Bellegarde’s heart misgave him. The King’s vehemence alarms him. He saw too late the mistake that he has made.
“Now, Bellegarde, don’t look like a doctor of the Sorbonne in a fix; Mademoiselle d’Estrées will not object if I go in your company?”
“Your Majesty must consider that I have no excuse for introducing you,” replies he, with some hesitation. “Besides, consider, Sire, the roads are unsafe and skirmishers are abroad.”
“Tut! tut! man; when did I ever care for that when a fair lady was in the way? I insist upon going, or you shall not either. Both or none. Listen how it shall be managed. I will disguise myself as—well, let me see—a Spaniard; no one will suspect me in that character. You shall introduce me as an Hidalgo, Don Juan, we will say”; and a wicked leer lights up his countenance. “Don Juan, your prisoner,—taken in a mêlée, now on parole; and my poor Chicot[20] shall go with us, too, for company.”
Gabrielle was then living at the paternal Castle of Cœuvres, which stood on a wooded height between Soissons and Laon, with her father and her sisters. She was passionately attached to the seductive Bellegarde, and anticipated their speedy union with all imaginable happiness.
One evening, while she was indulging in those agreeable musings proper to the state called “being in love,” Bellegarde was abruptly announced. He was accompanied by two gentlemen: one, short in stature, with a comical expression of countenance, was introduced as Monsieur Chicot; the other, by name “Don Juan,” neither tall nor short, but with very broad shoulders, had greyish hair, highly coloured cheeks, a swarthy skin, and was remarkable for a prominent nose and exceedingly audacious eyes.
Gabrielle rose in haste and was about to fling her arms round Bellegarde, but, on seeing his two companions, she drew back, welcoming them all with a more formal courtesy.
Gabrielle was eighteen, tall, slim, and singularly graceful. The severity of her aquiline features was relieved by the bluest eyes and a most delicate pink and white complexion; webs of auburn hair flowed over her shoulders. She cast a curious glance at her lover’s singular companions; she was surprised and vexed that Bellegarde had not come alone, and to find him cold and reserved. However, any shortcomings on his part were amply made up by the cordial accolade of the Spanish Don, who extolled her beauty to her face, and, without asking permission, kissed her on the cheek.
Gabrielle’s delicacy was hurt at this freedom; she reproached herself for the frankness with which she had received strangers, believing them to be friends of her lover. Casting a helpless glance at him, she looked down, blushed and retreated to a distant part of the room, where she seated herself.
“Pray, madame, excuse our friend,” said Chicot, seeing the confusion of Gabrielle at such unexpected familiarity; “he is a Spaniard, only newly arrived in France; he is quite unacquainted with the usages of the country.”