Louise de la Valliere by Alexandre Dumas (best sales books of all time TXT) 📗
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
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“In whose room, then?”
“I have told you for the last hour that I know nothing of the whole affair.”
“But the painter, then? the portrait—”
“It seems that the king wished to have the portrait of one of the ladies belonging to the court.”
“La Valliere?”
“Why, you seem to have only that name in your mouth. Who spoke to you of La Valliere?”
“If it be not her portrait, then, why do you suppose it would concern me?”
“I do not suppose it will concern you. But you ask me all sorts of questions, and I answer you. You positively will learn all the scandal of the affair, and I tell you—make the best you can of it.”
Raoul struck his forehead with his hand in utter despair. “It will kill me!” he said.
“So you have said already.”
“Yes, you are right,” and he made a step or two, as if he were going to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“To look for some one who will tell me the truth.”
“Who is that?”
“A woman.”
“Mademoiselle de la Valliere herself, I suppose you mean?” said D’Artagnan, with a smile. “Ah! a famous idea that! You wish to be consoled by some one, and you will be so at once. She will tell you nothing ill of herself, of course. So be off.”
“You are mistaken, monsieur,” replied Raoul; “the woman I mean will tell me all the evil she possibly can.”
“You allude to Montalais, I suppose—her friend; a woman who, on that account, will exaggerate all that is either bad or good in the matter. Do not talk to Montalais, my good fellow.”
“You have some reasons for wishing me not to talk with Montalais?”
“Well, I admit it. And, in point of fact, why should I play with you as a cat does with a poor mouse? You distress me, you do, indeed. And if I wish you not to speak to Montalais just now, it is because you will be betraying your secret, and people will take advantage of it. Wait, if you can.”
“I cannot.”
“So much the worse. Why, you see, Raoul, if I had an idea,—but I have not got one.”
“Promise me that you will pity me, my friend, that is all I need, and leave me to get out of the affair by myself.”
“Oh! yes, indeed, in order that you may get deeper into the mire! A capital idea, truly! go and sit down at that table and take a pen in your hand.”
“What for?”
“To write and ask Montalais to give you an interview.”
“Ah!” said Raoul, snatching eagerly at the pen which the captain held out to him.
Suddenly the door opened, and one of the musketeers, approaching D’Artagnan, said, “Captain, Mademoiselle de Montalais is here, and wishes to speak to you.”
“To me?” murmured D’Artagnan. “Ask her to come in; I shall soon see,” he said to himself, “whether she wishes to speak to me or not.”
The cunning captain was quite right in his suspicions; for as soon as Montalais entered she exclaimed, “Oh, monsieur! monsieur! I beg your pardon, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“Oh! I forgive you, mademoiselle,” said D’Artagnan; “I know that, at my age, those who are looking for me generally need me for something or another.”
“I was looking for M. de Bragelonne,” replied Montalais.
“How very fortunate that is; he was looking for you, too. Raoul, will you accompany Mademoiselle de Montalais?”
“Oh! certainly.”
“Go along, then,” he said, as he gently pushed Raoul out of the cabinet; and then, taking hold of Montalais’s hand, he said, in a low voice, “Be kind towards him; spare him, and spare her, too, if you can.”
“Ah!” she said, in the same tone of voice, “it is not I who am going to speak to him.”
“Who, then?”
“It is Madame who has sent for him.”
“Very good,” cried D’Artagnan, “it is Madame, is it? In an hour’s time, then, the poor fellow will be cured.”
“Or else dead,” said Montalais, in a voice full of compassion. “Adieu, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” she said; and she ran to join Raoul, who was waiting for her at a little distance from the door, very much puzzled and thoroughly uneasy at the dialogue, which promised no good augury for him.
Chapter LII. Two Jealousies.
Lovers are tender towards everything that forms part of the daily life of the object of their affection. Raoul no sooner found himself alone with Montalais, than he kissed her hand with rapture. “There, there,” said the young girl, sadly, “you are throwing your kisses away; I will guarantee that they will not bring you back any interest.”
“How so?—Why?—Will you explain to me, my dear Aure?”
“Madame will explain everything to you. I am going to take you to her apartments.
“What!”
“Silence! and throw away your dark and savage looks. The windows here have eyes, the walls have ears. Have the kindness not to look at me any longer; be good enough to speak to me aloud of the rain, of the fine weather, and of the charms of England.”
“At all events—” interrupted Raoul.
“I tell you, I warn you, that wherever people may be, I know not how, Madame is sure to have eyes and ears open. I am not very desirous, you can easily believe, of being dismissed or thrown in to the Bastile. Let us talk, I tell you, or rather, do not let us talk at all.”
Raoul clenched his hands, and tried to assume the look and gait of a man of courage, it is true, but of a man of courage on his way to the torture chamber. Montalais, glancing in every direction, walking along with an easy swinging gait, and holding up her head pertly in the air, preceded him to Madame’s apartments, where he was at once introduced. “Well,” he thought,
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