“But it seems an unnecessary trial for both of you,” I protested.
“The regent has ordered it, de Brancas,” answered Richelieu, quietly; “and do you know why he has ordered it? Simply to give me pain. Ah, well, I will show him that I can smile even when my heart is breaking.”
He fell silent for a time and then suddenly arose.
“Come,” he said, “we have no time to lose. It will be a brilliant assembly and we must pay some attention to our toilettes. You are to consider mine as your own, my friend. All I have would be too little to show my gratitude.”
I thanked him, but declined his offer. I was resolved to wear no borrowed plumage, but to go as plain Jean de Brancas. Richelieu looked at me with a smile as he joined me in the hall,—a smile of understanding,—but he said nothing. We entered the carriage which was waiting and were driven rapidly across the Seine. I glanced at him anxiously. He appeared more composed than I.
There was a blockade of vehicles in the Rue St. Honoré and we could proceed but slowly. Richelieu seemed rather to court than to shun observation and nodded gayly to all whom he knew. But every journey must have an end, and at last we drew up before the entrance to the Palais Royal, crossed the court, and mounted the steps together. The chapel was already crowded with a gay company, and they seemed to turn their heads with one accord and look at us as we entered. Some whisper had got abroad of Richelieu’s love for the princess, and every one was curious to see how he would endure the ordeal. My heart leaped as I saw him advancing with head erect and eyes sparkling, bowing gayly to right and left. It was as I would have a brave man go to the block. He took his station at the side of Mlle. de Charolais, the regent’s sister, in the front rank of the spectators, and began a lively conversation with her. I had not his confidence in my power to conceal my feelings, and chose a less conspicuous position somewhat in the rear.
We had not long to wait. A sudden silence fell upon the crowd, and before the altar appeared the priest, vested in surplice and white stole. At either side of him came the acolytes and choir boys, and even as they took their places the bridal procession entered. I who was standing behind Richelieu saw the nervous energy with which he gripped his sword, but his lips still smiled even when the bride, conducted by the regent, passed in her wedding finery. I gazed at her with bated breath. Her face was white as her wedding-gown and her eyes were lustrous and dark and full of high purpose. I had never seen her so beautiful.
My eyes turned from her to the lady following, and with a start I recognized Louise. She, too, was pale, and I saw that her lips were trembling, but she went bravely on, looking neither to the right nor to the left. The crowd of courtiers and powdered ladies closed in behind her, and I dimly remember hearing some one say that the ceremony was to be the simplest possible, that the bride had so ordered it.
The murmur of the crowd died away to a whisper, to profound silence, broken only by the voice of the priest. I felt my head whirling and my hand trembling like a leaf. And then came the voice of the princess, calm, clear, firm, and my eyes were wet with tears. I dared not glance in Richelieu’s direction. I feared that even yet he might attempt to drag her from the altar. Above the beating of my heart arose the voice of the priest,—
“Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sanctu.”