your inspector of apartments will not be annoyed; he has the very happiest disposition that can be met with.”
“Say what you want, sir, I can assure you that your apartment inspector won’t be bothered; he has the happiest attitude you could find.”
“Well, then, my dear De Guiche, inform him of his nomination. But, stay—”
“Well, then, my dear De Guiche, let him know about his nomination. But wait—”
“What is it, monseigneur?”
"What is it, sir?"
“I wish to see him beforehand; if he be as ugly as his name, I retract every word I have said.”
“I want to see him first; if he's as unattractive as his name, I'll take back everything I've said.”
“Your highness knows him, for you have already seen him at the Palais Royal; nay, indeed, it was I who presented him to you.”
“Your highness knows him because you’ve already seen him at the Palais Royal; in fact, I was the one who introduced him to you.”
“Ah, I remember now—not a bad-looking fellow.”
“Ah, I remember now—not a bad-looking guy.”
“I know you must have noticed him, monseigneur.”
“I know you must have seen him, sir.”
“Yes, yes, yes. You see, De Guiche, I do not wish that 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 Guiche, 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.”
“Yes, yes, yes. Look, De Guiche, I don’t want either my wife or myself surrounded by unattractive faces. My wife will have all her maids of honor be pretty; I’ll have all the gentlemen around me looking good. That way, De Guiche, any children we have will have a good chance of being attractive, as my wife and I will have good-looking examples in front of us.”
“Most magnificently argued, monseigneur,” said Manicamp, showing his approval by look and voice at the same time.
“Very well argued, sir,” said Manicamp, expressing his approval with both his expression and tone.
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, exhibited in a marked manner some indecision of mind on the subject. Manicamp went off to inform Malicorne of the good news he had just learned. De Guiche seemed very unwilling to take his departure 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 that justified the proverb of “Happy as a prince.”
As for De Guiche, he probably didn’t find the argument very convincing, since he just showed his opinion with a gesture that clearly revealed some uncertainty on the topic. Manicamp went off to tell Malicorne the good news he had just learned. De Guiche appeared quite reluctant to leave and get ready. Monsieur, singing, laughing, and admiring himself, passed the time until dinner in a mood that justified the saying, “Happy as a prince.”
Chapter LVI. Story of a Dryad and a Naiad.
Every one had partaken of the banquet at the chateau, and afterwards 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 toilette two hours, everybody was ready about eight o’clock in the evening. Towards eight o’clock, then, the guests began to arrive at Madame’s, for we have already intimated that it was Madame who “received” that evening. And at Madame’s soirees no one failed to be present; for the evenings passed in her apartments always had that perfect charm about them which 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 assigned 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 being termed ill-natured. But Madame was endowed with a spirit of resistance—a gift frequently fatal to its possessor, for it breaks where another disposition would have bent; the result was that blows did not become deadened upon her as upon what might be termed the cotton-wadded feelings of Maria Theresa. Her heart rebounded at each attack, and therefore, whenever she was attacked, even in a manner that almost stunned her, she returned blow for blow to any one imprudent enough to tilt against her.
Everyone had enjoyed the banquet at the chateau and afterwards put on their full court attire. The usual time for the meal was five o’clock. If we say that the meal took an hour and getting ready took two hours, everyone was set by about eight o’clock in the evening. Around that time, the guests started to arrive at Madame’s, as we've already mentioned that it was Madame who was hosting that evening. And at Madame’s soirees, everyone made sure to be there; the evenings spent in her rooms always had a perfect charm that the queen, that pious and excellent princess, couldn’t replicate in her own reunions. Unfortunately, one of the downsides of a kind disposition is that it’s often less entertaining than a more mischievous kind of wit. Yet, let’s quickly add that this kind of wit cannot be applied to Madame, whose naturally high-minded character contained too much genuine generosity, noble impulses, and lofty thoughts to be seen as ill-natured. However, Madame possessed a spirit of resilience—a trait that can often be detrimental to its bearer, as it breaks where another disposition would bend; the result was that blows didn’t leave a mark on her like they might on the cushioned feelings of Maria Theresa. Her heart bounced back with each attack, and so whenever she was confronted, even in ways that nearly stunned her, she retaliated blow for blow against anyone foolish enough to challenge her.
Was this really maliciousness of disposition or simply waywardness of character? We regard those rich and powerful natures as like the tree of knowledge, 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-disguised 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 she allowed 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 remarkably 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. Sufficiently meditative in her liveliest humors to make even poets meditate; sufficiently pretty to dazzle by her attractions, even among the prettiest; sufficiently witty for the most distinguished persons who were present, to be listened to with pleasure—it will easily be believed that the reunions held in Madame’s apartments must naturally have proved 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 venerable individuals indulged, who had carried the love of authority so far as even to take command of bodies of soldiers in the wars of the Fronde, in order, as Madame asserted, not to lose their influence over men altogether. As eight o’clock struck her royal highness entered the great drawing-room accompanied by her ladies in attendance, 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 round for one who, she thought, ought to have been first in attendance, but he was not there. However, almost at the very moment she completed her investigation, Monsieur was announced. Monsieur looked splendid. All the precious stones and jewels of Cardinal Mazarin, which of course that minister could not do otherwise than leave; all the queen-mother’s jewels as well as a few belonging to his wife—Monsieur wore them all, and he was as dazzling as the rising sun. Behind him followed De Guiche, with hesitating steps and 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 in its own way as the jewels of Monsieur in theirs. The plume in his hat was red. Madame, too, wore several colors, and preferred red for embroidery, gray for dress, 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 that covered them, the melancholy expression of his mouth—it was only necessary, indeed, to see M. de Guiche to admit that few men at the court of France could hope to equal him. The consequence was that Monsieur, who was pretentious enough to fancy he 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 silent judges certainly, but very positive and firm in their convictions. Madame looked at De Guiche lightly, but light as her look had been, it brought a delightful color to his face. In fact, Madame found De Guiche so handsome and so admirably dressed, that she almost ceased regretting the royal conquest she felt she was on the point of escaping her. Her heart, therefore, sent the blood to her face. Monsieur approached her. He had not noticed the princess’s blush, or if he had seen it, he was far from attributing it to its true cause.
Was this really malice or just a rebellious character? We see those who are rich and powerful as like the tree of knowledge, producing both good and bad at the same time; a dual branch, always blossoming and fruitful, from which those who seek to enjoy can find the good fruit, while those who are worthless and frivolous perish after taking from it—a situation that shouldn't be seen as a great misfortune. Madame, who had a well-hidden plan to position herself as the second, if not the primary, queen of the court, made her gatherings enjoyable for everyone with her engaging conversation, opportunities to mingle, and the complete freedom she allowed everyone to make whatever remarks they wanted, as long as those remarks were amusing or sensible. And it would be hard to believe that, due to this, there was actually less chatter among the company Madame brought together than anywhere else. Madame despised people who talked too much and took a particularly cruel revenge on them by letting them talk. She also disliked pretense and never overlooked that flaw, even in the king himself. It was more than just a weakness of Monsieur, and the princess had taken on the incredible task of curing him of it. As for the others—poets, wits, beautiful women—she welcomed them all with the demeanor of a mistress above her servants. Sufficiently reflective in her liveliest moods to make even poets think; pretty enough to dazzle even the prettiest; witty enough to make the most distinguished guests listen with pleasure—it’s easy to believe that the gatherings held in Madame’s rooms were extremely appealing. All the young people flocked there, and when the king himself happened to be young, everyone at court was too. Meanwhile, the older ladies of the court, the strong-minded women of the regency or of the last reign, sulked at their leisure; but others only laughed at these elderly individuals, who had pushed their love for authority so far as to command troops in the wars of the Fronde, in order, as Madame claimed, not to lose their influence over men completely. At eight o’clock, her royal highness entered the grande salon with her attendants and found several gentlemen from the court already there, having been waiting for a few minutes. Among those who had arrived before the reception began, she looked for one who she thought should have been the first to show up, but he wasn’t there. However, almost as soon as she finished her search, Monsieur was announced. Monsieur looked magnificent. He wore all the precious stones and jewels of Cardinal Mazarin, which, of course, that minister had no choice but to leave; all the queen-mother’s jewels as well as a few that belonged to his wife—Monsieur wore them all, and he was as dazzling as the rising sun. Following him was De Guiche, step hesitant and an air of faux remorse perfectly crafted; De Guiche was dressed in French-gray velvet, embroidered with silver, and finished with blue ribbons: he also wore Mechlin lace, which was as rare and beautiful as Monsieur's jewels. The plume in his hat was red. Madame, too, wore several colors, favoring red for her embroidery, gray for her dress, and blue for her flowers. M. de Guiche, dressed as described, looked so attractive that he drew everyone's attention. An intriguing pallor to his complexion, a tired expression in his eyes, his white hands visible through the layers of lace that adorned them, and the melancholy look on his mouth—it was clear that, just by seeing M. de Guiche, one would agree that few men at the French court could rival him. As a result, Monsieur, who was arrogant enough to think he could overshadow even a star if it dressed similarly to him, was, in fact, completely outshone in everyone's minds, which may be silent judges but are very firm in their opinions. Madame glanced at De Guiche lightly, but such was the impact of her look that it brought a charming color to his face. In fact, Madame found De Guiche so handsome and so well-dressed that she nearly forgot the royal conquest she felt she was about to lose. Her heart, therefore, sent blood rushing to her face. Monsieur approached her. He had not noticed the princess’s blush, or if he had, he certainly didn’t attribute it to the true reason.
“Madame,” he said, kissing his wife’s hand, “there is some one present here, who has fallen into disgrace, an unhappy exile whom I venture to recommend to your kindness. Do not forget, I beg, that he is one of my best friends, and that a gentle reception of him will please me greatly.”
“Madam,” he said, kissing his wife’s hand, “there is someone here who has fallen from grace, an unfortunate outcast whom I dare to recommend to your kindness. Please don’t forget that he is one of my closest friends, and that a warm welcome for him would make me very happy.”
“What exile? what disgraced person are you speaking of?” inquired Madame, looking all round, and not permitting her glance to rest more on the count than on the others.
“What exile? Which disgraced person are you talking about?” Madame asked, looking around and not allowing her gaze to linger any longer 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.
This was the moment to introduce De Guiche, and the prince stepped aside to let De Guiche go past. He approached Madame with a somewhat feigned awkwardness and bowed to her.
“What!” exclaimed Madame, as if she were greatly surprised, “is M. de Guiche the disgraced individual you speak of, the exile in question?”
“What!” exclaimed Madame, as if she were really surprised, “is M. de Guiche the disgraced person you’re talking about, the exile in question?”
“Yes, certainly,” returned the duke.
“Yeah, definitely,” replied the duke.
“Indeed,” said Madame, “he seems almost the only person here!”
“Yeah,” said Madame, “he seems like the only person here!”
“You are unjust, Madame,” said the prince.
“You're being unfair, Madame,” said the prince.
“I?”
"I?"
“Certainly. Come, forgive the poor fellow.”
"Of course. Come on, let's forgive the poor guy."
“Forgive him what? What have I to forgive M. de Guiche?”
“Forgive him for what? What do I have to forgive M. de Guiche for?”
“Come, explain yourself, De Guiche. What do you wish to be forgiven?” inquired the prince.
“Come on, explain yourself, De Guiche. What do you want to be forgiven for?” the prince asked.
“Alas! her royal highness knows very well what it is,” replied the latter, in a hypocritical tone.
“Unfortunately, her royal highness is fully aware of what it is,” replied the latter, in a fake tone.
“Come, come, give him your hand, Madame,” said Philip.
“Come on, give him your hand, Madame,” said Philip.
“If it will give you any pleasure, Monsieur,” and, with a movement of her eyes and shoulders, which it would be impossible to describe, Madame extended towards 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:
“If it makes you happy, Sir,” and with a motion of her eyes and shoulders that’s hard to describe, Madame extended her beautiful, fragrant hand toward the young man, which he kissed. It was clear that he lingered a bit, and that Madame didn’t pull her hand away right away, because the duke added:
“De Guiche is not wickedly disposed, Madame; so do not be afraid, he will not bite you.”
“De Guiche isn't malicious, Madame; so don't worry, he won't hurt 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 moment was as follows:—in the center, before the fireplace, which was filled with flowers, Madame was standing up, with her maids of honor formed in two wings, on either side of her; 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 respective places they could pick up the remarks which fell from the principal group. From 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 brilliant with gold lace, and shone upon Montalais, standing on Madame’s extreme left, with all the fire of his eyes and splendor of his velvet. Madame was conversing with Mademoiselle de Chatillon and Mademoiselle de Crequy, who were next to her, and addressed a few words to Monsieur, who drew aside as soon as the king was announced. Mademoiselle de la Valliere, like Montalais, was on Madame’s left hand, and the last but one on the line, Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente being on her right. She was stationed as certain bodies of troops are, whose weakness is suspected, and who are placed between two experienced regiments. Guarded in this manner by the companions who had shared her adventure, La Valliere, whether from regret at Raoul’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 Athenais, 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 towards her right; her glance, which the presumptuous 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 instantly perceived.
A reason was provided in the gallery by the duke’s comment, which wasn’t really that funny for everyone to laugh too much. The situation was strange enough, and some kind-hearted people had noticed it. Monsieur was still enjoying the impact of his comment when the king was announced. The room at that moment looked like this: in the center, in front of the fireplace filled with flowers, Madame was standing, flanked by her maids of honor like two wings. Around them, the courtiers were fluttering about. Several other groups had gathered in the window recesses, similar to soldiers stationed in different towers of the same garrison. From their respective spots, they could hear the comments from the main group. From one of these groups, closest to the fireplace, Malicorne, who had recently been elevated to the position of master of the apartments through Manicamp and De Guiche, and whose official outfit had been ready for the last two months, was dazzling in gold lace and shining next to Montalais, who stood on Madame’s far left, his eyes bright and his velvet attire splendid. Madame was chatting with Mademoiselle de Chatillon and Mademoiselle de Crequy, who were beside her, and she exchanged a few words with Monsieur, who stepped aside as soon as the king was announced. Mademoiselle de la Valliere, like Montalais, was on Madame’s left, second from the end, with Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente on her right. She was positioned like certain units of troops whose weakness is suspected and are placed between two experienced regiments. Protected in this way by the companions who had shared her experience, La Valliere, whether out of regret for Raoul’s departure or still shaken from the emotions of recent events that had begun to make her name familiar among the courtiers, hid her tear-streaked eyes behind her fan and seemed to pay close attention to the whispers that Montalais and Athenais exchanged with her from time to time. As soon as the king’s name was announced, there was a general movement in the room. Madame, in her role as hostess, stood up to greet the royal visitor; but as she stood, despite her distraction, she quickly glanced to her right; her gaze, which the arrogant De Guiche thought was meant for him, swept across the entire circle and landed on La Valliere, whose warm blush and nervousness did not go unnoticed.
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, magnificent lilies before King Aquilo. There was nothing very severe, we will even say, nothing very royal that evening about the king, except 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 his majesty had to amuse himself in Madame’s apartments. If there was any one in particular whose high spirits and good-humor equalled the king’s, it was M. de Saint-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 Saint-Aignan was prolific in jests. The circumstance which had given a new expansion to the numerous ideas germinating in his fertile brain was, that he had just perceived that Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente was, like himself, dressed in rose-color. We would not wish to say, however, that the wily courtier had not know beforehand that the beautiful Athenais was to wear that particular color; for he very well knew the art of unlocking the lips of a dress-maker or a lady’s maid as to her mistress’s intentions. He cast as many killing glances at Mademoiselle Athenais as he had bows of ribbons on his stockings and doublet; in other words he discharged a prodigious number. The king having paid Madame the customary compliments, and Madame having requested him to be seated, the circle was immediately formed. Louis inquired of Monsieur the particulars of the day’s bathing; and stated, looking at the ladies present while he spoke, that certain poets were engaged turning into verse the enchanting diversion of the baths of Vulaines, and that one of them particularly, M. Loret, seemed to have been intrusted with the confidence of some water-nymph, as he had in his verses recounted many circumstances that were actually true—at which remark more than one lady present felt herself bound to blush. The king at this moment took the opportunity of looking round him at more leisure; Montalais was the only one who did not blush sufficiently to prevent her looking at the king, and she saw him fix his eyes devouringly on Mademoiselle de la Valliere. This undaunted maid of honor, Mademoiselle 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 this gaze might possibly have conveyed. Louis was appropriated by Madame, who overwhelmed him with inquiries, and no one in the world knew how to ask questions better than she did. He tried, however, to render the conversation general, and, with the view of effecting this, he redoubled his attention and devotion to her. Madame coveted complimentary remarks, and, determined to procure them at any cost, she addressed herself to the king, saying:
The king stepped into the center of the now larger group with a movement that flowed from the outside in. Every head bowed respectfully before him, and the ladies leaned in like delicate, beautiful lilies before King Aquilo. That evening, there wasn't anything notably strict or royal about the king, except for his youth and good looks. He exuded a lively cheerfulness and good humor that sparked everyone’s imagination, leading all present to expect a wonderful evening simply because they noticed the king's interest in enjoying himself in Madame’s quarters. If there was anyone whose excitement and good humor matched the king’s, it was M. de Saint-Aignan, who wore a rose-colored outfit, with his face and ribbons matching. His mood was particularly bright that evening, as he was full of jokes. The reason for his newfound inspiration was that he had just realized that Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente was also dressed in pink. However, we wouldn’t say he was unaware beforehand that the beautiful Athenais would wear that color; he was quite adept at coaxing information out of a dressmaker or a lady’s maid regarding their mistress’s plans. He shot as many flirtatious glances at Mademoiselle Athenais as he had bows of ribbon on his stockings and tunic; in other words, quite a lot. After Louis exchanged the usual pleasantries with Madame and she invited him to sit down, a circle quickly formed. Louis asked Monsieur about the day’s bathing activities and mentioned, while looking at the ladies, that certain poets were busy turning the delightful experience of the baths of Vulaines into verse, and that one in particular, M. Loret, seemed to have been trusted with the secrets of a water-nymph, as he recounted many true details in his verses—at which several ladies blushed. At this moment, the king took the chance to survey the room more leisurely; Montalais was the only one who didn’t blush enough to stop herself from looking at the king, and she caught him gazing intently at Mademoiselle de la Valliere. This undaunted maid of honor, Mademoiselle de Montalais, made sure the king lowered his gaze, saving Louise de la Valliere from the potential warmth that gaze might have conveyed. Louis was soon engaged by Madame, who bombarded him with questions, and no one knew how to ask questions better than she did. He tried, however, to make the conversation more inclusive and, to achieve this, he placed extra attention and focus on her. Madame sought out complimentary remarks and, determined to get them at any cost, she addressed the king, saying:
“Sire, your majesty, who is aware of everything which occurs in your kingdom, ought to know beforehand the verses confided to M. Loret by this nymph; will your majesty kindly communicate them to us?”
“Sire, your majesty, who knows everything that happens in your kingdom, should already be aware of the verses entrusted to M. Loret by this nymph; could you please share them with us?”
“Madame,” replied the king, with perfect grace of manner, “I dare not—you, personally, might be in no little degree confused at having to listen to certain details—but Saint-Aignan tells a story well, and has a perfect recollection of the verses. If he does not remember them, he will invent. I can certify he is almost a poet himself.” Saint-Aignan, thus brought prominently forward, was compelled to introduce himself as advantageously as possible. Unfortunately, however, for Madame, he thought of his own personal affairs only; in other words, instead of paying Madame the compliments 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 carried into practice her previous evening’s theory of not even deigning to look at her adorer, he said:—
“Madam,” replied the king with perfect poise, “I can’t—personally, you might feel quite uncomfortable hearing some details—but Saint-Aignan tells a good story and has an excellent memory for poetry. If he doesn’t recall the lines, he’ll just make them up. I can assure you he’s almost a poet himself.” With Saint-Aignan suddenly in the spotlight, he had to present himself as well as he could. Unfortunately for Madame, though, he was only thinking about his own interests; instead of giving Madame the compliments she craved and appreciated, he focused on showcasing his own good fortune. Once again, he glanced— for the hundredth time— at the lovely Athenais, who was sticking to her plan from the previous evening of not even acknowledging her admirer, and he said:—
“Your majesty will perhaps pardon me for having too indifferently remembered the verses which the nymph dictated to Loret; but if the king has not retained any recollection of them, how could I possibly remember?”
“Your majesty might forgive me for not recalling the verses the nymph dictated to Loret very well; but if the king doesn’t remember them, how could I?”
Madame did not receive this shortcoming of the courtier very favorably.
Madame didn't take this shortcoming of the courtier very well.
“Ah! madame,” added Saint-Aignan, “at present it is no longer a question what the water-nymphs have to say; and one would almost be tempted to believe that nothing of any interest now occurs in those liquid realms. It is upon earth, madame, important events happen. Ah! Madame, upon the earth, how many tales are there full of—”
“Ah! Madame,” added Saint-Aignan, “right now it’s no longer about what the water-nymphs have to say; you’d almost think nothing interesting happens in those watery realms anymore. It’s on land, madame, that important events take place. Ah! Madame, on land, how many stories are there full of—”
“Well,” said Madame, “and what is taking place upon the earth?”
“Well,” said Madame, “what’s happening on Earth?”
“That question must be asked of the Dryads,” replied the comte; “the Dryads inhabit the forest, as your royal highness is aware.”
“That question needs to be directed to the Dryads,” replied the comte; “the Dryads live in the forest, as your royal highness knows.”
“I am aware also, that they are naturally very talkative, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan.”
“I also know that they’re naturally very chatty, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan.”
“Such is the case, Madame; but when they say such delightful things, it would be ungracious to accuse them of being too talkative.”
“That's true, Madame; but when they say such wonderful things, it would be rude to accuse them of being too chatty.”
“Do they talk so delightfully, then?” inquired the princess, indifferently. “Really, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, you excite my curiosity; and, if I were the king, I would require you immediately to tell us what the delightful things are these Dryads have been saying, since you alone seem to understand their language.”
“Do they really talk so charmingly?” the princess asked, uninterested. “Honestly, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, you’ve piqued my curiosity; and if I were king, I would demand that you tell us right away what fascinating things these Dryads have been saying, since you seem to be the only one who understands their language.”
“I am at his majesty’s orders, Madame, in that respect,” replied the comte, quickly.
“I’m at his majesty’s orders on that, Madame,” replied the comte, quickly.
“What a fortunate fellow this Saint-Aignan is to understand the language of the Dryads,” said Monsieur.
“What a lucky guy this Saint-Aignan is to understand the language of the Dryads,” said Monsieur.
“I understand it perfectly, monseigneur, as I do my own language.”
“I get it completely, sir, just like I do my own language.”
“Tell us all about them, then,” said Madame.
“Tell us everything 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 Saint-Aignan’s 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 together, 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 about to be exposed to his adversary’s fire. At this epoch, the fashion of ingeniously constructed conversations, and hazardously dangerous recitals, so prevailed, that, where, in modern times, a whole company assembled in a drawing-room would begin to suspect 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 Monsieur de Saint-Aignan for their benefit, and the termination 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 as known as a man of extreme refinement, and an admirable narrator. He courageously began, then, amidst a profound silence, which would have been formidable to 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 present 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 inhabit the most beautiful trees, in other words, the largest to be found.”
The king felt embarrassed because his confidant was likely about to tackle something difficult. He sensed this from the general interest sparked by Saint-Aignan’s introduction, as well as Madame’s unusual demeanor. The most reserved people in the room seemed eager to hang on every word the comte was about to say. They coughed, moved closer together, and curiously glanced at some of the maids of honor. These maids, trying to handle the scrutinizing gazes directed at them with more decorum or composure, adjusted their fans and took on the demeanor of a duel participant preparing to face their opponent. At this time, the trend of clever conversations and dangerously intriguing stories was so prevalent that, while a modern gathering would suspect some scandal or shocking revelation and quickly disperse in panic, Madame’s guests comfortably settled in their seats to ensure they wouldn’t miss a single word or action in the performance crafted by Monsieur de Saint-Aignan for their entertainment. The outcome of this drama, regardless of its style or storyline, was bound to reflect the highest standards of propriety. The comte was known for his exceptional refinement and storytelling skills. He bravely began, breaking a profound silence that would have intimidated anyone else: “Madame, with the king’s permission, I first turn to your royal highness, as you acknowledge that you have the most curiosity among those present. It is my honor to inform you that Dryads particularly dwell in the hollows of oak trees, and since Dryads are mythological beings of stunning beauty, they reside in the most beautiful trees, in other words, the largest ones you can find.”
At this exordium, which recalled, under a transparent veil, the celebrated story of the royal oak, which had played so important a part in the last evening, so many hearts began to beat, both from joy and uneasiness, that, if Saint-Aignan had not had a good and sonorous voice, their throbbings might have been heard above the sound of his voice.
At this beginning, which subtly reminded everyone of the famous story of the royal oak that had been so significant the previous evening, so many hearts started to race, both out of joy and anxiety, that if Saint-Aignan hadn’t had a strong and clear voice, their pounding might have been audible over his speech.
“There must surely be Dryads at Fontainebleau, 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 towards De Guiche a look of which he had no reason to complain, as he had of the one that preceded it; which, as we have already mentioned, had reserved a certain amount of indefiniteness most painful for so loving a heart as his.
“There must be Dryads at Fontainebleau,” Madame said calmly. “I’ve never seen such magnificent oaks as those in the royal park.” As she spoke, she glanced at De Guiche with a look he had no reason to find fault with, unlike the previous one, which, as we’ve already noted, had left a painful vague feeling for someone with such a loving heart as his.
“Precisely, Madame, it is of Fontainebleau I was about to speak to your royal highness,” said Saint-Aignan; “for the Dryad whose story is engaging our attention, lives in the park belonging to the chateau of his majesty.”
“Exactly, Your Highness, it's Fontainebleau I was about to mention,” said Saint-Aignan; “because the Dryad whose story we're discussing lives in the park of the king's chateau.”
The affair was fairly embarked on; the action was begun, and it was no longer possible for auditory or narrator to draw back.
The affair was well underway; the action had started, and it was no longer possible for the listener or the storyteller to back out.
“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.”
“It will be worth listening to,” said Madame; “because the story not only seems to have all the excitement of a national event, but even more so, appears to be something that just happened.”
“I ought to begin at the beginning,” said the comte. “In the first place, then, there lived at Fontainebleau, in a cottage of modest and unassuming appearance, two shepherds. The one was the shepherd Tyrcis, the owner of extensive 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 shepherds.” 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 hurling his lance on 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 the narrator could have chosen; and consequently it did not fail to produce its effect, either upon those who, from duty or inclination, applauded it to the very echo, or on 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. Saint-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 the shepherds.”
“I should start from the beginning,” said the count. “First of all, there lived in Fontainebleau, in a simple and unpretentious cottage, two shepherds. One of them was the shepherd Tyrcis, who owned vast lands passed down to him from his parents by inheritance. Tyrcis was young and handsome, and with all his qualities, he could be considered the foremost shepherd in the whole country; it could even be said without exaggeration that he was the king of shepherds.” A quiet murmur of approval encouraged the storyteller, who went on: “His strength is equal to his courage; no one has more skill in hunting wild beasts or better judgment when it comes to decision-making. Whenever he rides and exercises his horse across the beautiful plains of his estate, or whenever he joins the shepherds who look up to him in various games of skill and strength, it feels like it’s the god Mars throwing his spear on the plains of Thrace, or even better, like Apollo himself, the sun god, shining on earth, wielding his fiery arrows.” Everyone understood that this allegorical portrayal of the king was not a poor choice for an introduction, and it definitely made an impact, whether it was on those who, out of duty or inclination, applauded it loudly, or on the king himself, who appreciated flattery when it was subtle and often welcomed it even when it was a bit too obvious. Saint-Aignan then continued: “It’s not only in glorious games that the shepherd Tyrcis earned the reputation that led him to be seen as the king of shepherds.”
“Of the shepherds of Fontainebleau,” said the king, smilingly, to Madame.
“Of the shepherds of Fontainebleau,” the king said with a smile to Madame.
“Oh!” exclaimed Madame, “Fontainebleau is selected arbitrarily 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.
“Oh!” exclaimed Madame, “Fontainebleau is chosen randomly by the poet; but I would say, by the shepherds of the entire world.” The king forgot his role as a passive listener and bowed.
“It is,” paused Saint-Aignan, amidst a flattering murmur of applause, “it is with ladies fair especially that the qualities of this king of the shepherds are most prominently displayed. He is a shepherd with a mind as refined as his heart is 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 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 and heard Tyrcis must love him; whoever loves and is beloved by him, has indeed found happiness.” Saint-Aignan here paused; he was enjoying the pleasure of all these compliments; and the portrait he had drawn, however grotesquely inflated it might be, had found favor in certain ears, in which 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.”
“It is,” paused Saint-Aignan, amid a flattering murmur of applause, “it is especially with lovely ladies that the qualities of this king of the shepherds truly shine. He is a shepherd with a mind as refined as his heart is pure; he can offer compliments with a charm that is simply irresistible; and in his relationships, he is so discreet that beautiful and fortunate conquests consider their situation to be more than enviable. Never a word of disclosure, never a moment of forgetfulness. Anyone who has seen and heard Tyrcis must love him; anyone who loves and is loved by him has indeed found happiness.” Saint-Aignan paused here, enjoying the pleasure of all these compliments; and the portrait he had painted, no matter how exaggerated, had found favor in certain ears, where the shepherd's perfections didn’t seem to be overstated. Madame urged the speaker to continue. “Tyrcis,” said the comte, “had a loyal 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 Saint-Aignan.”
“Ah!” said Madame, playfully, “now for the portrait of Amyntas; you’re such an amazing painter, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan.”
“Madame—”
“Ma'am—”
“Oh! comte, do not, I entreat you, sacrifice poor Amyntas; I should never forgive you.”
“Oh! Count, please, I beg you, don’t sacrifice poor Amyntas; I could never forgive you.”
“Madame, Amyntas is of too humble a position, particularly beside Tyrcis, for his person to be honored by a parallel. There are certain friends who resemble those followers of ancient times, who caused themselves to be buried alive at their masters’ feet. Amyntas’s place, too, is at the feet of Tyrcis; he cares for no other; and if, sometimes, the illustrious hero—”
“Madam, Amyntas is too lowly in status, especially compared to Tyrcis, for him to be honored with a comparison. There are some friends who are like those ancient followers who chose to be buried alive at their masters’ feet. Amyntas’s place is also at Tyrcis’s feet; he cares for no one else; and if, at times, the esteemed hero—”
“Illustrious shepherd, you mean?” said Madame, pretending to correct M. de Saint-Aignan.
“Illustrious shepherd, you mean?” said Madame, pretending to correct M. de Saint-Aignan.
“Your royal highness is right; I was mistaken,” returned the courtier; “if, I say, the shepherd Tyrcis deigns occasionally 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.”
“Your royal highness is right; I was wrong,” the courtier replied. “If, I say, the shepherd Tyrcis sometimes calls Amyntas his friend and shares his feelings with him, it’s an extraordinary favor, which Amyntas sees as the greatest blessing.”
“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’s portrait.” Saint-Aignan obeyed, after having bowed profoundly to his majesty’s sister-in-law.
“All that you say,” interrupted Madame, “shows just how devoted Amyntas is to Tyrcis, but it doesn’t give us a picture of Amyntas himself. Comte, you can flatter him if you want, but you need to describe him to us. I want to know what Amyntas looks like.” Saint-Aignan complied after bowing deeply to 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.”
“Amyntas,” he said, “is a bit older than Tyrcis; he isn’t a bad-looking shepherd; some even say that the muses smiled upon him at his birth, just like Hebe smiled on youth. He doesn’t crave attention, but he does want to be loved; and he might actually be deserving of it, if only he were better known.”
This latter paragraph, strengthened by a killing glance, was directed straight to Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, 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 upon him: Tyrcis’s head even gave the signal for it by a consenting bow, full of good feeling.
This last paragraph, reinforced by a piercing glance, was aimed directly at Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, who remained completely unfazed. However, the subtlety and grace of the reference had a positive impact; Amyntas enjoyed the accolades that followed: Tyrcis even signaled his approval with a nod, full of goodwill.
“One evening,” continued Saint-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 purpose of being quite alone, and of confiding their troubles more freely to each other, when suddenly the sound of voices struck upon their ears.”
“One evening,” continued Saint-Aignan, “Tyrcis and Amyntas were walking together in the forest, sharing their love disappointments. Don't forget, ladies, that the story of the Dryad is just beginning, or else it would be easy to tell you what Tyrcis and Amyntas, the two most discreet shepherds in the world, were discussing. They reached the deepest part of the forest to be alone and share their troubles more openly with each other when suddenly the sound of voices reached their ears.”
“Ah, ah!” said those who surrounded the narrator. “Nothing can be more interesting.”
“Ah, ah!” said those around the narrator. “Nothing could be more interesting.”
At this point, Madame, like a vigilant general inspecting his army, glanced at Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, who could not help wincing as they drew themselves up.
At this moment, Madame, like a watchful general checking on his troops, looked at Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, who couldn’t help but wince as they straightened up.
“These harmonious voices,” resumed Saint-Aignan, “were those of certain shepherdesses, who had been likewise desirous 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 Saint-Aignan, and an imperceptible smile of the king, as he looked at Tonnay-Charente, followed this sally.
“Those sweet voices,” Saint-Aignan continued, “belonged to some shepherdesses who wanted to enjoy the cool shade. Knowing how secluded and almost unreachable this spot is, they came here to share their thoughts about—” A loud burst of laughter followed this comment from Saint-Aignan, accompanied by a subtle smile from the king as he glanced at Tonnay-Charente.
“The Dryad affirms positively,” continued Saint-Aignan, “that the shepherdesses were three in number, and that all three were young and beautiful.”
“The Dryad confirms,” continued Saint-Aignan, “that there were three shepherdesses, and that all three were young and beautiful.”
“What were their names?” said Madame, quickly.
“What were their names?” Madame asked quickly.
“Their names?” said Saint-Aignan, who hesitated from fear of committing an indiscretion.
“Their names?” said Saint-Aignan, who hesitated for fear of making an indiscretion.
“Of course; you call your shepherds Tyrcis and Amyntas; give your shepherdesses names in a similar manner.”
“Of course; you name your shepherds Tyrcis and Amyntas; give your shepherdesses similar names.”
“Oh! Madame, I am not an inventor; I relate simply what took place as the Dryad related it to me.”
“Oh! Madame, I’m not an inventor; I’m just sharing what happened as the Dryad told it to me.”
“What did your Dryad, then, call these shepherdesses? You have a very treacherous memory, I fear. This Dryad must have fallen out with the goddess Mnemosyne.”
“What did your Dryad, then, call these shepherdesses? I’m afraid your memory is quite unreliable. This Dryad must have had a falling out with the goddess Mnemosyne.”
“These shepherdesses, Madame? Pray remember that it is a crime to betray a woman’s name.”
“These shepherdesses, Madame? Please remember that it's wrong to reveal a woman's name.”
“From which a woman absolves you, comte, on the condition that you will reveal the names of the shepherdesses.”
“From which a woman frees you, count, on the condition that you will reveal the names of the shepherdesses.”
“Their names were Phyllis, Amaryllis, and Galatea.”
“Their names were Phyllis, Amaryllis, and Galatea.”
“Exceedingly well!—they have not lost by the delay,” said Madame, “and now we have three charming names. But now for their portraits.”
“Very well!—they haven’t lost anything by the wait,” said Madame, “and now we have three lovely names. But now let’s get to their portraits.”
Saint-Aignan again made a slight movement.
Saint-Aignan moved a bit again.
“Nay, comte, let us proceed in due order,” returned Madame. “Ought we not, sire, to have the portraits of the shepherdesses?”
“Nah, count, let’s stick to the order of things,” replied Madame. “Shouldn’t we, sir, 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 Saint-Aignan, in drawing the portraits, would find a means of insinuating some flattering allusions which would be agreeable to the ears of one his majesty was interested in pleasing. It was with this hope and with this fear that Louis authorized Saint-Aignan to sketch the portraits of the shepherdesses, Phyllis, Amaryllis, and Galatea.
The king, who anticipated this strong determination and was starting to feel a bit uneasy, didn't think it was wise to challenge such a dangerous questioner. He also believed that Saint-Aignan, while drawing the portraits, would somehow manage to include flattering remarks that would please someone the king was eager to impress. It was with this hope and this fear that Louis allowed Saint-Aignan to create the portraits of the shepherdesses, Phyllis, Amaryllis, and Galatea.
“Very well, then; be it so,” said Saint-Aignan, like a man who has made up his mind, and he began.
“Alright, then; let's do it,” said Saint-Aignan, like someone who has decided for sure, and he started.
Chapter LVII. Conclusion of the Story of a Naiad and of a Dryad.
“Phyllis,” said Saint-Aignan, with a glance of defiance at Montalais, such as a fencing-master would give who invites an antagonist worthy of him to place himself on guard, “Phyllis 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 flirt that ever lived. Nothing can equal her excellent vision. Her heart yearns for everything her gaze embraces. She is like a bird, which, always warbling, at one moment skims the ground, at the next rises fluttering in pursuit of a butterfly, then rests itself upon the topmost branch of a tree, 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 towards her; she, however, with her head raised, and with a steady, unmoved look, listened to Saint-Aignan, as if he were speaking of an utter stranger.
“Phyllis,” said Saint-Aignan, giving Montalais a defiant look, like a fencing coach challenging a worthy opponent to get ready, “Phyllis is neither light nor dark, neither tall nor short, neither too serious nor too cheerful; even though she’s just a shepherdess, she’s as sharp as a princess and flirty as the biggest tease that ever existed. Nothing matches her keen perception. Her heart longs for everything her eyes see. She’s like a bird that sings all the time, sometimes skimming the ground, other times soaring after a butterfly, then resting on the highest branch of a tree, where she dares the birdcatchers to come and catch her or trap her in their nets.” The description was such a strong resemblance to Montalais that everyone turned to look at her; however, she kept her head high and listened to Saint-Aignan with a steady, unfazed expression, as if he were talking about someone completely unknown.
“Is that all, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan?” inquired the princess.
“Is that it, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan?” the princess asked.
“Oh! your royal highness, the portrait is but a mere sketch, and many more additions could be made, but I fear to weary your patience, or offend the modesty of the shepherdess, and I shall therefore pass on to her companion, Amaryllis.”
“Oh! Your royal highness, the portrait is just a rough sketch, and a lot more could be added, but I'm worried I might try your patience or upset the shepherdess's modesty, so I’ll move on to her friend, Amaryllis.”
“Very well,” said Madame, “pass on to Amaryllis, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, we are all attention.”
“Alright,” said Madame, “go ahead to Amaryllis, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, we’re all ears.”
“Amaryllis is the eldest of the three, and yet,” Saint-Aignan hastened to add, “this advanced age does not reach twenty years.”
“Amaryllis is the oldest of the three, and yet,” Saint-Aignan quickly added, “this advanced age doesn’t even reach twenty years.”
Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, who had slightly knitted her brows at the commencement of the description, unbent them with a smile.
Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, who had slightly frowned at the beginning of the description, relaxed her expression with a smile.
“She is tall, with an astonishing abundance of beautiful 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 a mere mortal, and among the goddesses, she most resembles Diana the huntress; with this sole difference, 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 pitilessly against all poor shepherds who pass within reach of her bow and of her eyes.”
“She is tall, with an incredible amount of beautiful hair that she styles like the statues from ancient Greece; her walk is full of grace, and her posture is proud. Because of this, she has more of a goddess vibe than that of a mere human, and among the goddesses, she most resembles Diana, the huntress. The only difference is that the cruel shepherdess, who took young love's quiver while Cupid was napping in a rose thicket, doesn’t aim her arrows at the creatures of the forest but rather shoots them mercilessly at all the poor shepherds who come within her line of sight.”
“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.”
“Oh! what a wicked shepherdess!” said Madame. “She might one day hurt herself with one of those arrows she fires, as you say, so ruthlessly in all directions.”
“It is the hope of shepherds, one and all!” said Saint-Aignan.
“It is the hope of all shepherds!” said Saint-Aignan.
“And that of the shepherd Amyntas in particular, I suppose?” said Madame.
“And that of the shepherd Amyntas in particular, I guess?” said Madame.
“The shepherd Amyntas is so timid,” said Saint-Aignan, with the most modest air he could assume, “that if he cherishes such a hope as that, no one has ever known anything about it, for he conceals it in the very depths of his heart.” A flattering murmur of applause greeted this profession of faith on behalf of the shepherd.
“The shepherd Amyntas is so shy,” said Saint-Aignan, with the most humble demeanor he could muster, “that if he harbors such a hope, no one has ever known about it, because he hides it deep in his heart.” A polite murmur of applause followed this expression of support for 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.”
“And Galatea?” asked Madame. “I can't wait to see a hand as skilled as yours continue the portrait where Virgil left off and finish it right in front of us.”
“Madame,” said Saint-Aignan, “I am indeed a poor dumb post beside the mighty Virgil. Still, encouraged by your desire, I will do my best.”
“Madam,” said Saint-Aignan, “I am truly just a clueless fool next to the great Virgil. Still, motivated by your wish, I will try my hardest.”
Saint-Aignan extended his foot and hand, and thus began:—“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-spangled meadows. From her exquisite eyes, blue as azure heaven on the clearest summer day, emanates a tender light, which reverie nurtures, and love dispenses. When she frowns, or bends her looks towards the ground, the sun is veiled in token of mourning. When she smiles, on the contrary, nature resumes her jollity, and the birds, for a brief moment silenced, recommence their songs amid the leafy covert of the trees. Galatea,” said Saint-Aignan, in conclusion, “is worthy 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.”
Saint-Aignan extended his foot and hand, and began:—“White as milk, she sends her hair's golden fragrance drifting in the breeze, like the ears of corn. One might wonder if she isn’t the beautiful Europa, who inspired Jupiter with a deep desire as she played with her friends in the meadow filled with flowers. From her exquisite eyes, as blue as the sky on the clearest summer day, shines a gentle light that nurtures daydreams and spreads love. When she frowns or looks down, the sun hides as if in mourning. When she smiles, however, nature comes alive again, and the birds, momentarily silent, start singing once more among the leafy trees. Galatea,” said Saint-Aignan, concluding, “is worthy of the admiration of the entire world; and if she ever gives her heart to another, that man will be incredibly lucky to receive her first affections.”
Madame, who had attentively listened to the portrait Saint-Aignan had drawn, as, indeed, had all the others, contented herself with accentuating her approbation of the most poetic passage by occasional inclinations of her head; but it was impossible to say if these marks of assent were accorded to the ability of the narrator of the resemblance of the portrait. 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 Saint-Aignan dwelt too much upon the portraits of the shepherdesses, and had somewhat slightingly passed over the portraits of the shepherds. The whole assembly seemed suddenly chilled. Saint-Aignan, who had exhausted his rhetorical skill and his palette of artistic tints 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 loudest applause allotted to 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.
Madame, who had listened carefully to the portrait Saint-Aignan had painted, just like everyone else, showed her approval of the most poetic part by nodding her head occasionally. However, it was hard to tell if her nods were for the narrator's skill or just the portrait itself. As a result, since Madame didn't openly show her approval, no one felt it was right to applaud, not even Monsieur, who secretly thought that Saint-Aignan spent too much time describing the portraits of the shepherdesses and somewhat dismissed the portraits of the shepherds. The whole group seemed to freeze for a moment. Saint-Aignan, who had used all his rhetorical flair and artistic colors to create Galatea's portrait, and who, after the positive reception of his previous descriptions, believed he could already hear the loudest applause for this latest one, was more disappointed than the king and the rest of the company. A brief silence followed, which was finally broken by Madame.
“Well, sir,” she inquired, “What is your majesty’s opinion of these three portraits?”
“Well, sir,” she asked, “What does your majesty think of these three portraits?”
The king, who wished to relieve Saint-Aignan’s embarrassment without compromising himself, replied, “Why, Amaryllis, in my opinion, is beautiful.”
The king, wanting to ease Saint-Aignan’s awkwardness without putting himself in a tough spot, said, “Well, Amaryllis, I think she’s beautiful.”
“For my part,” said Monsieur, “I prefer Phyllis; she is a capital girl, or rather a good-sort-of-fellow of a nymph.”
“For my part,” said Monsieur, “I prefer Phyllis; she’s a great girl, or rather a really good kind of nymph.”
A gentle laugh followed, and this time the looks were so direct, that Montalais felt herself blushing almost scarlet.
A soft laugh followed, and this time the gazes were so intense that Montalais felt herself turning almost crimson.
“Well,” resumed Madame, “what were those shepherdesses saying to each other?”
“Well,” continued Madame, “what were those shepherdesses talking about?”
Saint-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 another their little preferences.”
Saint-Aignan, however, whose pride had been hurt, didn’t feel like he could handle an assault from new and revitalized troops, and only said, “Madam, the shepherdesses were sharing their little preferences with each other.”
“Nay, nay! Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, you are a perfect stream of pastoral poesy,” said Madame, with an amiable smile, which somewhat comforted the narrator.
“Nah, nah! Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, you’re a complete fountain of pastoral poetry,” said Madame, with a friendly smile that eased the narrator a bit.
“They confessed that love is a mighty peril, but that the absence of love is the heart’s sentence of death.”
“They admitted that love is a powerful danger, but that living without love is the heart’s sentence to die.”
“What was the conclusion they came to?” inquired Madame.
“What was the conclusion they reached?” asked Madame.
“They came to the conclusion that love was necessary.”
“They concluded that love was essential.”
“Very good! Did they lay down any conditions?”
“Great! Did they set any conditions?”
“That of choice, simply,” said Saint-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.”
“That of choice, simply,” said Saint-Aignan. “I should even add—remember, it’s the Dryad who is speaking—that one of the shepherdesses, Amaryllis, I believe, was totally against the idea of loving, and yet she didn’t outright deny that she had let the image of a certain shepherd find a place in her heart.”
“Was it Amyntas or Tyrcis?”
“Was it Amyntas or Tyrcis?”
“Amyntas, Madame,” said Saint-Aignan, modestly. “But Galatea, the gentle and soft-eyed Galatea, immediately replied, that neither Amyntas, nor Alphesiboeus, nor Tityrus, nor indeed any of the handsomest shepherds of the country, were to be compared to Tyrcis; that Tyrcis 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 portrait of Tyrcis that Tyrcis himself, who was listening, must have felt truly flattered at it, notwithstanding his rank as a shepherd. Thus Tyrcis and Amyntas had been distinguished by Phyllis and Galatea; and thus had the secrets of two hearts 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 hollows of oaks and grassy dells; she who knows the loves of the birds, and all they wish to convey by their songs; she who understands, in fact, the language of the wind among the branches, the humming of the insect with its gold and emerald wings in the corolla of the wild-flowers; it was she who related the particulars to me, and I have repeated them.”
“Amyntas, Madame,” Saint-Aignan said modestly. “But Galatea, the gentle and soft-eyed Galatea, immediately responded that neither Amyntas, nor Alphesiboeus, nor Tityrus, nor any of the most handsome shepherds in the land could compare to Tyrcis; that Tyrcis was as much better than all other men as an oak is compared to all other trees, as a majestic lily is to any other flower. She painted such a picture of Tyrcis that even Tyrcis himself, who was listening, must have felt genuinely flattered by it, despite being just a shepherd. This is how Tyrcis and Amyntas were highlighted by Phyllis and Galatea; and this is how the secrets of two hearts were revealed in the evening shadows and among the depths of the woods. So, Madame, this is what the Dryad told me; she who knows everything that happens in the hollows of oaks and grassy dips; she who understands the loves of the birds and all that they express through their songs; she who, in fact, understands the language of the wind in the branches, the buzzing of the insect with its gold and emerald wings in the petals of wildflowers; it was she who shared these details with me, and I have repeated them.”
“And now you have finished, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, have you not?” said Madame, with a smile that made the king tremble.
“And now you’re done, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, aren’t you?” said Madame, with a smile that made the king nervous.
“Quite finished,” replied Saint-Aignan, “and but too happy if I have been able to amuse your royal highness for a few moments.”
"All done," replied Saint-Aignan, "and I’m just glad I could entertain your royal highness for a little while."
“Moments which have been too brief,” replied the princess; “for you have related most admirably all you know; but, my dear Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, you have been unfortunate enough to obtain your information from one Dryad only, I believe?”
“Moments that have been too short,” replied the princess; “for you have shared everything you know very well; but, my dear Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, I believe you've been unfortunate enough to get your information from just one Dryad?”
“Yes, Madame, only from one, I confess.”
“Yes, Ma'am, only from one, I admit.”
“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.”
“The truth is, you walked past a little Naiad, who acted like she didn’t know anything at all, but in reality, she knew a lot more than your Dryad, my dear count.”
“A Naiad!” repeated several voices, who began to suspect that the story had a continuation.
“A Naiad!” repeated several voices, starting to think that the story had more to it.
“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 Saint-Aignan?”
“Of course, next to the oak you’re talking about, which, if I’m not mistaken, is called the royal oak—am I right, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan?”
Saint-Aignan and the king exchanged glances.
Saint-Aignan and the king shared a look.
“Yes, Madame,” the former replied.
"Yes, Ma'am," the former replied.
“Well, close beside the oak there is a pretty little spring, which runs murmuringly over the pebbles, between banks of forget-me-nots and daffodils.”
“Well, right next to the oak, there's a lovely little spring that softly trickles over the pebbles, between banks of forget-me-nots and daffodils.”
“I believe you are correct,” said the king, with some uneasiness, and listening with some anxiety to his sister-in-law’s narrative.
“I think you’re right,” said the king, feeling a bit uneasy and listening anxiously to his sister-in-law’s story.
“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 about to come.”
“Oh! there is definitely one, I can assure you,” said Madame; “and the proof is that the Naiad who lives in that little stream stopped me just as I was about to leave.”
“Ah?” said Saint-Aignan.
"Really?" said Saint-Aignan.
“Yes, indeed,” continued the princess, “and she did so in order to communicate to me many particulars Monsieur de Saint-Aignan has omitted in his recital.”
“Yes, definitely,” the princess continued, “and she did this to share with me many details that Monsieur de Saint-Aignan left out in his story.”
“Pray relate them yourself, then,” said Monsieur, “you can relate stories in such a charming manner.” The princess bowed at the conjugal compliment paid her.
“Please share the stories yourself, then,” said Monsieur, “you have a way of telling them that's so delightful.” The princess nodded at the kind compliment.
“I do not possess the poetical powers of the comte, nor his ability to bring to light the smallest details.”
“I don’t have the poetic skills of the count, nor his talent for highlighting the smallest details.”
“You will not be listened to with less interest on that account,” said the king, who already perceived that something hostile was intended in his sister-in-law’s story.
“You won’t be listened to any less just because of that,” said the king, who already sensed that his sister-in-law’s story had some hidden hostility.
“I speak, too,” continued Madame, “in the name of that poor little Naiad, who is indeed the most charming creature 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 the finest physic in the world, I ask permission to laugh a little myself when I recollect her words.”
“I also speak,” continued Madame, “on behalf of that poor little Naiad, who is truly the most delightful person I’ve ever encountered. Additionally, she laughed so genuinely while sharing her story that, following that medical saying that laughter is the best medicine in the world, I’d like to ask if I can laugh a bit myself when I think of her words.”
The king and Saint-Aignan, who noticed spreading over many of the faces present a distant and prophetic ripple of the laughter Madame announced, finished by looking at each other, as if asking themselves whether there was not some little conspiracy concealed beneath these words. But Madame was determined to turn the knife in the wound over and over again; she therefore resumed with the air of the most perfect candor, 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 Phyllis, Amaryllis, Galatea, and all your shepherdesses had passed the same way before me.”
The king and Saint-Aignan, who noticed a distant and prophetic ripple of laughter on many of the faces present as Madame spoke, exchanged glances as if questioning whether there was some little conspiracy hidden behind her words. But Madame was set on digging in deeper; she continued with the most innocent expression, which was actually the most dangerous of all her looks: “Well, I happened to pass that way,” she said, “and since I found so many fresh flowers in my path, no doubt Phyllis, Amaryllis, Galatea, and all your shepherdesses have been this way before me.”
The king bit his lips, for the recital was becoming more and more threatening. “My little Naiad,” continued Madame, “was cooing over her quaint song in the bed of the rivulet; as I perceived that she accosted me by touching the hem of my dress, I could 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, and bursting into laughter, this is what she said to me:
The king bit his lips, as the story was getting more and more intense. “My little Naiad,” Madame continued, “was singing her charming song in the stream; as I noticed that she reached out and touched the hem of my dress, I couldn’t turn her down rudely, especially since, after all, a goddess, even a minor one, is always more significant than a mortal, even if she’s a princess. So, I approached the Naiad, and bursting into laughter, this is what she said to me:
“‘Fancy, princess...’ You understand, sire, it is the Naiad who is speaking?”
“‘Listen, princess...’ You get it, right, sire? It’s the Naiad who's talking?”
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 now remember if it was nymphs or shepherdesses she said; but it does not much matter, so we will continue.”
The king nodded in agreement, and Madame went on:—“‘Imagine, princess, the banks of my little stream have just seen the most entertaining scene. Two shepherds, overwhelmed with curiosity, even a bit nosy, found themselves tricked in a really funny way by three nymphs, or maybe three shepherdesses,’—I apologize, but I can't quite recall if she said nymphs or shepherdesses; but it’s not a big deal, so let’s keep going.”
The king, at this opening, colored visibly, and Saint-Aignan, completely losing countenance, began to open his eyes in the greatest possible anxiety.
The king, upon hearing this, visibly blushed, and Saint-Aignan, completely losing his composure, started to open his eyes in a state of deep anxiety.
“‘The two shepherds,’ pursued my nymph, still laughing, ‘followed in the wake of the three young ladies,’—no, I mean, of the three nymphs; forgive me, I ought to say, of the three shepherdesses. It is not always wise to do that, 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 two shepherds,’ my nymph continued, still laughing, ‘were following the three young ladies’—no, I mean the three nymphs; sorry, I should say the three shepherdesses. It’s not always smart to do that, because it can be uncomfortable for those being followed. I ask all the ladies here, and I’m sure none of them will disagree with me.”
The king, who was much disturbed by what he suspected was about to follow, signified his assent by a gesture.
The king, who was quite troubled by what he thought was about to happen, showed his agreement with a gesture.
“‘But,’ continued the Naiad, ‘the shepherdesses had noticed Tyrcis and Amyntas gliding into the wood, and, by the light of the moon, they had recognized them through the grove of the trees.’ Ah, you laugh!” interrupted Madame; “wait, wait, you are not yet at the end.”
“‘But,’ continued the Naiad, ‘the shepherdesses saw Tyrcis and Amyntas slipping into the woods, and, by the moonlight, they recognized them through the grove of trees.’ Ah, you laugh!” interrupted Madame; “wait, wait, you’re not done yet.”
The king turned pale; Saint-Aignan wiped his forehead, now dewed with perspiration. Among the groups of ladies present could be heard smothered laughter and stealthy whispers.
The king went pale; Saint-Aignan wiped his forehead, now covered in sweat. Among the groups of ladies present, muffled laughter and quiet whispers could be heard.
“‘The shepherdesses, I was saying, noticing how indiscreet the two shepherds were, proceeded to sit down at the foot of the royal oak; and, when they perceived that their over-curious listeners were sufficiently near, so that not a syllable of what they might say could be lost, they addressed towards them very innocently, in the most artless manner in the world indeed, a passionate declaration, which from the vanity natural to all men, and even to the most sentimental of shepherds, seemed to the two listeners as sweet as honey.’”
“‘The shepherdesses, I was saying, noticing how indiscreet the two shepherds were, sat down at the foot of the royal oak. When they realized their overly curious listeners were close enough that not a word they said would be missed, they innocently directed a passionate declaration towards them in the most genuine way possible, which, because of the natural vanity in all men—and even in the most sentimental shepherds—sounded to the two listeners as sweet as honey.’”
The king, at these words, which the assembly was unable to hear without laughing, could not restrain a flash of anger darting from his eyes. As for Saint-Aignan, he let his head fall upon his breast, and concealed, under a silly laugh, the extreme annoyance he felt.
The king, hearing these words that the assembly couldn't help but laugh at, couldn't hold back a flash of anger in his eyes. Meanwhile, Saint-Aignan dropped his head to his chest and hid, behind a silly laugh, the deep annoyance he felt.
“Oh,” said the king, drawing himself up to his full height, “upon my word, that is a most amusing jest, certainly; but, really and truly, are you sure you quite understood the language of the Naiads?”
“Oh,” said the king, standing tall, “I must say, that’s a very funny joke, for sure; but honestly, are you really sure you completely understood what the Naiads were saying?”
“The comte, sire, pretends to have perfectly understood that of the Dryads,” retorted Madame, icily.
“The count, sir, claims to have fully understood what the Dryads are about,” replied Madame, coldly.
“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 learnt 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 you have not studied.”
“No doubt,” said the king; “but you know the comte has the ambition to become a member of the Academy, so with that goal in mind, he has learned all sorts of things that you, thankfully, don’t know about; and it’s possible that the language of the Nymph of the Waters could be one of those things you haven’t studied.”
“Of course, sire,” replied Madame, “for facts of that nature one does not altogether rely upon one’s self alone; a woman’s ear is not infallible, so says Saint Augustine; and I, therefore, wished to satisfy myself by other opinions beside my own, and as my Naiad, who, in her character of a goddess, is polyglot,—is not that the expression, M. de Saint-Aignan?”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” replied Madame, “when it comes to matters like that, one can’t rely solely on oneself; a woman’s hearing isn’t always perfect, as Saint Augustine says. So, I wanted to confirm my thoughts with other opinions besides my own, and since my Naiad, in her goddess role, speaks many languages— isn’t that the right term, Mr. de Saint-Aignan?”
“I believe so,” said the latter, quite out of countenance.
“I think so,” said the latter, clearly flustered.
“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 misunderstood 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 had already communicated to me in English.”
“Well,” the princess continued, “since my Naiad, who, as a goddess, initially spoke to me in English, I worried, as you mentioned, that I might have misunderstood her. So I asked Mesdemoiselles de Montalais, de Tonnay-Charente, and de la Valliere to come to me, asking my Naiad to repeat the story she had already told me in English, but in French this time.”
“And did she do so?” inquired the king.
“Did she really do that?” the king asked.
“Oh, she is the most polite divinity it is possible to imagine! Yes, sire, she did so; so that no doubt whatever remains on the subject. Is it not so, young ladies?” said the princess, turning towards 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, Phyllis? I beg your pardon, I mean Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais?”
“Oh, she is the most polite goddess you could ever imagine! Yes, sir, she really did; so there’s no doubt left about it. Isn’t that right, young ladies?” said the princess, glancing towards the left side of her group; “didn’t the Naiad say exactly what I just shared, and have I, in any way, been untruthful, Phyllis? I apologize, I mean Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais?”
“Precisely as you have stated, Madame,” articulated Mademoiselle de Montalais, very distinctly.
“Exactly as you said, Madame,” Mademoiselle de Montalais replied clearly.
“Is it true, Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente?”
“Is it true, Miss de Tonnay-Charente?”
“The perfect truth,” replied Athenais, in a voice quite as firm, but not yet so distinct.
“The perfect truth,” replied Athenais, in a voice just as firm, but not yet as clear.
“And you, La Valliere?” asked Madame.
“And you, La Valliere?” Madame asked.
The poor girl felt the king’s ardent look fixed upon her,—she dared not deny—she dared not tell a falsehood; she merely bowed her head; and everybody took it for a token of assent. Her head, however, was not raised again, chilled as she was by a coldness more bitter than that of death. This triple testimony overwhelmed the king. As for Saint-Aignan, he did not even attempt to dissemble his despair, and, hardly knowing what he said, he stammered out, “An excellent jest! admirably played!”
The poor girl felt the king’s intense gaze on her—she couldn’t deny it—and she couldn’t lie either; she just bowed her head, and everyone saw it as a sign of agreement. However, she didn’t raise her head again, feeling a chill that was harsher than death itself. This threefold response left the king stunned. As for Saint-Aignan, he didn’t even try to hide his despair, and barely aware of his words, he stammered, “What a great joke! Well played!”
“A just punishment for curiosity,” said the king, in a hoarse voice. “Oh! who would think, after the chastisement that Tyrcis and Amyntas had suffered, of endeavoring to surprise what is passing in the heart of shepherdesses? Assuredly I shall not, for one; and, you, gentlemen?”
“A fitting punishment for curiosity,” said the king, in a rough voice. “Oh! who would believe, after the punishment that Tyrcis and Amyntas faced, that anyone would try to pry into the feelings of shepherdesses? Certainly I won't, for one; and you, gentlemen?”
“Nor I! nor I!” repeated, in a chorus, the group of courtiers.
“Not me! Not me!” echoed the group of courtiers in unison.
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 affair. As for Monsieur, who had laughed at the two stories without comprehending anything about them, he turned towards De Guiche, and said to him, “Well, comte, you say nothing; can you not find something to say? Do you pity M. Tyrcis and M. Amyntas, for instance?”
Madame felt a sense of victory at the king's irritation and was thrilled, thinking that her story had been, or was about to be, the end of the whole situation. As for Monsieur, who had laughed at the two stories without really understanding them, he turned to De Guiche and said, “Well, count, you’re quiet; can you think of something to say? Do you feel sorry for M. Tyrcis and M. Amyntas, for example?”
“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 may be, is to lose more than life itself. If, therefore, these two shepherds thought themselves beloved,—if they were happy in that idea, and if, instead of that happiness, they meet not only that empty void which resembles death, but jeers and jests at love itself, which is worse than a thousand deaths,—in that case, I say that Tyrcis and Amyntas are the two most unhappy men I know.”
“I feel for them with all my heart,” replied De Guiche; “because, honestly, love is such a delightful notion that losing it, no matter how much of a fantasy it is, means losing more than life itself. So, if these two shepherds believe they are loved—if they take joy in that thought, yet instead of that joy they face not only the emptiness that feels like death but also mockery and ridicule directed at love itself, which is worse than a thousand deaths—then I say Tyrcis and Amyntas are the two most miserable men I know.”
“And you are right, too, Monsieur de Guiche,” said the king; “for, in fact, the injury in question is a very hard return for a little harmless curiosity.”
“And you’re right, too, Monsieur de Guiche,” said the king; “because, honestly, the injury in question is a really harsh response to a little harmless curiosity.”
“That is as much to say, then, that the story of my Naiad has displeased the king?” asked Madame, innocently.
“Are you saying that my Naiad story has upset the king?” Madame asked, 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 was so truthful, and because her tale, I ought to add, is confirmed by the testimony of unimpeachable witnesses.”
“Nah, Madame, don’t fool yourself,” said Louis, taking the princess by the hand; “your Naiad, on the other hand, has impressed me, especially because she was so honest, and I should mention that her story is backed by the testimony of reliable witnesses.”
These words fell upon La Valliere, accompanied by a look that on 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. Saint-Aignan followed him, leaving the rooms in as much despair as he had entered them with delight. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, less sensitive than La Valliere, was not much frightened, and did not faint. However, it may be that the last look of Saint-Aignan had hardly been so majestic as the king’s.
These words hit La Valliere, accompanied by a look that could have perfectly captured the essence from Socrates to Montaigne. Both the look and the king’s comment completely overwhelmed the unhappy girl, who, resting her head on Montalais’s shoulder, appeared to faint. The king got up, not noticing this situation, which no one else acknowledged either, and, unlike his usual behavior of staying late in Madame’s quarters, he said his goodbyes and went back to his part of the palace. Saint-Aignan followed him, leaving the room as despairing as he had entered it with joy. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, less affected than La Valliere, wasn’t too scared and didn’t faint. However, it’s possible that Saint-Aignan’s last look wasn’t quite as impressive as the king’s.
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. That gayety of manner, which every one had remarked in him on his arrival, and which they had been delighted to perceive, had not perhaps been understood in its true sense: but his stormy departure, his disordered countenance, all 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 prize in France. It was not an unimportant matter for Madame, in the present position of affairs, to let the king perceive the difference which existed between the bestowal of his affections on one in a high station, and the running after each passing fancy, like a youth fresh from the provinces. With regard to those higher placed affections, recognizing their dignity and their illimitable influence, acknowledging in them a certain etiquette and display—a monarch not only did not act in a manner derogatory to his high position, but found even 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 descended to the region of petty human miseries, he would be subjected to paltry contentions. In one word, to convert 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 vanity than 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, or that she regarded things from a pessimistic 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 that intervened between the middle of the seventeenth century, and the last quarter of the eighteenth. Madame saw, therefore, or rather fancied she saw, things under their true aspect; she knew that the king, her august brother-in-law, had been 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 ever present, that evil influence which plays so important 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 without money, protectors, or position? And surprise need not be excited with respect to Madame; for it is known that the greatest characters are those who flatter themselves the most in the comparisons they draw between themselves and others, between others and themselves. It may perhaps be asked what was Madame’s motive for an attack so skillfully conceived and executed. Why was there such a display of forces, if it were not seriously her intention to dislodge the king from a heart that had never been occupied before, in which he 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 direction in which an historian, who knows everything, sees into the future, or rather, the past. Madame was neither a prophetess nor a sibyl; nor could she, any more than another, read what was written in that terrible and fatal book of the future, which records in its most secret pages the most serious events. No, Madame desired simply to punish the king for having availed himself 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 their 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 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 sequel itself was not thought of. And in this manner, it will be seen that she had exercised all 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 bewildered by it; for the first time since he had escaped from the trammels of M. de Mazarin, he found himself treated as a man. Similar severity from any of his subjects would have been at once resisted by him. Strength comes with battle. But to match one’s self with women, to be attacked by them, to have been imposed upon by mere 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 the pride his personal advantages and royal power inspired him with. There was nothing he could do—neither reproaches, nor exile—nor could he even show the annoyance he felt. To manifest vexation would have been to admit that he had been touched, like Hamlet, by a sword from which the button had been removed—the sword of ridicule. To show animosity against women—humiliation! especially when the women in question have laughter on their side, as a means of vengeance. 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 personal account. But there, again, the king’s anger paused, checked by reason. To be the master of armies, of prisons, of an almost divine authority, and to exert such majesty and might in the service of a petty grudge, would be unworthy not only of a monarch, but even of a man. It was necessary, therefore, simply to swallow the affront in silence, and to wear his usual gentleness and graciousness of expression. 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 that, shielded behind his royal authority, had said to this young creature: be not afraid, love but the king of France, who is above all, and 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 ensnaring tones; and when, morally speaking, she had 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 in the world.
The king hurried back to his rooms, probably walking fast to avoid stumbling. As he moved, he seemed to leave behind a trace of a mysterious sadness. The cheerful demeanor everyone had noticed upon his arrival, which they had been pleased to see, may not have been fully understood. However, his abrupt departure and troubled expression revealed a reason that everyone guessed, or thought they could guess. Madame's lightheartedness and somewhat biting jokes—biting for those sensitive individuals, especially someone like the king—along with the strong resemblance between the king and an ordinary person, were reasons people gave for his hasty and unexpected exit. Madame, sharp in most respects, didn’t initially see anything unusual about it. For her, it was enough to have slightly wounded the pride or self-esteem of someone who, forgetting the commitments he had made, seemed to take pleasure in dismissing a significant and noble prize in France without reason. It was crucial for Madame, given the current circumstances, to demonstrate to the king the difference between showering his affections on someone of high status and chasing after fleeting desires, like a young man just arrived from the provinces. Concerning those higher affections, recognizing their worth and unmatched influence, acknowledging a certain etiquette and display in them, a monarch not only acted in accordance with his status but also found rest, security, mystery, and universal respect within them. In contrast, embracing an ordinary or humble attachment could lead to snide and sarcastic comments, particularly from his least significant subjects, and would risk undermining his infallible and untouchable reputation. By lowering himself to experience petty human struggles, he would subject himself to trivial disputes. In short, to reduce the royal figure to just another mortal by striking directly at his heart, or even at his pride, was a severe blow to the dignity of his generous nature. Louis was more easily swayed by vanity than by true affection. Madame had wisely calculated her revenge, and it’s clear how she executed it. However, it shouldn't be thought that Madame had such fierce passions as the heroines of earlier times or that she viewed things with a pessimistic outlook; on the contrary, Madame, young, charming, educated, flirtatious, and loving in nature—more from whim, imagination, or ambition than from genuine feelings—actually ushered in an era of light and fleeting entertainment that defined the period from the mid-seventeenth century to the late eighteenth century. Therefore, Madame perceived, or rather fancied she saw, things as they truly were; she understood that her illustrious brother-in-law, the king, had been the first to mock the humble La Valliere and that it was unlikely he would ever genuinely love someone who had made him laugh, even if just for a moment. Moreover, wasn’t her vanity always present, that insidious influence that plays a significant role in the dramatic narrative of a woman's life? Did her vanity not whisper to her, quietly, in various tones, that she, as a young, beautiful, and wealthy princess, couldn’t possibly be compared to the poor La Valliere, who, while young as well, was certainly less attractive and utterly without money, protectors, or status? And there was no need for surprise regarding Madame, for it’s known that the greatest individuals often flatter themselves the most in the comparisons they make between themselves and others. One might ask what prompted Madame to launch such a skillfully devised and executed attack. Why was there such a show of force if it wasn’t her serious intention to remove the king from a heart that had never been occupied before, one in which he seemed ready to take refuge? Did Madame need to place such an emphasis on La Valliere if she didn’t fear her? Yet, Madame did not fear La Valliere in the sense that a historian, who knows everything, can predict the future, or rather, the past. Madame was neither a prophetess nor a sibyl; she could no more read what was inscribed in that dreadful and fatal future book, which records the most significant events in its most hidden pages, than anyone else. No, Madame merely wanted to punish the king for using secretive and particularly feminine methods; she wanted to show him that if he resorted to such offensive tactics, she, a witty and noble woman, could certainly come up with defensive ones that could withstand even a king’s attacks. Moreover, she wanted him to realize that, in such a battle, kings don't hold any power, or at least, that kings who fight for themselves, like ordinary people, risk losing their crowns in the very first encounter; and that indeed, if he had expected to be adored by all the ladies of the court from the start, based solely on his presence, it was a claim both absurd and insulting to certain individuals of higher status, and that offering this royal figure, who acted too proud and haughty, a timely lesson would be providing him a valuable service. Such were Madame's thoughts regarding the king. The aftermath itself wasn’t considered. In this way, it can be seen that she exerted all her influence over her ladies-in-waiting and arranged the recent spectacle with all its details. The king was completely caught off guard; for the first time since breaking free from M. de Mazarin's control, he felt treated like a man. Any similar harshness from his subjects would have been met with immediate resistance. Strength comes with conflict. But to contend with women, to be targeted by them, especially to be outsmarted by mere girls from the countryside who had journeyed from Blois specifically for that purpose—that was a deep dishonor for a young sovereign full of the pride his personal advantages and royal authority inspired. He felt powerless—no reproaches, no exile—he couldn’t even express his annoyance. To show frustration would mean admitting he had been pricked, like Hamlet, by a weapon whose safety had been removed—the weapon of mockery. To express hostility towards women—what a humiliation! Especially since the women involved had laughter on their side as a means of revenge. If, instead of letting the women take full responsibility for the matter, one of the courtiers had played a role in the scheme, how eagerly Louis would have seized the chance to use the Bastille to settle the score. But there, once again, the king’s anger paused, held back by reason. To command armies, prisons, and nearly divine authority, and to wield such power and status over a petty grudge would not only be unworthy of a king but even of a man. Therefore, it was necessary to swallow the insult quietly and maintain his usual gentleness and kind expression. It was crucial to treat Madame like a friend. As a friend!—Well, why not? Either Madame had instigated the affair or simply found herself caught up in it. If she was the instigator, it was certainly a bold move on her part, but nonetheless, it was natural for her. Who had sought her out in the early days of her marriage to whisper sweet words of love into her ear? Who had dared to contemplate the possibility of betraying the sacred marriage bond—a betrayal made even more appalling by their relationship? Who had, under the protection of his royal authority, told this young woman: “Don’t be afraid, just love the king of France, who stands above all, and a gesture of his sceptered hand will shield you from every attack, even from your own guilt?” And she had listened to and obeyed the royal voice, influenced by his entrancing words; and when she morally sacrificed her honor by listening to him, she found herself repaid for that sacrifice with an infidelity even more humiliating because it came from a woman far beneath her social standing.
Had Madame, therefore, been the instigator of the revenge, 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 chattering of a few country girls? and was it for her, by an excess of zeal that 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 has been dressed—to find that there were other causes of suffering, secret, unendurable, and unrevealed. There was one circumstance 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 permitted his heart to be gratified by La Valliere’s innocent 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, simpler and more youthful than he had imagined it to be, had to meet that other heart that had revealed itself to him by its aspirations. The commonest thing in the complicated history of love, is the double inoculation of love to which any two hearts are subjected; the 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 Mademoiselle de la Valliere showed her affection, the more the king’s affection had increased. And it was precisely that which had annoyed his majesty. For it was now fairly demonstrated to him, that no sympathetic current had been the means of hurrying his heart away in its course, because there had been no confession of love in the case—because the confession was, in fact, an insult towards the man and towards the sovereign; and finally, because—and the word, too, burnt 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 unpretending 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 handkerchief. And, since the previous evening, his mind had been so absorbed with this girl that he could think and dream of nothing else. Since the previous evening his imagination had been occupied by clothing her image with 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 previous evening, consecrated every moment of his 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 Saint-Aignan was present, was poured out in the most violent imprecations. True it is, that Saint-Aignan had taken refuge in a corner of the room; and from his corner, regarded the tempest passing over. His own personal disappointment seemed contemptible, in comparison with the 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 powerful 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 Saint-Aignan, suddenly cried out: “And you, Saint-Aignan?”
Had Madame been the one behind the revenge, she would have had a point. But if she had stayed out of it, why should the king be upset with her? Was it really her place to stop a few country girls from gossiping? And could she even have done so without risking making the situation worse? All these thoughts stung the king's pride, but after carefully reconsidering the issues at hand—after he had calmed down—Louis was shocked to discover that there were deeper, hidden pains that were unbearable and unspoken. There was one thing he couldn’t even admit to himself: the sharp pain he felt was rooted in his heart. The truth was, he had allowed himself to be pleased by La Valliere's innocent embarrassment. He fantasized about a pure love—a love for Louis the man, not the king—a love completely free of self-interest; and his heart, simpler and more naive than he realized, had to confront hers, which revealed itself through its longings. In the complex world of love, one heart often falls for another first, just as the second heart ultimately responds in kind. The electric bond develops according to how intensely the first spark is lit. The more Mademoiselle de la Valliere expressed her feelings, the deeper the king's feelings grew. And therein lay his frustration. It became all too clear to him that his heart wasn’t swept away by mutual feelings since there had been no declaration of love—because such a declaration would insult both the man and the king; and ultimately, because—it stung like a burn—it was all just an illusion. This girl, who couldn't claim beauty, noble birth, or high intelligence—who had been chosen by Madame for her modest background—not only caught the king's attention but had also treated him with disdain. He, the king, a man who, like an Eastern monarch, could simply bestow a glance or a gesture, had made every moment since the previous evening consumed by thoughts of her. His imagination was busy draping her image in charms she didn't possess. Truly, he, who was drawn to so many influential interests and had the affection of many women, had devoted all his thoughts and feelings to this singular dream. It was either too much or not enough. The king's fury blinded him to everything else, including the fact that Saint-Aignan was present, as he unleashed his rage with violent curses. It's true that Saint-Aignan had hidden in a corner of the room, watching the storm unfold. His own personal disappointment felt trivial compared to the king's anger. He weighed his petty vanity against the immense pride of an offended ruler, and knowing how kings generally think, especially powerful ones, he wondered if the king's pent-up anger would soon collapse onto him simply because others were guilty while he was innocent. In fact, the king suddenly halted his furious stride and, directing a furious glare at Saint-Aignan, shouted, “And you, Saint-Aignan?”
Saint-Aignan made a sign which was intended to signify, “Well, sire?”
Saint-Aignan gestured to indicate, “So, sir?”
“Yes; you have been as silly as myself, I think.”
“Yes, I think you have been just as silly as I have.”
“Sire,” stammered out Saint-Aignan.
"Sir," stammered Saint-Aignan.
“You permitted us to be deceived by this shameless trick.”
“You allowed us to be fooled by this shameless trick.”
“Sire,” said Saint-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 characters full of imperfections, created for the misfortune of mankind: to expect anything good from them is to require them to perform impossibilities.”
“Sir,” said Saint-Aignan, trembling with agitation, “please, I urge you not to get worked up. Women, as you know, have many flaws and often bring misfortune to mankind: expecting anything good from them is asking for the impossible.”
The king, who had the greatest consideration for himself, and who had begun to acquire over his emotions that command which he preserved over them all his life, perceived that he was doing an outrage to his own dignity in displaying so much animosity about so trifling an object. “No,” he said, hastily; “you are mistaken, Saint-Aignan; I am not angry; I can only wonder that we should have been turned into ridicule so cleverly and with such audacity by these 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.”
The king, who was very aware of his own importance and had started to gain control over his emotions throughout his life, realized that he was undermining his own dignity by being so upset about something so insignificant. “No,” he said quickly; “you’re wrong, Saint-Aignan; I’m not angry; I can only wonder how cleverly and boldly these young girls managed to mock us. I’m especially surprised that, even though we could have informed ourselves accurately about the situation, we were foolish enough to let our own hearts make the decision.”
“The heart, sire, is an organ which requires positively to be reduced to its material functions, but which, for the sake of humanity’s peace of mind, should be deprived of all its metaphysical inclinations. For my own part, I confess, when I saw that your majesty’s heart was so taken up by this little—”
“The heart, sir, is an organ that needs to be understood in terms of its physical functions, but for the sake of humanity’s peace of mind, it should be stripped of all its philosophical tendencies. As for me, I admit, when I saw that your majesty’s heart was so occupied 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 fill one gulf, he was about to dig 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 else.”
“My heart is overwhelmed! I! My mind might have been that way, but as for my heart, it was—” Louis realized again that in trying to address one issue, he was about to create another. “Besides,” he added, “I don’t blame the girl. I knew all along that she was in love with someone else.”
“The Vicomte de Bragelonne. I informed your majesty of the circumstance.”
“The Vicomte de Bragelonne. I informed your majesty of the situation.”
“You did so: but you were not the first who told me. The Comte de la Fere had solicited from me Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s hand for his son. And, on his return from England, the marriage shall be celebrated, since they love each other.”
“You did that, but you weren’t the first to tell me. The Comte de la Fere had asked me for Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s hand for his son. And when he returns from England, the marriage will take place, since they love each other.”
“I recognize your majesty’s great generosity of disposition in that act.”
“I appreciate your majesty’s incredible kindness in that action.”
“So, Saint-Aignan, we will cease to occupy ourselves with these matters any longer,” said Louis.
“Alright, Saint-Aignan, we won’t worry about these things anymore,” said Louis.
“Yes, we will digest the affront, sire,” replied the courtier, with resignation.
“Yes, we will take in the insult, my lord,” replied the courtier, with acceptance.
“Besides, it will be an easy matter to do so,” said the king, checking a sigh.
“Besides, it will be easy to do that,” said the king, suppressing a sigh.
“And, by way of a beginning, I will set about the composition of an epigram upon all three of them. I will call it ‘The Naiad and Dryad,’ which will please Madame.”
“And to start off, I’m going to write an epigram about all three of them. I’ll title it ‘The Naiad and Dryad,’ which I’m sure will please Madame.”
“Do so, Saint-Aignan, do so,” said the king, indifferently. “You shall read me your verses; they will amuse me. Ah! it does not signify, Saint-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. Saint-Aignan drew aside, out of respect.
“Go ahead, Saint-Aignan, go ahead,” said the king, without much interest. “You can read me your poems; they’ll entertain me. Ah! it doesn’t matter, Saint-Aignan,” the king continued, sounding like someone who was struggling to breathe, “this blow is more than anyone can bear gracefully.” As the king spoke with an expression of the utmost angelic patience, one of the attending servants gently knocked on the door. Saint-Aignan stepped aside, out of respect.
“Come in,” said the king. The servant partially opened the door. “What is it?” inquired Louis.
“Come in,” said the king. The servant slightly opened the door. “What is it?” asked Louis.
The servant held out a letter of a triangular shape. “For your majesty,” he said.
The servant extended a triangular-shaped letter. “For you, Your Majesty,” he said.
“From whom?”
"Who from?"
“I do not know. One of the officers on duty gave it to me.”
“I don't know. One of the officers on duty gave it to me.”
The valet, in obedience to a gesture of the king, handed him the letter. The king advanced towards the candles, opened the note, read the signature, and uttered a loud cry. Saint-Aignan was sufficiently respectful not to look on; but, without looking on, he saw and heard all, and ran towards the king, who with a gesture dismissed the servant. “Oh, heavens!” said the king, as he read the note.
The valet, following a gesture from the king, handed him the letter. The king moved closer to the candles, opened the note, read the signature, and let out a loud cry. Saint-Aignan was respectful enough not to look; but even without watching, he saw and heard everything and rushed over to the king, who waved away the servant. “Oh, heavens!” exclaimed the king as he read the note.
“Is your majesty unwell?” inquired Saint-Aignan, stretching forward his arms.
“Are you feeling okay, Your Majesty?” asked Saint-Aignan, reaching out his arms.
“No, no, Saint-Aignan—read!” and he handed him the note.
“No, no, Saint-Aignan—read!” He handed him the note.
Saint-Aignan’s eyes fell upon the signature. “La Valliere!” he exclaimed. “Oh, sire!”
Saint-Aignan noticed the signature. “La Valliere!” he exclaimed. “Oh, sir!”
“Read, read!”
"Read, read!"
And Saint-Aignan read:
And Saint-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 retired to my own room, overcome 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.
“Please excuse my persistence, your majesty; and also forgive the lack of formalities in this letter. A note feels more immediate and urgent than a formal dispatch. Therefore, I dare to send this note to your majesty. I have returned to my room, overwhelmed with sorrow and exhaustion, your majesty; and I ask your majesty to grant me the favor of an audience, which will allow me to confess the truth to my sovereign.”
“LOUISE de la VALLIERE.”
"Louis de la Vallière."
“Well?” asked the king, taking the letter from Saint-Aignan’s hands, who was completely bewildered by what he had just read.
“Well?” the king asked, taking the letter from Saint-Aignan’s hands, who was totally confused by what he had just read.
“Well!” repeated Saint-Aignan.
"Well!" repeated Saint-Aignan.
“What do you think of it?”
“What do you think about it?”
“I hardly know.”
"I barely know."
“Still, what is your opinion?”
“What's your opinion?”
“Sire, the young lady must have heard the muttering of the thunder, and has got frightened.”
“Sire, the young lady must have heard the rumbling of the thunder and got scared.”
“Frightened at what?” asked Louis with dignity.
“Frightened of what?” Louis asked, standing tall.
“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 disagreeable sense, it would be a perpetual menace hanging over the head of this imprudent girl.”
“Your majesty has countless reasons to be upset with the person or people who made such a risky joke; and if your majesty's memory were to be stirred in an unpleasant way, it would be a constant threat looming over this foolish girl.”
“Saint-Aignan, I do not think as you do.”
“Saint-Aignan, I don’t see it the way you do.”
“Your majesty doubtless sees more clearly than myself.”
“Your majesty probably sees things more clearly than I do.”
“Well! I see affliction and restraint in these lines; more particularly since I recall some of the details of the scene which took place this evening in Madame’s apartments—” The king suddenly stopped, leaving his meaning unexpressed.
“Well! I see struggle and limitation in these lines; especially since I remember some of the details of the scene that happened this evening in Madame’s rooms—” The king suddenly stopped, leaving his point unsaid.
“In fact,” resumed Saint-Aignan, “your majesty will grant an audience; nothing is clearer than that.”
"In fact," Saint-Aignan continued, "your majesty will grant an audience; nothing is clearer than that."
“I will do better, Saint-Aignan.”
"I'll do better, Saint-Aignan."
“What is that, sire?”
“What is that, dude?”
“Put on your cloak.”
“Put on your jacket.”
“But, sire—”
“But, your majesty—”
“You know the suite of rooms where Madame’s maids of honor are lodged?”
“You know the set of rooms where Madame’s attendants are stayed?”
“Certainly.”
"Of course."
“You know some means of obtaining an entrance there.”
“You know how to get in there.”
“As far as that is concerned, I do not.”
“As far as that goes, I don’t.”
“At all events, you must be acquainted with some one there.”
“At any rate, you must know someone there.”
“Really, your majesty is the source of every good idea.”
“Honestly, your majesty, you’re the inspiration for every great idea.”
“You do know some one, then. Who is it?”
“You do know someone, then. Who is it?”
“I know a certain gentleman, who is on very good terms with a certain young lady there.”
“I know a guy who gets along really well with a certain young woman there.”
“One of the maids of honor?”
"One of the female staff?"
“Yes, sire.”
“Yes, sir.”
“With Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, I suppose?” said the king, laughing.
“With Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, I assume?” said the king, chuckling.
“Fortunately, no, sire; with Montalais.”
"Luckily, no, sir; with Montalais."
“What is his name?”
"What's his name?"
“Malicorne.”
“Malicorne.”
“And you can depend on him?”
“And you can count 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 let us have it.”
“I think so, your majesty. He should have some kind of key on him; and if he does, since I’ve helped him out, he’ll probably give it to us.”
“Nothing could be better. Let us set off immediately.”
“Nothing could be better. Let’s get going right away.”
The king threw his cloak over Saint-Aignan’s shoulders, asked him for his, and both went out into the vestibule.
The king put his cloak over Saint-Aignan’s shoulders, asked for his in return, and they both stepped out into the vestibule.
Chapter LIX. Something That neither Naiad nor Dryad Foresaw.
Saint-Aignan stopped at the foot of the staircase leading 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 was passing, he sent to apprise Malicorne, who was still with Monsieur. After having waited ten minutes, Malicorne arrived, full of self-importance. The king drew back towards the darkest part of the vestibule. Saint-Aignan, on the contrary, advanced to meet him, but at the first words, indicating his wish, Malicorne drew back abruptly.
Saint-Aignan paused at the bottom of the staircase that led to the entresol, where the maids of honor stayed, and to the first floor, where Madame's rooms were. He then sent a passing servant to inform Malicorne, who was still with Monsieur. After waiting ten minutes, Malicorne showed up, full of himself. The king stepped back into the dimmer part of the vestibule. In contrast, Saint-Aignan moved forward to greet him, but as soon as he voiced his intention, Malicorne pulled back suddenly.
“Oh, oh!” he said, “you want me to introduce you into the rooms of the maids of honor?”
“Oh, really!” he said, “you want me to show you into the rooms of the maids of honor?”
“Yes.”
"Yeah."
“You know very well that I cannot do anything of the kind, without being made acquainted with your object.”
“You know very well that I can’t do anything like that without knowing what your goal is.”
“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 difficulty yesterday, and who now begs you to draw him out of one to-day.”
“Unfortunately, my dear Monsieur Malicorne, it's impossible for me to explain anything; you must trust me like a friend who helped you out of a tough situation yesterday and who now asks you to help him out of one today.”
“Yet I told you, monsieur, what my object was; which was, not to sleep out in the open air, and any man might express the same wish, whilst you, however, admit nothing.”
“Still, I told you, sir, what my goal was; which was to avoid sleeping outside, and any man might have the same desire, yet you refuse to acknowledge anything.”
“Believe me, my dear Monsieur Malicorne,” Saint-Aignan persisted, “that if I were permitted to explain myself, I would do so.”
“Trust me, my dear Mr. Malicorne,” Saint-Aignan insisted, “that if I were allowed to explain myself, I would.”
“In that case, my dear monsieur, it is impossible for me to allow you to enter Mademoiselle de Montalais’s apartment.”
“In that case, my dear sir, I cannot let you enter Mademoiselle de Montalais’s apartment.”
“Why so?”
"Why's that?"
“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 attentions to her, to open the door of her room to you.”
“You know why, better than anyone else, since you caught me on the wall flirting with Mademoiselle de Montalais; so it would really be a big favor on my part, you have to agree, since I’m trying to win her over, to let you into her room.”
“But who told you it was on her account I asked you for the key?”
“But who said I asked you for the key because of her?”
“For whom, then?”
"Who is it for, then?"
“She does not lodge there alone, I suppose?”
“She doesn't stay there alone, I guess?”
“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 M. de Bragelonne, if he begged me to give it to him, and to the king, if he commanded me.”
“No, definitely; because Mademoiselle de la Valliere shares her rooms with her; but honestly, you have no more connection to Mademoiselle de la Valliere than you do to Mademoiselle de Montalais, and there are only two men to whom I would give this key: to M. de Bragelonne, if he asked me for it, and to the king, if he ordered me to.”
“In that case, give me the key, monsieur: I order you to do so,” 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 up-stairs to Mademoiselle de la Valliere, for, in fact, it is she only whom we desire to see.”
“In that case, give me the key, sir: I’m commanding you to do it,” said the king, stepping out of the shadows and slightly opening his cloak. “Mademoiselle de Montalais will come down to speak with you while we head upstairs to see Mademoiselle de la Valliere, because it’s really only her we want to see.”
“The king!” exclaimed Malicorne, bowing to the very ground.
“The king!” shouted Malicorne, bowing all the way to the ground.
“Yes, the king,” said Louis, smiling: “the king, who is as pleased with your resistance as with your capitulation. Rise, monsieur, and render us the service we request of you.”
“Yes, the king,” Louis said with a smile, “the king, who is just as pleased with your resistance as he is with your surrender. Please stand up, sir, and do us the favor we’re asking of you.”
“I obey, your majesty,” said Malicorne, leading the way up the staircase.
“I obey, your 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.”
“Have Mademoiselle de Montalais come down,” said the king, “and don’t say a word to her about my visit.”
Malicorne bowed in token of obedience, and proceeded up the staircase. But the king, after a hasty reflection, followed him, and that, too, with such rapidity, that, although Malicorne was already more than half-way up the staircase, the king reached the room at the same moment. He then observed, by the door which remained half-opened behind Malicorne, La Valliere, sitting in an armchair with her head thrown back, and in the opposite corner Montalais, who, in her dressing-gown, was standing before a looking-glass, engaged in arranging her hair, and parleying 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 galvanized, and then fell back in her armchair. The king advanced slowly towards her.
Malicorne bowed as a sign of obedience and climbed the staircase. But the king, after a quick thought, followed him, moving so fast that even though Malicorne was already more than halfway up the stairs, the king reached the room at the same time. He then noticed, through the half-open door behind Malicorne, La Valliere sitting in an armchair with her head thrown back, and in the opposite corner Montalais, who was standing in her bathrobe in front of a mirror, fixing her hair and chatting with Malicorne. The king quickly opened the door and stepped into the room. Montalais exclaimed at the noise from the door opening and, realizing it was the king, quickly left. La Valliere rose from her chair like someone suddenly revived but then sank back into her armchair. The king moved slowly toward her.
“You wished for an audience, I believe,” he said coldly. “I am ready to hear you. Speak.”
“You wanted an audience, right?” he said coldly. “I’m ready to listen. Go ahead.”
Saint-Aignan, faithful to his character of being deaf, blind, and dumb, had stationed himself in a corner of the door, upon a stool which by chance he found there. Concealed by the tapestry which covered the doorway, and leaning his back against the wall, he could thus listen without being seen; resigning himself to the post of a good watch-dog, who patiently waits and watches without ever getting in his master’s way.
Saint-Aignan, true to his nature of being deaf, blind, and mute, had positioned himself in a corner by the door, on a stool he happened to find there. Hidden by the tapestry that draped the doorway and leaning against the wall, he was able to listen without being noticed; accepting the role of a good watchdog, who patiently waits and observes without ever obstructing his owner.
La Valliere, terror-stricken at the king’s irritated aspect, rose a second time, and assuming a posture full of humility and entreaty, murmured, “Forgive me, sire.”
La Valliere, terrified by the king’s irritated expression, got up again and took a stance that was full of humility and pleading, murmuring, “Please forgive me, your Majesty.”
“What need is there for my forgiveness?” asked Louis.
“What do you need my forgiveness for?” asked Louis.
“Sire, I have been guilty of a great fault; nay, more than a great fault, a great crime.”
“Sire, I’ve committed a serious mistake; no, more than just a mistake, a serious crime.”
“You?”
"Are you?"
“Sire, I have offended your majesty.”
“Sire, I have disrespected your majesty.”
“Not in the slightest degree in the world,” replied Louis XIV.
“Not at all,” replied Louis XIV.
“I implore you, sire, not to maintain towards me that terrible seriousness of manner which reveals your majesty’s just anger. I feel I have offended you, sire; but I wish to explain to you how it was that I have not offended you of my own accord.”
“I beg you, sire, not to keep that awful seriousness towards me that shows your majesty’s rightful anger. I know I have upset you, sire; but I want to explain how it is that I didn’t offend you intentionally.”
“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 ridicule—it was very natural to do so: any other woman in your place would have done the same.”
“In the first place,” said the king, “how could you possibly have offended me? I can't see how. Surely it’s not because of a young girl’s harmless and innocent joke? You made fun of a young man’s gullibility—it was totally natural to do that: any other woman in your position would have done the same.”
“Oh! your majesty overwhelms me by your remark.”
“Oh! Your majesty, your comment humbles me.”
“Why so?”
"Why's that?"
“Because, if I had been the author of the jest, it would not have been innocent.”
“Because if I had come up with the joke, it wouldn’t 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.
“Well, is that all you wanted to say to me to get my attention?” said the king, as if he were about to walk away.
Thereupon La Valliere, in an abrupt and a broken voice, her eyes dried up by the fire of her tears, made a step towards the king, and said, “Did your majesty hear everything?”
Thereupon La Valliere, in a sudden and shaky voice, her eyes dried up from the heat of her tears, took a step toward the king and said, “Did you hear everything, Your Majesty?”
“Everything, what?”
"Everything, what’s that about?"
“Everything I said beneath the royal oak.”
“Everything I said under the royal oak.”
“I did not lose a syllable.”
“I didn’t miss anything.”
“And now, after your majesty really heard all, are you able to think I abused your credibility?”
“And now, after you really heard everything, do you honestly think I misused your trust?”
“Credulity; yes, indeed, you have selected the very word.”
“Believe me; yes, you’ve definitely picked the right word.”
“And your majesty did not suppose that a poor girl like myself might possibly be compelled to submit to the will of others?”
“And your majesty didn’t think that a poor girl like me might have to go along with what others want?”
“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.”
“Forgive me,” the king replied, “but I will never be able to understand how she, who could speak so openly of her own accord under the royal oak, would let herself be swayed so much by what others think.”
“But the threat held out against me, sire.”
“But the threat that's hanging over me, sir.”
“Threat! who threatened you—who dared to threaten you?”
“Threat! Who threatened you—who had the audacity to threaten you?”
“Those who have the right to do so, sire.”
“Those who are entitled to do so, sir.”
“I do not recognize any one as possessing the right to threaten the humblest of my subjects.”
“I don’t acknowledge anyone as having the right to threaten even the least of my subjects.”
“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.”
“Forgive me, your majesty, but even near you, there are people important enough to think they have the right to harm a young girl who has no money and only her reputation.”
“In what way injure her?”
“How should I hurt her?”
“In depriving her of her reputation, by disgracefully expelling her from the court.”
“In taking away her reputation by dishonorably forcing her out of the court.”
“Oh! Mademoiselle de la Valliere,” said the king bitterly, “I prefer those persons who exculpate themselves without incriminating others.”
“Oh! Mademoiselle de la Valliere,” the king said bitterly, “I prefer people who clear themselves without throwing others under the bus.”
“Sire!”
"Your Majesty!"
“Yes; and I confess that I greatly regret to perceive, that an easy justification, as your own would have been, is now complicated in my presence by a tissue of reproaches and imputations against others.”
“Yeah; and I admit that I really regret seeing that an easy justification, like yours would have been, is now complicated for me by a web of accusations and blame directed at others.”
“And which you do not believe?” exclaimed La Valliere. The king remained silent.
“And which you do not believe?” La Valliere exclaimed. The king stayed silent.
“Nay, but tell me!” repeated La Valliere, vehemently.
“Nah, but tell me!” repeated La Valliere, passionately.
“I regret to confess it,” repeated the king, bowing coldly.
“I’m sorry to admit it,” the king said again, bowing stiffly.
The young girl uttered a deep groan, striking her hands together in despair. “You do not believe me, then,” she said to the king, who still remained silent, while poor La Valliere’s features became visibly changed at his continued silence. “Therefore, you believe,” she said, “that I pre-arranged this ridiculous, this infamous plot, of trifling, in so shameless a manner, with your majesty.”
The young girl let out a deep groan, clapping her hands together in despair. “So, you don’t believe me, then,” she said to the king, who still stayed quiet, while poor La Valliere’s expression changed noticeably at his continued silence. “So, you think,” she said, “that I set up this ridiculous, this scandalous scheme, in such a shameless way, with your majesty.”
“Nay,” said the king, “it was neither ridiculous nor infamous; it was not even a plot; merely a jest, more or less amusing, and nothing more.”
“Nah,” said the king, “it was neither silly nor shameful; it wasn’t even a scheme; just a joke, somewhat amusing, and nothing more.”
“Oh!” murmured the young girl, “the king does not, and will not believe me, then?”
“Oh!” whispered the young girl, “the king doesn’t believe me, and won’t ever believe me, right?”
“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.”
“No, I really can’t believe you,” said the king. “Besides, what could be more natural? You say the king follows me, listens to me, watches me; maybe the king wants to have some fun at my expense, so I’ll have some fun at his. And since the king is very soft-hearted, I’ll win his heart over.”
La Valliere hid her face in her hands, as she stifled her sobs. The king continued pitilessly; he was revenging himself upon the poor victim before him for all he had himself suffered.
La Valliere buried her face in her hands, trying to hold back her sobs. The king carried on ruthlessly; he was taking revenge on the poor victim in front of him for all that he had endured himself.
“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.”
“Let’s create this story about how I love him and prefer him over others. The king is so naive and so full of himself that he will totally buy it; then we can go and tell others how gullible the king is and get a good laugh at his expense.”
“Oh!” exclaimed La Valliere, “you think that, you believe that!—it is frightful.”
“Oh!” La Valliere exclaimed, “you really think that, you believe that!—it’s terrifying.”
“And,” pursued the king, “that is not all; if this self-conceited prince take our jest seriously, if he should be imprudent enough to exhibit before others anything like delight at it, well, in that case, the king will be humiliated before the whole court; and what a delightful story it will be, too, for him to whom I am really attached, in fact part of my dowry for my husband, to have the adventure to relate of the monarch who was so amusingly deceived by a young girl.”
“And,” continued the king, “that’s not everything; if this arrogant prince takes our joke seriously, and if he’s foolish enough to show any kind of happiness about it, then the king will be embarrassed in front of the entire court; and what a great story it will be, too, for the one I truly care about, actually part of my dowry for my husband, to share the tale of the king who was so humorously tricked by a young girl.”
“Sire!” exclaimed La Valliere, her mind bewildered, almost wandering, indeed, “not another word, I implore you; do you not see that you are killing me?”
“Sire!” exclaimed La Valliere, her mind confused, almost drifting, indeed, “please, no more words; can't you see that you’re hurting me?”
“A jest, nothing but a jest,” murmured the king, who, however, began to be somewhat affected.
“A joke, just a joke,” the king murmured, although he started to feel a bit impacted.
La Valliere fell upon her knees, and that so violently, that the sound could be heard upon the hard floor. “Sire,” she said, “I prefer shame to disloyalty.”
La Valliere dropped to her knees so forcefully that it echoed against the hard floor. “Sire,” she said, “I choose shame over disloyalty.”
“What do you mean?” inquired the king, without moving a step to raise the young girl from her knees.
“What do you mean?” the king asked, not moving at all to help the young girl to her feet.
“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—”
“Sire, when I've sacrificed both my honor and my reason for you, you might finally believe in my loyalty. The story that was told to you in Madame’s rooms, and by Madame herself, is completely false; and what I said under the big oak—”
“Well!”
“Well!”
“That is the only truth.”
"That's the only truth."
“What!” exclaimed the king.
"Wait, 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.”
“Sire,” exclaimed La Valliere, overwhelmed by her emotions, “even if I were to die of shame right here where my knees are, I would say it until my last breath; I said that I love you, and it’s true; I do love you.”
“You!”
"You!"
“I have loved you, sire, from the very first day I ever 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 a 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.”
“I have loved you, my king, from the very first day I saw you; from the moment at Blois, where I was wasting away, your royal presence, full of light and life, was first directed at me. I still love you, my king; I know it’s a serious offense for a poor girl like me to love her ruler and to dare to say so. Punish me for my boldness, scorn me for my shamelessness; but never say, never think, that I have joked with or deceived you. I come from a family known for its loyalty, my king, 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 severed in the midst of the grass. The king, at these words, at this vehement entreaty, no longer retained any ill-will or doubt in his mind: his whole heart seemed to expand at the glowing breath of an affection which proclaimed itself in such noble and courageous language. When, therefore, he heard the passionate confession, 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 their 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 Saint-Aignan. Saint-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, calling 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 Valliere, you must pay attention, for the king is very pale.”
Suddenly, her strength, voice, and breathing stopped, and she fell forward, like the flower Virgil talks about, cut down by the reaper's scythe in the middle of the grass. At these words, this intense plea, the king no longer held any resentment or doubts: his entire heart seemed to open up at the warmth of an affection that expressed itself in such noble and courageous words. So when he heard her passionate confession, he felt weak and hid his face in his hands. But when La Valliere’s hands gripped his own, the warmth igniting his blood, he leaned forward, wrapped his arm around her waist, lifted her from the ground, and pressed her to his heart. Yet she, with her head drooping forward onto her chest, appeared to have lost consciousness. Terrified, the king called for Saint-Aignan. Saint-Aignan, having been discreetly lingering in the corner and pretending to wipe away a tear, hurried forward at the king's call. He then helped Louis place the young girl on a couch, slapped her hands, sprinkled some Hungary water on her face, all the while saying, “Come on, it's over; the king believes you and forgives you. There, there now! Be careful, or you’ll upset his majesty too much; he’s so sensitive and tender-hearted. Now really, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, you need to pay attention because the king is looking very pale.”
The fact was, the king was visibly losing color. But La Valliere did not move.
The truth was, the king was clearly losing color. But La Valliere stayed still.
“Do pray recover,” continued Saint-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 so at once, my dear.”
“Please get better,” Saint-Aignan continued. “I’m asking you, begging you; it’s really time you did. Just think about this: if the king were to get sick, I’d have to call his doctor. What a situation that would be! So please, pull yourself together; make an effort, I’m asking you, and do it right away, my dear.”
It was difficult to display more persuasive eloquence than Saint-Aignan did, but something still more powerful, and of a more energetic nature than this eloquence, aroused La Valliere. 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 Valliere’s senses returned to her; she languidly opened her eyes and, with a dying look, murmured, “Oh! sire, has your majesty pardoned me, then?”
It was hard to be more convincing than Saint-Aignan, but something even stronger and more intense stirred La Valliere. The king, kneeling before her, pressed his passionate kisses onto her hands, the kind of kisses that are to hands what a kiss on the lips is to the face. La Valliere's senses came back to her; she slowly opened her eyes and, with a faint look, whispered, “Oh! Sire, have you pardoned me, then?”
The king did not reply, for he was still too much overcome. Saint-Aignan thought it was his duty again to retire, for he observed the passionate devotion which was displayed in the king’s gaze. La Valliere rose.
The king didn’t respond, as he was still too overwhelmed. Saint-Aignan felt it was his duty to step back again, noticing the intense devotion reflected in the king’s eyes. La Valliere got up.
“And now, sire, that I have justified myself, at least I trust so, in your majesty’s eyes, grant me leave to retire into a convent. I shall bless your majesty all my life, and I shall die thanking and loving Heaven for having granted me one hour of perfect happiness.”
“And now, sir, now that I have cleared myself, or at least I hope so, in your majesty’s eyes, please allow me to retire to a convent. I will bless your majesty for the rest of my life, and I will die grateful to Heaven for having given me one hour of complete 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.”
“No, no,” replied the king, “you will live here thanking Heaven, but loving Louis, who will make your life one of perfect happiness—Louis who loves you—Louis who promises it.”
“Oh! sire, sire!”
“Oh! sir, sir!”
And upon this doubt of La Valliere, the king’s kisses became so warm that Saint-Aignan thought it was his duty to retire behind the tapestry. These kisses, however, which she had not the strength at first to resist, began to intimidate the young girl.
And because of La Valliere's uncertainty, the king's kisses became so passionate that Saint-Aignan felt he had to step behind the tapestry. However, these kisses, which she initially lacked the strength to resist, began to scare the young girl.
“Oh! sire,” she exclaimed, “do not make me repeat my loyalty, for this would show me that your majesty despises me still.”
“Oh! Your Majesty,” she exclaimed, “please don’t make me repeat my loyalty, because that would make me feel like you still despise me.”
“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 affection, but I can prove to you that I love you more than ever by respecting you as much as you can possibly desire or deserve.” 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 the 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 attempted. 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 to Saint-Aignan, who approached 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.”
“Mademoiselle de la Valliere,” the king said suddenly, stepping back with great respect, “there’s nothing in the world that I love and honor more than you, and nothing in my court, I swear to Heaven, will be held in higher regard than you from now on. I ask for your forgiveness for my outburst; it came from too much affection, but I can show you that I love you even more by respecting you as much as you could ever want or deserve.” Then, bowing before her and taking her hand, he asked, “Will you honor me by accepting the kiss I place upon your hand?” And the king’s lips gently and respectfully touched the young girl’s trembling hand. “From now on,” Louis added, rising and looking at La Valliere, “you are under my protection. Don’t speak to anyone about the wrong I’ve done you; forgive those who may have offended you. In the future, you will be so far above everyone else that, instead of instilling fear, they will invoke your pity.” And he bowed as respectfully as if he were leaving a house of worship. Then, calling to Saint-Aignan, who approached humbly, he said, “I hope, comte, that Mademoiselle de la Valliere will be kind enough to share a bit of her friendship with you, in return for the loyalty I have promised her forever.”
Saint-Aignan bent his knee before La Valliere, saying, “How happy, indeed, would such an honor make me!”
Saint-Aignan knelt before La Valliere and said, “How happy I would be to receive such an honor!”
“I will 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.”
“I will send your friend back to you,” said the king. “Goodbye! or, rather, see you later; please don’t forget me in your prayers, I beg you.”
“Oh!” cried La Valliere, “be assured that you and Heaven are in my heart together.”
“Oh!” exclaimed La Valliere, “rest assured that you and Heaven are both in my heart.”
These words of Louise elated the king, who, full of happiness, hurried Saint-Aignan down the stairs. Madame had not anticipated this denouement; and neither the Naiad nor the Dryad had breathed a word about it.
These words from Louise thrilled the king, who, filled with joy, rushed Saint-Aignan down the stairs. Madame hadn't seen this ending coming; and neither the Naiad nor the Dryad had mentioned a thing about it.
Chapter LX. The New General of the Jesuits.
While La Valliere and the king were mingling, in their first confession of love, all the bitterness of the past, the happiness of the present, and hopes of the future, Fouquet had retired to the apartments which had been assigned to him in the chateau, and was conversing with Aramis precisely upon the very subjects which the king at that moment was forgetting.
While La Valliere and the king were chatting during their first declaration of love, filled with past bitterness, present happiness, and future hopes, Fouquet had gone to the rooms assigned to him in the chateau and was discussing the same topics that the king was forgetting at that moment.
“Now tell me,” said 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.”
“Now tell me,” said Fouquet, after settling his guest into an armchair and sitting beside him, “tell me, Monsieur d’Herblay, what’s our situation regarding the Belle-Isle matter, and have you received any updates 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.”
“Everything is heading in the direction we want,” replied Aramis. “The expenses have been covered, and nothing has come out about our plans.”
“But what about the soldiers the king wished to send there?”
“But what about the soldiers the king wanted to send there?”
“I have received news this morning they arrived there fifteen days ago.”
“I got news this morning that they arrived there fifteen days ago.”
“And how have they been treated?”
“And how have they been treated?”
“In the best manner possible.”
“In the best way possible.”
“What has become of the former garrison?”
“What happened to the old garrison?”
“The soldiers were landed at Sarzeau, and then transferred immediately to Quimper.”
“The soldiers arrived at Sarzeau and were then quickly taken to Quimper.”
“And the new garrison?”
“And the new squad?”
“Belongs to us from this very moment.”
“Belongs to us from this very moment.”
“Are you sure of what you say, my dear Monsieur de Vannes?”
“Are you sure about what you're saying, my dear Monsieur de Vannes?”
“Quite sure, and, moreover, you will see by and by how matters have turned out.”
“Absolutely, and you will see soon enough how things have turned out.”
“Still you are very well aware, that, of all the garrison towns, Belle-Isle is precisely the very worst.”
“Still, you know very well that out of all the garrison towns, Belle-Isle is definitely the worst.”
“I know it, and have acted accordingly; no space to move about, no gayety, no cheerful society, no gambling 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 to the man who procures and pays for their favorite pastimes.”
“I know it, and I've acted accordingly; no room to move around, no fun, no cheerful company, no gambling allowed: well, it's a real shame,” added Aramis, with one of those smiles that are so characteristic of him, “to see how much young people these days look for entertainment, and how much, as a result, they lean towards the person who provides and covers the costs of their favorite activities.”
“But if they amuse themselves at Bell-Isle?”
“But what if they have fun at Bell-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 themselves through M. Fouquet, they will attach themselves to M. Fouquet.”
“If they have fun thanks to the king, they will connect with the king; but if they get bored stiff because of the king and enjoy themselves through M. Fouquet, they will bond with M. Fouquet.”
“And you informed my intendant, of course?—so that immediately on their arrival—”
“And you told my assistant, of course?—so that as soon as they arrive—”
“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 former officers amused themselves much better. Whereupon they were told that the old officers had been able to make a friend of M. Fouquet, and that M. 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 afterwards, however, the intendant added, that without anticipating M. Fouquet’s orders, he knew his master sufficiently 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 new-comers, he would do as much for them as he had done for the others.”
“Not at all; they were left alone for a whole week to entertain themselves, but by the end of the week, they complained that the previous officers had much more fun. They were then told that the old officers had managed to befriend M. Fouquet, and that M. Fouquet, knowing they were his friends, had gone out of his way to ensure they didn’t get tired or bored on his properties. This made them think. Shortly after, however, the steward added that without waiting for M. Fouquet’s instructions, he knew his boss well enough to understand that he cared about everyone in the king’s service, and that even though he didn’t know the newcomers, he would do just as much for them as he had for the others.”
“Excellent! and I trust that the promises were followed up; I desire, as you know, that no promise should ever be made in my name without being kept.”
“Great! And I hope that the promises were followed through; I want, as you know, that no promise should ever be made in my name without being honored.”
“Without a moment’s loss of time, our two privateers, and your own horses, were placed at the disposal of the officers; 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 other as they are enabled to enlist from the neighborhood, who have no fear of sea-sickness.”
“Without wasting any time, our two privateers and your horses were given to the officers; the keys to the main house were handed over to them, so they formed hunting parties and took walks with the ladies found in Belle-Isle, as well as those they could recruit from the area who weren’t afraid of getting seasick.”
“And there is a fair sprinkling to be met with at Sarzeau and Vannes, I believe, your eminence?”
“And I believe there’s quite a bit to be found in Sarzeau and Vannes, your eminence?”
“Yes; in fact all along the coast,” said Aramis, quietly.
“Yes; actually all along the coast,” said Aramis, calmly.
“And now, how about the soldiers?”
“And now, what about the soldiers?”
“Everything precisely the same, in a relative degree, you understand; the soldiers have plenty of wine, excellent provisions, and good pay.”
“Everything is pretty much the same, relatively speaking, you know; the soldiers have lots of wine, great food, and good pay.”
“Very good; so that—”
“Sounds great; so that—”
“So that this garrison can be depended upon, and it is a better one than the last.”
“So that this garrison can be trusted, and it's better than the last one.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
“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.”
“The outcome is that if luck is on our side, and the garrisons are rotated this way only every two months, then by the end of three years, the entire army will have gone through that place. Therefore, instead of just one regiment on our side, we’d 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 spent at Saint-Mande, I confess I have forgotten him completely.”
“Yes, yes; I knew perfectly well,” said Fouquet, “that no friend could be more amazing and invaluable than you, my dear Monsieur d’Herblay; but,” he added, laughing, “all this time we’ve totally forgotten about our friend, Du Vallon; where has he gone? During the three days I spent at Saint-Mande, I admit I completely lost track of him.”
“I do not forget him, however,” returned Aramis. “Porthos is at Saint-Mande; his joints are kept well greased, the greatest care is being taken care of him with regard to the food he eats, and 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 us 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.”
“I haven’t forgotten him, though,” Aramis replied. “Porthos is at Saint-Mande; his joints are well-oiled, and they’re taking great care of what he eats and drinks. I’ve suggested he take daily strolls in the little park you’ve reserved for yourself, and he’s making good use of it. He’s starting to walk again, strengthening his muscles by bending young elm trees or splintering old oaks, just like Milo of Crotona used to do; and since there are no lions in the park, it’s quite possible we’ll find him alive. Porthos is a brave guy.”
“Yes, but in the mean time he will get bored to death.”
“Yes, but in the meantime, he’ll be bored to death.”
“Oh, no; he never does that.”
“Oh, no; he never does that.”
“He will be asking questions?”
"Is he going to ask questions?"
“He sees no one.”
“He sees nobody.”
“At all events, he is looking or hoping for something or another.”
“At any rate, he is searching for something or hoping for something else.”
“I have inspired in him a hope which we will realize some fine morning, and on that he subsists.”
“I have given him hope that we will achieve something great one day, and that’s what keeps him going.”
“What is it?”
"What's that?"
“That of being presented to the king.”
“That of being introduced to the king.”
“Oh! in what character?”
“Oh! in what role?”
“As the engineer of Belle-Isle, of course.”
“As the engineer of Belle-Isle, obviously.”
“Is it possible?”
"Can it happen?"
“Quite true.”
"That's true."
“Shall we not be obliged, then, to send him back to Belle-Isle?”
“Are we not required to send him back to Belle-Isle?”
“Most certainly; I am even thinking of sending him as soon as possible. Porthos is very fond of display; he is man whose weakness D’Artagnan, Athos, and myself are alone acquainted with; he never commits himself in any way; he is dignity himself; to the officers there, he would seem like a Paladin of the time of the Crusades. He would make the whole staff drunk, without getting tipsy in the least himself, and every one will regard him with admiration and sympathy; if, therefore, it should happen that we 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.”
“Absolutely; I'm even thinking of sending him as soon as I can. Porthos loves to show off; he's a guy whose weakness D’Artagnan, Athos, and I are the only ones who know about. He never puts himself out there; he embodies dignity itself. To the officers there, he would come across like a Paladin from the Crusades. He could get the whole staff drunk without getting tipsy himself, and everyone would look at him with admiration and sympathy. So, if we happen to have any orders that need to be carried out, Porthos is basically the embodiment of the command itself, and whatever he decides to do, others would feel like they have to follow along.”
“Send him back, then.”
“Send him back, then.”
“That is what I intend to do; but only in a few days; for I must not omit to tell you one thing.”
“That’s what I plan to do; but only in a few days; because I can’t forget to tell you something.”
“What is it?”
"What is that?"
“I begin to mistrust D’Artagnan. He is not at Fontainebleau, 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.”
“I’m starting to distrust D’Artagnan. He’s not at Fontainebleau, as you probably noticed, and D’Artagnan is never missing or seemingly doing nothing without a purpose. Now that my own matters are taken care of, I’m going to figure out what D’Artagnan is up to.”
“Your own affairs are settled, you say?”
“Are your own matters taken care of, you say?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“You are very fortunate in that case, then, and I should like to be able to say the same.”
"You’re really lucky in that case, and I wish I could say the same."
“I hope you do not make yourself uneasy.”
“I hope you don’t stress yourself out.”
“Hum!”
“Hmm!”
“Nothing could be better than the king’s reception of you.”
“Nothing could be better than the way the king received you.”
“True.”
“Absolutely.”
“And Colbert leaves you in peace.”
“And Colbert leaves you be.”
“Nearly so.”
“Almost.”
“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.”
“In that case,” said Aramis, with his usual way of connecting thoughts, “in that case, we can think about the young girl I mentioned to you yesterday.”
“Whom do you mean?”
"Who do you mean?"
“What, have you forgotten already? I mean La Valliere.”
“What, have you already forgotten? I mean La Valliere.”
“Ah! of course, of course.”
"Ah! Of course."
“Do you object, then, to try and make a conquest of her?”
“Do you have a problem with trying to win her over?”
“In one respect only; my heart is engaged in another direction, and I positively do not care about the girl in the least.”
“In one respect only; my heart is set on someone else, and I honestly don’t care about the girl at all.”
“Oh, oh!” said Aramis, “your heart is engaged, you say. The deuce! we must take care of that.”
“Oh, oh!” said Aramis, “you say your heart is taken. Wow! We need to look into that.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Because it is terrible to have the heart occupied, when others, besides yourself, have so much need of the head.”
“Because it’s awful to have your heart consumed when others, besides you, need your mind so much.”
“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?”
“You're right. So, you see, at your first call, I dropped everything. But back to this girl. What good do you think it does for me to worry about her?”
“This.—The king, it is said, has taken a fancy to her; at least, so it is supposed.”
“This.—People say the king has taken a liking to her; at least, that's the assumption.”
“But you, who know everything, know very differently.”
“But you, who know everything, know it in a completely different way.”
“I know that the king is greatly and suddenly changed; that the day before yesterday he was crazy over 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.”
“I know that the king has changed a lot and very suddenly; that the day before yesterday he was crazy about Madame; that just a few days ago, Monsieur brought it up, even to the queen-mother; and that some marital issues and motherly nagging were the result.”
“How do you know all that?”
“How do you know all that?”
“I do know it; at all events, since these misunderstandings and scoldings, the king has not addressed a word, has not paid the slightest attention, to her royal highness.”
“I do know it; in any case, since these misunderstandings and harsh words, the king hasn’t said a word or shown the slightest interest in her royal highness.”
“Well, what next?”
"What's 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 suppose, what is called a chaperon in matters of love. Well, then, Mademoiselle de la Valliere is Madame’s chaperon. It is for you 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 Madame’s secret, and you can scarcely predict what a man of intelligence can do with a secret.”
“Since then, he’s been involved with Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Mademoiselle de la Valliere is one of Madame’s maids of honor. You know what a chaperon is when it comes to love, right? Well, Mademoiselle de la Valliere is Madame’s chaperon. It’s up to you to take advantage of this situation. You don’t need me to tell you that. But still, a bruised ego will make the conquest easier; the girl will get close to the king and discover Madame’s secret, and you can hardly imagine what an intelligent man can do with a secret.”
“But how to get at her?”
“But how do I reach her?”
“Nay, you, of all men, to ask me such a question!” said Aramis.
“Nah, of all people, you’re asking me that question?” said Aramis.
“Very true. I shall not have any time to take any notice of her.”
“That's so true. I won't have any time to pay attention to her.”
“She is poor and unassuming, you will create a position for her, and whether she tames the king as his lady confessor, or his sweetheart, you will have enlisted a new and valuable ally.”
“She’s poor and humble, you will make a place for her, and whether she wins over the king as his lady confessor or his love interest, you will have gained a new and valuable ally.”
“Very good,” said Fouquet. “What is to be done, then, with regard to this girl?”
“Very good,” said Fouquet. “So, what should we do about this girl?”
“Whenever you have taken a fancy to any lady, Monsieur Fouquet, what course have you generally pursued?”
“Whenever you’ve developed an interest in a woman, Monsieur Fouquet, what steps do you usually take?”
“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.”
“I wrote to her, expressing my devotion to her. I also added how happy I would be to do anything for her, and I signed ‘Fouquet’ at the end of the letter.”
“And has any one offered resistance?”
"And has anyone fought back?"
“One person only,” replied Fouquet. “But, four days ago, she yielded, as the others had done.”
“One person only,” replied Fouquet. “But four days ago, she gave in, just like the others.”
“Will you take the trouble to write?” said Aramis, holding a pen towards him, which Fouquet took, saying:
“Will you take the time to write?” Aramis asked, holding out a pen to him. Fouquet took it and replied:
“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 lines.”
“I’ll write what you say. My mind is so focused on something else that I wouldn’t be able to write a few lines.”
“Very well,” said Aramis, “write.”
“Sure,” said Aramis, “write.”
And he dictated, as follows: “Mademoiselle—I have seen you—and you will not be surprised to learn, I think you very beautiful. But, for want of the position you merit at 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 talent 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 assured. 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.”
And he dictated, as follows: “Mademoiselle—I have seen you—and I think you’re very beautiful, so you won’t be surprised to hear that. However, without the position you deserve at court, being there is a waste of time. The devotion of a man of honor could possibly help showcase your talent and beauty if you have any ambitions. I offer my devotion to you; however, since my feelings, no matter how humble and unassuming, could risk compromising the person I admire, it wouldn’t be right for someone of your caliber to take that chance without her future being secure. If you would be willing to accept and respond to my feelings, my gratitude will ensure that you are free and independent forever.”
Having finished writing, Fouquet looked at Aramis.
Having finished writing, Fouquet looked at Aramis.
“Sign it,” said the latter.
“Sign it,” said the latter.
“Is it absolutely necessary?”
“Is it really necessary?”
“Your signature at the foot of that letter is worth a million; you forget that.” Fouquet signed.
“Your signature at the bottom of that letter is worth a million; you forget that.” Fouquet signed.
“Now, by whom do you intend to send this letter?” asked Aramis.
“Now, who do you plan to send this letter with?” asked Aramis.
“By an excellent servant of mine.”
“By a great servant of mine.”
“Can you rely on him?”
"Can you trust him?"
“He is a man who has been with me all my life.”
“He's a guy who's been with me my whole life.”
“Very well. Besides, in this case, we are not playing for very heavy stakes.”
“Alright. Besides, in this situation, we’re not playing for very high stakes.”
“How so? For if what you say be true of the accommodating disposition of this girl for the king and Madame, the king will give her all the money she can ask for.”
“How so? Because if what you’re saying about this girl being so agreeable to the king and Madame is true, the king will give her all the money she wants.”
“The king has money, then?” asked Aramis.
“The king has money, right?” asked Aramis.
“I suppose so, for he has not asked me for any more.”
“I guess so, since he hasn't asked me for anything else.”
“Be easy, he will ask for some, soon.”
“Relax, he’ll 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.”
“Nah, more than that, I thought he would’ve talked to me about the fete at Vaux, but he didn’t say a thing about it.”
“He will be sure to do so, though.”
“He's definitely going to do that, though.”
“You must think the king’s disposition a very cruel one, Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“You must think the king is very cruel, Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“It is not he who is so.”
“It’s not him who is like that.”
“He is young, and therefore his disposition is a kind one.”
“He is young, so he has a kind nature.”
“He is young, and either he is weak, or his passions are strong; and Monsieur Colbert holds his weakness and his passions in his villainous grasp.”
“He's young, and either he's weak, or his emotions are intense; and Monsieur Colbert has both his weakness and his passions firmly under his control.”
“You admit that you fear him?”
“You admit that you’re scared of him?”
“I do not deny it.”
"I won't deny it."
“I that case I am lost.”
“I’m lost in that situation.”
“Why so?”
"Why is that?"
“My only influence with the king has been through the money I commanded, and now I am a ruined man.”
“My only connection with the king has been through the money I controlled, and now I’m a broke man.”
“Not so.”
"Not really."
“What do you mean by ‘not so?’ Do you know my affairs better than myself?”
“What do you mean by ‘not so?’ Do you know my life better than I do?”
“That is not unlikely.”
"That's pretty likely."
“If he were to request this fete to be given?”
“If he were to ask for this fete to be thrown?”
“You would give it, of course.”
“You would definitely give it, of course.”
“But where is the money to come from?”
“But where is the money going to come from?”
“Have you ever been in want of any?”
"Have you ever needed any?"
“Oh! if you only knew at what a cost I procured the last supply.”
“Oh! if you only knew how much it cost me to get the last supply.”
“The next shall cost you nothing.”
“The next one won’t cost you anything.”
“But who will give it me?”
“But who will give it to me?”
“I will.”
"Sure thing."
“What, give me six millions?”
"What, give me six million?"
“Ten, if necessary.”
"Ten, if needed."
“Upon my word, D’Herblay,” said Fouquet, “your confidence alarms me more than the king’s displeasure. Who can you possibly be, after all?”
“Honestly, D’Herblay,” said Fouquet, “your confidence worries me more than the king’s anger. Who on earth are you, anyway?”
“You know me well enough, I should think.”
“You know me well enough, I think.”
“Of course; but what is it you are aiming at?”
“Of course; but what are you trying to achieve?”
“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.”
“I want to see a king on the throne of France who is loyal to Monsieur Fouquet, and I want Monsieur Fouquet to be loyal to me.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Fouquet, pressing his hand,—“as for being devoted to you, I am yours, entirely; but believe me, my dear D’Herblay, you are deceiving yourself.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Fouquet, pressing his hand, “when it comes to being devoted to you, I’m all yours; but believe me, my dear D’Herblay, you’re fooling yourself.”
“In what respect?”
"In what way?"
“The king will never become devoted to me.”
“The king will never be loyal to me.”
“I do not remember to have said that King Louis would ever become devoted to you.”
“I don’t remember saying that King Louis would ever be devoted to you.”
“Why, on the contrary, you have this moment said so.”
"Actually, you just said that."
“I did not say the king; I said a king.”
“I didn’t say the king; I said a king.”
“Is it not all the same?”
"Isn’t it all the same?"
“No, on the contrary, it is altogether different.”
“No, on the contrary, it’s completely different.”
“I do not understand you.”
"I don't 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.”
“You'll do that soon, then; let’s say, for example, the king we're talking about is a very different person from Louis XIV.”
“Another person.”
“Another person.”
“Yes, who is indebted for everything to you.”
"Yes, who owes you all."
“Impossible.”
"Not possible."
“His very throne, even.”
“His actual throne, even.”
“You are mad, D’Herblay. There is no man living besides Louis XIV. who can sit on the throne of France. I know of none, not one.”
“You're crazy, D’Herblay. There’s no one alive besides Louis XIV who can sit on the throne of France. I don’t know of anyone, not a single person.”
“But I know one.”
"But I know one."
“Unless it be Monsieur,” said Fouquet, looking at Aramis uneasily; “yet Monsieur—”
“Unless it’s Monsieur,” Fouquet said, glancing at Aramis nervously; “but Monsieur—”
“It is not Monsieur.”
“It’s not Monsieur.”
“But how can it be, that a prince not of the royal line, that a prince without any right—”
“But how can it be that a prince not of royal blood, that a prince without any claim—”
“My king, or rather your king, will be everything that is necessary, be assured of that.”
“My king, or rather your king, will be everything you need, trust that.”
“Be careful, Monsieur d’Herblay, you make my blood run cold, and my head swim.”
“Be careful, Mr. d’Herblay, you’re giving me chills and making my head spin.”
Aramis smiled. “There is but little occasion for that,” he replied.
Aramis smiled. "There's really no need for that," he replied.
“Again, I repeat, you terrify me,” said Fouquet. Aramis smiled.
“Once again, I say, you scare me,” said Fouquet. Aramis smiled.
“You laugh,” said Fouquet.
"You laugh," Fouquet said.
“The day will come when you will laugh too; only at the present moment I must laugh alone.”
“The day will come when you’ll laugh too; right now, though, I have to laugh by myself.”
“But explain yourself.”
"But explain yourself."
“When the proper time comes, I will explain all. Fear nothing. Have faith in me, and doubt nothing.”
“When the right time comes, I will explain everything. Don't worry. Trust me, and don't doubt anything.”
“The fact is, I cannot but doubt, because I do not see clearly, or even at all.”
"The truth is, I can't help but question things because I can't see clearly, or even at all."
“That is because of your blindness; but a day will come when you will be enlightened.”
"That's because you can't see it; but there will come a day when you'll understand."
“Oh!” said Fouquet, “how willingly would I believe.”
“Oh!” said Fouquet, “how gladly I would 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 irretrievably swallowed; you, without belief; you, who from procureur-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 unaltered smile, “no, no, you cannot see, and consequently cannot believe—what I tell you.” And Aramis rose to withdraw.
“You, who have no faith! You, who have, thanks to me, crossed the deep chasm at your feet ten times, and would have been completely lost if you had been on your own; you, who doubt; you, who went from procurer-general to intendant, then to the first minister of the crown, and will soon move from being the first minister to becoming the mayor of the palace. But no,” he said, with the same unchanged smile, “no, no, you can’t see, and therefore can’t believe—what I’m telling you.” And Aramis stood up to leave.
“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.”
“One more thing,” said Fouquet; “you’ve never talked to me like this before, you’ve never shown this kind of confidence, I should say this kind of boldness.”
“Because it is necessary, in order to speak confidently, to have the lips unfettered.”
“Because it's essential, in order to speak confidently, to have free lips.”
“And that is now your case?”
“And that’s where you’re at now?”
“Yes.”
“Yep.”
“Since a very short time, then?”
“Since a really short time, then?”
“Since yesterday, only.”
“Since yesterday only.”
“Oh! Monsieur d’Herblay, take care, your confidence is becoming audacity.”
“Oh! Monsieur d’Herblay, be careful, your confidence is turning into arrogance.”
“One can well be audacious when one is powerful.”
“One can definitely be bold when they are powerful.”
“And you are powerful?”
"And you're powerful?"
“I have already offered you ten millions; I repeat the offer.”
“I've already offered you ten million; I'm making the offer again.”
Fouquet rose, profoundly agitated.
Fouquet stood up, deeply unsettled.
“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?”
“Come,” he said, “come; you talked about toppling kings and putting others in their place. If I'm not losing my mind here, is that or isn’t that what you just said?”
“You are by no means out of your senses, for it is perfectly true I did say all that just now.”
"You’re definitely not out of your mind, because it’s absolutely true that I just said all that."
“And why did you say so?”
“And why did you say that?”
“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.”
“Because it’s easy to talk about thrones being toppled and kings being elevated when you are, yourself, far above all kings and thrones, at least in this world.”
“Your power is infinite, then?” cried Fouquet.
“Your power is infinite, then?” exclaimed Fouquet.
“I have told you so already, and I repeat it,” replied Aramis, with glistening eyes and trembling lips.
“I’ve already told you this, and I’ll say it again,” replied Aramis, with shining eyes and quivering lips.
Fouquet threw himself back in his chair, and buried his face in his hands. Aramis looked at him for a moment, as the angel of human destinies might have looked upon a simple mortal.
Fouquet leaned back in his chair and buried his face in his hands. Aramis studied him for a moment, like an angel of human destinies might observe an ordinary person.
“Adieu,” he said to him, “sleep undisturbed, and send your letter to La Valliere. To-morrow we shall see each other again.”
“Goodbye,” he said to him, “sleep peacefully, and send your letter to La Valliere. Tomorrow we’ll see each other again.”
“Yes, to-morrow,” said Fouquet, shaking his hands like a man returning to his senses. “But where shall we see each other?”
“Yes, tomorrow,” said Fouquet, shaking his hands like someone coming back to reality. “But where will we meet?”
“At the king’s promenade, if you like.”
“At the king’s promenade, if that works for you.”
“Agreed.” And they separated.
"Agreed." Then they split up.
Chapter LXI. The Storm.
The dawn of the following day was dark and gloomy, and as every one knew that the promenade was down in the royal programme, every one’s gaze, as his eyes were opened, was directed towards the sky. Just above the tops of the trees a thick, suffocating vapor seemed to remain suspended, with barely sufficient power to rise thirty feet above the ground under the influence of the sun’s rays, which was scarcely visible as a faint spot of lesser darkness through the veil of heavy mist. No dew had fallen in the morning; the turf was dried up for want of moisture, the flowers withered. The birds sang less inspiringly than usual upon the boughs, which remained motionless as the limbs of corpses. The strange confused and animated murmurs, which seemed born and to exist in virtue of the sun, that respiration of nature which is unceasingly heard amidst all other sounds, could not be heard now, and never had the silence been so profound.
The dawn of the next day was dark and gloomy, and since everyone knew that the promenade was on the royal schedule, everyone's gaze, as they opened their eyes, was directed toward the sky. Just above the treetops, a thick, suffocating fog seemed to hang in the air, barely rising thirty feet above the ground under the weak sun's rays, which were hardly visible as a faint spot of lesser darkness through the heavy mist. No dew had fallen in the morning; the grass was parched from lack of moisture, and the flowers were wilting. The birds sang less cheerfully than usual on the branches, which were as motionless as the limbs of corpses. The strange, confused, and lively murmurs that typically filled the air with the sun's presence—nature's breathing that is constantly heard among all other sounds—could not be heard now, and the silence had never been so profound.
The king had noticed the cheerless aspect of the heavens as he approached the window immediately upon 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 nothing whatever to do with the matter; that the promenade was arranged, and that, whatever the state of the weather, 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: Nocte pluit tota redeunt spectacula mane. 10
The king noticed the gloomy look of the sky as he approached the window right after getting up. But since all the necessary instructions had been given regarding the outing, and every preparation had been made accordingly, and since, more importantly, Louis depended on this outing to satisfy the longings of his imagination—and we might even say, the urgent desires of his heart—the king confidently decided that the state of the sky had nothing to do with the issue; that the outing was planned, and that regardless of the weather, the outing would happen. Moreover, there are certain earthly monarchs who seem to be granted special privileges, and there are times when it almost seems like the expressed wishes of a king can influence the will of the Divine. Virgil observed about Augustus: Nocte pluit tota redeunt spectacula mane. 10
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, perhaps, with her usual chattering propensity, might have been disposed to talk about it; but Montalais on this occasion was held in check by Malicorne, who had securely fastened on her pretty lips the golden 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 malice of the previous evening. In fact, he had occasion to congratulate himself 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’s thoughts during mass; 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 returned to the chateau, and as the promenade was fixed for midday, and it was at present just ten o’clock, he set to work 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 pavilion: he could see M. Fouquet in the courtyard, to whom the courtiers, since the favor shown towards him on the previous evening, paid greater attention than ever. The king, instinctively, on noticing Fouquet, turned towards 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 pocket-book, 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 preferred, of the smiles of the two men, that of Fouquet. He beckoned to the superintendent to come up, and turning towards 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 superintendent, 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.
Louis went to mass as usual, but it was clear that his thoughts were somewhat distracted from the presence of God by memories of a certain someone. During the service, he repeatedly counted the minutes and then the seconds until the blissful moment when the walk would begin, meaning when Madame would set out with her ladies-in-waiting. Moreover, no one at the chateau was aware of the meeting that had taken place between La Valliere and the king. Montalais, with her usual tendency to chatter, might have been tempted to discuss it, but she was kept in check by Malicorne, who had firmly closed her pretty lips with the golden lock of shared interest. As for Louis XIV., he was so happy that he had nearly forgiven Madame for her little bit of spite from the night before. In fact, he had more reason to congratulate himself than to complain. Had it not been for her unkind act, he wouldn't have received the letter from La Valliere; without the letter, there would have been no meeting; and without the meeting, he would have stayed uncertain. His heart was so filled with joy that, at that moment at least, there was no room for any ill-feelings. So, instead of frowning when he saw his sister-in-law, Louis decided to greet her more warmly and graciously than usual, but only on the condition that she would be ready to leave early. Such were Louis’s thoughts during mass; they caused him to forget things that, as the Most Christian King and the eldest son of the Church, should have captured his attention. He returned to the chateau, and since the walk was set for noon and it was currently just ten o’clock, he worked frantically with Colbert and Lyonne. Even while he worked, Louis moved from the table to the window, which overlooked Madame’s pavilion: he could see M. Fouquet in the courtyard, who was now receiving even more attention from the courtiers than before due to the favor he had been shown the previous evening. Instinctively, upon seeing Fouquet, the king turned to Colbert, who was smiling and appeared full of goodwill and happiness, a mood that had emerged the moment one of his secretaries handed him a pocketbook, which he had slipped into his pocket without opening. However, Colbert's expressed delight always had a hint of something sinister beneath it, so Louis preferred the smiles of Fouquet over Colbert's. He beckoned the superintendent to come up and said to Lyonne and Colbert, “Finish this matter, put it on my desk, and I will read it at my leisure.” Then he left the room. At the king's signal, Fouquet hurried up the staircase, while Aramis, who was with the superintendent, quietly blended into the group of courtiers and vanished without even being noticed by the king. Louis 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 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 pointed. Louis conducted Fouquet to a small room that divided his study from his sleeping-apartment.
“Sire,” said Fouquet, noticing the gracious way Louis was about to welcome him, “you’ve shown me tremendous kindness over the past few days. It’s not just a young king who rules France, but a being of a higher order, one who is recognized as the master of pleasure, happiness, and love.” The king blushed. The compliment, while flattering, was still somewhat pointed. Louis led Fouquet to a small room that separated his study from his bedroom.
“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.
“Do you know why I called you here?” the king asked as he sat on the edge of the window, wanting to see everything happening in the gardens in front of the entrance to Madame’s pavilion.
“No, sire,” replied Fouquet, “but I am sure for something agreeable, if I am to judge from your majesty’s gracious smile.”
“No, sir,” replied Fouquet, “but I’m sure it’s something nice, judging by your majesty’s kind smile.”
“You are mistaken, then.”
"You’re mistaken, then."
“I, sire?”
“Me, sir?”
“For I summoned you, on the contrary, to pick a quarrel with you.”
“For I called you, instead, to start a fight with you.”
“With me, sire?”
"With me, Your Highness?"
“Yes: and that a serious one.”
“Yes, and it's a serious one.”
“Your majesty alarms me—and yet I was most confident in your justice and goodness.”
“Your majesty worries me—and yet I was very sure of your fairness and kindness.”
“Do you know I am told, Monsieur Fouquet, that you are preparing a grand fete at Vaux.”
“Did you know, Monsieur Fouquet, that I've heard you’re getting ready for a big party at Vaux?”
Fouquet smiled, as a sick man would do at the first shiver of a fever which has left him but returns again.
Fouquet smiled, like someone who is sick might when they feel the first chill of a fever that's gone but comes back again.
“And that you have not invited me!” continued the king.
“And you haven't invited me!” the king continued.
“Sire,” replied Fouquet, “I have not even thought of the fete you speak of, and it was only yesterday evening that one of my friends,” Fouquet laid a stress upon the word, “was kind enough to make me think of it.”
“Sire,” replied Fouquet, “I hadn't even thought about the fete you're mentioning, and it was only last night that one of my friends,” Fouquet emphasized the word, “had the kindness to remind me of it.”
“Yet I saw you yesterday evening, Monsieur Fouquet, and you said nothing to me about it.”
“Yet I saw you yesterday evening, Mr. Fouquet, and you didn’t say anything 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?”
“How could I dare to hope that Your Majesty would come down from your high position to honor my home with your royal presence?”
“Excuse me, Monsieur Fouquet, you did not speak to me about your fete.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Fouquet, you didn’t mention your fete to me.”
“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.”
“I didn’t mention the fete to your majesty, I’ll say it again, first because nothing had been decided about it, and second because I was worried about a refusal.”
“And something made you fear a refusal, Monsieur Fouquet? You see I am determined to push you hard.”
“And something made you afraid of a no, Mr. Fouquet? You see, I’m set on pushing you hard.”
“The profound wish I had that your majesty should accept my invitation—”
“The deep hope I had that your majesty would accept my invitation—”
“Well, Monsieur Fouquet, nothing is easier, I perceive, than our coming to an understanding. Your wish is to invite me to your fete, my own is to be present at it; invite me and I will go.”
“Well, Monsieur Fouquet, I see that it’s really easy for us to come to an agreement. You want to invite me to your fete, and I want to be there; just invite me and I’ll come.”
“Is it possible that your majesty will deign to accept?” murmured the superintendent.
“Is it possible that Your Majesty will graciously accept?” murmured the superintendent.
“Why, really, monsieur,” said the king, laughing, “I think I do more than accept; I rather fancy I am inviting myself.”
“Why, really, sir,” said the king, laughing, “I think I do more than just accept; I actually think I’m inviting myself.”
“Your majesty overwhelms me with honor and delight,” exclaimed Fouquet, “but I shall be obliged to repeat what M. Vieuville said to your ancestor, Henry IV., Domine non sum dignus.” 11
“Your majesty fills me with honor and joy,” said Fouquet, “but I have to echo what M. Vieuville told your ancestor, Henry IV., Domine non sum dignus.” 11
“To which I reply, Monsieur Fouquet, that if you give a fete, I will go, whether I am invited or not.”
“To which I respond, Mr. Fouquet, that if you throw a fete, I’ll attend, whether or not I’m invited.”
“I thank your majesty deeply,” said Fouquet, as he raised his head beneath this favor, which he was convinced would be his ruin.
“I deeply thank your majesty,” said Fouquet, lifting his head in the light of this favor, which he was sure would lead to his downfall.
“But how could your majesty have been informed of it?”
“But how could Your Majesty have found out about it?”
“By a public rumor, Monsieur Fouquet, which says such wonderful things of yourself and the marvels of your house. Would you become proud, Monsieur Fouquet, if the king were to be jealous of you?”
“There's a public rumor going around, Monsieur Fouquet, that says such amazing things about you and the wonders of your home. Would you become arrogant, Monsieur Fouquet, if the king were to feel jealous of you?”
“I should be the happiest man in the world, sire, since the very day on which your majesty were to be jealous of Vaux, I should possess something worthy of being offered to you.”
“I should be the happiest man in the world, your majesty, because the moment you felt jealous of Vaux, I would have something valuable to present to you.”
“Very well, Monsieur Fouquet, prepare your fete, and open the door of your house as wide as possible.”
“Alright, Monsieur Fouquet, get ready for your fete, and open your door as wide as you can.”
“It is for your majesty to fix the day.”
“It’s up to you, Your Majesty, to choose the day.”
“This day month, then.”
“On this day this month.”
“Has your majesty any further commands?”
“Does Your Majesty have any more orders?”
“Nothing, Monsieur Fouquet, except from the present moment until then to have you near me as much as possible.”
“Nothing, Mr. Fouquet, except for right now until then, I want you close to me as much as possible.”
“I have the honor to form one of your majesty’s party for the promenade.”
“I’m honored to be part of your majesty’s group for the walk.”
“Very good; indeed, I am now setting out; for there are the ladies, I see, who are going to start.”
“Alright; I’m heading out now; I see the ladies who are about to leave.”
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 crunching of the wheels on the gravel of the courtyard could be distinctly heard. The king descended the stairs, and at the moment he appeared 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 drive. The king, who had just seen La Valliere, still pale from the event 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 like 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. 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 atom glisten within the circuit 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 given by the queen, took its course in the direction of Apremont. The courtiers who followed were in the very highest spirits; it was 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 containing 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 cavalcade, was informed in reply, that she wished to walk. She most 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.
With this comment, the king, full of youthful eagerness and the excitement of being in love, stepped away from the window to grab his gloves and cane, which his valet had ready for him. The sounds of horses neighing and wheels crunching on the gravel of the courtyard were clearly audible. The king went down the stairs, and as soon as he appeared on the steps, everyone stopped. He walked directly to the young queen. The queen mother, who was still suffering more than ever from her illness, didn't want to go out. Maria Theresa accompanied Madame in her carriage and asked the king where he wanted the promenade to go. The king, who had just seen La Valliere, still pale from the previous night's events, told the queen he had no preference and would go wherever she chose. The queen then instructed the outriders to head toward Apremont. The outriders took off ahead of the others. The king rode on horseback and for a few minutes kept pace with the queen's carriage and Madame. The weather had improved somewhat, but a veil of dust, like thick gauze, still hung in the sky, and the sun made every particle sparkle in its rays. It was stiflingly hot; however, since the king didn’t seem concerned about the weather, no one else worried about it, and the promenade continued toward Apremont as the queen instructed. The courtiers following were in high spirits; it was clear that everyone was trying to forget and help others forget the harsh discussions from the night before. Madame, in particular, was charming. When she saw the king at her carriage door, not expecting him to be there for the queen's sake, she hoped her prince had come back to her. However, barely had they gone a quarter of a mile when the king, smiling graciously, greeted them and pulled up his horse, allowing the queen's carriage to pass, followed by that of the lead ladies of honor, and then the rest in succession. Seeing the king stop made them want to stop too, but he signaled for them to keep going. When La Valliere's carriage passed, the king approached it, greeted the ladies inside, and was about to follow the carriage of the maids of honor, just as he had with Madame’s, when suddenly the entire line of carriages halted. It seemed likely that Madame, feeling uneasy about the king leaving her, had just instructed this maneuver, as the route for the promenade had been left to her. The king sent a message to find out why she had stopped the procession and was informed that she wanted to walk. She probably hoped that the king, who was following the maids of honor on horseback, wouldn't dare to follow them on foot. They had reached 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 or with leaves that formed a carpet from the loom of nature; and each walk had its horizon in the distance, consisting of about a hand-breadth of sky, apparent through the interlacing of the branches of the trees. At the end of almost every walk, evidently in great tribulation 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 fled 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, might be noticed quietly sitting upright, rubbing his muzzle with his fore paws, and looking about 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 towards the king, who did not perceive that he was in 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 majesty with long poles, which they used for the purpose of putting the branches of the trees aside, or removing the bushes that might impede her progress. As soon as Madame alighted, she found the Comte de Guiche 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 chateau 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 Monsieur was a man who thought a great deal of himself, and usually added very little to the general pleasure, his absence was rather a subject of satisfaction than 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 off 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 natural motives. There was this difference, however, between the two, that the one had withdrawn from a wish to please the king, the other for a very opposite reason. During 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 afterwards, as if driven by a current of air from the opposite direction, was now advancing slowly and heavily towards them. The approach of the storm could be felt, but as the king did not perceive it, no one thought it proper to do so. The promenade was therefore continued; some of the company, with minds ill at ease on the subject, raised their eyes from time to time towards 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 to a lateral forest-alley; where no one this time ventured to follow him.
The stroll was actually well-timed, especially for those who were dreamers or romantics. From the small open area where they stopped, three lovely winding paths, shaded and lush, stretched out before them. These paths were covered with moss or leaves that created a natural carpet, and each path had a distant horizon framed by a sliver of sky visible through the interwoven branches of the trees. At nearly every path's end, startled deer could be seen anxiously darting around, first pausing in the middle of the trail, then raising their heads before fleeing like arrows or bounding into the forest, where they quickly vanished; occasionally, a calmly observant rabbit could be spotted sitting upright, rubbing its face with its front paws, looking around curiously, as if wondering whether the approaching people, who had interrupted its thoughts and snack, were being followed by dogs or carried guns. Everyone got out of their carriages as soon as they noticed that the queen was doing the same. Maria Theresa took the arm of one of her ladies-in-waiting and, glancing sideways at the king—who didn’t notice that he was the slightest bit of the queen’s focus—entered the forest via the nearest path. Two outriders went ahead of her majesty with long poles, using them to sweep aside the branches and bushes that could get in her way. As soon as she stepped down, Madame found the Comte de Guiche at her side, who bowed and made himself available to her. Monsieur, still pleased from his previous two days of bathing, had expressed a preference for the river, and after granting De Guiche leave, stayed at the chateau with the Chevalier de Lorraine and Manicamp. He was not jealous at all. He had not been sought out among those present; but since Monsieur was a man who held himself in high regard and contributed very little to everyone’s enjoyment, his absence was more a relief than a loss. Everyone followed the lead set by the queen and Madame, doing as they liked, based on chance or whim. The king, as mentioned, stayed close to La Valliere, and as soon as her carriage door opened, he dismounted and offered her his hand to help her down. Montalais and Tonnay-Charente immediately stepped back and kept their distance; the former from strategy, the latter from natural instinct. However, there was a key difference between the two: one withdrew out of a desire to please the king, while the other did so for the exact opposite reason. In the last half-hour, the weather also changed; the clouds that had covered the sky, seemingly pushed by a warm breeze, gathered in the western sky; later, as if moved by a wind from the other direction, it began to move slowly and heavily toward them. The impending storm was palpable, but since the king didn’t notice it, neither did anyone else feel it was appropriate to react. Therefore, the stroll continued; some guests, feeling uneasy about the weather, would occasionally glance up at the sky; others, even more anxious, stayed close to the carriages, relying on them for shelter if the storm hit. However, the majority, seeing the king confidently enter the woods with La Valliere, chose to follow him. Noticing this, the king took La Valliere’s hand and led her down a side path in the forest where, this time, no one dared to follow him.
Chapter LXII. The Shower of Rain.
At this moment, and in the same direction, too, that the king and La Valliere had taken, except that they were 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, the king or La Valliere. Suddenly something fell through the air like a colossal sheet of flame, followed by a loud but distant rumbling noise.
At that moment, in the same direction that the king and La Valliere had taken—though they were in the woods instead of on the path—two men were walking together, completely indifferent to the state of the sky. Their heads were lowered like people deep in serious thought. They hadn’t noticed De Guiche or Madame, nor the king or La Valliere. Suddenly, something fell through the air like a massive sheet of fire, accompanied by a loud but distant rumbling sound.
“Ah!” said one of them, raising his head, “here comes the storm. Let us reach our carriages, my dear D’Herblay.”
“Ah!” said one of them, lifting his head, “here comes the storm. Let’s get to 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 doubtless been interrupted, he said, “You were observing that the letter we wrote last evening must by this time have reached its destination?”
Aramis looked questioningly at the sky. “There's no reason to rush just yet,” he said; then picking up the conversation where it was clearly interrupted, he added, “You were saying that the letter we wrote last night should have arrived by now?”
“I was saying that she certainly has it.”
“I was saying that she definitely has it.”
“Whom did you send it by?”
“Who did you send it with?”
“By my own servant, as I have already told you.”
“By my own servant, as I already mentioned to you.”
“Did he bring back an answer?”
“Did he come back with an answer?”
“I have not seen him since; the young girl was probably in attendance on Madame, or was in her own room dressing, and he may have had to wait. Our time for leaving arrived, and we set off, of course; I cannot, therefore, know what is going on yonder.”
“I haven’t seen him since; the young girl was probably with Madame or was in her own room getting ready, and he might have had to wait. When it was time for us to leave, we set off, so I can’t really know what’s happening over there.”
“Did you see the king before leaving?”
“Did you see the king before leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Yep.”
“How did he seem?”
“How did he come across?”
“Nothing could have passed off better, or worse; according as he be sincere or hypocritical.”
“Nothing could have turned out better or worse, depending on whether he is sincere or fake.”
“And the fete?”
“And the party?”
“Will take place in a month.”
“Will happen in a month.”
“He invited himself, you say?”
"He invited himself, really?"
“With a pertinacity in which I detected Colbert’s influence. But has not last night removed your illusions?”
“With a determination that I recognized as Colbert’s influence. But hasn’t last night shattered your illusions?”
“What illusions?”
"What do you mean?"
“With respect to the assistance you may be able to give me under these circumstances.”
“With regard to the help you might be able to provide me in this situation.”
“No; I have passed the night writing, and all my orders are given.”
“No; I spent the night writing, and I’ve given all my instructions.”
“Do not conceal it from yourself, D’Herblay, but the fete will cost some millions.”
“Don’t hide it from yourself, D’Herblay, but the fete will cost a few million.”
“I will supply six; do you on your side get two or three.”
“I'll provide six; can you get two or three on your end?”
“You are a wonderful man, my dear D’Herblay.”
“You are a great guy, my dear D’Herblay.”
Aramis smiled.
Aramis grinned.
“But,” inquired Fouquet, with some remaining uneasiness, “how is it that while you are now squandering millions in this manner, a few days ago you did not pay the fifty thousand francs to Baisemeaux out of your own pocket?”
“But,” asked Fouquet, still feeling a bit uneasy, “how is it that while you’re now throwing around millions like this, just a few days ago you didn’t pay the fifty thousand francs to Baisemeaux out of your own pocket?”
“Because a few days ago I was as poor as Job.”
“Because a few days ago I was as broke as Job.”
“And to-day?”
"And today?"
“To-day I am wealthier than the king himself.”
“Today I am richer 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.”
“Alright,” said Fouquet; “I understand people pretty well; I know you would never break your word; I don’t want to force your secret out of you, so let’s drop the subject.”
At this moment a dull, heavy rumbling was heard, which suddenly developed into a violent clap of thunder.
At that moment, a deep, heavy rumble was heard, which suddenly turned into a loud clap of thunder.
“Oh, oh!” said Fouquet, “I was quite right in what I said.”
“Oh, oh!” said Fouquet, “I was totally right about what I said.”
“Come,” said Aramis, “let us rejoin the carriages.”
“Come on,” said Aramis, “let’s go back to the carriages.”
“We shall not have time,” said Fouquet, “for here comes the rain.”
“We won’t have time,” said Fouquet, “because 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 pattering on the leaves about them.
In fact, as he spoke, it was as if the heavens opened up, and a sudden shower of large raindrops started pattering on the leaves around them.
“We shall have time,” said Aramis, “to reach the carriages before the foliage becomes saturated.”
“We’ll have time,” said Aramis, “to get to the carriages before the leaves get soaked.”
“It will be better,” said Fouquet, “to take shelter somewhere—in a grotto, for instance.”
“It would be better,” said Fouquet, “to find shelter somewhere—in a cave, for example.”
“Yes, but where are we to find a grotto?” inquired Aramis.
“Yes, but where are we supposed to find a grotto?” asked Aramis.
“I know one,” said Fouquet, smiling, “not ten paces from here.” Then looking round him, he added: “Yes, we are quite right.”
“I know one,” said Fouquet, smiling, “not ten steps from here.” Then looking around, he added: “Yes, we’re all set.”
“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 follow the carriages belonging to the court?”
“You're really lucky to have such a great memory,” said Aramis, smiling back, “but aren't you worried that your driver might think we took a different route since we're not coming back, and that he won't follow the royal carriages?”
“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.”
“Oh, there's no need to worry about that,” said Fouquet. “Whenever I leave my coachman and my carriage in a specific place, only an express order from the king can move them. Plus, it seems we're not the only ones who have come this far, because I hear footsteps and voices.”
As he spoke, Fouquet turned round, and opened with his cane a mass of foliage which hid the path from his view. Aramis’s glance as well as his own plunged at the same moment through the aperture he had made.
As he talked, Fouquet turned around and used his cane to part the thick foliage that blocked the path from his view. At the same time, both Aramis's gaze and his own pierced through the opening he had created.
“A woman,” said Aramis.
“A woman,” Aramis said.
“And a man,” said Fouquet.
“And a guy,” said Fouquet.
“It is La Valliere and the king,” they both exclaimed together.
“It’s La Valliere and the king,” they both said in unison.
“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 dryads of Fontainebleau.”
“Oh, oh!” said Aramis, “does his majesty know about your cave too? I wouldn't be surprised if he does, since he seems to get along really well with the dryads of Fontainebleau.”
“Never mind,” 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, so that whilst he enters by one, we can leave by the other.”
“Never mind,” said Fouquet; “let’s just go there. If he doesn’t know about it, we’ll see how he reacts when he finds out. It has two entrances, so while he comes in one, we can slip out the other.”
“Is it far?” asked Aramis, “for the rain is beginning to penetrate.”
“Is it far?” Aramis asked, “because the rain is starting to come in.”
“We are there now,” said Fouquet, as he pushed aside a few branches, and an excavation in the solid rock could be observed, hitherto concealed by heaths, ivy, and a thick covert of small shrubs.
“We're here now,” said Fouquet, as he pushed aside a few branches, revealing an excavation in the solid rock that had been hidden until now by heaths, ivy, and a dense cover of small shrubs.
Fouquet led the way, followed by Aramis; but as the latter entered the grotto, he turned round, saying: “Yes, they are entering the wood; and, see, they are bending their steps this way.”
Fouquet took the lead, followed by Aramis; but as Aramis stepped into the grotto, he turned around and said, “Yes, they’re entering the woods; and look, they’re heading 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.”
“Sure, let’s make space for them,” said Fouquet, smiling and tugging on Aramis’s cloak; “but I don’t think the king knows about my grotto.”
“Yes,” said Aramis, “they are looking about them, but it is only for a thicker tree.”
“Yes,” said Aramis, “they're just scanning the area, but only to find a denser 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 feet began to sleep on the damp grass. Louis again looked round him with greater attention than before, and perceiving an enormous oak with wide-spreading branches, he hurriedly 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 back against the trunk of the tree, whose vast circumference, 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 attention to them.
Aramis was right; the king was looking up and not around him. He held La Valliere’s arm and her hand closely. La Valliere’s feet were starting to go numb on the damp grass. Louis scanned the area more carefully than before and noticed a huge oak tree with wide branches, so he quickly pulled La Valliere underneath its cover. The poor girl looked around nervously, seeming half scared and half wanting someone to follow. The king made her lean back against the trunk, which, despite the heavy rain outside, was surprisingly dry under the thick foliage. He stood in front of her, his head uncovered. After a few minutes, however, some raindrops trickled through the branches and landed on the king’s forehead, but he didn’t react to them.
“Oh, sire!” murmured La Valliere, pushing the king’s hat towards him. But the king simply bowed, and determinedly refused to cover his head.
“Oh, sire!” whispered La Valliere, pushing the king’s hat towards him. But the king just bowed and stubbornly refused to put it on.
“Now or never is the time to offer your place,” said Fouquet in Aramis’s ear.
“Now or never is the time to offer your spot,” said Fouquet in Aramis’s ear.
“Now or never is the time to listen, and not lose a syllable of what they may have to say to each other,” replied Aramis in Fouquet’s ear.
“Now or never is the time to listen and catch every word they might say to each other,” Aramis whispered to Fouquet.
In fact they both remained perfectly silent, and the king’s voice reached them where they were.
In fact, they both stayed completely silent, and the king's voice carried to them where they were.
“Believe me,” said the king, “I perceive, or rather I can imagine your uneasiness; believe me, I sincerely regret having isolated you from the rest of the company, and brought you, also, to a spot where you will be inconvenienced by the rain. You are wet already, and perhaps cold too?”
“Believe me,” said the king, “I can see, or at least I can imagine, how uneasy you are; trust me, I truly regret having kept you away from the others and bringing you to a place where the rain is making things uncomfortable. You’re already wet, and maybe you’re cold too?”
“No, sire.”
“No, sir.”
“And yet you tremble?”
"Are you really trembling?"
“I am afraid, sire, that my absence may be misinterpreted; at a moment, too, when all the others are reunited.”
“I’m afraid, Your Majesty, that my absence might be misunderstood, especially now when everyone else is together.”
“I would not hesitate to propose returning to the carriages, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, but pray look and listen, and tell me if it be possible to attempt to make the slightest progress at present?”
“I wouldn’t hesitate to suggest we go back to the carriages, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, but please look and listen, and tell me if it’s possible to make any progress right now?”
In fact the thunder was still rolling, and the rain continued to fall in torrents.
In fact, the thunder was still rumbling, and the rain kept pouring down in waves.
“Besides,” continued the king, “no possible interpretation 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?”
“Besides,” the king continued, “there's no way to interpret this that could reflect poorly on you. Aren't you with the king of France; in other words, with the top gentleman of the kingdom?”
“Certainly, sire,” replied La Valliere, “and it is a very distinguished honor for me; it is not, therefore, for myself that I fear any interpretations that may be made.”
“Of course, your Majesty,” La Valliere responded, “and it’s a great honor for me; so it's not for myself that I worry about any interpretations that might arise.”
“For whom, then?”
"Who, then?"
“For you, sire.”
“For you, sir.”
“For me?” said the king, smiling, “I do not understand you.”
“For me?” said the king, smiling, “I don’t get what you mean.”
“Has your majesty already forgotten what took place yesterday evening in her royal highness’s apartments?”
“Has Your Majesty already forgotten what happened last night in Her Royal Highness’s rooms?”
“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—”
“Oh! please forget that, I ask, or let me remember it only to thank you once again for your letter, and—”
“Sire,” interrupted La Valliere, “the rain is falling, and your majesty’s head is uncovered.”
“Sire,” interrupted La Valliere, “it’s raining, and your majesty’s head is uncovered.”
“I entreat you not to think of anything but yourself.”
"I urge you to focus only on 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 there is but little room for injury.”
“Oh! I,” said La Valliere, smiling, “I’m just a country girl, used to wandering through the meadows of the Loire and the gardens of Blois, no matter the weather. And about my outfit,” she added, glancing at her simple muslin dress, “your majesty can see there isn’t much that can go wrong.”
“Indeed, I have already noticed, more than once, that you owed nearly everything to yourself and nothing to your toilette. Your freedom from coquetry is one of your greatest charms in my eyes.”
“Honestly, I've noticed more than once that you owe almost everything to yourself and nothing to your appearance. Your lack of vanity is one of your biggest charms in my opinion.”
“Sire, do not make me out better than I am, and say merely, ‘You cannot possibly be a coquette.’”
“Sire, please don’t overestimate me and just say, ‘You can’t possibly be a flirt.’”
“Why so?”
"Why is that?"
“Because,” said La Valliere, smiling, “I am not rich.”
“Because,” La Valliere said with a smile, “I’m not rich.”
“You admit, then,” said the king, quickly, “that you have a love for beautiful things?”
“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—”
“Sire, I only consider things beautiful that are within my reach. Everything that is out of my grasp—”
“You are indifferent to?”
"Do you not care about?"
“Is foreign to me, as being prohibited.”
“Is foreign to me, as it is not allowed.”
“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 was cruelly neglected by my uncle.”
“And I,” said the king, “don’t think you’re at my court in the way you should be. Your family’s contributions haven’t been highlighted enough for me. My uncle horribly neglected the advancement of your family.”
“On the contrary, sire. His royal highness, the Duke of Orleans, was always exceedingly kind towards M. de Saint-Remy, my step-father. The services rendered were humble, and, properly speaking, our services have been adequately recognized. It is not every one who is 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 have been as lofty as their loyalty was firm: but that happiness was never ours.”
“Actually, your highness, the Duke of Orleans was always very kind to M. de Saint-Remy, my stepfather. The contributions we made were modest, and, to be honest, our efforts have been properly acknowledged. Not everyone is fortunate enough to have the chance to serve their ruler with distinction. I’m sure that if opportunities had arisen, my family would have acted as nobly as their loyalty was strong; unfortunately, that luck was never ours.”
“In that case, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, it belongs to kings to repair the want of opportunity, and most delightedly do I undertake to repair, in your instance, and with the least possible delay, the wrongs of fortune towards you.”
“In that case, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, it’s up to kings to make up for missed opportunities, and I’m more than happy to fix, in your case, and as quickly as possible, the injustices fate has dealt you.”
“Nay, sire,” cried La Valliere, eagerly; “leave things, I beg, as they are now.”
“Nah, sir,” La Valliere said eagerly, “please leave things as they are now.”
“Is it possible! you refuse what I ought, and what I wish to do for you?”
“Is it possible! You reject what I should do, and what I want 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.”
“All I wanted has been given to me when I was honored with the opportunity to be part of Madame’s household.”
“But if you refuse for yourself, at least accept for your family.”
“But if you won't accept it for yourself, at least do it for your family.”
“Your generous intentions, sire, bewilder me and make me apprehensive, for, in doing for my family what your kindness urges you to do, your majesty will raise up enemies for us, and enemies for yourself, too. Leave me in the ranks of middle life, sire; of all the feelings and sentiments I experience, leave me to enjoy the pleasing instinct of disinterestedness.”
“Your generous intentions, sire, confuse me and make me anxious, because by helping my family as your kindness suggests, your majesty will create enemies for us and for yourself as well. Let me stay in the ordinary path of life, sire; out of all the feelings and emotions I experience, let me enjoy the satisfying instinct of selflessness.”
“The sentiments you express,” said the king, “are indeed admirable.”
“The feelings you share,” said the king, “are truly impressive.”
“Quite true,” murmured Aramis in Fouquet’s ear, “and he cannot be accustomed to them.”
“That's right,” Aramis whispered in Fouquet’s ear, “and he must not be used to them.”
“But,” replied Fouquet, “suppose she were to make a similar reply to my letter.”
“But,” replied Fouquet, “what if she gave a similar response to my letter?”
“True!” said Aramis, “let us not anticipate, but wait the conclusion.”
"That's true!" Aramis said. "Let's not jump to conclusions, but wait for the outcome."
“And then, dear Monsieur d’Herblay,” added the superintendent, hardly able to appreciate the sentiments which La Valliere had just expressed, “it is very often sound calculation to seem disinterested with monarchs.”
“And then, dear Monsieur d’Herblay,” added the superintendent, barely able to grasp the feelings that La Valliere had just shared, “it’s often smart to appear unbiased with kings.”
“Exactly what I was thinking this very minute,” said Aramis. “Let us listen.”
“Exactly what I was thinking right now,” said Aramis. “Let's 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 towards the royal hat which sheltered her, and shook her head, sighing deeply as she did so.
The king stepped closer to La Valliere, and as the rain continued to fall through the leaves of the oak, he held his hat over the young girl's head. She looked up at the royal hat that protected her, shook her head, and let out a deep sigh as she did.
“What melancholy thought,” said the king, “can possibly reach your heart when I place mine as a rampart before it?”
“What sad thought,” said the king, “could possibly touch your heart when I put mine as a shield in front of it?”
“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 married; and every sentiment which would separate your majesty from the queen, in leading you to take notice of me, will be a source of profoundest sorrow for the queen.” The king endeavored to interrupt the young girl, but she continued with a suppliant gesture. “The Queen Maria, with an attachment which can be well understood, 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 witness of this anxious and disinterested affection, gave the queen any cause for jealousy? Forgive me, sire, for the expressions 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 the rest 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.”
“I’ll tell you, sir. I previously brought up this topic, which is really tough for a young girl like me to discuss, but you asked me to be quiet. You don’t belong to just yourself: you’re married; and any feelings that might pull you away from the queen to notice me would only cause her deep sadness.” The king tried to interrupt the young girl, but she kept going with a pleading gesture. “Queen Maria, with understandable affection, watches every step your majesty takes away from her. Grateful for being joined to you, she tearfully prays for your safety and feels jealous of even the faintest heartbeat you share with someone else.” The king again seemed eager to speak, but La Valliere continued to stop him. “Wouldn't it be terrible, then, if your majesty, seeing this anxious and selfless love, gave the queen any reason to feel jealous? Forgive me for what I’ve said. I know it's impossible, or rather that it should be impossible, for the greatest queen in the world to be jealous of a poor girl like me. But even as a queen, she’s still a woman, and her heart, like any other woman’s, can’t help but be affected by the suspicions that those with bad intentions might suggest. For heaven's sake, sir, please forget about me. I’m not worthy of your attention.”
“Do you not know that in speaking as you have done, you change my esteem for you into the profoundest admiration?”
“Don’t you know that by speaking like that, you turn my respect for you into the deepest admiration?”
“Sire, you assume my words to be contrary to the truth; you suppose me to be better 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 believe you were jesting.”
“Sire, you think my words are not truthful; you believe I’m better than I actually am and give me more credit than God ever intended. Please, spare me, sire; if I didn’t know that your majesty is the most generous person in your kingdom, I would think you were joking.”
“You do not, I know, fear such a thing; I am quite sure of that,” exclaimed Louis.
“You don’t, I know, fear something like that; I’m completely sure of it,” exclaimed Louis.
“I shall be obliged to believe it, if your majesty continues to hold such language towards me.”
“I'll have to believe it if Your Majesty keeps talking to me like that.”
“I am most unhappy, then,” said the king, in a tone of regret which was not assumed; “I am the unhappiest prince in the 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 her.”
“I am very unhappy, then,” said the king, in a genuinely regretful tone; “I am the unhappiest prince in the Christian world, since I can't make the one I love most in the entire world believe my words, and it nearly breaks my heart that she refuses to accept my feelings for her.”
“Oh, sire!” said La Valliere, gently putting the king aside, who had approached nearer to her, “I 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 doubtless throbbed but too well in unison with the king’s, uttered these words, the storm undertook to contradict her. A dead-white flash of lightning illumined the forest with a weird glare, and a peal of thunder, like a discharge of artillery, burst over their heads, as if the height of the oak that sheltered them had attracted the storm. The young girl could not repress a cry of terror. The king with one hand drew her towards 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 Fouquet and Aramis contemplated it in attitudes as motionless as La Valliere and the king. “Oh, sire!” murmured La Valliere, “do you hear?” and her head fell upon his shoulder.
“Oh, Your Majesty!” La Valliere said, gently pushing the king back as he moved closer to her, “I think the storm has passed, and the rain has stopped.” However, as the poor girl, seemingly running away from her own heart that surely beat in sync with the king’s, spoke these words, the storm chose to disagree. A bright flash of lightning lit up the forest with an eerie glow, and a clap of thunder, like a cannon firing, boomed overhead, as if the tall oak that sheltered them had drawn the storm. The young girl couldn’t help but cry out in fear. The king pulled her close to his heart with one hand and raised the other above her head, as if to protect her from the lightning. A moment of silence followed, as the group, as enchanting as everything young and in love is, remained still, while Fouquet and Aramis observed them, frozen like La Valliere and the king. “Oh, Your Majesty!” La Valliere whispered, “do you hear?” and her head rested on his shoulder.
“Yes,” said the king. “You see, the storm has not passed away.”
“Yeah,” said the king. “You see, the storm hasn’t gone away.”
“It is a warning, sire.” The king smiled. “Sire, it is the voice of Heaven in anger.”
It's a warning, your majesty. The king smiled. “Your majesty, it's 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 accepted, 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 as plainly as if, during those same five minutes, the storm, put to flight, had traversed the heavens with the wings of the wind. “Well, Louise,” said the king, in a low tone of voice, “do you still threaten me with the anger of Heaven? and, since you wished to regard the storm as a warning, do you still believe it bodes misfortune?”
“Alright,” said the king. “I’ll take that thunder as a warning, and even a threat, if it roars again with the same intensity in five minutes; but if it doesn’t, let me think that the storm is just a storm, nothing more.” As he spoke, the king looked up, as if questioning the skies. However, as if his words had been heard, during the five minutes that followed the thunder that had startled them, there was no further sound. When the thunder rumbled again, it was distant, as if the storm had fled across the sky on the wind’s wings. “Well, Louise,” the king said quietly, “are you still going to frighten me with Heaven’s wrath? And since you wanted to see the storm as a warning, do you still think it means bad luck?”
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 exclaimed, in accents of eager apprehensions, which 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?”
The young girl looked up and saw that while they had been talking, the rain had soaked through the leaves above them and was dripping down the king’s face. “Oh, sire, sire!” she exclaimed, her voice filled with anxious concern, greatly unsettling the king. “Is it for me,” she whispered, “that the king stays uncovered and exposed to the rain? What does that make me?”
“You are, you perceive,” said the king, “the divinity who dissipates the storm, and brings back fine weather.” In fact, even as the king spoke, 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.
“You are, as you see,” said the king, “the divine being who calms the storm and brings back the sunshine.” In fact, just as the king spoke, a beam of sunlight pierced through the forest, making the raindrops resting on the leaves or falling straight down through the gaps in the branches glimmer 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, Madame!” the young girl exclaimed, with an expression almost resembling terror.
“Sire,” La Valliere said, feeling overwhelmed but pushing herself to stay composed, “please consider the worries your majesty will have to endure because of me. Right now, they’re looking for you everywhere. The queen must be really anxious; and Madame—oh, Madame!” the young girl exclaimed, her face showing almost a look of fear.
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 towards the path, in order to look round, and returned, somewhat thoughtfully, to La Valliere. “Madame, did you say?” he remarked.
This name had a certain effect on the king. He flinched and pulled away from La Valliere, whom he had been holding tightly against his heart until that moment. He then moved toward the path to look around and came back to La Valliere, appearing a bit lost in thought. “Madame, did you say?” he said.
“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 fugitive in their glance, for a moment, ventured to look inquiringly into the king’s.
“Yes, Madame; she’s jealous too,” said La Valliere, with a distinct tone; her eyes, which looked fearful and shy, briefly dared to meet the king’s gaze with curiosity.
“Still,” returned Louis, making an effort over himself, “it seems to me that Madame has no reason, no right to be jealous of me.”
“Still,” Louis replied, straining to control himself, “it seems to me that Madame has no reason or right to be jealous of me.”
“Alas!” murmured La Valliere.
“Alas!” sighed La Valliere.
“Are you, too,” said the king, almost in a tone of reproach, “are you among those who think the sister has a right to be jealous of the brother?”
“Are you, too,” the king said, almost accusingly, “are you one of those who believe the sister has a right to be jealous of the brother?”
“It is not for me, sire, to seek to penetrate your majesty’s secrets.”
“It’s not for me, sir, to try to uncover your majesty’s secrets.”
“You do believe it, then?” exclaimed the king.
“You really believe it, then?” the king exclaimed.
“I believe Madame is jealous, sire,” La Valliere replied, firmly.
“I think Madame is jealous, sir,” La Valliere said confidently.
“Is it possible,” said the king with some anxiety, “that you have perceived it, then, from her conduct towards you? Have her manners in any way been such towards you that you can attribute them to the jealousy you speak of?”
“Is it possible,” the king said, a bit anxious, “that you’ve noticed it, then, from her behavior towards you? Has she acted in any way that leads you to think it’s the jealousy you mentioned?”
“Not at all, sire; I am of so little importance.”
“Not at all, sir; I’m not that important.”
“Oh! if it were really the case—” exclaimed Louis, violently.
“Oh! if that were really true—” exclaimed Louis, passionately.
“Sire,” interrupted the young girl, “it has ceased raining; some one is coming, I think.” And, forgetful of all etiquette, she had seized the king by the arm.
“Sire,” interrupted the young girl, “it’s stopped raining; I think someone is coming.” And, forgetting all manners, she grabbed 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?”
“Well,” replied the king, “let them come. Who would dare to think I was wrong for being 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.”
“For goodness' sake, sir! They will find it odd to see you soaked like this and that you took such a 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. Catching glimpses at last of the king and La Valliere, they seemed to have found what they were seeking. They were some of the courtiers who had been sent by the queen and Madame, and uncovered themselves, in token of having perceived his majesty. But Louis, notwithstanding La Valliere’s confusion, did not quit his respectful and tender attitude. Then, when all the courtiers were assembled in the walk—when every one had been able to perceive the extraordinary mark of deference with which he had treated the young girl, by remaining standing and bare-headed during the storm—he offered her his arm, led her towards the group who were waiting, recognized by an inclination of the head the respectful salutations which were paid him on all sides; and, still holding his hat in his hand, he conducted her to her carriage. And, as a few sparse drops of rain continued to fall—a last adieu of the vanishing storm—the other ladies, whom respect had prevented from getting into their carriages before the king, remained altogether unprotected by hood or cloak, exposed to the rain from which the king was protecting, as well 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.”
“I’ve just done my duty as a gentleman,” Louis said, “and woe to anyone who fails to do theirs by criticizing the king’s actions.” At that moment, a few eager and curious faces appeared in the walk, as if searching for something. Once they caught sight of the king and La Valliere, it seemed they had found what they were looking for. These were courtiers sent by the queen and Madame, and they removed their hats to show they had noticed His Majesty. But Louis, despite La Valliere’s embarrassment, didn’t change his respectful and gentle demeanor. When all the courtiers had gathered in the walk—when everyone had noticed the extraordinary respect he had shown the young girl by standing and remaining hatless during the storm—he offered her his arm and led her toward the group waiting for them, acknowledging their respectful greetings with a nod of his head. Still holding his hat in his hand, he escorted her to her carriage. As a few scattered drops of rain continued to fall—a last farewell from the fading storm—the other ladies, who had respected the king enough to wait before getting into their carriages, stood without hoods or cloaks, exposed to the rain from which the king was trying to shield the humblest among them. The queen and Madame must have, like the others, witnessed this excessive courtesy from the king. Madame was so taken aback by it that she nudged the queen with her elbow and said, “Look there, look there.”
The queen closed her eyes as if she had been suddenly seized with a fainting-spell. She lifted her hands 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 Fontainebleau, the reins hanging over his horse’s neck, absorbed in thought. As soon as the crowd had disappeared, 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 towards 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.
The queen closed her eyes as if she had suddenly fainted. She covered her face with her hands and got into her carriage, with Madame following her. The king mounted his horse again, and without favoring any specific carriage door, he returned to Fontainebleau, the reins hanging over his horse’s neck, lost in thought. Once the crowd had faded away and the sounds of horses and carriages grew quieter in the distance, and when they were sure that no one could see them, Aramis and Fouquet emerged from their hideout, silently making their way toward the path. Aramis carefully scanned not just the entire open area in front of and behind him but also the depths of the woods.
“Monsieur Fouquet,” he said, when he had quite satisfied himself that they were alone, “we must get back, at any cost, that letter you wrote to La Valliere.”
“Monsieur Fouquet,” he said, once he was sure they were alone, “we need to get that letter you wrote to La Valliere back, no matter what.”
“That will be easy enough,” said Fouquet, “if my servant has not given it to her.”
“That will be easy enough,” said Fouquet, “if my servant hasn't already given it to her.”
“In any case it must be had, do you understand?”
“In any case, it has to be done, do you get it?”
“Yes. The king is in love with the girl, you mean?”
“Yes. You’re saying the king is in love with the girl?”
“Deeply, and what is worse is, that on her side, the girl is passionately attached to him.”
“Deep down, and what makes it worse is that, on her side, the girl is really into him.”
“As much as to say that we must change our tactics, I suppose?”
“As much as to say that we need to change our approach, I guess?”
“Not a doubt of it; you have no time to lose. You must see La Valliere, and, without thinking any more of becoming her lover, which is out of the question, must declare yourself her most devoted friend and her most humble servant.”
“There's no doubt about it; you don't have any time to waste. You need to see La Valliere, and without considering becoming her lover, which is off the table, you must declare yourself her most devoted friend and her most humble servant.”
“I will do so,” replied Fouquet, “and without the slightest feeling of disinclination, for she seems a good-hearted girl.”
“I’ll do that,” replied Fouquet, “and without any hint of reluctance, since she seems like a kind-hearted girl.”
“Or a very clever one,” said Aramis; “but in that case, all the greater reason.” Then he added, after a moment’s pause, “If I am not mistaken, that girl will become the strongest passion of the king’s life. Let us return to our carriage, and, as fast as possible, to the chateau.”
“Or a really smart one,” said Aramis; “but in that case, all the more reason.” Then he added, after a brief pause, “If I’m not mistaken, that girl is going to become the greatest passion of the king’s life. Let’s head back to our carriage and get to the chateau as quickly as we can.”
Chapter LXIII. Toby.
Two hours after the superintendent’s carriage had set off by Aramis’s directions, conveying them both towards Fontainebleau with the fleetness of the clouds the last breath of the tempest was hurrying across the face of heaven, 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 marble table. Suddenly the door was opened, and a servant entered to announce M. Fouquet, who had called to request permission to pay his respects to her. She made him repeat the message twice over, for the poor girl only knew M. Fouquet by name, and could not conceive what business she could possibly have with a superintendent of finances. However, as he might represent the king—and, after the conversation we have recorded, it was very likely—she glanced at her mirror, drew out still more the 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 superintendent was not an ordinary event in the 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 superintendent had been significant of fortune; in many hearts, of love. Fouquet entered the apartment with a manner full of respect, presenting himself with that ease and gracefulness of manner which was the distinctive characteristic of the men of eminence of that period, and which at the present day seems no longer to be understood, even through the interpretation of the portraits of the period, in which the painter has endeavored to recall them to being. La Valliere acknowledged the ceremonious salutation 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 pardoned me.”
Two hours after the superintendent’s carriage had left under Aramis’s instructions, rushing them toward Fontainebleau as swiftly as the clouds, the last vestiges of the storm were racing across the sky. La Valliere was in her room, wearing a simple muslin wrap, having just finished a light meal that was set on a marble table. Suddenly, the door opened, and a servant came in to announce M. Fouquet, who had come to ask if he could pay his respects to her. She had him repeat the message twice because the poor girl only knew M. Fouquet by name and couldn’t understand what business she could possibly have with a superintendent of finances. However, since he might represent the king—and after the conversation we have noted, it was quite likely—she glanced at her mirror, styled her hair even more, and asked to let him in. La Valliere couldn’t shake off a sense of uneasiness. A visit from the superintendent wasn’t a typical occurrence for any woman connected to the court. Fouquet, well-known for his generosity, charm, and sensitive treatment of women, had received more invitations than he had asked for meetings. In many homes, the presence of the superintendent signified good fortune; in many hearts, it was a sign of love. Fouquet entered the room with great respect, displaying that ease and grace that characterized prominent men of that time, which seems to be lost today, even when interpreted through the portraits of that era that tried to capture them. La Valliere acknowledged the formal greeting from Fouquet with a gentle nod and gestured for him to take a seat. But Fouquet replied with a bow, “I won’t sit down until you’ve forgiven me.”
“I?” asked La Valliere, “pardon what?”
“I?” asked La Valliere, “sorry, 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.”
Fouquet looked closely at the young girl, believing he saw only genuine surprise on her face. “I see,” he said, “that you have as much generosity as you do intelligence, and I can sense the forgiveness I’m asking for in your eyes. A pardon spoken from your lips isn’t enough for me; 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.”
“Honestly, sir,” La Valliere said, “I can assure you that I definitely don’t understand what you mean.”
“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.”
“Once again, that’s a kindness on your part that really impresses me,” replied Fouquet, “and I can tell you don’t want me to feel embarrassed in front of you.”
“Blush! blush before me! Why should you blush?”
“Blush! Blush in front of me! Why should you be embarrassed?”
“Can I have deceived myself,” said Fouquet; “and can I have been happy enough not to have offended you by my conduct towards you?”
“Could I have deceived myself,” said Fouquet; “and could I have been fortunate enough not to have upset you with my behavior towards you?”
“Really, monsieur,” said La Valliere, shrugging her shoulders, “you speak in enigmas, and I suppose I am too ignorant to understand you.”
“Honestly, sir,” La Valliere said, shrugging her shoulders, “you speak in riddles, and I guess I’m too clueless to get what you mean.”
“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.”
“Fine,” said Fouquet; “I won’t push. Just tell me, please, that I can count on your total 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 now do so with still greater reason since I am ignorant of the wrong you allude to.”
“I have only one thing to say to you, sir,” La Valliere said, a bit impatiently, “and I hope that will satisfy you. If I knew what you’ve done wrong to me, I would forgive you, and I actually forgive you now even more since I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
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.”
Fouquet bit his lips, just like Aramis would have. “In that case,” he said, “I hope that despite what has happened, we can keep our good relationship intact, and that you will kindly do me the favor of believing in my respectful friendship.”
La Valliere fancied that she now began to understand, and said to herself, “I should not have believed M. Fouquet so eager to seek the source of a favor so very recent,” and then added aloud, “Your friendship, monsieur! you offer me your friendship. The honor, on the contrary, is mine, and I feel overpowered by it.”
La Valliere thought she was starting to understand, and said to herself, “I wouldn’t have believed M. Fouquet would be so keen to pursue a favor so recent,” and then added aloud, “Your friendship, sir! You’re offering me your friendship. The honor is actually mine, and I feel overwhelmed 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.”
“I know,” replied Fouquet, “that having the friendship of the boss might seem more impressive and appealing than that of the employee; but I promise you the latter will be just as devoted, just as loyal, and completely selfless.”
La Valliere bowed, for, in fact, the voice of the superintendent seemed to convey both conviction and real devotion in its tone, and she held out her hand to him, saying, “I believe you.”
La Valliere bowed, because the superintendent's voice really seemed to express both certainty and genuine devotion, and she reached 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.”
Fouquet eagerly grabbed the young girl’s hand. “So, you don’t see any problem, then,” he added, “in giving me back that unfortunate letter.”
“What letter?” inquired La Valliere.
“What letter?” asked La Valliere.
Fouquet interrogated her with his most searching gaze, as he had already done before, but the same ingenious expressions, the same transparently candid look met his. “I am obliged to confess,” he said, after this denial, “that your heart 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.”
Fouquet looked at her with his most intense gaze, just like he had before, but he was met with the same clever expressions and the same openly genuine look. “I have to admit,” he said after her denial, “that your heart is the most delicate in the world, and I wouldn’t feel like a man of honor and integrity if I suspected anything from a woman as generous as you.”
“Really, Monsieur Fouquet,” replied La Valliere, “it is with profound regret I am obliged to repeat that I absolutely understand nothing of what you refer to.”
“Honestly, Mr. Fouquet,” La Valliere replied, “I’m truly sorry to say that I completely don’t understand anything about what you’re talking about.”
“In fact, then, upon your honor, mademoiselle, you have not received any letter from me?”
“In fact, then, I swear, miss, you haven’t received any letter from me?”
“Upon my honor, none,” replied La Valliere, firmly.
“On 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 superintendent had not lost his senses.
“Alright, that’s more than enough; let me reaffirm my highest regard and respect,” said Fouquet. Then, bowing, he left the room to find Aramis, who was waiting for him in his own apartment, leaving La Valliere to wonder if the superintendent had lost his mind.
“Well!” inquired Aramis, who was impatiently waiting Fouquet’s return, “are you satisfied with the favorite?”
“Well!” asked Aramis, who was eagerly waiting for Fouquet to come back, “are you happy with the favorite?”
“Enchanted,” replied Fouquet; “she is a woman full of intelligence and fine feeling.”
“Enchanted,” replied Fouquet; “she's a woman full of intelligence and deep emotion.”
“She did not get angry, then?”
“She didn’t get angry, then?”
“Far from that—she did not even seem to understand.”
“Not at all—she didn’t even seem to get it.”
“To understand what?”
"To understand what?"
“To understand that I had written to her.”
“To realize 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.”
“She must have understood you well enough to give the letter back, so I assume she returned it.”
“Not at all.”
"Not at all."
“At least, you satisfied yourself that she had burnt it.”
“At least, you convinced 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 amusing it may be, I 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.”
“My dear Monsieur d’Herblay, I’ve been playing this back-and-forth for over an hour now, and while it’s been entertaining, I’m starting to get fed up with this game. So let me be clear: the girl acted like she didn’t understand what I was saying; she claimed she hadn’t received any letter; therefore, since she outright denied getting it, she couldn’t return it or burn it either.”
“Oh, oh!” said Aramis, with uneasiness, “what is this you tell me?”
“Oh, oh!” said Aramis, feeling uneasy, “what are you telling me?”
“I say that she swore most positively she had not received any letter.”
“I say that she firmly swore she hadn’t received any letter.”
“That is too much. And did you not insist?”
“That’s way too much. And didn’t you insist?”
“On the contrary, I did insist, almost impertinently even.”
“Actually, I did insist, almost rudely even.”
“And she persisted in her denial?”
“And she kept insisting it wasn’t true?”
“Unhesitatingly.”
"Without hesitation."
“And did she not contradict herself?”
“Didn’t she contradict herself?”
“Not once.”
"Never."
“But, in that case, then, you have left our letter in her hands?”
"But, in that case, you left our letter with her?"
“How could I do otherwise?”
“How could I do anything else?”
“Oh! it was a great mistake.”
“Oh! it was a huge mistake.”
“What the deuce would you have done in my place?”
“What on earth would you have done if you were in my position?”
“One could not force her, certainly, but it is very embarrassing; such a letter ought not to remain in existence against us.”
“One couldn’t force her, that’s for sure, but it’s really embarrassing; a letter like that shouldn’t exist against us.”
“Oh! the young girl’s disposition is generosity itself; I looked at her eyes, and I can read eyes well.”
“Oh! The young girl’s nature is pure generosity; I looked into her eyes, and I can read eyes well.”
“You think she can be relied upon?”
“You think we can trust her?”
“From my heart I do.”
“I truly do.”
“Well, I think we are mistaken.”
"Well, I think we're mistaken."
“In what way?”
"How so?"
“I think that, in point of fact, as she herself told you, she did not receive the letter.”
“I think that, actually, as she told you herself, she didn't receive the letter.”
“What! do you suppose—”
“What do you think—”
“I suppose that, from some motive, of which we know nothing, your man did not deliver the letter to her.”
“I guess that, for some reason we don’t know, your guy didn’t give her the letter.”
Fouquet rang the bell. A servant appeared. “Send Toby here,” he said. A moment afterwards a man made his appearance, with an anxious, restless look, shrewd expression of the mouth, with short arms, and his back somewhat bent. Aramis fixed a penetrating look upon him.
Fouquet rang the bell. A servant came in. “Send Toby here,” he said. A moment later, a man appeared, looking anxious and restless, with a sharp expression on his face, short arms, and a slightly hunched back. Aramis fixed a penetrating gaze on him.
“Will you allow me to interrogate him myself?” inquired Aramis.
“Can I question him myself?” asked Aramis.
“Do so,” said Fouquet.
“Do it,” 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; therefore question him yourself; I will pretend to be writing.” Aramis accordingly placed himself at a table, his back turned towards the old attendant, whose every gesture and look he watched in a looking-glass opposite to him.
Aramis was about to say something to the lackey when he stopped. "No," he said. "He'll notice that we care too much about his answer, so ask him yourself; I'll act like I'm writing." Aramis then sat down at a table, turning his back to the old attendant, while he kept an eye on every gesture and expression in a mirror across from him.
“Come here, Toby,” said Fouquet to the valet, who approached with a tolerably firm step. “How did you execute my commission?” inquired Fouquet.
“Come here, Toby,” Fouquet said to the valet, who walked over with a fairly steady stride. “How did you carry out my request?” Fouquet asked.
“In the usual way, monseigneur,” replied the man.
“In the usual way, sir,” replied the man.
“But how, tell me?”
"But how, can you explain?"
“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 toilette-table. Is not that what you told me to do?”
“I managed to get as far as Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s room; but she was at mass, so I left the note on her vanity. Isn’t that what you told me to do?”
“Precisely; and is that all?”
"Exactly; is that everything?"
“Absolutely all, monseigneur.”
"Absolutely everyone, sir."
“No one was there?”
"Nobody was there?"
“No one.”
"No one."
“Did you conceal yourself as I told you?”
“Did you hide like I told you?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“And she returned?”
"And she came back?"
“Ten minutes afterwards.”
"Ten minutes later."
“And no one could have taken the letter?”
“And no one could have taken the letter?”
“No one; for no one had entered the room.”
“No one; because no one had entered the room.”
“From the outside, but from the interior?”
“From the outside, but what about the inside?”
“From the place where I was secreted, I could see to the very end of the room.”
“From where I was hidden, I could see all the way to the 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, your head shall be the forfeit.”
“Now listen to me,” said Fouquet, staring intently at the servant; “if this letter didn’t reach its intended recipient, admit it; because if there was an error, you’ll pay the price with your head.”
Toby started, but immediately recovered himself. “Monseigneur,” 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.”
Toby flinched but quickly regained his composure. “Monseigneur,” he said, “I put the letter exactly where I mentioned: and I just need half an hour to show you that the letter is in Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s handwriting, or to bring the letter back to you myself.”
Aramis looked at the valet scrutinizingly. Fouquet was ready in placing confidence in people, and for twenty years this man had served him faithfully. “Go,” he said; “but bring me the proof you speak of.” The lackey quitted the room.
Aramis looked at the valet closely. Fouquet was quick to trust people, and this man had served him faithfully for twenty years. “Go,” he said; “but bring me the evidence you mentioned.” The servant left the room.
“Well, what do you think of it?” inquired Fouquet of Aramis.
“Well, what do you think?” Fouquet asked 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?”
“I think you need to figure out the truth, whether the letter has reached La Valliere or not; if it has, La Valliere should either return it to you or prove she's destroyed it in front of you; if it hasn’t, you need to get the letter back, even if it costs you a million. So, don’t you agree?”
“Yes; but still, my dear bishop, I believe you are exaggerating the importance of the affair.”
“Yes; but still, my dear bishop, I think you’re overstating how important this situation is.”
“Blind, how blind you are!” murmured Aramis.
“Blind, how blind you are!” whispered Aramis.
“La Valliere,” returned Fouquet, “whom we assume to be a schemer of the first 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 enough.”
“Lavalierre,” Fouquet replied, “whom we think is a master manipulator, is really just a flirt, hoping that I’ll pursue her because I already have, and now that she has confirmed the king’s interest, she expects to keep me on a leash with this letter. It makes sense.”
Aramis shook his head.
Aramis shook his head.
“Is not that your opinion?” said Fouquet.
“Isn't that your opinion?” said Fouquet.
“She is not a coquette,” he replied.
"She’s not flirting," he said.
“Allow me to tell you—”
"Let me tell you—"
“Oh! I am well enough acquainted with women who are coquettes,” said Aramis.
“Oh! I know plenty of women who are flirtatious,” said Aramis.
“My dear friend!”
"My dear friend!"
“It is a long time ago since I finished my education, you mean. But women are the same, throughout the centuries.”
“It’s been a long time since I finished my education, you mean. But women are the same throughout the centuries.”
“True; but men change, and you at the present day are far more suspicious than you formerly were.” And then, beginning to laugh, he added, “Come, if La Valliere is willing to love me only to the extent of a third, and the king two-thirds, do you think the condition acceptable?”
“That's true; but people change, and you're definitely more suspicious now than you used to be.” Then, starting to laugh, he added, “Come on, if La Valliere is willing to love me a third as much, with the king getting the other two-thirds, do you think that’s an acceptable arrangement?”
Aramis rose impatiently. “La Valliere,” he said, “has never loved, and never will love, any one but the king.”
Aramis stood up impatiently. “La Valliere,” he said, “has never loved, and will never love, anyone but the king.”
“At all events,” said Fouquet, “what would you do?”
“At any rate,” said Fouquet, “what would you do?”
“Ask me rather what I would have done?”
“Ask me instead what I would have done?”
“Well! what would you have done?”
“Well! What would you have done?”
“In the first place, I should not have allowed that man to depart.”
“In the first place, I shouldn’t have let that guy leave.”
“Toby?”
“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.”
“Yes; Toby is a traitor. No doubt about it, and I wouldn’t have let him leave until he told me the truth.”
“There is still time. I will recall him, and do you question him in your turn.”
“There’s still time. I’ll call him back, and then you can question him yourself.”
“Agreed.”
"Sounds good."
“But I assure you it is useless. He has been with me for twenty years, and has never made the slightest mistake, and yet,” added Fouquet, laughing, “it would have been easy enough for him to have done so.”
“But I promise you it's pointless. He’s been with me for twenty years and has never made the slightest mistake, and yet,” added Fouquet, laughing, “it would have been easy for him to mess up.”
“Still, call him back. This morning I fancy I saw that face, in earnest conversation with one of M. Colbert’s men.”
“Still, call him back. This morning I think I saw that face, engaged in serious conversation with one of M. Colbert’s guys.”
“Where was that?”
"Where was that?"
“Opposite the stables.”
"Across from the stables."
“Bah! all my people are at daggers drawn with that fellow.”
“Ugh! Everyone in my group is at odds with that guy.”
“I saw him, I tell you, and his face, which should have been unknown to me when he entered just now, struck me as disagreeably familiar.”
“I saw him, I swear, and his face, which I shouldn’t have recognized when he came in just now, looked annoyingly familiar.”
“Why did you not say something, then, while he was here?”
“Why didn't you say something while he was here?”
“Because it is only at this very minute that my memory is clear upon the subject.”
“Because it’s only right now that my memory is clear on this topic.”
“Really,” said Fouquet, “you alarm me.” And he again rang the bell.
“Seriously,” said Fouquet, “you’re making me uneasy.” And he rang the bell again.
“Provided that it is not already too late,” said Aramis.
“Assuming it’s not too late already,” said Aramis.
Fouquet once more rang impatiently. The valet usually in attendance appeared. “Toby!” said Fouquet, “send Toby.” The valet again shut the door.
Fouquet rang the bell again, more impatient this time. The usual valet came in. “Toby!” said Fouquet, “send for Toby.” The valet closed the door again.
“You leave me at perfect liberty, I suppose?”
"You’re giving me complete freedom, right?"
“Entirely so.”
"Absolutely."
“I may employ all means, then, to ascertain the truth.”
“I can use all methods, then, to find out the truth.”
“All.”
"All."
“Intimidation, even?”
"Even intimidation?"
“I constitute you public prosecutor in my place.”
“I appoint you as the public prosecutor in my stead.”
They waited ten minutes longer, but uselessly, and Fouquet, thoroughly out of patience, again rang loudly.
They waited another ten minutes, but it was pointless, and Fouquet, completely out of patience, rang the bell loudly again.
“Toby!” he exclaimed.
“Toby!” he shouted.
“Monseigneur,” said the valet, “they are looking for him.”
“Sir,” said the servant, “they're looking for him.”
“He cannot be far distant, I have not given him any commission to execute.”
“He can’t be far away; I haven’t assigned him any tasks to carry out.”
“I will go and see, monseigneur,” replied the valet, as he closed the door. Aramis, during the interview, walked impatiently, but without a syllable, up and down the cabinet. They waited a further ten minutes. Fouquet rang in a manner to alarm the very dead. The valet again presented himself, trembling in a way to induce a belief that he was the bearer of bad news.
“I'll go take a look, sir,” replied the valet as he closed the door. During the meeting, Aramis paced impatiently back and forth in the room without saying a word. They waited another ten minutes. Fouquet rang the bell in a way that would startle the dead. The valet returned, visibly shaking as if he was bringing 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.”
“Monseigneur is mistaken,” he said, before Fouquet could even question him, “you must have asked Toby to do something, because he’s been to the stables, taken your fastest horse, and saddled it himself.”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“And he has gone off.”
"And he has left."
“Gone!” exclaimed Fouquet. “Let him be pursued, let him be captured.”
“Gone!” shouted Fouquet. “Let them chase him, let them catch him.”
“Nay, nay,” whispered Aramis, taking him by the hand, “be calm, the evil is done.”
“Nah, nah,” whispered Aramis, taking him by the hand, “calm down, the damage is done.”
The valet quietly went out.
The valet quietly stepped outside.
“The evil is done, you say?”
“The harm 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.”
“No doubt about it; I was certain of it. And now, let’s not give anyone a reason to be suspicious; we need to figure out the outcome of the blow and try to avoid it if we can.”
“After all,” said Fouquet, “the evil is not great.”
“After all,” said Fouquet, “the harm isn’t that bad.”
“You think so?” said Aramis.
"You think so?" Aramis asked.
“Of course. Surely a man is allowed to write a love-letter to a woman.”
“Of course. Surely a guy 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.”
“A man, for sure; a subject, definitely not; especially when the woman involved is someone the king loves.”
“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.”
“But the king wasn’t in love with La Valliere a week ago! He wasn’t in love with her yesterday, and the letter is dated yesterday; I couldn’t have guessed the king was in love when his feelings didn’t even exist yet.”
“As you please,” replied Aramis; “but unfortunately the letter is not dated, and it is that circumstance particularly which annoys me. If it had only been dated yesterday, I should not have the slightest shadow of uneasiness on your account.”
“As you wish,” replied Aramis; “but unfortunately the letter isn’t dated, and that’s what bothers me the most. If it had just been dated yesterday, I wouldn’t have the slightest worry about you.”
Fouquet shrugged his shoulders.
Fouquet shrugged.
“Am I not my own master,” he said, “and is the king, then, king of my brain and of my flesh?”
“Am I not the master of my own life?” he said. “Is the king then the ruler of my mind and body?”
“You are right,” replied Aramis, “do not let us attach greater importance to matters than is necessary; and besides... Well! if we are menaced, we have means of defense.”
“You're right,” replied Aramis, “let's not make a bigger deal out of things than we need to; and besides... Well! if we're threatened, we have ways to defend ourselves.”
“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?”
“Oh! Threatened!” said Fouquet, “you don’t consider this gnat bite, so to speak, among the threats that could jeopardize my fortune and my life, do you?”
“Do not forget, Monsieur Fouquet, that the bit of an insect can kill a giant, if the insect be venomous.”
“Don’t forget, Monsieur Fouquet, that even a small insect can take down a giant if it’s poisonous.”
“But has this sovereign power you were speaking of, already vanished?”
“But has the sovereign power you were talking about already disappeared?”
“I am all-powerful, it is true, but I am not immortal.”
“I am all-powerful, it’s true, but I’m not immortal.”
“Come, then, the most pressing matter is to find Toby again, I suppose. Is not that your opinion?”
"Come on, then, the most important thing is to find Toby again, I guess. Don't you think?"
“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.”
“Oh! for that, you won’t find him again,” said Aramis, “and if he meant anything significant to you, you have to consider him lost.”
“At all events he is somewhere or another in the world,” said Fouquet.
“At any rate, he’s somewhere out there in the world,” said Fouquet.
“You’re right, let me act,” replied Aramis.
“You're right, let me take action,” replied Aramis.
Chapter LXIV. Madame’s Four Chances.
Anne 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 one long contest, Anne of Austria had, in addition to her physical sufferings, to experience the bitterness of being no longer held in any esteem, except as a surviving remembrance of the past, amidst the youthful beauties, wits, and influential forces 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 rats in a ship, abandon the hold into which on the very next voyage the water will infallibly penetrate, 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 affectation than from affection, had at first been in the habit of 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 by one half; and then, by degrees, 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.
Anne of Austria had asked the young queen to come see her. For some time now, she had been suffering greatly, losing both her youth and beauty at a rapid pace typically seen in women for whom life has been one long struggle. Besides her physical pain, Anne of Austria felt the sting of being no longer respected, seen only as a fading memory of the past among the youthful beauties, smart minds, and influential figures at court. Her doctor’s assessments and her own reflection in the mirror bothered her far less than the harsh reminders from the courtiers, who, like rats leaving a sinking ship, deserted her at the first sign of decline. Anne of Austria wasn’t satisfied with the time her oldest son spent with her. The king, a dutiful son more out of show than true affection, had initially made it a routine to spend an hour with her in the morning and another in the evening. However, since he took charge of state matters, those visits had been cut down by half, and eventually, the morning visit was completely eliminated. They saw each other at mass, while the evening meeting was replaced by gatherings at the king’s assembly or at Madame’s, which the queen attended out of respect for her two sons.
The result of this was, that Madame gradually acquired an immense influence over the court, which made her apartments the true royal place of meeting. This, Anne of Austria perceived; knowing herself to be very ill, 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 Richelieu had formerly left her, those dreaded and insupportable evenings, during which, however, she had both youth and beauty, which are ever 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 reduced to console, in her artificial widowhood, the weeping wife of a king of France.
The result of this was that Madame gradually gained huge influence over the court, making her rooms the true royal gathering place. Anne of Austria noticed this; aware that she was very ill and often confined to solitude due to her suffering, she felt distressed at the thought of spending most of her future days and evenings alone, feeling useless and hopeless. She remembered with fear the isolation that Cardinal Richelieu had left her in, those dreaded and unbearable evenings during which, however, she still had youth and beauty—things that usually come with hope to comfort her. She then came up with the idea of moving the court to her own apartments and inviting Madame, along with her dazzling entourage, to her dark and already sorrowful home, where the widow of a king of France and the mother of a king of France was left to comfort, in her self-imposed widowhood, the grieving 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 that were, ultimately, invariably successful, she had by her side, to stimulate her ambition and her love, a friend of her own sex, more eager, more ambitious than herself,—a friend who had loved her, a rare circumstance at courts, and whom some petty considerations had removed from her forever. But for many years past—except Madame de Motteville, and 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 Madame 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 Madame de Chevreuse would have advised her to do in similar circumstances, in their mutual difficulties arising from their 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 the well-remembered ironical tones: “All the insignificant young people are poor and greedy of gain. They require gold and incomes to supply means of amusement; 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 considerable 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 inducement for others to visit her apartments she let it be known that there were 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 thus she determined to maintain her credit. 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 which her wit and beauty inspired her, blindly ran head foremost into the net thus stretched out to catch her. Enriched by degrees by these presents and transfers of property, she took a fancy to inheritances by anticipation. Anne of Austria adopted the same means towards Monsieur, and even towards the king himself. She instituted 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 intended that two beautiful diamond bracelets of exquisite workmanship should be put into a lottery. The medallions were antique cameos of the greatest value; the diamonds, in point of intrinsic value, did not represent a very considerable amount, but the originality and rarity of the workmanship 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 considered as a favor to be admitted to admire them in kissing her hands. The courtiers had, even with regard to this subject, adopted various expressions of gallantry to establish 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 verses in Latin and French 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. It is true, the king’s fit of resentment was over, but his mind was absorbingly occupied by a circumstance that raised him above the stormy disputes and giddy pleasures of the court.
Anne started to think. She had caused quite a stir in her life. Back in her younger days, when her ambitious ideas often succeeded, she had a friend by her side who motivated her ambition and love—someone of her own gender, even more eager and driven than she was. This friend had cared for her, which was rare at court, but some petty issues had taken her away forever. For many years now—besides Madame de Motteville and La Molena, her Spanish nurse who confided in her as a fellow countrywoman—who could claim to have given good advice to the queen? Who among all the young people around could remind her of the past—the only time she felt truly alive? Anne of Austria remembered Madame de Chevreuse, who was exiled more by her own choice than by the king's and then died in exile as the wife of a man of unremarkable status. She wondered what Madame de Chevreuse would have advised her in similar situations when they faced their mutual challenges; after careful thought, it felt like the sharp, insightful mind of her friend, filled with experience and wisdom, answered her in those well-remembered ironic tones: “All the insignificant young people are poor and hungry for wealth. They need money and resources to enjoy themselves; you have to win them over through incentives.” Anne of Austria embraced this strategy. She had a well-stocked purse and a significant amount of money saved up by Mazarin in a secure place. She owned the most magnificent jewels in France, particularly pearls so large that they made the king sigh every time he saw them, as the pearls in his crown looked tiny by comparison. Anne of Austria no longer had beauty or charm at her disposal. Therefore, she announced that her wealth was considerable, and to attract others to her rooms, she hinted at the chance to win gold coins in games or that generous gifts would be given on days when things went well for her, or unexpected financial windfalls that she had negotiated from the king. This was her strategy to maintain her influence. Initially, she focused these efforts on Madame, knowing that earning her favor was more important than anything else. Madame, despite the bold confidence her wit and beauty inspired, fell right into the trap laid out for her. Gradually enriched by these gifts and transfers of property, she developed a taste for the idea of future inheritances. Anne of Austria employed the same tactics with Monsieur and even with the king himself. She started hosting lotteries in her rooms. On the day this chapter begins, invitations were sent out for a late supper in the queen-mother's apartments, as she planned to include two beautiful diamond bracelets of exquisite craftsmanship in the lottery. The medallions were antique cameos of great value; while the intrinsic worth of the diamonds wasn't especially high, the uniqueness and rarity of their design were such that everyone at court not only wanted the bracelets but also wanted to see the queen wearing them. On days when she wore them, it was considered a privilege to be allowed to admire them while kissing her hands. The courtiers even crafted various expressions of flattery regarding this, establishing the saying that the bracelets would have been priceless if they had not been so unfortunate as to be worn with arms as stunning as the queen's. This compliment was translated into all the languages of Europe, and many poems in Latin and French circulated about it. The day Anne of Austria chose for the lottery was crucial; the king hadn’t visited his mother for a couple of days, and Madame was sulking alone after the grand scene with the Dryads and Naiads. True, the king's anger had subsided, but his mind was deeply engrossed in a situation that elevated him above the turbulent disputes and dizzying 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 saying 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.”
Anne of Austria stirred things up by announcing a famous lottery that would take place in her rooms the following evening. With this in mind, she met with the young queen, whom she had invited to visit her in the morning. “I have great news for you,” she said. “The king has been saying the sweetest things about you. He’s young, you know, and easily distracted; but as long as you stay close to me, he won’t dare to distance himself from you, to whom he is also very warmly and affectionately attached. I plan to hold a lottery this evening and hope to see you there.”
“I have heard,” said the young queen, with a sort of timid reproach, “that your majesty intends to put in the lottery those lovely 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.”
“I’ve heard,” said the young queen, with a hint of timid reproach, “that your majesty plans to include those beautiful bracelets in the lottery. Their rarity is so great that we shouldn't let them leave the crown's possession, even if the only reason is that they 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 in my apartments.”
“My daughter,” said Anne of Austria, who understood the young queen’s feelings and wanted to comfort her for not having received the bracelets as a gift, “it is absolutely essential that I get Madame to spend her time in my rooms.”
“Madame!” said the young queen, blushing.
“Ma'am!” said the young queen, blushing.
“Of course: would you not prefer to have a rival near you, whom you could watch and influence, to knowing the king is with her, always as ready to flirt as to be flirted with by her? The lottery I have proposed is my means of attraction for that purpose; do you blame me?”
“Of course: wouldn't you rather have a rival nearby, someone you could observe and influence, instead of knowing the king is with her, always ready to flirt as much as she is? The lottery I suggested is my way of attracting her for that reason; do you criticize me?”
“Oh, no!” returned Maria Theresa, clapping her hands with a childlike expression of delight.
“Oh, no!” Maria Theresa exclaimed, clapping her hands with a joyful, childlike look on her face.
“And you no longer regret, then, that I did not give you these bracelets, as I at first intended to do?”
“And you don’t regret anymore that I didn't give you these bracelets, like I originally planned to?”
“Oh, no, no!”
“Oh, no way!”
“Very well; make yourself look as beautiful as possible that our supper may be very brilliant; the gayer you seem, the more charming you appear, and you will eclipse all the ladies present as much by your brilliancy as by your rank.”
“Alright; make yourself look as beautiful as you can so our dinner can be really lively; the more cheerful you look, the more charming you seem, and you'll outshine all the ladies here with your brilliance and your status.”
Maria Theresa left full of delight. An hour afterwards, Anne of Austria received a visit from Madame, whom she covered with caresses, saying, “Excellent news! the king is charmed with my lottery.”
Maria Theresa left feeling thrilled. An hour later, Anne of Austria had a visit from Madame, whom she showered with affection, saying, “Great news! The king is delighted with my lottery.”
“But I,” replied Madame, “am not so greatly charmed: to see such beautiful bracelets on any one’s arms but yours or mine, is what I cannot reconcile myself to.”
“But I,” replied Madame, “am not so enchanted: seeing such beautiful bracelets on anyone else's arms except yours or mine is something I just can’t accept.”
“Well, well,” said Anne of Austria, concealing by a smile a violent pang she had just experienced, “do not look at things in the worst light immediately.”
“Well, well,” said Anne of Austria, hiding a sharp pain she had just felt with a smile, “don’t jump to the worst conclusions right away.”
“Ah, Madame, Fortune is blind, and I am told there are two hundred tickets.”
“Ah, Ma'am, luck is blind, and I hear there are two hundred tickets.”
“Quite as many as that; but you cannot surely forget that there can only be one winner.”
“Just as many as that; but you can’t really forget that there can only be one winner.”
“No doubt. But who will that be? Can you tell?” said Madame, in despair.
“No doubt. But who will it be? Can you tell?” said Madame, feeling hopeless.
“You remind me that I had a dream last night; my dreams are always good,—I sleep so little.”
“You remind me that I had a dream last night; my dreams are always nice—I sleep so little.”
“What was your dream?—but are you suffering?”
“What was your dream?—but are you okay?”
“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.”
“No,” said the queen, suppressing the intense pain in her chest with remarkable strength; “I had a dream that the king won the bracelets.”
“The king!”
“King time!”
“You are going to ask me, I think, what the king could possibly do with the bracelets?”
“You're probably going to ask me what the king could do with the bracelets?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“And you would not add, perhaps, that it would be very fortunate if the king were really to win, for he would be obliged to give the bracelets to some one else.”
“And you wouldn’t maybe say that it would be quite lucky if the king actually won, since he would have to give the bracelets to someone else.”
“To restore them to you, for instance.”
“To bring them back to you, for example.”
“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 necessity. 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 offer the bracelets.” These words were accompanied by so expressive a smile, that Madame could not resist paying her by a grateful kiss.
“In that case, I should just give them away right now; you don’t think, do you,” said the queen with a laugh, “that I put these bracelets up for a lottery out of necessity. I intended to give them away without making anyone jealous; but if luck won’t help me out of this situation—well, I’ll show luck a thing or two—and I know exactly who I want to give the bracelets to.” Her words were accompanied by such a charming smile that Madame couldn’t help but thank her with a kiss.
“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?”
“But,” added Anne of Austria, “don’t you know, just like I do, that if the king were to win the bracelets, he wouldn’t give them back to me?”
“You mean he would give them to the queen?”
"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.”
“No; and for the same reason he wouldn't return them to me; since if I wanted to give the queen a gift of them, I didn't need him for that.”
Madame cast a side glance upon the bracelets, which, in their casket, were dazzlingly exposed to view upon a table close beside her.
Madame glanced over at the bracelets, which were shining brightly in their box on a table right next to her.
“How beautiful they are,” she said, sighing. “But stay,” Madame continued, “we are quite forgetting that your majesty’s dream was nothing but a dream.”
“How beautiful they are,” she said, sighing. “But wait,” Madame continued, “we're completely forgetting that your majesty’s dream was just a dream.”
“I should be very much surprised,” returned Anne of Austria, “if my dream were to deceive me; that has happened to me very seldom.”
“I'd be really surprised,” replied Anne of Austria, “if my dream were to mislead me; that has happened to me very rarely.”
“We may look upon you as a prophetess, then.”
“We can see 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.”
“I've mentioned before that I hardly ever dream; but the coincidence of my dream about this issue with my own thoughts is amazing! It aligns so perfectly with my own ideas and plans.”
“What arrangements do you allude to?”
“What arrangements are you referring to?”
“That you will get the bracelets, for instance.”
“Like, you’re definitely going to get the bracelets.”
“In that case, it will not be the king.”
“In that case, it won't 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.”
“Oh!” said Anne of Austria, “there isn’t really that much distance between the king’s heart and yours; after all, you’re his sister, and he cares about you a lot. So, I say again, it’s not such a big gap that makes my dream impossible. Come on, let’s calculate the odds in its favor.”
“I will count them.”
"I'll count them."
“In the first place, we will begin with the dream. If the king wins, he is sure to give you the bracelets.”
“In the first place, we will start with the dream. If the king wins, he’s sure to give you the bracelets.”
“I admit that is one.”
"I admit that's one."
“If you win them, they are yours.”
“If you win them over, they're yours.”
“Naturally; that may be admitted also.”
“Naturally; that can be accepted too.”
“Lastly;—if Monsieur were to win them!”
“Finally—what if Mister wins them!”
“Oh!” said Madame, laughing heartily, “he would give them to the Chevalier de Lorraine.”
“Oh!” said Madame, laughing loudly, “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.
Anne of Austria laughed as heartily as her daughter-in-law; so much so, in fact, that her pain returned, causing her to turn suddenly pale right in the middle of her enjoyment.
“What is the matter?” inquired Madame, terrified.
“What’s wrong?” asked Madame, panicked.
“Nothing, nothing; a pain in my side. I have been laughing too much. We were at the fourth chance, I think.”
“Nothing, nothing; just a pain in my side. I’ve been laughing too much. We were on the fourth chance, I think.”
“I cannot see a fourth.”
"I can’t 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.”
"I’m sorry; I’m not out of the running for winning, and if I do win, you can count on me."
“Oh! thank you, thank you!” exclaimed Madame.
“Oh! Thank you, thank you!” exclaimed Madame.
“I hope that you look upon yourself as one whose chances are good, and that my dream now begins to assure the solid outlines of reality.”
“I hope you see yourself as someone with great opportunities, and that my dream is starting to take shape in real life.”
“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.”
“Yes, definitely: you give me both hope and confidence,” said Madame, “and the bracelets I earn this way will mean a hundred times more to me.”
“Well! then, good-bye, until this evening.” And the two princesses separated. Anne of Austria, after her daughter-in-law had left her, said to herself, as she examined the bracelets, “They are, indeed, precious; since, by their means, this evening, I shall have won over a heart to my side, at the same time, fathomed an important secret.”
“Well! Then, goodbye, until this evening.” And the two princesses parted ways. After her daughter-in-law left, Anne of Austria said to herself, as she looked at the bracelets, “They are truly precious; with them, tonight, I will win a heart to my side and uncover an important secret.”
Then turning towards 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.”
Then turning towards the empty corner in her room, she said, speaking to nothing, “Is this not how you would have acted, my poor Chevreuse? Yes, yes; I know it is.”
And, like a perfume of other, fairer days, her youth, her imagination, and her happiness seemed to be wafted towards the echo of this invocation.
And, like a scent from brighter, better days, her youth, her imagination, and her happiness seemed to drift toward the sound of this call.
Chapter LXV. The Lottery.
By 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 coquetry can command at the hands of clever assistants, concealed, or rather pretended to conceal, from the crowd of 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, were seated beside her, each contending for her good graces. The ladies of honor, united in a body, in order to resist with greater effect, and consequently 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 each other the means of attack and defense which were thus at their command. Montalais, learned in that species of warfare which consists of sustained skirmishing, protected the whole line by a sort of rolling fire she directed against the enemy. Saint-Aignan, in utter despair at the rigor, which became almost insulting from the very fact of her persisting in it, Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente displayed, tried to turn his back upon her; but, overcome by the irresistible brilliancy of her eyes, he, every moment, returned to consecrate his defeat by new submissions, to which Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente did not fail to reply by fresh acts of impertinence. Saint-Aignan did not know which way to turn. La Valliere had about her, not exactly a court, but sprinklings of courtiers. Saint-Aignan, hoping by this maneuver to attract Athenais’s attention towards him, approached the young girl, and saluted her with a respect that 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. As the majority was already informed, and well informed, too, on the matter, the acknowledged favor with which she was regarded had attracted to her side some of the most astute, as well as the least sensible, members of the court. The former, because they said with Montaigne, “How do I know?” and the latter, who said with Rabelais, “Perhaps.” 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, whilst the remainder of the pack follow only the scent of the hounds. The two queens and Madame examined with particular attention the toilettes 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 picked to pieces every person present 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-mother, as she turned towards her, “If Fortune were just, she would favor that poor La Valliere.”
By eight o’clock in the evening, everyone had gathered in the queen-mother’s rooms. Anne of Austria, dressed to the nines and still stunning due to her past beauty and the efforts of skilled stylists, tried to hide—or rather pretended to hide—from the crowd of courtiers around her, who still admired her thanks to the circumstances mentioned in the previous chapter, the signs of the pain that would eventually overcome her a few years later. Madame, almost as much of a flirt as Anne of Austria, and the queen, who was as simple and genuine as ever, sat beside her, each vying for her favor. The ladies-in-waiting banded together to better resist the witty and lively conversations of the young men surrounding them, forming a united front like a battalion in formation that could support each other in both offense and defense. Montalais, skilled in this type of social battle that involved continual exchanges, provided cover for the entire group with a sort of continuous fire directed at their opponents. Saint-Aignan, frustrated by the coldness displayed by Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, which bordered on insulting due to its persistence, tried to ignore her; but, unable to resist the captivating brilliance of her eyes, he continually returned to submit himself again, each time doomed to a new round of humiliation which Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente eagerly responded to with fresh acts of rudeness. Saint-Aignan felt lost. La Valliere had a few admirers around her, not exactly a court but a sprinkling of courtiers. Hoping to catch Athenais’s attention, Saint-Aignan approached the young woman and greeted her with a respect that led some to believe he wanted to balance Athenais with Louise. But those were people who hadn’t witnessed the earlier scene or hadn’t heard about it. The majority, already well-informed about the situation, knew of the favor Athenais held and this drew some of the shrewdest, as well as the least sensible, members of the court toward her. The clever ones questioned, “How do I know?” like Montaigne, while the foolish ones echoed Rabelais, “Perhaps.” Most followed the latter, much like during a hunt where only five or six of the best hounds pick up the scent of the prey while the rest follow the scent of the hounds. The two queens and Madame focused intently on the outfits of their ladies and maids of honor, momentarily throwing aside their queenly status to remember they were women. In other words, they mercilessly dissected every woman present in skirts. Both princesses’ gazes landed on La Valliere, who, as we just mentioned, was completely surrounded at that moment. Madame felt no pity and said to the queen-mother as she turned to her, “If Fortune were fair, she would favor that poor La Valliere.”
“That is not possible,” said the queen-mother, smiling.
“That’s not possible,” said the queen mother, smiling.
“Why not?”
"Why not?"
“There are only two hundred tickets, so that it was not possible to inscribe every one’s name on the list.”
“There are only two hundred tickets, so it was not possible to write everyone’s name on the list.”
“And hers is not there, then?”
“Isn't hers there, then?”
“No!”
“Nope!”
“What a pity! she might have won them, and then sold them.”
“What a shame! She could have won them and then sold them.”
“Sold them!” exclaimed the queen.
“Sold them!” said 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.”
“Yes; it would have been a dowry for her, and she wouldn’t have been obligated to marry without her trousseau, as will probably be the case.”
“Really,” answered the queen-mother, “poor little thing: has she no dresses, then?”
“Really,” replied the queen mother, “poor little thing: doesn’t she have any dresses?”
And she pronounced these words like a woman who has never been able to understand the inconveniences of a slenderly filled purse.
And she said these words like someone who has never understood the struggles of having a barely filled wallet.
“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.”
“Wait, look at her. God forgive me, if she isn’t wearing the exact same petticoat tonight that she had on this morning during the walk, and which she somehow managed to keep clean, thanks to the king’s help in keeping her out of 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 immediately dispersed. This movement induced Madame to look towards the door, and at that moment, the captain of the guards announced the king. At this moment La Valliere, 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 Duc de Roquelaure, Monsieur on his right, and the Duc de Roquelaure on his left. The king advanced, in the first place, towards the queens, to whom he bowed with an air full of graceful respect. He took his mother’s hand and kissed it, addressed a few compliments to Madame upon the beauty of her toilette, 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. When the courtiers noticed that the king had only addressed some ordinary remark to the young girl who had been so particularly noticed in the morning, they immediately drew their own conclusion to account for this coldness of manner; this conclusion 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. Fouquet was to be seen; and his respectfully attentive manner served to sustain the young girl in the midst of the varied emotions that visibly agitated her.
At that very moment, Madame said these words, the king walked into the room. The two queens might not have noticed his arrival, so caught up were they in their unpleasant comments, if Madame hadn’t seen that, all of a sudden, La Valliere, who was standing facing the gallery, showed signs of embarrassment, and then spoke a few words to the courtiers around her, who quickly dispersed. This movement made Madame glance toward the door, and at that moment, the captain of the guards announced the king. At this instant, La Valliere, who had been staring at the gallery, suddenly looked down as the king entered. His majesty was dressed splendidly and with impeccable taste; he was chatting with Monsieur on his right and the Duc de Roquelaure on his left. The king first approached the queens, bowing to them with a graceful air of respect. He took his mother’s hand and kissed it, offered a few compliments to Madame about how beautiful her outfit was, and then started making his way around the assembly. La Valliere was greeted just like the others, but with no extra attention. His majesty then returned to his mother and his wife. When the courtiers noticed that the king had only exchanged typical small talk with the young girl who had been so notably praised that morning, they quickly jumped to conclusions about this coldness; their conclusion being that even though the king may have suddenly fancied her, that interest had already faded. One thing, however, should be noted: right beside La Valliere, among the courtiers, was M. Fouquet, and his respectfully attentive demeanor helped support the young girl amidst the various emotions that were clearly affecting her.
M. Fouquet was just on the point, moreover, of speaking in a more friendly manner with Mademoiselle de la Valliere, when M. Colbert approached, and after having bowed to Fouquet with all the formality of respectful politeness, he seemed to take up a post beside La Valliere, for the purpose of entering into conversation with her. Fouquet immediately quitted his place. These proceedings were eagerly devoured by the eyes of Montalais and Malicorne, who mutually exchanged their 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 Madame’s, were from time to time cast upon the young girl. La Valliere instinctively felt herself sinking beneath the weight of all these 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 express 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 Madame 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 to be found in 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, remarked this omission. The king flushed as if much annoyed; but La Valliere, gentle and resigned, as usual, exhibited nothing of the sort. While the list was being read, the king had not taken his eyes off 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 to her mind or her heart. Acknowledging this touching self-denial by the fixity of his attention, the king showed La Valliere how much he appreciated its delicacy. When the list was finished, the different faces of those who had been omitted or forgotten fully expressed their disappointment. Malicorne was also left out from amongst the 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 Mademoiselle Aure, replied: “Certainly we can.”
M. Fouquet was just about to speak more kindly with Mademoiselle de la Valliere when M. Colbert approached. After bowing to Fouquet with all the politeness of respect, he seemed to take a position next to La Valliere to start a conversation with her. Fouquet immediately left his spot. Montalais and Malicorne eagerly watched these actions, exchanging their comments. De Guiche, standing by one of the windows, only had eyes for Madame. However, since Madame often glanced at La Valliere, De Guiche’s gaze followed hers, occasionally resting on the young girl. La Valliere could instinctively feel the weight of all those different looks, some filled with interest and others with envy. She had nothing to ease her suffering—not a kind word from her companions or a loving glance from the king. No one could possibly express the misery the poor girl was feeling. The queen-mother then instructed the small table with the lottery tickets—two hundred in total—to be brought forward and asked Madame de Motteville to read out the list of names. Naturally, this list had been organized according to strict etiquette. The king’s name was first, followed by the queen-mother, then the queen, Monsieur, Madame, and so on. Every heart raced anxiously as the list was read; over three hundred people had been invited, and each was eager to see if their name was among the lucky ones. The king listened as intently as anyone else, and when the last name was called, he realized that La Valliere was missing from the list. Everyone noticed this omission. The king turned red with annoyance, but La Valliere, gentle and resigned as always, showed none of that. While the list was being read, the king’s gaze never left the young girl, who seemed to glow under the happy energy surrounding her, filled with joy and too pure in spirit to allow any thoughts but love to enter her mind or heart. Acknowledging her touching self-denial through his steady attention, the king demonstrated how much he valued her delicacy. Once the list was finished, the disappointed faces of those who had been overlooked fully conveyed their dismay. Malicorne was also among the men left out, and his grimace clearly communicated to Montalais, who had also been forgotten, “Can’t we figure out a way to make Fortune remember us?” to which a knowing smile from Mademoiselle Aure replied, “Of course we can.”
The tickets were distributed to each according to the number listed. 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 engraved 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 expectation of the throng, amidst all the tediously slow preparations, was rather that of cupidity than curiosity. Saint-Aignan bent towards Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente 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.”
The tickets were handed out to everyone according to the numbers listed. The king got his first, then the queen-mother, followed by Monsieur, the queen, Madame, and so on. After that, Anne of Austria opened a small Spanish leather bag containing two hundred balls of mother-of-pearl, each engraved with a number, and presented the open sack to the youngest of her maids of honor, so she could pull one of the balls out. The crowd's eager anticipation, amid all the painfully slow preparations, seemed more about greed than curiosity. Saint-Aignan leaned toward Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente to whisper, “Now that we both have a number, let’s combine our chances. If I win, the bracelet is yours; if you win, just give me one glance from your beautiful eyes.”
“No,” said Athenais, “if you win the bracelet, keep it, every one for himself.”
“No,” Athenais said, “if you win the bracelet, you should keep it; everyone for themselves.”
“You are without any pity,” said Saint-Aignan, “and I will punish you by a quatrain:—
“You have no compassion,” said Saint-Aignan, “and I will punish you with a quatrain:—
“Beautiful Iris, to my vows You are too opposed—”
“Beautiful Iris, you're too opposed to my vows—”
“Silence,” said Athenais, “you will prevent me hearing the winning number.”
“Silence,” Athenais said, “you’ll stop me from hearing the winning number.”
“Number one,” said the young girl who had drawn the mother-of-pearl from the Spanish leather bag.
“Number one,” said the young girl who had taken the mother-of-pearl from the Spanish leather bag.
“The king!” exclaimed the queen-mother.
"The king!" exclaimed the queen.
“The king has won,” repeated the queen, delightedly.
“The king has won,” the queen said joyfully.
“Oh! the king! your dream!” said Madame, joyously, in the ear of Anne of Austria.
“Oh! The king! Your dream!” said Madame, joyfully, in Anne of Austria's ear.
The king was the only one who did not exhibit any satisfaction. 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 bracelets, he said, “Are these bracelets really beautiful, then?”
The king was the only one who didn't show any satisfaction. He simply thanked Fortune for what she had done for him, giving a slight nod to the young girl who had been chosen as her representative. Then, accepting the casket containing the bracelets from Anne of Austria, with the whole assembly eagerly watching, he said, “Are these bracelets really beautiful, then?”
“Look at them,” said Anne of Austria, “and judge for yourself.”
“Look at them,” said Anne of Austria, “and decide for yourself.”
The king looked at them, and said, “Yes, indeed, an admirable medallion. What perfect finish!”
The king looked at them and said, “Yes, definitely an impressive medallion. What a perfect finish!”
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 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 intimate 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 about from person to person. Immediately, every one, connoisseurs or not, uttered various exclamations of surprise, and overwhelmed the king with congratulations. There was, in fact, something for everybody to admire—the brilliance for some, and the cutting for others. The ladies present visibly displayed their impatience to see such a treasure monopolized by the gentlemen.
Queen Maria Theresa quickly noticed, right from the start, that the king wouldn't offer her the bracelets; however, since he didn’t seem inclined to give them to Madame either, she felt somewhat pleased, or almost so. The king took a seat. The closest courtiers approached one by one to admire the beautiful craftsmanship, which was soon passed around with the king's permission. Instantly, everyone, connoisseurs or not, expressed their surprise and showered the king with congratulations. There was truly something for everyone to appreciate—the shine for some and the cut for others. The ladies present clearly showed their impatience to see such a treasure taken over 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 round for a while for the inspection of the ladies, who seem to have, and with far greater right, an excuse for understanding such matters!”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said the king, who noticed everything, “you’d almost think you were wearing bracelets like the Sabines used to. Pass them around for a bit so the ladies can have a look, since they have, and with much more reason, a right to understand such things!”
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, amidst 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, Monsieur, gave the bracelets a long look of anxious 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!”
These words signaled to Madame the beginning of a decision she had been anticipating. She also gathered this hopeful belief from the queen-mother's glances. The courtier who was holding the bracelets at the moment the king made this comment, amid the general commotion, quickly handed the bracelets to Queen Maria Theresa, who, poor woman, knew full well they weren't meant for her. She barely glanced at them and almost immediately passed them on to Madame. The latter, and even more so Monsieur, gave the bracelets a long, anxious, and almost envious look. She then handed the jewels to the ladies nearby, exclaiming a single word, but with an emphasis that expressed a lot more: “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 towards the right. During this time the king was tranquilly conversing with De Guiche and Fouquet, rather passively 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 attention, however, was now elsewhere, for it wandered as his eyes did.
The ladies who received the bracelets from Madame admired them for as long as they wanted, then passed them around to the right. Meanwhile, the king was calmly chatting with De Guiche and Fouquet, mostly letting them talk while he listened passively. Used to the routine of typical phrases, his ear, like that of anyone who has undeniable superiority over others, only picked out the key word in the various conversations that needed responding to. However, his focus was elsewhere, as his gaze drifted around.
Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente was the last of the ladies inscribed for tickets; and, as if she had ranked according to her name upon the list, she had only Montalais and La Valliere near 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, for the time, of their importance—a circumstance which did not, however, prevent Montalais from starting with joy, envy, and covetous desire, at the sight 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 on to her companion, La Valliere, was very great. La Valliere fixed a look almost of indifference upon the jewels.
Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente was the last of the ladies registered for tickets, and, just as her name appeared on the list, she only had Montalais and La Valliere close by her. When the bracelets reached these two, no one seemed to pay them any further attention. The simple hands that briefly touched these jewels made them lose their significance for a moment—a situation that didn’t stop Montalais from feeling joy, envy, and desire at the sight of the stunning stones, even more than at their amazing craftsmanship. It’s clear that if she had to choose between monetary value and artistic beauty, Montalais would have definitely chosen diamonds over cameos, and her reluctance to pass them on to her friend La Valliere was quite strong. La Valliere looked at the jewels with a gaze that was almost indifferent.
“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.”
“Oh, how beautiful, how amazing these bracelets are!” Montalais exclaimed. “And still, you aren’t thrilled about them, Louise! I’m sure you’re not a true woman.”
“Yes, I am, indeed,” replied the young girl, with an accent of the most charming melancholy; “but why desire that which can never, by any possibility, be ours?”
“Yes, I am, indeed,” replied the young girl, with
The king, his head bent forward, was listening to what Louise 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 to wear jewels, which are a woman’s appurtenance.”
The king, with his head tilted down, was listening to what Louise was saying. As soon as her voice reached him, he stood up, beaming with joy, and walked across the entire room from where he was to La Valliere. “You're wrong, mademoiselle,” he said, “you’re a woman, and every woman has the right to wear jewelry, which is part of being a woman.”
“Oh, sire!” said La Valliere, “your majesty will not absolutely believe in my modesty?”
“Oh, sire!” said La Valliere, “you can't truly think I'm being modest, can you?”
“I believe you possess every virtue, mademoiselle; frankness as well as every other; I entreat you, therefore, to say frankly what you think of these bracelets?”
“I think you have every virtue, miss; honesty as well as all the others; I ask you, therefore, to honestly share what you think of these bracelets?”
“That they are beautiful, sire, and cannot be offered to any other than a queen.”
“That they are beautiful, Your Majesty, and can only be given to a queen.”
“I am delighted that such is your opinion, mademoiselle; the bracelets are yours, and the king begs your acceptance of them.”
“I’m so glad you feel that way, miss; the bracelets are yours, and the king asks you to accept them.”
And as, with a movement almost resembling terror, La Valliere eagerly held out the casket to the king, the king gently pushed back her trembling hand.
And as La Valliere, making a gesture that seemed almost frightened, eagerly extended the casket to the king, he gently pushed her shaking hand back.
A silence of astonishment, more profound than that of death, reigned in the assembly.
A silence of shock, deeper than death itself, filled the room.
And yet, from the side where the queens were, no one had heard what he had said, nor understood 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.
And yet, from the side where the queens were, no one had heard what he said, nor understood what he had done. A kind friend, however, took it upon herself to spread the news; it was Tonnay-Charente, to whom Madame had signaled to come closer.
“Good heavens!” explained Tonnay-Charente, “how happy that La Valliere is! the king has just given her the bracelets.”
“Wow!” exclaimed Tonnay-Charente, “how lucky La Valliere is! The king just gave her the bracelets.”
Madame bit her lips to such a degree that the blood appeared 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 beautiful white hand, and remained for a long time absorbed by a presentiment that disturbed her mind, and by a terrible pang which stung her heart. De Guiche, observing Madame 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:
Madame bit her lips so hard that blood appeared on the surface of her skin. The young queen first looked at La Valliere and then at Madame, and started to laugh. Anne of Austria rested her chin on her beautiful white hand and sat for a long time lost in a disturbing thought and a terrible pain that stung her heart. De Guiche, seeing Madame turn pale and figuring out the reason for her change in color, suddenly left the gathering and disappeared. Malicorne was then able to quietly approach Montalais, and amidst the general chatter, said to her:
“Aure, your fortune and our future are standing at your elbow.”
“Aure, your luck and our future are right beside you.”
“Yes,” was her reply, as she tenderly embraced La Valliere, whom, inwardly, she was tempted to strangle.
“Yes,” she replied, gently hugging La Valliere, even though, deep down, she felt like strangling her.
End of Ten Years Later. The next text in the series is Louise de la Valliere.
End of Ten Years Later. The next text in the series is Louise de la Valliere.
Footnotes:
1 (return)
[ In the three-volume edition,
Volume 1, entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, ends here.]
1 (return)
[ In the three-volume edition,
Volume 1, titled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, stops here.]
2 (return)
[ In most other editions, the
previous chapter and the next are usually combined into one chapter, entitled
“D’Artagnan calls De Wardes to account.”]
2 (return)
[ In most other editions, the previous chapter and the next are typically combined into one chapter called “D’Artagnan confronts De Wardes.”]
3 (return)
[ Dumas is mistaken. The events
in the following chapters occurred in 1661.]
3 (return)
[Dumas is wrong. The events in the next chapters happened in 1661.]
4 (return)
[ In the five-volume edition,
Volume 2 ends here.]
4 (return)
[ In the five-volume edition,
Volume 2 ends here.]
5 (return)
[ The verses in this chapter have
been re-written to give the flavor of them rather than the meaning. A more
literal translation would look like this: “Guiche is the furnisher Of the
maids of honor.” and—
5 (return)
[ The verses in this chapter have been re-written to capture their essence rather than their literal meaning. A more direct translation would be: “Guiche provides the maids of honor.” and—
“He has stocked the birdcage;
Montalais and—”
“He has filled the birdcage;
Montalais and—”
It would be more accurate, though, to say “baited” rather than “stocked” in the second couplet.]
It would be more accurate, though, to say “baited” rather than “stocked” in the second couplet.]
6 (return)
[ The Latin translates to
“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”]
6 (return)
[ The Latin translates to
“The will is strong, but the body is weak.”]
7 (return)
[ “Ad majorem Dei
gloriam” was the motto of the Jesuits. It translates to “For the
greater glory of God.”]
7 (return)
[ “Ad majorem Dei gloriam” was the motto of the Jesuits. It translates to “For the greater glory of God.”]
10 (return)
[ “It rained all night
long; the games will be held tomorrow.”]
10 (return)
[ “It rained all night; the games are scheduled for tomorrow.”]
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