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The king mounted his horse; his old servant did the same,
and both set out towards Paris, without meeting a single
person on their road, in the streets or the faubourgs of the
city. For the prince the blow was the more severe, as it was
a fresh exile. The unfortunates cling to the smallest hopes,
as the happy do to the greatest good; and when they are
obliged to quit the place where that hope has soothed their
hearts, they experience the mortal regret which the banished
man feels when he places his foot upon the vessel which is
to bear him into exile. It appears that the heart already
wounded so many times suffers from the least scratch; it
appears that it considers as a good the momentary absence of
evil, which is nothing but the absence of pain; and that
God, into the most terrible misfortunes, has thrown hope as
the drop of water which the rich bad man in hell entreated
of Lazarus.
For one instant even the hope of Charles II. had been more
than a fugitive joy; — that was when he found himself so
kindly welcomed by his brother king; then it had taken a
form that had become a reality; then, all at once, the
refusal of Mazarin had reduced the fictitious reality to the
state of a dream. This promise of Louis XIV., so soon
retracted, had been nothing but a mockery; a mockery like
his crown — like his scepter — like his friends — like
all that had surrounded his royal childhood, and which had
abandoned his proscribed youth. Mockery! everything was a
mockery for Charles II. except the cold, black repose
promised by death.
Such were the ideas of the unfortunate prince while sitting
listlessly upon his horse, to which he abandoned the reins;
he rode slowly along beneath the warm May sun, in which the
somber misanthropy of the exile perceived a last insult to
his grief.
CHAPTER 16
“Remember!”
A horseman was going rapidly along the road leading towards
Blois, which he had left nearly half an hour before, passed
the two travelers, and, though apparently in haste, raised
his hat as he passed them. The king scarcely observed this
young man, who was about twenty-five years of age, and who,
turning round several times, made friendly signals to a man
standing before the gate of a handsome white-and-red house;
that is to say, built of brick and stone, with a slated
roof, situated on the left hand of the road the prince was
traveling.
This man, old, tall, and thin, with white hair, — we speak
of the one standing by the gate; — this man replied to the
farewell signals of the young one by signs of parting as
tender as could have been made by a father, The young man
disappeared at the first turn of the road, bordered by fine
trees, and the old man was preparing to return to the house,
when the two travelers, arriving in front of the gate,
attracted his attention.
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The king, we have said, was riding with his head cast down,
his arms inert, leaving his horse to go what pace he liked,
whilst Parry, behind him, the better to imbibe the genial
influence of the sun, had taken off his hat, and was looking
about right and left. His eyes encountered those of the old
man leaning against the gate; the latter, as if struck by
some strange spectacle, uttered an exclamation, and made one
step towards the two travelers. From Parry his eyes
immediately turned towards the king, upon whom they rested
for an instant. This exclamation, however rapid, was
instantly reflected in a visible manner upon the features of
the tall old man. For scarcely had he recognized the younger
of the travelers — and we say recognized, for nothing but a
perfect recognition could have explained such an act —
scarcely, we say, had he recognized the younger of the two
travelers, than he clapped his hands together, with
respectful surprise, and, raising his hat from his head,