Aramis rushed to the Hotel de Ville, where Madame de
Longueville was sojourning. The duchess loudly lamented the
announcement of peace. War had made her a queen; peace
brought her abdication. She declared that she would never
assent to the treaty and that she wished eternal war.
But when Aramis had presented that peace to her in a true
light — that is to say, with all its advantages; when he
had pointed out to her, in exchange for the precarious and
contested royalty of Paris, the viceroyalty of
Font-de-l’Arche, in other words, of all Normandy; when he
had rung in her ears the five hundred thousand francs
promised by the cardinal; when he had dazzled her eyes with
the honor bestowed on her by the king in holding her child
at the baptismal font, Madame de Longueville contended no
longer, except as is the custom with pretty women to
contend, and defended herself only to surrender at last.
Aramis made a presence of believing in the reality of her
opposition and was unwilling to deprive himself in his own
view of the credit of her conversion.
“Madame,” he said, “you have wished to conquer the prince
your brother — that is to say, the greatest captain of the
age; and when women of genius wish anything they always
succeed in attaining it. You have succeeded; the prince is
beaten, since he can no longer fight. Now attach him to our
party. Withdraw him gently from the queen, whom he does not
like, from Mazarin, whom he despises. The Fronde is a
comedy, of which the first act only is played. Let us wait
for a denouement — for the day when the prince, thanks to
you, shall have turned against the court.”
Madame de Longueville was persuaded. This Frondist duchess
trusted so confidently to the power of her fine eyes, that
she could not doubt their influence even over Monsieur de
Conde; and the chronicles of the time aver that her
confidence was justified.
Athos, on quitting Aramis, went to Madame de Chevreuse. Here
was another frondeuse to persuade, and she was even less
open to conviction than her younger rival. There had been no
stipulation in her favor. Monsieur de Chevreuse had not been
appointed governor of a province, and if the queen should
consent to be godmother it could be only of her grandson or
granddaughter. At the first announcement of peace Madame de
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Chevreuse frowned, and in spite of all the logic of Athos to
show her that a prolonged war would have been impracticable,
contended in favor of hostilities.
“My fair friend,” said Athos, “allow me to tell you that
everybody is tired of war. You will get yourself exiled, as
you did in the time of Louis XIII. Believe me, we have
passed the time of success in intrigue, and your fine eyes
are not destined to be eclipsed by regretting Paris, where
there will always be two queens as long as you are there.”
“Oh,” cried the duchess, “I cannot make war alone, but I can
avenge myself on that ungrateful queen and most ambitious
favorite-on the honor of a duchess, I will avenge myself.”
“Madame,” replied Athos, “do not injure the Vicomte de
Bragelonne — do not ruin his prospects. Alas! excuse my
weakness! There are moments when a man grows young again in
his children.”
The duchess smiled, half tenderly, half ironically.
“Count,” she said, “you are, I fear, gained over to the
court. I suppose you have a blue ribbon in your pocket?”
“Yes, madame; I have that of the Garter, which King Charles
I. gave me some days before he died.”
“Come, I am growing an old woman!” said the duchess,
pensively.
Athos took her hand and kissed it. She sighed, as she looked
at him.
“Count,” she said, “Bragelonne must be a charming place. You
are a man of taste. You have water — woods — flowers
there?”
She sighed again and leaned her charming head, gracefully
reclined, on her hand, still beautiful in form and color.
“Madame!” exclaimed Athos, “what were you saying just now
about growing old? Never have I seen you look so young, so