An Account of what the Chevalier de Lorraine thought of Madame
Nothing further interrupted the journey. Under a pretext that was
little remarked, M. de Wardes went forward in advance of the others. He
took Manicamp with him, for his equable and dreamy disposition acted as
a counterpoise to his own. It is a subject of remark, that quarrelsome
and restless characters invariably seek the companionship of gentle,
timorous dispositions, as if the former sought, in the contrast, a
repose for their own ill-humor, and the latter a protection for their
weakness. Buckingham and Bragelonne admitting De Guiche into their
friendship, in concert with him, sang the praises of the princess
during the whole of the journey. Bragelonne had, however, insisted that
their three voices should be in concert, instead of singing in solo
parts, as De Guiche and his rival seemed to have acquired a dangerous
habit of investigation. This style of harmony pleased the queen-mother
exceedingly, but it was not perhaps so agreeable to the young princess,
who was an incarnation of coquetry, and who, without any fear as far as
her own voice was concerned, sought opportunities of so perilously
distinguishing herself. She possessed one of those fearless and
incautious dispositions that find gratification in an excess of
sensitiveness of feeling, and for whom, also, danger has a certain
fascination. And so her glances, her smiles, her toilette, an
inexhaustible armory of weapons of offense, were showered on the three
young men with overwhelming force; and, from her well-stored arsenal
issued glances, kindly recognitions, and a thousand other little
charming attentions which were intended to strike at long range the
gentlemen who formed the escort, the townspeople, the officers of the
different cities she passed through, pages, populace, and servants; it
was wholesale slaughter, a general devastation. By the time Madame
arrived at Paris, she had reduced to slavery about a hundred thousand
lovers: and brought in her train to Paris half a dozen men who were
almost mad about her, and two who were, indeed, literally out of their
minds. Raoul was the only person who divined the power of this woman’s
attraction, and as his heart was already engaged, he arrived in the
capital full of indifference and distrust. Occasionally during the
journey he conversed with the queen of England respecting the power of
fascination which Madame possessed, and the mother, whom so many
misfortunes and deceptions had taught experience, replied: “Henrietta
was sure to be illustrious in one way or another, whether born in a
palace or born in obscurity; for she is a woman of great imagination,
capricious and self-willed.” De Wardes and Manicamp, in their
self-assumed character of courtiers, had announced the princess’s
arrival. The procession was met at Nanterre by a brilliant escort of
cavaliers and carriages. It was Monsieur himself, followed by the
Chevalier de Lorraine and by his favorites, the latter being themselves
followed by a portion of the king’s military household, who had arrived
to meet his affianced bride. At St. Germain, the princess and her
mother had changed their heavy traveling carriage, somewhat impaired by
the journey, for a light, richly decorated chariot drawn by six horses
with white and gold harness. Seated in this open carriage, as though
upon a throne, and beneath a parasol of embroidered silk, fringed with
feathers, sat the young and lovely princess, on whose beaming face were
reflected the softened rose-tints which suited her delicate skin to
perfection. Monsieur, on reaching the carriage, was struck by her
beauty; he showed his admiration in so marked a manner that the
Chevalier de Lorraine shrugged his shoulders as he listened to his
compliments, while Buckingham and De Guiche were almost heart-broken.
After the usual courtesies had been rendered, and the ceremony
completed, the procession slowly resumed the road to Paris. The
presentations had been carelessly made, and Buckingham, with the rest
of the English gentlemen, had been introduced to Monsieur, from whom
they had received but very indifferent attention. But, during their
progress, as he observed that the duke devoted himself with his
accustomed earnestness to the carriage-door, he asked the Chevalier de
Lorraine, his inseparable companion, “Who is that cavalier?”
“He was presented to your highness a short while ago; it is the
handsome Duke of Buckingham.”
“Ah, yes, I remember.”
“Madame’s knight,” added the favorite, with an inflection of the voice
which envious minds can alone give to the simplest phrases.
“What do you say?” replied the prince.
“I said ‘Madame’s knight.’”
“Has she a recognized knight, then?”
“One would think you can judge of that for yourself; look, only, how
they are laughing and flirting. All three of them.”
“What do you mean by all three?”
“Do you not see that De Guiche is one of the party?”
“Yes, I see. But what does that prove?”
“That Madame has two admirers instead of one.”
“Thou poison the simplest thing!”
“I poison nothing. Ah! your royal highness’s mind is perverted. The
honors of the kingdom of France are being paid to your wife and you are
not satisfied.”
The Duke of Orleans dreaded the satirical humor of the Chevalier de
Lorraine whenever it reached a certain degree of bitterness, and he
changed the conversation abruptly. “The princess is pretty,” said he,
very negligently, as if he were speaking of a stranger.
“Yes,” replied the chevalier, in the same tone.
“You say ‘yes’ like a ‘no.’ She has very beautiful black eyes.”
“Yes, but small.”
“That is so, but they are brilliant. She is tall, and of a good
figure.”
“I fancy she stoops a little, my lord?”
“I do not deny it. She has a noble appearance.”
“Yes, but her face is thin.”
“I thought her teeth beautiful.”
“They can easily be seen, for her mouth is large enough. Decidedly, I
was wrong, my lord; you are certainly handsomer than your wife.”
“But do you think me as handsome as Buckingham?”
“Certainly, and he thinks so, too; for look, my lord, he is redoubling
his attentions to Madame to prevent your effacing the impression he has
made.”
Monsieur made a movement of impatience, but as he noticed a smile of
triumph pass across the chevalier’s lips, he drew up his horse to a
foot-pace. “Why,” said he, “should I occupy myself any longer about my
cousin? Do I not already know her? Were we not brought up together? Did
I not see her at the Louvre when she was quite a child?”
“A great change has taken place in her since then, prince. At the
period you allude to, she was somewhat less brilliant, and scarcely so
proud, either. One evening, particularly, you may remember, my lord,
the king refused to dance with her, because he thought her plain and
badly dressed!”
These words made the Duke of Orleans frown. It was by no means
flattering for him to marry a princess of whom, when young, the king
had not thought much. He would probably have retorted, but at this
moment De Guiche quitted the carriage to join the prince. He had
remarked the prince and the chevalier together, and full of anxious
attention he seemed to try and guess the nature of the remarks which
they had just exchanged. The chevalier, whether he had some treacherous
object in view, or from imprudence, did not take the trouble to
dissimulate. “Count,” he said, “you’re a man of excellent taste.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” replied De Guiche; “but why do you say
that?”
“Well, I appeal to his highness.”
“No doubt of it,” said Monsieur, “and Guiche knows perfectly well that
I regard him as a most finished cavalier.”
“Well, since that is decided, I resume. You have been in the princess’s
society, count, for the last eight days, have you not?”
“Yes,” replied De Guiche, coloring in spite of himself.
“Well, then, tell us frankly, what do you think of her personal
appearance?”
“Of her personal appearance?” returned De Guiche, stupefied.
“‘Yes; of her appearance, of her mind, of herself, in fact.”
Astounded by this question, De Guiche hesitated answering.
“Come, come, De Guiche,” resumed the chevalier, laughingly, “tell us
your opinion frankly; the prince commands it.”
“Yes, yes,” said the prince, “be frank.”
De Guiche stammered out a few unintelligible words.
“I am perfectly well aware,” returned Monsieur, “that the subject is a
delicate one, but you know you can tell me everything. What do you
think of her?”
In order to avoid betraying his real thoughts, De Guiche had recourse
to the only defense which a man taken by surprise really has, and
accordingly told an untruth. “I do not find Madame,” he said, “either
good or bad looking, yet rather good than bad looking.”
“What! count,” exclaimed the chevalier, “you who went into such
ecstasies and uttered so many exclamations at the sight of her
portrait.”
De Guiche colored violently. Very fortunately his horse, which was
slightly restive, enabled him by a sudden plunge to conceal his
agitation. “What portrait!” he murmured, joining them again. The
chevalier had not taken his eyes off him.
“Yes, the portrait. Was not the miniature a good likeness?”
“I do not remember. I had forgotten the portrait; it quite escaped my
recollection.”
“And yet it made a very marked impression upon you,” said the
chevalier.
“That is not unlikely.”
“Is she witty, at all events?” inquired the duke.
“I believe so, my lord.”
“Is M. de Buckingham witty, too?” said the chevalier.
“I do not know.”
“My own opinion is, that he must be,” replied the chevalier, “for he
makes Madame laugh, and she seems to take no little pleasure in his
society, which never happens to a clever woman when in the company of a
simpleton.”
“Of course, then, he must be clever,” said De Guiche, simply.
At this moment Raoul opportunely arrived, seeing how De Guiche was
pressed by his dangerous questioner, to whom he addressed a remark, and
in that way changed the conversation. The entree was brilliant and
joyous.
The king, in honor of his brother, had directed that the festivities
should be on a scale of the greatest possible magnificence. Madame and
her mother alighted at the Louvre, where, during their exile, they had
so gloomily submitted to obscurity, misery, and privations of every
description. That palace, which had been so inhospitable a residence
for the unhappy daughter of Henry IV., the naked walls, the uneven
floorings, the ceilings matted with cobwebs, the vast dilapidated
chimney-places, the cold hearths on which the charity extended to them
by parliament hardly permitted a fire to glow, was completely altered
in appearance. The richest hangings and the thickest carpets,
glistening flagstones and pictures, with their richly gilded frames; in
every direction could be seen candelabra, mirrors, and furniture and
fittings of the most sumptuous character; in every direction, also,
were guards of the proudest military bearing, with floating plumes,
crowds of attendants and courtiers in the ante-chambers and upon the
staircases. In the courtyards, where the grass had formerly been
allowed to luxuriate, as if the ungrateful Mazarin had thought it a
good idea to let the Parisians perceive that solitude and disorder
were, with misery and despair, the fit accompaniments of fallen
monarchy, the immense courtyards, formerly silent and desolate, were
now thronged with courtiers whose horses were pacing and prancing to
and fro. The carriages were filled with young and beautiful women, who
awaited the opportunity of saluting, as she passed, the daughter of
that daughter of France who, during her widowhood and exile, had
sometimes gone without wood for her fire, and bread for her table, whom
the meanest attendants at the chateau had treated with indifference and
contempt. And so, Madame Henrietta once more returned to the Louvre,
with her heart more swollen with bitter recollections than her
daughter’s, whose disposition was fickle and forgetful, with triumph
and delight. She knew but too well this brilliant reception was paid to
the happy mother of a king restored to his throne, a throne second to
none in Europe, while the worse than indifferent reception she had
before met with was paid to her, the daughter of Henry IV., as a
punishment for having been unfortunate. After the princesses had been
installed in their apartments and had rested, the gentlemen who had
formed their escort, having, in like manner, recovered from their
fatigue, they resumed their accustomed habits and occupations. Raoul
began by setting off to see his father, who had left for Blois. He then
tried to see M. d’Artagnan, who, however, being engaged in the
organization of a military household for the king, could not be found
anywhere. Bragelonne next sought out De Guiche, but the count was
occupied in a long conference with his tailors and with Manicamp, which
consumed his whole time. With the Duke of Buckingham he fared still
worse, for the duke was purchasing horses after horses, diamonds upon
diamonds. He monopolized every embroiderer, jeweler, and tailor that
Paris could boast of. Between De Guiche and himself a vigorous contest
ensued, invariably a courteous one, in which, in order to insure
success, the duke was ready to spend a million; while the Marechal de
Grammont had only allowed his son sixty thousand francs. So Buckingham
laughed and spent his money. Guiche groaned in despair, and would have
shown it more violently, had it not been for the advice De Bragelonne
gave him.
“A million!” repeated De Guiche daily; “I must submit. Why will not the
marechal advance me a portion of my patrimony?”
“Because you would throw it away,” said Raoul.
“What can that matter to him? If I am to die of it, I shall die of it,
and then I shall need nothing further.”
“But what need is there to die?” said Raoul.
“I do not wish to be conquered in elegance by an Englishman.”
“My dear count,” said Manicamp, “elegance is not a costly commodity, it
is only a very difficult accomplishment.”
“Yes, but difficult things cost a good deal of money, and I have only
got sixty thousand francs.”
“A very embarrassing state of things, truly,” said De Wardes; “even if
you spent as much as Buckingham there is only nine hundred and forty
thousand francs difference.”
“Where am I to find them?”
“Get into debt.”
“I am in debt already.”
“A greater reason for getting further.”
Advice like this resulted in De Guiche becoming excited to such an
extent that he committed extravagances where Buckingham only incurred
expenses. The rumor of this extravagant profuseness delighted the
hearts of all the shopkeepers in Paris, from the hotel of the Duke of
Buckingham to that of the Comte de Grammont nothing but miracles was
attempted. While all this was going on, Madame was resting herself, and
Bragelonne was engaged in writing to Mademoiselle de la Vallière. He
had already dispatched four letters, and not an answer to any one of
them had been received, when, on the very morning fixed for the
marriage ceremony, which was to take place in the chapel at the
Palais-Royal, Raoul, who was dressing, heard his valet announce M. de
Malicorne. “What can this Malicorne want with me?” thought Raoul; and
then said to his valet, “Let him wait.”
“It is a gentleman from Blois,” said the valet.
“Admit him at once,” said Raoul, eagerly.
Malicorne entered as brilliant as a star, and wearing a superb sword at
his side. After having saluted Raoul most gracefully, he said: “M. de
Bragelonne, I am the bearer of a thousand compliments from a lady to
you.”
Raoul colored. “From a lady,” said he, “from a lady of Blois?”
“Yes, monsieur; from Mademoiselle de Montalais.”
“Thank you, monsieur; I recollect you now,” said Raoul. “And what does
Mademoiselle de Montalais require of me?”
Malicorne drew four letters from his pocket, which he offered to Raoul.
“My own letters, is it possible?” he said, turning pale; “my letters,
and the seals unbroken?”
“Monsieur, your letters did not find at Blois the person to whom they
were addressed, and so they are now returned to you.”
“Mademoiselle de la Vallière has left Blois, then?” exclaimed Raoul.
“Eight days ago.”
“Where is she, then?”
“In Paris.”
“How was it known that these letters were from me?”
“Mademoiselle de Montalais recognized your handwriting and your seal,”
said Malicorne.
Raoul colored and smiled. “Mademoiselle de Montalais is exceedingly
amiable,” he said; “she is always kind and charming.”
“Always, monsieur.”
“Surely she could give me some precise information about Mademoiselle
de la Vallière. I never could find her in this immense city.”
Malicorne drew another packet from his pocket.
“You may possibly find in this letter what you are anxious to learn.”
Raoul hurriedly broke the seal. The writing was that of Mademoiselle
Aure, and inclosed were these words:—“Paris, Palais-Royal. The day of
the nuptial blessing.”
“What does this mean?” inquired Raoul of Malicorne; “you probably
know.”
“I do, monsieur.”
“For pity’s sake, tell me, then.”
“Impossible, monsieur.”
“Why so?”
“Because Mademoiselle Aure has forbidden me to do so.”
Raoul looked at his strange visitor, and remained silent;—“At least,
tell me whether it is fortunate or unfortunate.”
“That you will see.”
“You are very severe in your reservations.”
“Will you grant me a favor, monsieur?” said Malicorne.
“In exchange for that you refuse me?”
“Precisely.”
“What is it?”
“I have the greatest desire to see the ceremony, and I have no ticket
to admit me, in spite of all the steps I have taken to secure one.
Could you get me admitted?”
“Certainly.”
“Do me this kindness, then, I entreat.”
“Most willingly, monsieur; come with me.”
“I am exceedingly indebted to you, monsieur,” said Malicorne.
“I thought you were a friend of M. de Manicamp.”
“I am, monsieur; but this morning I was with him as he was dressing,
and I let a bottle of blacking fall over his new dress, and he flew at
me sword in hand, so that I was obliged to make my escape. That is the
reason I could not ask him for a ticket. He wanted to kill me.”
“I can well believe it,” laughed Raoul. “I know Manicamp is capable of
killing a man who has been unfortunate enough to commit the crime you
have to reproach yourself with, but I will repair the mischief as far
as you are concerned. I will but fasten my cloak, and shall then be
ready to serve you, not only as a guide, but as your introducer, too.”