Raoul found the garden-gate open, and rode straight in, without regarding the long arms, raised in anger, of an old man dressed in a jacket of violet-colored wool, and a large cap of faded velvet.
The old man, who was weeding with his hands a bed of dwarf roses and marguerites, was indignant at seeing a horse thus traversing his sanded and nicely-raked walks. He even ventured a vigorous “Humph!” which made the cavalier turn round. Then there was a change of scene; for no sooner had he caught sight of Raoul’s face, than the old man sprang up and set off in the direction of the house, amidst interrupted growlings, which appeared to be paroxysms of wild delight.
When arrived at the stables, Raoul gave his horse to a little lackey, and sprang up the perron with an ardor that would have delighted the heart of his father.
He crossed the antechamber, the dining-room, and the salon, without meeting anyone; at length, on reaching the door of M. de la Fère’s apartment, he rapped impatiently, and entered almost without waiting for the word “Enter!” which was vouchsafed him by a voice at once sweet and serious. The comte was seated at a table covered with papers and books; he was still the noble, handsome gentleman of former days, but time had given to this nobleness and beauty a more solemn and distinct character. A brow white and void of wrinkles, beneath his long hair, now more white than black; an eye piercing and mild, under the lids of a young man; his mustache, fine but slightly grizzled, waved over lips of a pure and delicate model, as if they had never been curled by mortal passions; a form straight and supple; an irreproachable but thin hand—this was what remained of the illustrious gentleman whom so many illustrious mouths had praised under the name of Athos. He was engaged in correcting the pages of a manuscript book, entirely filled by his own hand.
Raoul seized his father by the shoulders, by the neck, as he could, and embraced him so tenderly and so rapidly, that the comte had neither strength nor time to disengage himself, or to overcome his paternal emotions.
“What! you here, Raoul—you! Is it possible?” said he.
“Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur, what joy to see you once again!”
“But you don’t answer me, vicomte. Have you leave of absence, or has some misfortune happened at Paris?
“Thank God, Monsieur,” replied Raoul, calming himself by degrees, “nothing has happened but what is fortunate. The king is going to be married, as I had the honor of informing you in my last letter, and, on his way to Spain, he will pass through Blois.”
“To pay a visit to Monsieur?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Comte. So, fearing to find him unprepared, or wishing to be particularly polite to him, Monsieur le Prince sent me forward to have the lodgings ready.”
“You have seen Monsieur?” asked the comte, eagerly.
“I have had that honor.”
“At the castle?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” replied Raoul, casting down his eyes, because, no doubt, he had felt there was something more than curiosity in the comte’s inquiries.
“Ah, indeed, vicomte? Accept my compliments thereupon.”
Raoul bowed.
“But you have seen someone else at Blois?”
“Monsieur, I saw Her Royal Highness, Madame.”
“That’s very well: but it is not Madame that I mean.”
Raoul colored deeply, but made no reply.
“You do not appear to understand me, Monsieur le Vicomte,” persisted M. de la Fère, without accenting his words more strongly, but with a rather severer look.
“I understand you quite plainly, Monsieur,” replied Raoul, “and if I hesitate a little in my reply, you are well assured I am not seeking for a falsehood.”
“No, you cannot tell a lie; and that makes me so astonished you should be so long in saying yes or no.”
“I cannot answer you without understanding you very well; and if I have understood you, you will take my first words in ill part. You will displeased, no doubt, Monsieur le Comte, because I have seen—”
“Mademoiselle de La Vallière—have you not?”
“It was of her you meant to speak, I know very well, Monsieur,” said Raoul, with inexpressible sweetness.
“And I asked you if you have seen her.”
“Monsieur, I was ignorant, when I entered the castle, that Mademoiselle de La Vallière was there; it was only on my return, after I had performed my mission, that chance brought us together. I have had the honor of paying my respects to her.”
“But what do you call the chance that led you into the presence of Mademoiselle de La Vallière?”
“Mademoiselle de Montalais, Monsieur.”
“And who is Mademoiselle de Montalais?”
“A young lady I did not know before, whom I had never seen. She is maid of honor to Madame.”
“Monsieur le Vicomte, I will push my interrogatory no further, and reproach myself with having carried it so far. I had desired you to avoid Mademoiselle de La Vallière, and not to see her without my permission. Oh, I am quite sure you have told me the truth, and that you took no measures to approach her. Chance has done me this injury; I do not accuse you of it. I will be content, then, with what I formerly said to you concerning this young lady. I do not reproach her with anything—God is my witness! only it is not my intention or wish that you should frequent her place of residence. I beg you once more, my dear Raoul, to understand that.”
It was plain the limpid eyes of Raoul were troubled at this speech.
“Now, my friend,” said the comte, with his soft smile, and in his customary tone, “let us talk of other matters. You are returning, perhaps, to your duty?”
“No, Monsieur, I have no duty for today, except the pleasure of remaining with you. The prince kindly appointed me
