“No,” replied the duke.
“Here repose men that we knew well,” said d’Artagnan, greatly agitated.
Aramis, without divining anything, and with a trembling step, penetrated into the chapel by a little door which d’Artagnan opened for him. “Where are they buried?” said he.
“There, in the enclosure. There is a cross, you see, beneath yon little cypress. The tree of grief is planted over their tomb; don’t go to it; the king is going that way; the heron has fallen just there.”
Aramis stopped, and concealed himself in the shade. They then saw, without being seen, the pale face of La Vallière, who, neglected in her carriage, at first looked on, with a melancholy heart, from the door, and then, carried away by jealousy, advanced into the chapel, whence, leaning against a pillar, she contemplated the king smiling and making signs to Madame de Montespan to approach, as there was nothing to be afraid of. Madame de Montespan complied; she took the hand the king held out to her, and he, plucking out the first feather from the heron, which the falconer had strangled, placed it in his beautiful companion’s hat. She, smiling in her turn, kissed the hand tenderly which made her this present. The king grew scarlet with vanity and pleasure; he looked at Madame de Montespan with all the fire of new love.
“What will you give me in exchange?” said he.
She broke off a little branch of cypress and offered it to the king, who looked intoxicated with hope.
“Humph!” said Aramis to d’Artagnan; “the present is but a sad one, for that cypress shades a tomb.”
“Yes, and the tomb is that of Raoul de Bragelonne,” said d’Artagnan aloud; “of Raoul, who sleeps under that cross with his father.”
A groan resounded—they saw a woman fall fainting to the ground. Mademoiselle de La Vallière had seen all, heard all.
“Poor woman!” muttered d’Artagnan, as he helped the attendants to carry back to her carriage the lonely lady whose lot henceforth in life was suffering.
That evening d’Artagnan was seated at the king’s table, near M. Colbert and M. le Duc d’Alméda. The king was very gay. He paid a thousand little attentions to the queen, a thousand kindnesses to Madame, seated at his left hand, and very sad. It might have been supposed that time of calm when the king was wont to watch his mother’s eyes for the approval or disapproval of what he had just done.
Of mistresses there was no question at this dinner. The king addressed Aramis two or three times, calling him M. l’Ambassadeur, which increased the surprise already felt by d’Artagnan at seeing his friend the rebel so marvelously well received at court.
The king, on rising from table, gave his hand to the queen, and made a sign to Colbert, whose eye was on his master’s face. Colbert took d’Artagnan and Aramis on one side. The king began to chat with his sister, whilst Monsieur, very uneasy, entertained the queen with a preoccupied air, without ceasing to watch his wife and brother from the corner of his eye. The conversation between Aramis, d’Artagnan, and Colbert turned upon indifferent subjects. They spoke of preceding ministers; Colbert related the successful tricks of Mazarin, and desired those of Richelieu to be related to him. D’Artagnan could not overcome his surprise at finding this man, with his heavy eyebrows and low forehead, display so much sound knowledge and cheerful spirits. Aramis was astonished at that lightness of character which permitted this serious man to retard with advantage the moment for more important conversation, to which nobody made any allusion, although all three interlocutors felt its imminence. It was very plain, from the embarrassed appearance of Monsieur, how much the conversation of the king and Madame annoyed him. Madame’s eyes were almost red: was she going to complain? Was she going to expose a little scandal in open court? The king took her on one side, and in a tone so tender that it must have reminded the princess of the time when she was loved for herself:
“Sister,” said he, “why do I see tears in those lovely eyes?”
“Why—sire—” said she.
“Monsieur is jealous, is he not, sister?”
She looked towards Monsieur, an infallible sign that they were talking about him.
“Yes,” said she.
“Listen to me,” said the king; “if your friends compromise you, it is not Monsieur’s fault.”
He spoke these words with so much kindness that Madame, encouraged, having borne so many solitary griefs so long, was nearly bursting into tears, so full was her heart.
“Come, come, dear little sister,” said the king, “tell me your griefs; on the word of a brother, I pity them; on the word of a king, I will put an end to them.”
She raised her glorious eyes and, in a melancholy tone:
“It is not my friends who compromise me,” said she; “they are either absent or concealed; they have been brought into disgrace with Your Majesty; they, so devoted, so good, so loyal!”
“You say this on account of de Guiche, whom I have exiled, at Monsieur’s desire?”
“And who, since that unjust exile, has endeavored to get himself killed once every day.”
“Unjust, say you, sister?”
“So unjust, that if I had not had the respect mixed with friendship that I have always entertained for Your Majesty—”
“Well!”
“Well! I would have asked my brother Charles, upon whom I can always—”
The king started. “What, then?”
“I would have asked him to have had it represented to you that Monsieur and his favorite M. le Chevalier de Lorraine ought not with impunity to constitute themselves the executioners of my honor and my happiness.”
“The Chevalier de Lorraine,” said the king; “that dismal fellow?”
“Is my mortal enemy. Whilst that man lives in my household, where Monsieur retains him and delegates his
