“In what way?”
“You are acquainted with the Abbé d’Herblay, and you know that he is a somewhat mysterious gentleman.”
“Yes.”
“Well, you can, perhaps, give me the address of his presbytery, for I have been to Noisy-le-Sec, and he is no longer there.”
“I should think not, indeed. He is Bishop of Vannes.”
“What! Vannes in Bretagne?”
“Yes.”
The little man began to tear his hair, saying, “How can I get to Vannes from here by midday tomorrow? I am a lost man.”
“Your despair quite distresses me.”
“Vannes, Vannes!” cried Baisemeaux.
“But listen; a bishop is not always a resident. M. d’Herblay may not possibly be so far away as you fear.”
“Pray tell me his address.”
“I really don’t know it.”
“In that case I am lost. I will go and throw myself at the king’s feet.”
“But, Baisemeaux, I can hardly believe what you tell me; besides, since the Bastille is capable of producing fifty thousand francs a year, why have you not tried to screw one hundred thousand out of it?”
“Because I am an honest man, M. d’Artagnan, and because my prisoners are fed like ambassadors.”
“Well, you’re in a fair way to get out of your difficulties; give yourself a good attack of indigestion with your excellent living, and put yourself out of the way between this and midday tomorrow.”
“How can you be hard-hearted enough to laugh?”
“Nay, you really afflict me. Come, Baisemeaux, if you can pledge me your word of honor, do so, that you will not open your lips to anyone about what I am going to say to you.”
“Never, never!”
“You wish to put your hands on Aramis?”
“At any cost!”
“Well, go and see where M. Fouquet is.”
“Why, what connection can there be—”
“How stupid you are! Don’t you know that Vannes is in the diocese of Belle-Isle, or Belle-Isle in the diocese of Vannes? Belle-Isle belongs to M. Fouquet, and M. Fouquet nominated M. d’Herblay to that bishopric!”
“I see, I see; you restore me to life again.”
“So much the better. Go and tell M. Fouquet very simply that you wish to speak to M. d’Herblay.”
“Of course, of course,” exclaimed Baisemeaux, delightedly.
“But,” said d’Artagnan, checking him by a severe look, “your word of honor?”
“I give you my sacred word of honor,” replied the little man, about to set off running.
“Where are you going?”
“To M. Fouquet’s house.”
“It is useless doing that; M. Fouquet is playing at cards with the king. All you can do is to pay M. Fouquet a visit early tomorrow morning.”
“I will do so. Thank you.”
“Good luck attend you,” said d’Artagnan.
“Thank you.”
“This is a strange affair,” murmured d’Artagnan, as he slowly ascended the staircase after he had left Baisemeaux. “What possible interest can Aramis have in obliging Baisemeaux in this manner? Well, I suppose we shall learn some day or another.”
97
The King’s Card-Table
Fouquet was present, as d’Artagnan had said, at the king’s card-table. It seemed as if Buckingham’s departure had shed a balm on the lacerated hearts of the previous evening. Monsieur, radiant with delight, made a thousand affectionate signs to his mother. The Count de Guiche could not separate himself from Buckingham, and while playing, conversed with him upon the circumstance of his projected voyage. Buckingham, thoughtful, and kind in his manner, like a man who has adopted a resolution, listened to the count, and from time to time cast a look full of regret and hopeless affection at Madame. The princess, in the midst of her elation of spirits, divided her attention between the king, who was playing with her, Monsieur, who quietly joked her about her enormous winnings, and de Guiche, who exhibited an extravagant delight. Of Buckingham she took but little notice; for her, this fugitive, this exile, was now simply a remembrance, no longer a man. Light hearts are thus constituted; while they themselves continue untouched, they roughly break off with everyone who may possibly interfere with their little calculations of selfish comfort. Madame had received Buckingham’s smiles and attentions and sighs while he was present; but what was the good of sighing, smiling, and kneeling at a distance? Can one tell in what direction the winds in the Channel, which toss mighty vessels to and fro, carry such sighs as these? The duke could not fail to mark this change, and his heart was cruelly hurt. Of a sensitive character, proud and susceptible of deep attachment, he cursed the day on which such a passion had entered his heart. The looks he cast, from time to time at Madame, became colder by degrees at the chilling complexion of his thoughts. He could hardly yet despair, but he was strong enough to impose silence upon the tumultuous outcries of his heart. In exact proportion, however, as Madame suspected this change of feeling, she redoubled her activity to regain the ray of light she was about to lose; her timid and indecisive mind was displayed in brilliant flashes of wit and humor. At any cost she felt that she must be remarked above everything and everyone, even above the king himself. And she was so, for the queens, notwithstanding their dignity, and the king, despite the respect which etiquette required, were all eclipsed by her. The queens, stately and ceremonious, were softened and could not restrain their laughter. Madame Henriette, the queen-mother, was dazzled by the brilliancy which cast distinction upon her family, thanks to the wit of the granddaughter of Henry IV. The king, jealous, as a young man and as a monarch, of the superiority of those who surrounded him, could not resist admitting himself vanquished by a petulance so thoroughly French in its nature, whose energy more than ever increased by English humor. Like a child, he was captivated by her radiant beauty, which her wit made still more dazzling. Madame’s eyes flashed like lightning. Wit and humor escaped from her scarlet lips like persuasion from the lips of Nestor of old. The whole court, subdued by her enchanting grace, noticed for the first time that laughter could be indulged in before the greatest monarch in the world, like people who merited their appellation of
