son of Madame de Longueville.”
The queen smiled.
“Monsieur de Longueville is of royal blood, madame,” said
D’Artagnan.
“Yes,” said the queen; “but his son?”
“His son, madame, must be, since the husband of the son’s
mother is.”
“And your friend has nothing more to ask for Madame de
Longueville?”
“No, madame, for I presume that the king, standing godfather
to him, could do no less than present him with five hundred
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thousand francs, giving his father, also, the government of
Normandy.”
“As to the government of Normandy,” replied the queen, “I
think I can promise; but with regard to the present, the
cardinal is always telling me there is no more money in the
royal coffers.”
“We shall search for some, madame, and I think we can find a
little, and if your majesty approves, we will seek for some
together.”
“What next?”
“What next, madame?”
“Yes.”
“That is all.”
“Haven’t you, then, a fourth companion?”
“Yes, madame, the Comte de la Fere.”
“What does he ask?”
“Nothing.”
“There is in the world, then, one man who, having the power
to ask, asks — nothing!”
“There is the Comte de la Fere, madame. The Comte de la Fere
is not a man.”
“What is he, then?”
“The Comte de la Fere is a demi-god.”
“Has he not a son, a young man, a relative, a nephew, of
whom Comminges spoke to me as being a brave boy, and who,
with Monsieur de Chatillon, brought the standards from
Lens?”
“He has, as your majesty has said, a ward, who is called the
Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
“If that young man should be appointed to a regiment what
would his guardian say?”
“Perhaps he would accept.”
“Perhaps?”
“Yes, if your majesty herself should beg him to accept.”
“He must be indeed a strange man. Well, we will reflect and
perhaps we will beg him. Are you satisfied, sir?”
“There is one thing the queen has not signed — her assent
to the treaty.”
“Of what use to-day? I will sign it to-morrow.”
“I can assure her majesty that if she does not sign to-day
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she will not have time to sign to-morrow. Consent, then, I
beg you, madame, to write at the bottom of this schedule,
which has been drawn up by Mazarin, as you see:
“`I consent to ratify the treaty proposed by the
Parisians.'”
Anne was caught, she could not draw back — she signed; but
scarcely had she done so when pride burst forth and she
began to weep.
D’Artagnan started on seeing these tears. Since that period
of history queens have shed tears, like other women.
The Gascon shook his head, these tears from royalty melted
his heart.
“Madame,” he said, kneeling, “look upon the unhappy man at
your feet. He begs you to believe that at a gesture of your
majesty everything will be possible to him. He has faith in
himself; he has faith in his friends; he wishes also to have
faith in his queen. And in proof that he fears nothing, that
he counts on nothing, he will restore Monsieur de Mazarin to
your majesty without conditions. Behold, madame! here are
the august signatures of your majesty’s hand; if you think
you are right in giving them to me, you shall do so, but
from this very moment you are free from any obligation to
keep them.”
And D’Artagnan, full of splendid pride and manly
intrepidity, placed in Anne’s hands, in a bundle, the papers
that he had one by one won from her with so much difficulty.
There are moments — for if everything is not good,
everything in this world is not bad — in which the most
rigid and the coldest soul is softened by the tears of
strong emotion, heart-arraigning sentiment: one of these
momentary impulses actuated Anne. D’Artagnan, when he gave
way to his own feelings — which were in accordance with
those of the queen — had accomplished more than the most
astute diplomacy could have attempted. He was therefore
instantly recompensed, either for his address or for his
sensibility, whichever it might be termed.