CHAPTER IV
AN AENEAS FOR AN ACHATES
In the grand gallery of the Palais Royal stood a mahogany table, thebellying legs of which, decorated with Venetian-wrought gold, sparkledand glittered in the light of the flames that rose and fell in thegaping chimney-place. Around this table were seated four persons ofnote: the aging Marechal de Villeroi, Madame de Motteville ofimperishable memoirs, Anne of Austria, and Cardinal Mazarin. TheItalian, having won a pile of golden louis from the soldier, wassmiling amiably and building yellow pyramids, forgetful for the timebeing of his gouty foot which dozed on a cushion under the table. Thisastute politician was still a handsome man, but the Fronde and theturbulent nobility had left their imprint. There were many lineswrinkling the circle of his eyes, and the brilliant color on his cheekswas the effect of rouge and fever.
The queen gazed covetously at Mazarin's winnings. She was growing fat,and the three long curls on each side of her face in no wise diminishedits width; but her throat was still firm and white, and her hands,saving their plumpness, were yet the envy of many a beautiful woman.Anne of Austria was now devoted to three things; her prayers, herhands, and her plays.
As for the other two, Madame de Motteville looked hungry and politelybored, while the old marechal scowled at his cards.
Near-by, on a pile of cushions, sat Philippe d'Orleans, the king'sbrother. He was cutting horses from three-colored prints and wassailing them up the chimney. At the left of the fireplace, the darklocks of the girl mingling with the golden curls of the boy, bothporing over a hook filled with war-like pictures, the one interested bythe martial spirit native to his blood, the other by the desire toplease, sat the boy Louis and Mademoiselle de Mancini, Mazarin's niece.From time to time the cardinal permitted his gaze to wander in theirdirection, and there was fatherly affection in his smile. Mazarinliked to call these gatherings "family parties."
The center of the gallery presented an animated scene. The beautifulMadame de Turenne, whose husband was the marechal-general of the armiesof France, then engaged in war against Spain, under whose banners thegreat Conde was meeting with a long series of defeats, the Comtesse deSoissons, the Abbe de la Rivre, Madame de Brigy, the Duc and Duchessede Montausier,--all were laughing and exchanging badinage with the Ducde Gramont, who was playing execrably on Mademoiselle de Longueville'sguitar. Surrounding were the younger courtiers and ladies, who alsowere enjoying the affair. There are few things which amuse youngpeople as much as the sight of an elderly, dignified man making a clownof himself.
"Oh, Monsieur le Duc," cried Mademoiselle de Longueville, springingfrom the window-seat from which position she had been staring at theflambeaux below, "if you fought as badly as you play, you would neverhave gained the baton."
"Mademoiselle, each has its time and place, the battle and themadrigal, Homer and Voiture, and besides, I never play when I fight;"and De Gramont continued his thrumming.
Just outside the pale of this merry circle the Duc de Beaufort leanedover the chair of Madame de Montbazon, and carried on a conversation inlow tones. The duchess exhibited at intervals a fine set of teeth. Inthe old days when the literary salons of the Hotel de Rambouillet wereat zenith, the Duchesse de Montbazon was known to be at once thehandsomest and most ignorant woman in France. But none denied that shepossessed a natural wit or the ability successfully to intrigue; andmany were the grand _sieurs_ who had knelt at her feet. But now, likeAnne of Austria, she was devoting her time to prayers and to thepreservation of what beauty remained.
"So De Brissac is dead?" said Beaufort seriously. "Ah well, we allmust die. I hope he has straightened up his affairs and that hispapers fall into worthy hands." The prince glanced covertly towardMazarin. "But it was all his own fault. The idea of a man of sixtymarrying a girl of seventeen, fresh from convent, and a beauty, too,they say. He deserved it."
"Beaufort, few persons deserve violent deaths," replied the duchess;and with a perceptible frown she added: "And are you aware that Madamede Brissac, of whom you speak so lightly, is my own daughter?"
Beaufort started back from the chair. "Word of honor, I had forgotten!But it was so long ago, and no one seems to have heard of her. Yourdaughter! Why was she never presented at court?"
"She was presented three years ago, informally. I wished it so.Monsieur, we women love to hold a surprise in reserve. When we are nolonger attractive, a daughter more or less does not matter."
"Truly I had forgotten. Eh well, we can not remember everything,especially when one spends five years in Vincennes," with anotherfurtive glance at Mazarin. "But why De Brissac? If this daughter hashalf the beauty you had in your youth . . ."
Madame frowned.
"Half the beauty you still possess . . ."
Madame laughed. "Take care, or it will be said that Beaufort is becomea wit."
Beaufort went on serenely--"there had been many a princeling."
Madame contemplated the rosy horn on the tips of her fingers."Monsieur le Comte was rich."
"Admitted."
"His title was old."
"Again admitted. And all very well had he been only half as old as histitle, this son-in-law of yours. Your son-in-law! It reads like oneof Marguerite's tender tales. The daughter is three times younger thanthe husband who is old enough to be the father of his wife's mother. Imust tell Scarron; he will make me laugh in retelling it."
Madame's lips formed for a spiteful utterance, but what she said was:"Prison life has aged you."
"Aged me, Madame?" reproachfully. "I grow old? Never. I have foundthe elixir of life."
"You will give me the recipe?" softening.
"You already possess it."
"I? Pray, explain."
"We who have the faculty of learning, without the use of books, ofrefusing to take life seriously, of forgetting injuries,--we never growold. We simply die."
A third person would have enjoyed this blundering, unconscious ironywhich in no wise disturbed madame.
"The recipe is this," continued Beaufort: "enjoy the hours as theycome; borrow not in advance, but spend the hour you have; shake thepast from the shoulders like a worn-out cloak; laugh at and with yourenemies; and be sure you have enemies, or life's without salt."
Madame gazed dreamily at the picture-lined walls. She smiled,recalling some happy souvenir. Presently she asked: "And who is thisChevalier du Cevennes?"
"A capital soldier, a gay fellow, rich and extravagant. I do not knowhim intimately, but I should like to. I knew his father well. TheMarquis de Perigny was . . ."
"The Marquis de Perigny!" interrupted the duchess, half rising from herseat. "Do you mean to tell me that the Chevalier du Cevennes is theson of the Marquis de Perigny?" For a moment her mind was confused; somany recollections awoke to life at the mention of this name. "TheMarquis de Perigny!"
Beaufort smiled. "Yes. Do you not recall the gay and brilliantmarquis of fifteen years ago?"
Madame colored. "You said that the past should be shaken from theshoulders like a worn-out cloak."
"True. Ah, but that mad marquis!" reminiscently. "What a man he musthave been in his youth! A fatalist, for I have seen him walk into theenemy's fire, laughing. Handsome? Too handsome. Courage? He wasalways fighting; he was a lion. How we youngsters applauded him! Hetold Richelieu to his face that he would be delighted to have him visitPerigny and dance the saraband before his peasant girls. He was alwaysbreaking the edicts, and but for the king he would have spent most ofhis time in the Bastille. He hasn't been to court in ten years."
"And is this son handsome?"
"Handsome and rich, with the valor of a Crillon. The daughter of aMontbazon would never look at a clod. . . . Monks of Touraine!" heejaculated. "I remember now. I have seen her. Madame, I complimentyou."
"Beaufort, believe me when I say that my daughter and the Chevalier duCevennes have never met face to face. I am in a position to know.Since presentation Gabrielle has not been to court, unless it ha
s beenwithout my knowledge. Certainly the motive must have been robbery."
"Nothing of the sort. Nothing was missing from the Hotel de Brissac.The Chevalier is rich."
"The Chevalier? I tell you that the association is impossible. In thefirst place . . . It is of no matter," biting her lips. "I know."
"_Ventre Saint Gris_! as my grandfather used to say, there is but onegrey cloak lined with purple satin, but one square velvet collar, afashion which the Chevalier invented himself. Three persons saw andrecognized the cloak. If the Chevalier returns, it is the Bastille andforgetfulness. Mazarin is becoming as strict as those pot-hat Puritansyonder in England. He might possibly overlook a duel in the open; butto enter a man's house by the window . . . What more is there to besaid? And all this recalls what my father used to say. De Brissac andthe Marquis de Perigny were deadly enemies. It seems that De Brissachad one love affair; Madame la Marquise while she was a Savoy princess.She loved the marquis, and he married her because De Brissac wantedher. But De Brissac evidently never had his revenge."
Madame felt that she could no longer sustain the conversation. In herown mind she was positive that her daughter and the son of her oldflame had never met. A man does not fall in love with a woman after herefuses to look at her; and the Chevalier had refused to look atGabrielle. Why? Her mind was not subtile enough to pierce the veil.
A lackey approached Beaufort.
"I was directed to give this note to your Highness." The lackey bowedprofoundly and retired.
Beaufort opened the note, scanned the lines, and grew deadly pale.What he read was this: "Monsieur le Comte's private papers are missing,taken by his assailant, who entered the hotel for that purpose. Becareful." The note was unsigned.
At this moment Bernouin approached Mazarin and whispered something inhis ear.
"Impossible!" cried the cardinal.
"It is true, nevertheless," replied the valet. "He is in the anteroom."
"The fellow is a fool! Does he think to brazen it out? I shall makean example of him. De Meilleraye, take my cards, and if you lose morethan ten louis! . . . Ladies, an affair of state," and Mazarin roseand limped into the adjoining cabinet. "Bring him into this room," hesaid to the valet. He then stationed two gentlemen of the musketeersbehind his chair, sat down and waited, a grimace of pain twisting hislips.
Meanwhile the Chevalier entered the gallery, following Bernouin. Hisface wore a puzzled, troubled expression. All this ado somewhatconfused him.
"He is handsome," said Madame de Montbazon; "handsomer than ever hisfather was."
"He is more than handsome," said Beaufort, whose astonishment wasgenuine; "he is brave. What the devil brings him here into the wolf'smaw?"
"His innocence. You see I was correct;" and madame's face grew placidagain. So satisfied was she that she did not notice Beaufort's pallornor the fever which burned in his brilliant eyes.
When the Chevalier was ushered into Mazarin's presence he was in greatperturbation. Diane had not met him in the gallery as she had fairlypromised, and the young page who had played Mercury to their intriguestared him coolly in the face when questioned, and went about hisaffairs cavalierly. What did it mean? He scarce saw Mazarin or theserious faces of the musketeers. With no small effort he succeeded infinding his voice.
"Monseigneur, I have the honor to report to you the success of mymission. His Holiness directed me to give you this message." Hechoked; he could utter no more.
Mazarin read wrongly these signs of agitation. He took the missive andlaid it aside. He drummed with his fingers, a sign that he wascontemplating something disagreeable.
"Monsieur, when did you arrive?" he asked.
"At six this evening, Monseigneur," answered the Chevalierlistlessly . . . He had entered Paris with joy in his heart, but noweverything seemed to be going wrong.
"Take care, Monsieur," said Mazarin, lifting a warning finger. "Youarrived yesterday, secretly."
"I? Why, Monseigneur, this is the twentieth of February, the eveningwe agreed upon. I slept last night at the Pineapple in Fontainebleau.I repeat to you, I arrived scarce two hours ago." It was now for thefirst time that he noted the seriousness of the faces confronting him.
"And I repeat that you arrived last night."
"Monseigneur, that is telling me that I lie!"
"Then tell the truth." Mazarin did not particularly relish theChevalier's haughtiness. "You were in Paris last night."
"Monseigneur, I am a gentleman. While I lack many virtues, I do notlack courage and truthfulness. When I say that I slept inFontainebleau, I say so truthfully. Your Eminence will tell me thecause of this peculiar interrogatory. There is an accusation pending."There was no fear in the Chevalier's face, but there was pride andcourage and something bordering closely on contempt.
"Very well, then," replied Mazarin icily. "You were in Paris lastnight. You had an appointment at the Hotel de Brissac. You entered bya window. Being surprised by the aged Brissac, you killed him."
The musketeers, who knew the Chevalier's courage, exchanged glances ofsurprise and disbelief. As for the accused, he stepped back, horrified.
"Monseigneur, one or the other of us is mad! I pray God that it bemyself; for it can not be possible that the first minister in Francewould accuse of such a crime a gentleman who not only possesses couragebut pride."
"Weigh your words, Monsieur le Chevalier," warned the cardinal. TheChevalier's tone was not pleasing to his cardinal's ear.
"You ask me to weigh my words, Monseigneur?--to weigh my words?" with agesture which caused the musketeers to draw closer to Mazarin, "Oh, Iam calm, gentlemen; I am calm!" He threw his hat to the floor, drewhis sword and tossed it beside the hat, and folding his arms he said,his voice full of sudden wrath--wrath, against the ironical turn offortune which had changed his cup of wine into salt:--"Now,Monseigneur, I demand of you that privilege which belongs to and isinseparable from my house: the right to face my accusers."
"I warn you, Monsieur," said Mazarin, "I like not this manner youassume. There were witnesses, and trustworthy ones. Yon may rely uponthat."
"Trustworthy? That is not possible. I did not know De Brissac. Ihave never exchanged a word with him."
"It is not advanced that you knew Monsieur le Comte. But there wasmadame, who, it is said, was at one time affianced to you." Mazarinwas a keen physiognomist; and as he read the utter bewilderment writtenon the Chevalier's face, his own grew somewhat puzzled.
"Monseigneur, as our Lady is witness, I have never, to my knowledge,set eyes upon Madame de Brissac, though it is true that at one time itwas my father's wish that I should wed Mademoiselle de Montbazon."
"Monsieur, when a man wears such fashionable clothes as you wear, henaturally fixes the memory, becomes conspicuous. Do not forget thegrey cloak, Monsieur le Chevalier."
"The grey cloak?" The Chevalier's face brightened. "Why, Monseigneur,the grey cloak . . ." He stopped. Victor de Saumaise, his friend, hiscomrade in arms, Victor the gay and careless, who was without anyinfluence save that which his cheeriness and honesty and wit gave him!Victor the poet, the fashionable Villon, with his ballade, his rondeau,his triolet, his chant-royal!--Victor, who had put his own breastbefore his at Lens! The Chevalier regained his composure, he saw hisway clearly, and said quietly: "I have not worn my grey cloak since theking's party at Louvre. I can only repeat that I was not in Paris lastnight. I slept at the Pineapple at Fontainebleau. Having no money, Ipawned my ring for a night's lodging. If you will send some gentlemanto make inquiries, the truth of my statement will be verified." Therewas now no wrath in the Chevalier's voice; but there was a quality ofresignation in it which struck the acute ear of the cardinal and causedhim to raise his penciled brows.
"Monsieur, you are hiding something," he said quickly, even shrewdly.
"I?"
"You, Monsieur. I believe that you slept in Fontainebleau. But whowore your grey cloak?"
"I can not
say truthfully because I do not know."
"Take care!"
"I do not know who wore my cloak."
"A while back you said something about truth. You are not telling itnow. I will know who killed De Brissac, an honored and respectedgentleman, whatever his political opinions may have been in the past.It was an encounter under questionable circumstances. The edict readsthat whosoever shall be found guilty of killing in a personal quarrelshall be subject to imprisonment or death. The name of the man whowore your cloak, or I shall hold you culpable and punish you in hisstead."
The Chevalier stooped and recovered his hat, but he did not touch thesword.
"It is impossible for me to tell you, Monseigneur. I do not know. Thecloak may have been stolen and worn by some one I never saw."
"To whom did you lend the cloak?"
"To tell that might bring another innocent man under a cloud. Besides,I have been absent thirty days; that is a long time to remember sotrivial a thing."
"Which is to say that you refuse to tell me?" not without someadmiration.
"It is," quietly.
"Your exoneration for the name, Chevalier. The alternative is yourresignation from the Guards and your exile."
Exile from Paris was death to the courtier; but the Chevalier was morethan a courtier, he was a soldier. "I refuse to tell you, Monseigneur.It is unfair of you to ask me."
"So be it. For the sake of your father, the marquis,--and I have oftenwondered why you never assume your lawful title,--for the sake of yourfather, then, who is still remembered kindly by her Majesty, I shallnot send you to the Bastille as was my original intention. Your exileshall be in the sum of five years. You are to remain in France. Ifyou rebel and draw your sword against your country, confiscation anddeath. You are also prohibited from offering your services to Franceagainst any nation she may be at war with. If within these five yearsyou set foot inside of Paris, the Bastille, with an additional threeyears."
"Monseigneur, that is severe punishment for a man whose only crime isthe possession of a grey cloak."
"Death of my life! I am not punishing you; I am punishing the man whokilled De Brissac. Come, come, Monsieur le Comte," in a kindly tone;"do not be a fool, do not throw away a brilliant career for the sake ofa friendship. I who know tell you that it is not worth while.Friendship, I have learned, is but a guise for self-interest."
The Chevalier, having nothing to say, bowed.
"Go, then, to your estates." Mazarin was angry. "Mark me, I shallfind this friend of yours, but I shall not remit one hour of yourpunishment. Messieurs," turning to the musketeers, "conduct Monsieurle Chevalier to his lodgings and remain with him till dawn, when youwill show him the road to Orleans. And remember, he must see no one."Then Mazarin went back to the gallery and resumed his game. "What! DeMeilleraye, you have won only three louis? Give me the cards; and tellhis Grace of Gramont that I am weary of his discords."
"Monsieur le Chevalier," said one of the musketeers, waking theChevalier from his stupor, "pardon us a disagreeable duty."
The other musketeer restored the Chevalier's rapier.
"Proceed, Messieurs," said the Chevalier, picking up his hat andthrusting his sword into its scabbard; "I dare say this moment isdistasteful to us all."
The musketeers conducted him through the secret staircase to the courtbelow. The Duc de Beaufort, who had been waiting, came forward.
"Stand back, Messieurs," said the prince; "I have a word to say toMonsieur le Chevalier."
Mazarin's word was much, but the soldier loved his Beaufort. The twomusketeers withdrew a dozen paces.
"Monsieur," said the duke lowly, "that paper, and my word as agentleman, you shall go free."
"Paper? I do not understand your Highness."
"Come, come, Monsieur," said the duke impatiently; "it is your liberty.Besides, I am willing to pay well."
"Your Highness," coldly, "you are talking over my head. I do notunderstand a word you say."
Beaufort stared into the Chevalier's face. "Why did you enter DeBrissac's . . . ?"
"I have explained all that to monseigneur, the cardinal. Is everybodymad in Paris?" with a burst of anger. "I arrive in Paris at six thisevening, and straightway I am accused of having killed a man I haveseen scarce a half dozen times in my life. And now your Highness talksof papers! I know nothing about papers. Ask Mazarin, Monsieur.Mazarin knows that I was not in Paris yesterday."
"What!" incredulously.
"Messieurs," called the Chevalier. The musketeers returned. "Tell hisHighness for me that monseigneur acquits me of all connection with theDe Brissac affair, and that I am being punished and exiled because Ihappen to possess a grey cloak."
"It is true, your Highness."
"Whom are you shielding?" demanded the prince with an oath. He wasalarmed.
"Since I refused to tell his Eminence it is not probable that I shalltell your Highness."
Beaufort left in a rage. The prince's lackey spent a mostuncomfortable hour that night when his Highness, son of Monsieur le Ducde Vendome, retired.
The Chevalier espied a yellow _caleche_, Mademoiselle de Longuevilleherself in the act of entering it. Mademoiselle was the only person heknew to be in the confidence of Diane.
"Messieurs, will you permit me to speak to Mademoiselle deLongueville?" he asked.
"Do you think that monsieur can see mademoiselle?" said one to theother, humorously.
"It is too dark for him to see her. His Eminence said nothing aboutMonsieur le Chevalier speaking to any one he could not see."
"Thanks, Messieurs, thanks!" And the Chevalier hastened to the_caleche_. "Mademoiselle . . ."
"Monsieur," she interrupted, "I have a message for you. A certain ladywhom we both know requests me to say that she forbids you further toaddress her. Her reasons . . . Well, she gives none. As for me,Monsieur, I believe you to be a gentleman and a man of honor who isabove exile and calumny."
"God bless you, Mademoiselle. Tell her for me that whatever herindictments are, I am innocent; and that we do not love when we do nottrust."
She gave him a curious glance. "You have not yet discovered who sheis?"
"No, Mademoiselle. Will you tell me?"
"She is . . . No; to tell you would be wrong and it would do you nogood. Forget her, Chevalier. I should." And she drew the curtain andordered her lackeys to drive on.
"It is snowing," said the Chevalier, irrelevantly, when the musketeersrejoined him.
"So it is, so it is," one replied. "Put on your hat, Monsieur, or myword for it, you will catch a devil of a chill."
The Chevalier put on his hat. "Five years . . . his Eminence said fiveyears?"
"Yes, Monsieur. But what are five years to a man like yourself? Youhave youth and money, and the little Rochellaises are pretty. My word!the time will pass quickly enough. Come; we will go to your lodging.Did his Eminence say anything about wine, Georges?" to his companion.
"Nothing prohibitory. I once heard him say '_Bonum vinum laetificatcor hominis_.'"
"What does that mean?"
"Good wine rejoices the heart of man. Let us watch for the dawn withthe Chevalier, who is a man in all things. Monsieur, whoever yourfriend may be, I hope he is not without gratitude."
"Yes, yes! Let's off to the Chevalier's. The Candlestick has somefine burgundy. It is cold and wine warms the heart."
The Chevalier burst into a despairing laugh, "Wine! That is the word,my comrades. On to the Candlestick!" he cried in a high voice. Hecaught the musketeers by the arms and dragged them toward the gate."Wine rejoices the heart of man: and one forgets. Let Mazarin takeaway my liberty; praise be to Bacchus, he can not take away my thirst!And oh! I shall be thirsty these five long years. On to theCandlestick! I know a mellow vintage; and we three shall put thecandle out to-night."
And the three of them made off for the Candlestick.
Dawn. A Swiss leaned sleepily against one of the stone abutments which
supported the barriers of the Porte Saint Antoine. These barrierswould not be raised for the general public till nine; yet the Swiss,rubbing his gummed eyes, saw the approach of three men, one of whom wasleading a handsome Spanish jennet. The three men walked unevenly, nowand then laughing uproariously and slapping one another on the back.Presently one stepped upon a slippery cobble and went sprawling intothe snow, to the great merriment of his companions, who had somedifficulty in raising the fallen man to his feet.
"Go along with you, Messieurs," said the Swiss enviously; "you are alldrunk."
"Go along yourself," said Georges, assuming a bacchanalian pose.
"What do you want?" asked the Swiss, laughing.
"To pass this gentleman out of the city," said Georges; "and here isthe order."
"Very good," replied the Swiss.
The Chevalier climbed into the saddle. Breton was to follow with thepersonal effects. The barriers creaked, opened the way, and theChevalier passed forth. There was a cheering word or two, a waving ofhats, and then the barriers fell back into place. A quarter of a mileaway, having reached an elevation, the exile stopped his horse andturned in the saddle. As he strained his bloodshot eyes toward thecity, the mask of intoxication fell away from his face, leaving it wornand wretched. The snow lay everywhere, white, untrampled, blinding.The pale yellow beams of the sun broke in brilliant flashes against thewindows of the Priory of Jacobins, while above the city, the stillsleeping city, rose long spiral threads of opal-tinted smoke.
Five years. And for what? Friendship. How simple to have toldMazarin that he had loaned the cloak to Victor de Saumaise. A dozenwords. His head was throbbing violently and his throat was hot. Hetook off his hat and the keen air of morning cooled his damp forehead.Five years. He could see this year drag itself to its dismal end, andanother, and another, till five had come and gone, each growinginfinitely longer and duller and more hopeless. Of what use were youthand riches without a Paris? Friendship? Was he not, as Mazarin hadpointed out, a fool for his pains? It was giving away five years oflife and love. A word? No. He straightened in the saddle, and thefumes of wine receded from his brain, leaving a temporary clearness.Yes, he was right, a hundred times right. Victor would have done thesame for him, and he could do no less for Victor. And there wassomething fine and lofty in the sacrifice to him who until now hadnever sacrificed so much as an hour from his worldly pleasures. Itappealed to all that was good in him, leaving a wholesomeness in hisheart that was tonic and elevating.
And yet . . . How strongly her face appeared before him! If only hecould have stayed long enough to explain to her, to convince her of hisloyalty; ah, then would this exile be a summer's rustication. Hefumbled at his throat and drew forth a ruby-studded miniature. Hekissed it and hid it from sight. By proxy she had turned him aside incontempt. Why? What had he done? . . . Did she think him guilty ofDe Brissac's death? or, worse still, of conducting an intrigue withMadame de Brissac, whom he had never seen?
"Ah, well, Victor offered his life for mine. I can do no less thangive him five years in exchange. And where is yesterday?" He hadpassed along this very road yesterday. "Eh, where indeed is yesterday?"
He looked once more toward Paris, then turned his back toward itforever.