Night
Concord returned to its place amidst the tents. English and French
rivaled each other in their devotion and courteous attention to the
illustrious travelers. The English forwarded to the French baskets of
flowers, of which they had made a plentiful provision to greet the
arrival of the young princess; the French in return invited the English
to a supper, which was to be given the next day. Congratulations were
poured in upon the princess everywhere during her journey. From the
respect paid her on all sides, she seemed like a queen; and from the
adoration with which she was treated by two or three, she appeared an
object of worship. The queen-mother gave the French the most
affectionate reception. France was her native country, and she had
suffered too much unhappiness in England for England to have made her
forget France. She taught her daughter, then, by her own affection for
it, that love for a country where they had both been hospitably
received, and where a brilliant future opened before them. After the
public entry was over, and the spectators in the streets had partially
dispersed, and the sound of the music and cheering of the crowd could
be heard only in the distance; when the night had closed in, wrapping
with its star-covered mantle the sea, the harbor, the town, and
surrounding country, De Guiche, still excited by the great events of
the day, returned to his tent, and seated himself upon one of the
stools with so profound an expression of distress that Bragelonne kept
his eyes fixed on him, until he heard him sigh, and then he approached
him. The count had thrown himself back on his seat, leaning his
shoulders against the partition of the tent, and remained thus, his
face buried in his hands, with heaving chest and restless limbs.
“You are suffering?” asked Raoul.
“Cruelly.”
“Bodily, I suppose?”
“Yes; bodily.”
“This has indeed been a harassing day,” continued the young man, his
eyes fixed upon his friend.
“Yes; a night’s rest will probably restore me.”
“Shall I leave you?”
“No; I wish to talk to you.”
“You shall not speak to me, Guiche, until you have first answered my
questions.”
“Proceed then.”
“You will be frank with me?”
“I always am.”
“Can you imagine why Buckingham has been so violent?”
“I suspect.”
“Because he is in love with Madame, is it not?”
“One could almost swear to it, to observe him.”
“You are mistaken; there is nothing of the kind.”
“It is you who are mistaken, Raoul; I have read his distress in his
eyes, in his every gesture and action the whole day.”
“You are a poet, my dear count, and find subject for your muse
everywhere.”
“I can perceive love clearly enough.”
“Where it does not exist?”
“Nay, where it does exist.”
“Do you not think you are deceiving yourself, Guiche?”
“I am convinced of what I say,” said the count.
“Now, inform me count,” said Raoul, fixing a penetrating look upon him,
“what has happened to render you so clear-sighted?”
Guiche hesitated for a moment, and then answered, “Self-love, I
suppose.”
“Self-love is a pedantic word, Guiche.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that, generally, you are less out of spirits than seems to be
the case this evening.”
“I am fatigued.”
“Listen to me, Guiche; we have been campaigners together; we have been
on horseback for eighteen hours at a time, and our horses dying from
exhaustion, or hunger, have fallen beneath us, and yet we have laughed
at our mishaps. Believe me, it is not fatigue that saddens you
to-night.”
“It is annoyance, then.”
“What annoyance?”
“That of this evening.”
“The mad conduct of the Duke of Buckingham, do you mean?”
“Of course; is it not vexatious for us, the representatives of our
sovereign master, to witness the devotion of an Englishman to our
future mistress, the second lady in point of rank in the kingdom?”
“Yes, you are right; but I do not think any danger is to be apprehended
from Buckingham.”
“No; still he is intrusive. Did he not, on his arrival here, almost
succeed in creating a disturbance between the English and ourselves;
and, had it not been for you, for your admirable prudence, for your
singular decision of character, swords would have been drawn in the
very streets of the town.”
“You observe, however, that he has changed his tactics.”
“Yes, certainly; but this is the very thing that amazes me so much. You
spoke to him in a low tone of voice, what did you say to him? You think
he loves her; you admit that such a passion does not give way readily.
He does not love her, then!” De Guiche pronounced the latter with so
marked an expression that Raoul raised his head. The noble character of
the young man’s countenance expressed a displeasure which could easily
be read.
“What I said to him, count,” replied Raoul, “I will repeat to you.
Listen to me. I said, ‘You are regarding with wistful feelings, and
most injurious desire, the sister of your prince,—her to whom you are
not affianced, who is not, who can never be anything to you; you are
outraging those who, like ourselves, have come to seek a young lady to
escort her to her husband.’”
“You spoke to him in that manner?” asked Guiche coloring.
“In those very terms; I even added more. ‘How would you regard us,’ I
said, ‘if you were to perceive among us a man mad enough, disloyal
enough, to entertain other than sentiments of the most perfect respect
for a princess who is the destined wife of our master?’”
These words were so applicable to De Guiche that he turned pale, and,
overcome by a sudden agitation, was barely able to stretch out one hand
mechanically towards Raoul, as he covered his eyes and face with the
other.
“But,” continued Raoul, not interrupted by this movement of his friend,
“Heaven be praised, the French who are pronounced to be thoughtless and
indiscreet, reckless, even, are capable of bringing a calm and sound
judgment to bear on matters of such high importance. I added even more,
for I said, ‘Learn, my lord, that we gentlemen of France devote
ourselves to our sovereigns by sacrificing for them our affections, as
well as our fortunes and our lives; and whenever it may chance to
happen that the tempter suggests one of those vile thoughts that set
the heart on fire, we extinguish the flame, even if it has to be done
by shedding our blood for the purpose. Thus it is that the honor of
three is saved: our country’s, our master’s, and our own. It is thus
that we act, your Grace; it is thus that every man of honor ought to
act. In this manner, my dear Guiche,” continued Raoul, “I addressed the
Duke of Buckingham; and he admitted I was right, and resigned himself
unresistingly to my arguments.”
De Guiche, who had hitherto sat leaning forward while Raoul was
speaking, drew himself up, his eyes glancing proudly; he seized Raoul’s
hand, his face, which had been as cold as ice, seemed on fire. “And you
spoke magnificently,” he said, in a half-choked voice; “you are indeed
a friend, Raoul. But now, I entreat you, leave me to myself.”
“Do you wish it?”
“Yes; I need repose. Many things have agitated me to-day, both in mind
and body; when you return tomorrow I shall no longer be the same man.”
“I leave you, then,” said Raoul, as he withdrew. The count advanced a
step towards his friend, and pressed him warmly in his arms. But in
this friendly pressure Raoul could detect the nervous agitation of a
great internal conflict.
The night was clear, starlit, and splendid; the tempest had passed
away, and the sweet influences of the evening had restored life, peace
and security everywhere. A few fleecy clouds were floating in the
heavens, and indicated from their appearance a continuance of beautiful
weather, tempered by a gentle breeze from the east. Upon the large
square in front of the hotel, the shadows of the tents, intersected by
the golden moonbeams, formed as it were a huge mosaic of jet and yellow
flagstones. Soon, however, the entire town was wrapped in slumber; a
feeble light still glimmered in Madame’s apartment, which looked out
upon the square, and the soft rays from the expiring lamp seemed to be
the image of the calm sleep of a young girl, hardly yet sensible of
life’s anxieties, and in whom the flame of existence sinks placidly as
sleep steals over the body.
Bragelonne quitted the tent with the slow and measured step of a man
curious to observe, but anxious not to be seen. Sheltered behind the
thick curtains of his own tent, embracing with a glance the whole
square, he noticed that, after a few moments’ pause, the curtains of De
Guiche’s tent were agitated, and then drawn partially aside. Behind
them he could perceive the shadow of De Guiche, his eyes glittering in
the obscurity, fastened ardently upon the princess’s sitting apartment,
which was partially lighted by the lamp in the inner room. The soft
light which illumined the windows was the count’s star. The fervent
aspirations of his nature could be read in his eyes. Raoul, concealed
in the shadow, divined the many passionate thoughts that established,
between the tent of the young ambassador and the balcony of the
princess, a mysterious and magical bond of sympathy—a bond created by
thoughts imprinted with so much strength and persistence of will, that
they must have caused happy and loving dreams to alight upon the
perfumed couch, which the count, with the eyes of his soul, devoured so
eagerly.
But De Guiche and Raoul were not the only watchers. The window of one
of the houses looking on the square was opened too, the casement of the
house where Buckingham resided. By the aid of the rays of light which
issued from this latter, the profile of the duke could be distinctly
seen, as he indolently reclined upon the carved balcony with its velvet
hangings; he also was breathing in the direction of the princess’s
apartment his prayers and the wild visions of his love.
Raoul could not resist smiling, as thinking of Madame, he said to
himself, “Hers is, indeed, a heart well besieged;” and then added,
compassionately, as he thought of Monsieur, “and he is a husband well
threatened too; it is a good thing for him that he is a prince of such
high rank, that he has an army to safeguard for him that which is his
own.” Bragelonne watched for some time the conduct of the two lovers,
listened to the loud and uncivil slumbers of Manicamp, who snored as
imperiously as though he was wearing his blue and gold, instead of his
violet suit.
Then he turned towards the night breeze which bore towards him, he
seemed to think, the distant song of the nightingale; and, after having
laid in a due provision of melancholy, another nocturnal malady, he
retired to rest thinking, with regard to his own love affair, that
perhaps four or even a larger number of eyes, quite as ardent as those
of De Guiche and Buckingham, were coveting his own idol in the chateau
at Blois. “And Mademoiselle de Montalais is by no means a very
conscientious garrison,” said he to himself, sighing aloud.