father, I have heard, on his side, carried matters with a
high hand. Moreover there are no enmities so bitter that
they cannot be washed away by blood, by a good sword-thrust
loyally given.”
“Listen to me, my dear De Guiche, this inveterate dislike
existed between my father and M. d’Artagnan, and when I was
quite a child, he acquainted me with the reason for it, and,
as forming part of my inheritance, I regard it as a
particular legacy bestowed upon me.”
“And does his hatred concern M. d’Artagnan alone?”
“As for that, M. d’Artagnan was so intimately associated
with his three friends, that some portion of the full
measure of my hatred falls to their lot, and that hatred is
of such a nature, whenever the opportunity occurs, they
shall have no occasion to complain of their allowance.”
De Guiche had kept his eyes fixed on De Wardes, and
shuddered at the bitter manner in which the young man
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smiled. Something like a presentiment flashed across his
mind; he knew that the time had passed away for grands coups
entre gentilshommes; but that the feeling of hatred
treasured up in the mind, instead of being diffused abroad,
was still hatred all the same; that a smile was sometimes as
full of meaning as a threat; and, in a word, that to the
fathers who had hated with their hearts and fought with
their arms, would now succeed the sons, who would indeed
hate with their hearts, but would no longer combat their
enemies, save by means of intrigue or treachery. As,
therefore, it certainly was not Raoul whom he could suspect
either of intrigue or treachery, it was on Raoul’s account
that De Guiche trembled. However, while these gloomy
forebodings cast a shade of anxiety over De Guiche’s
countenance, De Wardes had resumed the entire mastery over
himself.
“At all events,” he observed, “I have no personal ill-will
towards M. de Bragelonne; I do not know him even.”
“In any case,” said De Guiche, with a certain amount of
severity in his tone of voice, “do not forget one
circumstance, that Raoul is my most intimate friend;” a
remark at which De Wardes bowed.
The conversation terminated there, although De Guiche tried
his utmost to draw out his secret from him; but, doubtless,
De Wardes had determined to say nothing further, and he
remained impenetrable. De Guiche therefore promised himself
a more satisfactory result with Raoul. In the meantime they
had reached the Palais-Royal, which was surrounded by a
crowd of lookers-on. The household belonging to Monsieur
awaited his command to mount their horses, in order to form
part of the escort of the ambassadors, to whom had been
intrusted the care of bringing the young princess to Paris.
The brilliant display of horses, arms, and rich liveries,
afforded some compensation in those times, thanks to the
kindly feelings of the people, and to the traditions of deep
devotion to their sovereigns, for the enormous expenses
charged upon the taxes. Mazarin had said: “Let them sing,
provided they pay;” while Louis XIV.’s remark was, “Let them
look.” Sight had replaced the voice; the people could still
look, but they were no longer allowed to sing. De Guiche
left De Wardes and Malicorne at the bottom of the grand
staircase, while he himself, who shared the favor and good
graces of Monsieur with the Chevalier de Lorraine, who
always smiled at him most affectionately, though he could
not endure him, went straight to the prince’s apartments,
whom he found engaged in admiring himself in the glass, and
rouging his face. In a corner of the cabinet, the Chevalier
de Lorraine was extended full length upon some cushions,
having just had his long hair curled, with which he was
playing in the same manner a woman would have done. The
prince turned round as the count entered, and perceiving who
it was, said:
“Ah! is that you, Guiche, come here and tell me the truth.”
“You know, my lord, it is one of my defects to speak the
truth.”
“You will hardly believe, De Guiche, how that wicked
chevalier has annoyed me.”
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