It must be said that since his arrival at Bordeaux, Canolles had
undergone all the torture of unrequited love. He had seen the
viscountess courted and caressed and flattered, while he himself was
forbidden to devote himself to her, and had to take what comfort he
could in an occasional glance bestowed upon him by Claire when the
gossips were looking the other way. After the scene in the underground
passage, after the passionate words they had exchanged at that
critical moment, the existing state of things seemed to him to denote
something worse than lukewarmness on her part. But, as he felt sure
that beneath her cold exterior she concealed a real and deep affection
for him, he looked upon himself as the most to be pitied of all happy
lovers that ever lived. His frame of mind is easily understood. By
virtue of the promise he had been made to give, that he would carry
on no correspondence with the outside world, he had relegated Nanon
to that little corner of the conscience which is set aside for the
accommodation of that variety of remorse. As he heard nothing of her,
and consequently was spared the ennui caused by tangible reminders of
the woman to whom one is unfaithful, his remorse was not altogether
unbearable.
And yet, sometimes, just when the most jovial of smiles overspread the
young man's features, when his voice was heard giving utterance to some
bright and witty remark, a cloud would suddenly pass across his brow,
and a sigh would escape from his lips at least, if not from his heart.
The sigh was for Nanon; the cloud was the memory of the past casting
its shadow over the present.
Madame de Cambes had remarked these moments of melancholy; she had
sounded the depths of Canolles' heart, and it seemed to her that she
could not leave him thus abandoned to his own resources. Between an
old love which was not altogether extinct, and a new passion which
might spring up in his heart, it was possible that his surplus ardor,
which was formerly expended upon the proper performance of his military
duties and the functions of his responsible position, might tend
to check the growth of the pure flame which she sought to inspire.
Moreover she simply desired to gain time until the memory of so many
romantic adventures should fade away, after keeping the curiosity of
all the courtiers of the princess on the _qui vive._ Perhaps Madame de
Cambes was injudicious; perhaps, if she had made no concealment of her
love, it would have created less sensation, or the sensation would have
been less long-lived.
But Lenet was the one who followed the progress of this mysterious
passion with the most attention and success. For some time his
observant eye had detected its existence without feeling sure of its
object; nor had he been able to guess its precise situation, whether it
was or was not reciprocated. But Madame de Cambes, sometimes tremulous
and hesitating, sometimes firm and determined, and almost always
indifferent to the pleasures which those about her enjoyed, seemed to
him to be stricken to the heart in very truth. Her warlike ardor had
suddenly died away; she was neither tremulous nor hesitating nor firm
nor determined; she was pensive, smiled for no apparent motive, wept
without cause, as if her lips and her eyes responded to the vagaries
of her thought, the contrary impulses of her mind. This transformation
had been noticeable for six or seven days only, and it was six or seven
days since Canolles was taken prisoner. Therefore there was little
doubt that Canolles was the object of her love.
Lenet, be it understood, was quite ready to further a passion which
might some day result in enrolling so gallant a warrior among the
partisans of Madame la Princesse.
Monsieur de La Rochefoucauld was perhaps farther advanced than Lenet
in the exploration of Madame de Cambes' heart. But the language of his
gestures and his eyes, as well as of his mouth, was so closely confined
to what he chose to permit them to say, that no one could say whether
he himself loved or hated Madame de Cambes. As to Canolles, he did
not mention his name or look at him, or take any more notice of him
than if he had not existed. For the rest, he assumed a more warlike
attitude than ever, posing constantly as a hero,--a pretension in which
he was justified to some extent by his undeniable courage, and his
equally undeniable military skill; day by day he attributed increased
importance to his position as lieutenant to the generalissimo. Monsieur
de Bouillon, on the other hand, a cold, mysterious, calculating
personage, whose political ends were admirably served by attacks of
gout, which sometimes came so in the nick of time that people were
tempted to question their reality, was forever negotiating, and
concealed his real thoughts as much as possible, being unable to
realize the tremendous distance that lay between Mazarin and Richelieu,
and being always fearful for his head which he was very near losing
upon the same scaffold with Cinq-Mars, and saved only by giving up
Sedan, his own city, and renouncing in fact, if not in name, his rank
as a sovereign prince.
The city itself was carried away by the flood of dissipation and
profligacy which poured in upon it from all sides. Between two fires,
with death and ruin of one sort or another staring them in the face,
the Bordelais were never sure of the morrow, and they felt the need
of doing what they could to sweeten their precarious existence, which
could count the future only by seconds.
They remembered La Rochelle and its demolition by Louis XIII., and the
profound admiration of Anne of Austria for that exploit. Why did not
Bordeaux afford the hatred and ambition of that princess an opportunity
to duplicate the fate of La Rochelle?
They constantly forgot that the man who imposed his levelling
instrument upon all heads and walls that seemed to him too high was
dead, and that Cardinal de Mazarin was hardly equal to the shadow of
Cardinal de Richelieu.
So it was that every one let himself go with the tide, Canolles
with the rest. It is no less true that there were times when he was
inclined to doubt everything, and in his fits of scepticism he doubted
the love of Madame de Cambes, as he doubted everything else. At such
times Nanon's image would once more fill a large space in his heart,
in absence more affectionate and devoted than ever. At such times, if
Nanon had appeared before him in the flesh, the inconstant creature
would have fallen at her feet.
While his thoughts and emotions were in this incoherent state, which
only those hearts can understand that have at some time hesitated
between two loves, Canolles received the viscountess's letter. We need
not say that every other thought instantly disappeared. After reading
the letter he could not understand how he could ever have dreamed of
loving any other than Madame de Cambes, and after reading it a second
time he was sure that he had never loved any other than her.
He passed one of those feverish, restless nights which do not bring
exhaustion in their train, because happiness furnishes a counterpoise
to insomnia. Although he had hardly closed his eyes during the night,
he rose with the dawn.
Every one knows how a lover passes the hours preceding a meeting with
his beloved,--in looking at his watch, running aimlessly hither and
thither, and jostling his dearest friends without recognizing them.
Canolles performed every mad feat that his state of mind demanded.
At the precise moment (it was the twentieth time he had entered the
church) he went to the confessional, the door of which stood open.
Through the small window filtered the last rays of the setting sun;
the whole interior of the religious edifice was lighted up by that
mysterious light, so sweet to those who pray, and those who love.
Canolles would have given a year of his life rather than lose a single
hope at that moment.
He looked around to make sure that the church was deserted, and
when he was convinced that there was no one to see him, entered the
confessional and closed the door behind him.