Alexandre Dumas - The D'Artagnan Romances - Complete Series (All 6 Books in One Edition)

“You hear, madame,” said the king, who enjoyed the embarrassment to its full extent, but without guessing the cause. “You hear, madame?”

“Yes, sire, I hear,” stammered the queen.

“You will appear at this ball?”

“Yes.”

“With those studs?”

“Yes.”

The queen’s paleness, if possible, increased; the king perceived it, and enjoyed it with that cold cruelty which was one of the worst sides of his character.

“Then that is agreed,” said the king, “and that is all I had to say to you.”

“But on what day will this ball take place?” asked Anne of Austria.

Louis XIII felt instinctively that he ought not to reply to this question, the queen having put it in an almost dying voice.

“Oh, very shortly, madame,” said he; “but I do not precisely recollect the date of the day. I will ask the cardinal.”

“It was the cardinal, then, who informed you of this fete?”

“Yes, madame,” replied the astonished king; “but why do you ask that?”

“It was he who told you to invite me to appear with these studs?”

“That is to say, madame—”

“It was he, sire, it was he!”

“Well, and what does it signify whether it was he or I? Is there any crime in this request?”

“No, sire.”

“Then you will appear?”

“Yes, sire.”

“That is well,” said the king, retiring, “that is well; I count upon it.”

The queen made a curtsy, less from etiquette than because her knees were sinking under her. The king went away enchanted.

“I am lost,” murmured the queen, “lost!—for the cardinal knows all, and it is he who urges on the king, who as yet knows nothing but will soon know everything. I am lost! My God, my God, my God!”

She knelt upon a cushion and prayed, with her head buried between her palpitating arms.

In fact, her position was terrible. Buckingham had returned to London; Mme. Chevreuse was at Tours. More closely watched than ever, the queen felt certain, without knowing how to tell which, that one of her women had betrayed her. Laporte could not leave the Louvre; she had not a soul in the world in whom she could confide. Thus, while contemplating the misfortune which threatened her and the abandonment in which she was left, she broke out into sobs and tears.

“Can I be of service to your Majesty?” said all at once a voice full of sweetness and pity.

The queen turned sharply round, for there could be no deception in the expression of that voice; it was a friend who spoke thus.

In fact, at one of the doors which opened into the queen’s apartment appeared the pretty Mme. Bonacieux. She had been engaged in arranging the dresses and linen in a closet when the king entered; she could not get out and had heard all.

The queen uttered a piercing cry at finding herself surprised—for in her trouble she did not at first recognize the young woman who had been given to her by Laporte.

“Oh, fear nothing, madame!” said the young woman, clasping her hands and weeping herself at the queen’s sorrows; “I am your Majesty’s, body and soul, and however far I may be from you, however inferior may be my position, I believe I have discovered a means of extricating your Majesty from your trouble.”

“You, oh, heaven, you!” cried the queen; “but look me in the face. I am betrayed on all sides. Can I trust in you?”

“Oh, madame!” cried the young woman, falling on her knees; “upon my soul, I am ready to die for your Majesty!”

This expression sprang from the very bottom of the heart, and, like the first, there was no mistaking it.

“Yes,” continued Mme. Bonacieux, “yes, there are traitors here; but by the holy name of the Virgin, I swear that no one is more devoted to your Majesty than I am. Those studs which the king speaks of, you gave them to the Duke of Buckingham, did you not? Those studs were enclosed in a little rosewood box which he held under his arm? Am I deceived? Is it not so, madame?”

“Oh, my God, my God!” murmured the queen, whose teeth chattered with fright.

“Well, those studs,” continued Mme. Bonacieux, “we must have them back again.”

“Yes, without doubt, it is necessary,” cried the queen; “but how am I to act? How can it be effected?”

“Someone must be sent to the duke.”

“But who, who? In whom can I trust?”

“Place confidence in me, madame; do me that honor, my queen, and I will find a messenger.”

“But I must write.”

“Oh, yes; that is indispensable. Two words from the hand of your Majesty and your private seal.”

“But these two words would bring about my condemnation, divorce, exile!”

“Yes, if they fell into infamous hands. But I will answer for these two words being delivered to their address.”

“Oh, my God! I must then place my life, my honor, my reputation, in your hands?”

“Yes, yes, madame, you must; and I will save them all.”

“But how? Tell me at least the means.”

“My husband had been at liberty these two or three days. I have not yet had time to see him again. He is a worthy, honest man who entertains neither love nor hatred for anybody. He will do anything I wish. He will set out upon receiving an order from me, without knowing what he carries, and he will carry your Majesty’s letter, without even knowing it is from your Majesty, to the address which is on it.”

The queen took the two hands of the young woman with a burst of emotion, gazed at her as if to read her very heart, and seeing nothing but sincerity in her beautiful eyes, embraced her tenderly.

“Do that,” cried she, “and you will have saved my life, you will have saved my honor!”

“Do not exaggerate the service I have the happiness to render your Majesty. I have nothing to save for your Majesty; you are only the victim of perfidious plots.”

“That is true, that is true, my child,” said the queen, “you are right.”

“Give me then, that letter, madame; time presses.”

The queen ran to a little table, on which were ink, paper, and pens. She wrote two lines, sealed the letter with her private seal, and gave it to Mme. Bonacieux.

“And now,” said the queen, “we are forgetting one very necessary thing.”

“What is that, madame?”

“Money.”

Mme. Bonacieux blushed.

“Yes, that is true,” said she, “and I will confess to your Majesty that my husband—”

“Your husband has none. Is that what you would say?”

“He has some, but he is very avaricious; that is his fault. Nevertheless, let not your Majesty be uneasy, we will find means.”

“And I have none, either,” said the queen. Those who have read the MEMOIRS of Mme. de Motteville will not be astonished at this reply. “But wait a minute.”

Anne of Austria ran to her jewel case.

“Here,” said she, “here is a ring of great value, as I have been assured. It came from my brother, the King of Spain. It is mine, and I am at liberty to dispose of it. Take this ring; raise money with it, and let your husband set out.”

“In an hour you shall be obeyed.”

“You see the address,” said the queen, speaking so low that Mme. Bonacieux could hardly hear what she said, “To my Lord Duke of Buckingham, London.”

“The letter shall be given to himself.”

“Generous girl!” cried Anne of Austria.

Mme. Bonacieux kissed the hands of the queen, concealed the paper in the bosom of her dress, and disappeared with the lightness of a bird.

Ten minutes afterward she was at home. As she told the queen, she had not seen her husband since his liberation; she was ignorant of the change that had taken place in him with respect to the cardinal—a change which had since been strengthened by two or three visits from the Comte de Rochefort, who had become the best friend of Bonacieux, and had persuaded him, without much trouble, was putting his house in order, the furniture of which he had found mostly broken and his closets nearly empty—justice not being one of the three things which King Solomon names as leaving no traces of their passage. As to the servant, she had run away at the moment of her master’s arrest. Terror had had such an effect upon the poor girl that she had never ceased walking from Paris till she reached Burgundy, her native place.