Mademoiselle de Montalais was right: the young cavalier was quite handsome. He was a young man of twenty-four or twenty-five, tall and slender, graceful and comfortable in the charming military costume of the period. His tall cavalry boots enclosed a pair of feet that Mademoiselle de Montalais wouldn’t have been ashamed of if she’d been a man. With one of his fine and sensitive hands he drew his horse to a halt in the center of the courtyard, and with the other he doffed the long-plumed hat that shaded his features, at once serious and naïve.
The guards, at the sound of the horse, awoke and quickly stood at attention. The young man let one of them approach his saddle-bow, bowed to him, and said, in a clear and precise voice easily heard at the window where the two young ladies were hiding, “A messenger for His Royal Highness.”
“Ah ha!” the guard said, and called out, “Officer, a messenger!” However, this brave soldier knew quite well that no officer would respond, since the only one they had was in his rooms on the far, garden side of the château, so he hastened to add, “Mon Gentilhomme, the officer is on his rounds, but in his absence we’ll inform Monsieur de Saint-Rémy,* the majordomo.”
“Monsieur de Saint-Rémy!” repeated the cavalier, blushing.
“You know him?”
“But yes. Please request of him that my visit be announced to His Highness as soon as possible.”
“The matter seems urgent,” said the guard, as if to himself, but in hopes of obtaining an answer.
The messenger nodded.
“In that case,” replied the guard, “I’ll go find the majordomo myself.”
Meanwhile, the young man dismounted, while the other soldiers admired the fine horse that had brought him. The first guard came back and asked, “Your pardon, Monsieur, but your name, if you please?”
“The Vicomte de Bragelonne, on the behalf of His Highness Monsieur le Prince de Condé.”*
The soldier bowed respectfully, and as if the name of the victor of Rocroi and Lens8 had given him wings, leapt back up the steps to the antechamber.
Monsieur de Bragelonne scarcely had time to tie his horse to the banister of the staircase before Monsieur de Saint-Rémy came running, out of breath, one hand supporting his bulging belly while the other pawed the air like a fisherman cleaving the waves with his oar. “What, Monsieur le Vicomte, you at Blois?” he cried. “How marvelous! Bonjour, Monsieur Raoul, bonjour!”
“A thousand regards, Monsieur de Saint-Rémy.”
“How happy Mademoiselle de La Vall—I mean, how happy Madame de Saint-Rémy will be to see you. But come, His Royal Highness’s breakfast, must it really be interrupted? Is the news serious?”
“Yes and no, Monsieur de Saint-Rémy. However, any delay might be an inconvenience to His Royal Highness.”
“If that is so, we must make do, Monsieur le Vicomte. Come. Besides, Monsieur is in a charming mood today. So, then, you bring us news?”
“Big news, Monsieur de Saint-Rémy.”
“And the news is good, I presume?”
“Very good.”
“Then quickly, quickly!” said the worthy majordomo, straightening his clothing as he went along.
Raoul followed, hat in hand, a little nervous about the sound his spurs made as he marched through the solemn halls of the grand château.
As soon as he vanished into the palace, the window across the courtyard was reoccupied, and an animated whispering betrayed the emotions of the two young ladies. Soon they came to a decision, and one of the heads, the brunette, disappeared from the window, leaving the other on the balcony, half-concealed by the shrubbery, attentively watching, between the boughs, the porch where Monsieur de Bragelonne had entered the palace.
Meanwhile, the object of all this curiosity continued to follow in the footsteps of the majordomo. From ahead, the sound of servants’ quick steps, the aroma of wine and meat, and a rattling of crystal and crockery informed him that they were nearing their destination.
The pages, valets, and officers gathered in the refectory’s antechamber welcomed the newcomer with the region’s proverbial politeness; some of them knew Raoul, and all guessed that he came from Paris. Indeed, his arrival momentarily suspended the service of breakfast, as a page who was pouring a drink for His Highness, hearing the jingle of spurs in the next room, turned like a distracted child, still pouring, not into the prince’s glass, but onto the tablecloth.
Madame, less preoccupied than her glorious spouse, noticed the page’s distraction. “Well!” she said.
Monsieur de Saint-Rémy took advantage of the interruption to poke his head around the door.
“Why are you disturbing us?” said Gaston, drawing toward himself a thick slice of one of the largest salmon ever to ascend the Loire and be caught between Paimbœuf and Saint-Nazaire.
“It’s because a messenger has arrived from Paris. But I’m sure it can wait until after Monsieur’s breakfast.”
“From Paris!” the prince exclaimed, dropping his fork. “A messenger from Paris, you say? And who does this messenger come from?”
“From Monsieur le Prince,” said the majordomo, using the common appellation for Monsieur de Condé.
“A messenger from Monsieur le Prince?” said Gaston anxiously, a tone that didn’t escape the notice of his servants, redoubling their curiosity.
Monsieur might almost have thought himself back in the days of thrilling conspiracies, when the noise of a gate unlocking made one start, when every letter opened might betray a state secret, and every message introduce a dark and complicated intrigue. Perhaps the grand name of Monsieur le Prince roused in the halls of Blois a specter of this past.
Monsieur pushed back his plate. “Shall I ask the envoy to wait?” said Monsieur de Saint-Rémy.
A glance from Madame stiffened Gaston’s resolve, and he replied, “No, on the contrary, have him enter at once. By the way, who is it?”
“A local gentleman, Monsieur le Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
“Ah, yes, very good! Show him in, Saint-Rémy, show him in.”
And once he had uttered these words with his usual gravity, Monsieur gave his servants a certain look, and all the pages, servers, and squires left their napkins, knives, and goblets and retreated rapidly into a side chamber. This little army marched off in two files as Raoul de Bragelonne, preceded by Monsieur de Saint-Rémy, entered the refectory. The brief moment of solitude afforded him by the servants’ retreat had given Monseigneur Gaston time to assume an appropriately diplomatic expression. Rather than turn around, he waited for the majordomo to bring the messenger to a position in front of him.
Raoul stopped in the middle of the far side of the table, midway between Monsieur and Madame, where he bowed profoundly to Monsieur, bowed humbly to Madame, and then stood and waited for Monsieur to speak to him first.
The prince, for his part, waited until the outer doors were closed tightly, not turning to look, which would have been beneath him, but listening with both ears until he heard the click of the lock, which promised at least the appearance of privacy. Once the doors were closed, Gaston raised his eyes to the Vicomte de Bragelonne and said, “It seems you come from Paris, Monsieur?”
“This very moment, Monseigneur.”
“How is the king doing?”
“His Majesty is in perfect health, Monseigneur.”
“And my sister-in-law?”9
“Her Majesty the Queen Mother* still suffers from the complaint in her chest but has been somewhat better for the past month.”
“They tell me you come on the behalf of Monsieur le Prince? Surely they were mistaken.”
“No, Monseigneur. Monsieur le Prince has charged me with bringing Your Royal Highness this letter, and I am to await a reply.” His voice trailed off in this final phrase; Raoul had been a little put off by his cold and formal reception.
The prince forgot that he was responsible for the messenger’s confusion and bit his lip anxiously. He took the Prince de Condé’s letter with a haggard look, opened it as he might a suspicious package, and then, to read it without anyone seeing his expression as he did so, turned away.
Madame observed all these maneuvers on the part of her august husband with an anxiety almost the equal of his own. Raoul, impassive and seemingly forgotten by his hosts, looked through the open window at the château garden and its crowded population of statues.
“Ah!” Monsieur said suddenly, with a radiant smile. “A charming letter from Monsieur le Prince, with a pleasant surprise! Here, Madame.”
The table was too long for the prince’s arm to reach the princess’s hand, so Raoul hastened to act as intermediary, passing the letter along with a grace that charmed the princess and won the viscount a flattering thanks.
“You know the contents of this letter, do you not?” said Gaston to Raoul.
“Yes, Monseigneur; Monsieur le Prince gave me the message verbally at first, then upon reflection His Highness took up the plume.”
“It’s beautiful handwriting,” said Madame, “but I can’t make it out.”
“Will you read it to Madame, Monsieur de Bragelonne?” said the prince.
“Yes, Monsieur, please read it.”
Raoul began to read, with Monsieur giving him his full attention. The letter read as follows:
Monseigneur, the king is traveling to the Spanish frontier; from this you will understand that His Majesty’s marriage is to be finalized. The king has done me the honor to appoint me Royal Quartermaster for this journey, and as I know how happy His Majesty would be to spend a day at Blois, I dare to ask Your Royal Highness for permission to include his château on the itinerary.
However, in the unforeseen event that this request might cause Your Royal Highness any inconvenience, I beg you to report it to me by the messenger I have sent, one of my gentlemen named the Vicomte de Bragelonne. My itinerary will depend upon the decision of Your Royal Highness, as we could choose instead to travel by way of Vendôme or Romorantin. I hope that Your Royal Highness will take my request in good part as an expression of my boundless devotion and my desire to please him.
“Why, nothing could be more gracious,” said Madame, after carefully watching her husband’s expression during the reading of this letter. “The king, here!” she exclaimed, perhaps a bit louder than was consistent with the demands of secrecy.
“Monsieur,” said His Highness, “you will thank Monsieur le Prince de Condé and convey my gratitude for the pleasure he gives me.” Raoul bowed. “On what day will His Majesty arrive?” the prince continued.
“The king, Monseigneur, will in all probability arrive tonight.”
“Tonight! But how would he have known it if my answer had been other than positive?”
“I’d been assigned, Monseigneur, to hasten back to Beaugency and give a courier an order to countermand the march, which he would bear to Monsieur le Prince.”
“His Majesty is at Orléans, then?”
“Closer than that, Monseigneur; His Majesty must even now be arriving at Meung.”
“The Court accompanies him?”
“Yes, Monseigneur.”
“By the way, I forgot to ask for news of Monsieur le Cardinal.”
“His Eminence appears to be in good health, Monseigneur.”
“His nieces accompany him, no doubt?”
“No, Monseigneur; His Eminence ordered Mesdemoiselles de Mancini to depart for Brouage. They are following the left bank of the Loire while the Court proceeds along the right bank.”
“What? Mademoiselle Marie de Mancini* has left the Court?” asked Monsieur, whose reserve was beginning to fray.
“Especially Mademoiselle Marie de Mancini,” replied Raoul discreetly.
A fugitive smile, a brief vestige of his old spirit of intrigue, briefly lit the prince’s pale cheeks. “Thank you, Monsieur de Bragelonne,” said Gaston. “If you do not wish to render the prince the commission with which I charge you, which is to tell him that I am very pleased with his messenger, I will do so myself.”
Raoul bowed to thank Monsieur for the honor the prince did him.
Monsieur gestured to Madame, who rang a bell placed to her right. Instantly Monsieur de Saint-Rémy came in and the refectory was suddenly filled with people.
“Messieurs,” said the prince, “His Majesty does me the honor to spend a day at Blois. I trust that my nephew the king will have no cause to regret the favor he shows to this house.”
“Long live the king!” cried every member of Monsieur’s household, Monsieur de Saint-Rémy louder than anyone.
Gaston’s head drooped in sudden sadness; all his life he’d heard, or rather suffered through, shouts of “Long live the king!” cried out for another. For a while he’d been spared that cry, but now a younger, more dynamic, and more brilliant reign had begun, and the painful provocation was renewed.
Madame understood the pain in his sad and fearful heart; she rose from the table and Monsieur imitated her mechanically, while all the servants, like bees buzzing around a hive, surrounded Raoul and plied him with questions.
Madame saw this activity and beckoned to Monsieur de Saint-Rémy. “Now is not the time to talk, but to work,” she said in the tone of an angry housewife.
Saint-Rémy hastened to break up the circle of servants around Raoul so that he could escape to the antechamber. “You will attend to this gentleman’s needs, I hope,” said Madame to Monsieur de Saint-Rémy.
The worthy man immediately ran to catch up with Raoul. “Madame has charged me with seeing to your refreshment,” he said. “I’ll assign a room for you here in the château.”
“Thank you, Monsieur de Saint-Rémy,” replied Bragelonne, “but you know how eagerly I wish to go pay my respects to Monsieur le Comte de La Fère,* my father.”
“Quite so, quite so, Monsieur Raoul, and give him at the same time my most humble regards, I beg you.”
Raoul reassured the old gentleman and went on his way. As he was passing out the gate, leading his horse by the bridle, a soft voice called from the gloom of a shaded path, “Monsieur Raoul!”
The young man turned in surprise and saw a brown-haired young woman who was pressing a finger to her lips and holding out her other hand. This young lady was completely unknown to him.