Ten Years Later by Dumas, Alexandre. Part one

announced to his royal highness as soon as possible.”

“It appears to be pressing,” said the guard, as if speaking

to himself, but really in the hope of obtaining an answer.

The messenger made an affirmative sign with his head.

“In that case,” said the guard, “I will go and seek the

maitre d’hotel myself.”

The young man, in the meantime, dismounted; and whilst the

others were making their remarks upon the fine horse the

cavalier rode, the soldier returned.

“Your pardon, young gentleman; but your name, if you

please?”

“The Vicomte de Bragelonne, on the part of his highness M.

le Prince de Conde.”

The soldier made a profound bow, and, as if the name of the

conqueror of Rocroy and Sens had given him wings, he stepped

lightly up the steps leading to the ante-chamber.

M. de Bragelonne had not had time to fasten his horse to the

iron bars of the perron, when M. de Saint-Remy came running,

out of breath, supporting his capacious body with one hand,

whilst with the other he cut the air as a fisherman cleaves

the waves with his oar.

“Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte! You at Blois!” cried he. “Well,

that is a wonder. Good-day to you — good-day, Monsieur

Raoul.”

“I offer you a thousand respects, M. de Saint-Remy.”

“How Madame de la Vall — I mean, how delighted Madame de

Saint-Remy will be to see you! But come in. His royal

highness is at breakfast — must he be interrupted? Is the

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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later

matter serious?”

“Yes, and no, Monsieur de Saint-Remy. A moment’s delay,

however, would be disagreeable to his royal highness.”

“If that is the case, we will force the consigne, Monsieur

le Vicomte. Come in. Besides, Monsieur is in an excellent

humor to-day. And then you bring news, do you not?”

“Great news, Monsieur de Saint-Remy.”

“And good, I presume?”

“Excellent.”

“Come quickly, come quickly then!” cried the worthy man,

putting his dress to rights as he went along.

Raoul followed him, hat in hand, and a little disconcerted

at the noise made by his spurs in these immense salons.

As soon as he had disappeared in the interior of the palace,

the window of the court was repeopled, and an animated

whispering betrayed the emotion of the two girls. They soon

appeared to have formed a resolution, for one of the two

faces disappeared from the window. This was the brunette;

the other remained behind the balcony, concealed by the

flowers, watching attentively through the branches the

perron by which M. de Bragelonne had entered the castle.

In the meantime the object of so much laudable curiosity

continued his route, following the steps of the maitre

d’hotel. The noise of quick steps, an odor of wine and

viands, a clinking of crystal and plates, warned them that

they were coming to the end of their course.

The pages, valets and officers, assembled in the office

which led up to the refectory, welcomed the newcomer with

the proverbial politeness of the country; some of them were

acquainted with Raoul, and all knew that he came from Paris.

It might be said that his arrival for a moment suspended the

service. In fact, a page, who was pouring out wine for his

royal highness, on hearing the jingling of spurs in the next

chamber, turned round like a child, without perceiving that

he was continuing to pour out, not into the glass, but upon

the tablecloth.

Madame, who was not so preoccupied as her glorious spouse

was, remarked this distraction of the page.

“Well?” exclaimed she.

“Well!” repeated Monsieur; “what is going on then?”

M. de Saint-Remy, who had just introduced his head through

the doorway, took advantage of the moment.

“Why am I to be disturbed?” said Gaston, helping himself to

a thick slice of one of the largest salmon that had ever

ascended the Loire to be captured between Painboeuf and

Saint-Nazaire.

“There is a messenger from Paris. Oh! but after monseigneur

has breakfasted will do; there is plenty of time.”

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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later

“From Paris!” cried the prince, letting his fork fall. “A

messenger from Paris, do you say? And on whose part does

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