Chapter II. The Messenger.
Chapter III. The Interview.
Chapter IV. Father and Son.
Chapter V. In which Something will be said of Cropoli.
Chapter VI. The Unknown.
Chapter VII. Parry.
Chapter VIII. What his Majesty King Louis XIV. was at the Age of Twenty-Two.
Chapter IX. In which the Unknown of the Hostelry of Les Medici loses his Incognito.
Chapter X. The Arithmetic of M. de Mazarin.
Chapter XI. Mazarin’s Policy.
Chapter XII. The King and the Lieutenant.
Chapter XIII. Mary de Mancini.
Chapter XIV. In which the King and the Lieutenant each give Proofs of Memory.
Chapter XV. The Proscribed.
Chapter XVI. “Remember!”
Chapter XVII. In which Aramis is sought, and only Bazin is found.
Chapter XVIII. In which D’Artagnan seeks Porthos, and only finds Mousqueton.
Chapter XIX. What D’Artagnan went to Paris for.
Chapter XX. Of the Society which was formed in the Rue des Lombards.
Chapter XXI. In which D’Artagnan prepares to travel.
Chapter XXII. D’Artagnan travels for the House of Planchet and Company.
Chapter XXIII. In which the Author is forced to write a Little History.
Chapter XXIV. The Treasure.
Chapter XXV. The Marsh.
Chapter XXVI. Heart and Mind.
Chapter XXVII. The Next Day.
Chapter XXVIII. Smuggling.
Chapter XXIX. Fear he has placed his Money and that of Planchet in the Sinking Fund.
Chapter XXX. The Shares of Planchet and Company rise again to Par.
Chapter XXXI. Monk reveals Himself.
Chapter XXXII. Athos and D’Artagnan meet once more at the Hostelry of the Corne du Cerf.
Chapter XXXIII. The Audience.
Chapter XXXIV. Of the Embarrassment of Riches.
Chapter XXXV. On the Canal.
Chapter XXXVI. How D’Artagnan drew a Country-Seat from a Deal Box.
Chapter XXXVII. How D’Artagnan regulated the “Assets” of the Company.
Chapter XXXVIII. the French Grocer had already been established in the Seventeenth Century.
Chapter XXXIX. Mazarin’s Gaming Party.
Chapter XL: An Affair of State.
Chapter XLI. The Recital.
Chapter XLII. In which Mazarin becomes Prodigal.
Chapter XLIII. Guenaud.
Chapter XLIV. Colbert.
Chapter XLV. Confession of a Man of Wealth.
Chapter XLVI. The Donation.
Chapter XLVII. How Anne of Austria gave one Piece of Advice to Louis XIV.
Chapter XLVIII. Agony.
Chapter XLIX. The First Appearance of Colbert.
Chapter L: The First Day of the Royalty of Louis XIV.
Chapter LI. A Passion.
Chapter LII. D’Artagnan’s Lesson.
Chapter LIII. The King.
Chapter LIV. The Houses of M. Fouquet.
Chapter LV. The Abbe Fouquet.
Chapter LVI. M. de la Fontaine’s Wine.
Chapter LVII. The Gallery of Saint-Mande.
Chapter LVIII. Epicureans.
Chapter LIX. A Quarter of an Hour’s Delay.
Chapter LX. Plan of Battle.
Chapter LXI. The Cabaret of the Image-de-Notre-Dame.
Chapter LXII. Vive Colbert!
Chapter LXIII. How M. d’Eymeris’s Diamond passed into the Hands of M. d’Artagnan.
Chapter LXIV. Difference D’Artagnan finds between the Intendant and the Superintendent.
Chapter LXV. Philosophy of the Heart and Mind.
Chapter LXVI. The Journey.
Chapter LXVII. How D’Artagnan became Acquainted with a Poet.
Chapter LXVIII. D’Artagnan continues his Investigations.
Chapter LXIX. D’Artagnan was to meet an Old Acquaintance.
Chapter LXX. Wherein the Ideas of D’Artagnan begin to clear up a little.
Chapter LXXI. A Procession at Vannes.
Chapter LXXII. The Grandeur of the Bishop of Vannes.
Chapter LXXIII. In which Porthos begins to be sorry for having come with D’Artagnan.
Chapter LXXIV. D’Artagnan makes all Speed, Porthos snores, and Aramis counsels.
Chapter LXXV. In which Monsieur Fouquet Acts.
Original Transcriber’s Note:
As you may be aware, Project Gutenberg has been involved with the
writings of both the Alexandre Dumases for some time now, and since we
get a few questions about the order in which the books should be read,
and in which they were published, these following comments should
hopefully help most of our readers.
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 Vallière, 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 (our new etext)—First 75 chapters
of the third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the year 1660.
Ten Years Later: forthcoming (our next 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 Vallière: forthcoming (following)—Chapters 141-208 of the
third book of the D’Artagnan Romances. Covers the year 1661.
The Man in the Iron Mask: forthcoming (completing)—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.
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 to
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 Vallière, 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 Vallière, and The Man in the Iron Mask.
In this, the first of the four etexts, the situation is thus:
It is now 1660, and although promised the captaincy of the musketeers
at the close of Twenty Years After, D’Artagnan is still trailing his
sword in the Louvre as a lowly lieutenant. Louis XIV is well past the
age where he should rule, but the ailing Cardinal Mazarin refuses to
relinquish the reins of power. Meanwhile, Charles II, a king without a
country, travels Europe seeking aid from his fellow monarchs. Athos
still resides at La Fere while his son, Raoul de Bragelonne, has
entered into the service in the household of M. le Prince. As for
Raoul, he has his eyes on an entirely different object than his
father—his childhood companion, Louise de la Vallière, with whom he is
hopelessly in love. Porthos, now a baron, is off on some mysterious
mission along with Aramis, who is now the Bishop of Vannes.
Now begins the first chapter of the last of the D’Artagnan Romances,
The Vicomte de Bragelonne. Enjoy!
John Bursey, May, 2000
Chapter I. 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 held his court in the ancient Castle of
the 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 already 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 Beuvron, or in the woods of
Cheverny, 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
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 palace, 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,
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 that 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 nor 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 incendiary as to cause Madame
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 rose-tree.
“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 will 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 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.”