Ten Years Later By Alexandre Dumas

The Vicomte de Bragelonne. Volume I. CHAPTER 1 The Letter. Towards the middle of the month of May, in the year 1660, at nine o’clock in the morning, when the sun, already high in the heavens, was fast absorbing the dew from the ramparts of the castle of Blois a little cavalcade, composed of three men and two pages, re-entered the city by the bridge, without producing any other effect upon the passengers of the quay beyond a first movement of the hand to the head, as a salute, and a second movement of the tongue to express, in the purest French then spoken in France: “There is Monsieur returning from hunting.” And that was all. Whilst, however, the horses were climbing the steep acclivity which leads from the river to the castle, several shop-boys approached the last horse, from whose saddle-bow a number of birds were suspended by the beak. On seeing this, the inquisitive youths manifested with rustic freedom their contempt for such paltry sport, and, after a dissertation among themselves upon the disadvantages of hawking, they returned to their occupations; one only of the curious party, a stout, stubby, cheerful lad, having demanded how it was that Monsieur, who, from his great revenues, had it in his power to amuse himself so much better, could be satisfied with such mean diversions. “Do you not know,” one of the standers-by replied, “that Monsieur’s principal amusement is to weary himself?” The light-hearted boy shrugged his shoulders with a gesture which said as clear as day: “In that case I would rather be plain Jack than a prince.” And all resumed their labors. In the meanwhile, Monsieur continued his route with an air at once so melancholy and so majestic, that he certainly would have attracted the attention of spectators, if spectators there had been; but the good citizens of Blois could not pardon Monsieur for having chosen their gay city for an abode in which to indulge melancholy at his ease, and as often as they caught a glimpse of the illustrious ennuye, they stole away gaping, or drew back their heads into the interior of their dwellings, to escape the soporific influence of that long pale face, of those watery eyes, and that languid address; so that the worthy prince was almost certain to find the streets deserted whenever he chanced to pass through them. Now, on the part of the citizens of Blois this was a culpable piece of disrespect, for Monsieur was, after the king — nay, even, perhaps before the king — the greatest noble of the kingdom. In fact, God, who had granted to Louis XIV., then reigning, the honor of being son of Louis XIII., had granted to Monsieur the honor of being son of Henry IV. It was not then, or, at least it ought not to have been, a trifling source of pride for the city of Blois, that Gaston of Orleans had chosen it as his residence, and he his court in the ancient castle of its states. But it was the destiny of this great prince to excite the attention and admiration of the public in a very modified degree wherever he might be. Monsieur had fallen into this situation by habit. It was not, perhaps, this which gave him that air of listlessness. Monsieur had been tolerably busy in the course of his life. A man cannot allow the heads of a dozen of his best friends to be cut off without feeling a little excitement, and as, since the accession of Mazarin to power, no heads had been cut off, Monsieur’s occupation was gone, and his morale suffered from it. The life of the poor prince was, then, very dull. After his little morning hawking-party on the banks of the Beuvion, or in the woods of Chiverny, Monsieur crossed the Loire, went to breakfast at Chambord, with or without an appetite and the city of Blois heard no more of its sovereign lord and master till the next hawking-day. So much for the ennui extra muros; of the ennui of the interior we will give the reader an idea if he will with us follow the cavalcade to the majestic porch of the castle of the states. Monsieur rode a little steady-paced horse, equipped with a large saddle of red Flemish velvet, with stirrups in the shape of buskins; the horse was of a bay color; Monsieur’s pourpoint of crimson velvet corresponded with the cloak of the same shade and the horse’s equipment, and it was only by this red appearance of the whole that the prince could be known from his two companions, the one dressed in violet, the other in green. He on the left, in violet, was his equerry; he on the right, in green, was the grand veneur. One of the pages carried two gerfalcons upon a perch, the other a hunting-horn, which he blew with a careless note at twenty paces from the castle. Every one about this listless prince did what he had to do listlessly. At this signal, eight guards, who were lounging in the sun in the square court, ran to their halberts, and Monsieur made his solemn entry into the castle. When he had disappeared under the shades of the porch, three or four idlers, who had followed the cavalcade to the castle, after pointing out the suspended birds to each other, dispersed with comments upon what they saw: and, when they were gone, the street, the place, and the court all remained deserted alike. Monsieur dismounted without speaking a word, went straight to his apartments, where his valet changed his dress, and as Madame had not yet sent orders respecting breakfast, Monsieur stretched himself upon a chaise longue, and was soon as fast asleep as if it had been eleven o’clock at night. The eight guards, who concluded their service for the day was over, laid themselves down very comfortably in the sun upon some stone benches; the grooms disappeared with their horses into the stables, and, with the exception of a few joyous birds, startling each other with their sharp chirping in the tufted shrubberies, it might have been thought that the whole castle was as soundly asleep as Monsieur was. All at once, in the midst of this delicious silence, there resounded a clear ringing laugh, which caused several of the halberdiers in the enjoyment of their siesta to open at least one eye. This burst of laughter proceeded from a window of the castle, visited at this moment by the sun, that embraced it in one of those large angles which the profiles of the chimneys mark out upon the walls before mid-day. The little balcony of wrought iron which advanced in front of this window was furnished with a pot of red gilliflowers, another pot of primroses, and an early rose-tree, the foliage of which, beautifully green, was variegated with numerous red specks announcing future roses. In the chamber lighted by this window was a square table, covered with an old large-flowered Haarlem tapestry; in the center of this table was a long-necked stone bottle, in which were irises and lilies of the valley; at each end of this table was a young girl. The position of these two young people was singular; they might have been taken for two boarders escaped from a convent. One of them, with both elbows on the table, and a pen in her hand, was tracing characters upon a sheet of fine Dutch paper; the other, kneeling upon a chair, which allowed her to advance her head and bust over the back of it to the middle of the table, was watching her companion as she wrote, or rather hesitated to write. Thence the thousand cries, the thousand railleries, the thousand laughs, one of which, more brilliant than the rest, had startled the birds in the gardens, and disturbed the slumbers of Monsieur’s guards. We are taking portraits now; we shall be allowed, therefore, we hope, to sketch the two last of this chapter. The one who was leaning in the chair — that is to say, the joyous, the laughing one — was a beautiful girl of from eighteen to twenty, with brown complexion and brown hair, splendid, from eyes which sparkled beneath strongly-marked brows, and particularly from her teeth, which seemed to shine like pearls between her red coral lips. Her every movement seemed the accent of a sunny nature, she did not walk — she bounded. The other, she who was writing, looked at her turbulent companion with an eye as limpid, as pure, and as blue as the azure of the day. Her hair, of a shaded fairness, arranged with exquisite taste, fell in silky curls over her lovely mantling cheeks; she passed across the paper a delicate hand, whose thinness announced her extreme youth. At each burst of laughter that proceeded from her friend, she raised, as if annoyed, her white shoulders in a poetical and mild manner, but they were wanting in that richfulness of mold which was likewise to be wished in her arms and hands. “Montalais! Montalais!” said she at length, in a voice soft and caressing as a melody, “you laugh too loud — you laugh like a man! You will not only draw the attention of messieurs the guards, but you will not hear Madame’s bell when Madame rings.” This admonition neither made the young girl called Montalais cease to laugh and gesticulate. She only replied: “Louise, you do not speak as you think, my dear; you know that messieurs the guards, as you call them, have only just commenced their sleep, and that a cannon would not waken them; you know that Madame’s bell can be heard at the bridge of Blois, and that consequently I shall hear it when my services are required by Madame. What annoys you, my child, is that I laugh while you are writing; and what you are afraid of is that Madame de Saint-Remy, your mother, should come up here, as she does sometimes when we laugh too loud, that she should surprise us, and that she should see that enormous sheet of paper upon which, in a quarter of an hour, you have only traced the words Monsieur Raoul. Now, you are right, my dear Louise, because after these words, Monsieur Raoul,’ others may be put so significant and so incendiary as to cause Madame de Saint-Remy to burst out into fire and flames! Hein! is not that true now? — say.” And Montalais redoubled her laughter and noisy provocations. The fair girl at length became quite angry; she tore the sheet of paper on which, in fact, the words “Monsieur Raoul” were written in good characters, and crushing the paper in her trembling hands, she threw it out of the window. “There! there!” said Mademoiselle de Montalais; “there is our little lamb, our gentle dove, angry! Don’t be afraid, Louise — Madame de Saint-Remy will not come; and if she should, you know I have a quick ear. Besides, what can be more permissible than to write to an old friend of twelve years’ standing, particularly when the letter begins with the words Monsieur Raoul’?” “It is all very well — I will not write to him at all,” said the young girl. “Ah, ah! in good sooth, Montalais is properly punished,” cried the jeering brunette, still laughing. “Come, come! let us try another sheet of paper, and finish our dispatch off-hand. Good! there is the bell ringing now. By my faith, so much the worse! Madame must wait, or else do without her first maid of honor this morning.” A bell, in fact, did ring; it announced that Madame had finished her toilette, and waited for Monsieur to give her his hand, and conduct her from the salon to the refectory. This formality being accomplished with great ceremony, the husband and wife breakfasted, and then separated till the hour of dinner, invariably fixed at two o’clock. The sound of this bell caused a door to be opened in the offices on the left hand of the court, from which filed two maitres d’hotel followed by eight scullions bearing a kind of hand-barrow loaded with dishes under silver covers. One of the maitres d’hotel, the first in rank, touched one of the guards, who was snoring on his bench, slightly with his wand; he even carried his kindness so far as to place the halbert which stood against the wall in the hands of the man stupid with sleep, after which the soldier, without explanation, escorted the viande of Monsieur to the refectory, preceded by a page and the two maitres d’hotel. Wherever the viande passed, the soldiers ported arms. Mademoiselle de Montalais and her companion had watched from their window the details of this ceremony, to which, by the bye, they must have been pretty well accustomed. But they did not look so much from curiosity as to be assured they should not be disturbed. So guards, scullions, maitres d’hotel, and pages having passed, they resumed their places at the table; and the sun, which, through the window-frame, had for an instant fallen upon those two charming countenances, now only shed its light upon the gilliflowers, primroses, and rosetree. “Bah!” said Mademoiselle de Montalais, taking her place again; “Madame will breakfast very well without me!” “Oh! Montalais, you will be punished!” replied the other girl, sitting down quietly in hers. “Punished, indeed! — that is to say, deprived of a ride! That is just the way in which I wish to be punished. To go out in the grand coach, perched upon a doorstep; to turn to the left, twist round to the right, over roads full of ruts, where we cannot exceed a league in two hours; and then to come back straight towards the wing of the castle in which is the window of Mary de Medici, so that Madame never fails to say: Could one believe it possible that Mary de Medici should have escaped from that window — forty-seven feet high? The mother of two princes and three princesses!’ If you call that relaxation, Louise, all I ask is to be punished every day; particularly when my punishment is to remain with you and write such interesting letters as we write!” “Montalais! Montalais! there are duties to be performed.” “You talk of them very much at your ease, dear child! — you, who are left quite free amidst this tedious court. You are the only person that reaps the advantages of them without incurring the trouble, — you, who are really more one of Madame’s maids of honor than I am, because Madame makes her affection for your father-in-law glance off upon you; so that you enter this dull house as the birds fly into yonder court, inhaling the air, pecking the flowers, picking up the grain, without having the least service to perform, or the least annoyance to undergo. And you talk to me of duties to be performed! In sooth, my pretty idler, what are your own proper duties, unless to write to the handsome Raoul? And even that you don’t do; so that it looks to me as if you likewise were rather negligent of your duties!” Louise assumed a serious air, leant her chin upon her hand, and, in a tone full of candid remonstrance, “And do you reproach me with my good fortune?” said she. “Can you have the heart to do it? You have a future; you belong to the court; the king, if he should marry, will require Monsieur to be near his person; you will see splendid fetes; you will see the king, who they say is so handsome, so agreeable!” “Ay, and still more, I shall see Raoul, who attends upon M. le Prince,” added Montalais, maliciously. “Poor Raoul!” sighed Louise. “Now is the time to write to him, my pretty dear! Come, begin again, with that famous Monsieur Raoul’ which figures at the top of the poor torn sheet.” She then held the pen toward her, and with a charming smile encouraged her hand, which quickly traced the words she named. “What next?” asked the younger of the two girls. “Why, now write what you think, Louise,” replied Montalais. “Are you quite sure I think of anything?” “You think of somebody, and that amounts to the same thing, or rather even more.” “Do you think so, Montalais?” “Louise, Louise, your blue eyes are as deep as the sea I saw at Boulogne last year! No, no, I mistake — the sea is perfidious: your eyes are as deep as the azure yonder — look! — over our heads!” “Well, since you can read so well in my eyes, tell me what I am thinking about, Montalais.” “In the first place, you don’t think Monsieur Raoul; you think My dear Raoul.” “Oh! —- “ “Never blush for such a trifle as that! My dear Raoul,’ we will say — You implore me to write to you at Paris, where you are detained by your attendance on M. le Prince. As you must be very dull there, to seek for amusement in the remembrance of a provinciale —- ‘” Louise rose up suddenly. “No, Montalais,” said she, with a smile; “I don’t think a word of that. Look, this is what I think;” and she seized the pen boldly and traced, with a firm hand, the following words: — “I should have been very unhappy if your entreaties to obtain a remembrance of me had been less warm. Everything here reminds me of our early days, which so quickly passed away, which so delightfully flew by, that no others will ever replace the charm of them in my heart.” Montalais, who watched the flying pen, and read, the wrong way upwards, as fast as her friend wrote, here interrupted by clapping her hands. “Capital!” cried she; “there is frankness — there is heart — there is style! Show these Parisians, my dear, that Blois is the city for fine language!” “He knows very well that Blois was a Paradise to me,” replied the girl. “That is exactly what you mean to say; and you speak like an angel.” “I will finish, Montalais,” and she continued as follows: “You often think of me, you say, Monsieur Raoul: I thank you; but that does not surprise me, when I recollect how often our hearts have beaten close to each other.” “Oh! oh!” said Montalais. “Beware; my lamb! You are scattering your wool, and there are wolves about.” Louise was about to reply, when the gallop of a horse resounded under the porch of the castle. “What is that?” said Montalais, approaching the window. “A handsome cavalier, by my faith!” “Oh! — Raoul!” exclaimed Louise, who had made the same movement as her friend, and, becoming pale as death, sunk back beside her unfinished letter. “Now, he is a clever lover, upon my word!” cried Montalais; “he arrives just at the proper moment.” “Come in, come in, I implore you!” murmured Louise. “Bah! he does not know me. Let me see what he has come here for.” CHAPTER 2 The Messenger. Mademoiselle de Montalais was right; the young cavalier was goodly to look upon. He was a young man of from twenty-four to twenty-five years of age, tall and slender, wearing gracefully the picturesque military costume of the period. His large boots contained a foot which Mademoiselle de Montalais might not have disowned if she had been transformed into a man. With one of his delicate but nervous hands he checked his horse in the middle of the court, and with the other raised his hat, whose long plumes shaded his at once serious and ingenuous countenance. The guards, roused by the steps of the horse, awoke and were on foot in a minute. The young man waited till one of them was close to his saddle-bow: then stooping towards him, in a clear, distinct voice, which was perfectly audible at the window where the two girls were concealed, “A message for his royal highness,” he said. “Ah, ah!” cried the soldier. “Officer, a messenger!” But this brave guard knew very well that no officer would appear, seeing that the only one who could have appeared dwelt at the other side of the castle, in an apartment looking into the gardens. So he hastened to add: “The officer, monsieur, is on his rounds, but in his absence, M. de Saint-Remy, the maitre d’hotel shall be informed.” “M. de Saint-Remy?” repeated the cavalier, slightly blushing. “Do you know him?” “Why, yes; but request him, if you please, that my visit be announced to his royal highness as soon as possible.” “It appears to be pressing,” said the guard, as if speaking to himself, but really in the hope of obtaining an answer. The messenger made an affirmative sign with his head. “In that case,” said the guard, “I will go and seek the maitre d’hotel myself.” The young man, in the meantime, dismounted; and whilst the others were making their remarks upon the fine horse the cavalier rode, the soldier returned. “Your pardon, young gentleman; but your name, if you please?” “The Vicomte de Bragelonne, on the part of his highness M. le Prince de Conde.” The soldier made a profound bow, and, as if the name of the conqueror of Rocroy and Sens had given him wings, he stepped lightly up the steps leading to the ante-chamber. M. de Bragelonne had not had time to fasten his horse to the iron bars of the perron, when M. de Saint-Remy came running, out of breath, supporting his capacious body with one hand, whilst with the other he cut the air as a fisherman cleaves the waves with his oar. “Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte! You at Blois!” cried he. “Well, that is a wonder. Good-day to you — good-day, Monsieur Raoul.” “I offer you a thousand respects, M. de Saint-Remy.” “How Madame de la Vall — I mean, how delighted Madame de Saint-Remy will be to see you! But come in. His royal highness is at breakfast — must he be interrupted? Is the matter serious?” “Yes, and no, Monsieur de Saint-Remy. A moment’s delay, however, would be disagreeable to his royal highness.” “If that is the case, we will force the consigne, Monsieur le Vicomte. Come in. Besides, Monsieur is in an excellent humor to-day. And then you bring news, do you not?” “Great news, Monsieur de Saint-Remy.” “And good, I presume?” “Excellent.” “Come quickly, come quickly then!” cried the worthy man, putting his dress to rights as he went along. Raoul followed him, hat in hand, and a little disconcerted at the noise made by his spurs in these immense salons. As soon as he had disappeared in the interior of the palace, the window of the court was repeopled, and an animated whispering betrayed the emotion of the two girls. They soon appeared to have formed a resolution, for one of the two faces disappeared from the window. This was the brunette; the other remained behind the balcony, concealed by the flowers, watching attentively through the branches the perron by which M. de Bragelonne had entered the castle. In the meantime the object of so much laudable curiosity continued his route, following the steps of the maitre d’hotel. The noise of quick steps, an odor of wine and viands, a clinking of crystal and plates, warned them that they were coming to the end of their course. The pages, valets and officers, assembled in the office which led up to the refectory, welcomed the newcomer with the proverbial politeness of the country; some of them were acquainted with Raoul, and all knew that he came from Paris. It might be said that his arrival for a moment suspended the service. In fact, a page, who was pouring out wine for his royal highness, on hearing the jingling of spurs in the next chamber, turned round like a child, without perceiving that he was continuing to pour out, not into the glass, but upon the tablecloth. Madame, who was not so preoccupied as her glorious spouse was, remarked this distraction of the page. “Well?” exclaimed she. “Well!” repeated Monsieur; “what is going on then?” M. de Saint-Remy, who had just introduced his head through the doorway, took advantage of the moment. “Why am I to be disturbed?” said Gaston, helping himself to a thick slice of one of the largest salmon that had ever ascended the Loire to be captured between Painboeuf and Saint-Nazaire. “There is a messenger from Paris. Oh! but after monseigneur has breakfasted will do; there is plenty of time.” “From Paris!” cried the prince, letting his fork fall. “A messenger from Paris, do you say? And on whose part does this messenger come?” “On the part of M. le Prince,” said the maitre d’hotel promptly. Every one knows that the Prince de Conde was so called. “A messenger from M. le Prince!” said Gaston, with an inquietude that escaped none of the assistants, and consequently redoubled the general curiosity. Monsieur, perhaps, fancied himself brought back again to the happy times when the opening of a door gave him an emotion, in which every letter might contain a state secret, — in which every message was connected with a dark and complicated intrigue. Perhaps, likewise, that great name of M. le Prince expanded itself, beneath the roofs of Blois, to the proportions of a phantom. Monsieur pushed away his plate. “Shall I tell the envoy to wait?” asked M. de Saint-Remy. A glance from Madame emboldened Gaston, who replied: “No, no! let him come in at once, on the contrary. A propos, who is he?” “A gentleman of this country, M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne.” “Ah, very well! Introduce him, Saint-Remy — introduce him.” And when he had let fall these words, with his accustomed gravity, Monsieur turned his eyes, in a certain manner, upon the people of his suite, so that all, pages, officers, and equerries, quitted the service, knives and goblets, and made towards the second chamber a retreat as rapid as it was disorderly. This little army had dispersed in two files when Raoul de Bragelonne, preceded by M. de Saint-Remy, entered the refectory. The short interval of solitude which this retreat had left him, permitted Monsieur the time to assume a diplomatic countenance. He did not turn round, but waited till the maitre d’hotel should bring the messenger face to face with him. Raoul stopped even with the lower end of the table, so as to be exactly between Monsieur and Madame. From this place he made a profound bow to Monsieur and a very humble one to Madame; then, drawing himself up into military pose, he waited for Monsieur to address him. On his part the Prince waited till the doors were hermetically closed; he would not turn round to ascertain the fact, as that would have been derogatory to his dignity, but he listened with all his ears for the noise of the lock, which would promise him at least an appearance of secrecy. The doors being closed, Monsieur raised his eyes towards the vicomte, and said, “It appears that you come from Paris, monsieur?” “This minute, monseigneur.” “How is the king?” “His majesty is in perfect health, monseigneur.” “And my sister-in-law?” “Her majesty the queen-mother still suffers from the complaint in her chest, but for the last month she has been rather better.” “Somebody told me you came on the part of M. le Prince. They must have been mistaken, surely?” “No, monseigneur; M. le Prince has charged me to convey this letter to your royal highness, and I am to wait for an answer to it.” Raoul had been a little annoyed by this cold and cautious reception, and his voice insensibly sank to a low key. The prince forgot that he was the cause of this apparent mystery, and his fears returned. He received the letter from the Prince de Conde with a haggard look, unsealed it as he would have unsealed a suspicious packet, and in order to read it so that no one should remark the effects of it upon his countenance, he turned round. Madame followed, with an anxiety almost equal to that of the prince, every maneuver of her august husband. Raoul, impassible, and a little disengaged by the attention of his hosts, looked from his place through the open window at the gardens and the statues which peopled them. “Well!” cried Monsieur, all at once, with a cheerful smile; “here is an agreeable surprise, and a charming letter from M. le Prince. Look, Madame!” The table was too large to allow the arm of the prince to reach the hand of Madame; Raoul sprang forward to be their intermediary, and did it with so good a grace as to procure a flattering acknowledgment from the princess. “You know the contents of this letter, no doubt?” said Gaston to Raoul. “Yes, monseigneur; M. le Prince at first gave me the message verbally, but upon reflection his highness took up his pen.” “It is beautiful writing,” said Madame, “but I cannot read it.” “Will you read it to Madame, M. de Bragelonne?” said the duke. “Yes, read it, if you please, monsieur.” Raoul began to read, Monsieur giving again all his attention. The letter was conceived in these terms: Monseigneur — The king is about to set out for the frontiers. You are aware that the marriage of his majesty is concluded upon. The king has done me the honor to appoint me his marechal-des-logis for this journey, and as I knew with what joy his majesty would pass a day at Blois, I venture to ask your royal highness’s permission to mark the house you inhabit as our quarters. If, however, the suddenness of this request should create to your royal highness any embarrassment, I entreat you to say so by the messenger I send, a gentleman of my suite, M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne. My itinerary will depend upon your royal highness’s determination, and instead of passing through Blois, we shall come through Vendome and Romorantin. I venture to hope that your royal highness will be pleased with my arrangement, it being the expression of my boundless desire to make myself agreeable to you.” “Nothing can be more gracious toward us,” said Madame, who had more than once consulted the looks of her husband during the reading of the letter. “The king here!” exclaimed she, in a rather louder tone than would have been necessary to preserve secrecy. “Monsieur,” said his royal highness in his turn, “you will offer my thanks to M. de Conde, and express to him my gratitude for the honor he has done me.” Raoul bowed. “On what day will his majesty arrive?” continued the prince. “The king, monseigneur, will in all probability arrive this evening.” “But how, then, could he have known my reply if it had been in the negative?” “I was desired, monseigneur, to return in all haste to Beaugency, to give counter-orders to the courier, who was himself to go back immediately with counter-orders to M. le Prince.” “His majesty is at Orleans, then?” “Much nearer, monseigneur; his majesty must by this time have arrived at Meung.” “Does the court accompany him?” “Yes, monseigneur.” “A propos, I forgot to ask you after M. le Cardinal.” “His eminence appears to enjoy good health, monseigneur.” “His nieces accompany him, no doubt?” “No, monseigneur, his eminence has ordered the Mesdemoiselles de Mancini to set out for Brouage. They will follow the left bank of the Loire, while the court will come by the right.” “What! Mademoiselle Mary de Mancini quit the court in that manner?” asked Monsieur, his reserve beginning to diminish. “Mademoiselle Mary de Mancini in particular,” replied Raoul discreetly. A fugitive smile, an imperceptible vestige of his ancient spirit of intrigue, shot across the pale face of the prince. “Thanks, M. de Bragelonne,” then said Monsieur. “You would, perhaps, not be willing to carry M. le Prince the commission with which I would charge you, and that is, that his messenger has been very agreeable to me; but I will tell him so myself.” Raoul bowed his thanks to Monsieur for the honor he had done him. Monsieur made a sign to Madame, who struck a bell which was placed at her right hand; M. de Saint-Remy entered, and the room was soon filled with people. “Messieurs,” said the prince, “his majesty is about to pay me the honor of passing a day at Blois; I depend upon the king, my nephew, not having to repent of the favor he does my house.” “Vive le Roi!” cried all the officers of the household with frantic enthusiasm, and M. de Saint-Remy louder than the rest. Gaston hung down his head with evident chagrin. He had all his life been obliged to hear, or rather to undergo this cry of “Vive le Roi!” which passed over him. For a long time, being unaccustomed to hear it, his ear had had rest, and now a younger, more vivacious, and more brilliant royalty rose up before him, like a new and more painful provocation. Madame perfectly understood the sufferings of that timid, gloomy heart; she rose from the table, Monsieur imitated her mechanically, and all the domestics, with a buzzing like that of several bee-hives, surrounded Raoul for the purpose of questioning him. Madame saw this movement, and called M. de Saint Remy. “This is not the time for gossiping, but working,” said she, with the tone of an angry housekeeper. M. de Saint-Remy hastened to break the circle formed by the officers round Raoul, so that the latter was able to gain the ante-chamber. “Care will be taken of that gentleman, I hope,” added Madame, addressing M. de Saint-Remy. The worthy man immediately hastened after Raoul. “Madame desires refreshments to be offered to you,” said he; “and there is, besides, a lodging for you in the castle.” “Thanks, M. de Saint-Remy,” replied Raoul; “but you know how anxious I must be to pay my duty to M. le Comte, my father.” “That is true, that is true, Monsieur Raoul; present him, at the same time, my humble respects, if you please.” Raoul thus once more got rid of the old gentleman, and pursued his way. As he was passing under the porch, leading his horse by the bridle, a soft voice called him from the depths of an obscure path. “Monsieur Raoul!” said the voice. The young man turned round, surprised, and saw a dark complexioned girl, who, with a finger on her lip, held out her other hand to him. This young lady was an utter stranger. CHAPTER 3 The Interview. Raoul made one step towards the girl who thus called him. “But my horse, madame?” said he. “Oh! you are terribly embarrassed! Go yonder way — there is a shed in the outer court: fasten your horse, and return quickly!” “I obey, madame.” Raoul was not four minutes in performing what he had been directed to do; he returned to the little door, where, in the gloom, he found his mysterious conductress waiting for him, on the first steps of a winding staircase. “Are you brave enough to follow me, monsieur knight errant?” asked the girl, laughing at the momentary hesitation Raoul had manifested. The latter replied by springing up the dark staircase after her. They thus climbed up three stories, he behind her, touching with his hands, when he felt for the banister, a silk dress which rubbed against each side of the staircase. At every false step made by Raoul, his conductress cried, “Hush!” and held out to him a soft and perfumed hand. “One would mount thus to the belfry of the castle without being conscious of fatigue,” said Raoul. “All of which means, monsieur, that you are very much perplexed, very tired, and very uneasy. But be of good cheer, monsieur; here we are, at our destination.” The girl threw open a door, which immediately, without any transition, filled with a flood of light the landing of the staircase, at the top of which Raoul appeared, holding fast by the balustrade. The girl continued to walk on — he followed her; she entered a chamber — he did the same. As soon as he was fairly in the net he heard a loud cry, and, turning round, saw at two paces from him, with her hands clasped and her eyes closed, that beautiful fair girl with blue eyes and white shoulders, who, recognizing him, called him Raoul. He saw her, and divined at once so much love and so much joy in the expression of her countenance, that he sank on his knees in the middle of the chamber, murmuring, on his part, the name of Louise. “Ah! Montalais — Montalais!” she sighed, “it is very wicked to deceive me so.” “Who, I? I have deceived you?” “Yes; you told me you would go down to inquire the news, and you have brought up monsieur!” “Well, I was obliged to do so — how else could he have received the letter you wrote him?” And she pointed with her finger to the letter which was still upon the table. Raoul made a step to take it; Louise, more rapid, although she had sprung forward with a sufficiently remarkable physical hesitation, reached out her hand to stop him. Raoul came in contact with that trembling hand, took it within his own, and carried it so respectfully to his lips, that he might be said to have deposited a sigh upon it rather than a kiss. In the meantime Mademoiselle de Montalais had taken the letter, folded it carefully, as women do, in three folds, and slipped it into her bosom. “Don’t be afraid, Louise,” said she; “monsieur will no more venture to take it hence than the defunct king Louis XIII. ventured to take billets from the corsage of Mademoiselle de Hautefort.” Raoul blushed at seeing the smile of the two girls; and he did not remark that the hand of Louise remained in his. “There ” said Montalais, “you have pardoned me, Louise, for having brought monsieur to you; and you, monsieur, bear me no malice for having followed me to see mademoiselle. Now, then, peace being made, let us chat like old friends. Present me, Louise, to M. de Bragelonne.” “Monsieur le Vicomte,” said Louise, with her quiet grace and ingenuous smile, “I have the honour to present to you Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais, maid of honor to her royal highness Madame, and moreover my friend — my excellent friend.” Raoul bowed ceremoniously. “And me, Louise,” said he — “will you not present me also to mademoiselle?” “Oh, she knows you — she knows all!” This unguarded expression made Montalais laugh and Raoul sigh with happiness, for he interpreted it thus: “She knows all our love.” “The ceremonies being over, Monsieur le Vicomte,” said Montalais, “take a chair, and tell us quickly the news you bring flying thus.” “Mademoiselle, it is no longer a secret; the king, on his way to Poitiers, will stop at Blois, to visit his royal highness.” “The king here!” exclaimed Montalais, clapping her hands. “What! are we going to see the court? Only think, Louise — the real court from Paris! Oh, good heavens! But when will this happen, monsieur?” “Perhaps this evening, mademoiselle; at latest, tomorrow.” Montalais lifted her shoulders in sign of vexation. “No time to get ready! No time to prepare a single dress! We are as far behind the fashions as the Poles. We shall look like portraits of the time of Henry IV. Ah, monsieur! this is sad news you bring us!” “But, mesdemoiselles, you will be still beautiful!” “That’s no news! Yes, we shall be always beautiful because nature has made us passable; but we shall be ridiculous, because the fashion will have forgotten us. Alas! ridiculous! I shall be thought ridiculous — I! “And by whom?” said Louise, innocently. “By whom? You are a strange girl, my dear. Is that a question to put to me? I mean everybody; I mean the courtiers, the nobles; I mean the king.” “Pardon me, my good friend, but as here every one is accustomed to see us as we are —- “ “Granted; but that is about to change, and we shall be ridiculous, even for Blois; for close to us will be seen the fashions from Paris, and they will perceive that we are in the fashion of Blois! It is enough to make one despair!” “Console yourself, mademoiselle.” “Well, so let it be! After all, so much the worse for those who do not find me to their taste!” said Montalais philosophically. “They would be very difficult to please,” replied Raoul, faithful to his regular system of gallantry. “Thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte. We were saying, then, that the king is coming to Blois?” “With all the court.” “Mesdemoiselles de Mancini, will they be with them?” “No, certainly not.” “But as the king, it is said, cannot do without Mademoiselle Mary?” “Mademoiselle, the king must do without her. M. le Cardinal will have it so. He has exiled his nieces to Brouage.” “He! — the hypocrite!” “Hush!” said Louise, pressing a finger on her friend’s rosy lips. “Bah! nobody can hear me. I say that old Mazarino Mazarini is a hypocrite, who burns impatiently to make his niece Queen of France.” “That cannot be, mademoiselle, since M. le Cardinal, on the contrary, has brought about the marriage of his majesty with the Infanta Maria Theresa.” Montalais looked Raoul full in the face, and said, “And do you Parisians believe in these tales? Well! we are a little more knowing than you, at Blois.” “Mademoiselle, if the king goes beyond Poitiers and sets out for Spain, if the articles of the marriage contract are agreed upon by Don Luis de Haro and his eminence, you must plainly perceive that it is not child’s play.” “All very fine! but the king is king, I suppose?” “No doubt, mademoiselle; but the cardinal is the cardinal.” “The king is not a man, then! And he does not love Mary Mancini?” “He adores her.” “Well, he will marry her then. We shall have war with Spain. M. Mazarin will spend a few of the millions he has put away; our gentlemen will perform prodigies of valor in their encounters with the proud Castilians, and many of them will return crowned with laurels, to be recrowned by us with myrtles. Now, that is my view of politics.” “Montalais, you are wild!” said Louise, “and every exaggeration attracts you as light does a moth.” “Louise, you are so extremely reasonable, that you will never know how to love.” “Oh!” said Louise, in a tone of tender reproach, “don’t you see, Montalais? The queen-mother desires to marry her son to the Infanta; would you wish him to disobey his mother? Is it for a royal heart like his to set such a bad example? When parents forbid love, love must be banished.” And Louise sighed: Raoul cast down his eyes, with an expression of constraint. Montalais, on her part, laughed aloud. “Well, I have no parents!” said she. “You are acquainted, without doubt, with the state of health of M. le Comte de la Fere?” said Louise, after breathing that sigh which had revealed so many griefs in its eloquent utterance. “No, mademoiselle,” replied Raoul, “I have not yet paid my respects to my father; I was going to his house when Mademoiselle de Montalais so kindly stopped me. I hope the comte is well. You have heard nothing to the contrary, have you?” “No, M. Raoul — nothing, thank God!” Here, for several instants, ensued a silence, during which two spirits, which followed the same idea, communicated perfectly, without even the assistance of a single glance. “Oh, heavens!” exclaimed Montalais in a fright; “there is somebody coming up.” “Who can it be?” said Louise, rising in great agitation. “Mesdemoiselles, I inconvenience you very much. I have, without doubt, been very indiscreet,” stammered Raoul, very ill at ease. “It is a heavy step,” said Louise. “Ah! if it is only M. Malicorne,” added Montalais, “do not disturb yourselves.” Louise and Raoul looked at each other to inquire who M. Malicorne could be. “There is no occasion to mind him,” continued Montalais; “he is not jealous.” “But, mademoiselle —” said Raoul. “Yes, I understand. Well, he is as discreet as I am.” “Good heavens!” cried Louise, who had applied her ear to the door, which had been left ajar, “it is my mother’s step!” “Madame de Saint-Remy! Where shall I hide myself?” exclaimed Raoul, catching at the dress of Montalais, who looked quite bewildered. “Yes,” said she; “yes, I know the clicking of those pattens! It is our excellent mother. M. le Vicomte, what a pity it is the window looks upon a stone pavement, and that fifty paces below it.” Raoul glanced at the balcony in despair. Louise seized his arm and held it tight. “Oh, how silly I am!” said Montalais, “have I not the robe-of-ceremony closet? It looks as if it were made on purpose.” It was quite time to act; Madame de Saint-Remy was coming up at a quicker pace than usual. She gained the landing at the moment when Montalais, as in all scenes of surprises, shut the closet by leaning with her back against the door. “Ah!” cried Madame de Saint-Remy, “you are here, are you, Louise?” “Yes, madame,” replied she, more pale than if she had committed a great crime. “Well, well!” “Pray be seated, madame,” said Montalais, offering her a chair, which she placed so that the back was towards the closet. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Aure — thank you. Come my child, be quick.” “Where do you wish me to go, madame?” “Why, home, to be sure; have you not to prepare your toilette?” “What did you say?” cried Montalais, hastening to affect surprise, so fearful was she that Louise would in some way commit herself. “You don’t know the news, then?” said Madame de Saint-Remy. “What news, madame, is it possible for two girls to learn up in this dove-cote?” “What! have you seen nobody?” “Madame, you talk in enigmas, and you torment us at a slow fire!” cried Montalais, who, terrified at seeing Louise become paler and paler, did not know to what saint to put up her vows. At length she caught an eloquent look of her companion’s, one of those looks which would convey intelligence to a brick wall. Louise directed her attention to a hat — Raoul’s unlucky hat, which was set out in all its feathery splendor upon the table. Montalais sprang towards it, and, seizing it with her left hand, passed it behind her into the right, concealing it as she was speaking. “Well,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, “a courier has arrived, announcing the approach of the king. There, mesdemoiselles; there is something to make you put on your best looks.” “Quick, quick!” cried Montalais. “Follow Madame your mother, Louise; and leave me to get ready my dress of ceremony.” Louise arose; her mother took her by the hand, and led her out on to the landing. “Come along,” said she; then adding in a low voice, “When I forbid you to come to the apartment of Montalais, why do you do so?” “Madame, she is my friend. Besides, I had but just come.” “Did you see nobody concealed while you were there?” “Madame!” “I saw a man’s hat, I tell you — the hat of that fellow, that good-for-nothing!” “Madame!” repeated Louise. “Of that do-nothing De Malicorne! A maid of honor to have such company — fie! fie!” and their voices were lost in the depths of the narrow staircase. Montalais had not missed a word of this conversation, which echo conveyed to her as if through a tunnel. She shrugged her shoulders on seeing Raoul, who had listened likewise, issue from the closet. “Poor Montalais!” said she, “the victim of friendship! Poor Malicorne, the victim of love!” She stopped on viewing the tragic-comic face of Raoul, who was vexed at having, in one day, surprised so many secrets. “Oh, mademoiselle!” said he; “how can we repay your kindness?” “Oh, we will balance accounts some day,” said she. “For the present, begone, M. de Bragelonne, for Madame de Saint-Remy is not over indulgent; and any indiscretion on her part might bring hither a domiciliary visit, which would be disagreeable to all parties.” “But Louise — how shall I know —- “ “Begone! begone! King Louis XI. knew very well what he was about when he invented the post.” “Alas!” sighed Raoul. “And am I not here — I, who am worth all the posts in the kingdom? Quick, I say, to horse! so that if Madame de Saint-Remy should return for the purpose of preaching me a lesson on morality, she may not find you here.” “She would tell my father, would she not?” murmured Raoul. “And you would be scolded. Ah, vicomte, it is very plain you come from court; you are as timid as the king. Peste! at Blois we contrive better than that to do without papa’s consent. Ask Malicorne else!” And at these words the girl pushed Raoul out of the room by the shoulders. He glided swiftly down to the porch, regained his horse, mounted, and set off as if he had had Monsieur’s guards at his heels. CHAPTER 4 Father and Son. Raoul followed the well-known road, so dear to his memory, which led from Blois to the residence of the Comte de la Fere. The reader will dispense with a second description of that habitation: he, perhaps, has been with us there before, and knows it. Only, since our last journey thither, the walls had taken a grayer tint, and the brickwork assumed a more harmonious copper tone; the trees had grown, and many that then only stretched their slender branches along the tops of the hedges, now bushy, strong, and luxuriant, cast around, beneath boughs swollen with sap, great shadows of blossoms of fruit for the benefit of the traveler. Raoul perceived, from a distance, the two little turrets, the dove-cote in the elms, and the flights of pigeons, which wheeled incessantly around that brick cone, seemingly without power to quit it, like the sweet memories which hover round a spirit at peace. As he approached, he heard the noise of the pulleys which grated under the weight of the massy pails; he also fancied he heard the melancholy moaning of the water which falls back again into the wells — a sad, funereal, solemn sound, which strikes the ear of the child and the poet — both dreamers — which the English call splash; Arabian poets, gasgachau; and which we Frenchmen, who would be poets, can only translate by a paraphrase — the noise of water falling into water. It was more than a year since Raoul had been to visit his father. He had passed the whole time in the household of M. le Prince. In fact, after all the commotions of the Fronde, of the early period of which we formerly attempted to give a sketch, Louis de Conde had made a public, solemn, and frank reconciliation with the court. During all the time that the rupture between the king and the prince had lasted, the prince, who had long entertained a great regard for Bragelonne, had in vain offered him advantages of the most dazzling kind for a young man. The Comte de la Fere, still faithful to his principles of loyalty and royalty, one day developed before his son in the vaults of Saint Denis, — the Comte de la Fere, in the name of his son, had always declined them. Moreover, instead of following M. de Conde in his rebellion, the vicomte had followed M. de Turenne, fighting for the king. Then when M. de Turenne, in his turn, had appeared to abandon the royal cause, he had quitted M. de Turenne, as he had quitted M. de Conde. It resulted from this invariable line of conduct that, as Conde and Turenne had never been conquerors of each other but under the standard of the king, Raoul, however young, had ten victories inscribed on his list of services, and not one defeat from which his bravery or conscience had to suffer. Raoul, therefore, had, in compliance with the wish of his father, served obstinately and passively the fortunes of Louis XIV., in spite of the tergiversations which were endemic, and, it might be said, inevitable, at that period. M. de Conde, on being restored to favor, had at once availed himself of all the privileges of the amnesty to ask for many things back again which had been granted him before, and among others, Raoul. M. de la Fere, with his invariable good sense, had immediately sent him again to the prince. A year, then, had passed away since the separation of the father and son; a few letters had softened, but not removed, the pains of absence. We have seen that Raoul had left at Blois another love in addition to filial love. But let us do him this justice — if it had not been for chance and Mademoiselle de Montalais, two great temptations, Raoul, after delivering his message, would have galloped off towards his father’s house, turning his head round, perhaps, but without stopping for a single instant, even if Louise had held out her arms to him. So the first part of the journey was given by Raoul to regretting the past which he had been forced to quit so quickly, that is to say, his lady-love; and the other part to the friend he was about to join, so much too slowly for his wishes. Raoul found the garden-gate open, and rode straight in, without regarding the long arms, raised in anger, of an old man dressed in a jacket of violet-colored wool, and a large cap of faded velvet. The old man, who was weeding with his hands a bed of dwarf roses and marguerites, was indignant at seeing a horse thus traversing his sanded and nicely-raked walks. He even ventured a vigorous “Humph!” which made the cavalier turn round. Then there was a change of scene; for no sooner had he caught sight of Raoul’s face, than the old man sprang up and set off in the direction of the house, amidst interrupted growlings, which appeared to be paroxysms of wild delight. When arrived at the stables, Raoul gave his horse to a little lackey, and sprang up the perron with an ardor that would have delighted the heart of his father. He crossed the ante-chamber, the dining-room, and the salon, without meeting with any one; at length, on reaching the door of M. de la Fere’s apartment, he rapped impatiently, and entered almost without waiting for the word “Enter!” which was vouchsafed him by a voice at once sweet and serious. The comte was seated at a table covered with papers and books; he was still the noble, handsome gentleman of former days, but time had given to this nobleness and beauty a more solemn and distinct character. A brow white and void of wrinkles, beneath his long hair, now more white than black; an eye piercing and mild, under the lids of a young man; his mustache, fine but slightly grizzled, waved over lips of a pure and delicate model, as if they had never been curled by mortal passions; a form straight and supple; an irreproachable but thin hand — this was what remained of the illustrious gentleman whom so many illustrious mouths had praised under the name of Athos. He was engaged in correcting the pages of a manuscript book, entirely filled by his own hand. Raoul seized his father by the shoulders, by the neck, as he could, and embraced him so tenderly and so rapidly, that the comte had neither strength nor time to disengage himself, or to overcome his paternal emotions. “What! you here, Raoul, — you! Is it possible?” said he. “Oh, monsieur, monsieur, what joy to see you once again!” “But you don’t answer me, vicomte. Have you leave of absence, or has some misfortune happened at Paris?” “Thank God, monsieur,” replied Raoul, calming himself by degrees, “nothing has happened but what is fortunate. The king is going to be married, as I had the honor of informing you in my last letter, and, on his way to Spain, he will pass through Blois.” “To pay a visit to Monsieur?” “Yes, monsieur le comte. So, fearing to find him unprepared, or wishing to be particularly polite to him, monsieur le prince sent me forward to have the lodgings ready.” “You have seen Monsieur?” asked the vicomte, eagerly. “I have had that honor.” “At the castle?” “Yes, monsieur,” replied Raoul, casting down his eyes, because, no doubt, he had felt there was something more than curiosity in the comte’s inquiries. “Ah, indeed, vicomte? Accept my compliments thereupon.” Raoul bowed. “But you have seen some one else at Blois?” “Monsieur, I saw her royal highness, Madame.” “That’s very well: but it is not Madame that I mean.’ Raoul colored deeply, but made no reply. “You do not appear to understand me, monsieur le vicomte,” persisted M. de la Fere, without accenting his words more strongly, but with a rather severer look. “I understand you quite plainly, monsieur,” replied Raoul, “and if I hesitate a little in my reply, you are well assured I am not seeking for a falsehood.” “No, you cannot tell a lie, and that makes me so astonished you should be so long in saying yes or no.” “I cannot answer you without understanding you very well, and if I have understood you, you will take my first words in ill part. You will be displeased, no doubt, monsieur le comte, because I have seen —- “ “Mademoiselle de la Valliere — have you not?” “It was of her you meant to speak, I know very well, monsieur,” said Raoul, with inexpressible sweetness. “And I asked you if you have seen her.” “Monsieur, I was ignorant, when I entered the castle, that Mademoiselle de la Valliere was there; it was only on my return, after I had performed my mission, that chance brought us together. I have had the honor of paying my respects to her.” “But what do you call the chance that led you into the presence of Mademoiselle de la Valliere?” “Mademoiselle de Montalais, monsieur.” “And who is Mademoiselle de Montalais?” “A young lady I did not know before, whom I had never seen. She is maid of honor to Madame.” “Monsieur le vicomte, I will push my interrogatory no further, and reproach myself with having carried it so far. I had desired you to avoid Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and not to see her without my permission. Oh, I am quite sure you have told me the truth, and that you took no measures to approach her. Chance has done me this injury; I do not accuse you of it. I will be content then, with what I formerly said to you concerning this young lady. I do not reproach her with anything — God is my witness! only it is not my intention or wish that you should frequent her place of residence. I beg you once more, my dear Raoul, to understand that.” It was plain the limpid eyes of Raoul were troubled at this speech. “Now, my friend,” said the comte, with his soft smile, and in his customary tone, “let us talk of other matters. You are returning, perhaps, to your duty?” “No, monsieur, I have no duty for to-day, except the pleasure of remaining with you. The prince kindly appointed me no other: which was so much in accord with my wish.” “Is the king well?” “Perfectly.” “And monsieur le prince also?” “As usual, monsieur.” The comte forgot to inquire after Mazarin; that was an old habit. “Well, Raoul, since you are entirely mine, I will give up my whole day to you. Embrace me — again, again! You are at home, vicomte! Ah, there is our old Grimaud! Come in, Grimaud: monsieur le vicomte is desirous of embracing you likewise.” The good old man did not require to be twice told; he rushed in with open arms, Raoul meeting him halfway. “Now, if you please, we will go into the garden, Raoul. I will show you the new lodging I have had prepared for you during your leave of absence, and whilst examining the last winter’s plantations and two saddle-horses I have just acquired, you will give me all the news of our friends in Paris.” The comte closed his manuscript, took the young man’s arm, and went out into the garden with him. Grimaud looked at Raoul with a melancholy air as the young man passed out; observing that his head nearly touched the traverse of the doorway, stroking his white royale, he slowly murmured: “How he has grown!” CHAPTER 5 In which Something will be said of Cropoli –of Cropoli and of a Great Unknown Painter. Whilst the Comte de la Fere with Raoul visits the new buildings he has had erected, and the new horses he has bought, with the reader’s permission we will lead him back to the city of Blois, and make him a witness of the unaccustomed activity which pervades that city. It was in the hotels that the surprise of the news brought by Raoul was most sensibly felt. In fact, the king and the court at Blois, that is to say, a hundred horsemen, ten carriages, two hundred horses, as many lackeys as masters — where was this crowd to be housed? Where were to be lodged all the gentry of the neighborhood, who would gather in two or three hours after the news had enlarged the circle of its report, like the increasing circumference produced by a stone thrown into a placid lake? Blois, as peaceful in the morning, as we have seen, as the calmest lake in the world, at the announcement of the royal arrival, was suddenly filled with the tumult and buzzing of a swarm of bees. All the servants of the castle, under the inspection of the officers, were sent into the city in quest of provisions, and ten horsemen were dispatched to the preserves of Chambord to seek for game, to the fisheries of Beuvion for fish, and to the gardens of Chaverny for fruits and flowers. Precious tapestries, and lusters with great gilt chains, were drawn from the cupboards; an army of the poor were engaged in sweeping the courts and washing the stone fronts, whilst their wives went in droves to the meadows beyond the Loire, to gather green boughs and field-flowers. The whole city, not to be behind in this luxury of cleanliness, assumed its best toilette with the help of brushes, brooms, and water. The kennels of the upper town, swollen by these continued lotions, became rivers at the bottom of the city, and the pavement, generally very muddy, it must be allowed, took a clean face, and absolutely shone in the friendly rays of the sun. Next the music was to be provided; drawers were emptied; the shop-keepers did a glorious trade in wax, ribbons, and sword-knots; housekeepers laid in stores of bread, meat, and spices. Already numbers of the citizens whose houses were furnished as if for a siege, having nothing more to do, donned their festive clothes and directed their course towards the city gate, in order to be the first to signal or see the cortege. They knew very well that the king would not arrive before night, perhaps not before the next morning. Yet what is expectation but a kind of folly, and what is that folly but an excess of hope? In the lower city, at scarcely a hundred paces from the Castle of the States, between the mall and the castle, in a sufficiently handsome street, then called Rue Vieille, and which must, in fact, have been very old, stood a venerable edifice, with pointed gables, of squat but large dimensions, ornamented with three windows looking into the street on the first floor, with two in the second and with a little oeil de boeuf in the third. On the sides of this triangle had recently been constructed a parallelogram of considerable size, which encroached upon the street remorselessly, according to the familiar uses of the building of that period. The street was narrowed by a quarter by it, but then the house was enlarged by a half; and was not that a sufficient compensation? Tradition said that this house with the pointed gables was inhabited, in the time of Henry III., by a councilor of state whom Queen Catherine came, some say to visit, and others to strangle. However that may be, the good lady must have stepped with a circumspect foot over the threshold of this building. After the councilor had died — whether by strangulation or naturally is of no consequence — the house had been sold, then abandoned, and lastly isolated from the other houses of the street. Towards the middle of the reign of Louis XIII. only, an Italian, named Cropoli, escaped from the kitchens of the Marquis d’Ancre, came and took possession of this house. There he established a little hostelry, in which was fabricated a macaroni so delicious that people came from miles round to fetch it or eat it. So famous had the house become for it, that when Mary de Medici was a prisoner, as we know, in the castle of Blois, she once sent for some. It was precisely on the day she had escaped by the famous window. The dish of macaroni was left upon the table, only just tasted by the royal mouth. This double favor, of a strangulation and a macaroni, conferred upon the triangular house, gave poor Cropoli a fancy to grace his hostelry with a pompous title. But his quality of an Italian was no recommendation in these times, and his small, well-concealed fortune forbade attracting too much attention. When he found himself about to die, which happened in 1643, just after the death of Louis XIII., he called to him his son, a young cook of great promise, and with tears in his eyes, he recommended him to preserve carefully the secret of the macaroni, to Frenchify his name, and at length, when the political horizon should be cleared from the clouds which obscured it — this was practiced then as in our day, to order of the nearest smith a handsome sign, upon which a famous painter, whom he named, should design two queens’ portraits, with these words as a legend: “To The Medici.” The worthy Cropoli, after these recommendations, had only sufficient time to point out to his young successor a chimney, under the slab of which he had hidden a thousand ten-franc pieces, and then expired. Cropoli the younger, like a man of good heart, supported the loss with resignation, and the gain without insolence. He began by accustoming the public to sound the final i of his name so little, that by the aid of general complaisance, he was soon called nothing but M. Cropole, which is quite a French name. He then married, having had in his eye a little French girl, from whose parents he extorted a reasonable dowry by showing them what there was beneath the slab of the chimney. These two points accomplished, he went in search of the painter who was to paint the sign; and he was soon found. He was an old Italian, a rival of the Raphaels and the Caracci, but an unfortunate rival. He said he was of the Venetian school, doubtless from his fondness for color. His works, of which he had never sold one, attracted the eye at a distance of a hundred paces; but they so formidably displeased the citizens, that he had finished by painting no more. He boasted of having painted a bath-room for Madame la Marechale d’Ancre, and mourned over this chamber having been burnt at the time of the marechal’s disaster. Cropoli, in his character of a compatriot, was indulgent towards Pittrino, which was the name of the artist. Perhaps he had seen the famous pictures of the bath-room. Be this as it may, he held in such esteem, we may say in such friendship, the famous Pittrino, that he took him in his own house. Pittrino, grateful, and fed with macaroni, set about propagating the reputation of this national dish, and from the time of its founder, he had rendered, with his indefatigable tongue, signal services to the house of Cropoli. As he grew old he attached himself to the son as he had done to the father, and by degrees became a kind of overlooker of a house in which his remarkable integrity, his acknowledged sobriety, and a thousand other virtues useless to enumerate, gave him an eternal place by the fireside, with a right of inspection over the domestics. Besides this, it was he who tasted the macaroni, to maintain the pure flavor of the ancient tradition; and it must be allowed that he never permitted a grain of pepper too much, or an atom of parmesan too little. His joy was at its height on that day when called upon to share the secret of Cropoli the younger, and to paint the famous sign. He was seen at once rummaging with ardor in an old box, in which he found some brushes, a little gnawed by the rats, but still passable; some colors in bladders almost dried up; some linseed-oil in a bottle, and a palette which had formerly belonged to Bronzino, that dieu de la pittoure, as the ultramontane artist, in his ever young enthusiasm, always called him. Pittrino was puffed up with all the joy of a rehabilitation. He did as Raphael had done — he changed his style, and painted, in the fashion of the Albanian, two goddesses rather than two queens. These illustrious ladies appeared so lovely on the sign, — they presented to the astonished eyes such an assemblage of lilies and roses, the enchanting result of the change of style in Pittrino — they assumed the poses of sirens so Anacreontically — that the principal echevin, when admitted to view this capital piece in the salle of Cropole, at once declared that these ladies were too handsome, of too animated a beauty, to figure as a sign in the eyes of passers-by. To Pittrino he added, “His royal highness, Monsieur, who often comes into our city, will not be much pleased to see his illustrious mother so slightly clothed, and he will send you to the oubliettes of the state; for, remember, the heart of that glorious prince is not always tender. You must efface either the two sirens or the legend, without which I forbid the exhibition of the sign. I say this for your sake, Master Cropole, as well as for yours, Signor Pittrino.” What answer could be made to this? It was necessary to thank the echevin for his kindness, which Cropole did. But Pittrino remained downcast and said he felt assured of what was about to happen. The visitor was scarcely gone when Cropole, crossing his arms, said: “Well, master, what is to be done?” “We must efface the legend,” said Pittrino, in a melancholy tone. “I have some excellent ivory-black; it will be done in a moment, and we will replace the Medici by the nymphs or the sirens, whichever you prefer.” “No,” said Cropole, “the will of my father must be carried out. My father considered —- “ “He considered the figures of the most importance,” said Pittrino. “He thought most of the legend,” said Cropole. “The proof of the importance in which he held the figures,” said Pittrino, “is that he desired they should be likenesses, and they are so.” “Yes; but if they had not been so, who would have recognized them without the legend? At the present day even, when the memory of the Blaisois begins to be faint with regard to these two celebrated persons, who would recognize Catherine and Mary without the words To the Medici’?” “But the figures?” said Pittrino, in despair; for he felt that young Cropole was right. “I should not like to lose the fruit of my labor.” “And I should not wish you to be thrown into prison and myself into the oubliettes.” “Let us efface Medici,’ ” said Pittrino, supplicatingly. “No,” replied Cropole, firmly. “I have got an idea, a sublime idea — your picture shall appear, and my legend likewise. Does not Medici’ mean doctor, or physician, in Italian?” “Yes, in the plural.” “Well, then, you shall order another sign-frame of the smith; you shall paint six physicians, and write underneath Aux Medici’ which makes a very pretty play upon words.” “Six physicians! impossible! And the composition?” cried Pittrino. “That is your business — but so it shall be — I insist upon it — it must be so — my macaroni is burning.” This reasoning was peremptory — Pittrino obeyed. He composed the sign of six physicians, with the legend; the echevin applauded and authorized it. The sign produced an extravagant success in the city, which proves that poetry has always been in the wrong, before citizens, as Pittrino said. Cropole, to make amends to his painter-in-ordinary, hung up the nymphs of the preceding sign in his bedroom, which made Madame Cropole blush every time she looked at it, when she was undressing at night. This is the way in which the pointed-gable house got a sign; and this is how the hostelry of the Medici, making a fortune, was found to be enlarged by a quarter, as we have described. And this is how there was at Blois a hostelry of that name, and had for painter-in-ordinary Master Pittrino. CHAPTER 6 The Unknown. Thus founded and recommended by its sign, the hostelry of Master Cropole held its way steadily on towards a solid prosperity. It was not an immense fortune that Cropole had in perspective; but he might hope to double the thousand louis d’or left by his father, to make another thousand louis by the sale of his house and stock, and at length to live happily like a retired citizen. Cropole was anxious for gain, and was half-crazy with joy at the news of the arrival of Louis XIV. Himself, his wife, Pittrino, and two cooks, immediately laid hands upon all the inhabitants of the dove-cote, the poultry-yard, and the rabbit-hutches; so that as many lamentations and cries resounded in the yards of the hostelry of the Medici as were formerly heard in Rama. Cropole had, at the time, but one single traveler in his house. This was a man of scarcely thirty years of age, handsome, tall, austere, or rather melancholy, in all his gestures and looks. He was dressed in black velvet with jet trimmings; a white collar, as plain as that of the severest Puritan, set off the whiteness of his youthful neck; a small dark-colored mustache scarcely covered his curled, disdainful lip. He spoke to people looking them full in the face without affectation, it is true, but without scruple; so that the brilliancy of his black eyes became so insupportable, that more than one look had sunk beneath his like the weaker sword in a single combat. At this time, in which men, all created equal by God, were divided, thanks to prejudices, into two distinct castes, the gentleman and the commoner, as they are really divided into two races, the black and the white, — at this time, we say, he whose portrait we have just sketched could not fail of being taken for a gentleman, and of the best class. To ascertain this, there was no necessity to consult anything but his hands, long, slender, and white, of which every muscle, every vein, became apparent through the skin at the least movement, and eloquently spoke of good descent. This gentleman, then, had arrived alone at Cropole’s house. He had taken, without hesitation, without reflection even, the principal apartment which the hotelier had pointed out to him with a rapacious aim, very praiseworthy, some will say, very reprehensible will say others, if they admit that Cropole was a physiognomist and judged people at first sight. This apartment was that which composed the whole front of the ancient triangular house, a large salon, lighted by two windows on the first stage, a small chamber by the side of it, and another above it. Now, from the time he had arrived, this gentleman had scarcely touched any repast that had been served up to him in his chamber. He had spoken but two words to the host, to warn him that a traveler of the name of Parry would arrive, and to desire that, when he did, he should be shown up to him immediately. He afterwards preserved so profound a silence, that Cropole was almost offended, so much did he prefer people who were good company. This gentleman had risen early the morning of the day on which this history begins, and had placed himself at the window of his salon, seated upon the ledge, and leaning upon the rail of the balcony, gazing sadly but persistently on both sides of the street, watching, no doubt, for the arrival of the traveler he had mentioned to the host. In this way he had seen the little cortege of Monsieur return from hunting, then had again partaken of the profound tranquillity of the street, absorbed in his own expectations. All at once the movement of the crowd going to the meadows, couriers setting out, washers of pavement, purveyors of the royal household, gabbling, scampering shopboys, chariots in motion, hair-dressers on the run, and pages toiling along, this tumult and bustle had surprised him, but without losing any of that impassible and supreme majesty which gives to the eagle and the lion that serene and contemptuous glance amidst the hurrahs and shouts of hunters or the curious. Soon the cries of the victims slaughtered in the poultry-yard, the hasty steps of Madame Cropole up that little wooden staircase, so narrow and so echoing, the bounding pace of Pittrino, who only that morning was smoking at the door with all the phlegm of a Dutchman; all this communicated something like surprise and agitation to the traveler. As he was rising to make inquiries, the door of his chamber opened. The unknown concluded they were about to introduce the impatiently expected traveler, and made three precipitate steps to meet him. But, instead of the person he expected, it was Master Cropole who appeared, and behind him, in the half-dark staircase, the pleasant face of Madame Cropole, rendered trivial by curiosity. She only gave one furtive glance at the handsome gentleman, and disappeared. Cropole advanced, cap in hand, rather bent than bowing, A gesture of the unknown interrogated him, without a word being pronounced. “Monsieur,” said Cropole, “I come to ask how — what ought I to say: your lordship, monsieur le comte, or monsieur le marquis?” “Say monsieur, and speak quickly,” replied the unknown, with that haughty accent which admits of neither discussion nor reply. “I came, then, to inquire how monsieur had passed the night, and if monsieur intended to keep this apartment?” “Yes.” “Monsieur, something has happened upon which we could not reckon.” “What?” “His majesty Louis XIV. will enter our city to-day and will remain here one day, perhaps two.” Great astonishment was painted on the countenance of the unknown. “The King of France coming to Blois?” “He is on the road, monsieur.” “Then there is the stronger reason for my remaining,” said the unknown. “Very well; but will monsieur keep all the apartments?” “I do not understand you. Why should I require less to-day than yesterday?” “Because, monsieur, your lordship will permit me to say, yesterday I did not think proper, when you chose your lodging, to fix any price that might have made your lordship believe that I prejudged your resources; whilst to-day —-

title: “Ten Years Later By Alexandre Dumas " ShowToc: true date: “2022-12-08” author: “John Carter”

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.] 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. 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: 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!!!] 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. 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] Louise de la Valliere: forthcoming (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. 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. Here is a list of the other Dumas Etexts we have published so far: Sep 1999 La Tulipe Noire, by Alexandre Dumas[Pere#6/French][tlpnrxxx.xxx]1910 This is an abridged edition in French, also see our full length English Etext Jul 1997 The Black Tulip, by Alexandre Dumas[Pere][Dumas#1][tbtlpxxx.xxx] 965 Jan 1998 The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas[Pere][crstoxxx.xxx]1184 Many thanks to Dr. David Coward, whose editions of the D’Artagnan Romances have proved 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. 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: 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. 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. 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 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. And now, the second etext of The Vicomte de Bragelonne. Enjoy! John BurseyMordaunt@aol.comJune, 2000 Transcriber’s note: 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 Ten Years Laterby Alexandre Dumas 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: – “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. 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. “I love to see one of my servants in this disorder,” said the king, admiring the martial stains upon the clothes of his envoy. “I thought, sire, my presence at the Louvre was sufficiently urgent to excuse my presenting myself thus before you.” “You bring me great news, then, monsieur?” “Sire, the thing is this, in two words: Belle-Isle is 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.” “I know all that, monsieur,” replied the king. “What! your majesty knows all that?” replied the musketeer, stupefied. “I have the plan of the fortifications of Belle-Isle,” said the king. “Your majesty has the plan?” “Here it is.” “It is really correct, sire: I saw a similar one on the spot.” D’Artagnan’s brow became clouded. “Ah! I understand all. Your majesty did not trust to me alone, but sent some other person,” said he in a reproachful tone. “Of what importance is the manner, monsieur, in which I have learnt what I know, so that 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. “Monsieur,” said he, at the expiration of a minute, “not only is Belle- Isle known to me, but, still further, Belle-Isle is mine.” “That is well! that is well, sire, I ask but one thing more,” replied D’Artagnan. – “My 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!” “Oh, oh!” “I ask for my discharge, or I will take it.” “You are angry, monsieur?” “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!” “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.” D’Artagnan opened the paper eagerly, and scanned it twice. He could scarcely believe his eyes. “And this commission is given you,” continued the king, “not only on account of your journey to Belle-Isle but, moreover, for your brave intervention at the Place de Greve. There, likewise, you served me valiantly.” “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?” “Yes, I know 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.” “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.” “Is this quite true you tell me?” “And why should your majesty suspect me of dissimulation, I ask?” “Because I have known you well, monsieur; you cannot repent of having drawn your sword for me.” “Well, in that your majesty is deceived, and greatly; yes, I do repent of having drawn my sword on account of the results that action produced; the poor men who were hung, sire, were neither your enemies nor mine; and they could not defend themselves.” The king preserved silence for a moment. “And your companion, M. d’Artagnan, does he partake of your repentance?” “My companion?” “Yes, you were not alone, I have been told.” “Alone, where?” “At the Place de Greve.” “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.” “A young man?” “Yes, sire; a young man. Oh! your majesty must accept my compliments, you are as well informed of things out of doors as things within. It is M. Colbert who makes all these fine 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.” “That is fortunate!” “But he also said much good of that young man.” “And with justice,” said the musketeer. “In short, it appears that this young man is a fire-eater,” said Louis, in order to sharpen the sentiment which he mistook for envy. “A fire-eater! Yes, sire,” repeated D’Artagnan, delighted on his part to direct the king’s attention to Raoul. “Do you not know his name?” “Well, I think – “ “You know him then?” “I have known him nearly five-and-twenty years, sire.” “Why, he is scarcely twenty-five years old!” cried the king. “Well, sire! I have known him ever since he was born, that is all.” “Do you affirm 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?” “The Vicomte 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.” “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?” “Exactly, sire.” “And the Comte de la Fere is a great soldier, say you?” “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.” 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?” “For about forty years; yes, sire. Your majesty may see that I do not speak to you of yesterday.” “Should you be glad to see this young man, M. d’Artagnan?” “Delighted, sire.” The king touched his bell, and an usher appeared. “Call M. de Bragelonne,” said the king. “Ah! ah! he is here?” said D’Artagnan. “He is on guard to-day, at the Louvre, with the company of the gentlemen of monsieur le prince.” The king had scarcely ceased speaking, when Raoul presented himself, and, on seeing D’Artagnan, smiled on him with that charming smile which is only found upon the lips of youth. “Come, come,” said D’Artagnan, familiarly, to Raoul, “the king will allow you to embrace me; only tell his majesty you thank him.” 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. “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.” “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. “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.” “Oh! no, I know,” said the king, “you mean your enterprise of the Greve. That day, you were truly mine, monsieur.” “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.” “Ah! ah!” said the king, “what was that circumstance? Tell me, monsieur.” “This is it, sire. – When I was setting out on my first campaign, that is to say, to join the army of monsieur le prince, 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.” Raoul was silent and bowed. Louis still listened after he had done speaking. “Mordioux!” cried D’Artagnan, “that was well spoken! was it not, your majesty? A good 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.” 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. “Is there anything else, monsieur, of which you have to inform me?” said the king, when he found himself again alone with D’Artagnan. “Yes, sire, and I kept that news for the last, for it is sad, and will clothe European royalty in mourning.” “What do you tell me?” “Sire, in passing through Blois, a word, a sad word, echoed from the palace, struck my ear.” “In truth, you terrify me, M. d’Artagnan.” “Sire, this word was pronounced to me by a piqueur, who wore crape on his arm.” “My uncle, Gaston of Orleans, perhaps.” “Sire, he has rendered his last sigh.” “And I was not warned of it!” cried the king, whose royal susceptibility saw an insult in the absence of this intelligence. “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.” “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. “Eh! yes, sire, it is thus,” said D’Artagnan, philosophically replying to the royal thought, “it is thus the past flies away.” “That is true, monsieur, that is true; but there remains for us, thank God! the future; and we will try to make it not too dark.” “I feel confidence in your majesty on that head,” said D’Artagnan, bowing, “and now – “ “You are right, monsieur; I had forgotten the hundred leagues you have just ridden. Go, monsieur, take care of one of the best of soldiers, and when you have reposed a little, come and place yourself at my disposal.” “Sire, absent or present, 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. 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. “Now, Monsieur Malicorne,” said the young girl, “does it, at length, please you that we should talk reasonably?” “You believe that that is very easy, Mademoiselle Aure,” replied the young man. “To do what we like, when we can only do what we are able – “ “Good! there he is bewildered in his phrases.” “Who, I?” “Yes, you; quit that lawyer’s logic, my dear.” “Another impossibility. Clerk I am, Mademoiselle de Montalais.” “Demoiselle I am, Monsieur Malicorne.” “Alas, I know it well, and you overwhelm me by your rank; so I will say no more to you.” “Well, no, I don’t overwhelm you; say what you have to tell me – say it, I insist upon it.” “Well, I obey you.” “That is truly fortunate.” “Monsieur is dead.” “Ah, peste! that’s news! And where do you come from, to be able to tell us that?” “I come from Orleans, mademoiselle.” “And is that all the news you bring?” “Ah, no; I am come to tell you that Madame Henrietta of England is coming to marry 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.” “Oh!” “Yes, for really you exasperate me.” “There, there. Patience, mademoiselle.” “You want to make yourself of consequence; I know well enough why. Go!” “Tell me, and I will answer you frankly, yes, if the thing be true.” “You know that I am anxious to have that commission of lady of honor, which I have been foolish enough to ask of you, and you do not use your credit.” “Who, I?” Malicorne cast down his eyes, joined his hands, and assumed his sullen air. “And what credit can the poor clerk of a procurer have, pray?” “Your father has not twenty thousand livres a year for nothing, M. Malicorne.” “A provincial fortune, Mademoiselle de Montalais.” “Your father is not in the secrets of monsieur le prince for nothing.” “An advantage which is confined to lending monseigneur money.” “In a word, you are not the most cunning young fellow in the province for nothing.” “You flatter me!” “Who, I?” “Yes, you.” “How so?” “Since I maintain that I have no credit, and you maintain I have.” “Well, then, – my commission?” “Well, – your commission?” “Shall I have it, or shall I not?” “You shall have it.” “Ay, but when?” “When you like.” “Where is it, then?” “In my pocket.” “How – in your pocket?” “Yes.” And, with a smile, Malicorne drew from his pocket a letter, upon which mademoiselle seized as a prey, and which she read eagerly. As she read, her face brightened. “Malicorne,” cried she after having read it, “In truth, you are a good lad.” “What for, mademoiselle?” “Because you might have been paid for this commission, and you have not.” And she burst into a loud laugh, thinking to put the clerk out of countenance; but Malicorne sustained the attack bravely. “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.” “All?” said the proud and coquettish Montalais, in a tone through which the wounded pride was visible. “Absolutely all, mademoiselle,” replied Malicorne. “Ah!” – And this monosyllable indicated as much anger as the young man might have expected gratitude. He shook his head quietly. “Listen, Montalais,” said he, without heeding whether that familiarity pleased his mistress or not; “let us not dispute about it.” “And why not?” “Because during the year which I have known you, you might have had me turned out of doors twenty times if I did not please you.” “Indeed; and on what account should I have had you turned out?” “Because I have been sufficiently impertinent for that.” “Oh, that, – yes, that’s true.” “You see plainly that you are forced to avow it,” said Malicorne. “Monsieur Malicorne!” “Don’t let us be angry; if you have retained me, then it has not been without cause.” “It is not, at least, because I love you,” cried Montalais. “Granted. I will even say, at this moment, I am certain that you hate me.” “Oh, you have never spoken so truly.” “Well, on my part, I detest you.” “Ah! I take the act.” “Take it. You find me brutal and foolish; on my part I 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.” “I doubt it.” “And I swear it.” “Coxcomb!” “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.” “I will?” “Yes, you will; but, at this moment, my dear Aure, I declare to you that I wish for absolutely nothing, so be at ease.” “You are a frightful man, Malicorne; I was going to rejoice at getting this commission, and thus you quench my joy.” “Good; there is no time lost, – you will rejoice when I am gone.” “Go, then; and after – “ “So be it; but in the first place, a piece of advice.” “What is it?” “Resume your good-humor, – you are ugly when you pout.” “Coarse!” “Come, let us tell the truth to each other, while we are about it.” “Oh, Malicorne! Bad-hearted man!” “Oh, Montalais! Ungrateful 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. “Good!” cried she, furious; “he has assumed his respectful air – and he will pout for a week.” “A fortnight, mademoiselle,” said Malicorne, bowing. Montalais lifted up her little doubled fist. “Monster!” said she; “oh! that I were a man!” “What would you do to me?” “I would strangle you.” “Ah! very well, then,” said Malicorne; “I believe I begin to desire something.” “And what do you desire, Monsieur Demon? That I should lose my soul from anger?” Malicorne was rolling his hat respectfully between his 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. “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. “Well! no, – you shall not go!” cried Montalais, stamping with her little foot. “Stay where you are! I order you!” “You order me?” “Yes; am I not mistress?” “Of my heart and soul, without doubt.” “A pretty property! ma foi! The soul is silly and the heart dry.” “Beware, Montalais, I know you,” said Malicorne; “you are going to fall in love with your humble servant.” “Well, yes!” said she, hanging round his neck with childish indolence, rather than with loving abandonment. “Well, yes! for I must thank you at least.” “And for what?” “For the commission; is it not my whole future?” “And mine.” Montalais looked at him. “It is frightful,” said she, “that one can never guess whether you are speaking seriously or not.” “I cannot speak more seriously. I was going to Paris, – you are going there, – we are going there.” “And so it was for that motive only you have served me; selfish fellow!” “What would you have me say, Aure? I cannot live without you.” “Well! in truth, it is just so with me; you are, nevertheless, it must be confessed, a very bad-hearted 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. “It is again that good-for-nothing!” cried the old lady. “Always here!” “Ah, madame!” replied Malicorne, in a respectful tone; “it is eight long days since I was here.” Chapter III:In Which We at Length See the True Heroine of this History Appear. 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. “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?” “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.” “But in truth,” said Montalais, rebelling again, “I do not know under what pretense you treat me thus. I am doing no harm, I suppose?” “And that great good-for-nothing, mademoiselle,” resumed Madame de Saint- Remy, pointing to Malicorne, “is he here to do any good, I ask you?” “He is neither here for good nor harm, madame; he comes to see me, that is all.” “It is all very well! all very well!” said the old lady. “Her royal highness shall be informed of it, and she will judge.” “At all events, I do not see why,” replied Montalais, “it should be forbidden M. Malicorne to have intentions towards me, if his intentions are honorable.” “Honorable intentions with such a face!” cried Madame de Saint-Remy. “I thank you in the name of my face, madame,” 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!” “Oh!” cried both the accused, with one voice. “A maid of honor! a maid of honor!” cried the old lady, lifting her hands towards heaven. “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.” “Have you given in your resignation, mademoiselle? That is well! I cannot but applaud such a determination, and I do applaud it.” “I do not give in my resignation, madame; I take another service, – that is all.” “In the bourgeoisie or in the robe?” asked Madame de Saint-Remy, disdainfully. “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.” “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. “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.” A thunderbolt falling upon the castle of Blois would not have astonished Madame de Saint-Remy more than the last sentence of Montalais. “What do you say? of Son Altesse Royale Madame Henrietta?” stammered out the old lady. “I say I am going to belong to her household, as maid of honor; that is what I say.” “As maid of honor!” cried, at the same time, Madame de Saint-Remy with despair, and Mademoiselle de la Valliere with delight. “Yes, madame, as maid of honor.” The old lady’s head sank down as if the blow had been too severe for her. But, almost immediately recovering herself, she launched a last projectile at her adversary. “Oh! oh!” 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! madame, the credit of my protector is incontestable and his promises are as good as deeds.” “And would it be indiscreet to ask you the name of this powerful protector?” “Oh! mon Dieu! no! it is that gentleman there,” said Montalais, pointing to Malicorne, who, during this scene, had preserved the most imperturbable coolness, and the most comic dignity. “Monsieur!” cried 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!” Malicorne bowed. As to Montalais, as her sole reply, she drew the brevet from her pocket, and showed it to the old lady. “Here is the brevet,” said she. At once all was over. As soon as she had cast a rapid glance over this fortunate brevet, the good lady clasped her hands, an unspeakable expression of envy and despair 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. “Maid of honor to the young madame!” repeated Madame de Saint-Remy, still but half convinced. “Yes, madame, and through the protection of M. Malicorne, moreover.” “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. “Well, but, monsieur,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, all at once, “how did you manage to obtain this post?” “I asked for it, madame.” “Of whom?” “One of my friends.” “And you have friends sufficiently powerful at court to give you such proofs of their credit?” “It appears so.” “And may one ask the name of these friends?” “I did not say I had many friends, madame, I said I had one friend.” “And that friend is called?” “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.” “You are right, monsieur, to be silent as to that name; for I think it would be pretty difficult for you to tell it.” “At all events,” said Montalais, “if the friend does not exist, the brevet does, and that cuts short the question.” “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 – “ “Well?” “He brought you the brevet.” “Exactly, madame; you have guessed rightly.” “Well, then, nothing can be more moral or proper.” “I think so, madame.” “And I have been wrong, as it appears, in reproaching you, mademoiselle.” “Very wrong, madame; but I am so accustomed to your reproaches, that I pardon you these.” “In that case, let us begone, Louise; we have nothing to do but retire. Well!” “Madame!” said La Valliere starting, “did you speak?” “You do not appear to be listening, my child.” “No, madame, I was thinking.” “About what?” “A thousand things.” “You bear me no ill-will, at least, Louise?” cried Montalais, pressing her hand. “And why should I, my dear Aure?” replied the girl in a voice 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.” “And why should she bear me ill-will, good gracious?” “It appears to me that she is of as good a family, and as pretty as you.” “Mother! mother!” 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.” “Do you think it will be very amusing for her to be buried alive at Blois, when you are going to shine at 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 it appears that M. Malicorne, who is all-powerful at court – “ “Ah! so much the worse, madame,” said Malicorne, “every one for himself in this poor world.” “Malicorne! Malicorne!” said Montalais. Then stooping 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: – “What is the matter? Tell me. Is it true that you would not love me if I were to shine, as your mother says?” “Oh, no!” said the young girl, with difficulty restraining her tears; “on the contrary, I rejoice at your good fortune.” “Rejoice! why, one would say you are ready to cry!” “Do people never weep except from envy?” “Oh! yes, I understand; I am going to Paris and that word Paris recalls to your mind a certain cavalier – “ “Aure!” “A certain cavalier who formerly lived near Blois, and who now resides at Paris.” “In truth, I know not what ails me, but I feel stifled.” “Weep, then, weep, as you cannot give me a smile!” Louise raised her sweet face, which the tears, rolling down one after the other, illumined like diamonds. “Come, confess,” said Montalais. “What shall I confess?” “What makes you weep; people don’t weep without 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?” “Alas!” sighed Louise. “Do you wish 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!” “Do you wish to come to Paris?” Louise breathed another sigh. “You do not answer me.” “What would you that I should reply?” “Yes or no; that is not very difficult, I think.” “Oh! you are very fortunate, Montalais!” “That is to say you would like to be in my place.” Louise was silent. “Little obstinate thing!” said Montalais; “did ever any one keep her secrets from her friend thus? But, confess that you would like to come to Paris; confess that you are dying with the wish to see Raoul again.” “I cannot confess that.” “Then you are wrong.” “In what way?” “Because – do you not see this brevet?” “To be sure I do.” “Well, I would have got you a similar one.” “By whose means?” “Malicorne’s.” “Aure, are you telling the truth? Is that possible?” “Malicorne is there; and what he has done for me, he surely can 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: – “What is the question, mademoiselle?” “Come hither, Malicorne,” said Montalais, with an imperious gesture. Malicorne obeyed. “A brevet like this,” said Montalais. “How so?” “A brevet like this; that is plain enough.” “But – “ “I want one – I must have one!” “Oh! oh! you must have one!” “Yes.” “It is impossible, is it not, M. Malicorne?” said Louise, with her sweet, soft voice. “If it is for you, mademoiselle – “ “For me. Yes, Monsieur Malicorne, it would be for me.” “And if Mademoiselle de Montalais asks it at the same time – “ “Mademoiselle de Montalais does not ask it, she requires it.” “Well! we will endeavor to obey you, mademoiselle.” “And you will have her named?” “We will try.” “No evasive answers, Louise de la Valliere shall be maid of honor to Madame Henrietta within a week.” “How you talk!” “Within a week, or else – “ “Well! or else?” “You may take back your brevet, Monsieur Malicorne; I will not leave my friend.” “Dear Montalais!” “That is right. Keep your brevet; Mademoiselle de la Valliere shall be a maid of honor.” “Is that true?” “Quite true.” “I may then hope to go to Paris?” “Depend on it.” “Oh! Monsieur Malicorne, what joy!” cried Louise, clapping her hands, and bounding with pleasure. “Little dissembler!” said Montalais, “try again to make me believe you are 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?” “M. Malicorne is a prince in disguise,” replied the old lady, “he is all- powerful, seemingly.” “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.” And upon that he went away, leaving the poor lady quite disconcerted. “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.” 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. 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. 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 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. 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. 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. 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. “Eh! what!” said he, in a tone which nothing can describe, “is that you again, dear friend?” “Humph! you are very polite!” said Malicorne. “Ay, but look you, I was expecting money, and, instead of money, I see you.” “And suppose I brought you some money?” “Oh! that would be quite another thing. You are 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 the money?” said Manicamp. “My dear friend, if you wish to have it, earn it.” “What must be done for it?” “Earn it, parbleu!” “And after what fashion?” “Oh! that is rather trying, I warn you.” “The devil!” “You must get out of bed, and go immediately to M. le Comte de Guiche.” “I get up!” said Manicamp, stretching himself in his bed, complacently, “oh, no, thank you!” “You have sold all your clothes?” “No, I have one suit left, the handsomest even, but I expect a purchaser.” “And the chausses?” “Well, if you look, you will see them on that chair.” “Very well! since you have some chausses and a pourpoint left, put your legs into the first and your back into the other; have a horse saddled, and set off.” “Not I.” “And why not?” “Morbleu! don’t you know, then, that M. de Guiche is at Etampes?” “No, I thought he was at Paris. You will then only have fifteen leagues to go, instead of thirty.” “You are a wonderfully clever fellow! If I were to ride 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.” “Sell them for whatever you like, but I must have a second commission of maid of honor.” “Good! for whom? Is Montalais doubled, then?” “Vile fellow! – It is you who are doubled. You swallow up two fortunes – mine, and that of M. le Comte de Guiche.” “You should say, that of M. le Comte de Guiche and yours.” “That is true; honor where it is due; but I return to my brevet.” “And you are wrong.” “Prove me that.” “My friend, there will 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.” “Oh! yes, I know you have been quite heroic, my dear friend.” “We know what we are about,” said Manicamp. “To whom do you tell that? When I am king, I promise you one thing.” “What? To call yourself Malicorne the First?” “No; to make you superintendent of my finances; but that is not the question now.” “Unfortunately.” “The present affair is to procure for me a second place of maid of honor.” “My friend, if you were to promise me the price of heaven, I would decline to disturb myself at this moment.” Malicorne chinked the money in his pocket. “There are twenty pistoles here,” said Malicorne. “And what would you do with twenty pistoles, mon Dieu!” “Well!” said Malicorne, a little angry, “suppose I were to add 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.” “An instant, what the devil! it is not only holding out your hand that will do; if I give you the twenty pistoles, shall I have my brevet?” “To be sure you shall.” “Soon?” “To-day.” “Oh! take care! Monsieur de Manicamp; you undertake much, and I do not ask that. Thirty leagues in a day is too much, you would kill yourself.” “I think nothing impossible when obliging a friend.” “You are quite heroic.” “Where are the twenty pistoles?” “Here they are,” said Malicorne, showing them. “That’s well.” “Yes, but my dear M. Manicamp, you would consume them in post-horses alone!” “No, no, make yourself easy on that score.” “Pardon me. Why, it is fifteen leagues from this place to Etampes?” “Fourteen.” “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.” Manicamp stretched himself like a serpent in his bed, and fixing his two great eyes upon Malicorne, “You are right,” said he; “I could not return before to-morrow;” and he took the twenty pistoles. “Now, then, be off!” “Well, as I cannot be back before to-morrow, we have time.” “Time for what?” “Time to play.” “What do you wish to play with?” “Your twenty pistoles, pardieu!” “No; you always win.” “I will wager them, then.” “Against what?” “Against twenty others.” “And what shall be the object of the wager?” “This. We have said it was fourteen leagues to Etampes.” “Yes.” “And fourteen leagues back?” “Doubtless.” “Well; for these twenty-eight leagues you cannot allow less than fourteen hours?” “That is agreed.” “One hour to find the Comte de Guiche.” “Go on.” “And an hour to persuade him to write a letter to Monsieur.” “Just so.” “Sixteen hours in all?” “You reckon as well as M. Colbert.” “It is now twelve o’clock.” “Half-past.” “Hein! – you have a handsome watch!” “What were you saying?” said Malicorne, putting his watch quickly back into his fob. “Ah! true; I was offering to lay you twenty pistoles against these you have lent me, that you will have the Comte de Guiche’s letter in – “ “How soon?” “In eight hours.” “Have you a winged horse, then?” “That is no matter. Will you bet?” “I shall have the comte’s letter in eight hours?” “Yes.” “In hand?” “In hand.” “Well, be it so; I lay,” said Malicorne, curious enough to know how this seller of clothes would get through. “Is it agreed?” “It is.” “Pass me the pen, ink, and paper.” “Here they are.” “Thank you.” Manicamp raised himself with a sigh, and leaning on his left elbow, in his best hand, traced the following lines: – “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.” This painful task accomplished, he laid himself down in bed again. “Well!” asked Malicorne, “what does this mean?” “That means that if you are in a hurry to have the letter from the Comte de Guiche for Monsieur, I have won my wager.” “How the devil is that?” “That is transparent enough, I think; you take that paper.” “Well?” “And you set out instead of me.” “Ah!” “You put your horses to their best speed.” “Good!” “In six hours you will be at Etampes; in seven hours you have the letter from the comte, and I shall have won my wager without stirring from my bed, which suits me and you too, at the same time, I am very sure.” “Decidedly, Manicamp, you are a great man.” “Hein! I know that.” “I am to start then for Etampes?” “Directly.” “I am to go to the Comte de Guiche with this order?” “He will give you a similar one for Monsieur.” “Monsieur will approve?” “Instantly.” “And I shall have my brevet?” “You will.” “Ah!” “Well, I hope I behave genteely?” “Adorably.” “Thank you.” “You do as you please, then, with the Comte de Guiche, Manicamp?” “Except making money of him – everything?” “Diable! the exception is annoying; but then, if instead of asking him for money, you were to ask – “ “What?” “Something important.” “What do you call important?” “Well! suppose one of your friends asked you to render him a service?” “I would not render it to him.” “Selfish fellow!” “Or at least I would ask him what service he would render me in exchange.” “Ah! that, perhaps, is fair. Well, that friend speaks to you.” “What, you, Malicorne?” “Yes; I.” “Ah! ah! you are rich, then?” “I have still fifty pistoles left.” “Exactly the sum I want. Where are those fifty pistoles?” “Here,” said Malicorne, slapping his pocket. “Then speak, my friend; what do you want?” Malicorne took up the pen, ink, and paper again, and presented them all to Manicamp. “Write!” said he. “Dictate!” “An order for a place in the household of Monsieur.” “Oh!” said Manicamp, laying down the pen, “a place in the household of Monsieur for fifty pistoles?” “You mistook me, my friend; you did not hear plainly.” “What did you say, then?” “I said five hundred.” “And the five hundred?” “Here they are.” Manicamp devoured the rouleau with his eyes; but this time Malicorne held it at a distance. “Eh! what do you say to that? Five hundred pistoles.” “I say it is for nothing, my friend,” said Manicamp, taking up the pen again, “and you exhaust my credit. Dictate.” Malicorne continued: “Which my friend the Comte de Guiche will obtain for my friend Malicorne.” “That’s it,” said Manicamp. “Pardon me, you have forgotten to sign.” “Ah! that is true. The five hundred pistoles?” “Here are two hundred and fifty of them.” “And the other two hundred and fifty?” “When I am in possession of my place.” Manicamp made a face. “In that case give me the recommendation back again.” “What to do?” “To add two words to it.” “Two words?” “Yes; two words only.” “What are they?” “In haste.” Malicorne returned the recommendation; Manicamp added the words. “Good,” said Malicorne, taking back the paper. Manicamp began to count out the pistoles. “There want twenty,” said he. “How so?” “The twenty I have won.” “In what way?” “By laying that you would have the letter from the Comte de Guiche in eight hours.” “Ah! that’s fair,” and he gave him the twenty pistoles. Manicamp began to scoop up his gold by handfuls, and pour it in cascades upon 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: – “MADEMOISELLE, – Announce to your friend that her commission will not be long before it arrives; I am setting out to get it signed: that will be twenty-eight leagues I shall have gone for the love of you.” Then with his 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. 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. “Manicamp!” he exclaimed; “let him enter by all means.” And he advanced a few steps toward the door. Malicorne slipped through the half-open door, and 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.” “Ah!” exclaimed De Guiche, coldly; “and what do you bring me?” “A letter, monsieur le comte.” Malicorne handed him the first document, and narrowly watched the count’s face, who, as he read it, began to laugh. “What!” he exclaimed, “another maid of honor? Are all the maids of honor in France, then, under his protection?” Malicorne bowed. “Why does he not come himself?” he inquired. “He is confined to his bed.” “The deuce! he has no money then, I suppose,” said De Guiche, shrugging his shoulders. “What does he do with his money?” Malicorne made a movement, to indicate that upon this subject he was as ignorant as the count himself. “Why does he not make use of his credit, then?” continued De Guiche. “With regard to that, I think – “ “What?” “That Manicamp has credit with no one but yourself, monsieur le comte!” “He will not be at Le Havre, then?” Whereupon Malicorne made another movement. “But every one will be there.” “I trust, monsieur le comte, that he will not neglect so excellent an opportunity.” “He should be at Paris by this time.” “He will take the direct road perhaps to make up for lost time.” “Where is he now?” “At Orleans.”