“Madame the Duchess, you have the character of being somewhat inconsiderate at times; and as I am clothed in a sober, solemn character, a jest or practical joke might compromise me.”
“Yes; the fact is, you are afraid. Well, then, take your own carriage, as many servants as you like. Only, consider well,- what we two may arrange between us, we are the only persons who know it; what a third person may witness, we announce to the universe. After all, I do not make a point of it; my carriage shall follow yours, and I shall be satisfied to accompany you in your own carriage to the Queen.”
“To the Queen!”
“Have you forgotten that already? Is it possible that one of the clauses of the agreement, of so much importance to me, can have escaped you already? How trifling it seems to you, indeed! If I had known it, I should have doubled my price.”
“I have reflected, Madame, and I shall not accompany you.”
“Really,- and why not?”
“Because I have the most perfect confidence in you.”
“You overpower me. But how do I receive the hundred thousand crowns?”
“Here they are, Madame,” said Colbert, scribbling a few lines on a piece of paper, which he handed to the duchess, adding, “You are paid.”
“The trait is a fine one, M. Colbert, and I will reward you for it,” she said, beginning to laugh.
Madame de Chevreuse’s laugh had a very sinister sound. Every man who feels youth, faith, love, life itself, throbbing in his heart, would prefer tears to such a lamentable laugh.
The duchess opened the front of her dress and drew forth from her bosom, somewhat less white than it once had been, a small packet of papers, tied with a flame-colored ribbon, and still laughing, she said, “There, M. Colbert, are the originals of Cardinal Mazarin’s letters. They are now your own property,” she added, refastening the body of her dress. “Your fortune is secured; and now accompany me to the Queen.”
“No, Madame; if you are again about to run the chance of her Majesty’s displeasure, and it were known at the Palais-Royal that I had been the means of introducing you there, the Queen would never forgive me while she lived. No; there are certain persons at the palace who are devoted to me, who will procure you an admission without my being compromised.”
“Just as you please, provided I enter.”
“What do you term those religious women at Bruges who cure disorders?”
“Beguines.”
“Good; you are a Beguine.”
“As you please, but I must soon cease to be one.”
“That is your affair.”
“Excuse me, but I do not wish to be exposed to a refusal.”
“That is again your own affair, Madame. I am going to give directions to the head valet of the gentleman in waiting on her Majesty to allow admission to a Beguine, who brings an effectual remedy for her Majesty’s sufferings. You are the bearer of my letter, you will undertake to be provided with the remedy, and will give every explanation on the subject. I admit a knowledge of a Beguine, but I deny all knowledge of Madame de Chevreuse. Here, Madame, then, is your letter of introduction.”
Chapter III: The Skin of the Bear
COLBERT handed the duchess the letter, and gently drew aside the chair behind which she was standing. Madame de Chevreuse, with a very slight bow, immediately left the room. Colbert, who had recognized Mazarin’s handwriting and had counted the letters, rang to summon his secretary, whom he enjoined to go in immediate search of M. Vanel, a counsellor of the parliament. The secretary replied that, according to his usual practice, M. Vanel had just at that moment entered the house, in order to render to the intendant an account of the principal details of the business which had been transacted during the day in the sitting of the parliament. Colbert approached one of the lamps, read the letters of the deceased cardinal over again, smiled repeatedly as he recognized the great value of the papers which Madame de Chevreuse had just delivered to him, and burying his head in his hands for a few minutes reflected profoundly. In the mean time a tall, large-made man entered the room; his spare, thin face, steady look, and hooked nose, as he entered Colbert’s cabinet with a modest assurance of manner, revealed a character at once supple and decided,- supple towards the master who could throw him the prey; firm towards the dogs who might possibly be disposed to dispute it with him. M. Vanel carried a voluminous bundle of papers under his arm, and placed it on the desk on which Colbert was leaning both his elbows, as he supported his head.