“Let someone go and look for de Guiche: he has to render an account of a mission he had to discharge for me; if he should be disengaged, request him to be good enough to come to my apartment.”
De Guiche remained silent, hidden in the shade; but as soon as Madame had withdrawn, he darted from the terrace down the steps and assumed a most indifferent air, so that the pages who were hurrying towards his rooms might meet him.
Ah! it is Madame, then, who is seeking me!
he said to himself, quite overcome; and he crushed in his hand the now worse than useless letter.
“M. le Comte,” said one of the pages, approaching him, “we are indeed most fortunate in meeting you.”
“Why so, messieurs?”
“A command from Madame.”
“From Madame!” said de Guiche, looking surprised.
“Yes, M. le Comte, Her Royal Highness has been asking for you; she expects to hear, she told us, the result of a commission you had to execute for her. Are you at liberty?”
“I am quite at Her Royal Highness’s orders.”
“Will you have the goodness to follow us, then?”
When de Guiche entered the princess’s apartments, he found her pale and agitated. Montalais was standing at the door, evidently uneasy about what was passing in her mistress’s mind. De Guiche appeared.
“Ah! is that you, Monsieur de Guiche?” said Madame; “come in, I beg. Mademoiselle de Montalais, I do not require your attendance any longer.”
Montalais, more puzzled than ever, courtesied and withdrew. De Guiche and the princess were left alone. The comte had every advantage in his favor; it was Madame who had summoned him to a rendezvous. But how was it possible for the comte to make use of this advantage? Madame was so whimsical, and her disposition so changeable. She soon allowed this to be perceived, for, suddenly opening the conversation, she said: “Well! have you nothing to say to me?”
He imagined she must have guessed his thoughts; he fancied (for those who are in love are thus constituted, being as credulous and blind as poets or prophets), he fancied she knew how ardent was his desire to see her, and also the subject uppermost in his mind.
“Yes, Madame,” he said, “and I think it very singular.”
“The affair of the bracelets,” she exclaimed, eagerly, “you mean that, I suppose?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“And you think the king is in love; do you not?”
Guiche looked at her for some time; her eyes sank under his gaze, which seemed to read her very heart.
“I think,” he said, “that the king may possibly have had an idea of annoying someone; were it not for that, the king would hardly show himself so earnest in his attentions as he is; he would not run the risk of compromising, from mere thoughtlessness of disposition, a young girl against whom no one has been hitherto able to say a word.”
“Indeed! the bold, shameless girl,” said the princess, haughtily.
“I can positively assure Your Royal Highness,” said de Guiche, with a firmness marked by great respect, “that Mademoiselle de La Vallière is beloved by a man who merits every respect, for he is a brave and honorable gentleman.”
“Bragelonne?”
“My friend; yes, Madame.”
“Well, and though he is your friend, what does that matter to the king?”
“The king knows that Bragelonne is affianced to Mademoiselle de La Vallière; and as Raoul has served the king most valiantly, the king will not inflict an irreparable injury upon him.”
Madame began to laugh in a manner that produced a sinister impression upon de Guiche.
“I repeat, Madame, I do not believe the king is in love with Mademoiselle de La Vallière; and the proof that I do not believe it is, that I was about to ask you whose amour propre it is likely the king is desirous of wounding? You, who are well acquainted with the whole court, can perhaps assist me in ascertaining that; and assuredly, with greater certainty, since it is everywhere said that Your Royal Highness is on very friendly terms with the king.”
Madame bit her lips, and, unable to assign any good and sufficient reasons, changed the conversation. “Prove to me,” she said, fixing on him one of those looks in which the whole soul seems to pass into the eyes, “prove to me, I say, that you intended to interrogate me at the very moment I sent for you.”
De Guiche gravely drew from his pocket the now crumpled note that he had written, and showed it to her.
“Sympathy,” she said.
“Yes,” said the comte, with an indescribable tenderness of tone, “sympathy. I have explained to you how and why I sought you; you, however, have yet to tell me, Madame, why you sent for me.”
“True,” replied the princess. She hesitated, and then suddenly exclaimed, “Those bracelets will drive me mad.”
“You expected the king would offer them to you,” replied de Guiche.
“Why not?”
“But before you, Madame, before you, his sister-in-law, was there not the queen herself to whom the king should have offered them?”
“Before La Vallière,” cried the princess, wounded to the quick, “could he not have presented them to me? Was there not the whole court, indeed, to choose from?”
“I assure you, Madame,” said the comte, respectfully, “that if anyone heard you speak in this manner, if anyone were to see how red your eyes are, and, Heaven forgive me, to see, too, that tear trembling on your eyelids, it would be said that Your Royal Highness was jealous.”
“Jealous!” said the princess, haughtily, “jealous of La Vallière!”
She expected to see de Guiche yield beneath her scornful gesture and her proud tone; but he simply and boldly replied, “Jealous of La Vallière; yes, Madame.”
“Am I to suppose, Monsieur,” she stammered out, “that your object is to insult me?”
“It is not possible, Madame,” replied the comte, slightly agitated, but resolved to master that fiery nature.
“Leave the room!” said the princess, thoroughly exasperated, de Guiche’s coolness and silent respect having made her
