Louise De La Valliere by Alexandre Dumas, Pere - HTML preview

Chapter 51

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. "Impossible, I tell you," he said. "You are like all young men; you are not in love, you are out of your senses."
"Well! suppose it were only that?"
"No sensible man ever succeeded in making much of a brain when the head was turned. I have completely lost my senses in the same way a hundred times in my life. You would listen to me, but you would not hear me! you would hear, but you would not understand me; you would understand, but you would not obey me." "Oh! try, try."
"I go far. Even if I were unfortunate enough to know something, and foolish enough to communicate it to you - You are my friend, you say?"
"Indeed, yes."
"Very good. I should quarrel with you. You would never forgive me for having destroyed your illusion, as people say in love affairs."
"Monsieur d'Artagnan, you know all; and yet you plunge me in perplexity and despair, in death itself."
"There, there now."
"I never complain, as you know; but as Heaven and my father would never forgive me for blowing out my brains, I will go and get the first person I meet to give me the information which you withhold; I will tell him he lies, and - " "And you would kill him. And a fine affair that would be. So much the better. What should I care? Kill any one you please, my boy, if it gives you any pleasure. It is exactly like a man with a toothache, who keeps on saying, "Oh! what torture I am suffering. I could bite a piece of iron in half.' My answer always is, 'Bite, my friend, bite; the tooth will remain all the same.'"
"I shall not kill any one, monsieur," said Raoul, gloomily.
"Yes, yes! you now assume a different tone: instead of killing, you will get killed yourself, I suppose you mean? Very fine, indeed! How much I should regret you! Of course I should go about all day, saying, 'Ah! what a fine stupid fellow that Bragelonne was! as great a stupid as I ever met with. I have passed my whole life almost in teaching him how to hold and use his sword properly, and the silly fellow has got himself spitted like a lark.' Go, then, Raoul, go and get yourself disposed of, if you like. I hardly know who can have taught you logic, but deuce take me if your father has not been regularly robbed of his money." Raoul buried his face in his hands, murmuring: "No, no; I have not a single friend in the world."
"Oh! bah!" said D'Artagnan.
"I meet with nothing but raillery or indifference."
"Idle fancies, monsieur. I do not laugh at you, although I am a Gascon. And, as for being indifferent, if I were so, I should have sent you about your business a quarter of an hour ago, for you would make a man who was out of his senses with delight as dull as possible, and would be the death of one who was out of spirits. How now, young man! do you wish me to disgust you with the girl you are attached to, and to teach you to execrate the whole sex who constitute the honor and happiness of human life?"
"Oh! tell me, monsieur, and I will bless you."
"Do you think, my dear fellow, that I can have crammed into my brain all about the carpenter, and the painter, and the staircase, and a hundred other similar tales of the same kind?"
"A carpenter! what do you mean?"
"Upon my word I don't know; some one told me there was a carpenter who made an opening through a certain flooring."
"In La Valliere's room!"
"Oh! I don't know where."
"In the king's apartment, perhaps?"
"Of course, if it were in the king's apartment, I should tell you, I suppose." "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 52

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, "this day will pass away without my learning anything. Guiche showed too much consideration for my feelings; he had no doubt come to an understanding with Madame, and both of them, by a friendly plot, agreed to postpone the solution of the problem. Why have I not a determined, inveterate enemy - that serpent, De Wardes, for instance; that he would bite, is very likely; but I should not hesitate any more. To hesitate, to doubt - better, far, to die."
The next moment Raoul was in Madame's presence. Henrietta, more charming than ever, was half lying, half reclining in her armchair, her small feet upon an embroidered velvet cushion; she was playing with a kitten with long silky fur, which was biting her fingers and hanging by the lace of her collar. Madame seemed plunged in deep thought, so deep, indeed, that it required both Montalais and Raoul's voice to disturb her from her reverie.
"Your highness sent for me?" repeated Raoul.
Madame shook her head as if she were just awakening, and then said, "Good morning, Monsieur de Bragelonne; yes, I sent for you; so you have returned from England?"
"Yes, Madame, and am at your royal highness's commands."
"Thank you; leave us, Montalais," and the latter immediately left the room. "You have a few minutes to give me, Monsieur de Bragelonne, have you not?" "My life is at your royal highness's disposal," Raoul returned with respect, guessing that there was something serious in these unusual courtesies; nor was he displeased, indeed, to observe the seriousness of her manner, feeling persuaded that there was some sort of affinity between Madame's sentiments and his own. In fact, every one at court, of any perception at all, knew perfectly well the capricious fancy and absurd despotism of the princess's singular character. Madame had been flattered beyond all bounds by the king's attention; she had made herself talked about; she had inspired the queen with that mortal jealousy which is the stinging scorpion at the heel of every woman's happiness; Madame, in a word, in her attempts to cure a wounded pride, found that her heart had become deeply and passionately attached. We know what Madame had done to recall Raoul, who had been sent out of the way by Louis XIV. Raoul did not know of her letter to Charles II., although D'Artagnan had guessed its contents. Who will undertake to account for that seemingly inexplicable mixture of love and vanity, that passionate tenderness of feeling, that prodigious duplicity of conduct? No one can, indeed; not even the bad angel who kindles the love of coquetry in the heart of a woman. "Monsieur de Bragelonne," said the princess, after a moment's pause, "have you returned satisfied?"
Bragelonne looked at Madame Henrietta, and seeing how pale she was, not alone from what she was keeping back, but also from what she was burning to say, said: "Satisfied! what is there for me to be satisfied or dissatisfied about, Madame?"
"But what are those things with which a man of your age, and of your appearance, is usually either satisfied or dissatisfied?"
"How eager she is," thought Raoul, almost terrified; "what venom is it she is going to distil into my heart?" and then, frightened at what she might possibly be going to tell him, and wishing to put off the opportunity of having everything explained, which he had hitherto so ardently wished for, yet had dreaded so much, he replied: "I left, Madame, a dear friend in good health, and on my return I find him very ill."
"You refer to M. de Guiche," replied Madame Henrietta, with imperturbable selfpossession; "I have heard he is a very dear friend of yours."
"He is, indeed, Madame."
"Well, it is quite true he has been wounded; but he is better now. Oh! M. de Guiche is not to be pitied," she said hurriedly; and then, recovering herself, added, "But has he anything to complain of? Has he complained of anything? Is there any cause of grief or sorrow that we are not acquainted with?" "I allude only to his wound, Madame."
"So much the better, then, for, in other respects, M. de Guiche seems to be very happy; he is always in very high spirits. I am sure that you, Monsieur de Bragelonne, would far prefer to be, like him, wounded only in the body... for what, in deed, is such a wound, after all!"
Raoul started. "Alas!" he said to himself, "she is returning to it."
"What did you say?" she inquired.
"I did not say anything Madame."
"You did not say anything; you disapprove of my observation, then? you are perfectly satisfied, I suppose?"
Raoul approached closer to her. "Madame," he said, "your royal highness wishes to say something to me, and your instinctive kindness and generosity of disposition induce you to be careful and considerate as to your manner of conveying it. Will your royal highness throw this kind forbearance aside? I am able to bear everything; and I am listening."
"Ah!" replied Henrietta, "what do you understand, then?"
"That which your royal highness wishes me to understand," said Raoul, trembling, notwithstanding his command over himself, as he pronounced these words.
"In point of fact," murmured the princess… "it seems cruel, but since I have begun - "
"Yes, Madame, once your highness has deigned to begin, will you condescend to finish - "
Henrietta rose hurriedly and walked a few paces up and down her room. "What did M. de Guiche tell you?" she said, suddenly.
"Nothing, Madame."
"Nothing! Did he say nothing? Ah! how well I recognize him in that." "No doubt he wished to spare me."
"And that is what friends call friendship. But surely, M. d'Artagnan, whom you have just left, must have told you."
"No more than De Guiche, Madame."
Henrietta made a gesture full of impatience, as she said, "At least, you know all the court knows."
"I know nothing at all, Madame."
"Not the scene in the storm?"
"No, Madame."
"Not the tete-a-tete in the forest?"
"No, Madame."
"Nor the flight to Chaillot?"
Raoul, whose head dropped like a blossom cut down by the reaper, made an almost superhuman effort to smile, as he replied with the greatest gentleness: "I have had the honor of telling your royal highness that I am absolutely ignorant of everything, that I am a poor unremembered outcast, who has this moment arrived from England. There have rolled so many stormy waves between myself and those I left behind me here, that the rumor of none of the circumstances your highness refers to, has been able to reach me."
Henrietta was affected by his extreme pallor, his gentleness, and his great courage. The principal feeling in her heart at that moment was an eager desire to hear the nature of the remembrance which the poor lover retained of the woman who had made him suffer so much. "Monsieur de Bragelonne," she said, "that which your friends have refused to do, I will do for you, whom I like and esteem very much. I will be your friend on this occasion. You hold your head high, as a man of honor should; and I deeply regret that you may have to bow before ridicule, and in a few days, it might be, contempt."
"Ah!" exclaimed Raoul, perfectly livid. "It is as bad as that, then?"
"If you do not know," said the princess, "I see that you guess; you were affianced, I believe, to Mademoiselle de la Valliere?"
"Yes, Madame."
"By that right, you deserve to be warned about her, as some day or another I shall be obliged to dismiss Mademoiselle de la Valliere from my service - " "Dismiss La Valliere!" cried Bragelonne.
"Of course. Do you suppose I shall always be amenable to the tears and protestations of the king? No, no! my house shall no longer be made a convenience for such practices; but you tremble, you cannot stand - " "No, Madame, no," said Bragelonne, making an effort over himself; "I thought I should have died just now, that was all. Your royal highness did me the honor to say that the king wept and implored you - "
"Yes, but in vain," returned the princess; who then related to Raoul the scene that took place at Chaillot, and the king's despair on his return; she told him of his indulgence to herself and the terrible word with which the outraged princess, the humiliated coquette, had quashed the royal anger.
Raoul stood with his head bent down.
"What do you think of it all?" she said.
"The king loves her," he replied.
"But you seem to think she does not love him!"
"Alas, Madame, I was thinking of the time when she loved me."
Henrietta was for a moment struck with admiration at this sublime disbelief: and then, shrugging her shoulders, she said, "You do not believe me, I see. How deeply you must love her. And you doubt if she loves the king?"
"I do, until I have a proof of it. Forgive me, Madame, but she has given me her word; and her mind and heart are too upright to tell a falsehood."
"You require a proof! Be it so. Come with me, then."

Chapter 53

A Domiciliary Visit.
The princess, preceding Raoul, led him through the courtyard towards that part of the building La Valliere inhabited, and, ascending the same staircase which Raoul himself had ascended that very morning, she paused at the door of the room in which the young man had been so strangely received by Montalais. The opportunity was remarkably well chosen to carry out the project Madame Henrietta had conceived, for the chateau was empty. The king, the courtiers, and the ladies of the court, had set off for Saint-Germain; Madame Henrietta was the only one who knew of Bragelonne's return, and thinking over the advantages which might be drawn from this return, she had feigned indisposition in order to remain behind. Madame was therefore confident of finding La Valliere's room and Saint-Aignan's apartment perfectly empty. She took a pass-key from her pocket and opened the door of her maid of honor's apartment. Bragelonne's gaze was immediately fixed upon the interior of the room, which he recognized at once; and the impression which the sight of it produced upon him was torture. The princess looked at him, and her practiced eye at once detected what was passing in the young man's heart.
"You asked for proofs," she said; "do not be astonished, then, if I give you them. But if you do not think you have courage enough to confront them, there is still time to withdraw."
"I thank you, Madame," said Bragelonne; "but I came here to be convinced. You promised to convince me, - do so."
"Enter, then," said Madame, "and shut the door behind you."
Bragelonne obeyed, and then turned towards the princess, whom he interrogated by a look.
"You know where you are, I suppose?" inquired Madame Henrietta. "Everything leads me to believe I am in Mademoiselle de la Valliere's room." "You are."
"But I would observe to your highness, that this room is a room, and is not a proof."
"Wait," said the princess, as she walked to the foot of the bed, folded up the screen into its several compartments, and stooped down towards the floor. "Look here," she continued; "stoop down and lift up this trap- door yourself." "A trap-door!" said Raoul, astonished; for D'Artagnan's words began to return to his memory, and he had an indistinct recollection that D'Artagnan had made use of the same word. He looked, but uselessly, for some cleft or crevice which might indicate an opening or a ring to assist in lifting up the planking.
"Ah, I forgot," said Madame Henrietta, "I forgot the secret spring; the fourth plank of the flooring, - press on the spot where you will observe a knot in the wood. Those are the instructions; press, vicomte! press, I say, yourself." Raoul, pale as death, pressed his finger on the spot which had been indicated to him; at the same moment the spring began to work, and the trap rose of its own accord.
"It is ingenious enough, certainly," said the princess; "and one can see that the architect foresaw that a woman's hand only would have to make use of this spring, for see how easily the trap-door opened without assistance." "A staircase!" cried Raoul.
"Yes, and a very pretty one, too," said Madame Henrietta. "See, vicomte, the staircase has a balustrade, intended to prevent the falling of timid persons, who might be tempted to descend the staircase; and I will risk myself on it accordingly. Come, vicomte, follow me!"
"But before following you, madame, may I ask where this staircase leads to?" "Ah, true; I forgot to tell you. You know, perhaps, that formerly M. de SaintAignan lived in the very next apartment to the king?"
"Yes, Madame, I am aware of that; that was the arrangement, at least, before I left; and more than once I had the honor of visiting his rooms."
"Well, he obtained the king's leave to change his former convenient and beautiful apartment for the two rooms to which this staircase will conduct us, and which together form a lodging for him half the size, and at ten times greater the distance from the king, - a close proximity to whom is by no means disdained, in general, by the gentlemen belonging to the court."
"Very good, Madame," returned Raoul; "but go on, I beg, for I do not understand yet."
"Well, then it accidentally happened," continued the princess, "that M. de SaintAignan's apartment is situated underneath the apartments of my maids of honor, and by a further coincidence, exactly underneath the room of La Valliere." "But what was the motive of this trap-door and this staircase?"
"That I cannot tell you. Would you like to go down to Monsieur de Saint- Aignan's rooms? Perhaps we shall be able to find the solution of the enigma there." And Madame set the example by going down herself, while Raoul, sighing deeply, followed her. At every step Bragelonne took, he advanced further into that mysterious apartment which had witnessed La Valliere's sighs and still retained the perfume of her presence. Bragelonne fancied he perceived, as he inhaled the atmosphere, that the young girl must have passed through. Then succeeded to these emanations of herself, which he regarded as invisible though certain proofs, flowers she preferred to all others - books of her own selection. If Raoul retained a single doubt on the subject, it would have vanished at the secret harmony of tastes and connection of the mind with the ordinary objects of life. La Valliere, in Bragelonne's eyes, was present there in each article of furniture, in the color of the hangings, in all that surrounded him. Dumb, and now completely overwhelmed, there was nothing further for him now to learn, and he followed his pitiless conductress as blindly as the culprit follows the executioner; while Madame, as cruel as women of overstrung temperaments generally are, did not spare him the slightest detail. But it must be admitted that, notwithstanding the kind of apathy into which he had fallen, none of these details, even had he been left alone, would have escaped him. The happiness of the woman who loves, when that happiness is derived from a rival, is a living torture for a jealous man; but for a jealous man such as Raoul was, for one whose heart for the first time in its existence was being steeped in gall and bitterness, Louise's happiness was in reality an ignominious death, a death of body and soul. He guessed all; he fancied he could see them, with their hands clasped in each other's, their faces drawn close together, and reflected, side by side, in loving proximity, and they gazed upon the mirrors around them - so sweet an occupation for lovers, who, as they thus see themselves twice over, imprint the picture still more deeply on their memories. He could guess, too, the stolen kiss snatched as they separated from each other's loved society. The luxury, the studied elegance, eloquent of the perfection of indolence, of ease; the extreme care shown, either to spare the loved object every annoyance, or to occasion her a delightful surprise; that might and majesty of love multiplied by the majesty and might of royalty itself, seemed like a death-blow to Raoul. If there be anything which can in any way assuage or mitigate the tortures of jealousy, it is the inferiority of the man who is preferred to yourself; whilst, on the very contrary, if there be one anguish more bitter than another, a misery for which language lacks a word, it is the superiority of the man preferred to yourself, superior, perhaps, in youth, beauty, grace. It is in such moments as these that Heaven almost seems to have taken part against the disdained and rejected lover.
One final pang was reserved for poor Raoul. Madame Henrietta lifted up a silk curtain, and behind the canvas he perceived La Valliere's portrait. Not only the portrait of La Valliere, but of La Valliere radiant with youth, beauty, and happiness, inhaling life and enjoyment at every pore, because at eighteen years of age love itself is life.
"Louise!" murmured Bragelonne, - "Louise! is it true, then? Oh, you have never loved me, for never have you looked at me in that manner." And he felt as if his heart were crushed within his bosom.