The king offered his arm to Mademoiselle de Mancini, and made a sign to the coachman and lackeys to proceed. It was nearly six o’clock; the road was fresh and pleasant; tall trees with their foliage still enclosed in the golden down of their buds, let the dew of morning filter from their trembling branches, like liquid diamonds; the grass was bursting at the foot of the hedges; the swallows having returned only a few days since, described their graceful curves between the heavens and the water; a breeze, laden with the perfumes of the blossoming woods, sighed along the road, and wrinkled the surface of the waters of the river; all these beauties of the day, all these perfumes of the plants, all these aspirations of the earth towards heaven, intoxicated the two lovers, walking side by side, leaning upon each other, eyes fixed upon eyes, hand clasping hand, and who, lingering as by a common desire, did not dare to speak, they had so much to say.
The officer saw that the king’s horse, in wandering this way and that, annoyed Mademoiselle de Mancini. He took advantage of the pretext of securing the horse to draw near them, and dismounting, walked between the two horses he led; he did not lose a single word or gesture of the lovers. It was Mademoiselle de Mancini who at length began.
“Ah, my dear sire!” said she, “you do not abandon me, then?”
“No, Marie,” replied the king; “you see I do not.”
“I had so often been told, though, that as soon as we should be separated you would no longer think of me.”
“Dear Marie, is it then today only that you have discovered we are surrounded by people interested in deceiving us?”
“But then, sire, this journey, this alliance with Spain? They are going to marry you off!”
Louis hung his head. At the same time the officer could see the eyes of Marie de Mancini shine in the sun with the brilliancy of a dagger starting from its sheath. “And you have done nothing in favor of our love?” asked the girl, after a silence of a moment.
“Ah! Mademoiselle, how could you believe that? I threw myself at the feet of my mother; I begged her, I implored her; I told her all my hopes of happiness were in you; I even threatened—”
“Well?” asked Marie, eagerly.
“Well, the queen-mother wrote to the court of Rome, and received as answer, that a marriage between us would have no validity, and would be dissolved by the holy father. At length, finding there was no hope for us, I requested to have my marriage with the infanta at least delayed.”
“And yet that does not prevent your being on the road to meet her?”
“How can I help it? To my prayers, to my supplications, to my tears, I received no answer but reasons of state.”
“Well, well?”
“Well, what is to be done, Mademoiselle, when so many wills are leagued against me?”
It was now Marie’s turn to hang her head. “Then I must bid you adieu forever,” said she. “You know that I am being exiled; you know that I am going to be buried alive; you know still more that they want to marry me off, too.”
Louis became very pale, and placed his hand upon his heart.
“If I had thought that my life only had been at stake, I have been so persecuted that I might have yielded; but I thought yours was concerned, my dear sire, and I stood out for the sake of preserving your happiness.”
“Oh, yes! my happiness, my treasure!” murmured the king, more gallantly than passionately, perhaps.
“The cardinal might have yielded,” said Marie, “if you had addressed yourself to him, if you had pressed him. For the cardinal to call the king of France his nephew! do you not perceive, sire? He would have made war even for that honor; the cardinal, assured of governing alone, under the double pretext of having brought up the king and given his niece to him in marriage—the cardinal would have fought all antagonists, overcome all obstacles. Oh, sire! I can answer for that. I am a woman, and I see clearly into everything where love is concerned.”
These words produced a strange effect upon the king. Instead of heightening his passion, they cooled it. He stopped, and said hastily—
“What is to be said, Mademoiselle? Everything has failed.”
“Except your will, I trust, my dear sire?”
“Alas!” said the king, coloring, “have I a will?”
“Oh!” said Mademoiselle de Mancini mournfully, wounded by that expression.
“The king has no will but that which policy dictates, but that which reasons of state impose upon him.”
“Oh! it is because you have no love,” cried Marie; “if you loved, sire, you would have a will.”
On pronouncing these words, Marie raised her eyes to her lover, whom she saw more pale and more cast down than an exile who is about to quit his native land forever. “Accuse me,” murmured the king, “but do not say I do not love you.”
A long silence followed these words, which the young king had pronounced with a perfectly true and profound feeling. “I am unable to think that tomorrow, and after tomorrow, I shall see you no more; I cannot think that I am going to end my sad days at a distance from Paris; that the lips of an old man, of an unknown, should touch that hand which you hold within yours; no, in truth, I cannot think of all that, my dear sire, without having my poor heart burst with despair.”
And Marie de Mancini did shed floods of tears. On his part, the king, much affected, carried his handkerchief to his mouth, and stifled a sob.
“See,” said she, “the carriages have stopped, my sister waits for me, the time is come; what you are about to decide upon will be decided for life. Oh, sire! you are willing, then, that I should lose you? You are willing, then, Louis, that she to whom you have said ‘I
