Angelique Part 1. Marquise of the Angels Chapter 9
Angelique - Part 1. Marquise of the Angels Chapter 9 - Read online
AN UNBEARABLE PAIN CONSTRICTED HER THROAT. She walked
away again and went out into the park, where the blue dusk was falling. The
violins and guitar could still be heard in the reception rooms, but rows of
lackeys were bringing out candelabra. Others, mounted on step- ladders, were
lighting tapers placed in brackets on the walls, in front of mirrors that
reflected their light.
‘When I think,* mused Angelique, slowly strolling through the avenues, ‘that my father had qualms about a few mules that Molints wanted to sell to Spain! Treason . . . ? A matter of complete in¬difference to all these Princes, though they live entirely of f the monarchy. Can they really be thinking of fighting the King?*
She had walked right round the castle and found herself at the base of the wall which she had so of ten climbed in the old days to steal a glance at the treasures in die enchanted room. This part was deserted, for the couples who did not shun the chilly evening mist preferred to remain on the lawn in front of the chiteau.
Instinct made her slip of f her shoes and, despite her long dress, she hoisted herself nimbly to the cornice of the upper storey. The night was black nofa. No one passing by could have seen her there, snuggled against the shadow of a small turret.
The window was open. Angelique bent forward. She guessed that the room was inhabited, for a small oil-lamp was shedding a golden glow, which only enhanced the glamour of the beautiful furniture and tapestries. She could see, shining like snowy crystals, the mother-of-pearl insets on the small ebony chest-of-drawers.
Suddenly, as she was gazing at the tall damask bed, Angelique had the impression that the painting of the god and goddess had come to life. Two naked white bodies were clasped amid disarrayed sheets whose lace borders were dragging on the ground. They were so closely mingled that at first she thought they were struggling adolescents, page-boys rather shamelessly tussling, before she made out that they were a man and a woman.
The brown tousled mane of the masculine partner almost entirely covered the face of the woman, whom his long body seemed to want to crush completely. Of the woman, Angelique could only make out certain details that melted into the shadows: a well-shaped leg raised against the virile body, a breast surging from beneath the arms that enveloped her, a frail white hand.
Angelique felt shaken, almost nauseated, and yet dimly wonder-struck, too. After having so of ten contemplated the picture of Olympus, savoured its freshness and its majestic impulse, she was finally left with an impression of beauty by this scene whose meaning she had grasped, with her peasant-girl intuition.
‘So this is love!’ she told herself, as a shudder of fright and pleasure coursed through her.
At last the two lovers unclasped. They were now resting side by side, like recumbent tombstone figures in the darkness of a crypt. Their breathing came slower in a felicity close to slumber. Neither of them spoke. The woman was die first to move. Stretching out her snow- white arm, she reached for the table near the bed, on which a flask shone ruby-like with a dark wine. She gave a contrite litde laugh.
“Oh, darling, I’m shattered,” she murmured. “We simply must taste this Roussillon wine which your thoughtful valet put here. Would you like a cup?”
The man answered from the depth of the alcove with a mutter that could be taken for assent.
The lady, who seemed to have recovered her strength, filled two glasses, held one out to her lover, while emptying the other with avid delight. Angllique suddenly thought that sheovould have liked to be in that bed, perfecdy naked and relaxed, savouring the sunny wine of the south.
‘So that is the Prince’s caudle/ she thought.
She was not aware of her uncomfortable position. She could now see the woman entirely, admire her perfect round breasts set of f by ruby tips, her supple belly, the long legs which she had crossed.
There was fruit on a tray. The woman chose a peach and bit into it lustily.
“A plague on all importunates!” the man cried suddenly, leaping over his mistress to the foot of the bed.
Angelique, who had not heard the knocking at the door, thought she had been discovered and shrank back against the turret, more dead than alive.
When she looked again, she saw that the god had draped himself in a voluminous brown dressing-gown tied with a silver sash. His face, that of a young man in his thirties, was less handsome than his body, for he had a long nose and his hard, though flashing, eyes made him look rather like a bird of prey.
“I am with the Duchesse de Beaufort!” he cried, turning towards the door.
Despite this warning, a valet appeared on the threshold.
“If Your Highness will pardon me. A monk has just presented himself at the gate and insists on being received by Monsieur de Conde. The Marquis du Plessis thought it advisable to send him straight to Your Highness.”
“Let him enter!” muttered the Prince after a moment’s silence.
He went to the ebony bureau by the window and opened a few drawers.
From the back of the room a lackey introduced another person, a cowled monk, who approached while bowing several times with remark¬able ease. When he straightened up, he revealed a swarthy face in which gleamed deep, languorous, black eyes.
The arrival of the ecclesiastic did not seem to trouble the woman on the bed in the least. She continued munching the succulent fruit with perfect unconcern. She had merely thrown a shawl over the top of her legs. ,
The brown-haired man, bent over the bureau, pulled from it some large, red-sealed envelopes.
“Father,” he said without turning round, “did Monsieur Fouquet send you?”
“He did indeed, Monseigneur.”
The monk added a sentence m a melodious tongue that Angelique supposed to be Italian. When he expressed himself in French, his accent was rather lisping and had a childlike quality that was not devoid of charm.
“There was no need to repeat the password, Signor Exili,” said the Prince de Conde. “I would have recognised you from the description I have of you and from the blue mark you have in the comer of your eye. So you are Europe’s most skilful artist in the difficult and subtle science of poisons?”
“Your Highness does me too much honour. I have only perfected certain recipes handed down by my Florentine ancestors.”
“The people of Italy are artists in all spheres,” cried Conde.
He burst into a loud, neighing laugh, then his features abruptly resumed their harsh expression.
“You’ve got the thing?”
“Here it is.”
The Capuchin extracted a carved casket from his wide sleeve. He opened it himself by pressing on one of the precious wood mouldings.
“You see, Monseigneur, all that’s needed is to insert the nail at the nape of this charming figure who carries a dove on his fist.”
The lid had sprung open. On a satin cushion gleamed a glass phial filled with an emerald-coloured fluid. The Prince de Conde picked up the flask cautiously and raised it to the light.
“Roman vitriol,” said Father Exili gently. “It is a composition that acts slowly but surely. I prefer it to corrosive sublimate, which can provoke death within a few hours. From the indications Monsieur Fouquet gave me, I thought I gathered that you yourself, Monseigneur, as well as your friends, did not care for too precise suspicions to be aroused in the en¬tourage of the person concerned. The person will feel a certain languor, resist a week perhaps, but death will have the natural appearance of a bowel-fever caused by gamey venison or not quite fresh food. It would be wise to see to it that the person is served with mussels, oysters or other shellfish which sometimes produce dangerous effects. To put the blame for such a sudden demise on them would be child’s play.”
“I thank you for your excellent advice, Father.”
Cond6 was still staring at the pale green phial, and there was a gleam of hatred in his eyes. Angflique felt acutely disappointed by it: the god of love, in coming down to earth, had lost his beauty and now frightened her.
“Be careful, Monseigneur,9’ continued Father Exili, “this poison must be handled with infinite precaution. To compound it, I am myself obliged to wear a glass mask. A drop falling on your skin could produce a gnawing disease which would not spend its power before it had devoured one of your limbs. If you are not able to pour this medicine yourself into the person’s plate, do recommend to the valet charged with the task to use the utmost skill and precision.”
“My valet who ushered you in is wholly trustworthy. Luckily, the person concerned does not know him. I think it will be easy to place him at his side.”
The Prince cast a mocking glance down at the monk, from his great height.
“I presume that a life devoted to such an art has not made you over-scrupulous, Signor Exili. Still, what would you say if I confided to you that this poison was destined for one of your compatriots, an Italian from the Abruzzi?”
A smile widened Exili’s mobile lips. He bowed again.
“My only compatriots are those who appraise my services at their just value, Monseigneur. And at the moment Monsieur Fouquet, of the Paris Parliament, shows himself more generous towards me than a certain Italian from the Abruzzi, whom I also know.”
Conde’s neighing laugh rang out again.
“Bravo, bravissimo, Signor! I like to have people of your sort with me.”
He gendy replaced the phial on its satin cushion. There was a pause. Signor Exili’s eyes rested on his creation with a satisfaction that was not devoid of vanity.
“May I add, Monseigneur, that this liquor has the merit of being odourless and practically tasteless. It does not alter the food it is mixed with. At most, supposing the person pays great attention to what he is eating, he could reproach his cook for having been a little too generous with spices.”
“You are a precious man,” repeated die Prince, who seemed sunk in thought.
He rather nervously picked up the sealed envelopes on the top of the chest-of-drawers.
“This is what I have to hand you to seal the bargain with Monsieur Fouquet. This envelope contains the declaration made by the Marquis d’Hoquincourt. Here are those by Monsieur de Charost, Monjieur du Plessis, Madame du Plessis, Madame de Richeville, the Duchesse de Beau¬fort, Madame de Longueville. As you see, the ladies are not as lazy—or as
squeamish—as the gentlemen. I am still without the letters from Monsieur de Maupeou, the Marquis de Cr£qui and a few others. . . .”
“ And yours, Monseigneur.”
“That's true. Here it is. I was just finishing it and have not yet signed it.”
“Would Your Highness have the extreme kindness to read the text out to me so that I can check the wording point by point? Monsieur Fouquet deems it essential that none of the terms be omitted.”
“As you wish,” said the Prince with an imperceptible shrug.
He took the sheet of paper and read aloud:
“I, Louis II, Prince de Cond6, give my word and assurance to Mon¬seigneur Fouquet never to pledge my loyalty to any other person but to him, to obey no other person without exception, to place at his disposal my strongholds, fortifications and other such whenever he shall so command.
“In assurance whereof I give this note written and signed by my hand, of my own volition even without his solicitation, he in his goodness trusting my word, of which he is assured.
“Executed in Plessis-Belliere this 20th day of September 1649.”
“Sign it, Monseigneur,” said Father Exili, whose eyes glistened in the shadow of his hood.
Quickly, as if in a hurry to have done with, Conde picked up a goose- quill from the bureau and sharpened it. While he initialled his letter, the monk had lit a small silver-gilt stove. Cond6 melted red wax in it and sealed his missive.
“All the other letters are similarly drawn up and signed,” he concluded. “I think your master will be satisfied.”
“You may rest assured, Monseigneur. However, I must not leave this castle without taking with me the other declarations which you pro¬mised.”
“I warrant I shall obtain them for you before tomorrow noon.”
“In that case, I shall stay under this roof till then.”
“Our friend the Marquise du Plessis will see to it that you are made comfortable, Signor. I have informed her of your arrival.”
“Meanwhile, I think it would be prudent to lock these letters up in the casket which I have handed to you. Its opening is invisible and nowhere else would they be so well shielded from indiscreet eyes.”
“You are right, Signor Exili. As I listen to you, I'm beginning to understand that conspiracy, too, is an art, and one that requires practice and experience. I myself am just a warrior and don't conceal the fact.”
“A glorious warrior!” exclaimed the Italian, with a bow.
“You flatter me, Father. Though I confess I’d like to see Monsieur de Mazarin and Her Majesty the Queen share your opinion. However that may be, I believe that military strategy, though coarser and more all¬embracing, still has some kinship with your subtle stratagems. One must always foresee the enemy’s intentions.”
“Monseigneur, you speak as if A^achiavelli himself had been your master.”
“You flatter me,” said the Prince again. But he was visibly pleased. Exili showed him how to raise the satin cushion and slip beneath it the compromising envelopes. Then the casket was placed into the bureau. No sooner had the Italian withdrawn than Ои^ё, like a child, took it out again and opened it.
“Show me,” whispered the woman, holding out her hand.
She had not spoken during the whole interview, and had merely put her rings back on her fingers, one by one. But it was obvious that she had not missed a word of what had been said.
Conde went over to the bed and they both bent their heads over the emerald phial.
“Do you think it is really as terrible as he says?” murmured the Duchesse.
“Fouquet assured me that there is no cleverer apothecary than this Florentine. And, anyway, we must pass through Fouquet. He’s the one who had the idea of the Spanish intervention—in Parliament, last April. An idea that displeased everyone, but it put him in touch with His Most Catholic Majesty. I shall be able to hold my armies only through his good of fices.”
The lady sank back on the pillows.
“So Monsieur de Mazarin is dead!” she said slowly.
“To all intents and purposes, for his life is here within my hands.”
“Don’t they say that the Queen sometimes sups with him whom she loves so passionately?”
“So they say,” said the Prince after a moment’s pause. “But I don’t approve of your plan, my dear. I am thinking of a cleverer and more effective move. What would the Queen Mother be without her sons? . . . There’d be nothing left for the Spanish woman but to withdraw to a convent and weep over them. . . .”
“Poison the King?” said the Duchesse, with a start.
The Prince whinnied merrily. He went back to the bureau and put the casket inside it.
“Just like a woman!” he exclaimed. “The King! You melt with tenderness because he is a handsome boy, stirred by adolescent Emotions, who for some time now at Court has been making eyes at you like a fawning dog. That’s how you see the King.„ For us he is a dangerous obstacle to all our plans. As for his brother* the little Monsieur is a perverse brat who already takes pleasure in dressing up as a girl and letting himself be petted by men. I consider him even less suitable for the throne than your virginal Royalty. No, take my word for it, we’ll have in Monsieur d* Orleans, who believes in austerity as little as his brother Louis XIII believed in it too greatly, a King to our liking. He is rich and has a weak character. What more do we want?
“My dear,” Со^ё went on, after he had locked the bureau and slipped its key into the pocket of his greatcoat, “I think it’s time for us to present ourselves to our hosts. Supper will be announced soon. Do you wish me to call for your chambermaid?”
“I should be obliged, my lord.”
Angelique, whose bones were beginning to ache, had shrunk back a little on the cornice. She thought that her father must be looking for her, but she could not make up her mind to leave her ledge. Inside die room the Prince and his mistress, with the help of their servants, were putting on their finery amid a great rusde of silks and some curses, for Monseigneur was not a patient man.
When Ang61ique looked away from the luminous screen formed by the open window, she saw around her only the opaque night, from which rose the murmur of the near-by forest as it swayed in the autumn wind.
At last the chamber was empty. The night-light still glowed but the room had recaptured its mystery. Very softly, the girl crept close to the window-frame and slipped into the room. The scent of rouge and per¬fumes mingled strangely with the fragrance of the night—damp timber, moss and ripe chestnuts.
Angelique did not know exaedy what she was going to do. Somebody might surprise her. She was not afraid. All this was but a dream. Like the mad lady of Monteloup, like the crimes of Gilles de Retz. . . .
With nimble fingers, she took out of the pocket of the greatcoat, which had been thrown over a chair, the small key to the bureau, opened it, pulled the casket towards her. It was of sandalwood and gave of f a pervasive scent. After locking the bureau again and putting the key in its place, Ang6lique found herself back on the cornice, the casket under her arm. She suddenly felt vasdy amused. She imagined Monsieur de Condi's face on discovering the disappearance of the poison and the compromising letters.
‘Ibis isn’t stealing,’ she told herself, ‘since it’s a matter of preventing a crime.’
She knew already the hiding-place in which she would conceal her theft. The comer turrets with which the Italian architect had adorned the four angles of the graceful Chateau du Plessis were mere ornaments, yet they had been fitted with miniature battlements in imitation of the warlike decorations of medieval castles. These turrets, moreover, were hollow and pierced by small openings.
Angelique slipped the casket inside the one nearest to her. Anyone who would come and search for it there would have to be clever indeed!
Thereupon she slid adroitly down the facade and reached firm ground. Then only did she notice that her bare feet were icy. Putting on her old shoes, she returned to the chateau.
Everyone had gathered in the drawing-rooms. The dark and misty night held no more charm for them. As she came into the hall, Angelique’s nose was pleasantly titillated by the most appetising smells coming from the kitchens. She saw a row of little liveried valets go by, carrying big silver platters. It was a solemn procession of pheasants and woodcock adorned with their own feathers, a sucking-pig crowned with flowers like a bride, several cuts of a very fine doe served on artichoke hearts and sprigs of fennel.
The tinkle of china and crystal-glass came from the halls and galleries where all the company was sitting around small lace-covered tables, some ten people at each.
Angelique stopped on the threshold of the largest room, and saw the Prince de Conde surrounded by Madame du Plessis, the Duchesse de Beaufort and the Comtesse dc Richeville. The Marquis du Plessis and his son Philippe also shared the Prince’s table, as did some other ladies and young lords. The brown frock of the Italian Exili struck a discordant note amid this glittering array of lace and ribbons, precious gold and silvery embroidery. Had the Baron de Sanc£ been present, he would have made a pair with the monk’s austerity. But however carefully she looked around, Angelique could not see her father anywhere.
Suddenly one of the pages, carrying a silver-gilt flagon, recognised her in passing. He was the one who had mocked her most viciously on account of the bounce.
“Oh! the Baroness of the Doleful Dress!” he jeered. “What do you want to drink, Nanon? Apple-wine or good sour milk?”
She stuck out her tongue at him and, leaving him agape, walked up towards the princely table.
“Good Lord, what’s this coming over here?” exclaimed the Duchesse de Beaufort.
Madame du Plessis followed the direction of her glance, saw Angflique and once again called her son to the rescue:
“Philippe! Philippe! Be good enough, my boy, to lead your cousin de Sance to the table of the maids-of-honour.”
The boy looked up at Angelique sullenly.
“Here’s a chair,” he said, pointing to the empty place beside him.
“Not here, Philippe, not here. You saved this place for Mademoiselle de Senlis.”
“Mademoiselle de Senlis should have hurried. When she eventually deigns to join us, she’ll find that she has been . . . advantageously re¬placed,” he remarked with a brief, ironical smile.
His neighbours giggled.
Angelique had meanwhile sat down. She had gone too far to retreat. She dared not ask where her father was, and she was dazzled by the brilliant lights and their sparkling reflections in the glasses, decanters, silver-plate and the ladies’ diamonds. Her reaction was to stiffen her back, throw out her chest, fling back her heavy golden hair. It seemed to her that some of the gentlemen were throwing not uninterested glances in her direction. Almost opposite her, the falcon eye of the Prince de Conde stared at her for a moment with arrogant attention.
“By the devil, you have some odd relatives, Monsieur du Plessis. Who is this grey duckling?”
“A young country cousin, Monseigneur. Oh, pity me. For two hours this very evening, instead of listening to the musicians and the charming talk of these ladies, I had to bear with the pleas of her father the Baron, whose breath still leaves me indisposed. As our cynical poet Argenteuil would say:
“I tell you most truly that the breath of a corpse Or a pensioner’s wheeze would not smell so coarse.”
An outburst of obsequious laughter shook the gathering.
“And do you know what he asked me?” continued the Marquis, wiping his eyelids with an affected gesture. “I challenge you to guess. He wants me to get him a tax exemption for some mules in his stable as well as—mark the unsavoury term—on his output of lead, which he claims he finds all molten in nuggets under the vegetable plots in his kitchen-garden. I’ve never heard such nonsense.”
“A plague on these clodhoppers!” grumbled the Prince. “They cast ridicule on our coats-of-arms with their peasant ways.” .
The ladies choked with merriment.
"Did you see the feather on his hat?”
"And his shoes! There was straw stffl clinging to their heels!”
Angelique’s heart beat so strongly that she thought her neighbour Philippe must hear it. She glanced at him and caught the handsome boy’s hard blue eyes fixed on her with an indefinable expression.
‘I can’t let my father be insulted,’ she thought.
Angelique turned very pale and took a deep breath.
"It may be that wc are paupers,” she said very loudly and distinctly, "but at least we don’t try to poison the King!”
The laughter died on the faces around her and the silence that fell was so heavy that it spread to the neighbouring tables. Slowly the conversations subsided, the convivial spirits slackened. Everyone looked at the Prince de Conde.
"Who? . . . Who . . . who?” stammered the Marquis du Plessis. Then he abrupdy fell silent.
"These are strange words,” said the Prince at last, at great pains to contain himself. "This young person is not used to society. She hasn’t got beyond nursery talcs. ...”
‘He’ll ridicule me in another moment, and they’ll throw me out with the promise of a thrashing,’ thought Angelique, in a panic.
She bent forward a little and looked towards the end of the table.
"I am told that Signor Exili is the greatest expert in the kingdom in the art of poisoning.”
This new pebble hurled into the pool amplified the already violent ripples. There was a frightened murmur.
"Oh! this girl is possessed by the devil!” cried Madame du Plessis, furiously biting her little lace handkerchief. "She has covered me with shame. She sits there like a glass-eyed doll and then suddenly opens her mouth and utters such terrible things!”
"Terrible? Why terrible?” softly protested the Prince, whose eyes did not leave Angelique. "They would be terrible if they were true. But they are merely the ravings of a little girl who does not know when to keep silent.”
"I’ll keep silent when I want to,” declared Angelique pertly.
"And when will that be, Mademoiselle?”
"When you stop insulting my father and grant him the poor favours he is asking for.”
Monsieur de Conde s complexion suddenly darkened. The scandal was at its height. The people at the end of the gallery climbed on chairs.
"May the plague! May the plague . . .” choked the Prince. He suddenly got up, with outstretched arm as if flinging his troops into attack against die Spanish trenches.
“Follow me!” he roared at her.
‘He’ll kill me/ thought Ang61ique. And the sight of the tall Prince towering over her made her shiver with fear and pleasure.
However, she followed him, a grey little duckling behind that huge, beribboned bird. She noticed that he was wearing wide starched lace flounces below his knees and, over his trunk-hose, a sort of short petticoat trimmed with coundess braids. Never had she seen a man so extravagantly dressed. Yet she admired his walk, the way he placed his high arched heels on the ground.
“We are alone now,” said Conde, abruptly turning round. “Made¬moiselle, I don’t want to get angry with you, but you will have to answer my questions."
This sugary voice frightened Angelique more than the outbursts of rage. She saw herself in this deserted boudoir, alone with this powerful man whose intrigues she was upsetting. She grasped that she too had become involved in them and was struggling as in a spider’s web. She shrank back, stuttered, pretended to be a stupid country-girl.
“I didn’t think I was doing any harm.”
“Why did you invent such an insult at the table of an uncle whom you respect?”
She understood what he was trying to make her admit, wavered, weighed the pros and cons. In view of what she knew, a protestation of total ignorance would certainly defy belief.
“I did not invent . . . I repeated things I've been told,” she murmured. “That Signor Exili was a very clever man at making poisons. . . . But that about the King I made up. I shouldn’t have. I was in a temper.”
She twisted a piece of her belt awkwardly.
“Who told you?” ,
Angflique’s imagination worked fast.
“A . . . a page. I don’t know his name.”
“Can you point him out?”
Yes.
He took her back to the door leading to the reception rooms. She pointed at the page who had mocked her.
“A pox on these eavesdropping ragamuffins!” growled the Prince. “What is your name, Mademoiselle?”
“Angflique de SancA”
“Listen to me, Mademoiselle de Sanc£. It’s bad to repeat foolishly words that a girl of your age cannot understand. It might harm you, you
and your family. I shall forgive your insolence this time. I shall even go so far as to study your father s case and see if I cannot do something for him. But what guarantee have I of your silence?” '
She raised her green eyes towards him:
“I can keep silent when I’ve obtained what I want just as well as I can talk when I am insulted.”
“By the devil, when you’ve grown towomanhood, I’ll wager that men will hang themselves for having met you!” said the Prince.
But a vague smile hovered over his face. He did not seem to suspect that she might know more than she had admitted. Impulsive and rather muddle-headed, Conde lacked insight. His first excitement spent, he decided that there was nothing more to it than backstairs gossip.
Being a man used to flattery and sensitive to feminine charms, he could not help noticing the emotion of this adolescent girl, whose beauty was already striking, and this helped to soothe his anger. Angelique tried to look up at him with eyes full of candid admiration.
“I would like to ask you something,” she said with exaggerated naivete.
“And what may that be?”
“Why do you wear a little skirt?”
“A little skirt? . . . But, my child, this is a ‘rhinegrave’. Is it not supremely elegant? The rhinegrave conceals the graceless trunk-hose which only become a horseman. You can adorn it with braids and ribbons. It’s a very comfortable garment. Have you never seen it in your countryside?”
“No. And those long frills under your knees?”
“They are called ‘canons’. They emphasise the calf of the leg, which emerges from it arched and slender.”
“It is true,” approved Angelique. “All this is wonderful. I’ve never seen such a beautiful costume!”
“Oh! Women’s talk of frippery will appease even the most dangerous fury,” said the Prince, delighted with his success. “But I must return to my hosts. Do you promise me to be good now?”
“Yes, Monseigneur,” she said with a cajoling smile that revealed her pearly teeth.
The Prince de Conde returned to the dining-room, calming the party’s agitajtion with sweeping gestures, as if he were blessing them.
“Eat, my friends, eat. Much ado about nothing. The impertinent little girl will apologise.”
Ang£lique, without being asked, curtsied to Madame du Plessis.
“I present my apologies, Madame, and ask you for permission to with-draw.”
There was some laughter at Madame duPlessis’s gesture, for, unable to utter a word, she just pointed to the door.
But before that door another crowd had formed.
“My daughter! Where is my daughter?” clamoured Baron Armand.
“The Baron is asking for his daughter,” cried an impish lackey.
Among the elegant guests and the liveried flunkeys, the impecunious nobleman looked like a big, captive bumble-bee. Angelique ran towards him.
“Angelique,” he sighed, “you drive me mad. For more than three hours now, I’ve been looking for you everywhere in the dark, between Sance, Molines’s house and Plessis. What a day, my child, what a day!”
“Let’s go, Father, please, let’s go quickly,” she said.
They were already on the porch, when the voice of the Marquis du Plessis called them back.
“A moment, Cousin. The Prince would like to have a word with you. It concerns those Custom dues you were talking about . . .”
The rest was lost as the two men went back into the house.
Angelique sat down on the last step of the porch and waited for her father. She suddenly felt completely drained of all thoughts, of all will-power. A small white griffon came to sniff at her. She stroked him mechanically.
When Monsieur de Sance reappeared, he gripped his daughter by the wrist.
“I was afraid you might have escaped again. You’re really full of the devil. Monsieur de Conde paid me such strange compliments about you that I wasn’t quite sure whether I oughtn’t to apologise for having brought you into the world.”
A little later, while their mules were stepping gingerly through the dark night, Monsieur de Sance spoke again, nodding his head:
“I can’t get the hang of those people. They listen to you with a sneer. The Marquis explains to me, with facts and figures, that his financial straits are much worse than mine. They let me go without even offering me a glass of wine to refresh my gullet, and then suddenly they run after me and promise to do all I ask. According to Monseigneur, I’ll be granted the Custom dues exemption before the next month is out.”
“So much the better, Father,” murmured Angelique.
She listened to the nocturnal chant of the frogs which heralded the proximity of the marshes and the old fortified castle. She suddenly felt like crying.
"Do you think Madame du Plessis will take you on as a maid-in¬waiting ?” asked the Baron.
"Oh no! I don’t think so,” replied Angflique suavely.
‘When I think,* mused Angelique, slowly strolling through the avenues, ‘that my father had qualms about a few mules that Molints wanted to sell to Spain! Treason . . . ? A matter of complete in¬difference to all these Princes, though they live entirely of f the monarchy. Can they really be thinking of fighting the King?*
She had walked right round the castle and found herself at the base of the wall which she had so of ten climbed in the old days to steal a glance at the treasures in die enchanted room. This part was deserted, for the couples who did not shun the chilly evening mist preferred to remain on the lawn in front of the chiteau.
Instinct made her slip of f her shoes and, despite her long dress, she hoisted herself nimbly to the cornice of the upper storey. The night was black nofa. No one passing by could have seen her there, snuggled against the shadow of a small turret.
The window was open. Angelique bent forward. She guessed that the room was inhabited, for a small oil-lamp was shedding a golden glow, which only enhanced the glamour of the beautiful furniture and tapestries. She could see, shining like snowy crystals, the mother-of-pearl insets on the small ebony chest-of-drawers.
Suddenly, as she was gazing at the tall damask bed, Angelique had the impression that the painting of the god and goddess had come to life. Two naked white bodies were clasped amid disarrayed sheets whose lace borders were dragging on the ground. They were so closely mingled that at first she thought they were struggling adolescents, page-boys rather shamelessly tussling, before she made out that they were a man and a woman.
The brown tousled mane of the masculine partner almost entirely covered the face of the woman, whom his long body seemed to want to crush completely. Of the woman, Angelique could only make out certain details that melted into the shadows: a well-shaped leg raised against the virile body, a breast surging from beneath the arms that enveloped her, a frail white hand.
Angelique felt shaken, almost nauseated, and yet dimly wonder-struck, too. After having so of ten contemplated the picture of Olympus, savoured its freshness and its majestic impulse, she was finally left with an impression of beauty by this scene whose meaning she had grasped, with her peasant-girl intuition.
‘So this is love!’ she told herself, as a shudder of fright and pleasure coursed through her.
At last the two lovers unclasped. They were now resting side by side, like recumbent tombstone figures in the darkness of a crypt. Their breathing came slower in a felicity close to slumber. Neither of them spoke. The woman was die first to move. Stretching out her snow- white arm, she reached for the table near the bed, on which a flask shone ruby-like with a dark wine. She gave a contrite litde laugh.
“Oh, darling, I’m shattered,” she murmured. “We simply must taste this Roussillon wine which your thoughtful valet put here. Would you like a cup?”
The man answered from the depth of the alcove with a mutter that could be taken for assent.
The lady, who seemed to have recovered her strength, filled two glasses, held one out to her lover, while emptying the other with avid delight. Angllique suddenly thought that sheovould have liked to be in that bed, perfecdy naked and relaxed, savouring the sunny wine of the south.
‘So that is the Prince’s caudle/ she thought.
She was not aware of her uncomfortable position. She could now see the woman entirely, admire her perfect round breasts set of f by ruby tips, her supple belly, the long legs which she had crossed.
There was fruit on a tray. The woman chose a peach and bit into it lustily.
“A plague on all importunates!” the man cried suddenly, leaping over his mistress to the foot of the bed.
Angelique, who had not heard the knocking at the door, thought she had been discovered and shrank back against the turret, more dead than alive.
When she looked again, she saw that the god had draped himself in a voluminous brown dressing-gown tied with a silver sash. His face, that of a young man in his thirties, was less handsome than his body, for he had a long nose and his hard, though flashing, eyes made him look rather like a bird of prey.
“I am with the Duchesse de Beaufort!” he cried, turning towards the door.
Despite this warning, a valet appeared on the threshold.
“If Your Highness will pardon me. A monk has just presented himself at the gate and insists on being received by Monsieur de Conde. The Marquis du Plessis thought it advisable to send him straight to Your Highness.”
“Let him enter!” muttered the Prince after a moment’s silence.
He went to the ebony bureau by the window and opened a few drawers.
From the back of the room a lackey introduced another person, a cowled monk, who approached while bowing several times with remark¬able ease. When he straightened up, he revealed a swarthy face in which gleamed deep, languorous, black eyes.
The arrival of the ecclesiastic did not seem to trouble the woman on the bed in the least. She continued munching the succulent fruit with perfect unconcern. She had merely thrown a shawl over the top of her legs. ,
The brown-haired man, bent over the bureau, pulled from it some large, red-sealed envelopes.
“Father,” he said without turning round, “did Monsieur Fouquet send you?”
“He did indeed, Monseigneur.”
The monk added a sentence m a melodious tongue that Angelique supposed to be Italian. When he expressed himself in French, his accent was rather lisping and had a childlike quality that was not devoid of charm.
“There was no need to repeat the password, Signor Exili,” said the Prince de Conde. “I would have recognised you from the description I have of you and from the blue mark you have in the comer of your eye. So you are Europe’s most skilful artist in the difficult and subtle science of poisons?”
“Your Highness does me too much honour. I have only perfected certain recipes handed down by my Florentine ancestors.”
“The people of Italy are artists in all spheres,” cried Conde.
He burst into a loud, neighing laugh, then his features abruptly resumed their harsh expression.
“You’ve got the thing?”
“Here it is.”
The Capuchin extracted a carved casket from his wide sleeve. He opened it himself by pressing on one of the precious wood mouldings.
“You see, Monseigneur, all that’s needed is to insert the nail at the nape of this charming figure who carries a dove on his fist.”
The lid had sprung open. On a satin cushion gleamed a glass phial filled with an emerald-coloured fluid. The Prince de Conde picked up the flask cautiously and raised it to the light.
“Roman vitriol,” said Father Exili gently. “It is a composition that acts slowly but surely. I prefer it to corrosive sublimate, which can provoke death within a few hours. From the indications Monsieur Fouquet gave me, I thought I gathered that you yourself, Monseigneur, as well as your friends, did not care for too precise suspicions to be aroused in the en¬tourage of the person concerned. The person will feel a certain languor, resist a week perhaps, but death will have the natural appearance of a bowel-fever caused by gamey venison or not quite fresh food. It would be wise to see to it that the person is served with mussels, oysters or other shellfish which sometimes produce dangerous effects. To put the blame for such a sudden demise on them would be child’s play.”
“I thank you for your excellent advice, Father.”
Cond6 was still staring at the pale green phial, and there was a gleam of hatred in his eyes. Angflique felt acutely disappointed by it: the god of love, in coming down to earth, had lost his beauty and now frightened her.
“Be careful, Monseigneur,9’ continued Father Exili, “this poison must be handled with infinite precaution. To compound it, I am myself obliged to wear a glass mask. A drop falling on your skin could produce a gnawing disease which would not spend its power before it had devoured one of your limbs. If you are not able to pour this medicine yourself into the person’s plate, do recommend to the valet charged with the task to use the utmost skill and precision.”
“My valet who ushered you in is wholly trustworthy. Luckily, the person concerned does not know him. I think it will be easy to place him at his side.”
The Prince cast a mocking glance down at the monk, from his great height.
“I presume that a life devoted to such an art has not made you over-scrupulous, Signor Exili. Still, what would you say if I confided to you that this poison was destined for one of your compatriots, an Italian from the Abruzzi?”
A smile widened Exili’s mobile lips. He bowed again.
“My only compatriots are those who appraise my services at their just value, Monseigneur. And at the moment Monsieur Fouquet, of the Paris Parliament, shows himself more generous towards me than a certain Italian from the Abruzzi, whom I also know.”
Conde’s neighing laugh rang out again.
“Bravo, bravissimo, Signor! I like to have people of your sort with me.”
He gendy replaced the phial on its satin cushion. There was a pause. Signor Exili’s eyes rested on his creation with a satisfaction that was not devoid of vanity.
“May I add, Monseigneur, that this liquor has the merit of being odourless and practically tasteless. It does not alter the food it is mixed with. At most, supposing the person pays great attention to what he is eating, he could reproach his cook for having been a little too generous with spices.”
“You are a precious man,” repeated die Prince, who seemed sunk in thought.
He rather nervously picked up the sealed envelopes on the top of the chest-of-drawers.
“This is what I have to hand you to seal the bargain with Monsieur Fouquet. This envelope contains the declaration made by the Marquis d’Hoquincourt. Here are those by Monsieur de Charost, Monjieur du Plessis, Madame du Plessis, Madame de Richeville, the Duchesse de Beau¬fort, Madame de Longueville. As you see, the ladies are not as lazy—or as
squeamish—as the gentlemen. I am still without the letters from Monsieur de Maupeou, the Marquis de Cr£qui and a few others. . . .”
“ And yours, Monseigneur.”
“That's true. Here it is. I was just finishing it and have not yet signed it.”
“Would Your Highness have the extreme kindness to read the text out to me so that I can check the wording point by point? Monsieur Fouquet deems it essential that none of the terms be omitted.”
“As you wish,” said the Prince with an imperceptible shrug.
He took the sheet of paper and read aloud:
“I, Louis II, Prince de Cond6, give my word and assurance to Mon¬seigneur Fouquet never to pledge my loyalty to any other person but to him, to obey no other person without exception, to place at his disposal my strongholds, fortifications and other such whenever he shall so command.
“In assurance whereof I give this note written and signed by my hand, of my own volition even without his solicitation, he in his goodness trusting my word, of which he is assured.
“Executed in Plessis-Belliere this 20th day of September 1649.”
“Sign it, Monseigneur,” said Father Exili, whose eyes glistened in the shadow of his hood.
Quickly, as if in a hurry to have done with, Conde picked up a goose- quill from the bureau and sharpened it. While he initialled his letter, the monk had lit a small silver-gilt stove. Cond6 melted red wax in it and sealed his missive.
“All the other letters are similarly drawn up and signed,” he concluded. “I think your master will be satisfied.”
“You may rest assured, Monseigneur. However, I must not leave this castle without taking with me the other declarations which you pro¬mised.”
“I warrant I shall obtain them for you before tomorrow noon.”
“In that case, I shall stay under this roof till then.”
“Our friend the Marquise du Plessis will see to it that you are made comfortable, Signor. I have informed her of your arrival.”
“Meanwhile, I think it would be prudent to lock these letters up in the casket which I have handed to you. Its opening is invisible and nowhere else would they be so well shielded from indiscreet eyes.”
“You are right, Signor Exili. As I listen to you, I'm beginning to understand that conspiracy, too, is an art, and one that requires practice and experience. I myself am just a warrior and don't conceal the fact.”
“A glorious warrior!” exclaimed the Italian, with a bow.
“You flatter me, Father. Though I confess I’d like to see Monsieur de Mazarin and Her Majesty the Queen share your opinion. However that may be, I believe that military strategy, though coarser and more all¬embracing, still has some kinship with your subtle stratagems. One must always foresee the enemy’s intentions.”
“Monseigneur, you speak as if A^achiavelli himself had been your master.”
“You flatter me,” said the Prince again. But he was visibly pleased. Exili showed him how to raise the satin cushion and slip beneath it the compromising envelopes. Then the casket was placed into the bureau. No sooner had the Italian withdrawn than Ои^ё, like a child, took it out again and opened it.
“Show me,” whispered the woman, holding out her hand.
She had not spoken during the whole interview, and had merely put her rings back on her fingers, one by one. But it was obvious that she had not missed a word of what had been said.
Conde went over to the bed and they both bent their heads over the emerald phial.
“Do you think it is really as terrible as he says?” murmured the Duchesse.
“Fouquet assured me that there is no cleverer apothecary than this Florentine. And, anyway, we must pass through Fouquet. He’s the one who had the idea of the Spanish intervention—in Parliament, last April. An idea that displeased everyone, but it put him in touch with His Most Catholic Majesty. I shall be able to hold my armies only through his good of fices.”
The lady sank back on the pillows.
“So Monsieur de Mazarin is dead!” she said slowly.
“To all intents and purposes, for his life is here within my hands.”
“Don’t they say that the Queen sometimes sups with him whom she loves so passionately?”
“So they say,” said the Prince after a moment’s pause. “But I don’t approve of your plan, my dear. I am thinking of a cleverer and more effective move. What would the Queen Mother be without her sons? . . . There’d be nothing left for the Spanish woman but to withdraw to a convent and weep over them. . . .”
“Poison the King?” said the Duchesse, with a start.
The Prince whinnied merrily. He went back to the bureau and put the casket inside it.
“Just like a woman!” he exclaimed. “The King! You melt with tenderness because he is a handsome boy, stirred by adolescent Emotions, who for some time now at Court has been making eyes at you like a fawning dog. That’s how you see the King.„ For us he is a dangerous obstacle to all our plans. As for his brother* the little Monsieur is a perverse brat who already takes pleasure in dressing up as a girl and letting himself be petted by men. I consider him even less suitable for the throne than your virginal Royalty. No, take my word for it, we’ll have in Monsieur d* Orleans, who believes in austerity as little as his brother Louis XIII believed in it too greatly, a King to our liking. He is rich and has a weak character. What more do we want?
“My dear,” Со^ё went on, after he had locked the bureau and slipped its key into the pocket of his greatcoat, “I think it’s time for us to present ourselves to our hosts. Supper will be announced soon. Do you wish me to call for your chambermaid?”
“I should be obliged, my lord.”
Angelique, whose bones were beginning to ache, had shrunk back a little on the cornice. She thought that her father must be looking for her, but she could not make up her mind to leave her ledge. Inside die room the Prince and his mistress, with the help of their servants, were putting on their finery amid a great rusde of silks and some curses, for Monseigneur was not a patient man.
When Ang61ique looked away from the luminous screen formed by the open window, she saw around her only the opaque night, from which rose the murmur of the near-by forest as it swayed in the autumn wind.
At last the chamber was empty. The night-light still glowed but the room had recaptured its mystery. Very softly, the girl crept close to the window-frame and slipped into the room. The scent of rouge and per¬fumes mingled strangely with the fragrance of the night—damp timber, moss and ripe chestnuts.
Angelique did not know exaedy what she was going to do. Somebody might surprise her. She was not afraid. All this was but a dream. Like the mad lady of Monteloup, like the crimes of Gilles de Retz. . . .
With nimble fingers, she took out of the pocket of the greatcoat, which had been thrown over a chair, the small key to the bureau, opened it, pulled the casket towards her. It was of sandalwood and gave of f a pervasive scent. After locking the bureau again and putting the key in its place, Ang6lique found herself back on the cornice, the casket under her arm. She suddenly felt vasdy amused. She imagined Monsieur de Condi's face on discovering the disappearance of the poison and the compromising letters.
‘Ibis isn’t stealing,’ she told herself, ‘since it’s a matter of preventing a crime.’
She knew already the hiding-place in which she would conceal her theft. The comer turrets with which the Italian architect had adorned the four angles of the graceful Chateau du Plessis were mere ornaments, yet they had been fitted with miniature battlements in imitation of the warlike decorations of medieval castles. These turrets, moreover, were hollow and pierced by small openings.
Angelique slipped the casket inside the one nearest to her. Anyone who would come and search for it there would have to be clever indeed!
Thereupon she slid adroitly down the facade and reached firm ground. Then only did she notice that her bare feet were icy. Putting on her old shoes, she returned to the chateau.
Everyone had gathered in the drawing-rooms. The dark and misty night held no more charm for them. As she came into the hall, Angelique’s nose was pleasantly titillated by the most appetising smells coming from the kitchens. She saw a row of little liveried valets go by, carrying big silver platters. It was a solemn procession of pheasants and woodcock adorned with their own feathers, a sucking-pig crowned with flowers like a bride, several cuts of a very fine doe served on artichoke hearts and sprigs of fennel.
The tinkle of china and crystal-glass came from the halls and galleries where all the company was sitting around small lace-covered tables, some ten people at each.
Angelique stopped on the threshold of the largest room, and saw the Prince de Conde surrounded by Madame du Plessis, the Duchesse de Beaufort and the Comtesse dc Richeville. The Marquis du Plessis and his son Philippe also shared the Prince’s table, as did some other ladies and young lords. The brown frock of the Italian Exili struck a discordant note amid this glittering array of lace and ribbons, precious gold and silvery embroidery. Had the Baron de Sanc£ been present, he would have made a pair with the monk’s austerity. But however carefully she looked around, Angelique could not see her father anywhere.
Suddenly one of the pages, carrying a silver-gilt flagon, recognised her in passing. He was the one who had mocked her most viciously on account of the bounce.
“Oh! the Baroness of the Doleful Dress!” he jeered. “What do you want to drink, Nanon? Apple-wine or good sour milk?”
She stuck out her tongue at him and, leaving him agape, walked up towards the princely table.
“Good Lord, what’s this coming over here?” exclaimed the Duchesse de Beaufort.
Madame du Plessis followed the direction of her glance, saw Angflique and once again called her son to the rescue:
“Philippe! Philippe! Be good enough, my boy, to lead your cousin de Sance to the table of the maids-of-honour.”
The boy looked up at Angelique sullenly.
“Here’s a chair,” he said, pointing to the empty place beside him.
“Not here, Philippe, not here. You saved this place for Mademoiselle de Senlis.”
“Mademoiselle de Senlis should have hurried. When she eventually deigns to join us, she’ll find that she has been . . . advantageously re¬placed,” he remarked with a brief, ironical smile.
His neighbours giggled.
Angelique had meanwhile sat down. She had gone too far to retreat. She dared not ask where her father was, and she was dazzled by the brilliant lights and their sparkling reflections in the glasses, decanters, silver-plate and the ladies’ diamonds. Her reaction was to stiffen her back, throw out her chest, fling back her heavy golden hair. It seemed to her that some of the gentlemen were throwing not uninterested glances in her direction. Almost opposite her, the falcon eye of the Prince de Conde stared at her for a moment with arrogant attention.
“By the devil, you have some odd relatives, Monsieur du Plessis. Who is this grey duckling?”
“A young country cousin, Monseigneur. Oh, pity me. For two hours this very evening, instead of listening to the musicians and the charming talk of these ladies, I had to bear with the pleas of her father the Baron, whose breath still leaves me indisposed. As our cynical poet Argenteuil would say:
“I tell you most truly that the breath of a corpse Or a pensioner’s wheeze would not smell so coarse.”
An outburst of obsequious laughter shook the gathering.
“And do you know what he asked me?” continued the Marquis, wiping his eyelids with an affected gesture. “I challenge you to guess. He wants me to get him a tax exemption for some mules in his stable as well as—mark the unsavoury term—on his output of lead, which he claims he finds all molten in nuggets under the vegetable plots in his kitchen-garden. I’ve never heard such nonsense.”
“A plague on these clodhoppers!” grumbled the Prince. “They cast ridicule on our coats-of-arms with their peasant ways.” .
The ladies choked with merriment.
"Did you see the feather on his hat?”
"And his shoes! There was straw stffl clinging to their heels!”
Angelique’s heart beat so strongly that she thought her neighbour Philippe must hear it. She glanced at him and caught the handsome boy’s hard blue eyes fixed on her with an indefinable expression.
‘I can’t let my father be insulted,’ she thought.
Angelique turned very pale and took a deep breath.
"It may be that wc are paupers,” she said very loudly and distinctly, "but at least we don’t try to poison the King!”
The laughter died on the faces around her and the silence that fell was so heavy that it spread to the neighbouring tables. Slowly the conversations subsided, the convivial spirits slackened. Everyone looked at the Prince de Conde.
"Who? . . . Who . . . who?” stammered the Marquis du Plessis. Then he abrupdy fell silent.
"These are strange words,” said the Prince at last, at great pains to contain himself. "This young person is not used to society. She hasn’t got beyond nursery talcs. ...”
‘He’ll ridicule me in another moment, and they’ll throw me out with the promise of a thrashing,’ thought Angelique, in a panic.
She bent forward a little and looked towards the end of the table.
"I am told that Signor Exili is the greatest expert in the kingdom in the art of poisoning.”
This new pebble hurled into the pool amplified the already violent ripples. There was a frightened murmur.
"Oh! this girl is possessed by the devil!” cried Madame du Plessis, furiously biting her little lace handkerchief. "She has covered me with shame. She sits there like a glass-eyed doll and then suddenly opens her mouth and utters such terrible things!”
"Terrible? Why terrible?” softly protested the Prince, whose eyes did not leave Angelique. "They would be terrible if they were true. But they are merely the ravings of a little girl who does not know when to keep silent.”
"I’ll keep silent when I want to,” declared Angelique pertly.
"And when will that be, Mademoiselle?”
"When you stop insulting my father and grant him the poor favours he is asking for.”
Monsieur de Conde s complexion suddenly darkened. The scandal was at its height. The people at the end of the gallery climbed on chairs.
"May the plague! May the plague . . .” choked the Prince. He suddenly got up, with outstretched arm as if flinging his troops into attack against die Spanish trenches.
“Follow me!” he roared at her.
‘He’ll kill me/ thought Ang61ique. And the sight of the tall Prince towering over her made her shiver with fear and pleasure.
However, she followed him, a grey little duckling behind that huge, beribboned bird. She noticed that he was wearing wide starched lace flounces below his knees and, over his trunk-hose, a sort of short petticoat trimmed with coundess braids. Never had she seen a man so extravagantly dressed. Yet she admired his walk, the way he placed his high arched heels on the ground.
“We are alone now,” said Conde, abruptly turning round. “Made¬moiselle, I don’t want to get angry with you, but you will have to answer my questions."
This sugary voice frightened Angelique more than the outbursts of rage. She saw herself in this deserted boudoir, alone with this powerful man whose intrigues she was upsetting. She grasped that she too had become involved in them and was struggling as in a spider’s web. She shrank back, stuttered, pretended to be a stupid country-girl.
“I didn’t think I was doing any harm.”
“Why did you invent such an insult at the table of an uncle whom you respect?”
She understood what he was trying to make her admit, wavered, weighed the pros and cons. In view of what she knew, a protestation of total ignorance would certainly defy belief.
“I did not invent . . . I repeated things I've been told,” she murmured. “That Signor Exili was a very clever man at making poisons. . . . But that about the King I made up. I shouldn’t have. I was in a temper.”
She twisted a piece of her belt awkwardly.
“Who told you?” ,
Angflique’s imagination worked fast.
“A . . . a page. I don’t know his name.”
“Can you point him out?”
Yes.
He took her back to the door leading to the reception rooms. She pointed at the page who had mocked her.
“A pox on these eavesdropping ragamuffins!” growled the Prince. “What is your name, Mademoiselle?”
“Angflique de SancA”
“Listen to me, Mademoiselle de Sanc£. It’s bad to repeat foolishly words that a girl of your age cannot understand. It might harm you, you
and your family. I shall forgive your insolence this time. I shall even go so far as to study your father s case and see if I cannot do something for him. But what guarantee have I of your silence?” '
She raised her green eyes towards him:
“I can keep silent when I’ve obtained what I want just as well as I can talk when I am insulted.”
“By the devil, when you’ve grown towomanhood, I’ll wager that men will hang themselves for having met you!” said the Prince.
But a vague smile hovered over his face. He did not seem to suspect that she might know more than she had admitted. Impulsive and rather muddle-headed, Conde lacked insight. His first excitement spent, he decided that there was nothing more to it than backstairs gossip.
Being a man used to flattery and sensitive to feminine charms, he could not help noticing the emotion of this adolescent girl, whose beauty was already striking, and this helped to soothe his anger. Angelique tried to look up at him with eyes full of candid admiration.
“I would like to ask you something,” she said with exaggerated naivete.
“And what may that be?”
“Why do you wear a little skirt?”
“A little skirt? . . . But, my child, this is a ‘rhinegrave’. Is it not supremely elegant? The rhinegrave conceals the graceless trunk-hose which only become a horseman. You can adorn it with braids and ribbons. It’s a very comfortable garment. Have you never seen it in your countryside?”
“No. And those long frills under your knees?”
“They are called ‘canons’. They emphasise the calf of the leg, which emerges from it arched and slender.”
“It is true,” approved Angelique. “All this is wonderful. I’ve never seen such a beautiful costume!”
“Oh! Women’s talk of frippery will appease even the most dangerous fury,” said the Prince, delighted with his success. “But I must return to my hosts. Do you promise me to be good now?”
“Yes, Monseigneur,” she said with a cajoling smile that revealed her pearly teeth.
The Prince de Conde returned to the dining-room, calming the party’s agitajtion with sweeping gestures, as if he were blessing them.
“Eat, my friends, eat. Much ado about nothing. The impertinent little girl will apologise.”
Ang£lique, without being asked, curtsied to Madame du Plessis.
“I present my apologies, Madame, and ask you for permission to with-draw.”
There was some laughter at Madame duPlessis’s gesture, for, unable to utter a word, she just pointed to the door.
But before that door another crowd had formed.
“My daughter! Where is my daughter?” clamoured Baron Armand.
“The Baron is asking for his daughter,” cried an impish lackey.
Among the elegant guests and the liveried flunkeys, the impecunious nobleman looked like a big, captive bumble-bee. Angelique ran towards him.
“Angelique,” he sighed, “you drive me mad. For more than three hours now, I’ve been looking for you everywhere in the dark, between Sance, Molines’s house and Plessis. What a day, my child, what a day!”
“Let’s go, Father, please, let’s go quickly,” she said.
They were already on the porch, when the voice of the Marquis du Plessis called them back.
“A moment, Cousin. The Prince would like to have a word with you. It concerns those Custom dues you were talking about . . .”
The rest was lost as the two men went back into the house.
Angelique sat down on the last step of the porch and waited for her father. She suddenly felt completely drained of all thoughts, of all will-power. A small white griffon came to sniff at her. She stroked him mechanically.
When Monsieur de Sance reappeared, he gripped his daughter by the wrist.
“I was afraid you might have escaped again. You’re really full of the devil. Monsieur de Conde paid me such strange compliments about you that I wasn’t quite sure whether I oughtn’t to apologise for having brought you into the world.”
A little later, while their mules were stepping gingerly through the dark night, Monsieur de Sance spoke again, nodding his head:
“I can’t get the hang of those people. They listen to you with a sneer. The Marquis explains to me, with facts and figures, that his financial straits are much worse than mine. They let me go without even offering me a glass of wine to refresh my gullet, and then suddenly they run after me and promise to do all I ask. According to Monseigneur, I’ll be granted the Custom dues exemption before the next month is out.”
“So much the better, Father,” murmured Angelique.
She listened to the nocturnal chant of the frogs which heralded the proximity of the marshes and the old fortified castle. She suddenly felt like crying.
"Do you think Madame du Plessis will take you on as a maid-in¬waiting ?” asked the Baron.
"Oh no! I don’t think so,” replied Angflique suavely.
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