Louise de la Valliere
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Aramis bit his lips, and something like a cloud seemed to pass over his face. The thunder behind this cloud could easily be imagined. He still kept his hold on Vanel. “You have purchased the appointment for fifteen hundred thousand francs, I think. Well, you will receive these fifteen hundred thousand francs back again; by paying M. Fouquet a visit, and shaking hands with him on the bargain, you will have become a gainer of a million and a half. You get honor and profit at the same time, Monsieur Vanel.”
“I cannot do it,” said Vanel, hoarsely.
“Very well,” replied Aramis, who had grasped Vanel so tightly by the coat that, when he let go his hold, Vanel staggered back a few paces, “very well; one can now see clearly enough your object in coming here.”
“Yes,” said Fouquet, “one can easily see that.”
“But – ” said Vanel, attempting to stand erect before the weakness of these two men of honor.
“Does the fellow presume to speak?” said Aramis, with the tone of an emperor.
“Fellow!” repeated Vanel.
“The scoundrel, I meant to say,” added Aramis, who had now resumed his usual self-possession. “Come, monsieur, produce your deed of sale, – you have it about you, I suppose, in one of your pockets, already prepared, as an assassin holds his pistol or his dagger concealed under his cloak.”
Vanel began to mutter something.
“Enough!” cried Fouquet. “Where is this deed?”
Vanel tremblingly searched in his pockets, and as he drew out his pocket-book, a paper fell out of it, while Vanel offered the other to Fouquet. Aramis pounced upon the paper which had fallen out, as soon as he recognized the handwriting. “I beg your pardon,” said Vanel, “that is a rough draft of the deed.”
“I see that very clearly,” retorted Aramis, with a smile more cutting than a lash of a whip; “and what I admire most is, that this draft is in M. Colbert’s handwriting. Look, monseigneur, look.”
And he handed the draft to Fouquet, who recognized the truth of the fact; for, covered with erasures, with inserted words, the margins filled with additions, this deed – a living proof of Colbert’s plot – had just revealed everything to its unhappy victim. “Well!” murmured Fouquet.
Vanel, completely humiliated, seemed as if he were looking for some hole wherein to hide himself.
“Well!” said Aramis, “if your name were not Fouquet, and if your enemy’s name were not Colbert – if you had not this mean thief before you, I should say to you, ‘Repudiate it;’ such a proof as this absolves you from your word; but these fellows would think you were afraid; they would fear you less than they do; therefore sign the deed at once.” And he held out a pen towards him.
Fouquet pressed Aramis’s hand; but, instead of the deed which Vanel handed to him, he took the rough draft of it.
“No, not that paper,” said Aramis, hastily; “this is the one. The other is too precious a document for you to part with.”
“No, no!” replied Fouquet; “I will sign under M. Colbert’s own handwriting even; and I write, ‘The handwriting is approved of.’” He then signed, and said, “Here it is, Monsieur Vanel.” And the latter seized the paper, dashed down the money, and was about to make his escape.
“One moment,” said Aramis. “Are you quite sure the exact amount is there? It ought to be counted over, Monsieur Vanel; particularly since M. Colbert makes presents of money to ladies, I see. Ah, that worthy M. Colbert is not so generous as M. Fouquet.” And Aramis, spelling every word, every letter of the order to pay, distilled his wrath and his contempt, drop by drop, upon the miserable wretch, who had to submit to this torture for a quarter of an hour. He was then dismissed, not in words, but by a gesture, as one dismisses or discharges a beggar or a menial.
As soon as Vanel had gone, the minister and the prelate, their eyes fixed on each other, remained silent for a few moments.
“Well,” said Aramis, the first to break the silence; “to what can that man be compared, who, at the very moment he is on the point of entering into a conflict with an enemy armed from head to foot, panting for his life, presents himself for the contest utterly defenseless, throws down his arms, and smiles and kisses his hands to his adversary in the most gracious manner? Good faith, M. Fouquet, is a weapon which scoundrels frequently make use of against men of honor, and it answers their purpose. Men of honor, ought, in their turn, also, to make use of dishonest means against such scoundrels. You would soon see how strong they would become, without ceasing to be men of honor.”
“What they did would be termed the acts of a scoundrel,” replied Fouquet.
“Far from that; it would be merely coquetting or playing with the truth. At all events, since you have finished with this Vanel; since you have deprived yourself of the happiness of confounding him by repudiating your word; and since you have given up, for the purpose of being used against yourself, the only weapon which can ruin you – ”
“My dear friend,” said Fouquet, mournfully, “you are like the teacher of philosophy whom La Fontaine was telling us about the other day; he saw a child drowning, and began to read him a lecture divided into three heads.”
Aramis smiled as he said, “Philosophy – yes; teacher – yes; a drowning child – yes; but a child can be saved – you shall see. But first of all let us talk about business. Did you not some time ago,” he continued, as Fouquet looked at him with a bewildered air, “speak to me about an idea you had of giving a fete at Vaux?”
“Oh!” said Fouquet, “that was when affairs were flourishing.”
“A fete, I believe, to which the king invited himself of his own accord?”
“No, no, my dear prelate; a fete to which M. Colbert advised the king to invite himself.”
“Ah – exactly; as it would be a fete of so costly a character that you would be ruined in giving it.”
“Precisely so. In happier days, as I said just now, I had a kind of pride in showing my enemies how inexhaustible my resources were; I felt it a point of honor to strike them with amazement, by creating millions under circumstances where they imagined nothing but bankruptcies and failures would follow. But, at present, I am arranging my accounts with the state, with the king, with myself; and I must now become a mean, stingy man; I shall be able to prove to the world that I can act or operate with my deniers as I used to do with my bags of pistoles, and from to-morrow my equipages shall be sold, my mansions mortgaged, my expenses curtailed.”
“From to-morrow,” interrupted Aramis, quietly, “you will occupy yourself, without the slightest delay, with your fete at Vaux, which must hereafter be spoken of as one of the most magnificent productions of your most prosperous days.”
“Are you mad, Chevalier d’Herblay?”
“I! do you think so?”
“What do you mean, then? Do you not know that a fete at Vaux, one of the very simplest possible character, would cost four or five millions?”
“I do not speak of a fete of the very simplest possible character, my dear superintendent.”
“But, since the fete is to be given to the king,” replied Fouquet, who misunderstood Aramis’s idea, “it cannot be simple.”
“Just so: it ought to be on a scale of the most unbounded magnificence.”
“In that case, I shall have to spend ten or twelve millions.”
“You shall spend twenty, if you require it,” said Aramis, in a perfectly calm voice.
“Where shall I get them?” exclaimed Fouquet.
“That is my affair, monsieur le surintendant; and do not be uneasy for a moment about it. The money shall be placed at once at your disposal, the moment you have arranged the plans of your fete.”
“Chevalier! chevalier!” said Fouquet, giddy with amazement, “whither are you hurrying me?”
“Across the gulf into which you were about to fall,” replied the bishop of Vannes. “Take hold of my cloak, and throw fear aside.”
“Why did you not tell me that sooner, Aramis? There was a day when, with one million only, you could have saved me; whilst to-day – ”
“Whilst to-day I can give you twenty,” said the prelate. “Such is the case, however – the reason is very simple. On the day you speak of, I had not the million which you had need of at my disposal, whilst now I can easily procure the twenty millions we require.”
“May Heaven hear you, and save me!”
Aramis resumed his usual smile, the expression of which was so singular. “Heaven never fails to hear me,” he said.
“I abandon myself to you unreservedly,” Fouquet murmured.
“No, no; I do not understand it in that manner. I am unreservedly devoted to you. Therefore, as you have the clearest, the most delicate, and the most ingenious mind of the two, you shall have entire control over the fete, even to the very smallest details. Only – ”
“Only?” said Fouquet, as a man accustomed to understand and appreciate the value of a parenthesis.
“Well, then, leaving the entire invention of the details to you, I shall reserve to myself a general superintendence over the execution.”
“In what way?”
“I mean, that you will make of me, on that day, a major-domo, a sort of inspector-general, or factotum – something between a captain of the guard and manager or steward. I will look after the people, and will keep the keys of the doors. You will give your orders, of course: but will give them to no one but me. They will pass through my lips, to reach those for whom they are intended – you understand?”
“No, I am very far from understanding.”
“But you agree?”
“Of course, of course, my friend.”
“That is all I care about, then. Thanks; and now go and prepare your list of invitations.”
“Whom shall I invite?”
“Everybody you know.”
Chapter L: In Which the Author Thinks It Is High Time to Return to the Vicomte de Bragelonne
Our readers will have observed in this story, the adventures of the new and of the past generation being detailed, as it were, side by side. He will have noticed in the former, the reflection of the glory of earlier years, the experience of the bitter things of this world; in the former, also, that peace which takes possession of the heart, and that healing of the scars which were formerly deep and painful wounds. In the latter, the conflicts of love and vanity; bitter disappointments, ineffable delights; life instead of memory. If, therefore, any variety has been presented to the reader in the different episodes of this tale, it is to be attributed to the numerous shades of color which are presented on this double tablet, where two pictures are seen side by side, mingling and harmonizing their severe and pleasing tones. The repose of the emotions of one is found in harmonious contrast with the fiery sentiments of the other. After having talked reason with older heads, one loves to talk nonsense with youth. Therefore, if the threads of the story do not seem very intimately to connect the chapter we are now writing with the one we have just written, we do not intend to give ourselves any more thought or trouble about it than Ruysdael took in painting an autumn sky, after having finished a spring-time scene. We accordingly resume Raoul de Bragelonne’s story at the very place where our last sketch left him.
In a state of frenzy and dismay, or rather without power or will of his own, – hardly knowing what he was doing, – he fled swiftly, after the scene in La Valliere’s chamber, that strange exclusion, Louise’s grief, Montalais’s terror, the king’s wrath – all seemed to indicate some misfortune. But what? He had arrived from London because he had been told of the existence of a danger; and almost on his arrival this appearance of danger was manifest. Was not this sufficient for a lover? Certainly it was, but it was insufficient for a pure and upright heart such as his. And yet Raoul did not seek for explanations in the very quarter where more jealous or less timid lovers would have done. He did not go straightaway to his mistress, and say, “Louise, is it true that you love me no longer? Is it true that you love another?” Full of courage, full of friendship as he was full of love; a religious observer of his word, and believing blindly the word of others, Raoul said within himself, “Guiche wrote to put me on my guard, Guiche knows something; I will go and ask Guiche what he knows, and tell him what I have seen.” The journey was not a long one. Guiche, who had been brought from Fontainebleau to Paris within the last two days, was beginning to recover from his wounds, and to walk about a little in his room. He uttered a cry of joy as he saw Raoul, with the eagerness of friendship, enter the apartment. Raoul was unable to refrain from a cry of grief, when he saw De Guiche, so pale, so thin, so melancholy. A very few words, and a simple gesture which De Guiche made to put aside Raoul’s arm, were sufficient to inform the latter of the truth.
“Ah! so it is,” said Raoul, seating himself beside his friend; “one loves and dies.”
“No, no, not dies,” replied Guiche, smiling, “since I am now recovering, and since, too, I can press you in my arms.”
“Ah! I understand.”
“And I understand you, too. You fancy I am unhappy, Raoul?”
“Alas!”
“No; I am the happiest of men. My body suffers, but not my mind or my heart. If you only knew – Oh! I am, indeed, the very happiest of men.”
“So much the better,” said Raoul; “so much the better, provided it lasts.”
“It is over. I have had enough happiness to last me to my dying day, Raoul.”
“I have no doubt you have had; but she – ”
“Listen; I love her, because – but you are not listening to me.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Your mind is preoccupied.”
“Yes, your health, in the first place – ”
“It is not that, I know.”
“My dear friend, you would be wrong. I think, to ask me any questions —you of all persons in the world;” and he laid so much weight upon the “you,” that he completely enlightened his friend upon the nature of the evil, and the difficulty of remedying it.
“You say that, Raoul, on account of what I wrote to you.”
“Certainly. We will talk over that matter a little, when you have finished telling me of all your own pleasures and your pains.”
“My dear friend, I am entirely at your service.”
“Thank you; I have hurried, I have flown here; I came in half the time the government couriers usually take. Now, tell me, my dear friend, what did you want?”
“Nothing whatever, but to make you come.”
“Well, then, I am here.”
“All is quite right, then.”
“There must have been something else, I suppose?”
“No, indeed.”
“De Guiche!”
“Upon my honor!”
“You cannot possibly have crushed all my hopes so violently, or have exposed me to being disgraced by the king for my return, which is in disobedience of his orders – you cannot, I say, have planted jealousy in my heart, merely to say to me, ‘It is all right, be perfectly easy.’”
“I do not say to you, Raoul, ‘Be perfectly easy;’ but pray understand me; I never will, nor can I, indeed, tell you anything else.”
“What sort of person do you take me for?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you know anything, why conceal it from me? If you do not know anything, why did you write so warningly?”
“True, true, I was very wrong, and I regret having done so, Raoul. It seems nothing to write to a friend and say ‘Come;’ but to have this friend face to face, to feel him tremble, and breathlessly and anxiously wait to hear what one hardly dare tell him, is very difficult.”
“Dare! I have courage enough, if you have not,” exclaimed Raoul, in despair.
“See how unjust you are, and how soon you forget you have to do with a poor wounded fellow such as your unhappy friend is. So, calm yourself, Raoul. I said to you, ‘Come’ – you are here, so ask me nothing further.”
“Your object in telling me to come was your hope that I should see with my own eyes, was it not? Nay, do not hesitate, for I have seen all.”
“Oh!” exclaimed De Guiche.
“Or at least I thought – ”
“There, now, you see you are not sure. But if you have any doubt, my poor friend, what remains for me to do?”
“I saw Louise much agitated – Montalais in a state of bewilderment – the king – ”
“The king?”
“Yes. You turn your head aside. The danger is there, the evil is there; tell me, is it not so, is it not the king?”
“I say nothing.”
“Oh! you say a thousand times more than nothing. Give me facts, for pity’s sake, give me proofs. My friend, the only friend I have, speak – tell me all. My heart is crushed, wounded to death; I am dying from despair.”
“If that really be so, as I see it is, indeed, dear Raoul,” replied De Guiche, “you relieve me from my difficulty, and I will tell you all, perfectly sure that I can tell you nothing but what is consoling, compared to the despair from which I see you suffering.”
“Go on, – go on; I am listening.”
“Well, then, I can only tell you what you might learn from every one you meet.”
“From every one, do you say? It is talked about, then!”
“Before you say people talk about it, learn what it is that people have to talk about. I assure you solemnly, that people only talk about what may, in truth, be very innocent; perhaps a walk – ”
“Ah! a walk with the king?”
“Yes, certainly, a walk with the king; and I believe the king has already very frequently before taken walks with ladies, without on that account – ”
“You would not have written to me, shall I say again, if there had been nothing unusual in this promenade.”
“I know that while the storm lasted, it would have been far better if the king had taken shelter somewhere else, than to have remained with his head uncovered before La Valliere; but the king is so very courteous and polite.”
“Oh! De Guiche, De Guiche, you are killing me!”
“Do not let us talk any more, then.”
“Nay, let us continue. This walk was followed by others, I suppose?”
“No – I mean yes: there was the adventure of the oak, I think. But I know nothing about the matter at all.” Raoul rose; De Guiche endeavored to imitate him, notwithstanding his weakness. “Well, I will not add another word: I have said either too much or not enough. Let others give you further information if they will, or if they can; my duty was to warn you, and that I have done. Watch over your own affairs now, yourself.”
“Question others! Alas! you are no true friend to speak to me in that manner,” said the young man, in utter distress. “The first man I meet may be either evilly disposed or a fool, – if the former, he will tell me a lie to make me suffer more than I do now; if the latter, he will do worse still. Ah! De Guiche, De Guiche, before two hours are over, I shall have been told ten falsehoods, and shall have as many duels on my hands. Save me, then; is it not best to know the worst always?”
“But I know nothing, I tell you; I was wounded, attacked by fever: out of my senses; and I have only a very faint recollection of it all. But there is no reason why we should search very far, when the very man we want is close at hand. Is not D’Artagnan your friend?”
“Oh! true, true!”
“Got to him, then. He will be able to throw sufficient light upon the subject.” At this moment a lackey entered the room. “What is it?” said De Guiche.
“Some one is waiting for monseigneur in the Cabinet des Porcelaines.”
“Very well. Will you excuse me, my dear Raoul? I am so proud since I have been able to walk again.”
“I would offer you my arm, De Guiche, if I did not guess that the person in question is a lady.”
“I believe so,” said De Guiche, smiling as he quitted Raoul.
Raoul remained motionless, absorbed in grief, overwhelmed, like the miner upon whom a vault has just fallen in, who, wounded, his life-blood welling fast, his thoughts confused, endeavors to recover himself, to save his life and to retain his reason. A few minutes were all Raoul needed to dissipate the bewildering sensations occasioned by these two revelations. He had already recovered the thread of his ideas, when, suddenly, through the door, he fancied he recognized Montalais’s voice in the Cabinet des Porcelaines. “She!” he cried. “Yes, it is indeed her voice! She will be able to tell me the whole truth; but shall I question her here? She conceals herself even from me; she is coming, no doubt, from Madame. I will see her in her own apartment. She will explain her alarm, her flight, the strange manner in which I was driven out; she will tell me all that – after M. d’Artagnan, who knows everything, shall have given me a fresh strength and courage. Madame, a coquette I fear, and yet a coquette who is herself in love, has her moments of kindness; a coquette who is as capricious and uncertain as life or death, but who tells De Guiche that he is the happiest of men. He at least is lying on roses.” And so he hastily quitted the comte’s apartments, reproaching himself as he went for having talked of nothing but his own affairs to De Guiche, and soon reached D’Artagnan’s quarters.
Chapter LI. Bragelonne Continues His Inquiries
The captain, sitting buried in his leathern armchair, his spurs fixed in the floor, his sword between his legs, was reading a number of letters, as he twisted his mustache. D’Artagnan uttered a welcome full of pleasure when he perceived his friend’s son. “Raoul, my boy,” he said, “by what lucky accident does it happen that the king has recalled you?”
These words did not sound agreeably in the young man’s ears, who, as he seated himself, replied, “Upon my word I cannot tell you; all that I know is – I have come back.”
“Hum!” said D’Artagnan, folding up his letters and directing a look full of meaning at him; “what do you say, my boy? that the king has not recalled you, and you have returned? I do not understand that at all.”
Raoul was already pale enough; and he now began to turn his hat round and round in his hand.
“What the deuce is the matter that you look as you do, and what makes you so dumb?” said the captain. “Do people nowadays assume that sort of airs in England? I have been in England, and came here again as lively as a chaffinch. Will you not say something?”
“I have too much to say.”
“Ah! how is your father?”
“Forgive me, my dear friend, I was going to ask you that.”
D’Artagnan increased the sharpness of his penetrating gaze, which no secret was capable of resisting. “You are unhappy about something,” he said.
“I am, indeed; and you know the reason very well, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“I?”
“Of course. Nay, do not pretend to be astonished.”
“I am not pretending to be astonished, my friend.”
“Dear captain, I know very well that in all trials of finesse, as well as in all trials of strength, I shall be beaten by you. You can see that at the present moment I am an idiot, an absolute noodle. I have neither head nor arm; do not despise, but help me. In two words, I am the most wretched of living beings.”
“Oh, oh! why that?” inquired D’Artagnan, unbuckling his belt and thawing the asperity of his smile.
“Because Mademoiselle de la Valliere is deceiving me.”
“She is deceiving you,” said D’Artagnan, not a muscle of whose face had moved; “those are big words. Who makes use of them?”
“Every one.”
“Ah! if every one says so, there must be some truth in it. I begin to believe there is fire when I see smoke. It is ridiculous, perhaps, but it is so.”
“Therefore you do believe me?” exclaimed Bragelonne, quickly.
“I never mix myself up in affairs of that kind; you know that very well.”
“What! not for a friend, for a son!”
“Exactly. If you were a stranger, I should tell you – I will tell you nothing at all. How is Porthos, do you know?”
“Monsieur,” cried Raoul, pressing D’Artagnan’s hand, “I entreat you in the name of the friendship you vowed my father!”
“The deuce take it, you are really ill – from curiosity.”
“No, it is not from curiosity, it is from love.”
“Good. Another big word. If you were really in love, my dear Raoul, you would be very different.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that if you were really so deeply in love that I could believe I was addressing myself to your heart – but it is impossible.”
“I tell you I love Louise to distraction.”
D’Artagnan could read to the very bottom of the young man’s heart.