“Ah!” said he, looking keenly at the falconer.
The keeper of the harriers smiled, no doubt with a view of making it up with the musketeer.
“Oh! you may safely laugh,” said d’Artagnan; “I know nothing of current news; I only arrived yesterday, after a month’s absence. I left the court mourning the death of the queen-mother. The king was not willing to take any amusement after receiving the last sigh of Anne of Austria; but everything comes to an end in this world. Well! then he is no longer sad? So much the better.”26
“And everything begins as well as ends,” said the keeper with a coarse laugh.
“Ah!” said d’Artagnan, a second time—he burned to know, but dignity would not allow him to interrogate people below him—“there is something beginning, then, it seems?”
The keeper gave him a significant wink; but d’Artagnan was unwilling to learn anything from this man.
“Shall we see the king early?” asked he of the falconer.
“At seven o’clock, Monsieur, I shall fly the birds.”
“Who comes with the king? How is Madame? How is the queen?”
“Better, Monsieur.”
“Has she been ill, then?”
“Monsieur, since the last chagrin she suffered, Her Majesty has been unwell.”
“What chagrin? You need not fancy your news is old. I have but just returned.”
“It appears that the queen, a little neglected since the death of her mother-in-law, complained to the king, who answered her—‘Do I not sleep at home every night, Madame? What more do you expect?’ ”
“Ah!” said d’Artagnan—“poor woman! She must heartily hate Mademoiselle de La Vallière.”
“Oh, no! not Mademoiselle de La Vallière,” replied the falconer.
“Who then—” The blast of a hunting-horn interrupted this conversation. It summoned the dogs and the hawks. The falconer and his companions set off immediately, leaving d’Artagnan alone in the midst of the suspended sentence. The king appeared at a distance, surrounded by ladies and horsemen. All the troop advanced in beautiful order, at a foot’s pace, the horns of various sorts animating the dogs and horses. There was an animation in the scene, a mirage of light, of which nothing now can give an idea, unless it be the fictitious splendor of a theatric spectacle. D’Artagnan, with an eye a little, just a little, dimmed by age, distinguished behind the group three carriages. The first was intended for the queen; it was empty. D’Artagnan, who did not see Mademoiselle de La Vallière by the king’s side, on looking about for her, saw her in the second carriage. She was alone with two of her women, who seemed as dull as their mistress. On the left hand of the king, upon a high-spirited horse, restrained by a bold and skillful hand, shone a lady of most dazzling beauty. The king smiled upon her, and she smiled upon the king. Loud laughter followed every word she uttered.
I must know that woman
, thought the musketeer; who can she be?
And he stooped towards his friend, the falconer, to whom he addressed the question he had put to himself.
The falconer was about to reply, when the king, perceiving d’Artagnan, “Ah, comte!” said he, “you are amongst us once more then! Why have I not seen you?”
“Sire,” replied the captain, “because Your Majesty was asleep when I arrived, and not awake when I resumed my duties this morning.”
“Still the same,” said Louis, in a loud voice, denoting satisfaction. “Take some rest, comte; I command you to do so. You will dine with me today.”
A murmur of admiration surrounded d’Artagnan like a caress. Everyone was eager to salute him. Dining with the king was an honor His Majesty was not so prodigal of as Henry IV had been. The king passed a few steps in advance, and d’Artagnan found himself in the midst of a fresh group, among whom shone Colbert.
“Good day, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the minister, with marked affability, “have you had a pleasant journey?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” said d’Artagnan, bowing to the neck of his horse.
“I heard the king invite you to his table for this evening,” continued the minister; “you will meet an old friend there.”
“An old friend of mine?” asked d’Artagnan, plunging painfully into the dark waves of the past, which had swallowed up for him so many friendships and so many hatreds.
“M. le Duc d’Alméda, who is arrived this morning from Spain.”
“The Duc d’Alméda?” said d’Artagnan, reflecting in vain.
“Here!” cried an old man, white as snow, sitting bent in his carriage, which he caused to be thrown open to make room for the musketeer.
“Aramis!” cried d’Artagnan, struck with profound amazement. And he felt, inert as it was, the thin arm of the old nobleman hanging round his neck.
Colbert, after having observed them in silence for a few moments, urged his horse forward, and left the two old friends together.
“And so,” said the musketeer, taking Aramis’s arm, “you, the exile, the rebel, are again in France?”
“Ah! and I shall dine with you at the king’s table,” said Aramis, smiling. “Yes, will you not ask yourself what is the use of fidelity in this world? Stop! let us allow poor La Vallière’s carriage to pass. Look, how uneasy she is! How her eyes, dim with tears, follow the king, who is riding on horseback yonder!”
“With whom?”
“With Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, now Madame de Montespan,” replied Aramis.
“She is jealous. Is she then deserted?”
“Not quite yet, but it will not be long before she is.”27
They chatted together, while following the sport, and Aramis’s coachman drove them so cleverly that they arrived at the instant when the falcon, attacking the bird, beat him down, and fell upon him. The king alighted; Madame de Montespan followed his example. They were in front of an isolated chapel, concealed by huge trees, already despoiled of their leaves by the first cutting winds of autumn. Behind this chapel was an enclosure, closed by a latticed gate. The falcon had beaten down his prey in the enclosure belonging to this little chapel, and the king was desirous of going in to take the first feather, according to
