Louise de la Valliere by Alexandre Dumas (best sales books of all time TXT) 📗

a memory nearly as good as your own; I remember, I say, that you observed at the time: ‘I do not believe that Mademoiselle de la Valliere loves M. de Bragelonne.’ Is that true?”

The blow told well, but Athos did not draw back. “Sire,” he said, “I have already begged your majesty’s forgiveness; but there are certain particulars in that conversation which are only intelligible from the denouement.”

“Well, what is the denouement, monsieur?”

“This: that your majesty then said, ‘that you would defer the marriage out of regard for M. de Bragelonne’s own interests.’”

The king remained silent. “M. de Bragelonne is now so exceedingly unhappy that he cannot any longer defer asking your majesty for a solution of the matter.”

The king turned pale; Athos looked at him with fixed attention.

“And what,” said the king, with considerable hesitation, “does M. de Bragelonne request?”

“Precisely the very thing that I came to ask your majesty for at my last audience, namely, your majesty’s consent to his marriage.”

The king remained perfectly silent. “The questions which referred to the different obstacles in the way are all now quite removed for us,” continued Athos. “Mademoiselle de la Valliere, without fortune, birth, or beauty, is not the less on that account the only good match in the world for M. de Bragelonne, since he loves this young girl.”

The king pressed his hands impatiently together. “Does your majesty hesitate?” inquired the comte, without losing a particle of either his firmness of his politeness.

“I do not hesitate—I refuse,” replied the king.

Athos paused a moment, as if to collect himself: “I have had the honor,” he said, in a mild tone, “to observe to your majesty that no obstacle now interferes with M. de Bragelonne’s affections, and that his determination seems unalterable.”

“There is my will—and that is an obstacle, I should imagine!”

“That is the most serious of all,” Athos replied quickly.

“Ah!”

“And may we, therefore, be permitted to ask your majesty, with the greatest humility, your reason for this refusal?”

“The reason!—A question to me!” exclaimed the king.

“A demand, sire!”

The king, leaning with both his hands upon the table, said, in a deep tone of concentrated passion: “You have lost all recollection of what is usual at court. At court, please to remember, no one ventures to put a question to the king.”

“Very true, sire; but if men do not question, they conjecture.”

“Conjecture! What may that mean, monsieur?”

“Very frequently, sire, conjecture with regard to a particular subject implies a want of frankness on the part of the king—”

“Monsieur!”

“And a want of confidence on the part of the subject,” pursued Athos, intrepidly.

“You forget yourself,” said the king, hurried away by anger in spite of all his self-control.

“Sire, I am obliged to seek elsewhere for what I thought I should find in your majesty. Instead of obtaining a reply from you, I am compelled to make one for myself.”

The king rose. “Monsieur le comte,” he said, “I have now given you all the time I had at my disposal.” This was a dismissal.

“Sire,” replied the comte, “I have not yet had time to tell your majesty what I came with the express object of saying, and I so rarely see your majesty that I ought to avail myself of the opportunity.”

“Just now you spoke rudely of conjectures; you are now becoming offensive, monsieur.”

“Oh, sire! offend your majesty! I?—never! All my life through I have maintained that kings are above all other men, not only from their rank and power, but from their nobleness of heart and their true dignity of mind. I never can bring myself to believe that my sovereign, he who passed his word to me, did so with a mental reservation.”

“What do you mean? what mental reservation do you allude to?”

“I will explain my meaning,” said Athos, coldly. “If, in refusing Mademoiselle de la Valliere to Monsieur de Bragelonne, your majesty had some other object in view than the happiness and fortune of the vicomte—”

“You perceive, monsieur, that you are offending me.”

“If, in requiring the vicomte to delay his marriage, your majesty’s only object was to remove the gentleman to whom Mademoiselle de la Valliere was engaged—”

“Monsieur! monsieur!”

“I have heard it said so in every direction, sire. Your majesty’s affection for Mademoiselle de la Valliere is spoken of on all sides.”

The king tore his gloves, which he had been biting for some time. “Woe to those,” he cried, “who interfere in my affairs. I have made up my mind to take a particular course, and I will break through every obstacle in my way.”

“What obstacle?” said Athos.

The king stopped short, like a horse which, having taken the bit between his teeth and run away, finds it has slipped it back again, and that his career is checked. “I love Mademoiselle de la Valliere,” he said suddenly, with mingled nobleness of feeling and passion.

“But,” interrupted Athos, “that does not preclude your majesty from allowing M. de Bragelonne to marry Mademoiselle de la Valliere. The sacrifice is worthy of so great a monarch; it is fully merited by M. de Bragelonne, who has already rendered great service to your majesty, and who may well be regarded as a brave and worthy man. Your majesty, therefore, in renouncing the affection you entertain, offers a proof at once of generosity, gratitude, and good policy.”

“Mademoiselle de la Valliere does not love M. de Bragelonne,” said the king, hoarsely.

“Does your majesty know that to be the case?” remarked Athos, with a searching look.

“I do know it.”

“Since a very short time, then; for doubtless, had your majesty known it when I first preferred my request, you would have taken the trouble to inform me of it.”

“Since a very short time, it is true, monsieur.”

Athos remained silent for a moment, and then resumed: “In that case, I do not understand why your majesty should have sent M. de Bragelonne to London. That exile, and most properly so, too, is a matter of astonishment to every one who regards your majesty’s honor with sincere affection.”

“Who presumes to impugn my honor, Monsieur de la Fere?”

“The king’s honor, sire, is made up of