Between Two Kings Read online

  “Long live the king!” cried every member of Monsieur’s household, Monsieur de Saint-Rémy louder than anyone.

  Gaston’s head drooped in sudden sadness; all his life he’d heard, or rather suffered through, shouts of “Long live the king!” cried out for another. For a while he’d been spared that cry, but now a younger, more dynamic, and more brilliant reign had begun, and the painful provocation was renewed.

  Madame understood the pain in his sad and fearful heart; she rose from the table and Monsieur imitated her mechanically, while all the servants, like bees buzzing around a hive, surrounded Raoul and plied him with questions.

  Madame saw this activity and beckoned to Monsieur de Saint-Rémy. “Now is not the time to talk, but to work,” she said in the tone of an angry housewife.

  Saint-Rémy hastened to break up the circle of servants around Raoul so that he could escape to the antechamber. “You will attend to this gentleman’s needs, I hope,” said Madame to Monsieur de Saint-Rémy.

  The worthy man immediately ran to catch up with Raoul. “Madame has charged me with seeing to your refreshment,” he said. “I’ll assign a room for you here in the château.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur de Saint-Rémy,” replied Bragelonne, “but you know how eagerly I wish to go pay my respects to Monsieur le Comte de La Fère,* my father.”

  “Quite so, quite so, Monsieur Raoul, and give him at the same time my most humble regards, I beg you.”

  Raoul reassured the old gentleman and went on his way. As he was passing out the gate, leading his horse by the bridle, a soft voice called from the gloom of a shaded path, “Monsieur Raoul!”

  The young man turned in surprise and saw a brown-haired young woman who was pressing a finger to her lips and holding out her other hand. This young lady was completely unknown to him.

  III The Interview

  Raoul took a step toward the young woman who beckoned to him, and then said, “But my horse, Madame.”

  “True, you can’t bring the horse. There’s a shed just outside the courtyard; tie your horse in there and hurry back.”

  “I obey, Madame.”

  It took scarcely a minute for Raoul to follow her recommendation and return to her. In the shadows under the vines he saw his mysterious guide waiting in a doorway that opened onto the foot of a winding staircase. “Are you brave enough to follow me, Monsieur Knight Errant?” asked the young woman, laughing at Raoul’s momentary hesitation.

  He replied by darting into the shadows to follow her up the stairs. They climbed three flights, he right behind her, brushing with outstretched hands, as he searched for a banister, a wide silk dress that grazed both sides of the staircase. When Raoul made a false step at a landing his guide whispered, “Hush!” and held out a soft and perfumed hand to him.

  “One could climb this way to the château’s tallest tower without feeling fatigue,” said Raoul.

  “Which means, Monsieur, that though weary from your ride, you are much intrigued but a bit uneasy. Never mind that, we’ve arrived.”

  The young woman pushed open a door, the darkened staircase was flooded with light, and Raoul saw that he stood at the top of the stairs. His guide continued, so he followed her; she entered a room, and he went in right behind her. As soon as he was fairly in the trap, he heard a loud cry, turned and saw near him, hands clasped, eyes closed, the beautiful blond young woman with blue eyes and ivory shoulders, who’d just called out “Raoul!”

  He saw her and read in her eyes so much love and so much happiness that he fell to his knees in the center of the room, murmuring “Louise.”

  “Ah, Montalais, Montalais!” she sighed. “It’s a great sin to deceive me so.”

  “I? Have I deceived you?”

  “Yes, you told me you’d go down to learn the news, and then here you bring monsieur back up with you.”

  “It had to be done. How else could he receive the letter you wrote to him?”

  And she pointed to the letter that was still on the table. Raoul took a step toward it; Louise, though her first step was strangely hesitant, was faster, and reached out a hand to stop him. Raoul met this hand, warm and trembling, took it in his own, and brought it so respectfully to his lips, it was as if he placed a sigh upon it rather than a kiss.

  Meanwhile, Mademoiselle de Montalais took up the letter, folded it carefully, as women do, with three folds, and slipped it between her breasts. “Don’t worry, Louise,” she said. “Monsieur would no more take it from here than the late King Louis XIII would take her billet-doux from the bodice of Mademoiselle de Hautefort.”10

  Raoul blushed so at the sight of the young ladies’ smiles, he didn’t even notice that Louise’s hand was still in his.

  “There!” said Montalais. “You’ve forgiven me, Louise, for having brought monsieur to you, and monsieur forgives me for leading him to see mademoiselle. Now that peace is concluded, let’s talk like old friends. Present me, Louise, to Monsieur de Bragelonne.”

  “Monsieur le Vicomte,” said Louise, with her serious grace and frank smile, “I have the honor to introduce you to Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais, Maid of Honor to Her Highness Madame, and moreover, my friend—my excellent friend.”

  Raoul bowed ceremoniously. “And me, Louise,” he said. “Won’t you introduce me to mademoiselle as well?”

  “Oh, she knows you! She knows everything!”

  This last word made Montalais laugh and Raoul sigh with happiness, as he’d interpreted it to mean: She knows all about our love.

  “The courtesies are complete, Monsieur le Vicomte,” said Montalais. “Here’s an armchair; sit and quickly bring us up to date with your news.”

  “Mademoiselle, it’s no longer a secret: the king, on his way to Poitiers, will stop at Blois to visit His Royal Highness.”

  “The king, here!” cried Montalais, clapping her hands. “We’ll see the Court! Can you imagine it, Louise? The real Court of Paris! But, mon Dieu—when will they arrive, Monsieur?”

  “Perhaps as soon as tonight, Mademoiselle; certainly, no later than tomorrow.”

  Montalais made an angry gesture. “No time to get ready! No time to update a single dress! We live here in the past like Poles!11 We’ll look like we stepped out of portraits from King Henri’s reign. Ah, Monsieur, what terrible news you bring!”

  “Mesdemoiselles, you will still be beautiful.”

  “Cold comfort! Yes, we’ll still be beautiful, because Nature has made us passable, but we’ll also be ridiculous, because fashion has left us behind. Hélas! Ridiculous! To think that I’ll be mocked!”

  “By who?” said Louise, naïvely.

  “By who? Are you kidding, ma chère? What kind of a question is that? By everyone! By the courtiers, by the nobles, and above all—by the king!”

  “Pardon me, dear friend, but as everyone here is used to seeing us as we are…”

  “True, but that won’t last, and then we’ll be ridiculous, even for Blois. Because we’re going to see the Parisian fashions while wearing the clothes of Blois, and then we’ll find ourselves ridiculous. It’s hopeless!”

  “Take comfort in who you are, Mademoiselle.”

  “There’s truth. Fah! If they find me not to their taste, that’s their loss!” said Montalais philosophically.

  “Small chance of that,” said Raoul, faithful to his system of general gallantry.

  “Thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte. So, you say the king comes to Blois?”

  “With all his Court.”

  “Including Mesdemoiselles de Mancini, of course.”

  “No, decidedly not.”

  “But isn’t it said that the king can’t bear to be apart from Mademoiselle Marie?”

  “The king will have to bear it, Mademoiselle. The cardinal has decided to exile his nieces to Brouage.”

  “Him! That hypocrite!”

  “Hush!” said Louise, putting a finger to her rosy lips.

  “Fah! No one can hear me. I say that old Mazarino Mazarini is a hypocrite who�
�s out to make his niece the Queen of France.”

  “On the contrary, Mademoiselle, the cardinal has negotiated for His Majesty to marry the Infanta Maria Theresa.”

  Montalais looked Raoul in the eye and said, “Do you Parisians really believe in such fables? Come, we know better than that in Blois.”

  “Mademoiselle, once the marriage contract is finalized between Don Luis de Haro12 and His Eminence, and the king goes beyond Poitiers to the Spanish frontier, you’ll see that the childhood games are done.”

  “Ah çà! But the king is still the king, isn’t he?”

  “No doubt about it, Mademoiselle—but the cardinal is the cardinal.”

  “Is he not a man, then, the king? Doesn’t he love Marie de Mancini?”

  “He adores her.”

  “Well, then—he’ll marry her. We’ll have a war with Spain, Monsieur Mazarin will spend some of the millions he’s hidden away, our gentlemen will perform feats of heroism against the proud Castilians, many of them will return to us to be crowned with laurels, and we shall re-crown them with myrtles.13 And that’s politics as I understand it.”

  “You’re a madwoman, Montalais,” said Louise, “as drawn to hyperbole as a moth is to flames.”

  “Louise, you are so restrained you’ll never really fall in love.”

  “Oh, Montalais!” said Louise in tender reproach. “Consider this: the queen mother wishes her son to marry the infanta. Do you want the king to disobey his mother? Could one with a heart as royal as his set a bad example? When parents forbid love, love must be banished!”

  And Louise sighed, while Raoul looked down sadly.

  But Montalais laughed. “As for me, I have no parents!”

  After her sigh, which revealed so much pain, Louise said, “You’ve no doubt already inquired after the health of Monsieur le Comte de La Fère.”

  “No, Mademoiselle,” Raoul replied, “I’ve not yet seen my father; I was on my way to his house when Mademoiselle de Montalais was so good as to stop me. I hope the count is doing well—you haven’t heard otherwise, have you?”

  “Not at all, Monsieur Raoul, not at all, thank God!”

  Then a silence ensued, while two souls in perfect harmony thought the same thoughts without even exchanging a glance.

  Montalais suddenly said, “My God! Somebody’s coming up the stairs.”

  “Who can it be?” said Louise, rising anxiously.

  “Mesdemoiselles, I’m at fault here, my presence is bound to get you in trouble,” stammered Raoul, flustered.

  “It’s a heavy footstep,” said Louise.

  “Ah!” said Montalais. “If it’s only Monsieur Malicorne,* we’ve nothing to fear.”

  Louise and Raoul looked at each other, as if asking who Monsieur Malicorne could be.

  “Don’t worry,” continued Montalais. “He’s not the jealous type.”

  “But, Mademoiselle…” said Raoul.

  “Oh, I know. But he’s just as discreet as I am.”

  “Mon Dieu!” cried Louise, who’d pressed her ear to the half-open door. “Those are my mother’s footsteps!”

  “Madame de Saint-Rémy! Where can I hide?” exclaimed Raoul, tugging at the sleeve of Montalais, who seemed stunned.

  “You’re right, Louise,” she said, shaking her head, “I recognize the sound of those barges—it’s your worthy mother! Monsieur le Vicomte, it’s a shame that the window opens on a sheer drop of fifty feet.” Raoul glanced at the window as if he might try it anyway, but Louise grabbed his arm and stopped him.

  “Ah çà! Am I crazy?” said Montalais. “Don’t I have a big armoire to hold my ceremonial dresses? It’s made to order for this kind of emergency!”

  It was time, as Madame de Saint-Rémy was climbing more quickly than usual. She arrived on the landing just as Montalais, in a scene right out of the theater, shut the armoire door on Raoul and leaned against it.

  “Ah!” said Madame de Saint-Rémy. “Are you here too, Louise?”

  “Yes, Madame,” she replied, as pale as if accused of a heinous crime.

  “Good! Just as well!”

  “Have a seat, Madame,” said Montalais, offering Madame de Saint-Rémy an armchair, while facing it away from the armoire.

  “Thank you, Mademoiselle Aure.” Then, to Louise, “Now go, my child, and be quick.”

  “Where do you want me to go, Madame?”

  “Why, home—don’t you want to prepare?”

  “Prepare? For what?” said Montalais, pretending surprise, and hoping to prevent Louise from saying something foolish.

  “You haven’t heard the news?” said Madame de Saint-Rémy.

  “What news, Madame, could two girls hear up in this pigeon coop?”

  “What? You haven’t spoken to anyone?”

  “Madame, you’re speaking in riddles, and it’s killing us,” said Montalais, desperate to distract the lady from Louise, who was white as a sheet. At last Montalais caught a wide-eyed glance from her friend, one of those looks that would awaken a stone, as Louise pointed a trembling figure at where Raoul’s treacherous hat sat upon the table. Montalais darted forward, seized the hat with her left hand and passed it behind her to her right, holding it behind her back.

  “Well!” said Madame de Saint-Rémy. “A courier has come, announcing the imminent arrival of the king. So, Mesdemoiselles, it’s all about looking your best!”

  “Quickly! Quickly!” said Montalais. “Follow Madame your mother, Louise, while I see to my dress.”

  Louise arose, her mother took her by the hand and hurried her to the landing. “Come,” she said, and then added in a lower voice, “and when I forbid you to visit Montalais, why do I find you here?”

  “Madame, she’s my friend. Besides, I’d only just arrived.”

  “You didn’t catch her concealing someone?”

  “Madame!”

  “I saw that man’s hat, yes I did, and I say to you, she’s a hussy and a scamp!”

  “Really, Madame!” cried Louise.

  “It’s that rascal Malicorne! A maid of honor to consort with such as he… fie!”

  And their voices faded into the depths of the staircase.

  Montalais hadn’t lost a word of this exchange, which had been projected up the stairs as if by a trumpet. She shrugged her shoulders, and seeing that Raoul, who’d come out of hiding, had heard it as well, she said, “Poor Montalais, the victim of friendship! And poor Malicorne, the victim of love!”

  She paused when she saw the tragicomic face of Raoul, who was bewildered by encountering so many secrets in a single day. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “how can I repay you for your kindness?”

  “We’ll settle our accounts another day, Monsieur de Bragelonne,” she replied. “For the moment, you’d better get moving, as Madame de Saint-Rémy is far from lenient, and a word from her in the wrong place could send us an inconvenient visitor. Adieu!”

  “But Louise… how will I know…?”

  “Go! Go! King Louis XI knew what he was doing when he invented the postal service.”

  “Hélas!” said Raoul.

  “And aren’t I here, who are better than any postman in the realm? Return to your horse, so that if Madame de Saint-Rémy comes back up to lecture me, she won’t find you here.”

  “She’d tell my father, wouldn’t she?” murmured Raoul.

  “And then you’d be scolded. Ah, Viscount, it’s clear you come from Court; you’re as timid as the king. Peste! At Blois, we know better than to ask for a father’s consent to follow our passions. Ask Malicorne.”

  And with these words, the brash young woman pushed Raoul out the door by the shoulders. The latter rushed down to the shed, found his horse, jumped into the saddle and set off as if all eight of Monsieur’s guards were on his heels.

  IV Father and Son

  Raoul followed the familiar road, so dear to his memory, that led from Blois to the estate of the Comte de La Fère.14 The reader needs no new description of this dwelling, having visited it with us be
fore. But since our last visit the walls had assumed a grayer hue and the bricks a more harmonious copper tone, while the trees had grown, those that had formerly stretched slender arms over the hedges now towering above them, rounded, bushy, luxuriant, and bearing a lush crop of flowers or fruit for the passerby.

  Raoul saw in the distance the high roof with its two small turrets, the dovecote among the elms, and around that cone of bricks the flocks of pigeons ever circling without being able to leave it, like the sweet memories that soar around a serene soul. As he approached, he heard the sound of pulleys groaning under the weight of heavy buckets, and seemed as well to hear the melancholy echoing of water pouring back into the well, a sad and solemn noise that attracts the ear of the child and the dreamy poet alike, a sound the English call splash, the Arab poets call gasgachau, but which the French, who think themselves poets, describe only with the phrase “the sound of water falling into water.”

  It was more than a year since Raoul had been to see his father, having spent that time as a retainer of Monsieur le Prince. In fact, after the turmoil of the Fronde, of which we formerly attempted to recount the first phases,15 Louis de Condé had made a frank and solemn reconciliation with the Court.16 During the entire time the prince had been at odds with the king, the prince, who had long been fond of Bragelonne, had offered him every inducement to join him that might dazzle a young man. But the Comte de La Fère, ever faithful to his principles of loyalty to the monarchy, as he’d expounded one day to his son in the vaults of Saint-Denis,17 had refused on behalf of his son all the prince’s offers.

  Moreover, instead of following Monsieur de Condé into rebellion, the viscount had attached himself to Monsieur de Turenne,18 who fought for the king. Then when Monsieur de Turenne, in his turn, had seemed to abandon the king’s cause, he had left Turenne as he had left Condé. The result of this consistent line of conduct was that, though Turenne and Condé had never been victorious except when commanding under the king’s colors, Raoul, young as he was, had ten victorious royal battles to his credit, and not a single rebellious defeat to tarnish his courage and weigh on his conscience. Thus Raoul, by following his father’s wishes, had stubbornly followed the fortunes of King Louis XIV, despite all the factional infighting that was endemic and, one might almost say, inevitable to the period.