THE STORM.
The dawn of the following day was dark and gloomy, and as every one knew
that the promenade was set down in the royal programme, every one's
gaze, as his eyes were opened, was directed toward the sky. Just above
the tops of the trees a thick, suffocating vapor seemed to remain
suspended, with hardly sufficient power to rise thirty feet above the
ground under the influence of the sun's rays, which could barely be seen
through the veil of a heavy and thick mist. No dew had fallen in the
morning; the turf was dried up for want of moisture, the flowers were
withered. The birds sung less inspiritingly than usual amid the boughs,
which remained as motionless as death. The strange confused and animated
murmurs, which seemed born of, and to exist by the sun, that respiration
of nature which is unceasingly heard amid all other sounds, could not
be heard now, and never had the silence been so profound. The king had
noticed the cheerless aspect of the heavens as he approached the window
immediately after rising. But as all the necessary directions had been
given respecting the promenade, and every preparation had been made
accordingly, and as, which was far more imperious than everything else,
Louis relied upon this promenade to satisfy the cravings of his
imagination, and we will even already say, the clamorous desires of his
heart--the king unhesitatingly decided that the appearance of the
heavens had nothing whatever to do with the matter; that the promenade
was arranged, and that, whatever the state of the weather might be, the
promenade should take place. Besides there are certain terrestrial
sovereigns who seem to have accorded them privileged existences, and
there are certain times when it might almost be supposed that the
expressed wish of an earthly monarch has its influence over the Divine
will. It was Virgil who observed of Augustus: _Nocte placet tota redeunt
spectacula manè_. Louis attended mass as usual, but it was evident that
his attention was somewhat distracted from the presence of the Creator
by the remembrance of the creature. His mind was occupied during the
service in reckoning more than once the number of minutes, then of
seconds, which separated him from the blissful moment when the promenade
would begin, that is to say, the moment when Madame would set out with
her maids of honor.
Besides, as a matter of course, everybody at the chateau was ignorant of
the interview which had taken place between La Valliere and the king.
Montalais, perhaps, with her usual chattering propensity, might have
been disposed to talk about it; but Montalais on this occasion was held
in check by Malicorne, who had placed upon her lips the padlock of
mutual interest. As for Louis XIV., his happiness was so extreme that he
had forgiven Madame, or nearly so, her little piece of ill-nature of the
previous evening. In fact, he had occasion to congratulate himself
about it rather than to complain of it. Had it not been for her
ill-natured action, he would not have received the letter from La
Valliere; had it not been for the letter, he would have had no
interview; and had it not been for the interview he would have remained
undecided. His heart was filled with too much happiness for any
ill-feeling to remain in it, at that moment at least. Instead,
therefore, of knitting his brows into a frown when he perceived his
sister-in-law, Louis resolved to receive her in a more friendly and
gracious manner than usual. But on one condition only, that she would be
ready to set out early. Such was the nature of Louis's thoughts during
mass, and which made him, during the ceremony, forget matters, which, in
his character of Most Christian King and of the oldest son of the
Church, ought to have occupied his attention. He returned to the
chateau, and as the promenade was fixed for mid-day only, and it was at
present just ten o'clock, he set to work most desperately with Colbert
and Lyonne. But even while he worked, Louis went from the table to the
window, inasmuch as the window looked out upon Madame's pavilion; he
could see M. Fouquet in the courtyard, to whom the courtiers, since the
favor shown toward him on the previous evening, paid greater attention
than ever. The king, instinctively, on noticing Fouquet, turned toward
Colbert, who was smiling, and seemed full of benevolence and delight, a
state of feeling which had arisen from the very moment one of his
secretaries had entered and handed him a pocket-book, which he had put
unopened into his pocket. But, as there was always something sinister at
the bottom of any delight expressed by Colbert, Louis preferred of the
smiles of the two men that of Fouquet. He beckoned to the surintendant
to come up, and then, turning toward Lyonne and Colbert, he said:
"Finish this matter, place it on my desk, and I will read it at my
leisure." And he left the room. At the sign the king had made to him,
Fouquet had hastened up the staircase, while Aramis, who was with the
surintendant, quietly retired among the group of courtiers, and
disappeared without having been even observed by the king. The king and
Fouquet met at the top of the staircase.
"Sire," said Fouquet, remarking the gracious manner in which Louis was
about to receive him, "your majesty has overwhelmed me with kindness
during the last few days. It is not a youthful monarch, but a being of a
higher order, who reigns over France--one whom pleasure, happiness, and
love acknowledge as their master." The king colored. The compliment,
although flattering, was not the less somewhat direct. Louis conducted
Fouquet to a small room which separated his study from his sleeping
apartment.
"Do you know why I summoned you?" said the king, as he seated himself
upon the edge of the window, so as not to lose anything that might be
passing in the gardens which fronted the opposite entrance to Madame's
pavilion.
"No, sire," replied Fouquet; "but I am sure for something agreeable, if
I am to judge from your majesty's gracious smile."
"You are mistaken, then."
"I, sire?"
"For I summoned you, on the contrary, to pick a quarrel with you."
"With me, sire?"
"Yes, and that a serious one."
"Your majesty alarms me; and yet I wait most confident in your justice
and goodness."
"Do you know I am told, Monsieur Fouquet, that you are preparing a grand
_fete_ at Vaux."
Fouquet smiled, as a sick man would do at the first shiver of a fever
which has left him but returns again.
"And that you have not invited me!" continued the king.
"Sire," replied Fouquet, "I have not even thought of the _fete_ you
speak of, and it was only yesterday evening that one of my _friends_"
(Fouquet laid a stress upon the word) "was kind enough to make me think
of it."
"Yet I saw you yesterday evening, Monsieur Fouquet, and you said nothing
to me about it."
"How dared I hope that your majesty would so greatly descend from your
own exalted station as to honor my dwelling with your royal presence?"
"Excuse me, Monsieur Fouquet, you did not speak to me about your
_fete_."
"I did not allude to the _fete_ to your majesty, I repeat, in the first
place, because nothing had been decided with regard to it, and,
secondly, because I feared a refusal."
"And something made you fear a refusal, Monsieur Fouquet? You see I am
determined to push you hard."
"The profound wish I had that your majesty should accept my
invitation--"
"Well, Monsieur Fouquet, nothing is easier, I perceive, than our coming
to an understanding. Your wish is to invite me to your _fete_--my own is
to be present at it; invite me, and I will go."
"Is it possible that your majesty will deign to accept?" murmured the
surintendant.
"Why, really, monsieur," said the king, laughing, "I think I do more
than accept--I think I invite myself."
"Your majesty overwhelms me with honor and delight!" exclaimed Fouquet;
"but I shall be obliged to repeat what M. de Vieuville said to your
ancestor Henry the Fourth, '_Domine non sum dignus_.'"
"To which I reply, Monsieur Fouquet, that if you give a _fete_, I will
go whether I am invited or not."
"I thank your majesty deeply," said Fouquet, as he raised his head
beneath this favor, which he was convinced would be his ruin.
"But how could your majesty have been informed of it?"
"By public rumor, Monsieur Fouquet, which says such wonderful things of
yourself and of the marvels of your house. Would you become proud,
Monsieur Fouquet, if the king were to be jealous of you?"
"I should be the happiest man in the world, sire, since the very day on
which your majesty were to be jealous of Vaux, I should possess
something worthy of being offered to you."
"Very well, Monsieur Fouquet, prepare your _fete_, and open the doors
of your house as wide as possible."
[Illustration: AS THE RAIN DRIPPED MORE AND MORE THROUGH THE FOLIAGE
OF THE OAK, THE KING HELD HIS HAT OVER THE HEAD OF THE YOUNG
GIRL.--_Page 22._]
"It is for your majesty to fix the day."
"This day month, then."
"Has your majesty any further commands?"
"Nothing, Monsieur Fouquet, except from the present moment until then to
have you near me as much as possible."
"I have the honor to form one of your majesty's party for the
promenade."
"Very good. I am now going out indeed, for there are the ladies, I see,
who are going to start."
With this remark, the king, with all the eagerness, not only of a young
man, but of a young man in love, withdrew from the window, in order to
take his gloves and cane, which his valet held ready for him. The
neighing of the horses and the rumbling of the wheels on the gravel of
the courtyard could be distinctly heard. The king descended the stairs,
and at the moment he made his appearance upon the flight of steps every
one stopped. The king walked straight up to the young queen. The
queen-mother, who was still suffering more than ever from the illness
with which she was afflicted, did not wish to go out. Maria Theresa
accompanied Madame in her carriage, and asked the king in what direction
he wished the promenade to take place. The king, who had just seen La
Valliere, still pale from the events of the previous evening, get into a
carriage with three of her companions, told the queen that he had no
preference, and wherever she would wish to go, there would he be with
her. The queen then desired that the out-riders should proceed in the
direction of Apremont. The out-riders set off, accordingly, before the
others. The king rode on horseback, and for a few minutes accompanied
the carriage of the queen and Madame, with his hand resting upon the
door. The weather had cleared up a little, but a kind of veil of dust,
like a thick gauze, was still spread over the surface of the heavens,
and the sun made every glittering atom of dust glisten again within the
circuit of its rays. The heat was stifling; but as the king did not seem
to pay any attention to the appearance of the heavens, no one made
himself uneasy about it, and the promenade, in obedience to the orders
which had been given by the queen, took its course in the direction of
Apremont. The courtiers who followed were merry and full of spirits; it
was evident that every one tried to forget, and to make others forget,
the bitter discussions of the previous evening. Madame, particularly,
was delightful; in fact, seeing the king at the door of her carriage, as
she did not suppose he would be there for the queen's sake, she hoped
that her prince had returned to her. Hardly, however, had they proceeded
a quarter of a mile on the road, when the king, with a gracious smile,
saluted them and drew up his horse, leaving the queen's carriage to pass
on, then that of the principal ladies of honor, and then all the others
in succession, who, seeing the king stop, wished in their turn to stop
too; but the king made a sign to them to continue their progress. When
La Valliere's carriage passed, the king approached it, saluted the
ladies who were inside, and was preparing to accompany the carriage
containing the maids of honor, in the same way he had followed that in
which Madame was, when suddenly the whole file of carriages stopped. It
was probable that Madame, uneasy at the king having left her, had just
given directions for the performance of this maneuver, the direction in
which the promenade was to take place having been left to her. The king
having sent to inquire what her object was in stopping the carriages,
was informed in reply that she wished to walk. She very likely hoped
that the king, who was following the carriages of the maids of honor on
horseback, would not venture to follow the maids of honor themselves on
foot. They had arrived in the middle of the forest. The promenade, in
fact, was not ill-timed, especially for those who were dreamers or
lovers. From the little open space where the halt had taken place, three
beautiful long walks, shady and undulating, stretched out before them.
These walks were covered with moss, with leaves lying scattered idly
about; and each walk had its horizon in the distance, consisting of
about a handbreadth of sky, apparent through the interlacing of the
branches of the trees. At the end of the walks, evidently in great
tribulation and uneasiness, the startled deer were seen hurrying to and
fro, first stopping for a moment in the middle of the path, and then
raising their heads, they fled with the speed of an arrow, or bounded
into the depths of the forest, where they disappeared from view; now and
then a rabbit of philosophical mien could be noticed quietly sitting
upright, rubbing his muzzle with his fore-paws, and looking about
inquiringly, as though wondering whether all these people, who were
approaching in his direction, and who had just disturbed him in his
meditations and his meal, were not followed by their dogs, or had not
their guns under their arms. All alighted from their carriages as soon
as they observed that the queen was doing so. Maria Theresa took the arm
of one of her ladies of honor, and, with a side-glance toward the king,
who did not perceive that he was in the slightest degree the object of
the queen's attention, entered the forest by the first path before her.
Two of the out-riders preceded her majesty with long poles, which they
used for the purpose of putting the branches of the trees aside, or
removing the bushes which might impede her progress. As soon as Madame
alighted, she found the Comte de Guiche at her side, who bowed and
placed himself at her disposal. Monsieur, delighted with his bath of the
two previous days, had announced his preference for the river, and,
having given De Guiche leave of absence, remained at the chateau with
the Chevalier de Lorraine and Manicamp. He was not in the slightest
degree jealous. He had been looked for to no purpose among those
present; but as Monsieur was a man who thought a great deal of himself,
and usually added very little to the general pleasure, his absence had
rather been a subject of satisfaction than of regret. Every one had
followed the example which the queen and Madame had set, doing just as
they pleased, according as chance or fancy influenced them. The king,
we have already observed, remained near Valliere, and, throwing himself
off his horse at the moment the door of her carriage was opened, he
offered her his hand to alight. Montalais and Tonnay-Charente
immediately drew back and kept at a distance; the former from
calculated, the latter from prudent, motives. There was this difference,
however, between the two, that the one had withdrawn from a wish to
please the king, the other for a very opposite reason. During the last
half hour the weather also had undergone a change; the veil which had
been spread over the sky, as if driven by a blast of heated air, had
become massed together in the western part of the heavens; and afterward
as if driven back by a current of air from the opposite direction, was
now advancing slowly and heavily toward them. The approach of the storm
could be felt, but as the king did not perceive it, no one thought it
was right to do so. The promenade was therefore continued; some of the
company, with minds ill at ease on the subject, raised their eyes from
time to time toward the sky; others, even more timid still, walked about
without wandering too far from the carriages, where they relied upon
taking shelter in case the storm burst. The greater number of these,
however, observing that the king fearlessly entered the wood with La
Valliere, followed his majesty. The king, noticing this, took La
Valliere's hand, and led her away by a side-path, where no one this time
ventured to follow him.