Twenty years after
had desired her daughter to attend her at the palace, which she had
inhabited for a long time and which she had only left because their
poverty seemed to them more difficult to bear in gilded chambers.
Mordaunt followed the carriage, and when he had watched it drive
beneath the sombre arches he went and stationed himself under a wall
over which the shadow was extended, and remained motionless, amidst the
moldings of Jean Goujon, like a _bas-relievo_, representing an
equestrian statue.
Chapter XXXIX.
How, sometimes, the Unhappy mistake Chance for Providence.
Well, madame,” said De Winter, when the queen had dismissed her
attendants.
“Well, my lord, what I foresaw has come to pass.”
“What? does the cardinal refuse to receive the king? France refuse
hospitality to an unfortunate prince? Ay, but it is for the first time,
madame!”
“I did not say France, my lord; I said the cardinal, and the cardinal
is not even a Frenchman.”
“But did you see the queen?”
“It is useless,” replied Henrietta, “the queen will not say yes when
the cardinal says no. Are you not aware that this Italian directs
everything, both indoors and out? And moreover, I should not be
surprised had we been forestalled by Cromwell. He was embarrassed
whilst speaking to me and yet quite firm in his determination to
refuse. Then did you not observe the agitation in the Palais Royal, the
passing to and fro of busy people? Can they have received any news, my
lord?”
“Not from England, madame. I made such haste that I am certain of not
having been forestalled. I set out three days ago, passing miraculously
through the Puritan army, and I took post horses with my servant Tony;
the horses upon which we were mounted were bought in Paris. Besides,
the king, I am certain, awaits your majesty’s reply before risking
anything.”
“You will tell him, my lord,” resumed the queen, despairingly, “that I
can do nothing; that I have suffered as much as himself—more than he
has—obliged as I am to eat the bread of exile and to ask hospitality
from false friends who smile at my tears; and as regards his royal
person, he must sacrifice it generously and die like a king. I shall go
and die by his side.”
“Madame, madame,” exclaimed De Winter, “your majesty abandons yourself
to despair; and yet, perhaps, there still remains some hope.”
“No friends left, my lord; no other friends left in the wide world but
yourself! Oh, God!” exclaimed the poor queen, raising her eyes to
Heaven, “have You indeed taken back all the generous hearts that once
existed in the world?”
“I hope not, madame,” replied De Winter, thoughtfully; “I once spoke to
you of four men.”
“What can be done with four?”
“Four devoted, resolute men can do much, assure yourself, madame; and
those of whom I speak performed great things at one time.”
“And where are these four men?”
“Ah, that is what I do not know. It is twenty years since I saw them,
and yet whenever I have seen the king in danger I have thought of
them.”
“And these men were your friends?”
“One of them held my life in his hands and gave it to me. I know not
whether he is still my friend, but since that time I have remained
his.”
“And these men are in France, my lord?”
“I believe so.”
“Tell me their names; perhaps I may have heard them mentioned and might
be able to aid you in finding them.”
“One of them was called the Chevalier d’Artagnan.”
“Ah, my lord, if I mistake not, the Chevalier d’Artagnan is lieutenant
of royal guards; but take care, for I fear that this man is entirely
devoted to the cardinal.”
“That would be a misfortune,” said De Winter, “and I shall begin to
think that we are really doomed.”
“But the others,” said the queen, who clung to this last hope as a
shipwrecked man clings to the hull of his vessel. “The others, my
lord!”
“The second—I heard his name by chance; for before fighting us, these
four gentlemen told us their names; the second was called the Comte de
la Fère. As for the two others, I had so much the habit of calling them
by nicknames that I have forgotten their real ones.”
“Oh, _mon Dieu_, it is a matter of the greatest urgency to find them
out,” said the queen, “since you think these worthy gentlemen might be
so useful to the king.”
“Oh, yes,” said De Winter, “for they are the same men. Listen, madame,
and recall your remembrances. Have you never heard that Queen Anne of
Austria was once saved from the greatest danger ever incurred by a
queen?”
“Yes, at the time of her relations with Monsieur de Buckingham; it had
to do in some way with certain studs and diamonds.”
“Well, it was that affair, madame; these men are the ones who saved
her; and I smile with pity when I reflect that if the names of those
gentlemen are unknown to you it is because the queen has forgotten
them, who ought to have made them the first noblemen of the realm.”
“Well, then, my lord, they must be found; but what can four men, or
rather three men do—for I tell you, you must not count on Monsieur
d’Artagnan.”
“It will be one valiant sword the less, but there will remain still
three, without reckoning my own; now four devoted men around the king
to protect him from his enemies, to be at his side in battle, to aid
him with counsel, to escort him in flight, are sufficient, not to make
the king a conqueror, but to save him if conquered; and whatever
Mazarin may say, once on the shores of France your royal husband may
find as many retreats and asylums as the seabird finds in a storm.”
“Seek, then, my lord, seek these gentlemen; and if they will consent to
go with you to England, I will give to each a duchy the day that we
reascend the throne, besides as much gold as would pave Whitehall. Seek
them, my lord, and find them, I conjure you.”
“I will search for them, madame,” said De Winter “and doubtless I shall
find them; but time fails me. Has your majesty forgotten that the king
expects your reply and awaits it in agony?”
“Then indeed we are lost!” cried the queen, in the fullness of a broken
heart.
At this moment the door opened and the young Henrietta appeared; then
the queen, with that wonderful strength which is the privilege of
parents, repressed her tears and motioned to De Winter to change the
subject.
But that act of self-control, effective as it was, did not escape the
eyes of the young princess. She stopped on the threshold, breathed a
sigh, and addressing the queen:
“Why, then, do you always weep, mother, when I am away from you?” she
said.
The queen smiled, but instead of answering:
“See, De Winter,” she said, “I have at least gained one thing in being
only half a queen; and that is that my children call me ‘mother’
instead of ‘madame.’”
Then turning toward her daughter:
“What do you want, Henrietta?” she demanded.
“My mother,” replied the young princess, “a cavalier has just entered
the Louvre and wishes to present his respects to your majesty; he
arrives from the army and has, he says, a letter to remit to you, on
the part of the Maréchal de Grammont, I think.”
“Ah!” said the queen to De Winter, “he is one of my faithful adherents;
but do you not observe, my dear lord, that we are so poorly served that
it is left to my daughter to fill the office of doorkeeper?”
“Madame, have pity on me,” exclaimed De Winter; “you wring my heart!”
“And who is this cavalier, Henrietta?” asked the queen.
“I saw him from the window, madame; he is a young man that appears
scarce sixteen years of age, and is called the Viscount de Bragelonne.”
The queen, smiling, made a sign with her head; the young princess
opened the door and Raoul appeared on the threshold.
Advancing a few steps toward the queen, he knelt down.
“Madame,” said he, “I bear to your majesty a letter from my friend the
Count de Guiche, who told me he had the honor of being your servant;
this letter contains important news and the expression of his respect.”
At the name of the Count de Guiche a blush spread over the cheeks of
the young princess and the queen glanced at her with some degree of
severity.
“You told me that the letter was from the Maréchal de Grammont,
Henrietta!” said the queen.
“I thought so, madame,” stammered the young girl.
“It is my fault, madame,” said Raoul. “I did announce myself, in truth,
as coming on the part of the Maréchal de Grammont; but being wounded in
the right arm he was unable to write and therefore the Count de Guiche
acted as his secretary.”
“There has been fighting, then?” asked the queen, motioning to Raoul to
rise.
“Yes, madame,” said the young man.
At this announcement of a battle having taken place, the princess
opened her mouth as though to ask a question of interest; but her lips
closed again without articulating a word, while the color gradually
faded from her cheeks.
The queen saw this, and doubtless her maternal heart translated the
emotion, for addressing Raoul again:
“And no evil has happened to the young Count de Guiche?” she asked;
“for not only is he our servant, as you say, sir, but more—he is one of
our friends.”
“No, madame,” replied Raoul; “on the contrary, he gained great glory
and had the honor of being embraced by his highness, the prince, on the
field of battle.”
The young princess clapped her hands; and then, ashamed of having been
betrayed into such a demonstration of joy, she half turned away and
bent over a vase of roses, as if to inhale their odor.
“Let us see,” said the queen, “what the count says.” And she opened the
letter and read:
“Madame,—Being unable to have the honor of writing to you myself, by
reason of a wound I have received in my right hand, I have commanded my
son, the Count de Guiche, who, with his father, is equally your humble
servant, to write to tell you that we have just gained the battle of
Lens, and that this victory cannot fail to give great power to Cardinal
Mazarin and to the queen over the affairs of Europe. If her majesty
will have faith in my counsels she ought to profit by this event to
address at this moment, in favor of her august husband, the court of
France. The Vicomte de Bragelonne, who will have the honor of remitting
this letter to your majesty, is the friend of my son, who owes to him
his life; he is a gentleman in whom your majesty may confide entirely,
in case your majesty may have some verbal or written order to remit to
me.
“I have the honor to be, with respect, etc.,
“Maréchal de Grammont.”
At the moment mention occurred of his having rendered a service to the
count, Raoul could not help turning his glance toward the young
princess, and then he saw in her eyes an expression of infinite
gratitude to the young man; he no longer doubted that the daughter of
King Charles I. loved his friend.
“The battle of Lens gained!” said the queen; “they are lucky here
indeed; they can gain battles! Yes, the Maréchal de Grammont is right;
this will change the aspect of French affairs, but I much fear it will
do nothing for English, even if it does not harm them. This is recent
news, sir,” continued she, “and I thank you for having made such haste
to bring it to me; without this letter I should not have heard till
to-morrow, perhaps after to-morrow—the last of all Paris.”
“Madame,” said Raoul, “the Louvre is but the second palace this news
has reached; it is as yet unknown to all, and I had sworn to the Count
de Guiche to remit this letter to your majesty before even I should
embrace my guardian.”
“Your guardian! is he, too, a Bragelonne?” asked Lord de Winter. “I
once knew a Bragelonne—is he still alive?”
“No, sir, he is dead; and I believe it is from him my guardian, whose
near relation he was, inherited the estate from which I take my name.”
“And your guardian, sir,” asked the queen, who could not help feeling