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 Vallière—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 Vallière 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 Vallière?”
“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 Vallière, 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!”