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

persuading the young girl that she had in the king a protector powerful enough for her under any combination of circumstances, and that she had no need of any one else in the world when the king was on her side. In point of fact, at the very first word which the favorite mentioned of the discovery of the famous secret, Louise, in a passion of tears, abandoned herself in utter despair to a sorrow which would have been far from flattering for the king, if he had been a witness of it from one of the corners of the room. Saint-Aignan, in his character of ambassador, felt almost as greatly offended at it as his master himself would have been, and returned to inform the king what he had seen and heard; and it is thus we find him, in a state of great agitation, in the presence of the king, who was, if possible, in a state of even greater flurry than himself.

“But,” said the king to the courtier, when the latter had finished his report, “what did she decide to do? Shall I at least see her presently before supper? Will she come to me, or shall I be obliged to go to her room?”

“I believe, sire, that if your majesty wishes to see her, you will not only have to take the first step in advance, but will have to go the whole way.”

“That I do not mind. Do you think she has yet a secret fancy for young Bragelonne?” muttered the king between his teeth.

“Oh! sire, that is not possible; for it is you alone, I am convinced, Mademoiselle de la Valliere loves, and that, too, with all her heart. But you know that De Bragelonne belongs to that proud race who play the part of Roman heroes.”

The king smiled feebly; he knew how true the illustration was, for Athos had just left him.

“As for Mademoiselle de la Valliere,” Saint-Aignan continued, “she was brought up under the care of the Dowager Madame, that is to say, in the greatest austerity and formality. This young engaged couple coldly exchanged their little vows in the prim presence of the moon and stars; and now, when they find they have to break those vows asunder, it plays the very deuce with them.”

Saint-Aignan thought to have made the king laugh; but on the contrary, from a mere smile Louis passed to the greatest seriousness of manner. He already began to experience that remorse which the comte had promised D’Artagnan he would inflict upon him. He reflected that, in fact, these young persons had loved and sworn fidelity to each other; that one of the two had kept his word, and that the other was too conscientious not to feel her perjury most bitterly. And his remorse was not unaccompanied; for bitter pangs of jealousy began to beset the king’s heart. He did not say another word, and instead of going to pay a visit to his mother, or the queen, or Madame, in order to amuse himself a little, and make the ladies laugh, as he himself used to say, he threw himself into the huge armchair in which his august father Louis XIII. had passed so many weary days and years in company with Barradat and Cinq-Mars. Saint-Aignan perceived the king was not to be amused at that moment; he tried a last resource, and pronounced Louise’s name, which made the king look up immediately. “What does your majesty intend to do this evening—shall Mademoiselle de la Valliere be informed of your intention to see her?”

“It seems she is already aware of that,” replied the king. “No, no, Saint-Aignan,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, “we will both of us pass our time in thinking, and musing, and dreaming; when Mademoiselle de la Valliere shall have sufficiently regretted what she now regrets, she will deign, perhaps, to give us some news of herself.”

“Ah! sire, is it possible you can so misunderstand her heart, which is so full of devotion?”

The king rose, flushed from vexation and annoyance; he was a prey to jealousy as well as to remorse. Saint-Aignan was just beginning to feel that his position was becoming awkward, when the curtain before the door was raised. The king turned hastily round; his first idea was that a letter from Louise had arrived; but, instead of a letter of love, he only saw his captain of musketeers, standing upright, and perfectly silent in the doorway. “M. d’Artagnan,” he said, “ah! Well, monsieur?”

D’Artagnan looked at Saint-Aignan; the king’s eyes took the same direction as those of his captain; these looks would have been clear to any one, and for a still greater reason they were so for Saint-Aignan. The courtier bowed and quitted the room, leaving the king and D’Artagnan alone.

“Is it done?” inquired the king.

“Yes, sire,” replied the captain of the musketeers, in a grave voice, “it is done.”

The king was unable to say another word. Pride, however, obliged him not to pause at what he had done; whenever a sovereign has adopted a decisive course, even though it be unjust, he is compelled to prove to all witnesses, and particularly to prove it to himself, that he was quite right all through. A good means for effecting that—an almost infallible means, indeed—is, to try and prove his victim to be in the wrong. Louis, brought up by Mazarin and Anne of Austria, knew better than any one else his vocation as a monarch; he therefore endeavored to prove it on the present occasion. After a few moment’s pause, which he had employed in making silently to himself the same reflections which we have just expressed aloud, he said, in an indifferent tone: “What did the comte say?”

“Nothing at all, sire.”

“Surely he did not allow himself to be arrested without saying something?”

“He said he expected to be arrested, sire.”

The king raised his head haughtily. “I presume,” he said, “that M. le Comte de la Fere has not continued to play his obstinate and rebellious part.”

“In the first place, sire, what do you wish to signify by rebellious?” quietly asked the musketeer. “A rebel, in the eyes of the king, is a man who not only allows himself to be shut up in the Bastile, but still more, who opposes those who do not wish to take him there.”

“Who do not wish to take him there!” exclaimed the king. “What do you say, captain! Are you mad?”

“I believe not, sire.”

“You speak of persons who did not wish to arrest M. de la Fere! Who are those persons, may I ask?”

“I should say those whom your majesty intrusted with that duty.”

“But it was you whom I intrusted with it,” exclaimed the king.

“Yes, sire; it was I.”

“And yet you say that, despite my orders, you had the intention of not arresting the man who had insulted me!”

“Yes, sire—that was really my intention. I even proposed to the comte to mount a horse that I had prepared for him at the Barriere de la Conference.”

“And what was your object in getting this horse ready?”