A LETTER FROM M. DE BAISEMEAUX.
D'Artagnan, faithful to his plan, went the next morning to pay a visit
to M. de Baisemeaux. It was the cleaning up or tidying day at the
Bastille: the cannons were furbished up, the staircases scraped and
cleaned; and the jailers seemed to be carefully engaged in polishing
even the keys themselves. As for the soldiers belonging to the garrison,
they were walking about in the different courtyards, under the pretense
that they were clean enough. The governor, Baisemeaux, received
D'Artagnan with more than ordinary politeness, but he behaved toward him
with so marked a reserve of manner, that all D'Artagnan's tact and
cleverness could not get a syllable out of him. The more he kept himself
within bounds, the more D'Artagnan's suspicion increased. The latter
even fancied he remarked that the governor was acting under the
influence of a recent recommendation. Baisemeaux had not been at the
Palais Royal with D'Artagnan the same cold and impenetrable man which
the latter now found in the Baisemeaux of the Bastille. When D'Artagnan
wished to make him talk about the urgent money matters which had brought
Baisemeaux in search of D'Artagnan, and had rendered him expansive,
notwithstanding what had passed on that evening, Baisemeaux pretended
that he had some orders to give in the prison, and left D'Artagnan so
long alone, waiting for him, that our musketeer, feeling sure that he
should not get another syllable out of him, left the Bastille without
waiting until Baisemeaux returned from his inspection. But D'Artagnan's
suspicions were aroused, and when once that was the case, D'Artagnan
could not sleep or remain quiet for a moment. He was among men what the
cat is among quadrupeds, the emblem of restlessness and impatience at
the same moment. A restless cat no more remains in the same place than a
silk thread does which is wafted idly to and fro with every breath of
air. A cat on the watch is as motionless as death stationed at its place
of observation, and neither hunger nor thirst can possibly draw it away
from its meditation. D'Artagnan who was burning with impatience,
suddenly threw aside the feeling, like a cloak which he felt too heavy
on his shoulders, and said to himself that that which they were
concealing from him was the very thing it was important he should know;
and, consequently, he reasoned that Baisemeaux would not fail to put
Aramis on his guard, if Aramis had given him any particular
recommendation, and which, was, in fact, the very thing that did happen.
Baisemeaux had hardly had time to return from the donjon, than
D'Artagnan placed himself in ambuscade close to the Rue du Petit-Muse,
so as to see every one who might leave the gates of the Bastille. After
he had spent an hour on the look-out from the "Golden Portcullis,"
under the pent-house of which he could keep himself a little in the
shade, D'Artagnan observed a soldier leave the Bastille. This was,
indeed, the surest indication he could possibly have wished for, as
every jailer or warder has certain days, and even certain hours, for
leaving the Bastille, since all are alike prohibited from having either
wives or lodgings in the castle, and can accordingly leave without
exciting any curiosity; but a soldier once in barracks is kept there for
four-and-twenty hours when on duty--and no one knew this better than
D'Artagnan. The soldier in question, therefore, was not likely to leave
in his regimentals, except on an express and urgent order. The soldier,
we were saying, left the Bastille at a slow and lounging pace, like a
happy mortal, in fact, who, instead of keeping sentry before a wearisome
guard-house, or upon a bastion no less wearisome, has the good luck to
get a little liberty in addition to a walk--the two pleasures being
reckoned as part of his time on duty. He bent his steps toward the
Faubourg Saint-Antoine, enjoying the fresh air and the warmth of the
sun, and looking at all the pretty faces he passed. D'Artagnan followed
him at a distance: he had not yet arranged his ideas as to what was to
be done. "I must, first of all," he thought, "see the fellow's face. A
man seen is a man judged of." D'Artagnan increased his pace, and, which
was not very difficult, by-the-by, soon got in advance of the soldier.
Not only did he observe that his face showed a tolerable amount of
intelligence and resolution, but he noticed also that his nose was a
little red. "He has a weakness for brandy, I see," said D'Artagnan to
himself. At the same moment that he remarked his red nose, he saw that
the soldier had a white paper in his belt.
"Good, he has a letter," added D'Artagnan. The only difficulty was to
get hold of the letter. But a soldier would, of course, be too delighted
at having been selected by M. de Baisemeaux for a special messenger, and
would not be likely to sell his message. As D'Artagnan was biting his
nails, the soldier continued to advance more and more into the Faubourg
Saint-Antoine. "He is certainly going to Saint-Mandé," he said to
himself, "and I shall not be able to learn what the letter contains." It
was enough to drive him wild. "If I were in uniform," said D'Artagnan to
himself, "I would have this fellow seized and his letter with him. I
could easily get assistance at the very first guard-house; but the devil
take me if I mention my name in an affair of this kind. If I were to
treat him to something to drink, his suspicions would be roused; and,
besides, he would make me drunk. Mordioux! my wits seem to have left
me," said D'Artagnan; "it is all over with me. Yet, supposing I were to
attack this poor devil, make him draw his sword, and kill him for the
sake of his letter. No harm in that, if it were a question of a letter
from a queen to a nobleman, or a letter from a cardinal to a queen; but
what miserable intrigues are those of Messieurs Aramis and Fouquet with
M. Colbert. A man's life for that! No, no, indeed; not even ten crowns."
As he philosophized in this manner, biting, first his nails, and then
his mustaches, he perceived a group of archery and a commissary of
police engaged in forcibly carrying away a man of very gentlemanly
exterior, who was struggling with all his might against them. The
archers had torn his clothes, and were dragging him roughly away. He
begged they would lead him along more respectfully, asserting that he
was a gentleman and a soldier. And observing our soldier walking in the
street, he called out, "Help, comrade."
The soldier walked on with the same step toward the man who had called
out to him, followed by the crowd. An idea suddenly occurred to
D'Artagnan; it was his first one, and we shall find it was not a bad one
either. During the time the gentleman was relating to the soldier that
he had just been seized in a house as a thief, when the truth was he was
only there as a lover; and while the soldier was pitying him, and
offering him consolation and advice with that gravity which a French
soldier has always ready whenever his vanity or his _esprit de corps_ is
concerned, D'Artagnan glided behind the soldier, who was closely hemmed
in by the crowd, and with a rapid gesture drew the paper out of his
belt. As at this moment the gentleman with the torn clothes was pulling
about the soldier to show how the commissary of police had pulled him
about, D'Artagnan effected his capture of the letter without the
slightest inconvenience. He stationed himself about ten paces distant,
behind the pillar of an adjoining house, and read on the address, "To
Monsieur de Valon, at Monsieur Fouquet's, Saint-Mandé."
"Good!" he said, and then he unsealed without tearing the letter, drew
out the paper, which was folded in four, from the inside, and which
contained only these words:
"DEAR MONSIEUR DE VALON--Will you be good enough to tell
Monsieur d'Herblay that _he_ has been to the Bastille, and has been
making inquiries. Your devoted DE BAISEMEAUX."
"Very good! all right!" exclaimed D'Artagnan; "it is clear enough now.
Porthos is engaged in it." Being now satisfied of what he wished to
know: "Mordioux!" thought the musketeer, "what is to be done with that
poor devil of a soldier? That hot-headed, cunning fellow, De Baisemeaux,
will make him pay dearly for my trick--if he returns without the letter,
what will they do to him? Besides, I don't want the letter; when the egg
has been sucked, what is the good of the shell?" D'Artagnan perceived
that the commissary and the archers had succeeded in convincing the
soldier, and went on their way with the prisoner, the latter being still
surrounded by the crowd and continuing his complaints. D'Artagnan
advanced into the very middle of the crowd, let the letter fall, without
any one having observed him, and then retreated rapidly. The soldier
resumed his route toward Saint-Mandé, his mind occupied with the
gentleman who had implored his protection. Suddenly he thought of his
letter, and, looking at his belt, saw that it was no longer there.
D'Artagnan derived no little satisfaction from his sudden terrified
cry. The poor soldier in the greatest anguish of mind looked round him
on every side, and at last, about twenty paces behind him, he perceived
the blessed envelope. He pounced on it like a falcon on its prey. The
envelope was certainly a little dusty, and rather crumpled, but at all
events the letter itself was found again. D'Artagnan observed that the
broken seal attracted the soldier's attention a good deal, but he
finished apparently by consoling himself, and returned the letter to his
belt. "Go on," said D'Artagnan, "I have plenty of time before me, so you
may precede me. It appears that Aramis is not at Paris, since Baisemeaux
writes to Porthos. Dear Porthos, how delighted I shall be to see him
again, and to have some conversation with him!" said the Gascon. And,
regulating his pace according to that of the soldier, he promised
himself to arrive a quarter of an hour after him at M. Fouquet's.