Ten Years Later

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Title: Ten Years Later

Author: Alexandre Dumas, Pere

Release Date: August 12, 2008 [EBook #2681]

Last Updated: October 26, 2009

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TEN YEARS LATER ***

Produced by John Bursey, and David Widger

TEN YEARS LATER

(1660-1661, Chapters 76-140 of the Third Volume of the D'Artagnan series)

by Alexandre Dumas

THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EDITOR'S NOTE TO THE PG D'ARTAGNAN SERIES

LINKED INDEX OF PROJECT GUTENBERG VOLUMES:

ORDER      TITLE            PG ETEXT#      DATES       VOLUME  CHAPTERS

1  The Three Musketeers       1257       1625-1628        1

2  Twenty Years After         1259       1648-1649        2

3  The Vicomte de Bragelonne  2609         1660           3        1-75

4  Ten Years Later            2681       1660-1661        3      76-140

5  Louise de la Valliere      2710         1661           3     141-208

6  The Man in the Iron Mask   2759       1661-1673        3     209-269

     [Project Gutenberg Etext 1258 listed below, is of the same

     title as etext 2681 and its contents overlap those of two

     other volumes: it includes all the chapters of etext 2609

     and  the first 28 chapters of 2681]

Ten Years Later          1258       1660-1661        3       1-104

Contents

Transcriber's Notes

Introduction

Footnotes

Transcriber's Notes:

As you may be aware, Project Gutenberg has been involved with the writings of both the Alexandre Dumases for some time now, and since we get a few questions about the order in which the books should be read, and in which they were published, these following comments should hopefully help most of our readers.

The Vicomte de Bragelonne is the final volume of D'Artagnan Romances: it is usually split into three or four parts, and the final portion is entitled The Man in the Iron Mask. The Man in the Iron Mask we're familiar with today is the last volume of the four-volume edition. [Not all the editions split them in the same manner, hence some of the confusion...but wait...there's yet more reason for confusion.]

We intend to do ALL of The Vicomte de Bragelonne, split into four etexts entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later, Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask; you WILL be getting The Man in the Iron Mask.

One thing that may be causing confusion is that the etext we have now, entitled Ten Years Later, says it's the sequel to The Three Musketeers. While this is technically true, there's another book, Twenty Years After, that comes between. The confusion is generated by the two facts that we published Ten Years Later BEFORE we published Twenty Years After, and that many people see those titles as meaning Ten and Twenty Years After the original story...however, this is why the different words After and Later...the Ten Years After is ten years after the Twenty Years later...as per history. Also, the third book of the D'Artagnan Romances, while entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, has the subtitle Ten Years Later. These two titles are also given to different volumes: The Vicomte de Bragelonne can refer to the whole book, or the first volume of the three or four-volume editions. Ten Years Later can, similarly, refer to the whole book, or the second volume of the four-volume edition. To add to the confusion, in the case of our etexts, it refers to the first 104 chapters of the whole book, covering material in the first and second etexts in the new series. Here is a guide to the series which may prove helpful:

The Three Musketeers: Etext 1257—First book of the D'Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1625-1628.

Twenty Years After: Etext 1259—Second book of the D'Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1648-1649. [Third in the order that we published, but second in time sequence!!!]

Ten Years Later: Etext 1258—First 104 chapters of the third book of the D'Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661.

The Vicomte de Bragelonne: Etext 2609 (first in the new series)—First 75 chapters of the third book of the D'Artagnan Romances. Covers the year 1660.

Ten Years Later: Etext 2681 (our new etext)—Chapters 76-140 of that third book of the D'Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1660-1661. [In this particular editing of it]

Louise de la Valliere: forthcoming (our next etext)—Chapters 141-208 of the third book of the D'Artagnan Romances. Covers the year 1661.

The Man in the Iron Mask: forthcoming (following)—Chapters 209-269 of the third book of the D'Artagnan Romances. Covers the years 1661-1673.

If we've calculated correctly, that fourth text SHOULD correspond to the modern editions of The Man in the Iron Mask, which is still widely circulated, and comprises about the last 1/4 of The Vicomte de Bragelonne.

Here is a list of the other Dumas Etexts we have published so far:

Sep 1999 La Tulipe Noire, by Alexandre Dumas[Pere#6/French][tlpnrxxx.xxx]1910 This is an abridged edition in French, also see our full length English Etext Jul 1997 The Black Tulip, by Alexandre Dumas[Pere][Dumas#1][tbtlpxxx.xxx] 965 Jan 1998 The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas[Pere][crstoxxx.xxx]1184

Many thanks to Dr. David Coward, whose editions of the D'Artagnan Romances have proved an invaluable source of information.

Introduction:

In the months of March-July in 1844, in the magazine Le Siecle, the first portion of a story appeared, penned by the celebrated playwright Alexandre Dumas. It was based, he claimed, on some manuscripts he had found a year earlier in the Bibliotheque Nationale while researching a history he planned to write on Louis XIV. They chronicled the adventures of a young man named D'Artagnan who, upon entering Paris, became almost immediately embroiled in court intrigues, international politics, and ill-fated affairs between royal lovers. Over the next six years, readers would enjoy the adventures of this youth and his three famous friends, Porthos, Athos, and Aramis, as their exploits unraveled behind the scenes of some of the most momentous events in French and even English history.

Eventually these serialized adventures were published in novel form, and became the three D'Artagnan Romances known today. Here is a brief summary of the first two novels:

The Three Musketeers (serialized March-July, 1844): The year is 1625. The young D'Artagnan arrives in Paris at the tender age of 18, and almost immediately offends three musketeers, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos. Instead of dueling, the four are attacked by five of the Cardinal's guards, and the courage of the youth is made apparent during the battle. The four become fast friends, and, when asked by D'Artagnan's landlord to find his missing wife, embark upon an adventure that takes them across both France and England in order to thwart the plans of the Cardinal Richelieu. Along the way, they encounter a beautiful young spy, named simply Milady, who will stop at nothing to disgrace Queen Anne of Austria before her husband, Louis XIII, and take her revenge upon the four friends.

Twenty Years After (serialized January-August, 1845): The year is now 1648, twenty years since the close of the last story. Louis XIII has died, as has Cardinal Richelieu, and while the crown of France may sit upon the head of Anne of Austria as Regent for the young Louis XIV, the real power resides with the Cardinal Mazarin, her secret husband. D'Artagnan is now a lieutenant of musketeers, and his three friends have retired to private life. Athos turned out to be a nobleman, the Comte de la Fere, and has retired to his home with his son, Raoul de Bragelonne. Aramis, whose real name is D'Herblay, has followed his intention of shedding the musketeer's cassock for the priest's robes, and Porthos has married a wealthy woman, who left him her fortune upon her death. But trouble is stirring in both France and England. Cromwell menaces the institution of royalty itself while marching against Charles I, and at home the Fronde is threatening to tear France apart. D'Artagnan brings his friends out of retirement to save the threatened English monarch, but Mordaunt, the son of Milady, who seeks to avenge his mother's death at the musketeers' hands, thwarts their valiant efforts. Undaunted, our heroes return to France just in time to help save the young Louis XIV, quiet the Fronde, and tweak the nose of Cardinal Mazarin.

The third novel, The Vicomte de Bragelonne (serialized October, 1847 —January, 1850), has enjoyed a strange history in its English translation. It has been split into three, four, or five volumes at various points in its history. The five-volume edition generally does not give titles to the smaller portions, but the others do. In the three-volume edition, the novels are entitled The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask. For the purposes of this etext, I have chosen to split the novel as the four-volume edition does, with these titles: The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Ten Years Later, Louise de la Valliere, and The Man in the Iron Mask. In the last etext:

The Vicomte de Bragelonne (Etext 2609): It is the year 1660, and D'Artagnan, after thirty-five years of loyal service, has become disgusted with serving King Louis XIV while the real power resides with the Cardinal Mazarin, and has tendered his resignation. He embarks on his own project, that of restoring Charles II to the throne of England, and, with the help of Athos, succeeds, earning himself quite a fortune in the process. D'Artagnan returns to Paris to live the life of a rich citizen, and Athos, after negotiating the marriage of Philip, the king's brother, to Princess Henrietta of England, likewise retires to his own estate, La Fere. Meanwhile, Mazarin has finally died, and left Louis to assume the reigns of power, with the assistance of M. Colbert, formerly Mazarin's trusted clerk. Colbert has an intense hatred for M. Fouquet, the king's superintendent of finances, and has resolved to use any means necessary to bring about his fall. With the new rank of intendant bestowed on him by Louis, Colbert succeeds in having two of Fouquet's loyal friends tried and executed. He then brings to the king's attention that Fouquet is fortifying the island of Belle-Ile-en-Mer, and could possibly be planning to use it as a base for some military operation against the king. Louis calls D'Artagnan out of retirement and sends him to investigate the island, promising him a tremendous salary and his long-promised promotion to captain of the musketeers upon his return. At Belle-Isle, D'Artagnan discovers that the engineer of the fortifications is, in fact, Porthos, now the Baron du Vallon, and that's not all. The blueprints for the island, although in Porthos's handwriting, show evidence of another script that has been erased, that of Aramis. D'Artagnan later discovers that Aramis has become the bishop of Vannes, which is, coincidentally, a parish belonging to M. Fouquet. Suspecting that D'Artagnan has arrived on the king's behalf to investigate, Aramis tricks D'Artagnan into wandering around Vannes in search of Porthos, and sends Porthos on an heroic ride back to Paris to warn Fouquet of the danger. Fouquet rushes to the king, and gives him Belle-Isle as a present, thus allaying any suspicion, and at the same time humiliating Colbert, just minutes before the usher announces someone else seeking an audience with the king.

And now, the second etext of The Vicomte de Bragelonne. Enjoy!

John Bursey Mordaunt

There is one French custom that may cause confusion. The Duc d'Orleans is traditionally called Monsieur and his wife Madame. Gaston, the king's uncle, currently holds that title. Upon the event of his death, it will be conferred upon the king's brother, Philip, who is currently the Duc d'Anjou. The customary title of Monsieur will go to him as well, and upon his future wife, Henrietta of England, that of Madame. Gaston's widow will be referred to as the Dowager Madame.—JB

Chapter I. In which D'Artagnan finishes by at Length placing his Hand upon his Captain's Commission.

The reader guesses beforehand whom the usher preceded in announcing the courier from Bretagne. This messenger was easily recognized. It was D'Artagnan, his clothes dusty, his face inflamed, his hair dripping with sweat, his legs stiff; he lifted his feet painfully at every step, on which resounded the clink of his blood-stained spurs. He perceived in the doorway he was passing through, the superintendent coming out. Fouquet bowed with a smile to him who, an hour before, was bringing him ruin and death. D'Artagnan found in his goodness of heart, and in his inexhaustible vigor of body, enough presence of mind to remember the kind reception of this man; he bowed then, also, much more from benevolence and compassion, than from respect. He felt upon his lips the word which had so many times been repeated to the Duc de Guise: Fly. But to pronounce that word would have been to betray his cause; to speak that word in the cabinet of the king, and before an usher, would have been to ruin himself gratuitously, and could save nobody. D'Artagnan then, contented himself with bowing to Fouquet and entered. At this moment the king floated between the joy the last words of Fouquet had given him, and his pleasure at the return of D'Artagnan. Without being a courtier, D'Artagnan had a glance as sure and as rapid as if he had been one. He read, on his entrance, devouring humiliation on the countenance of Colbert. He even heard the king say these words to him:—

Ah! Monsieur Colbert; you have then nine hundred thousand livres at the intendance? Colbert, suffocated, bowed but made no reply. All this scene entered into the mind of D'Artagnan, by the eyes and ears, at once.

The first word of Louis to his musketeer, as if he wished it to contrast with what he was saying at the moment, was a kind good day. His second was to send away Colbert. The latter left the king's cabinet, pallid and tottering, whilst D'Artagnan twisted up the ends of his mustache.

I love to see one of my servants in this disorder, said the king, admiring the martial stains upon the clothes of his envoy.

I thought, sire, my presence at the Louvre was sufficiently urgent to excuse my presenting myself thus before you.

You bring me great news, then, monsieur?

"Sire, the thing is this, in two words: Belle-Isle is fortified, admirably fortified; Belle-Isle has a double enceinte, a citadel, two detached forts; its ports contain three corsairs; and the side batteries only await their cannon."

I know all that, monsieur, replied the king.

What! your majesty knows all that? replied the musketeer, stupefied.

I have the plan of the fortifications of Belle-Isle, said the king.

Your majesty has the plan?

Here it is.

It is really correct, sire: I saw a similar one on the spot.

D'Artagnan's brow became clouded.

Ah! I understand all. Your majesty did not trust to me alone, but sent some other person, said he in a reproachful tone.

Of what importance is the manner, monsieur, in which I have learnt what I know, so that I know it?

Sire, sire, said the musketeer, without seeking even to conceal his dissatisfaction; but I must be permitted to say to your majesty, that it is not worth while to make me use such speed, to risk twenty times the breaking of my neck, to salute me on my arrival with such intelligence. Sire, when people are not trusted, or are deemed insufficient, they should scarcely be employed. And D'Artagnan, with a movement perfectly military, stamped with his foot, and left upon the floor dust stained with blood. The king looked at him, inwardly enjoying his first triumph.

Monsieur, said he, at the expiration of a minute, not only is Belle-Isle known to me, but, still further, Belle-Isle is mine.

That is well! that is well, sire, I ask but one thing more, replied D'Artagnan.—My discharge.

What! your discharge?

Without doubt I am too proud to eat the bread of the king without earning it, or rather by gaining it badly.—My discharge, sire!

Oh, oh!

I ask for my discharge, or I will take it.

You are angry, monsieur?

"I have reason, mordioux! Thirty-two hours in the saddle, I ride day and night, I perform prodigies of speed, I arrive stiff as the corpse of a man who has been hung—and another arrives before me! Come, sire, I am a fool!—My discharge, sire!"

Monsieur d'Artagnan, said Louis, leaning his white hand upon the dusty arm of the musketeer, what I tell you will not at all affect that which I promised you. A king's word given must be kept. And the king going straight to his table, opened a drawer, and took out a folded paper. Here is your commission of captain of musketeers; you have won it, Monsieur d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan opened the paper eagerly, and scanned it twice. He could scarcely believe his eyes.

And this commission is given you, continued the king, not only on account of your journey to Belle-Isle but, moreover, for your brave intervention at the Place de Greve. There, likewise, you served me valiantly.

Ah, ah! said D'Artagnan, without his self-command being able to prevent a blush from mounting to his eyes—you know that also, sire?

Yes, I know it.

The king possessed a piercing glance and an infallible judgment when it was his object to read men's minds. You have something to say, said he to the musketeer, something to say which you do not say. Come, speak freely, monsieur; you know that I told you, once and for all, that you are to be always quite frank with me.

Well, sire! what I have to say is this, that I would prefer being made captain of the musketeers for having charged a battery at the head of my company, or taken a city, than for causing two wretches to be hung.

Is this quite true you tell me?

And why should your majesty suspect me of dissimulation, I ask?

Because I have known you well, monsieur; you cannot repent of having drawn your sword for me.

Well, in that your majesty is deceived, and greatly; yes, I do repent of having drawn my sword on account of the results that action produced; the poor men who were hung, sire, were neither your enemies nor mine; and they could not defend themselves.

The king preserved silence for a moment. And your companion, M. d'Artagnan, does he partake of your repentance?

My companion?

Yes, you were not alone, I have been told.

Alone, where?

At the Place de Greve.

No, sire, no, said D'Artagnan, blushing at the idea that the king might have a suspicion that he, D'Artagnan, had wished to engross to himself all the glory that belonged to Raoul; "no, mordioux! and as your majesty says, I had a companion, and a good companion, too."

A young man?

Yes, sire; a young man. Oh! your majesty must accept my compliments, you are as well informed of things out of doors as things within. It is M. Colbert who makes all these fine reports to the king.

M. Colbert has said nothing but good of you, M. d'Artagnan, and he would have met with a bad reception if he had come to tell me anything else.

That is fortunate!

But he also said much good of that young man.

And with justice, said the musketeer.

In short, it appears that this young man is a fire-eater, said Louis, in order to sharpen the sentiment which he mistook for envy.

A fire-eater! Yes, sire, repeated D'Artagnan, delighted on his part to direct the king's attention to Raoul.

Do you not know his name?

Well, I think—

You know him then?

I have known him nearly five-and-twenty years, sire.

Why, he is scarcely twenty-five years old! cried the king.

Well, sire! I have known him ever since he was born, that is all.

Do you affirm that?

Sire, said D'Artagnan, your majesty questions me with a mistrust in which I recognize another character than your own. M. Colbert, who has so well informed you, has he not forgotten to tell you that this young man is the son of my most intimate friend?

The Vicomte de Bragelonne?

Certainly, sire. The father of the Vicomte de Bragelonne is M. le Comte de la Fere, who so powerfully assisted in the restoration of King Charles II. Bragelonne comes of a valiant race, sire.

Then he is the son of that nobleman who came to me, or rather to M. Mazarin, on the part of King Charles II., to offer me his alliance?

Exactly, sire.

And the Comte de la Fere is a great soldier, say you?

Sire, he is a man who has drawn his sword more times for the king, your father, than there are, at present, months in the happy life of your majesty.

It was Louis XIV. who now bit his lip.

That is well, M. d'Artagnan, very well! And M. le Comte de la Fere is your friend, say you?

For about forty years; yes, sire. Your majesty may see that I do not speak to you of yesterday.

Should you be glad to see this young man, M. d'Artagnan?

Delighted, sire.

The king touched his bell, and an usher appeared. Call M. de Bragelonne, said the king.

Ah! ah! he is here? said D'Artagnan.

He is on guard to-day, at the Louvre, with the company of the gentlemen of monsieur le prince.

The king had scarcely ceased speaking, when Raoul presented himself, and, on seeing D'Artagnan, smiled on him with that charming smile which is only found upon the lips of youth.

Come, come, said D'Artagnan, familiarly, to Raoul, the king will allow you to embrace me; only tell his majesty you thank him.

Raoul bowed so gracefully, that Louis, to whom all superior qualities were pleasing when they did not overshadow his own, admired his beauty, strength, and modesty.

Monsieur, said the king, addressing Raoul, I have asked monsieur le prince to be kind enough to give you up to me; I have received his reply, and you belong to me from this morning. Monsieur le prince was a good master, but I hope you will not lose by the exchange.

Yes, yes, Raoul, be satisfied; the king has some good in him, said D'Artagnan, who had fathomed the character of Louis, and who played with his self-love, within certain limits; always observing, be it understood, the proprieties and flattering, even when he appeared to be bantering.

Sire, said Bragelonne, with voice soft and musical, and with the natural and easy elocution he inherited from his father; Sire, it is not from to-day that I belong to your majesty.

Oh! no, I know, said the king, you mean your enterprise of the Greve. That day, you were truly mine, monsieur.

Sire, it is not of that day I would speak; it would not become me to refer to so paltry a service in the presence of such a man as M. d'Artagnan. I would speak of a circumstance which created an epoch in my life, and which consecrated me, from the age of sixteen, to the devoted service of your majesty.

Ah! ah! said the king, what was that circumstance? Tell me, monsieur.

"This is it, sire.—When I was setting out on my first campaign, that is to say, to join the army of monsieur le prince, M. le Comte de la Fere came to conduct me as far as Saint-Denis, where the remains of King Louis XIII. wait, upon the lowest steps of the funeral basilique, a successor, whom God will not send him, I hope, for many years. Then he made me swear upon the ashes of our masters, to serve royalty, represented by you—incarnate in you, sire—to serve it in word, in thought, and in action. I swore, and God and the dead were witnesses to my oath. During ten years, sire, I have not so often as I desired had occasion to keep it. I am a soldier of your majesty, and nothing else; and, on calling me nearer to you, I do not change my master, I only change my garrison."

Raoul was silent and bowed. Louis still listened after he had done speaking.

"Mordioux! cried D'Artagnan, that was well spoken! was it not, your majesty? A good race! a noble race!"

Yes, murmured the king, without, however daring to manifest his emotion, for it had no other cause than contact with a nature intrinsically noble. Yes, monsieur, you say truly:—wherever you were, you were the king's. But in changing your garrison, believe me you will find an advancement of which you are worthy.

Raoul saw that this ended what the king had to say to him. And with the perfect tact which characterized his refined nature, he bowed and retired.

Is there anything else, monsieur, of which you have to inform me? said the king, when he found himself again alone with D'Artagnan.

Yes, sire, and I kept that news for the last, for it is sad, and will clothe European royalty in mourning.

What do you tell me?

Sire, in passing through Blois, a word, a sad word, echoed from the palace, struck my ear.

In truth, you terrify me, M. d'Artagnan.

"Sire, this word was pronounced to me by a piqueur, who wore crape on his arm."

My uncle, Gaston of Orleans, perhaps.

Sire, he has rendered his last sigh.

And I was not warned of it! cried the king, whose royal susceptibility saw an insult in the absence of this intelligence.

Oh! do not be angry, sire, said D'Artagnan; neither the couriers of Paris, nor the couriers of the whole world, can travel with your servant; the courier from Blois will not be here these two hours, and he rides well, I assure you, seeing that I only passed him on the thither side of Orleans.

My uncle Gaston, murmured Louis, pressing his hand to his brow, and comprising in those three words all that his memory recalled of that symbol of opposing sentiments.

Eh! yes, sire, it is thus, said D'Artagnan, philosophically replying to the royal thought, it is thus the past flies away.

That is true, monsieur, that is true; but there remains for us, thank God! the future; and we will try to make it not too dark.

I feel confidence in your majesty on that head, said D'Artagnan, bowing, and now—

You are right, monsieur; I had forgotten the hundred leagues you have just ridden. Go, monsieur, take care of one of the best of soldiers, and when you have reposed a little, come and place yourself at my disposal.

Sire, absent or present, I am always yours.

D'Artagnan bowed and retired. Then, as if he had only come from Fontainebleau, he quickly traversed the Louvre to rejoin Bragelonne.

Chapter II. A Lover and His Mistress.

Whilst the wax-lights were burning in the castle of Blois, around the inanimate body of Gaston of Orleans, that last representative of the past; whilst the bourgeois of the city were thinking out his epitaph, which was far from being a panegyric; whilst madame the dowager, no longer remembering that in her young days she had loved that senseless corpse to such a degree as to fly the paternal palace for his sake, was making, within twenty paces of the funeral apartment, her little calculations of interest and her little sacrifices of pride; other interests and other prides were in agitation in all the parts of the castle into which a living soul could penetrate. Neither the lugubrious sounds of the bells, nor the voices of the chanters, nor the splendor of the wax-lights through the windows, nor the preparations for the funeral, had power to divert the attention of two persons, placed at a window of the interior court—a window that we are acquainted with, and which lighted a chamber forming part of what were called the little apartments. For the rest, a joyous beam of the sun, for the sun appeared to care little for the loss France had just suffered; a sunbeam, we say, descended upon them, drawing perfumes from the neighboring flowers, and animating the walls themselves. These two persons, so occupied, not by the death of the duke, but by the conversation which was the consequence of that death, were a young woman and a young man. The latter personage, a man of from twenty-five to twenty-six years of age, with a mien sometimes lively and sometimes dull, making good use of two large eyes, shaded with long eye-lashes, was short of stature and swart of skin; he smiled with an enormous, but well-furnished mouth, and his pointed chin, which appeared to enjoy a mobility nature does not ordinarily grant to that portion of the countenance, leant from time to time very lovingly towards his interlocutrix, who, we must say, did not always draw back so rapidly as strict propriety had a right to require. The young girl—we know her, for we have already seen her, at that very same window, by the light of that same sun—the young girl presented a singular mixture of shyness and reflection; she was charming when she laughed, beautiful when she became serious; but, let us hasten to say, she was more frequently charming than beautiful. These two appeared to have attained the culminating point of a discussion—half-bantering, half-serious.

Now, Monsieur Malicorne, said the young girl, does it, at length, please you that we should talk reasonably?

You believe that that is very easy, Mademoiselle Aure, replied the young man. To do what we like, when we can only do what we are able—

Good! there he is bewildered in his phrases.

Who, I?

Yes, you; quit that lawyer's logic, my dear.

Another impossibility. Clerk I am, Mademoiselle de Montalais.

Demoiselle I am, Monsieur Malicorne.

Alas, I know it well, and you overwhelm me by your rank; so I will say no more to you.

Well, no, I don't overwhelm you; say what you have to tell me—say it, I insist upon it.

Well, I obey you.

That is truly fortunate.

Monsieur is dead.

"Ah, peste! that's news! And where do you come from, to be able to tell us that?"

I come from Orleans, mademoiselle.

And is that all the news you bring?

Ah, no; I am come to tell you that Madame Henrietta of England is coming to marry the king's brother.

Indeed, Malicorne, you are insupportable with your news of the last century. Now, mind, if you persist in this bad habit of laughing at people, I will have you turned out.

Oh!

Yes, for really you exasperate me.

There, there. Patience, mademoiselle.

You want to make yourself of consequence; I know well enough why. Go!

Tell me, and I will answer you frankly, yes, if the thing be true.

You know that I am anxious to have that commission of lady of honor, which I have been foolish enough to ask of you, and you do not use your credit.

Who, I? Malicorne cast down his eyes, joined his hands, and assumed his sullen air. And what credit can the poor clerk of a procurer have, pray?

Your father has not twenty thousand livres a year for nothing, M. Malicorne.

A provincial fortune, Mademoiselle de Montalais.

Your father is not in the secrets of monsieur le prince for nothing.

An advantage which is confined to lending monseigneur money.

In a word, you are not the most cunning young fellow in the province for nothing.

You flatter me!

Who, I?

Yes, you.

How so?

Since I maintain that I have no credit, and you maintain I have.

Well, then,—my commission?

Well,—your commission?

Shall I have it, or shall I not?

You shall have it.

Ay, but when?

When you like.

Where is it, then?

In my pocket.

How—in your pocket?

Yes.

And, with a smile, Malicorne drew from his pocket a letter, upon which mademoiselle seized as a prey, and which she read eagerly. As she read, her face brightened.

Malicorne, cried she after having read it, In truth, you are a good lad.

What for, mademoiselle?

Because you might have been paid for this commission, and you have not. And she burst into a loud laugh, thinking to put the clerk out of countenance; but Malicorne sustained the attack bravely.

I do not understand you, said he. It was now Montalais who was disconcerted in her turn. I have declared my sentiments to you, continued Malicorne. You have told me three times, laughing all the while, that you did not love me; you have embraced me once without laughing, and that is all I want.

All? said the proud and coquettish Montalais, in a tone through which the wounded pride was visible.

Absolutely all, mademoiselle, replied Malicorne.

Ah!—And this monosyllable indicated as much anger as the young man might have expected gratitude. He shook his head quietly.

Listen, Montalais, said he, without heeding whether that familiarity pleased his mistress or not; let us not dispute about it.

And why not?

Because during the year which I have known you, you might have had me turned out of doors twenty times if I did not please you.

Indeed; and on what account should I have had you turned out?

Because I have been sufficiently impertinent for that.

Oh, that,—yes, that's true.

You see plainly that you are forced to avow it, said Malicorne.

Monsieur Malicorne!

Don't let us be angry; if you have retained me, then it has not been without cause.

It is not, at least, because I love you, cried Montalais.

Granted. I will even say, at this moment, I am certain that you hate me.

Oh, you have never spoken so truly.

Well, on my part, I detest you.

Ah! I take the act.

Take it. You find me brutal and foolish; on my part I find you have a harsh voice, and your face is too often distorted with anger. At this moment you would allow yourself to be thrown out of that window rather than allow me to kiss the tip of your finger; I would precipitate myself from the top of the balcony rather than touch the hem of your robe. But, in five minutes, you will love me, and I shall adore you. Oh, it is just so.

I doubt it.

And I swear it.

Coxcomb!

And then, that is not the true reason. You stand in need of me, Aure, and I of you. When it pleases you to be gay, I make you laugh; when it suits me to be loving, I look at you. I have given you a commission of lady of honor which you wished for; you will give me, presently, something I wish for.

I will?

Yes, you will; but, at this moment, my dear Aure, I declare to you that I wish for absolutely nothing, so be at ease.

You are a frightful man, Malicorne; I was going to rejoice at getting this commission, and thus you quench my joy.

Good; there is no time lost,—you will rejoice when I am gone.

Go, then; and after—

So be it; but in the first place, a piece of advice.

What is it?

Resume your good-humor,—you are ugly when you pout.

Coarse!

Come, let us tell the truth to each other, while we are about it.

Oh, Malicorne! Bad-hearted man!

Oh, Montalais! Ungrateful girl!

The young man leant with his elbow upon the window-frame; Montalais took a book and opened it. Malicorne stood up, brushed his hat with his sleeve, smoothed down his black doublet;—Montalais, though pretending to read, looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

Good! cried she, furious; he has assumed his respectful air—and he will pout for a week.

A fortnight, mademoiselle, said Malicorne, bowing.

Montalais lifted up her little doubled fist. Monster! said she; oh! that I were a man!

What would you do to me?

I would strangle you.

Ah! very well, then, said Malicorne; I believe I begin to desire something.

And what do you desire, Monsieur Demon? That I should lose my soul from anger?

Malicorne was rolling his hat respectfully between his fingers; but, all at once, he let fall his hat, seized the young girl by the shoulders, pulled her towards him, and sealed her mouth with two lips that were very warm, for a man pretending to so much indifference. Aure would have cried out, but the cry was stifled in his kiss. Nervous and, apparently, angry, the young girl pushed Malicorne against the wall.

Good! said Malicorne, philosophically, that's enough for six weeks. Adieu, mademoiselle, accept my very humble salutation. And he made three steps towards the door.

Well! no,—you shall not go! cried Montalais, stamping with her little foot. Stay where you are! I order you!

You order me?

Yes; am I not mistress?

Of my heart and soul, without doubt.

"A pretty property! ma foi! The soul is silly and the heart dry."

Beware, Montalais, I know you, said Malicorne; you are going to fall in love with your humble servant.

Well, yes! said she, hanging round his neck with childish indolence, rather than with loving abandonment. Well, yes! for I must thank you at least.

And for what?

For the commission; is it not my whole future?

And mine.

Montalais looked at him.

It is frightful, said she, that one can never guess whether you are speaking seriously or not.

I cannot speak more seriously. I was going to Paris,—you are going there,—we are going there.

And so it was for that motive only you have served me; selfish fellow!

What would you have me say, Aure? I cannot live without you.

Well! in truth, it is just so with me; you are, nevertheless, it must be confessed, a very bad-hearted young man.

Aure, my dear Aure, take care! if you take to calling me names again, you know the effect they produce upon me, and I shall adore you. And so saying, Malicorne drew the young girl a second time towards him. But at that instant a step resounded on the staircase. The young people were so close, that they would have been surprised in the arms of each other, if Montalais had not violently pushed Malicorne, with his back against the door, just then opening. A loud cry, followed by angry reproaches, immediately resounded. It was Madame de Saint-Remy who uttered the cry and the angry words. The unlucky Malicorne almost crushed her between the wall and the door she was coming in at.

It is again that good-for-nothing! cried the old lady. Always here!

Ah, madame! replied Malicorne, in a respectful tone; it is eight long days since I was here.

Chapter III. In Which We at Length See the True Heroine of this History

Appear.

Behind Madame de Saint-Remy stood Mademoiselle de la Valliere. She heard the explosion of maternal anger, and as she divined the cause of it, she entered the chamber trembling, and perceived the unlucky Malicorne, whose woeful countenance might have softened or set laughing whoever observed it coolly. He had promptly intrenched himself behind a large chair, as if to avoid the first attacks of Madame de Saint-Remy; he had no hopes of prevailing with words, for she spoke louder than he, and without stopping; but he reckoned upon the eloquence of his gestures. The old lady would neither listen to nor see anything; Malicorne had long been one of her antipathies. But her anger was too great not to overflow from Malicorne on his accomplice. Montalais had her turn.

And you, mademoiselle; you may be certain I shall inform madame of what is going on in the apartment of one of her ladies of honor?

Oh, dear mother! cried Mademoiselle de la Valliere, for mercy's sake, spare—

Hold your tongue, mademoiselle, and do not uselessly trouble yourself to intercede for unworthy people; that a young maid of honor like you should be subjected to a bad example is, certes, a misfortune great enough; but that you should sanction it by your indulgence is what I will not allow.

But in truth, said Montalais, rebelling again, I do not know under what pretense you treat me thus. I am doing no harm, I suppose?

And that great good-for-nothing, mademoiselle, resumed Madame de Saint-Remy, pointing to Malicorne, is he here to do any good, I ask you?

He is neither here for good nor harm, madame; he comes to see me, that is all.

It is all very well! all very well! said the old lady. Her royal highness shall be informed of it, and she will judge.

At all events, I do not see why, replied Montalais, it should be forbidden M. Malicorne to have intentions towards me, if his intentions are honorable.

Honorable intentions with such a face! cried Madame de Saint-Remy.

I thank you in the name of my face, madame, said Malicorne.

Come, my daughter, come, continued Madame de Saint-Remy; we will go and inform madame that at the very moment she is weeping for her husband, at the moment when we are all weeping for a master in this old castle of Blois, the abode of grief, there are people who amuse themselves with flirtations!

Oh! cried both the accused, with one voice.

A maid of honor! a maid of honor! cried the old lady, lifting her hands towards heaven.

Well! it is there you are mistaken, madame, said Montalais, highly exasperated; I am no longer a maid of honor, of madame's at least.

Have you given in your resignation, mademoiselle? That is well! I cannot but applaud such a determination, and I do applaud it.

I do not give in my resignation, madame; I take another service,—that is all.

"In the bourgeoisie or in the robe?" asked Madame de Saint-Remy, disdainfully.

"Please to learn, madame, that I am not a girl to serve either bourgeoises or robines; and that instead of the miserable court at which you vegetate, I am going to reside in a court almost royal."

Ha, ha! a royal court, said Madame de Saint-Remy, forcing a laugh; a royal court! What do you think of that, my daughter?

And she turned towards Mademoiselle de la Valliere, whom she would by main force have dragged away from Montalais, and who instead of obeying the impulse of Madame de Saint-Remy, looked first at her mother and then at Montalais with her beautiful conciliatory eyes.

I did not say a royal court, madame, replied Montalais; because Madame Henrietta of England, who is about to become the wife of S. A. R. Monsieur, is not a queen. I said almost royal, and I spoke correctly, since she will be sister-in-law to the king.

A thunderbolt falling upon the castle of Blois would not have astonished Madame de Saint-Remy more than the last sentence of Montalais.

What do you say? of Son Altesse Royale Madame Henrietta? stammered out the old lady.

I say I am going to belong to her household, as maid of honor; that is what I say.

As maid of honor! cried, at the same time, Madame de Saint-Remy with despair, and Mademoiselle de la Valliere with delight.

Yes, madame, as maid of honor.

The old lady's head sank down as if the blow had been too severe for her. But, almost immediately recovering herself, she launched a last projectile at her adversary.

Oh! oh! said she; I have heard of many of these sorts of promises beforehand, which often lead people to flatter themselves with wild hopes, and at the last moment, when the time comes to keep the promises, and have the hopes realized, they are surprised to see the great credit upon which they reckoned vanish like smoke.

Oh! madame, the credit of my protector is incontestable and his promises are as good as deeds.

And would it be indiscreet to ask you the name of this powerful protector?

"Oh! mon Dieu! no! it is that gentleman there," said Montalais, pointing to Malicorne, who, during this scene, had preserved the most imperturbable coolness, and the most comic dignity.

Monsieur! cried Madame de Saint-Remy, with an explosion of hilarity, monsieur is your protector! Is the man whose credit is so powerful, and whose promises are as good as deeds, Monsieur Malicorne!

Malicorne bowed.

As to Montalais, as her sole reply, she drew the brevet from her pocket, and showed it to the old lady.

"Here is the brevet," said she.

At once all was over. As soon as she had cast a rapid glance over this fortunate brevet, the good lady clasped her hands, an unspeakable expression of envy and despair contracted her countenance, and she was obliged to sit down to avoid fainting. Montalais was not malicious enough to rejoice extravagantly at her victory, or to overwhelm the conquered enemy, particularly when that enemy was the mother of her friend; she used then, but did not abuse her triumph. Malicorne was less generous; he assumed noble poses in his fauteuil and stretched himself out with a familiarity which, two hours earlier, would have drawn upon him threats of a caning.

Maid of honor to the young madame! repeated Madame de Saint-Remy, still but half convinced.

Yes, madame, and through the protection of M. Malicorne, moreover.

It is incredible! repeated the old lady: is it not incredible, Louise? But Louise did not reply; she was sitting, thoughtfully, almost sad; passing one had over her beautiful brow, she sighed heavily.

Well, but, monsieur, said Madame de Saint-Remy, all at once, how did you manage to obtain this post?

I asked for it, madame.

Of whom?

One of my friends.

And you have friends sufficiently powerful at court to give you such proofs of their credit?

It appears so.

And may one ask the name of these friends?

I did not say I had many friends, madame, I said I had one friend.

And that friend is called?

"Peste! madame, you go too far! When one has a friend as powerful as mine, we do not publish his name in that fashion, in open day, in order that he may be stolen from us."

You are right, monsieur, to be silent as to that name; for I think it would be pretty difficult for you to tell it.

At all events, said Montalais, "if the friend does not exist, the brevet does, and that cuts short the question."

Then, I conceive, said Madame de Saint-Remy, with the gracious smile of the cat who is going to scratch, when I found monsieur here just now—

Well?

"He brought you the brevet."

Exactly, madame; you have guessed rightly.

Well, then, nothing can be more moral or proper.

I think so, madame.

And I have been wrong, as it appears, in reproaching you, mademoiselle.

Very wrong, madame; but I am so accustomed to your reproaches, that I pardon you these.

In that case, let us begone, Louise; we have nothing to do but retire. Well!

Madame! said La Valliere starting, did you speak?

You do not appear to be listening, my child.

No, madame, I was thinking.

About what?

A thousand things.

You bear me no ill-will, at least, Louise? cried Montalais, pressing her hand.

And why should I, my dear Aure? replied the girl in a voice soft as a flute.

"Dame! resumed Madame de Saint-Remy; if she did bear you a little ill-will, poor girl, she could not be much blamed."

And why should she bear me ill-will, good gracious?

It appears to me that she is of as good a family, and as pretty as you.

Mother! mother! cried Louise.

Prettier a hundred times, madame—not of a better family; but that does not tell me why Louise should bear me ill-will.

Do you think it will be very amusing for her to be buried alive at Blois, when you are going to shine at Paris?

But, madame, it is not I who prevent Louise following me thither; on the contrary, I should certainly be most happy if she came there.

But it appears that M. Malicorne, who is all-powerful at court—

Ah! so much the worse, madame, said Malicorne, every one for himself in this poor world.

Malicorne! Malicorne! said Montalais. Then stooping towards the young man:—

Occupy Madame de Saint-Remy, either in disputing with her, or making it up with her; I must speak to Louise. And, at the same time, a soft pressure of the hand recompensed Malicorne for his future obedience. Malicorne went grumbling towards Madame de Saint-Remy, whilst Montalais said to her friend, throwing one arm around her neck:—

"What is the matter? Tell me. Is it true that you would not love me if I were to shine, as your mother says?"

Oh, no! said the young girl, with difficulty restraining her tears; on the contrary, I rejoice at your good fortune.

Rejoice! why, one would say you are ready to cry!

Do people never weep except from envy?

Oh! yes, I understand; I am going to Paris and that word Paris recalls to your mind a certain cavalier—

Aure!

A certain cavalier who formerly lived near Blois, and who now resides at Paris.

In truth, I know not what ails me, but I feel stifled.

Weep, then, weep, as you cannot give me a smile!

Louise raised her sweet face, which the tears, rolling down one after the other, illumined like diamonds.

Come, confess, said Montalais.

What shall I confess?

What makes you weep; people don't weep without cause. I am your friend; whatever you would wish me to do, I will do. Malicorne is more powerful than you would think. Do you wish to go to Paris?

Alas! sighed Louise.

Do you wish to come to Paris?

"To remain here alone, in this old castle, I who have enjoyed the delightful habit of listening to your songs, of pressing your hand, of running about the park with you. Oh! how I shall be ennuyee! how quickly I shall die!"

Do you wish to come to Paris?

Louise breathed another sigh.

You do not answer me.

What would you that I should reply?

Yes or no; that is not very difficult, I think.

Oh! you are very fortunate, Montalais!

That is to say you would like to be in my place.

Louise was silent.

Little obstinate thing! said Montalais; did ever any one keep her secrets from her friend thus? But, confess that you would like to come to Paris; confess that you are dying with the wish to see Raoul again.

I cannot confess that.

Then you are wrong.

In what way?

"Because—do you not see this brevet?"

To be sure I do.

Well, I would have got you a similar one.

By whose means?

Malicorne's.

Aure, are you telling the truth? Is that possible?

Malicorne is there; and what he has done for me, he surely can do for you.

Malicorne had heard his name pronounced twice; he was delighted at having an opportunity of coming to a conclusion with Madame de Saint-Remy, and he turned round:—

What is the question, mademoiselle?

Come hither, Malicorne, said Montalais, with an imperious gesture. Malicorne obeyed.

"A brevet like this," said Montalais.

How so?

"A brevet like this; that is plain enough."

But—

I want one—I must have one!

Oh! oh! you must have one!

Yes.

It is impossible, is it not, M. Malicorne? said Louise, with her sweet, soft voice.

"If it is for you, mademoiselle—"

"For me. Yes, Monsieur Malicorne, it would be for me."

And if Mademoiselle de Montalais asks it at the same time—

Mademoiselle de Montalais does not ask it, she requires it.

Well! we will endeavor to obey you, mademoiselle.

And you will have her named?

We will try.

No evasive answers, Louise de la Valliere shall be maid of honor to Madame Henrietta within a week.

How you talk!

Within a week, or else—

Well! or else?

"You may take back your brevet, Monsieur Malicorne; I will not leave my friend."

Dear Montalais!

"That is right. Keep your brevet; Mademoiselle de la Valliere shall be a maid of honor."

Is that true?

Quite true.

I may then hope to go to Paris?

Depend on it.

Oh! Monsieur Malicorne, what joy! cried Louise, clapping her hands, and bounding with pleasure.

Little dissembler! said Montalais, try again to make me believe you are not in love with Raoul.

Louise blushed like a rose in June, but instead of replying, she ran and embraced her mother. Madame, said she, do you know that M. Malicorne is going to have me appointed maid of honor?

M. Malicorne is a prince in disguise, replied the old lady, he is all-powerful, seemingly.

Should you also like to be a maid of honor? asked Malicorne of Madame de Saint-Remy. Whilst I am about it, I might as well get everybody appointed.

And upon that he went away, leaving the poor lady quite disconcerted.

Humph! murmured Malicorne as he descended the stairs,—Humph! there goes another note of a thousand livres! but I must get through as well as I can; my friend Manicamp does nothing for nothing.

Chapter IV. Malicorne and Manicamp.

The introduction of these two new personages into this history and that mysterious affinity of names and sentiments, merit some attention on the part of both historian and reader. We will then enter into some details concerning Messieurs Malicorne and Manicamp. Malicorne, we know, had made the journey to Orleans in search of the brevet destined for Mademoiselle de Montalais, the arrival of which had produced such a strong feeling at the castle of Blois. At that moment, M. de Manicamp was at Orleans. A singular person was this M. de Manicamp; a very intelligent young fellow, always poor, always needy, although he dipped his hand freely into the purse of M. le Comte de Guiche, one of the best furnished purses of the period. M. le Comte de Guiche had had, as the companion of his boyhood, this De Manicamp, a poor gentleman, vassal-born, of the house of Gramont. M. de Manicamp, with his tact and talent had created himself a revenue in the opulent family of the celebrated marechal. From his infancy he had, with calculation beyond his age, lent his mane and complaisance to the follies of the Comte de Guiche. If his noble companion had stolen some fruit destined for