Angelique Part 3. The Corridors of the Louvre Chapter 7
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DURING THE FOLLOWING DAYS Angelique forced herself to be
patient. She had to wait for the King’s triumphant entry into Paris. There
was talk of its taking place at the end of July; but die elaborate
preparations made it necessary to postpone the date from day to day. The
throng of provincials who had come to Paris for the great event began to
fidget with impatience.
Angelique sold her coach and horses and some jewels. She fell into the modest existence of tliis bourgeois district. She lent a helping hand in the kitchen, played with Florimond, who had begun to trot busily through the house, entangling himself every now and then in his long dress. His little cousins adored him. Spoiled by them, by Barbe, by the little nursemaid from Beam, he seemed happy and his little cheeks grew round and rosy again. Angelique embroidered a little red hood for him, under which his sweet little face framed by its black curls enraptured the whole family. Even Hortense lost her frown and remarked that for a child of that age he certainly had a lot of charm! She herself, alas, had never been able to afford a children’s nurse at home, so that she only got to know her children after they had reached the age of four! After all, not everybody could marry a crippled and disfigured nobleman, grown rich by consort¬ing with Satan, and it was better to be a lawyer’s wife than lose your soul.
Angelique turned a deaf ear to all this. In order to show her good will, she went to Mass every day in the unamusing company of her brother-in¬law and her sister. She began to get familiar with the peculiar character of the Cite itself. Around the Palace of Justice, Notre Dame, the parishes of Saint-Aignan and Saint-Landry, on the quays, teemed a crowd of sheriff's of ficers, lawyers, judges and counsellors.
Dressed in black coats and sometimes wearing the robe, they hurried to and fro, their hands fumbling with their ‘lawsuit bags’, their arms full of piles of papers which they called ‘useful files’. They cluttered up the stairs of the Palace and the neighbouring lanes. The Inn of the Black Head was their gathering place. There one could see the glowing, bibulous faces ot the magistrates behind steaming stews and round-bellied bottles.
At the other end of the island, the vociferous Pont-Neuf of fered another kind of Paris which the gendemen of the Law were most in¬dignant to find sprouting in their shadow. Whenever one sent a lackey on an errand in those parts and asked him when he’d be back, he’d answer: “That depends on the ditties they’ll be singing on the Pont-Neuf today.” .
Together with the songs, a swarm of poems, pamphlets and tracts were born of the continual intermingling around the shopping-booths. On the Pont-Neuf, everybody knew evcrydiing. And even the mighty had learned to fear those grimy sheets of paper which were swept along by the breeze from the Seine and which were called the *ponts-neufs\
One evening, after getting up from dinner at Maitre Fallot’s, and while everyone was sipping quince or raspberry wine, Angelique unthinkingly pulled a sheet of paper out of her pocket. She looked at it with surprise, then remembered that she had bought it for ten sols from a poor wretch on the Pont-Neuf, on the morning of her stroll through the Tuileries.
She read it half aloud: , *
“And then let’s go into the Palais Where we’ll find that Rabelais,
Mocking their ways as unsavoury,
Fell far short of their true knavery.
Here we’ll find renowned insulters And those who slyly mulct us,
Let’s go and see the great rush. . .
Two indignant cries interrupted her. Maitre Fallot’s old uncle was choking in his glass. With a swiftness Angelique never suspected him of , her solemn brother-in-law tore the piece of paper from her hand, rolled it into a pellet and flung it out of the window.
“How shameful, my sister!’’ he cried. “How dare you introduce such filth into our home! I wager that you bought it from one of those half- starved pamphleteers on the Pont-Neuf!”
“Yes, indeed. It was stuffed into my hand with a demand for ten sols. I didn’t dare to refuse.”
“The impudence of those people defies belief. Their pen does not even spare the integrity of men of law. And to think they are shut up in the Bastille as if they were people of quality, when the blackest prison of the Chatelet would still be too good for them.”
Hortense’s husband was panting like a bull. Never would she have thought him capable of getting so excited.
“Pamphlets, lampoons, ditties, we are flooded with them. They spare no one, neither King nor Court, and blasphemy doesn’t worry them.”
“In my time,” said the old uncle, “the race of journalists had only just begun to spread. Now they’re a real vermin, the disgrace of our capital.” He rarely spoke, opening his mouth only to ask for a little glass of quince-wine or his snuff-box. This long sentence revealed how much he had been shaken by the reading of the pamphlet.
“No respectable woman ventures to set foot on the Pont-Neuf,” re¬marked Hortense cuttingly.
Maitre Fallot had gone to lean out of the window.
“The gutter has carried away this infamy. But I should have been curious to know if it was signed by the Gutter-Poet.”
“No possible doubt. Such virulence is self-revealing.”
“The Gutter-Poet,” gloomily murmured Maitre Fallot. “The man who criticises society as a whole, the bom rebel, the professional parasite! I once saw him on a platform, haranguing the crowd with goodness knows what venomous outpourings. His name is Claude Le Petit. When I think that this gaunt scarecrow with a skin like a turnip finds a means of making the Princes and even the King gnash his teeth, I find it discouraging to live in such times. When will the police at last rid us of all these mounte¬banks?”
The sighing continued for a few minutes, then the incident was closed.
The King’s entrance into Paris occupied everyone. And it so happened that it served to draw Angelique and her sister closer together. One day, Hortense came into Angelique’s room, with as engaging a smile as she was able to conjure up.
“Imagine what is happening to us,” she cried. “You remember my old convent school-friend, Athena'is de Tonnay-Charente, to whom I was so attached in Poitiers?”
“No, not at all.”
“Never mind. Anyway, she is in Paris, and as she has always been a great schemer, she has already managed to get close to some important people. In fine, on the day of the King’s entrance she’ll be able to go to the Hotel de Beauvais, which is right where the parade will start in the rue Saint-Antoine. Naturally, we’ll have to watch from the attic windows, but that won’t prevent us from having a view.”
“Why do you say we?”
“Because she’s invited us to share this boon. She’ll have her sister and brother with her, and another girl friend also from Poitiers. We’ll be a whole little coachful of Poitevins. That’ll be so nice, won’t it?”
“If you were counting on my carriage, I am sorry to tell you that I sold it.”
“I know, I know. Oh, the coach is of no importance. Athena’is will bring her own. It is a little rickety, for her family is ruined. Her mother has bundled her of f to Paris with a maid, a lackey and this old carriage, with orders to find a husband as quickly as possible. Oh! she’ll manage it, she’s trying hard enough. But the point is . . . for the King’s entrance ... she hinted to me that she was somewhat short of clothes. You see, this Mademoiselle de Beauvais who’s letting us have one of her garrets isn’t just anybody. They even say that the Queen Mother, the Cardinal, and all sorts of high personages will be dining at her house during the parade. In fact, we’ll have front seats. But we mustn’t be taken for chambermaids or paupers or we’ll get thrown out by the lackeys.”
Angelique silently went to open one of her big trunks.
“Have a look in there to see if you find something that might suit her, and something to suit you too. You are taller than I, but it’s easy to lengthen a petticoat with lace or frills.” , *
Hortense approached with shining eyes. She could not conceal her admiration while Angelique was spreading out the sumptuous garments on the bed. The gold-cloth dress drew from her a cry of admiration.
“I think it would be somewhat out of place in our attic,” Angelique warned her.
“Naturally, you attended die King’s wedding, so you can act disdain¬ful.”
“I assure you I am very pleased. Nobody awaits the King’s coming to Paris with greater impatience than I. But I mean to keep this dress in order to sell it if Andijos, as I’m begimiing to fear, doesn’t bring me back any money. As for the others, you can do with them whatever you like. It is only right that you should have some compensation for the expenses my presence has occasioned you.”
Finally, after much wavering, Hortense decided in favour of a sky-blue satin dress for her friend. For herself she selected an apple-green ensemble which brought out her nondescript brunette colouring.
On the morning of 26th August, Angelique nodded approvingly as she looked at the skinny figure of her sister, padded out by the pannier of the mantlegown, her sallow complexion heightened by the vivid green and her sparse but soft, fine hair:
“I really do think, Hortense, that you would be almost pretty if you hadn’t such a shrewish disposition.”
Much to her surprise, Hortense did not get vexed. She sighed as she went on gazing at herself in the tall steel mirror.
“I think so, too,” she said. “What can I do? I have never had a liking for mediocrity, and mediocrity is all I’ve ever known. I like to talk, to see witty, well-dressed people, I adore the theatre. But it’s difficult to get away from household duties. This winter I was able to go to some parties given by a satirical writer, the poet Scarron. A horrid fellow, invalid, malicious, but what a wit, my dear! I remember those parties with delight. Unfortunately, Scarron has just died. I’ll have to go back to mediocrity.”
“At the moment, you don’t arouse pity. I assure you, you’ve a lot of style.”
“It’s certain that on a real proctor’s wife the same dress would not produce the same effect. Nobility can’t be bought. You have it in your blood.”
As they bent over the caskets to choose their jewels, they recaptured the warmth of the clan, the arrogance of their class. They forgot the gloomy room, the tasteless furniture, the insipid Bergamo tapestries which were woven in Normandy for a petty-bourgeois clientele.
At dawn on the great day the proctor left for Vincennes, which was the
assembly-point where the State representatives were to salute and address the King.
The cannons thundered in response to the pealing bells of the churches. The city militia, in gala dress, bristling with pikes, halberds and muskets, took possession of the streets, which hawkers filled with a deafening din, as they distributed booklets giving the programme of the celebrations, the route of the royal cortege, the description of the triumphal arches.
Towards eight o’clock, the somewhat shabby carriage of Mademoiselle Athenais de Tonnay-Charcnte stopped in front of the house. She was a beautiful girl, all in glowing colours: golden hair, pink cheeks, pearly brow set of f by a black patch. Her blue dress matched her sapphire eyes, which, though a trifle protruding, sparkled with wit and liveliness. She hardly remembered to show her gratitude, although in addition to the dress she wore a very beautiful diamond necklace lent her by Angelique. Mademoiselle dc Tonnay-Charente de Mortemart considered that every¬thing was her due, and that one could not but feel honoured to serve her. Despite her family’s impecuniousness, she considered that her ancient name was worth a fortune. Her brother and sister seemed endowed with the same conceit. All three were bursting with vitality, caustic wit, en¬thusiasm and ambition, which made them most attractive and redoubtable companions.
It was a merry though creaking coachful that rumbled through the packed streets, between the houses decked with flowers and tapestries. Amid the ever-denser crowd, horsemen and fines of carriages clamoured for right of way in order to proceed towards the Gate of St. Antoine, where the procession was to form up.
“We’ll have to make a detour to collect poor Fran^oise,” said Athenais. “It won’t be an easy matter.”
“Oh! the Lord preserve us from Madame Scarron-the-Cripple!” exclaimed her brother.
Seated next to Angelique, he was unceremoniously crushing her. She asked him to move over as he was stifling her.
“I promised Fran^oise I’d take her along,” said Athenais. “She is a good girl and hasn’t had much entertainment since her legless cripple of a husband died. I wonder if she isn’t beginning to miss him.”
“After all, repulsive though he was, he earned the money for the house-hold. The Queen Mother had given him a pension.”
“Was he already an invalid when he married her?” asked Hortense. “That couple has always intrigued me.”
“Of course he was. He took the girl into his house to look after him. As she was an orphan, she accepted; she was fifteen at the time.”
“Do you think she took the plunge?” asked the younger sister.
“Who knows? . . . Scarron proclaimed to whoever wanted to listen that his sickness had paralysed everything but his tongue and his you- know-what. Without any doubt, she must have learned not a few little things from him. He was always so wicked! And, upon my faith, so many people came to see them that some handsome, well-built nobleman surely must have taken it upon himself to distract her a little, too. There was a rumour about Villarceaux.”
“One must admit,” said Hortense, “that Madame Scarron is beautiful, but she has always behaved with great modesty. She always remained seated next to her husband’s wheel-chair, helped him to sit down and passed him his herb-tea. Besides which she is learned and very well- spoken.”
The widow was waiting on the pavement outside a shabby-looking house.
“Good Lord, that dress!” whispered Athenais, raising her hand to her lips. “Her skirt is worn to a shred.”
“Why didn’t you mention it to me?” asked Angelique. “I could have found her something.”
“Why, it didn’t occur to me. Do get in, Fran^oise.”
The young woman sat down in a corner, after gracefully greeting the occupants of the coach. She had lovely brown eyes, which were veiled by her long eyelids touched with mauve.
They finally reached the rue Saint-Antoinc, which, surprisingly, did not seem too crowded. The coaches had apparently been parked in the neighbouring lanes. The Hotel de Beauvais was a beehive of activity. A canopy of crimson velvet, adorned with gold and silver braids and fringes, decorated the central balcony. Persian carpets embellished the facade. On the doorstep an old one-eyed lady, decked out like an altar-piece but with her fists on her hips, was shouting directions at the upholsterers.
“What is that horrid virago doing there?” inquired Angelique, as their party was approaching the house.
Hortense motioned to her to be silent, but Athenais was giggling behind her fan.
“That’s the mistress of the house, my dear. Catherine de Beauvais, known as One-eyed Kate. She is a former chambermaid of Anne of Austria’s, who entrusted her with making a man of our young King when he was going on fifteen. That’s the secret of her wealth.”
Angelique could not help laughing.
“One must presume that she makes experience do for charm. . . .”
“A proverb says that there are no ugly women for adolescents and monks/* the young Mortemart chimed in.
Notwithstanding their ironical sentiments, they bowed deeply to the former chambermaid. She cast a piercing glance at them out of her single eye.
“Ah! here is the Poitou lot. Don*t clutter me up, my lambs. Go straight up there before my maids take the best places. But who is this one?’* she said, pointing a crooked finger in Angelique’s direction.
Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente introduced her:
“A friend, the Comtcsse de Pcyrac de Morens.**
“Oh really! Ho, ho !** said the old lady with a kind of sneer.
“I am sure she knows something about you/* whispered Hortense on the stairs. “We arc childish to imagine that the scandal won't eventually be public. I should never have taken you along. You’d better go home.**
“All right, but in that case give me back my dress/’ said Angelique, reaching a hand towards her sister’s bodice.
“Keep still, little ninny,” answered Hortense, struggling.
Athenais de Tonnay-Charente had taken by storm the window of a servant’s room and was making herself comfortable together with her girl friends.
“You can see marvellously,” she cried. “Look, down there, the Gate of Saint-Antoine by which the King will enter.”
Angelique also leaned down. She felt herself grow pale.
What she saw under the blue sky, hazy with heat, was not the vast avenue where the crowd was milling, nor the Gate of Saint-Antoine with its triumphal arch of white stone, but a little to the right, looming like a sombre cliff, the huge bulk of a fortress.
She asked her sister in a low voice:
“What is that big stronghold near the Gate of Saint-Antoine?”
“The Bastille,” whispered Hortense behind her fan.
Angelique could not take her eyes of f it. Eight turrets, each topped by a watchtowcr, blind facades, walls, portcullises, drawbridges, moats—an island of suffering lost in the ocean of an indifferent city, a closed world untouched by life, which no joyous clamours would reach even on this day: the Bastille! . . .
The King would pass in all his glory at the foot of this fierce guardian of his authority. No sound would pierce the darkness of the jails where forgotten men had been despairing for years, for a lifetime.
The time of waiting dragged on. At last, the shouts of the impatient crowd heralded the beginning of the procession. Emerging* from the shadow of the Gate of Saint-Antoine appeared the first companies. They were composed of four mendicant orders: Franciscans, Dominicans, Augustins, Carmelites, preceded by their crosses and their cradle-bearers. Their black, brown or white homespun gowns were an insult to the splendour of the sun which gleamed, in revenge, on a sea of rosy skulls. The secular clergy followed, with their crosses and banners, their priests in surplices and square bonnets.
Then the city corporations marched up, with raised trumpets whose merry bugling succeeded the pious chants. The three hundred city archers were followed by Monsieur de Burnonville, the Governor, and his guards.
After that came the provost of the merchants, riding among a^nagni- ficent escort of lackeys in green velvet, and followed, in his turn, by the city councillors, the aldermen, the masters and guards of the various guilds: drapers, spice-merchants, haberdashers, furriers and vintners, in velvet gowns of a thousand hues. The people cheered these merchant companies.
But they were cool towards the officers of the watch, who were followed by the men of the Chatelet, that is, the tipstaffs, the bailiffs and the two lieutenants—the civil and the criminal one. Recognising their habitual tormentors, the ‘grimauds’ and the *malveillcmts\ the rabble fell silent. The same hostile silence greeted the sovereign courts—the Board of Excise and the Audit Office, symbols of the hated taxes.
The first president and his principal colleagues were all resplendent in their scarlet coats with ermine trimmings, and with black velvet gold- braided ‘mortar-boards’ on their heads.
It was getting close to two o’clock in the afternoon. In the azure sky small clouds formed in vain only to be dissolved by the broiling sun. The crowd sweated, steamed. They were on tenterhooks, their necks stretched towards the horizon. A roar announced that they had just seen the Queen Mother appear under the canopy of the Hotel de Beauvais. It was the sign that the King and Queen were approaching.
Angelique had an arm over the shoulders of Madame Scarron and Athenais de Tonnay-Charente. All three of them were leaning out of the window of the top storey of die house. Hortense, Mortemart and the younger sister had found a place at another window.
From afar could be seen the retinue of His Eminence Monseigneur Mazarin. The Cardinal-Minister was preceded by seventy-two mules under velvet and gold sumpter-cloths; his pages and gendemen decked in sumptuous materials escorted his coach, which was a real masterpiece or the goldsmith’s art, that glittered in the sunshine-
He stopped in front of the Hotel de Beauvais. After receiving a deep curtsy from One-eyed Kate, he went up to the balcony to join the Queen
Mother and her sister-in-law, the ex-Queen of England, widow of the beheaded King Charles I.
The crowd gave an unrestrained ovation to Mazarin. He was not any better liked than at the time of the ‘mazarinades*, but he had signed the Peace of the Pyren£es, and, at the bottom of their hearts, the people of France were grateful to him for having saved them from their own folly of banishing the King whom they were now awaiting in a paroxysm of adoration.
His noblemen and their suites preceded him. Angelique could put a name to many of their faces. She pointed out to her companions the Marquis d’Humieres and the Due de Lauzun, at the head of a hundred gentlemen. Lauzun, ever impish, blew unceremonious kisses to the ladies. The crowd responded with gusts of tender-hearted laughter. How they loved these young noblemen, so brave and so brilliant! Here again, they dismissed from their minds the squandering and arrogance, the brawls and shameless tavern orgies. They only remembered their gallant deeds in bed and battle.
The throng called out their names: Saint-Aignan dressed in gold, the most pleasing figure of them all; de Guiche, with his face like a flower of the south, riding on a fiery horse; Brienne, wearing a hat with a triple tier of plumes that hovered around him like the fluttering wings of fabulous white and pink birds.
Angelique shrank back and compressed her lips as the Marquis de Vardes passed, his fine-featured, insolent head carried high under his fair wig. He led the Cent-Suisses guard, tightly wedged into their stiff ruffs.
A shrill outburst of trumpets shattered the rhythm of the march. The King approached, borne on the waves of thunderous acclaim.
He was there! . . . brilliant as the sun!
How grand he was, the King of France! A true King at last! Neither despicable like Charles IX or Henri III, nor too plain like Henri IV, nor too austere like Louis XIII.
Mounted on a bay horse he advanced slowly, escorted at a few steps* distance by his Great Chamberlain, his principal gendeman-in-waiting, his equerry, his captain of the guards. He had refused the canopy which the city had had embroidered for him. He wanted the people to see him.
Louis XIV rode past without suspecting the role that would be played in his life by the three women whom a curious stroke of chance had assembled above him: Athenais de Tonnay-Charente de Mortemart, Ang&que de Peyrac, Fran^oise Scarron. ■ *
Under her hand, Angflique felt Fran^oise’s golden-hued flesh quiver.
“Oh! how beautiful he is!” whispered the widow.
Ath£nais murmured, her blue eyes popping with enthusiasm:
“He is certainly beautiful in his silver costume. But I’m thinking that without his costume he mustn’t be too bad either, and even without his shirt. The Queen is lucky to find such a man in her bed.”
Angelique did not say anything.
‘It is he,* she thought, ‘who holds our destiny in his hands. God help us, he is too great, he is too mighty !*
A shout from the crowd caught her attention.
“The Prince! Long live the Prince!” they cried.
Angelique trembled.
Lean, gaunt, holding his head erect, his eyes fiery and his nose eagle- beaked, the Prince de Conde was returning to Paris. He had come back from Flanders, where his long rebellion against royal authority had led him. He did not bother about scruples or regrets, and anyway the people of Paris forgave him. The traitor was forgotten, the victor of Rocroi and Lens acclaimed.
At his side, Monsieur, the King’s brother, in a cloud of lace, looked more than ever like a girl in disguise.
Finally the young Queen appeared, seated in a Roman type of chariot of sparkling silver-gilt, drawn by six horses in bejewelled caparisons em-broidered with golden fleurs-de-lis and precious stones.
One-eyed Kate at the foot of the staircase seemed to be lying in wait for someone. When the modest little Poitou party appeared on the landing, she shouted to them in her raucous voice :
“Well? Were you able to watch your fill?”
They thanked her profusely, their cheeks still glowing with excitement.
“Good. Why don’t you go and have some pastry over there?”
She folded her vast fan and tapped Angelique lightly on the shoulder.
“You, my pretty one, come with me for a moment.”
Surprised, the young woman followed Madame de Beauvais through the rooms crammed with guests. They finally found themselves in a small, deserted boudoir.
“Ah!” sighed the old lady, fanning herself. “It’s not easy to isolate oneself.”
She scrutinised Angelique attentively. The half-closed eyelid over her empty socket gave her face an expression of vulgarity which was intensi¬fied by the flakes of rouge encrusted in her wrinkles and the grin of her toothless mouth.
“I think you’ll do,” she said after a moment’s observation. “What would you say, my beauty, to a big chateau near Paris, with a major- domo, footmen, lackeys, maids, six carriages, stables and a pension of a hundred thousand livres?”
“All this is being proposed to meV asked Angelique, laughing.
“To you.”
“And by whom?”
“Someone who wishes you well.”
“So I imagine. But who?”
The other came closer with a conspiratorial air.
“A rich nobleman who is dying of love for your beautiful eyes.” “Listen, Madame,” said Angelique, who was trying hard to keep a straight face. “I am very grateful to the nobleman, whoever he may be, but I am afraid that someone is trying to make fun of my artlessness by making me such princely proposals. The gentleman doesn’t know me very well if he believes that the mere mention of such munificence could sway me to belong to him.”
“Are you, then, so well of f in Paris that you turn up your nose so scornfully? I have been told that your possessions are under seal and that you had sold your coaches.”
The sharp eye of the old shrew did not leave the young woman’s face.
“I see you are well-informed, Madame, but the point is I do not yet intend to sell my body. . . .”
“Who’s talking of that, little fool?” hissed the other.
“I thought I gathered . . .”
“Pah! You’ll take a lover or you won’t. You’ll live like a nun, if that’s what you want. You are only being asked to accept this proposal.”
“But . . . in exchange for what?” inquired Angelique, taken aback. The other came even closer and took her two hands familiarly.
“It’s quite simple,” she said in the reasonable tone of voice of a kindly grandmother. “You set up house in this wonderful chateau. You go to Court. You’ll go to Saint-Germain, to Fontainebleau. It would amuse you, wouldn’t it, to attend the Court fetes, to be waited upon, spoiled, courted? Of course, if you are absolutely set on it, you could go on calling yourselfMadamedePeyrac . . . but perhaps you would prefer to change your name. For instance, you might call yourself Madame de Sance. . . . That sounds very pretty. . . . People would say as you passed. ‘That is the lovely Madame de Sance’. Eh, eh, doesn’t that sound rather nice?
“But really,” said Angelique impatiently, “don’t take me for such a fool as to think that a gentleman wants to lavish his wealth on ща without asking for anything in return!”
“Ho, ho! It almost comes to that, though. All that you are asked is to give no more thought to anything but your dresses, your jewels, your amusements. Is that really so difficult for a pretty girl? You understand?” she added, gently shaking Angelique. “Do you understand?”
Angelique gazed at this witch’s face whose hairy chin was plastered with blobs of white powder.
“Do you understand? Think of nothing! Forget . .
T’m being asked to forget Joffrey,’ Angelique said to herself. ‘To forget that I am his wife, to give up defending him, to erase his memory from my life, to blot out all remembrance. I’m being asked to keep silent, to forget. . . .’
The vision of the little poison-casket rose up before her. That, she was sure of it now, was the starting-point of the whole drama. Who could be interested in her silence? Some of the most highly-placed people in the kingdom: Monsieur Fouquet, the Prince de Condc, all those lords whose carefully devised treachery had for years reposed in a sandalwood casket. Angelique shook her head coldly.
“I am very sorry, Madame, but I must no doubt be of poor intelligence, for I do not grasp a single word of what you’ve been trying to tell fne.” “Well, you think it over, my sweet, think it over, and then give me your answer. ■ Don’t wait too long, though. In a couple of days, shall we say? Come, come, my pretty one, don’t you think that, all in all, it’s better than . . .”
She leaned towards Angelique’s ear and breathed into it:
“. . . than losing your life?”
Angelique sold her coach and horses and some jewels. She fell into the modest existence of tliis bourgeois district. She lent a helping hand in the kitchen, played with Florimond, who had begun to trot busily through the house, entangling himself every now and then in his long dress. His little cousins adored him. Spoiled by them, by Barbe, by the little nursemaid from Beam, he seemed happy and his little cheeks grew round and rosy again. Angelique embroidered a little red hood for him, under which his sweet little face framed by its black curls enraptured the whole family. Even Hortense lost her frown and remarked that for a child of that age he certainly had a lot of charm! She herself, alas, had never been able to afford a children’s nurse at home, so that she only got to know her children after they had reached the age of four! After all, not everybody could marry a crippled and disfigured nobleman, grown rich by consort¬ing with Satan, and it was better to be a lawyer’s wife than lose your soul.
Angelique turned a deaf ear to all this. In order to show her good will, she went to Mass every day in the unamusing company of her brother-in¬law and her sister. She began to get familiar with the peculiar character of the Cite itself. Around the Palace of Justice, Notre Dame, the parishes of Saint-Aignan and Saint-Landry, on the quays, teemed a crowd of sheriff's of ficers, lawyers, judges and counsellors.
Dressed in black coats and sometimes wearing the robe, they hurried to and fro, their hands fumbling with their ‘lawsuit bags’, their arms full of piles of papers which they called ‘useful files’. They cluttered up the stairs of the Palace and the neighbouring lanes. The Inn of the Black Head was their gathering place. There one could see the glowing, bibulous faces ot the magistrates behind steaming stews and round-bellied bottles.
At the other end of the island, the vociferous Pont-Neuf of fered another kind of Paris which the gendemen of the Law were most in¬dignant to find sprouting in their shadow. Whenever one sent a lackey on an errand in those parts and asked him when he’d be back, he’d answer: “That depends on the ditties they’ll be singing on the Pont-Neuf today.” .
Together with the songs, a swarm of poems, pamphlets and tracts were born of the continual intermingling around the shopping-booths. On the Pont-Neuf, everybody knew evcrydiing. And even the mighty had learned to fear those grimy sheets of paper which were swept along by the breeze from the Seine and which were called the *ponts-neufs\
One evening, after getting up from dinner at Maitre Fallot’s, and while everyone was sipping quince or raspberry wine, Angelique unthinkingly pulled a sheet of paper out of her pocket. She looked at it with surprise, then remembered that she had bought it for ten sols from a poor wretch on the Pont-Neuf, on the morning of her stroll through the Tuileries.
She read it half aloud: , *
“And then let’s go into the Palais Where we’ll find that Rabelais,
Mocking their ways as unsavoury,
Fell far short of their true knavery.
Here we’ll find renowned insulters And those who slyly mulct us,
Let’s go and see the great rush. . .
Two indignant cries interrupted her. Maitre Fallot’s old uncle was choking in his glass. With a swiftness Angelique never suspected him of , her solemn brother-in-law tore the piece of paper from her hand, rolled it into a pellet and flung it out of the window.
“How shameful, my sister!’’ he cried. “How dare you introduce such filth into our home! I wager that you bought it from one of those half- starved pamphleteers on the Pont-Neuf!”
“Yes, indeed. It was stuffed into my hand with a demand for ten sols. I didn’t dare to refuse.”
“The impudence of those people defies belief. Their pen does not even spare the integrity of men of law. And to think they are shut up in the Bastille as if they were people of quality, when the blackest prison of the Chatelet would still be too good for them.”
Hortense’s husband was panting like a bull. Never would she have thought him capable of getting so excited.
“Pamphlets, lampoons, ditties, we are flooded with them. They spare no one, neither King nor Court, and blasphemy doesn’t worry them.”
“In my time,” said the old uncle, “the race of journalists had only just begun to spread. Now they’re a real vermin, the disgrace of our capital.” He rarely spoke, opening his mouth only to ask for a little glass of quince-wine or his snuff-box. This long sentence revealed how much he had been shaken by the reading of the pamphlet.
“No respectable woman ventures to set foot on the Pont-Neuf,” re¬marked Hortense cuttingly.
Maitre Fallot had gone to lean out of the window.
“The gutter has carried away this infamy. But I should have been curious to know if it was signed by the Gutter-Poet.”
“No possible doubt. Such virulence is self-revealing.”
“The Gutter-Poet,” gloomily murmured Maitre Fallot. “The man who criticises society as a whole, the bom rebel, the professional parasite! I once saw him on a platform, haranguing the crowd with goodness knows what venomous outpourings. His name is Claude Le Petit. When I think that this gaunt scarecrow with a skin like a turnip finds a means of making the Princes and even the King gnash his teeth, I find it discouraging to live in such times. When will the police at last rid us of all these mounte¬banks?”
The sighing continued for a few minutes, then the incident was closed.
The King’s entrance into Paris occupied everyone. And it so happened that it served to draw Angelique and her sister closer together. One day, Hortense came into Angelique’s room, with as engaging a smile as she was able to conjure up.
“Imagine what is happening to us,” she cried. “You remember my old convent school-friend, Athena'is de Tonnay-Charente, to whom I was so attached in Poitiers?”
“No, not at all.”
“Never mind. Anyway, she is in Paris, and as she has always been a great schemer, she has already managed to get close to some important people. In fine, on the day of the King’s entrance she’ll be able to go to the Hotel de Beauvais, which is right where the parade will start in the rue Saint-Antoine. Naturally, we’ll have to watch from the attic windows, but that won’t prevent us from having a view.”
“Why do you say we?”
“Because she’s invited us to share this boon. She’ll have her sister and brother with her, and another girl friend also from Poitiers. We’ll be a whole little coachful of Poitevins. That’ll be so nice, won’t it?”
“If you were counting on my carriage, I am sorry to tell you that I sold it.”
“I know, I know. Oh, the coach is of no importance. Athena’is will bring her own. It is a little rickety, for her family is ruined. Her mother has bundled her of f to Paris with a maid, a lackey and this old carriage, with orders to find a husband as quickly as possible. Oh! she’ll manage it, she’s trying hard enough. But the point is . . . for the King’s entrance ... she hinted to me that she was somewhat short of clothes. You see, this Mademoiselle de Beauvais who’s letting us have one of her garrets isn’t just anybody. They even say that the Queen Mother, the Cardinal, and all sorts of high personages will be dining at her house during the parade. In fact, we’ll have front seats. But we mustn’t be taken for chambermaids or paupers or we’ll get thrown out by the lackeys.”
Angelique silently went to open one of her big trunks.
“Have a look in there to see if you find something that might suit her, and something to suit you too. You are taller than I, but it’s easy to lengthen a petticoat with lace or frills.” , *
Hortense approached with shining eyes. She could not conceal her admiration while Angelique was spreading out the sumptuous garments on the bed. The gold-cloth dress drew from her a cry of admiration.
“I think it would be somewhat out of place in our attic,” Angelique warned her.
“Naturally, you attended die King’s wedding, so you can act disdain¬ful.”
“I assure you I am very pleased. Nobody awaits the King’s coming to Paris with greater impatience than I. But I mean to keep this dress in order to sell it if Andijos, as I’m begimiing to fear, doesn’t bring me back any money. As for the others, you can do with them whatever you like. It is only right that you should have some compensation for the expenses my presence has occasioned you.”
Finally, after much wavering, Hortense decided in favour of a sky-blue satin dress for her friend. For herself she selected an apple-green ensemble which brought out her nondescript brunette colouring.
On the morning of 26th August, Angelique nodded approvingly as she looked at the skinny figure of her sister, padded out by the pannier of the mantlegown, her sallow complexion heightened by the vivid green and her sparse but soft, fine hair:
“I really do think, Hortense, that you would be almost pretty if you hadn’t such a shrewish disposition.”
Much to her surprise, Hortense did not get vexed. She sighed as she went on gazing at herself in the tall steel mirror.
“I think so, too,” she said. “What can I do? I have never had a liking for mediocrity, and mediocrity is all I’ve ever known. I like to talk, to see witty, well-dressed people, I adore the theatre. But it’s difficult to get away from household duties. This winter I was able to go to some parties given by a satirical writer, the poet Scarron. A horrid fellow, invalid, malicious, but what a wit, my dear! I remember those parties with delight. Unfortunately, Scarron has just died. I’ll have to go back to mediocrity.”
“At the moment, you don’t arouse pity. I assure you, you’ve a lot of style.”
“It’s certain that on a real proctor’s wife the same dress would not produce the same effect. Nobility can’t be bought. You have it in your blood.”
As they bent over the caskets to choose their jewels, they recaptured the warmth of the clan, the arrogance of their class. They forgot the gloomy room, the tasteless furniture, the insipid Bergamo tapestries which were woven in Normandy for a petty-bourgeois clientele.
At dawn on the great day the proctor left for Vincennes, which was the
assembly-point where the State representatives were to salute and address the King.
The cannons thundered in response to the pealing bells of the churches. The city militia, in gala dress, bristling with pikes, halberds and muskets, took possession of the streets, which hawkers filled with a deafening din, as they distributed booklets giving the programme of the celebrations, the route of the royal cortege, the description of the triumphal arches.
Towards eight o’clock, the somewhat shabby carriage of Mademoiselle Athenais de Tonnay-Charcnte stopped in front of the house. She was a beautiful girl, all in glowing colours: golden hair, pink cheeks, pearly brow set of f by a black patch. Her blue dress matched her sapphire eyes, which, though a trifle protruding, sparkled with wit and liveliness. She hardly remembered to show her gratitude, although in addition to the dress she wore a very beautiful diamond necklace lent her by Angelique. Mademoiselle dc Tonnay-Charente de Mortemart considered that every¬thing was her due, and that one could not but feel honoured to serve her. Despite her family’s impecuniousness, she considered that her ancient name was worth a fortune. Her brother and sister seemed endowed with the same conceit. All three were bursting with vitality, caustic wit, en¬thusiasm and ambition, which made them most attractive and redoubtable companions.
It was a merry though creaking coachful that rumbled through the packed streets, between the houses decked with flowers and tapestries. Amid the ever-denser crowd, horsemen and fines of carriages clamoured for right of way in order to proceed towards the Gate of St. Antoine, where the procession was to form up.
“We’ll have to make a detour to collect poor Fran^oise,” said Athenais. “It won’t be an easy matter.”
“Oh! the Lord preserve us from Madame Scarron-the-Cripple!” exclaimed her brother.
Seated next to Angelique, he was unceremoniously crushing her. She asked him to move over as he was stifling her.
“I promised Fran^oise I’d take her along,” said Athenais. “She is a good girl and hasn’t had much entertainment since her legless cripple of a husband died. I wonder if she isn’t beginning to miss him.”
“After all, repulsive though he was, he earned the money for the house-hold. The Queen Mother had given him a pension.”
“Was he already an invalid when he married her?” asked Hortense. “That couple has always intrigued me.”
“Of course he was. He took the girl into his house to look after him. As she was an orphan, she accepted; she was fifteen at the time.”
“Do you think she took the plunge?” asked the younger sister.
“Who knows? . . . Scarron proclaimed to whoever wanted to listen that his sickness had paralysed everything but his tongue and his you- know-what. Without any doubt, she must have learned not a few little things from him. He was always so wicked! And, upon my faith, so many people came to see them that some handsome, well-built nobleman surely must have taken it upon himself to distract her a little, too. There was a rumour about Villarceaux.”
“One must admit,” said Hortense, “that Madame Scarron is beautiful, but she has always behaved with great modesty. She always remained seated next to her husband’s wheel-chair, helped him to sit down and passed him his herb-tea. Besides which she is learned and very well- spoken.”
The widow was waiting on the pavement outside a shabby-looking house.
“Good Lord, that dress!” whispered Athenais, raising her hand to her lips. “Her skirt is worn to a shred.”
“Why didn’t you mention it to me?” asked Angelique. “I could have found her something.”
“Why, it didn’t occur to me. Do get in, Fran^oise.”
The young woman sat down in a corner, after gracefully greeting the occupants of the coach. She had lovely brown eyes, which were veiled by her long eyelids touched with mauve.
They finally reached the rue Saint-Antoinc, which, surprisingly, did not seem too crowded. The coaches had apparently been parked in the neighbouring lanes. The Hotel de Beauvais was a beehive of activity. A canopy of crimson velvet, adorned with gold and silver braids and fringes, decorated the central balcony. Persian carpets embellished the facade. On the doorstep an old one-eyed lady, decked out like an altar-piece but with her fists on her hips, was shouting directions at the upholsterers.
“What is that horrid virago doing there?” inquired Angelique, as their party was approaching the house.
Hortense motioned to her to be silent, but Athenais was giggling behind her fan.
“That’s the mistress of the house, my dear. Catherine de Beauvais, known as One-eyed Kate. She is a former chambermaid of Anne of Austria’s, who entrusted her with making a man of our young King when he was going on fifteen. That’s the secret of her wealth.”
Angelique could not help laughing.
“One must presume that she makes experience do for charm. . . .”
“A proverb says that there are no ugly women for adolescents and monks/* the young Mortemart chimed in.
Notwithstanding their ironical sentiments, they bowed deeply to the former chambermaid. She cast a piercing glance at them out of her single eye.
“Ah! here is the Poitou lot. Don*t clutter me up, my lambs. Go straight up there before my maids take the best places. But who is this one?’* she said, pointing a crooked finger in Angelique’s direction.
Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente introduced her:
“A friend, the Comtcsse de Pcyrac de Morens.**
“Oh really! Ho, ho !** said the old lady with a kind of sneer.
“I am sure she knows something about you/* whispered Hortense on the stairs. “We arc childish to imagine that the scandal won't eventually be public. I should never have taken you along. You’d better go home.**
“All right, but in that case give me back my dress/’ said Angelique, reaching a hand towards her sister’s bodice.
“Keep still, little ninny,” answered Hortense, struggling.
Athenais de Tonnay-Charente had taken by storm the window of a servant’s room and was making herself comfortable together with her girl friends.
“You can see marvellously,” she cried. “Look, down there, the Gate of Saint-Antoine by which the King will enter.”
Angelique also leaned down. She felt herself grow pale.
What she saw under the blue sky, hazy with heat, was not the vast avenue where the crowd was milling, nor the Gate of Saint-Antoine with its triumphal arch of white stone, but a little to the right, looming like a sombre cliff, the huge bulk of a fortress.
She asked her sister in a low voice:
“What is that big stronghold near the Gate of Saint-Antoine?”
“The Bastille,” whispered Hortense behind her fan.
Angelique could not take her eyes of f it. Eight turrets, each topped by a watchtowcr, blind facades, walls, portcullises, drawbridges, moats—an island of suffering lost in the ocean of an indifferent city, a closed world untouched by life, which no joyous clamours would reach even on this day: the Bastille! . . .
The King would pass in all his glory at the foot of this fierce guardian of his authority. No sound would pierce the darkness of the jails where forgotten men had been despairing for years, for a lifetime.
The time of waiting dragged on. At last, the shouts of the impatient crowd heralded the beginning of the procession. Emerging* from the shadow of the Gate of Saint-Antoine appeared the first companies. They were composed of four mendicant orders: Franciscans, Dominicans, Augustins, Carmelites, preceded by their crosses and their cradle-bearers. Their black, brown or white homespun gowns were an insult to the splendour of the sun which gleamed, in revenge, on a sea of rosy skulls. The secular clergy followed, with their crosses and banners, their priests in surplices and square bonnets.
Then the city corporations marched up, with raised trumpets whose merry bugling succeeded the pious chants. The three hundred city archers were followed by Monsieur de Burnonville, the Governor, and his guards.
After that came the provost of the merchants, riding among a^nagni- ficent escort of lackeys in green velvet, and followed, in his turn, by the city councillors, the aldermen, the masters and guards of the various guilds: drapers, spice-merchants, haberdashers, furriers and vintners, in velvet gowns of a thousand hues. The people cheered these merchant companies.
But they were cool towards the officers of the watch, who were followed by the men of the Chatelet, that is, the tipstaffs, the bailiffs and the two lieutenants—the civil and the criminal one. Recognising their habitual tormentors, the ‘grimauds’ and the *malveillcmts\ the rabble fell silent. The same hostile silence greeted the sovereign courts—the Board of Excise and the Audit Office, symbols of the hated taxes.
The first president and his principal colleagues were all resplendent in their scarlet coats with ermine trimmings, and with black velvet gold- braided ‘mortar-boards’ on their heads.
It was getting close to two o’clock in the afternoon. In the azure sky small clouds formed in vain only to be dissolved by the broiling sun. The crowd sweated, steamed. They were on tenterhooks, their necks stretched towards the horizon. A roar announced that they had just seen the Queen Mother appear under the canopy of the Hotel de Beauvais. It was the sign that the King and Queen were approaching.
Angelique had an arm over the shoulders of Madame Scarron and Athenais de Tonnay-Charente. All three of them were leaning out of the window of the top storey of die house. Hortense, Mortemart and the younger sister had found a place at another window.
From afar could be seen the retinue of His Eminence Monseigneur Mazarin. The Cardinal-Minister was preceded by seventy-two mules under velvet and gold sumpter-cloths; his pages and gendemen decked in sumptuous materials escorted his coach, which was a real masterpiece or the goldsmith’s art, that glittered in the sunshine-
He stopped in front of the Hotel de Beauvais. After receiving a deep curtsy from One-eyed Kate, he went up to the balcony to join the Queen
Mother and her sister-in-law, the ex-Queen of England, widow of the beheaded King Charles I.
The crowd gave an unrestrained ovation to Mazarin. He was not any better liked than at the time of the ‘mazarinades*, but he had signed the Peace of the Pyren£es, and, at the bottom of their hearts, the people of France were grateful to him for having saved them from their own folly of banishing the King whom they were now awaiting in a paroxysm of adoration.
His noblemen and their suites preceded him. Angelique could put a name to many of their faces. She pointed out to her companions the Marquis d’Humieres and the Due de Lauzun, at the head of a hundred gentlemen. Lauzun, ever impish, blew unceremonious kisses to the ladies. The crowd responded with gusts of tender-hearted laughter. How they loved these young noblemen, so brave and so brilliant! Here again, they dismissed from their minds the squandering and arrogance, the brawls and shameless tavern orgies. They only remembered their gallant deeds in bed and battle.
The throng called out their names: Saint-Aignan dressed in gold, the most pleasing figure of them all; de Guiche, with his face like a flower of the south, riding on a fiery horse; Brienne, wearing a hat with a triple tier of plumes that hovered around him like the fluttering wings of fabulous white and pink birds.
Angelique shrank back and compressed her lips as the Marquis de Vardes passed, his fine-featured, insolent head carried high under his fair wig. He led the Cent-Suisses guard, tightly wedged into their stiff ruffs.
A shrill outburst of trumpets shattered the rhythm of the march. The King approached, borne on the waves of thunderous acclaim.
He was there! . . . brilliant as the sun!
How grand he was, the King of France! A true King at last! Neither despicable like Charles IX or Henri III, nor too plain like Henri IV, nor too austere like Louis XIII.
Mounted on a bay horse he advanced slowly, escorted at a few steps* distance by his Great Chamberlain, his principal gendeman-in-waiting, his equerry, his captain of the guards. He had refused the canopy which the city had had embroidered for him. He wanted the people to see him.
Louis XIV rode past without suspecting the role that would be played in his life by the three women whom a curious stroke of chance had assembled above him: Athenais de Tonnay-Charente de Mortemart, Ang&que de Peyrac, Fran^oise Scarron. ■ *
Under her hand, Angflique felt Fran^oise’s golden-hued flesh quiver.
“Oh! how beautiful he is!” whispered the widow.
Ath£nais murmured, her blue eyes popping with enthusiasm:
“He is certainly beautiful in his silver costume. But I’m thinking that without his costume he mustn’t be too bad either, and even without his shirt. The Queen is lucky to find such a man in her bed.”
Angelique did not say anything.
‘It is he,* she thought, ‘who holds our destiny in his hands. God help us, he is too great, he is too mighty !*
A shout from the crowd caught her attention.
“The Prince! Long live the Prince!” they cried.
Angelique trembled.
Lean, gaunt, holding his head erect, his eyes fiery and his nose eagle- beaked, the Prince de Conde was returning to Paris. He had come back from Flanders, where his long rebellion against royal authority had led him. He did not bother about scruples or regrets, and anyway the people of Paris forgave him. The traitor was forgotten, the victor of Rocroi and Lens acclaimed.
At his side, Monsieur, the King’s brother, in a cloud of lace, looked more than ever like a girl in disguise.
Finally the young Queen appeared, seated in a Roman type of chariot of sparkling silver-gilt, drawn by six horses in bejewelled caparisons em-broidered with golden fleurs-de-lis and precious stones.
One-eyed Kate at the foot of the staircase seemed to be lying in wait for someone. When the modest little Poitou party appeared on the landing, she shouted to them in her raucous voice :
“Well? Were you able to watch your fill?”
They thanked her profusely, their cheeks still glowing with excitement.
“Good. Why don’t you go and have some pastry over there?”
She folded her vast fan and tapped Angelique lightly on the shoulder.
“You, my pretty one, come with me for a moment.”
Surprised, the young woman followed Madame de Beauvais through the rooms crammed with guests. They finally found themselves in a small, deserted boudoir.
“Ah!” sighed the old lady, fanning herself. “It’s not easy to isolate oneself.”
She scrutinised Angelique attentively. The half-closed eyelid over her empty socket gave her face an expression of vulgarity which was intensi¬fied by the flakes of rouge encrusted in her wrinkles and the grin of her toothless mouth.
“I think you’ll do,” she said after a moment’s observation. “What would you say, my beauty, to a big chateau near Paris, with a major- domo, footmen, lackeys, maids, six carriages, stables and a pension of a hundred thousand livres?”
“All this is being proposed to meV asked Angelique, laughing.
“To you.”
“And by whom?”
“Someone who wishes you well.”
“So I imagine. But who?”
The other came closer with a conspiratorial air.
“A rich nobleman who is dying of love for your beautiful eyes.” “Listen, Madame,” said Angelique, who was trying hard to keep a straight face. “I am very grateful to the nobleman, whoever he may be, but I am afraid that someone is trying to make fun of my artlessness by making me such princely proposals. The gentleman doesn’t know me very well if he believes that the mere mention of such munificence could sway me to belong to him.”
“Are you, then, so well of f in Paris that you turn up your nose so scornfully? I have been told that your possessions are under seal and that you had sold your coaches.”
The sharp eye of the old shrew did not leave the young woman’s face.
“I see you are well-informed, Madame, but the point is I do not yet intend to sell my body. . . .”
“Who’s talking of that, little fool?” hissed the other.
“I thought I gathered . . .”
“Pah! You’ll take a lover or you won’t. You’ll live like a nun, if that’s what you want. You are only being asked to accept this proposal.”
“But . . . in exchange for what?” inquired Angelique, taken aback. The other came even closer and took her two hands familiarly.
“It’s quite simple,” she said in the reasonable tone of voice of a kindly grandmother. “You set up house in this wonderful chateau. You go to Court. You’ll go to Saint-Germain, to Fontainebleau. It would amuse you, wouldn’t it, to attend the Court fetes, to be waited upon, spoiled, courted? Of course, if you are absolutely set on it, you could go on calling yourselfMadamedePeyrac . . . but perhaps you would prefer to change your name. For instance, you might call yourself Madame de Sance. . . . That sounds very pretty. . . . People would say as you passed. ‘That is the lovely Madame de Sance’. Eh, eh, doesn’t that sound rather nice?
“But really,” said Angelique impatiently, “don’t take me for such a fool as to think that a gentleman wants to lavish his wealth on ща without asking for anything in return!”
“Ho, ho! It almost comes to that, though. All that you are asked is to give no more thought to anything but your dresses, your jewels, your amusements. Is that really so difficult for a pretty girl? You understand?” she added, gently shaking Angelique. “Do you understand?”
Angelique gazed at this witch’s face whose hairy chin was plastered with blobs of white powder.
“Do you understand? Think of nothing! Forget . .
T’m being asked to forget Joffrey,’ Angelique said to herself. ‘To forget that I am his wife, to give up defending him, to erase his memory from my life, to blot out all remembrance. I’m being asked to keep silent, to forget. . . .’
The vision of the little poison-casket rose up before her. That, she was sure of it now, was the starting-point of the whole drama. Who could be interested in her silence? Some of the most highly-placed people in the kingdom: Monsieur Fouquet, the Prince de Condc, all those lords whose carefully devised treachery had for years reposed in a sandalwood casket. Angelique shook her head coldly.
“I am very sorry, Madame, but I must no doubt be of poor intelligence, for I do not grasp a single word of what you’ve been trying to tell fne.” “Well, you think it over, my sweet, think it over, and then give me your answer. ■ Don’t wait too long, though. In a couple of days, shall we say? Come, come, my pretty one, don’t you think that, all in all, it’s better than . . .”
She leaned towards Angelique’s ear and breathed into it:
“. . . than losing your life?”
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