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Updated: June 16, 2025
"Let us throw ourselves together into the sea," said Etienne to Gabrielle, leaning down to the ear of the young girl who was kneeling beside him. She bowed her head, smiling. Beauvouloir divined all. "Monseigneur," he said, "your mind and your knowledge can make you eloquent, and the force of your love may be irresistible. Declare it to monseigneur the duke; you will thus confirm my letter.
This was neither Norman beauty, where flesh abounds, nor French beauty, as fugitive as its own expressions, nor the beauty of the North, cold and melancholy as the North itself it was the deep seraphic beauty of the Catholic Church, supple and rigid, severe but tender. "Where could one find a prettier duchess?" thought Beauvouloir, contemplating his daughter with delight.
Beauvouloir had intentionally made no preparations; he thought, wisely, that between two beings in whom solitude had left pure hearts, love would arise in all its simplicity. The repetition of the air by Gabrielle was a ready text on which to begin a conversation.
Monseigneur, who in those days was still in his twenties, will remember that affair; bold he was, I can tell it now he led the insulters!" "He never thinks of the past," said Beauvouloir. "He knows my wife is dead, but I doubt if he remembers I have a daughter." "Two old navigators like you and me ought to be able to bring the ship to port," said Bertrand.
The old retainer helped the nurse and valet to unload the horses and carry in the baggage, and otherwise establish the daughter of Beauvouloir in Etienne's former abode. When Bertrand saw Gabrielle, he was amazed. "I seem to see madame!" he cried. "She is slim and willowy like her; she has madame's coloring and the same fair hair. The old duke will surely love her."
It was more a miscarriage than a regular birth, and the child was so puny that it caused little suffering to the mother. "Holy Virgin!" cried the bonesetter, "it isn't a miscarriage, after all!" The count made the floor shake as he stamped with rage. The countess pinched Beauvouloir. "Ah! I see!" he said to himself.
For this reason the physician was confident that the prejudices of the noble would thwart the desires and the vows of the father. Great physician that he was, Beauvouloir saw plainly that to a being so delicately organized as Etienne marriage must come as a slow and gentle inspiration, communicating new powers to his being and vivifying it with the fires of love.
Beauvouloir brought her beautiful spinning-wheels, finely-carved chests, rich carpets, pottery of Bernard de Palissy, tables, prie-dieus, chairs beautifully wrought and covered with precious stuffs, embroidered line and jewels.
The spy then watched the cottage, saw the physician's daughter, and fell in love with her. Beauvouloir he knew was rich. The duke would be furious at the man's audacity. On those foundations the Baron d'Artagnon erected the edifice of his fortunes.
"Come, Gabrielle, my child," said the voice of Beauvouloir, "I forbade you to stay upon the seashore after sundown; you must come in, my daughter." "Gabrielle," said Etienne to himself. "Oh! the pretty name!" Beauvouloir presently came to him, rousing his young master from one of those meditations which resemble dreams. It was night, and the moon was rising.
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