Ten Years Later

by Alexandre Dumas

  Whilst the wax-lights were burning in the castle of Blois, around theinanimate body of Gaston of Orleans, that last representative of thepast; whilst the bourgeois of the city were thinking out his epitaph,which was far from being a panegyric; whilst madame the dowager, nolonger remembering that in her young days she had loved that senselesscorpse to such a degree as to fly the paternal palace for his sake,was making, within twenty paces of the funeral apartment, her littlecalculations of interest and her little sacrifices of pride; otherinterests and other prides were in agitation in all the parts of thecastle into which a living soul could penetrate. Neither the lugubrioussounds of the bells, nor the voices of the chanters, nor the splendor ofthe waxlights through the windows, nor the preparations for the funeral,had power to divert the attention of two persons, placed at a windowof the interior court---a window that we are acquainted with, andwhich lighted a chamber forming part of what were called the littleapartments. For the rest, a joyous beam of the sun, for the sun appearedto care little for the loss France had just suffered; a sunbeam, we say,descended upon them, drawing perfumes from the neighboring flowers, andanimating the walls themselves. These two persons, so occupied, not bythe death of the duke, but by the conversation which was the consequenceof that death, were a young woman and a young man. The latter personage,a man of from twenty-five to twenty-six years of age, with a miensometimes lively and sometimes dull, making good use of two large eyes,shaded with long eye-lashes, was short of stature and swart of skin; hesmiled with an enormous, but well-furnished mouth, and his pointed chin,which appeared to enjoy a mobility nature does not ordinarily grant tothat portion of the countenance, leant from time to time very lovinglytowards his interlocutrix, who, we must say did not always draw back sorapidly as strict propriety had a right to require. The young girl--weknow her, for we have already seen her, at that very same window by thelight of that same sun--the young girl presented a singular mixture ofshyness and reflection; she was charming when she laughed, beautifulwhen she became serious; but, let us hasten to say, she was morefrequently charming than beautiful. These two appeared to have attainedthe culminating point of a discussion--half-bantering, half-serious.

  "Now, Monsieur Malicorne," said the young girl, "does it, at length,please you that we should talk reasonably?"

  "You believe that that is very easy, Mademoiselle Aure," repliedthe young man. "To do what we like, when we can only do what we areable----"

  "Good! there he is bewildered in his phrases."

  "Who, I?"

  "Yes, you quit that lawyer's logic, my dear."

  "Another impossibility. Clerk I am, Mademoiselle de Montalais."

  "Demoiselle I am, Monsieur Malicorne."

  "Alas, I know it well, and you overwhelm me by your rank; so I will sayno more to you."

  "Well, no, I don't overwhelm you; say what you have to tell me--say--it,I insist upon it."

  "Well, I obey you."

  "That is truly fortunate."

  "Monsieur is dead."

  "Ah, peste! there's news! And where do you come from, to be able to tellus that?"

  "I come from Orleans, mademoiselle."

  "And is that all the news you bring?"

  "Ah, no; I am come to tell you that Madame Henrietta of England iscoming to marry the king's brother."

  "Indeed, Malicorne, you are insupportable with your news of the lastcentury. Now, mind, if you persist in this bad habit of laughing atpeople, I will have you turned out."

  "Oh!"

  "Yes; for really you exasperate me."

  "There, there. Patience, mademoiselle."

  "You want to make yourself of consequence; I know well enough why. Go!"

  "Tell me, and I will answer you frankly, yes, if the thing be true."

  "You know that I am anxious to have that commission of lady of honor,which I have been foolish enough to ask of you, and you do not use yourcredit."

  "Who, I?" Malicorne cast down his eyes, joined his hands, and assumedhis sullen air. "And what credit can the poor clerk of a procurer have,pray?"

  "Your father has not twenty thousand livres a year for nothing, M.Malicorne."

  "A provincial fortune, Mademoiselle de Montalais."

  "Your father is not in the secrets of monsieur le prince for nothing."

  "An advantage which is confined to lending monseigneur money."

  "In a word, you are not the most cunning young fellow in the provincefor nothing."

  "You flatter me "

  "Who, I?"

  "Yes, you."

  "How so?"

  "Since I maintain that I have no credit, and you maintain I have."

  "Well, then,--my commission?"

  "Well,--your commission?"

  "Shall I have it, or shall I not?"

  "You shall have it."

  "Ay, but when?"

  "When you like."

  "Where is it, then?"

  "In my pocket."

  "How--in your pocket?"

  "Yes."

  And, with a smile, Malicorne drew from his pocket a letter, upon whichmademoiselle seized as a prey, and which she read eagerly. As she read,her face brightened.

  "Malicorne," cried she, after having read it, "in truth, you are a goodlad."

  "What for, mademoiselle?"

  "Because you might have been paid for this commission, and you havenot." And she burst into a loud laugh, thinking to put the clerk out ofcountenance; but Malicorne sustained the attack bravely.

  "I do not understand you," said he. It was now Montalais who wasdisconcerted in her turn. "I have declared my sentiments to you,"continued Malicorne. "You have told me three times, laughing all thewhile, that you did not love me; you have embraced me once withoutlaughing, and that is all I want."

  "All?" said the proud and coquettish Montalais, in a tone through whichwounded pride was visible.

  "Absolutely all, mademoiselle," replied Malicorne.

  "Ah!"--And this monosyllable indicated as much anger as the young manmight have expected gratitude. He shook his head quietly.

  "Listen, Montalais," said he, without heeding whether that familiaritypleased his mistress or not; "let us not dispute about it."

  "And why not?"

  "Because during the year which I have known you, you might have had meturned out of doors twenty times if I did not please you."

  "Indeed; and on what account should I have had you turned out?"

  "Because I had been sufficiently impertinent for that."

  "Oh, that,--yes, that's true."

  "You see plainly that you are forced to avow it," said Malicorne.

  "Monsieur Malicorne!"

  "Don't let us be angry; if you have retained me, then it has not beenwithout cause."

  "It is not, at least, because I love you," cried Montalais.

  "Granted. I will even say that, at this moment, I am certain that youhate me."

  "Oh, you have never spoken so truly."

  "Well, on my part I detest you."

  "Ah! I take the act."

  "Take it. You find me brutal and foolish; on my part I find you have aharsh voice, and your face is too often distorted with anger. At thismoment you would allow yourself to be thrown out of that window ratherthan allow me to kiss the tip of your finger; I would precipitate myselffrom the top of the balcony rather than touch the hem of your robe. But,in five minutes, you will love me, and I shall adore you. Oh, it is justso."

  "I doubt it."

  "And I swear it."

  "Coxcomb!"

  "And then, that is not the true reason. You stand in need of me, Aure,and I of you. When it pleases you to be gay, I make you laugh; when itsuits me to be loving, I look at you. I have given you a commissionof lady of honor which you wished for; you will give me, presently,something I wish for."

  "I will?"

  "Yes, you will; but, at this moment, my dear Aure, I declare to you thatI wish for absolutely nothing, so be at ease."

  "You are a frightful man, Malicorne; I was going t
o rejoice at gettingthis commission, and thus you quench my joy."

  "Good; there is no time lost,--you will rejoice when I am gone."

  "Go, then; and after----"

  "So be it; but in the first place, a piece of advice."

  "What is it?"

  "Resume your good-humor,--you are ugly when you pout."

  "Coarse!"

  "Come, let us tell the truth to each other, while we are about it."

  "Oh, Malicorne! Bad-hearted man!"

  "Oh, Montalais! Ungrateful girl!"

  The young man leant with his elbow upon the window-frame; Montalaistook a book and opened it. Malicorne stood up, brushed his hat with hissleeve; smoothed down his black doublet,--Montalais, though pretendingto read, looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

  "Good!" cried she, furious, "he has assumed his respectful air--and hewill pout for a week."

  "A fortnight, mademoiselle," said Malicorne, bowing.

  Montalais lifted up her little doubled fist. "Monster!" said she; "oh!that I were a man!"

  "What would you do to me?"

  "I would strangle you."

  "Ah! very well, then," said Malicorne; "I believe I begin to desiresomething."

  "And what do you desire, Monsieur Demon? That I should lose my soul fromanger?"

  Malicorne was rolling his hat respectfully between his fingers; but, allat once, he let fall his hat, seized the young girl by the shoulders,pulled her towards him and sealed her mouth with two lips that werevery warm, for a man pretending to so much indifference. Aure would havecried out, but the cry was stifled in the kiss. Nervous and, apparently,angry, the young girl pushed Malicorne against the wall.

  "Good!" said Malicorne, philosophically, "that's enough for six weeks.Adieu, mademoiselle, accept my very humble salutation." And he madethree steps towards the door.

  "Well! no,--you shall not go!" cried, Montalais, stamping with herlittle foot. "Stay where you are! I order you!"

  "You order me?"

  "Yes; am I not mistress?"

  "Of my heart and soul, without doubt."

  "A pretty property! ma foi! The soul is silly and the heart dry."

  "Beware, Montalais, I know you," said Malicorne; "you are going to fallin love with your humble servant."

  "Well, yes!" said she, hanging round his neck with childish indolence,rather than with loving abandonment. "Well, yes! for I must thank you atleast."

  "And for what?"

  "For the commission, is it not my whole future?"

  "And mine."

  Montalais looked at him.

  "It is frightful," said she, "that one can never guess whether you arespeaking seriously or not."

  "I cannot speak more seriously. I was going to Paris,--you are goingthere,--we are going there."

  "And so it was for that motive only you have served me, selfish fellow!"

  "What would you have me say, Aure? I cannot live without you."

  "Well! in truth, it is just so with me; you are, nevertheless, it mustbe confessed, a very bad-hearted young man."

  "Aure, my dear Aure, take care! if you take to calling names again, youknow the effect they produce upon me, and I shall adore you." And sosaying, Malicorne drew the young girl a second time towards him. But atthat instant a step resounded on the staircase. The young people were soclose, that they would have been surprised in the arms of each other, ifMontalais had not violently pushed Malicorne, with his back againstthe door, just then opening. A loud cry, followed by angry reproaches,immediately resounded. It was Madame de Saint-Remy who uttered the cryand the angry words. The unlucky Malicorne almost crushed her betweenthe wall and the door she was coming in at.

  "It is again that good-for-nothing!" cried the old lady. "Always here!"

  "Ah, madame!" replied Malicorne, in a respectful tone; "it is eight longdays since I was here."

  CHAPTER 78. In which we at length see the true Heroine of this Historyappear