Chapter 64 - Page 2

of the
two had kept his word, and that the other was too conscientious not to
feel her perjury most bitterly. And his remorse was not unaccompanied;
for bitter pangs of jealousy began to beset the king's heart. He did not
say another word, and instead of going to pay a visit to his mother, or
the queen, or Madame, in order to amuse himself a little, and make the
ladies laugh, as he himself used to say, he threw himself into the huge
armchair in which his august father Louis XIII. had passed so many weary
days and years in company with Barradat and Cinq-Mars. Saint-Aignan
perceived the king was not to be amused at that moment; he tried a last
resource, and pronounced Louise's name, which made the king look up
immediately. "What does your majesty intend to do this evening - shall
Mademoiselle de la Valliere be informed of your intention to see her?"

"It seems she is already aware of that," replied the king. "No, no,
Saint-Aignan," he continued, after a moment's pause, "we will both of us
pass our time in thinking, and musing, and dreaming; when Mademoiselle de
la Valliere shall have sufficiently regretted what she now regrets, she
will deign, perhaps, to give us some news of herself."

"Ah! sire, is it possible you can so misunderstand her heart, which is so
full of devotion?"

The king rose, flushed from vexation and annoyance; he was a prey to
jealousy as well as to remorse. Saint-Aignan was just beginning to feel
that his position was becoming awkward, when the curtain before the door
was raised. The king turned hastily round; his first idea was that a
letter from Louise had arrived; but, instead of a letter of love, he only
saw his captain of musketeers, standing upright, and perfectly silent in
the doorway. "M. d'Artagnan," he said, "ah! Well, monsieur?"

D'Artagnan looked at Saint-Aignan; the king's eyes took the same
direction as those of his captain; these looks would have been clear to
any one, and for a still greater reason they were so for Saint-Aignan.
The courtier bowed and quitted the room, leaving the king and D'Artagnan
alone.

"Is it done?" inquired the king.

"Yes, sire," replied the captain of the musketeers, in a grave voice, "it
is done."

The king was unable to say another word. Pride, however, obliged him not
to pause at what he had done; whenever a sovereign has adopted a decisive
course, even though it be unjust, he is compelled to prove to all
witnesses, and particularly to prove it to himself, that he was quite
right all through. A good means for effecting that - an almost
infallible means, indeed - is, to try and prove his victim to be in the
wrong. Louis, brought up by Mazarin and Anne of Austria, knew better
than any one else his vocation as