“Where is the treaty?”
“Here it is.”
Anne of Austria cast her eyes upon the treaty that d’Artagnan presented to her.
“I do not see here,” she said, “anything but general conditions; the interests of the Prince de Conti or of the Ducs de Beaufort, de Bouillon and d’Elbeuf and of the coadjutor, are herein consulted; but with regard to yours?”
“We do ourselves justice, Madame, even in assuming the high position that we have. We do not think ourselves worthy to stand near such great names.”
“But you, I presume, have decided to assert your pretensions viva voce?”
“I believe you, Madame, to be a great and powerful queen, and that it will be unworthy of your power and greatness if you do not recompense the arms which will bring back his Eminence to Saint Germain.”
“It is my intention so to do; come, let us hear you. Speak.”
“He who has negotiated these matters (forgive me if I begin by speaking of myself, but I must claim that importance which has been given to me, not assumed by me) he who has arranged matters for the return of the cardinal, ought, it appears to me, in order that his reward may not be unworthy of Your Majesty, to be made commandant of the Guards—an appointment something like that of captain of the Musketeers.”
“ ’Tis the appointment Monsieur de Tréville held, you ask of me.”
“The place, Madame, is vacant, and although ’tis a year since Monsieur de Tréville has left it, it has not been filled.”
“But it is one of the principal military appointments in the king’s household.”
“Monsieur de Tréville was but a younger son of a simple Gascon family, like me, Madame; he occupied that post for twenty years.”
“You have an answer ready for everything,” replied the queen, and she took from her bureau a document, which she filled up and signed.
“Undoubtedly, Madame,” said d’Artagnan, taking the document and bowing, “this is a noble reward; but everything in the world is unstable, and the man who happened to fall into disgrace with Your Majesty might lose this office tomorrow.”
“What more do you want?” asked the queen, coloring, as she found that she had to deal with a mind as subtle as her own.
“A hundred thousand francs for this poor captain of Musketeers, to be paid whenever his services shall no longer be acceptable to Your Majesty.”
Anne hesitated.
“To think of the Parisians,” soliloquized d’Artagnan, “offering only the other day, by an edict of the parliament, six hundred thousand francs to any man soever who would deliver up the cardinal to them, dead or alive—if alive, in order to hang him; if dead, to deny him the rites of Christian burial!”
“Come,” said Anne, “ ’tis reasonable, since you only ask from a queen the sixth of what the parliament has proposed”; and she signed an order for a hundred thousand francs.
“Now, then,” she said, “what next?”
“Madame, my friend Du Vallon is rich and has therefore nothing in the way of fortune to desire; but I think I remember that there was a question between him and Monsieur Mazarin as to making his estate a barony. Nay, it must have been a promise.”
“A country clown,” said Anne of Austria, “people will laugh.”
“Let them,” answered d’Artagnan. “But I am sure of one thing—that those who laugh at him in his presence will never laugh a second time.”
“Here goes the barony,” said the queen; she signed a patent.
“Now there remains the chevalier, or the Abbé d’Herblay, as Your Majesty pleases.”
“Does he wish to be a bishop?”
“No, Madame, something easier to grant.”
“What?”
“It is that the king should deign to stand godfather to the son of Madame de Longueville.”
The queen smiled.
“Monsieur de Longueville is of royal blood, Madame,” said d’Artagnan.
“Yes,” said the queen; “but his son?”
“His son, Madame, must be, since the husband of the son’s mother is.”
“And your friend has nothing more to ask for Madame de Longueville?”
“No, Madame, for I presume that the king, standing godfather to him, could do no less than present him with five hundred thousand francs, giving his father, also, the government of Normandy.”
“As to the government of Normandy,” replied the queen, “I think I can promise; but with regard to the present, the cardinal is always telling me there is no more money in the royal coffers.”
“We shall search for some, Madame, and I think we can find a little, and if Your Majesty approves, we will seek for some together.”
“What next?”
“What next, Madame?”
“Yes.”
“That is all.”
“Haven’t you, then, a fourth companion?”
“Yes, Madame, the Comte de la Fère.”
“What does he ask?”
“Nothing.”
“There is in the world, then, one man who, having the power to ask, asks—nothing!”
“There is the Comte de la Fère, Madame. The Comte de la Fère is not a man.”
“What is he, then?”
“The Comte de la Fère is a demigod.”
“Has he not a son, a young man, a relative, a nephew, of whom Comminges spoke to me as being a brave boy, and who, with Monsieur de Châtillon, brought the standards from Lens?”
“He has, as Your Majesty has said, a ward, who is called the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
“If that young man should be appointed to a regiment what would his guardian say?”
“Perhaps he would accept.”
“Perhaps?”
“Yes, if Your Majesty herself should beg him to accept.”
“He must be indeed a strange man. Well, we will reflect and perhaps we will beg him. Are you satisfied, sir?”
“There is one thing the queen has not signed—her assent to the treaty.”
“Of what use today? I will sign it tomorrow.”
“I can assure Her Majesty that if she does not sign today she will not have time to sign tomorrow. Consent, then, I beg you, Madame, to write at the bottom of this schedule, which has been drawn up by Mazarin, as you see:
“ ‘I consent to ratify the treaty proposed by the Parisians.’ ”
Anne was caught, she could not draw back—she signed; but scarcely had she done so when pride burst forth and she began to weep.
D’Artagnan started on seeing these tears. Since that period of history queens have shed tears—like other women.
The Gascon shook
