Then, when he had finished, she said:
‘This is an infamous act to add to high treason. That’s all. A man who did not hesitate to fire on his king might very easily sell a woman’s secret.’
‘What on earth are they talking about?’ Richon thought to himself, frowning, because without being able to hear enough of the conversation to follow it, he caught enough to realize that his honour was at stake. In any case, the queen and the duke, with their flashing eyes, promised no good to him, and brave as he was, the Commander of Vayres could not help being anxious at this double threat – though it would have been impossible to make out what was going on in his mind from his face, armed with its usual contemptuous impassivity.
‘He must be tried,’ said the queen. ‘Call a council of war. You can preside over it, Duke. Choose your fellow assessors, and let’s be quick about it.’
‘Madame,’ said Richon, ‘there’s no need for a council or a judgement. I am a prisoner on Marshal de La Meilleraie’s word, a voluntary prisoner, and the proof of that is that I could have left Vayres with my soldiers, or I could have fled before or after they left the fort, but I did not do so.’
‘I know nothing about these matters,’ the queen said, getting up to go into another room. ‘If you have a good case, you can put it to your judges. This will be very suitable for you to hold the court here, won’t it, Duke?’
‘Yes, Madame,’ he said, and, at the same moment, he chose twelve officers in the antechamber and set up the tribunal.
Richon was starting to understand. The ad hoc judges took their places, and the official reporter asked him for his name, forenames and rank.
Richon answered the three questions.
‘You are acused of high treason in that you did fire cannon against the soldiers of the king,’ said the reporter. ‘Do you admit your guilt?’
‘To deny it would be to deny what is evident. Yes, Monsieur, I did fire against the soldiers of the king.’
‘By what right?’
‘By right of war. By virtue of the same right invoked in similar circumstances by Monsieur de Conti, Monsieur de Beaufort, Monsieur d’Elbeuf and many others.’
‘That right does not exist, Monsieur, since it would amount to no less than rebellion.’
‘Nonetheless, it was by virtue of that right that my lieutenant capitulated. I appeal to that capitulation.’
‘Capitulation!’ d’Epernon exclaimed, ironically, sensing that the queen was listening: her unseen presence dictated this insulting tone. ‘Capitulation! You – negotiate with a marshal of France!’
‘Why not?’ Richon asked. ‘Since this marshal was negotiating with me?’
‘Well, then, show me this capitaulation, and we’ll see what it’s worth.’
‘It was a verbal agreement.’
‘Show us your witness, then.’
‘I can only produce one witness.’
‘Which is?’
‘The marshal himself.’
‘Call the marshal,’ said the duke.
‘No point,’ said the queen, opening the door behind which she had been listening. ‘The marshal left two hours ago. He is marching on Bordeaux with our vanguard.’ And she shut the door.
Her appearance sent a chill through every heart, because it obliged the judges to condemn Richon.
The prisoner gave a bitter smile.
‘Very well!’ he said. ‘So much for the honour that Monsieur de La Meilleraie attaches to his word! You are right, sir,’ he said, turning to the Duke d’Epernon. ‘I was wrong to negotiate with a marshal of France.’
From then on, Richon lapsed into silence and contempt, and refused to answer any question that was put to him. This greatly simplified the proceedings, and the remaining formalities lasted barely an hour. Not very much was written down and still less spoken. The prosecutor called for death, and the judges voted unanimously for the death penalty.
Richon listened to this sentence as though he were a simple onlooker and, still impassive and silent, was handed over to the provost of the army while the court was still sitting.
As for the Duke d’Epernon, he went to see the queen, finding her in excellent spirits; she invited him to dinner. The duke, who had thought himself in disgrace, accepted and went to see Nanon to tell her of his good fortune in still being in the queen’s good graces.
He found her sitting on a chaise longue beside a window overlooking the main square in Libourne.
‘So? Have you found anything out?’ she asked.
‘My dearest, I have found everything out,’ he replied.
‘Pooh!’ she said anxiously.
‘Why, yes! You remember the accusation I was foolish enough to believe, the accusation about your feelings for your brother?’
‘So?’
‘And you remember the signed authorization that I was asked to deliver?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘The accuser is in our hands, my dear, caught in the lines of his authorization like a fox in a trap.’
‘Really?’ said Nanon, terrified, knowing that the accuser was Cauvignac, and, though she had no deep affection for her real brother, she did not want any harm to come to him either; in any case, in trying to get himself out of a spot, this brother might say a mass of things that Nanon would much prefer to remain secret.
‘The very same, my dear,’ d’Epernon continued. ‘What do you say to that? The scoundrel, using my signature, had on his own authority appointed himself Governor of Vayres. But Vayres has been taken, and the guilty man is in our hands.’
All these details seemed so consistent with the industrious scheming of Cauvignac that Nanon felt her terror increase.
‘And… this man,’ she asked, ‘what have you done with him?’
‘Goodness me,’ said the duke. ‘You can see for yourself what we’ve done with him. Yes, indeed,’ he said, standing up. ‘It’s perfect. Open the curtain, or rather, open the window itself. He’s an enemy of the king, and you can see him hang.’
‘Hang!’ Nanon cried. ‘What are you saying, Duke? Hang the man with the authorization?’
‘Yes, dearest. Look: can you see in the covered market, that beam, the rope hanging from it and the crowd hurrying? There, there: look at the soldiers bringing the man, there on the left? There! That’s the king at his window.’
Nanon’s heart rose to her mouth, though a glance had told her that the man who was being brought out was not Cauvignac.
‘Come, come,’ said the duke. ‘This fellow Richon will be hanged high and short. That will teach him to slander women.’
‘But the poor man’s not guilty,’ Nanon exclaimed, grasping the duke’s hand, and gathering all her strength. ‘He may be a brave soldier and a gentleman… You may be about to kill an innocent man!’
‘No, not at all, my dear, you’re quite wrong. He’s a forger and a slanderer. In any case, were he nothing more than the Governor of Vayres, he would be guilty of high treason and were that his only crime, it seems to me that it would be quite enough.’
‘But didn’t he have Monsieur de La Meilleraie’s word?’
‘He said so, but I don’t believe it.’
‘How was it that the marshal did not enlighten the tribunal on such an important point?’
‘He left two hours before the accused came before his judges.’
‘Oh, my God! Monsieur! Something tells me that this man is innocent,’ Nanon cried. ‘His death will bring misfortune to us all. Oh, Monsieur, in heaven’s name, you who are so powerful, you who say that you will refuse me nothing, grant me that man’s life!’
‘Impossible, my dear. The queen herself condemned him, and where she is, no other power exists.’
Nanon gave a sigh that sounded like a groan.
At that moment, Richon arrived under the roof of the market. He was led, still as calm and silent, to the beam with the rope hanging from it. A ladder had been set up already, and was waiting. Richon climbed the ladder with a firm step, his noble head showi
ng above the heads of the crowd, on whom he cast a look full of cold contempt. Then the prevost put the rope around his neck and the town crier announced in a loud voice that the king’s justice would punish Étienne Richon, forger, traitor and peasant.
‘We have reached a time,’ said Richon, ‘when it is better to be a villain as I am than to be a marshal of France.’
Hardly had he spoken these words than the ladder was knocked away, and his body swung trembling from the fatal beam.
The crowd dispersed with a general feeling of horror, without a single cry of ‘Long live the king!’ being heard, even though everyone could see the king and queen at their window. Nanon, hiding her head in both hands, had fled to the furthest corner of the room.
‘Well, Nanon,’ said the duke. ‘Whatever you think, I believe that this execution will set a good example, and I am curious to see what they will do when they see in Bordeaux what we think of their governors.’
At the idea of what they might do, Nanon opened her mouth to speak, but could only let out a dreadful cry, raising both hands to heaven, as though to beg that Richon’s death might not be avenged. Then, as though all her life’s springs had broken inside her, she fell full length on the floor.
‘Why, why!’ the duke exclaimed. ‘What’s wrong, Nanon? Can you really be in such a state, just for having seen a low-born traitor hanged? Come, my dear, get up and pull yourself together… But, for heaven’s sake, she’s fainted! And those people of Agen who say she has no feeling! Here, someone! Bring some smelling salts! Some cold water!’
Seeing that no one came when he called, the duke ran out himself to fetch what he had asked his servants in vain to bring him. They were no doubt unable to hear him, being still taken up with the free spectacle with which they had just been provided by the generosity of the Crown.
XVIII
At the same moment as the terrible drama that we have just described was taking place in Libourne, Madame de Cambes, sitting beside an oak table with corkscrew legs, and with Pompée in front of her writing out a sort of inventory of all her goods, was composing the following letter to Canolles:
A further delay, my friend. Just as I was about to speak your name to the princess and ask for her blessing on our union, news arrived of the capture of Vayres, which froze the words on my lips. But I know how you must be suffering, and I do not have the strength both to bear your pain and my own. The successes and misfortunes of this fateful war may carry us too far, unless we decide to take matters into our own hands… Tomorrow, my friend, tomorrow at seven in the evening, I shall be your wife.
Here is the plan that I beg you to follow. It is crucial that you should stick to it in every detail.
You will spend the time after dinner at Madame de Lalasne’s; since I presented you to her, she, like her sister, has held you in high esteem. People will be playing cards. Do the same, but do not make any engagement for supper. More: when evening comes, send away your friends, if you have any with you. Then, when you are on your own, you will see a messenger come in – I am not sure who it will be – who will call you by name, as if you were required for some business. Whoever it is, go out confidently with him, because he will come on my behalf, and his mission will be to take you to the chapel where I shall be waiting.
I should like it to take place in the Carmelite church, which already has such sweet memories for me, but I dare not hope for that yet. But it will be so, if they agree to close the church for us.
Until then, do with my letter what you do with my hand, when I forget to take it away from you. Today I am saying: until tomorrow. Tomorrow I shall be saying: for ever!
Canolles was in one of his misanthropic moods when he got this letter: the whole of the previous day and all the morning of that one he had not even had a glimpse of Madame de Cambes, although in the space of twenty-four hours he had passed perhaps ten times by her window. So the young man, being in love, had reacted as he usually did, accusing the viscountess of frivolity, doubting her love. Despite himself he returned to his memories of Nanon – so kind, so devoted, so warm – almost glorying in this love, which apparently was to Claire a matter for shame, and, poor heart, he sighed, caught as he was between this satisfied love that would not be snuffed out and that yearning love that could not be satisfied. The viscountess’s letter decided everything in her favour.
Canolles read and reread it. As Claire had anticipated, he kissed it twenty times, as he would have kissed her hand. When he thought about it, taking everything into account, Canolles could not deny that his love for the viscountess had been the most serious affair of his life. With other women, his feelings had always assumed a different aspect and, above all, a different course. Canolles had played his role as a ladykiller, had posed as victor and had almost reserved to himself the right to be inconstant. With Madame de Cambes, on the contrary, he was the one who felt subjected to a superior force, against which he did not even try to react, because he felt that today’s slavery was sweeter than yesterday’s power. In the moments of discouragement, when he doubted the reality of Claire’s sentiments – those moments when the stricken heart turns in on itself and probes its wounds with thought – he would admit, without even blushing at a weakness that a year earlier he would have considered unworthy of a great mind, that the loss of Madame de Cambes would be an unbearable calamity for him.
But loving her, being loved by her, possessing her in heart, soul and body; possessing her in all the independence of his future (since the viscountess did not even demand of him the sacrifice of his opinions to the princess’s side, and asked only for his love)… The happiest future, the richest officer of the king – because, after all, why forget wealth? Wealth does no harm… remaining in His Majesty’s service if His Majesty rewarded his loyalty suitably, or leaving it, if, as kings are inclined to be, His Majesty was ungrateful… Was this not, in truth, the greatest, most magnificent happiness (if one can call it such), that in his sweetest dreams he could ever have hoped for?
And Nanon?
Oh, Nanon, Nanon: she was the dull, aching sense of remorse that always lies in the depths of every noble soul. Only in vulgar hearts does the pain that they cause leave no echo. Nanon, poor Nanon! What would she do, what would she say, what would she become, when she learned the dreadful news that her lover was another woman’s husband? Alas, she would not be avenged, even though she had in her hands all the means of vengeance – and this was the idea that caused Canolles the most acute pain. Why, if only Nanon would try to take her revenge, or even do so in some way, the faithless lover could see her merely as an enemy and would at least be relieved of his remorse.
However, Nanon had not replied to the letter in which he had told her not to write to him again… How could she have followed his instructions so scrupulously? Surely, if Nanon had wanted, she could have found the means to get ten letters to him – which meant that Nanon had not tried to correspond with him. Oh, if only it could be that Nanon no longer loved him!
Yet Canolles’s brow furrowed at the mere possibility that Nanon no longer loved him. How sad it is, indeed, to find the egotism of pride even in the noblest of hearts.
Fortunately, Canolles had one means of forgetting everything, which was to read and reread Madame de Cambes’s letter. He did so, and the remedy worked. In this way, our hero in love managed to blind himself to all that was not his own happiness. And, first of all obeying his mistress, who ordered him to go to Madame de Lalasne, he made himself look good, which was not hard for a man of his youth, elegance and good taste, then set out for Madame de Lalasne’s just as the clock struck two.
Canolles was so engrossed in happiness that, as he walked beside the river, he did not see his friend Ravailly, who was signalling frantically to him from a boat travelling along as fast as oars could drive it. Lovers, in their moments of happiness, walk with such a light step that they seem not to touch the ground, so Canolles was already far away when Ravailly came to shore.
Hardly had he disembarked t
han he gave a few brief orders to the oarsmen and headed quickly towards Madame de Condé’s.
The princess was at table, when she heard a noise in the anteroom. She asked what the commotion was and was told that the Baron de Ravailly, whom she had sent to Monsieur de La Meilleraie, had just that moment returned.
‘I think that it would be a good thing for Your Highness to receive him without delay,’ said Lenet. ‘Whatever the news he brings, it must be important.’
The princess gave the order, and Ravailly came in, but he was so pale and his face so distraught that the mere sight of him told Madame de Condé that she was looking at a messenger bearing bad news.
‘What is it, Captain?’ she asked. ‘What has happened now?’
‘Madame, excuse me for appearing in this way before Your Highness, but I thought that the news I am bringing could not wait.’
‘Speak. Have you seen the marshal?’
‘The marshal refused to receive me, Madame.’
‘The marshal refused to receive my envoy!’
‘Oh, Madame, that is not all…’
‘So what else is there? Tell me, I’m listening.’
‘Poor Richon!’
‘Yes, I know, he is a prisoner – since I sent you to discuss his ransom.’
‘Quickly though I went, I was too late.’
‘What do you mean: too late?’ cried Lenet. ‘Has something happened to him?’
‘He is dead.’
‘Dead!’ the princess repeated.
‘He was tried as a traitor, condemned and executed.’
‘Condemned! Executed! Oh, do you hear that, Madame?’ Lenet said, in consternation. ‘I told you!’
‘And who condemned him? Who dared?’
‘A tribunal under the Duke d’Epernon; or, rather, the queen herself. So they were not satisfied with merely putting him to death, they wanted his death to be a shameful one.’