Part 46 (1/2)
”It is this feeling of a being returned, as it were, to its natural state that creates the calm which you see in many eyes that have also had their tears-for there are few women who have not known tears such as yours. You would think yourself perjured if you renounced Cinq-Mars! But nothing binds you; you have more than acquitted yourself toward him by refusing for more than two years past the royal hands offered you. And, after all, what has he done, this impa.s.sioned lover? He has elevated himself to reach you; but may not the ambition which here seems to you to have aided love have made use of that love? This young man seems to me too profound, too calm in his political stratagems, too independent in his vast resolutions, in his colossal enterprises, for me to believe him solely occupied by his tenderness. If you have been but a means instead of an end, what would you say?”
”I would still love him,” answered Marie. ”While he lives, I am his.”
”And while I live,” said the Queen, with firmness, ”I will oppose the alliance.”
At these last words the rain and hail fell violently on the balcony. The Queen took advantage of the circ.u.mstance abruptly to leave the room and pa.s.s into that where the d.u.c.h.esse de Chevreuse, Mazarin, Madame de Guemenee, and the Prince-Palatine had been awaiting her for a short time. The Queen walked up to them. Marie placed herself in the shade of a curtain in order to conceal the redness of her eyes. She was at first unwilling to take part in the sprightly conversation; but some words of it attracted her attention. The Queen was showing to the Princesse de Guemenee diamonds she had just received from Paris.
”As for this crown, it does not belong to me. The King had it prepared for the future Queen of Poland. Who that is to be, we know not.” Then turning toward the Prince-Palatine, ”We saw you pa.s.s, Prince. Whom were you going to visit?”
”Mademoiselle la d.u.c.h.esse de Rohan,” answered the Pole.
The insinuating Mazarin, who availed himself of every opportunity to worm out secrets, and to make himself necessary by forced confidences, said, approaching the Queen:
”That comes very apropos, just as we were speaking of the crown of Poland.”
Marie, who was listening, could not hear this, and said to Madame de Guemenee, who was at her side:
”Is Monsieur de Chabot, then, King of Poland?”
The Queen heard that, and was delighted at this touch of pride. In order to develop its germ, she affected an approving attention to the conversation that ensued.
The Princesse de Guemenee exclaimed:
”Can you conceive such a marriage? We really can't get it out of our heads. This same Mademoiselle de Rohan, whom we have seen so haughty, after having refused the Comte de Soissons, the Duc de Weimar, and the Duc de Nemours, to marry Monsieur de Chabot, a simple gentleman! 'Tis really a sad pity! What are we coming to? 'Tis impossible to say what it will all end in.”
”What! can it be true? Love at court! a real love affair! Can it be believed?”
All this time the Queen continued opening and shutting and playing with the new crown.
”Diamonds suit only black hair,” she said. ”Let us see. Let me put it on you, Marie. Why, it suits her to admiration!”
”One would suppose it had been made for Madame la Princesse,” said the Cardinal.
”I would give the last drop of my blood for it to remain on that brow,”
said the Prince-Palatine.
Marie, through the tears that were still on her cheek, gave an infantine and involuntary smile, like a ray of suns.h.i.+ne through rain. Then, suddenly blus.h.i.+ng deeply, she hastily took refuge in her apartments.
All present laughed. The Queen followed her with her eyes, smiled, presented her hand for the Polish amba.s.sador to kiss, and retired to write a letter.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE WORK
One night, before Perpignan, a very unusual event took place. It was ten o'clock; and all were asleep. The slow and almost suspended operations of the siege had rendered the camp and the town inactive. The Spaniards troubled themselves little about the French, all communication toward Catalonia being open as in time of peace; and in the French army men's minds were agitated with that secret anxiety which precedes great events.
Yet all was calm; no sound was heard but that of the measured tread of the sentries. Nothing was seen in the dark night but the red light of the matches of their guns, always smoking, when suddenly the trumpets of the musketeers, of the light-horse, and of the men-at-arms sounded almost simultaneously, ”boot and saddle,” and ”to horse.” All the sentinels cried to arms; and the sergeants, with flambeaux, went from tent to tent, along pike in their hands, to waken the soldiers, range them in lines, and count them. Some files marched in gloomy silence along the streets of the camp, and took their position in battle array.
The sound of the mounted squadrons announced that the heavy cavalry were making the same dispositions. After half an hour of movement the noise ceased, the torches were extinguished, and all again became calm, but the army was on foot.
One of the last tents of the camp shone within as a star with flambeaux.