‘Madame,’ Canolles replied, with a perfect affectation of melancholy, ‘I do not think, judging by your cold behaviour and the dignity which it costs you so little to sustain in my presence, that you would blurt out a secret that, in any case, in your heart at least, does not exist.’
Claire remained silent, but a glance, a hint of a smile, that the beautiful prisoner involuntarily let slip, gave such an answer to Canolles that it made him the happiest of men.
‘So, shall I stay?’ he asked, with an indescribable smile.
‘Since you must!’ the viscountess replied.
‘In that case, I shall write to Monsieur de Mazarin.’
‘Yes, off you go.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I am telling you to go off and write to him.’
‘No, no, I must write to him here, from your room. The letter must be dated from the foot of your bed.’
‘But that is not decent.’
‘Here are my instructions, Madame, read them for yourself.’
And Canolles handed a sheet of paper to the viscountess, who read:
‘ “The Baron de Canolles will keep watch on the princess and the Duke d’Enghien, her son.” ’
‘Keep watch,’ said Canolles.
‘Keep watch: yes, that’s what it says.’
Claire realized how much a man in love, as Canolles was, could take advantage of such instructions, but she also realized the service that she was rendering to the princess by carrying on with the deception.
‘Very well, write,’ she said, with resignation.
Canolles looked at her, and she, also with a look, indicated a box containing everything that he needed to write. The young man opened it, took out paper, a quill and some ink, put them on a table, drew the table over as close as he could to the bed, asked permission to sit down (as though Claire was still the princess – a permission that was granted) and wrote the following dispatch to Mazarin:
Monseigneur,
I arrived at the Château of Chantilly at nine o’clock this evening. You can see that I have been prompt, because I only left Your Eminence at half past six.
I found the two princesses in bed: the dowager quite seriously ill and the young princess tired after a long hunt, in which she had taken part during the day.
Following Your Eminence’s instructions, I presented myself to Their Highnesses who immediately dismissed all their guests. I am keeping watch at this moment over the princess and her son.
‘And her son,’ Canolles repeated, turning to the viscountess. ‘Damn! It seems to me that I am lying, and I should much prefer not to do that.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Claire replied, with a laugh. ‘If you have not yet seen my son, you will do so.’
‘And her son,’ Canolles repeated, also laughing.
And, continuing his letter from where he had left off, he wrote: ‘It is in the princess’s own room and sitting at her bedside that I have the honour to address this letter to Your Eminence.’
He signed it, and, after respectfully asking Claire’s permission, he pulled a bell. A valet came in.
‘Call my footman,’ said Canolles, ‘and when he is in the antechamber, let me know.’
Five minutes later, the baron was informed that Castorin was at his post.
‘Here,’ Canolles told him, ‘take this letter to the officer commanding my two hundred men and tell him to send it post-haste to Paris.’
‘But, Baron,’ said Castorin, who found this order one of the most disagreeable to carry out in the middle of the night, ‘I thought I told you that Monsieur Pompée had enrolled me in the service of the princess.’
‘And it is in the princess’s name that I am giving you this order. Your Highness,’ said Canolles, turning round, ‘would you confirm what I am saying? Your Highness knows how important it is for this letter to be delivered as soon as possible.’
‘Go!’ said the false princess, in a tone and with a gesture that were full of authority.
Castorin gave a deep bow and left.
‘Now,’ Claire said, reaching towards Canolles with two little hands, clasped together in supplication. ‘You will leave, won’t you?’
‘Excuse me,’ said Canolles. ‘What about your son?’
‘That’s right,’ Claire said smiling. ‘You’ll see him.’
And indeed, no sooner had Madame de Cambes said these words than there was a scratch on her door – as was the custom in those days; it was Cardinal Richelieu, who, no doubt because of his love of cats, had made this manner of knocking fashionable. So, for the long period in which he was in favour, they scratched on Monsieur de Richelieu’s door, and then on Monsieur de Chavigny’s, who was certainly entitled to the succession, if only by reason of being the natural heir;5 and finally on Monsieur de Mazarin’s. They could certainly, therefore, scratch on the door of the princess.
‘Someone’s coming,’ said Madame de Cambes.
‘Very well, I’ll resume my official character, then.’
Canolles put the table back, drew back the chair, put his hat on and stood respectfully four paces away from the princess’s bed.
‘Come in,’ said the viscountess.
At that, the most ceremonious procession one could imagine came into the room. It consisted of the maids, officers, chamberlains and all the household servants of the princess.
‘Madame,’ said the first footman. ‘The Duke d’Enghien has been woken up. He can now receive His Majesty’s messenger.’
A glance from Canolles to Madame de Cambes said as clearly as he could have in words: ‘Is that what we agreed?’
This look, bearing with it all the supplication of a heart in distress, was perfectly understood, and, no doubt out of gratitude for what Canolles had done – and then perhaps a little because she wished to exercise that mischievous streak that lurks eternally in the depths of even the best woman’s heart – she said: ‘Bring the Duke d’Enghien here. Monsieur will see my son in my presence.’
They hurried to obey, and a moment later the young prince was led into the room.
We have mentioned already that, while he was following the princess’s final preparations for her departure, the baron had watched the prince playing and running around, but without seeing his face; Canolles had only noticed his clothes, which were a simple hunting outfit. It occurred to him, therefore, that it was not in his honour that the boy had been dressed in the splendid costume in which he now appeared in front of him. His earlier idea, namely that the prince had left with his mother, thus became almost a certainty. For a while, he examined the heir to the illustrious Prince de Condé in silence, and, while not at all detracting from the respect with which his whole person was imbued, a smile of barely perceptible irony fluttered on his lips.
‘I am only too happy,’ he said, ‘at being allowed the honour of presenting my respects to Monseigneur the Duke d’Enghien.’
The child was staring with his large eyes at Madame de Cambes, who signalled to him to bow, and since it appeared to her that Canolles was following all the details of this scene with rather too cynical a look, she said, with a mischievous intent that made Canolles shudder (already guessing from the movement of the viscountess’s lips that he was to be the victim of some feminine wile): ‘My son, the officer before you is Monsieur de Canolles who has been sent here by His Majesty. Give Monsieur de Canolles your hand to kiss.’
At that order, Pierrot, appropriately dressed by Lenet – who, as he had promised the princess, had taken charge of instructing the child – offered a hand that there had been neither the time or the means to transform into that of a gentleman, and Canolles, amid the stifled laughter of those around, was obliged to imprint a kiss on this hand that even a person less expert in the subject than himself would easily have recognized as not belonging to a member of the aristocracy.
‘Ah, Madame de Cambes,’ Canolles muttered to himself, ‘you will pay for that kiss!’
He bowed respectfully to Pierrot, in gratitude f
or the honour he had done him. Then, realizing that after this ordeal, the last item on the programme, it was impossible for him to remain any longer in the bedroom of a lady, he turned to the bed and said: ‘My mission this evening is accomplished, and I have only to ask your permission to retire.’
‘Go then, Monsieur,’ said Claire. ‘You can see that we are very peaceful here. You can rest easy.’
‘Before that I have one great favour to demand of you, Madame.’
‘What is that?’ Madame de Cambes asked uneasily, understanding from the tone of the baron’s voice that he was preparing a revenge.
‘To grant me the same favour as I have just received from the prince, your son.’
This time, the viscountess was trapped. She could hardly refuse an officer of the king the formal courtesy that he had requested in front of everyone; so Madame de Cambes held out a trembling hand towards Canolles.
He advanced towards the bed as though towards the throne of a queen, took the proffered hand in the tips of his fingers, went down on one knee and planted a long kiss on the fine, white, shivering skin, a kiss that everyone attributed to respect and only the viscountess interpreted as an ardent embrace of love.
‘You promised, you even swore to me,’ Canolles whispered as he got up, ‘not to leave the château without telling me. I am counting on your promise and on your word.’
‘You may count on it, Monsieur,’ said Madame de Cambes, falling back against her pillow, nearly fainting.
Canolles, trembling at the emotion in the tone, tried to find confirmation in the lovely prisoner’s eyes of the hope that her voice had given him. But the viscountess’s eyes were tightly sealed.
Canolles told himself that locked boxes are the ones that contain the most precious treasures and withdrew with joy in his heart.
To describe how our baron spent that night; to describe how his sleeping and waking moments were only one long dream, in the course of which he went over and over in his mind all the details of the fabulous adventure that had given him possession of the most precious treasure that ever any miser could have nursed within the recesses of his heart; to describe the plans that he made in order to subject the future to the designs of his love and the whims of his fancy; to describe the reasons that he gave to persuade himself that he was acting properly, would be impossible, madness being a tiresome matter for any mind except that of a madman.
Canolles went to sleep late – if you can call ‘sleep’ the feverish delirium that followed wakefulness, yet the morning sun had barely lit the tops of the poplar trees and had not yet reached as far as the surface of the fine lakes, in which the large-leaved water lilies sleep, whose flowers only open in sunlight, before Canolles was already leaping from his bed. Dressing quickly, he went down into the garden. His first visit was to the wing inhabited by the princess, his first look was at the window of her apartments. Either the prisoner had not gone to bed, or else she was already awake, because a light too strong to be merely that of a night light was throwing a red glow on the damask curtains, which were fully drawn. Canolles stopped and looked, the sight no doubt immediately suggesting all kinds of senseless conjectures to his mind, and, without continuing his walk any further than the pedestal of a statue which hid him reasonably well, all alone with his fancy, he entered into that eternal dialogue of a loving heart discovering the object of its love amid the poetic emanations of the natural world.
The baron had been at his post for around half an hour and was watching these curtains (which anyone else would have passed heedlessly by) with inexpressible happiness, when he saw a window open in the gallery, and in it almost immediately appeared the sturdy figure of Master Pompée. Everything that concerned the viscountess was of exceptional interest to Canolles, so he turned away from the compelling windows and thought that he could see Pompée trying to communicate with him in sign language. At first, Canolles could not believe that the gestures were meant for him and looked round about him, but Pompée, noticing the baron’s uncertainty, accompanied the gestures with a whistle, which might have been considered somewhat inappropriate on the part of a groom trying to attract the attention of one of His Majesty’s envoys, if the whistle had not been justified by a sort of white spot, almost invisible to any eyes except those of a man in love, who immediately recognizes in this white spot a sheet of rolled-up paper. ‘A letter!’ Canolles thought. ‘She has written to me. What does this mean?’
He walked over, anxiously, although his first reaction was one of great joy, but in the great joys of those in love there is a certain element of apprehension, which is perhaps their greatest charm: to be assured of one’s love is to be no longer happy.
As Canolles approached, Pompée dared to show more and more of the letter. Eventually, Pompée was holding out his arm and Canolles his hat. As we can see, the two men understood one another perfectly. Pompée dropped the letter, and Canolles caught it very skilfully. Then he immediately slipped into an arbour, where he could read it at his leisure, and Pompée, fearing no doubt that he might catch cold, closed the window.
However, one does not read the first letter from the woman one loves just like that, especially when this unexpected letter has no reason to come and bother you except to upset your tranquillity. What, indeed, could the viscountess have to tell him, if nothing had changed in the plans they had drawn up between them the evening before? So the letter could only contain some bad news.
Canolles was so convinced of that that he did not even bring the paper up to his lips, as lovers are accustomed to do in such circumstances. On the contrary, he turned it round and round with growing alarm. However, since it had to be opened at some time or another, he summoned up all his courage, broke the seal and read:
Monsieur,
I hope that you will agree with me that to stay any longer in our present situation is quite impossible. You must suffer from appearing to all the members of the household like an unpleasant warder, while I, for my part, may fear, if I greet you more warmly than the princess would do in my place, that it will be discovered that we are putting on a double act, the outcome of which will be the certain loss of my reputation.
Canolles wiped his brow. His premonition had not been wrong. With daylight, which so surely chases away ghosts, all his gilded dreams had disappeared. He shook his head, sighed and read on.
Pretend to discover the trick that we have used. There is a very simple means to achieve this discovery, which I shall supply to you myself if you promise to do as I ask. As you see, I am not concealing from you how much I depend on you. If you do as I ask, I will have someone give you a portrait of me with my name and my coat of arms under the painting. You will say that you have found this portrait in one of your night rounds and that, thanks to it, you have discovered that I am not the princess.
Do I need to tell you that, as a souvenir of the gratitude that I shall keep in the depths of my heart if you leave this morning, I permit you to keep this miniature – assuming that you attach some value to it?
Leave us then, without seeing me again, if possible, and you will take with you all my gratitude, while I, for my part, will carry your memory as that of one of the noblest and most loyal knights that I have ever known.
Canolles reread the letter and remained petrified. Whatever favour is contained in a letter of dismissal, whatever honey is poured over a refusal or a farewell, such a farewell, refusal and dismissal are still a cruel disappointment for the heart. No doubt, the portrait was a sweet gift, but the reason behind the gift deprived it of much of its value.
In any case, what use is the portrait when the original is there, when one has it beneath one’s hand and the means to retain it?
Yes, but Canolles, who had not shrunk from the idea of facing the wrath of the queen and Mazarin, trembled at that of a raised eyebrow from Madame de Cambes.
How this woman had tricked him, though, firstly on the road, then in Chantilly, taking the place of the princess, then yesterday, offering him a hope, on
ly to take it away the day after! But out of all these deceptions, the last was the cruellest. On the road, she had not known him and was merely getting rid of an awkward companion, nothing more. By taking the place of Madame de Condé, she was obeying an order, playing a role demanded by a sovereign: she could not have acted otherwise. But this time, now that she knew him, after having appeared to appreciate his devotion and after having twice spoken that word, we, that had resonated in the very fibres of the young man’s heart, now to retreat, to disavow her kindness, to repudiate her gratitude and finally to write such a letter, was in Canolles’s eyes more than cruel, it was almost to scoff at him.
So he felt vexed, angrily full of painful vexation, without noticing that behind the curtains, where all the lights had gone out as though daylight had made them unnecessary, a woman, well hidden by the damask and sheltered by the panelling, was watching his dumb show of despair and perhaps enjoying it.
‘Yes, yes,’ he thought, accompanying his thoughts with gestures appropriate to the feelings that were uppermost in is mind, ‘yes, this is a very straightforward, very definite dismissal, a great event crowned by a banal outcome, a poetic hope changed into a cruel disappointment. But I shall not accept this ridicule that is being heaped on me. I prefer her hatred to this pretended gratitude that she promises me. Oh, yes! Can I rely on her promise now? I might as well rely on the constancy of the wind or the calmness of the sea. Oh, Madame, Madame,’ Canolles went on, turning towards the window. ‘Let me just have a similar opportunity and you will not escape from me a third time.’
Canolles went back up to his room, intending to get dressed and enter the viscountess’s apartments, if need be by force. But as he came into the room and glanced at the time, he noticed that it was barely seven o’clock.
No one in the château was up yet. Canolles slumped down on a chair, closing his eyes in order to think more clearly and, if that were possible, to drive away the ghosts dancing around him; he opened his eyes only to consult his watch every five minutes or so.