Chapter 22

Chapter XXII:
The King's Card-Table.

Fouquet was present, as D'Artagnan had said, at the king's card-table.
It seemed as if Buckingham's departure had shed a balm on the lacerated
hearts of the previous evening. Monsieur, radiant with delight, made a
thousand affectionate signs to his mother. The Count de Guiche could not
separate himself from Buckingham, and while playing, conversed with him
upon the circumstance of his projected voyage. Buckingham, thoughtful,
and kind in his manner, like a man who has adopted a resolution, listened
to the count, and from time to time cast a look full of regret and
hopeless affection at Madame. The princess, in the midst of her elation
of spirits, divided her attention between the king, who was playing with
her, Monsieur, who quietly joked her about her enormous winnings, and De
Guiche, who exhibited an extravagant delight. Of Buckingham she took but
little notice; for her, this fugitive, this exile, was now simply a
remembrance, no longer a man. Light hearts are thus constituted; while
they themselves continue untouched, they roughly break off with every one
who may possibly interfere with their little calculations of self
comfort. Madame had received Buckingham's smiles and attentions and
sighs while he was present; but what was the good of sighing, smiling,
and kneeling at a distance? Can one tell in what direction the winds in
the Channel, which toss mighty vessels to and fro, carry such sighs as
these? The duke could not fail to mark this change, and his heart was
cruelly hurt. Of a sensitive character, proud and susceptible of deep
attachment, he cursed the day on which such a passion had entered his
heart. The looks he cast, from time to time at Madame, became colder by
degrees at the chilling complexion of his thoughts. He could hardly yet
despair, but he was strong enough to impose silence upon the tumultuous
outcries of his heart. In exact proportion, however, as Madame suspected
this change of feeling, she redoubled her activity to regain the ray of
light she was about to lose; her timid and indecisive mind was displayed
in brilliant flashes of wit and humor. At any cost she felt that she
must be remarked above everything and every one, even above the king
himself. And she was so, for the queens, notwithstanding their dignity,
and the king, despite the respect which etiquette required, were all
eclipsed by her. The queens, stately and ceremonious, were softened and
could not restrain their laughter. Madame Henriette, the queen-mother,
was dazzled by the brilliancy which cast distinction upon her family,
thanks to the wit of the grand-daughter of Henry IV. The king, jealous,
as a young man and as a monarch, of the superiority of those who
surrounded him, could