“How Madame de la Vall—I mean, how delighted Madame de Saint-Remy will be to see you! But come in. His Royal Highness is at breakfast—must he be interrupted? Is the matter serious?”
“Yes, and no, Monsieur de Saint-Remy. A moment’s delay, however, would be disagreeable to His Royal Highness.”
“If that is the case, we will force the consigne, Monsieur le Vicomte. Come in. Besides, Monsieur is in an excellent humor today. And then you bring news, do you not?”
“Great news, Monsieur de Saint-Remy.”
“And good, I presume?”
“Excellent.”
“Come quickly, come quickly then!” cried the worthy man, putting his dress to rights as he went along.
Raoul followed him, hat in hand, and a little disconcerted at the noise made by his spurs in these immense salons.
As soon as he had disappeared in the interior of the palace, the window of the court was repeopled, and an animated whispering betrayed the emotion of the two girls. They soon appeared to have formed a resolution, for one of the two faces disappeared from the window. This was the brunette; the other remained behind the balcony, concealed by the flowers, watching attentively through the branches the perron by which M. de Bragelonne had entered the castle.
In the meantime the object of so much laudable curiosity continued his route, following the steps of the maître d’hôtel. The noise of quick steps, an odor of wine and viands, a clinking of crystal and plates, warned them that they were coming to the end of their course.
The pages, valets, and officers, assembled in the office which led up to the refectory, welcomed the newcomer with the proverbial politeness of the country; some of them were acquainted with Raoul, and all knew that he came from Paris. It might be said that his arrival for a moment suspended the service. In fact, a page, who was pouring out wine for His Royal Highness, on hearing the jingling of spurs in the next chamber, turned round like a child, without perceiving that he was continuing to pour out, not into the glass, but upon the tablecloth.
Madame, who was not so preoccupied as her glorious spouse was, remarked this distraction of the page.
“Well?” exclaimed she.
“Well!” repeated Monsieur; “what is going on then?”
M. de Saint-Remy, who had just introduced his head through the doorway, took advantage of the moment.
“Why am I to be disturbed?” said Gaston, helping himself to a thick slice of one of the largest salmon that had ever ascended the Loire to be captured between Paimboeuf and Saint-Nazaire.
“There is a messenger from Paris. Oh! but after Monseigneur has breakfasted will do; there is plenty of time.”
“From Paris!” cried the prince, letting his fork fall. “A messenger from Paris, do you say? And on whose part does this messenger come?”
“On the part of M. le Prince,” said the maître d’hôtel promptly.
Everyone knows that the Prince de Condé was so called.
“A messenger from M. le Prince!” said Gaston, with an inquietude that escaped none of the assistants, and consequently redoubled the general curiosity.
Monsieur, perhaps, fancied himself brought back again to the happy times when the opening of a door gave him an emotion, in which every letter might contain a state secret—in which every message was connected with a dark and complicated intrigue. Perhaps, likewise, that great name of M. le Prince expanded itself, beneath the roofs of Blois, to the proportions of a phantom.
Monsieur pushed away his plate.
“Shall I tell the envoy to wait?” asked M. de Saint-Remy.
A glance from Madame emboldened Gaston, who replied: “No, no; let him come in at once, on the contrary. Apropos, who is he?”
“A gentleman of this country, M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
“Ah, very well! Introduce him, Saint-Remy—introduce him.”
And when he had let fall these words, with his accustomed gravity, Monsieur turned his eyes, in a certain manner, upon the people of his suite, so that all, pages, officers, and equerries, quitted the service, knives and goblets, and made towards the second chamber door a retreat as rapid as it was disorderly.
This little army had dispersed in two files when Raoul de Bragelonne, preceded by M. de Saint-Remy, entered the refectory.
The short interval of solitude which this retreat had left him, permitted Monsieur the time to assume a diplomatic countenance. He did not turn round, but waited till the maître d’hôtel should bring the messenger face to face with him.
Raoul stopped even with the lower end of the table, so as to be exactly between Monsieur and Madame. From this place he made a profound bow to Monsieur, and a very humble one to Madame; then, drawing himself up into military pose, he waited for Monsieur to address him.
On his part the prince waited till the doors were hermetically closed; he would not turn round to ascertain the fact, as that would have been derogatory to his dignity, but he listened with all his ears for the noise of the lock, which would promise him at least an appearance of secrecy.
The doors being closed, Monsieur raised his eyes towards the vicomte, and said, “It appears that you come from Paris, Monsieur?”
“This minute, Monseigneur.”
“How is the king?”
“His Majesty is in perfect health, Monseigneur.”
“And my sister-in-law?”
“Her Majesty the queen-mother still suffers from the complaint in her chest, but for the last month she has been rather better.”
“Somebody told me you came on the part of M. le Prince. They must have been mistaken, surely?”
“No, Monseigneur; M. le Prince has charged me to convey this letter to Your Royal Highness, and I am to wait for an answer to it.”
Raoul had been a little annoyed by this cold and cautious reception, and his voice insensibly sank to a low key.
The prince forgot that he was the cause of this apparent mystery, and his fears returned.
He received the letter from the Prince de Condé with a haggard look, unsealed it as he would have unsealed a suspicious packet, and in order to read it so that no one should remark the effects of it upon his countenance, he turned round.
Madame followed, with an anxiety almost equal
