“Ah, Jacques,” he said, to the man who stood bowing on the threshold, and who permitted none of his astonishment at seeing me to appear in his face, “what is it?”
“A note, M. le Duc, delivered but a moment ago,” and he held out a tiny missive. Richelieu seized it, eagerly scanned the address, and tore it open with a hand trembling with excitement. He read its contents at a glance, and his eyes were dancing with joy as he raised them to mine.
“You may go, Jacques,” he said to the lacquey; “I shall not forget your promptness;” and then turning to me as the door closed, “Do you know what this means, de Brancas? It means success in another affair dearer to my heart than this conspiracy of Cellamare. Ah, the work that I have done to secure this one little note,—the servants I have bribed, the women I have cajoled, the disguises I have assumed! And here at last is victory, for this says, ‘Be at the dryad fountain in the Palais Royal gardens at ten o’clock to-morrow night.’”
“A rendezvous?” I asked.
“Yes, a rendezvous. But you could not guess with whom were you to guess forever. Who do you think will be at the dryad fountain waiting for me at ten o’clock to-morrow evening? Who but Charlotte d’Orleans, Mlle. de Valois!”
“Mlle. de Valois!” I gasped. “The daughter of the regent! Why, man, you must be mad,” and I gazed in astonishment at this youth of twenty-two who while plotting against the father dared make love to the daughter.
“If you but saw her, de Brancas,” cried the duke, “you would say I was far from mad. I fell in love with her the first time her eyes met mine. That was at a ball given a month ago for the Duchess de Lorraine, when the regent was celebrating her visit to Paris. You have never seen such eyes, de Brancas. We rave over Madame du Maine’s eyes,—you have seen them and know how wonderful they are,—but they fade as the stars fade at sunrise when Charlotte d’Orleans appears. No, ’tis not a lover’s rhapsody,” he added, seeing me smile; “there are none in the kingdom to compare with them. Were this not so I should not so readily have fallen victim, for I have gazed into many and many without a quickening of the pulse.”
He stopped to read through the note again, and as he folded it and placed it tenderly in his pocket I saw he was in earnest. Indeed, the eyes must needs be beautiful which could so move the heart of this seasoned courtier.
“But the regent,” I said, at last, “the regent. What thinks he of all this? I had not thought him a friend of yours.”
“A friend of mine!” cried Richelieu. “De Brancas, if there is one person in Paris whom he detests above all others, it is myself.”