“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.”
“Nothing for me! Does that Bragelonne still possess her heart?” muttered the King between his teeth.
“Oh, Sire, that is not possible; for it is you alone whom 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,” De Saint-Aignan continued, “she was brought up under the care of the Dowager Madame; that is to say, in austere retirement. This engaged young couple coldly exchanged their little vows in the presence of the moon and the stars; and now, when they find they have to break those vows, it plays the very deuce with them.”
De Saint-Aignan thought he should 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 count 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 with remorse, jealousy sharply pricked 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 arm-chair in which his august father, Louis XIII, had passed so many weary days and years in company with Baradas and Cinq-Mars.
De Saint-Aignan perceived that 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 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 that devoted heart?”
The King rose, flushed with vexation; he was a prey to jealousy in its turn. De 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 saw only his captain of Musketeers standing upright and silent in the doorway. “M. d’Artagnan!” he said. “Ah! well, Monsieur?”
D’Artagnan looked at De Saint-Aignan; Louis’s eyes took the same direction as those of his captain. These looks would have been clear to any one, and they were especially so to De 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 there. Whenever a sovereign has adopted a decisive course, even though it be unjust, he is compelled to prove to all witnesses, and particularly to himself, that he was quite right in so adopting it. A good means for effecting that- an almost infallible means, indeed- is to try to 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 moments’ 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 count say?”