"Oh! no, I know," said the king, "you mean your enterprise of the Greve. That day, you were truly mine, monsieur."
"Sire, it is not of that day I would speak; it would not become me to refer to so paltry a service in the presence of such a man as M. d'Artagnan. I would speak of a circumstance which created an epoch in my life, and which consecrated me, from the age of sixteen, to the devoted service of your majesty."
"Ah! ah!" said the king, "what was that circumstance? Tell me, monsieur."
"This is it, sire.When I was setting out on my first campaign, that is to say, to join the army of monsieur le prince, M. le Comte de la Fere came to conduct me as far as SaintDenis, where the remains of King Louis XIII. wait, upon the lowest steps of the funeral basilique, a successor, whom God will not send him, I hope, for many years. Then he made me swear upon the ashes of our masters, to serve royalty, represented by youincarnate in you, sireto serve it in word, in thought, and in action. I swore, and God and the dead were witnesses to my oath. During ten years, sire, I have not so often as I desired had occasion to keep it. I am a soldier of your majesty, and nothing else; and, on calling me nearer to you, I do not change my master, I only change my garrison."
Raoul was silent and bowed. Louis still listened after he had done speaking.
"Mordioux!" cried D'Artagnan, "that was well spoken! was it not, your majesty? A good race! a noble race!"
"Yes," murmured the king, without, however daring to manifest his emotion, for it had no other cause than contact with a nature intrinsically noble. "Yes, monsieur, you say truly:wherever you were, you were the king's. But in changing your garrison, believe me you will find an advancement of which you are worthy."
Raoul saw that this ended what the king had to say to him. And with the perfect tact which characterized his refined nature, he bowed and retired.
"Is there anything else, monsieur, of which you have to inform me?" said the king, when he found himself again alone with D'Artagnan.
"Yes, sire, and I kept that news for the last, for it is sad, and will clothe European royalty in mourning."
"What do you tell me?"
"Sire, in passing through Blois, a word, a sad word, echoed from the palace, struck my ear."
"In truth, you terrify me, M. d'Artagnan."
"Sire, this word was pronounced to me by a piqueur, who wore crape on his arm."
"My uncle, Gaston of Orleans, perhaps."
"Sire, he has rendered his last sigh."
"And I was not warned of it!" cried the king, whose royal susceptibility saw an insult in the absence of this intelligence.
"Oh! do not be angry, sire," said D'Artagnan; "neither the couriers of Paris, nor the couriers of the whole world, can travel with your servant; the courier from Blois will not be here these two hours, and he rides well, I assure you, seeing that I only passed him on the thither side of Orleans."
"My uncle Gaston," murmured Louis, pressing his hand to his brow, and comprising in those three words all that his memory recalled of that symbol of opposing sentiments.
"Eh! yes, sire, it is thus," said D'Artagnan, philosophically replying to the royal thought, "it is thus the past flies away."
"That is true, monsieur, that is true; but there remains for us, thank God! the future; and we will try to make it not too dark."
"I feel confidence in your majesty on that head," said D'Artagnan, bowing, "and now"
"You are right, monsieur; I had forgotten the hundred leagues you have just ridden. Go, monsieur, take care of one of the best of soldiers, and when you have reposed a little, come and place yourself at my disposal."
"Sire, absent or present, I am always yours."
D'Artagnan bowed and retired. Then, as if he had only come from Fontainebleau, he quickly traversed the Louvre to rejoin Bragelonne.
Chapter II.
A Lover and His Mistress.
Whilst the waxlights were burning in the castle of Blois, around the inanimate body of Gaston of Orleans, that last representative of the past; whilst the bourgeois of the city were thinking out his epitaph, which was far from being a panegyric; whilst madame the dowager, no longer remembering that in her young days she had loved that senseless corpse to such a degree as to fly the paternal palace for his sake, was making, within twenty paces of the funeral apartment, her little calculations of interest and her little sacrifices of pride; other interests and other prides were in agitation in all the parts of the castle into which a living soul could penetrate. Neither the lugubrious sounds of the bells, nor the voices of the chanters, nor the splendor of the waxlights through the windows, nor the preparations for the funeral, had power to divert the attention of two persons, placed at a window of the interior courta window that we are acquainted with, and which lighted a chamber forming part of what were called the little apartments. For the rest, a joyous beam of the sun, for the sun appeared to care little for the loss France had just suffered; a sunbeam, we say, descended upon them, drawing perfumes from the neighboring flowers, and animating the walls themselves. These two persons, so occupied, not by the death of the duke, but by the conversation which was the consequence of that death, were a young woman and a young man. The latter personage, a man of from twentyfive to twentysix years of age, with a mien sometimes lively and sometimes dull, making good use of two large eyes, shaded with long eyelashes, was short of stature and swart of skin; he smiled with an enormous, but wellfurnished mouth, and his pointed chin, which appeared to enjoy a mobility nature does not ordinarily grant to that portion of the countenance, leant from time to time very lovingly towards his interlocutrix, who, we must say, did not always draw back so rapidly as strict propriety had a right to require. The young girlwe know her, for we have already seen her, at that very same window, by the light of that same sunthe young girl presented a singular mixture of shyness and reflection; she was charming when she laughed, beautiful when she became serious; but, let us hasten to say, she was more frequently charming than beautiful. These two appeared to have attained the culminating point of a discussionhalfbantering, halfserious.
"Now, Monsieur Malicorne," said the young girl, "does it, at length, please you that we should talk reasonably?"
"You believe that that is very easy, Mademoiselle Aure," replied the young man. "To do what we like, when we can only do what we are able"
"Good! there he is bewildered in his phrases."
"Who, I?"
"Yes, you; quit that lawyer's logic, my dear."
"Another impossibility. Clerk I am, Mademoiselle de Montalais."
"Demoiselle I am, Monsieur Malicorne."
"Alas, I know it well, and you overwhelm me by your rank; so I will say no more to you."
"Well, no, I don't overwhelm you; say what you have to tell mesay it, I insist upon it."
"Well, I obey you."
"That is truly fortunate."
"Monsieur is dead."
"Ah, peste! that's news! And where do you come from, to be able to tell us that?"
"I come from Orleans, mademoiselle."
"And is that all the news you bring?"
"Ah, no; I am come to tell you that Madame Henrietta of England is coming to marry the king's brother."
"Indeed, Malicorne, you are insupportable with your news of the last century. Now, mind, if you persist in this bad habit of laughing at people, I will have you turned out."
"Oh!"
"Yes, for really you exasperate me."
"There, there. Patience, mademoiselle."
"You want to make yourself of consequence; I know well enough why. Go!"
"Tell me, and I will answer you frankly, yes, if the thing be true."
"You know that I am anxious to have that commission of lady of honor, which I have been foolish enough to ask of you, and you do not use your credit."
"Who, I?" Malicorne cast down his eyes, joined his hands, and assumed his sullen air. "And what credit can the poor clerk of a procurer have, pray?"
"Your father has not twenty thousand livres a year for nothing, M. Malicorne."
"A provincial fortune, Mademoiselle de Montalais."
"Your father is not in the secrets of monsieur le prince for nothing."
"An advantage which is confined to lending monseigneur money."
"In a word, you are not the most cunning young fellow in the province for nothing."
"You flatter me!"
"Who, I?"
"Yes, you."
"How so?"
"Since I maintain that I have no credit, and you maintain I have."
"Well, then,my commission?"
"Well,your commission?"
"Shall I have it, or shall I not?"
"You shall have it."
"Ay, but when?"
"When you like."
"Where is it, then?"
"In my pocket."
"Howin your pocket?"
"Yes."
And, with a smile, Malicorne drew from his pocket a letter, upon which mademoiselle seized as a prey, and which she read eagerly. As she read, her face brightened.
"Malicorne," cried she after having read it, "In truth, you are a good lad."
"What for, mademoiselle?"
"Because you might have been paid for this commission, and you have not." And she burst into a loud laugh, thinking to put the clerk out of countenance; but Malicorne sustained the attack bravely.
"I do not understand you," said he. It was now Montalais who was disconcerted in her turn. "I have declared my sentiments to you," continued Malicorne. "You have told me three times, laughing all the while, that you did not love me; you have embraced me once without laughing, and that is all I want."
"All?" said the proud and coquettish Montalais, in a tone through which the wounded pride was visible.
"Absolutely all, mademoiselle," replied Malicorne.
"Ah!"And this monosyllable indicated as much anger as the young man might have expected gratitude. He shook his head quietly.
"Listen, Montalais," said he, without heeding whether that familiarity pleased his mistress or not; "let us not dispute about it."
"And why not?"
"Because during the year which I have known you, you might have had me turned out of doors twenty times if I did not please you."
"Indeed; and on what account should I have had you turned out?"
"Because I have been sufficiently impertinent for that."
"Oh, that,yes, that's true."
"You see plainly that you are forced to avow it," said Malicorne.
"Monsieur Malicorne!"
"Don't let us be angry; if you have retained me, then it has not been without cause."
"It is not, at least, because I love you," cried Montalais.
"Granted. I will even say, at this moment, I am certain that you hate me."
"Oh, you have never spoken so truly."
"Well, on my part, I detest you."
"Ah! I take the act."
"Take it. You find me brutal and foolish; on my part I find you have a harsh voice, and your face is too often distorted with anger. At this moment you would allow yourself to be thrown out of that window rather than allow me to kiss the tip of your finger; I would precipitate myself from the top of the balcony rather than touch the hem of your robe. But, in five minutes, you will love me, and I shall adore you. Oh, it is just so."
"I doubt it."
"And I swear it."
"Coxcomb!"
"And then, that is not the true reason. You stand in need of me, Aure, and I of you. When it pleases you to be gay, I make you laugh; when it suits me to be loving, I look at you. I have given you a commission of lady of honor which you wished for; you will give me, presently, something I wish for."
"I will?"
"Yes, you will; but, at this moment, my dear Aure, I declare to you that I wish for absolutely nothing, so be at ease."