the trot, and rode sharply on in the direction pointed out
by the king. But he had scarcely gone five hundred paces
when he saw four mules and then a carriage, loom up from
behind a little hill. Behind this carriage came another. It
required only one glance to assure him that these were the
equipages he was in search of; he therefore turned his
bridle, and rode back to the king.
“Sire,” said he, “here are the carriages. The first, as you
said, contains two ladies with their femmes de chambre; the
second contains the footmen, provisions, and necessaries.”
“That is well,” replied the king in an agitated voice.
“Please to go and tell those ladies that a cavalier of the
court wishes to pay his respects to them alone.”
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The officer set off at a gallop. “Mordioux!” said he, as he
rode on, “here is a new and an honorable employment, I hope!
I complained of being nobody. I am the king’s confidant:
that is enough to make a musketeer burst with pride.”
He approached the carriage, and delivered his message
gallantly and intelligently. There were two ladies in the
carriage: one of great beauty, although rather thin; the
other less favored by nature, but lively, graceful, and
uniting in the delicate lines of her brow all the signs of a
strong will. Her eyes, animated and piercing in particular,
spoke more eloquently than all the amorous phrases in
fashion in those days of gallantry. It was to her D’Artagnan
addressed himself, without fear of being mistaken, although
the other was, as we have said, the more handsome of the
two.
“Madame,” said he, “I am the lieutenant of the musketeers,
and there is on the road a horseman who awaits you, and is
desirous of paying his respects to you.”
At these words, the effect of which he watched closely, the
lady with the black eyes uttered a cry of joy, leant out of
the carriage window, and seeing the cavalier approaching,
held out her arms, exclaiming:
“Ah, my dear sire!” and the tears gushed from her eyes.
The coachman stopped his team; the women rose in confusion
from the back of the carriage, and the second lady made a
slight curtsey, terminated by the most ironical smile that
jealousy ever imparted to the lips of woman.
“Marie? dear Marie?” cried the king, taking the hand of the
black-eyed lady in both his. And opening the heavy door
himself, he drew her out of the carriage with so much ardor,
that she was in his arms before she touched the ground. The
lieutenant, posted on the other side of the carriage, saw
and heard all without being observed.
The king offered his arm to Mademoiselle de Mancini, and
made a sign to the coachman and lackeys to proceed. It was
nearly six o’clock; the road was fresh and pleasant; tall
trees with their foliage still inclosed in the golden down
of their buds let the dew of morning filter from their
trembling branches like liquid diamonds; the grass was
bursting at the foot of the hedges; the swallows, having
returned since only a few days, described their graceful
curves between the heavens and the water; a breeze, laden
with the perfumes of the blossoming woods, sighed along the
road, and wrinkled the surface of the waters of the river;
all these beauties of the day, all these perfumes of the
plants, all these aspirations of the earth towards heaven,
intoxicated the two lovers, walking side by side, leaning
upon each other, eyes fixed upon eyes, hand clasping hand,
and who, lingering as by a common desire, did not dare to
speak they had so much to say.
The officer saw that the king’s horse, in wandering this way
and that, annoyed Mademoiselle de Mancini. He took advantage
of the pretext of securing the horse to draw near them, and
dismounting, walked between the two horses he led; he did
not lose a single word or gesture of the lovers. It was
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Mademoiselle de Mancini who at length began.
“Ah, my dear sire!” said she, “you do not abandon me, then?”