if I calculate their progress correctly, according to the orders I have given, they will to-morrow be opposite Blois."
These words were pronounced with that tact – that measure, that distinctness of tone, of intention, and reach – which made del Signor Giulio Mazarini the first comedian in the world.
It resulted that they went straight to the heart of Louis XIV., and the cardinal, on turning round at the simple noise of the approaching footsteps of his majesty, saw the immediate effect of them upon the countenance of his pupil, an effect betrayed to the keen eyes of his eminence by a slight increase of color. But what was the ventilation of such a secret to him whose craft had for twenty years deceived all the diplomatists of Europe?
From the moment the young king heard these last words, he appeared as if he had received a poisoned arrow in his heart. He could not remain quiet in a place, but cast around an uncertain, dead, and aimless look over the assembly. He with his eyes interrogated his mother more than twenty times: but she, given up to the pleasure of conversing with her sister-in-law, and likewise constrained by the glance of Mazarin, did not appear to comprehend any of the supplications conveyed by the looks of her son.
From this moment, music, lights, flowers, beauties, all became odious and insipid to Louis XIV. After he had a hundred times bitten his lips, stretched his legs and his arms like a well-brought-up child who, without daring to gape, exhausts all the modes of evincing his weariness – after having uselessly again implored his mother and the minister, he turned a despairing look towards the door, that is to say, towards liberty.
At this door, in the embrasure of which he was leaning, he saw, standing out strongly, a figure with a brown and lofty countenance, an aquiline nose, a stern but brilliant eye, gray and long hair, a black mustache, the true type of military beauty, whose gorget, more sparkling than a mirror, broke all the reflected lights which concentrated upon it, and sent them back as lightning. This officer wore his gray hat with its long red plumes upon his head, a proof that he was called there by his duty, and not by his pleasure. If he had been brought thither by his pleasure – if he had been a courtier instead of a soldier, as pleasure must always be paid for at the same price – he would have held his hat in his hand.
That which proved still better that this officer was upon duty, and was accomplishing a task to which he was accustomed, was, that he watched, with folded arms, remarkable indifference, and supreme apathy, the joys and ennuis of this fete. Above all, he appeared, like a philosopher, and all old soldiers are philosophers, – he appeared above all to comprehend the ennuis infinitely better than the joys; but in the one he took his part, knowing very well how to do without the other.
Now, he was leaning, as we have said, against the carved door-frame when the melancholy, weary eyes of the king, by chance, met his.
It was not the first time, as it appeared, that the eyes of the officer had met those eyes, and he was perfectly acquainted with the expression of them; for, as soon as he had cast his own look upon the countenance of Louis XIV., and had read by it what was passing in his heart – that is to say, all the ennui that oppressed him – all the timid desire to go out which agitated him, – he perceived he must render the king a service without his commanding it, – almost in spite of himself. Boldly, therefore, as if he had given the word of command to cavalry in battle, "On the king's service!" cried he, in a clear, sonorous voice.
At these words, which produced the effect of a peal of thunder, prevailing over the orchestra, the singing and the buzz of the promenaders, the cardinal and the queen-mother looked at each other with surprise.
Louis XIV., pale, but resolved, supported as he was by that intuition of his own thought which he had found in the mind of the officer of musketeers, and which he had just manifested by the order given, arose from his chair, and took a step towards the door.
"Are you going, my son?" said the queen, whilst Mazarin satisfied himself with interrogating by a look which might have appeared mild if it had not been so piercing.
"Yes, madame," replied the king; "I am fatigued, and, besides, wish to write this evening."
A smile stole over the lips of the minister, who appeared, by a bend of the head, to give the king permission.
Monsieur and Madame hastened to give orders to the officers who presented themselves.
The king bowed, crossed the hall, and gained the door, where a hedge of twenty musketeers awaited him. At the extremity of this hedge stood the officer, impassible, with his drawn sword in his hand. The king passed, and all the crowd stood on tip-toe, to have one more look at him.
Ten musketeers, opening the crowd of the ante-chambers and the steps, made way for his majesty. The other ten surrounded the king and Monsieur, who had insisted upon accompanying his majesty. The domestics walked behind. This little cortege escorted the king to the chamber destined for him. The apartment was the same that had been occupied by Henry III. during his sojourn in the States.
Monsieur had given his orders. The musketeers, led by their officer, took possession of the little passage by which one wing of the castle communicates with the other. This passage was commenced by a small square ante-chamber, dark even in the finest days. Monsieur stopped Louis XIV.
"You are passing now, sire," said he, "the very spot where the Duc de Guise received the first stab of the poniard."
The king was ignorant of all historical matters; he had heard of the fact, but he knew nothing of the localities or the details.
"Ah!" said he with a shudder.
And he stopped. The rest, both behind and before him, stopped likewise.
"The duc, sire," continued Gaston, "was nearly where I stand: he was walking in the same direction as your majesty; M. de Lorgnes was exactly where your lieutenant of musketeers is; M. de Saint-Maline and his majesty's ordinaries were behind him and around him. It was here that he was struck."
The king turned towards his officer, and saw something like a cloud pass over his martial and daring countenance.
"Yes, from behind!" murmured the lieutenant, with a gesture of supreme disdain. And he endeavored to resume the march, as if ill at ease at being between walls formerly defiled by treachery.
But the king, who appeared to wish to be informed, was disposed to give another look at this dismal spot.
Gaston perceived his nephew's desire.
"Look, sire," said he, taking a flambeau from the hands of M. de Saint-Remy, "this is where he fell. There was a bed there, the curtains of which he tore with catching at them."
"Why does the floor seem hollowed out at this spot?" asked Louis.
"Because it was here the blood flowed," replied Gaston; "the blood penetrated deeply into the oak, and it was only by cutting it out that they succeeded in making it disappear. And even then," added Gaston, pointing the flambeau to the spot, "even then this red stain resisted all the attempts made to destroy it."
Louis XIV. raised his head. Perhaps he was thinking of that bloody trace that had once been shown him at the Louvre, and which, as a pendant to that of Blois, had been made there one day by the king his father with the blood of Concini.
"Let us go on," said he.
The march was resumed promptly, for emotion, no doubt, had given to the voice of the young prince a tone of command which was not customary with him. When arrived at the apartment destined for the king, which communicated not only with the little passage we have passed through, but further with the great staircase leading to the court, —
"Will
