shoulder, followed the pen as he wrote, put the
acknowledgment into his pocket without seeming to have read
it, which made Baisemeaux perfectly easy. “Now,” said
Aramis, “you will not be angry with me if I were to carry
off one of your prisoners?”
“What do you mean?”
“By obtaining his pardon, of course. Have I not already told
you that I took a great interest in poor Seldon?”
“Yes, quite true, you did so.”
“Well?”
“That is your affair; do as you think proper. I see you have
an open hand, and an arm that can reach a great way.”
“Adieu, adieu.” And Aramis left, carrying with him the
governor’s best wishes.
CHAPTER 101
The Two Friends
At the very time M. de Baisemeaux was showing Aramis the
prisoners in the Bastile, a carriage drew up at Madame de
Belliere’s door, and, at that still early hour, a young
woman alighted, her head muffled in a silk hood. When the
servants announced Madame Vanel to Madame de Belliere, the
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latter was engaged, or rather was absorbed, in reading, a
letter, which she hurriedly concealed. She had hardly
finished her morning toilette, her maid being still in the
next room. At the name —at the footsteps of Marguerite
Vanel — Madame de Belliere ran to meet her. She fancied she
could detect in her friend’s eyes a brightness which was
neither that of health nor of pleasure. Marguerite embraced
her, pressed her hands, and hardly allowed her time to
speak. “Dearest,” she said, “have you forgotten me? Have you
quite given yourself up to the pleasures of the court?”
“I have not even seen the marriage fetes.”
“What are you doing with yourself, then?”
“I am getting ready to leave for Belliere.”
“For Belliere?”
“Yes.”
“You are becoming rustic in your tastes, then; I delight to
see you so disposed. But you are pale.”
“No, I am perfectly well.”
“So much the better; I was becoming uneasy about you. You do
not know what I have been told.”
“People say so many things.”
“Yes, but this is very singular.”
“How well you know how to excite curiosity, Marguerite.”
“Well, I was afraid of vexing you.”
“Never; you have yourself always admired me for my evenness
of temper.”
“Well, then, it is said that — no, I shall never be able to
tell you.”
“Do not let us talk about it, then,” said Madame de
Belliere, who detected the ill-nature that was concealed by
all these prefaces, yet felt the most anxious curiosity on
the subject.
“Well, then, my dear marquise, it is said that, for some
time past, you no longer continue to regret Monsieur de
Belliere as you used to.”
“It is an ill-natured report, Marguerite. I do regret and
shall always regret, my husband; but it is now two years
since he died. I am only twenty-eight years old, and my
grief at his loss ought not always to control every action
and thought of my life. You, Marguerite, who are the model
of a wife, would not believe me if I were to say so.”
“Why not? Your heart is so soft and yielding.” she said,
spitefully.
“Yours is so too, Marguerite, and yet I did not perceive
that you allowed yourself to be overcome by grief when your
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heart was wounded.” These words were in direct allusion to
Marguerite’s rupture with the superintendent, and were also
a veiled but direct reproach made against her friend’s
heart.
As if she only awaited this signal to discharge her shaft,
Marguerite exclaimed, “Well, Elise, it is said you are in
love.” And she looked fixedly at Madame de Belliere, who
blushed against her will.
“Women never escape slander,” replied the marquise, after a
moment’s pause.
“No one slanders you, Elise.”
“What! — people say that I am in love, and yet they do not
slander me!”
“In the first place, if it be true, it is no slander, but
simply a scandal-loving report. In the next place — for you
did not allow me to finish what I was saying — the public
does not assert that you have abandoned yourself to this