‘Since you don’t want to give me your hand, you should a least give me a piece of thread, because I’m in a real labyrinth here.’
He walked forward, arms outstretched, in the direction from which he had heard the voice, but he saw what seemed like a shadow flitting by him and caught a scent wafting past. He closed his arms, but like Virgil’s Orpheus, he embraced only air.57
‘There, there!’ said the viscount from the far end of the room. ‘You are right next to your bed, Baron.’
‘Which of them is mine?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I shall not be going to bed.’
‘What! Not go to bed!’ said Canolles, turning round at this unwise remark. ‘So what will you do?’
‘I’ll spend the night on a chair.’
‘Now, now!’ said Canolles. ‘I really will not put up with such childishness. Come on, Viscount!’
Guided by a last ray of light bursting from the hearth, then dying, he glimpsed the viscount pressed into a corner between the window and the chest of drawers, wrapped in his cloak.
The ray of light was no more than a flash, but it was enough to guide the baron and to convince the viscount that he was done for. Canolles walked straight forward with his arms outstretched, and, although the room was once more in darkness, the poor young man realized that this time he would not escape his pursuer.
‘Baron! Baron!’ the viscount stammered. ‘Don’t come forward, I beg you. Baron, stay just where you are. Not another step, if you are a gentleman.’
Canolles stopped. The viscount was so close to him that he could hear his heart beat and feel the warmth of his panting breath. At the same time, a delicious, intoxicating scent, made up of all the emanations of youth and beauty, a scent a thousand times sweeter than that of flowers, seemed to enfold him, denying him any possibility of obeying the viscount, even if he had wished to.
Nonetheless, he remained for a moment where he was, with his hands reaching out towards those hands that were trying to repel him in advance, and feeling that he had only to make one more movement to touch this delightful body, whose suppleness he had so many times admired in the past two days.
‘Mercy, mercy,’ the viscount murmured, in a voice in which a hint of desire was starting to mingle with terror. ‘Mercy!’ And the word expired on his lips as Canolles heard the charming body slip down the panelling and fall on its knees.
He took a deep breath. There was something in the imploring voice that told him his adversary was already half overcome.
So he took another step forward, reached out his hands and found those of the young man, clasped in entreaty, as this time, no longer having even the strength to utter a cry, he let out an almost painful sigh.
Suddenly, outside the window, they heard the galloping of a horse and an urgent knocking on the door of the inn. These knocks were followed by cries and other noises. Knocks and calls alternated.
‘The Baron de Canolles!’ a voice cried.
‘Oh, God, thank you, I am saved!’ said the viscount.
‘Damn the creature!’ said Canolles. ‘Couldn’t he have come tomorrow morning?’
‘Baron de Canolles!’ cried the voice. ‘The Baron de Canolles! I must speak to him this very moment.’
‘Now, then, what is it?’ the baron asked, taking a step backwards.
‘Sir, sir,’ Castorin said at the door. ‘Someone is asking for you, someone looking for you.’
‘But who is it, you vagabond?’
‘A courier.’
‘From whom?’
‘From the Duke d’Epernon.’
‘And what does he want with me?’
‘On the king’s service.’
At this magic word that had to be obeyed, Canolles, cursing all the while, opened the door and went downstairs.
Pompée could be heard snoring.
The courier had come in and was waiting in a low-ceilinged room. Canolles went to find him and read Nanon’s letter with the colour draining from his face – because, as the reader has already guessed, the courier was Courtauvaux himself, who, leaving ten hours after Canolles, despite his haste, had only managed to catch him up on the second stage of his journey.
A few questions to Courtauvaux left Canolles in no doubt about the need for haste. He reread the letter and the words ‘Your good sister, Nanon’ told him what had happened – that is to say, that Mademoiselle de Lartigues had got out of a difficult situation by pretending that he was her brother.
Many times, Canolles had heard Nanon herself speak, in quite unflattering terms, about the brother whose place he had taken. This added not a little to the reluctance with which he obeyed the duke’s message.
‘Very well,’ he said to Courtauvaux, without offering him credit in the hotel and without emptying his purse into his hand, as he would certainly have done on any other occasion. ‘Very well, tell your master that you caught me up, and I obeyed at once.’
‘And shall I say nothing to Mademoiselle de Lartigues?’
‘Yes, do. Tell her that her brother appreciates the feelings that have made her act in this way and is much obliged to her. Castorin, saddle up the horses!’
And, without saying anything more to the messenger, who was quite amazed at this rough reception, Canolles went back upstairs to the viscount, whom he found pale, trembling and once again dressed. Two candles were burning on the mantelpiece.
Canolles gave a look of profound regret at the alcove and, above all, at the two twin beds, one of which bore the signs of a light, brief pressure on it. The young man followed this look with a feeling of modesty that brought a blush to his cheek.
‘Be of good cheer, Viscount,’ said Canolles. ‘You are rid of me for the whole of the rest of your journey. I am leaving on a mission for the king.’
‘When?’ the viscount asked, in a voice that was still anxious.
‘This very instant: I’m going to Mantes, where the court is, apparently.’
‘Farewell, Monsieur,’ the young man barely managed to say, slumping down into a chair without daring to raise his eyes to his companion.
Canolles took a step towards him.
‘Doubtless, I shall not see you again,’ he said, with a voice full of emotion.
‘Who knows?’ the viscount said, trying to smile.
‘Promise one thing to a man who will keep the memory of you for ever,’ Canolles said, putting a hand on his heart, with a harmony of voice and gesture that left no doubt as to his sincerity.
‘What is that?’
‘That you will think of him sometimes.’
‘I promise.’
‘Without… anger…’
‘Yes.’
‘And your hand on that promise?’ said Canolles.
The viscount held out a hand.
Canolles took the trembling hand with no other intention than to clasp it in his own. But, responding to an irrepressible urge, he pressed it ardently to his lips and fled from the room, muttering: ‘Oh, Nanon, Nanon! Can you ever recompense me for what I am losing because of you?’
XII
If we now follow the princesses of the house of Condé to that exile in Chantilly, which Richon described to the viscount as so terrible, this is what we shall see.
Beneath the lovely walks of chestnut trees, sprinkled with a snow of flowers, and on those grassy lawns that extend down to the blue ponds, there is a constant swarm of people walking, laughing, conversing and singing. Here and there, amid the long grass, a few faces of people with books appear surrounded by waves of greenery, in which one can only distinguish the white page that they are eagerly reading, which belongs either to Monsieur de la Calprenède’s Cléopâtre, or to Monsieur d’Urfé’s L’Astré e or to Mademoiselle de Scudéry’s Grand Cyrus.58 From the depths of the bowers of honeysuckle and clematis, come the sounds of lutes being tuned and the voices of invisible singers. Finally, along the great avenue that leads to the château, from time to time a rider bearing an order flashes by with the speed of a lightning bol
t.
Throughout this time, on the terrace, three women, dressed in satin and followed at a distance by silent, respectful lackeys, are walking, gravely making ceremonious gestures, full of majesty. In the middle is a lady of noble bearing, despite her fifty-seven years, authoritatively discursing on the affairs of state. To her right a young woman, stiffly dressed in dark clothes, is listening with raised eyebrow to her companion’s learned theory, while finally on the left is another old lady, the stiffest and most strait-laced of all three because she is of less noble lineage, who is speaking, listening and meditating all at once.
The lady in the centre is the Dowager Princess, mother of the victor of Rocroi, Norlingen and Lens, the man whom, since he has been persecuted and this persecution has led him to Vincennes, people have started to call the Great Condé,59 the name that posterity will retain for him. This lady, on whose features one can still perceive the remains of the beauty that made her the last and perhaps most passionate love of King Henri IV, has just been wounded in her maternal feelings and in her pride as a princess by a facchino italiano60 who was called Mazarini when he was a servant of Cardinal Bentivoglio, and who is now addressed as His Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin, since he became the lover of Anne of Austria and first minister of the kingdom of France.
He it is, who has dared to imprison Condé and to exile the noble prisoner’s mother and wife to Chantilly.
The lady on the right is Claire-Clémence de Maillé, Princess de Condé, who, according to an aristocratic custom of the age, is called simply ‘Madame the princess’, to show that the wife of the head of the Condé family is the first princess of the blood, the princess par excellence: she has always been proud, but now that she is being persecuted, her pride has swollen as a result of persecution, and she has become arrogant.
In truth, while she was condemned to play a secondary part as long as her husband was free, his imprisonment has raised her to the status of heroine: she has become more pitiable than a widow, and her son, the Duke d’Enghien, who is coming up to his seventh birthday, is more interesting than an orphan. Eyes are fixed on her, and, were it not for the fear of ridicule, she would dress in mourning. Since Anne of Austria61 imposed exile on these two weeping women, their shrill cries have changed to muted threats: they will change from victims of oppression to rebels. The princess, a Themistocles in a mobcap, has her Miltiades in skirts62 and the laurels of Madame de Longueville, temporarily Queen of Paris, prevent her from sleeping.63
The duenna on the left is the Marquise de Tourville, who does not dare write novels, but composes in politics. She has not made war in person, like brave Pompée, or like him taken a shot wound at the Battle of Corbie, but her husband, who was a reasonably well-esteemed captain, was wounded at La Rochelle and killed at Fribourg. As a result, having inherited his family fortune, she considered herself at the same time heir to his military genius. Since coming to join the princesses in Chantilly, she has already drawn up three plans of campaign that have successively excited the admiration of the women of the court and which have not been abandoned, but adjourned to the moment when the sword will be drawn and the sheath thrown away. She does not dare to put on her husband’s uniform, though she is sometimes tempted to do so, but she keeps his sword hanging in her bedroom above the head of the bed, and from time to time, when she is alone, she takes it out of its sheath in a very martial manner.
So Chantilly, for all its festive air, might as well be nothing more than a vast barracks, and if one were to search hard one would find gunpowder in the cellars and bayonets in the leafy bowers.
The three ladies, in their gloomy walk, are at every turn nearing the main door of the château and seem to be awaiting the arrival of some important messenger. The Dowager Princess has already said several times, shaking her head and sighing: ‘We shall fail, my daughter, we shall be humiliated.’
‘One must pay a little for a great deal of glory,’ said Madame de Tourville, without at all relaxing her stiff posture. ‘And there is no victory without a battle!’
‘If we do fail, if we are defeated,’ said the young princess, ‘we shall have our revenge.’
‘Madame,’ said the Dowager Princess. ‘If we fail, it will be God who has defeated the prince. Do you wish to have revenge on God?’
The young princess bowed before her mother-in-law’s sublime humility, and the three figures, saluting one another in this way amid a haze of mutual flattery, looked rather like a bishop accompanied by two deacons with censers, using God as the pretext for the homage that they each paid to the others.
‘No Monsieur de Turenne, no Monsieur de La Rochefoucauld, no Monsieur de Bouillon!’ the dowager muttered. ‘Everyone is missing at once.’
‘And no money!’ added Madame de Tourville.
‘Who can we count on, if Claire herself has forgotten us?’ asked Madame the princess.
‘Who told you that Madame de Cambes has forgotten us, Daughter?’
‘She is not coming back.’
‘Perhaps she cannot come. The roads, as you know, are guarded by Monsieur de Saint-Aignan64 and his army.’
‘She might at least write.’
‘How do you expect her to entrust such an important reply to paper? The rallying of a whole town like Bordeaux to the princes’ side. No, that’s not what is worrying me.’
‘In any case,’ Madame de Tourville continued, ‘one of the three plans I had the honour to submit to Your Highness had as its essential aim an uprising in Guyenne.’
‘Yes, yes, and we shall adopt it if necessary,’ replied Madame the princess. ‘But I am inclined to share the opinion of my mother, and I am starting to think that Claire has met with some misfortune; otherwise, she would be here already. Perhaps her tenants have let her down; a peasant always seizes the opportunity not to pay his taxes when he can get out of it. And can we tell what the people of Guyenne may or may not have done, for all their promises? Those Gascons!’
‘Chatterboxes!’ said Madame de Tourville. ‘Individually brave, I grant you, but poor soldiers in the mass. Good for shouting: “Long live the prince!” when they are scared of the Spaniards, that’s all.’
‘However, they loathed Monsieur d’Epernon,’ said the Dowager Princess. ‘They hanged him in effigy in Agen and promised to hang him in person in Bordeaux if he ever went back there.’
‘Had he gone back, they are the ones he would have hanged,’ said the princess, contemptuously.
‘And all this,’ Madame de Tourville went on, ‘is the fault of Monsieur Lenet… Of Monsieur Pierre Lenet,’65 she said, affectedly. ‘That stubborn counsellor, whom you insist on keeping and who is only good for undermining whatever we do. If he had not rejected my second plan, which, as you will remember, had as its aim a surprise capture of the Château de Vayres, the Ile Saint-Georges and the fort at Blaye, we should by now have Bordeaux under seige and eventually the town would have to capitulate.’
‘I should prefer, if Their Highnesses are of that mind, that it should come over to us of its own free will,’ said a voice behind Madame de Tourville, in a tone that, while respectful, was not without a hint of irony. ‘A town that capitulates gives in to force and commits itself to nothing. A town which hands itself over, compromises itself and is obliged to follow those to whom it has given itself right to the end.’
The three ladies turned round and saw Pierre Lenet. While they were on one of their movements towards the main door of the château, towards which their eyes constantly turned, he had emerged from a little door opening directly on to the terrace and had approached them from behind.
What Madame de Tourville had said was true in part. Pierre Lenet, counsellor to the Prince de Condé, was a cold, learned and solemn man, who had been entrusted by the prisoner with the mission of keeping watch on both his friends and his enemies, and it must be said that he had far more trouble in preventing the prince’s friends from compromising his cause than in combating the hostile designs of his enemies. But, being as wily and as clever
as a lawyer, accustomed to the petty squabbles and ruses of the court, he usually had his way, either by some fortunate piece of countermining or by some unshakeable inertia. Moreover, it was in Chantilly itself that he fought his most cunning battles. Madame de Tourville’s vanity, the princess’s impatience and the aristocratic inflexibility of the dowager were easily matched by the wit of Mazarin, the pride of Anne of Austria and the vacillations of Parliament.
Lenet, entrusted with correspondance by the princes, had made it a rule not to give news to the princesses until it was necessary to do so and elected himself judge of this necessity – because, since feminine diplomacy does not always proceed through mystification, which is the first principle of masculine diplomacy, several of Lenet’s plans had thus been communicated by his friends to his enemies.
The two princesses, who, despite the opposition they met with in Lenet, nonetheless recognized his devotion and above all his usefulness, welcomed the counsellor with a friendly gesture, and a hint of a smile even appeared on the lips of the dowager.
‘Well, my dear Lenet, you heard,’ she said. ‘Madame de Tourville was bemoaning her fate, or rather our fate. Ah, my dear Lenet, our affairs! Our affairs!’
‘Madame,’ Lenet said, ‘I do not see things in nearly as black a light as Your Highness. I am expecting a lot from time and the reversals of fortune. You know the proverb: “Everything comes to those who wait.” ’
‘Time! Reversals of fortune! All that’s philosophy, Monsieur Lenet, not politics,’ the princess exclaimed.
It was Lenet’s turn to smile.
‘Philosophy is useful in everything, Madame, especially in politics. It teaches us not to become arrogant in success and not to lose patience in failure.’
‘No matter,’ said Madame de Tourville. ‘I’d prefer a piece of good news to all your maxims. Isn’t that so, Princess?’
‘I admit it is,’ said Madame de Condé.
‘Your Highness will be happy, then, because you will receive three such dispatches today,’ Lenet retorted, as calmly as ever.
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