THE BULLETIN.
The Duc de Beaufort wrote to Athos. The letter destined for the living
only reached the dead. God had changed the address.
"MY DEAR COMTE," wrote the prince in his large, bad
school-boy's hand--"a great misfortune has struck us amid a great
triumph. The king loses one of the bravest of soldiers. I lose a
friend. You lose M. de Bragelonne. He has died gloriously, and so
gloriously that I have not the strength to weep as I could wish.
Receive my sad compliments, my dear comte. Heaven distributes
trials according to the greatness of our hearts. This is an immense
one, but not above your courage. Your good friend,
"LE DUC DE BEAUFORT."
The letter contained a relation written by one of the prince's
secretaries. It was the most touching recital, and the most true, of
that dismal episode which unraveled two existences. D'Artagnan,
accustomed to battle emotions, and with a heart armed against
tenderness, could not help starting on reading the name of Raoul, the
name of that beloved boy who had become, as his father had, a shade.
"In the morning," said the prince's secretary, "monseigneur commanded
the attack. Normandy and Picardy had taken position in the gray rocks
dominated by the heights of the mountain, upon the declivity of which
were raised the bastions of Gigelli.
"The cannon beginning to fire, opened the action; the regiments marched
full of resolution; the pikemen had their pikes elevated, the bearers of
muskets had their weapons ready. The prince followed attentively the
march and movements of the troops, so as to be able to sustain them
with a strong reserve. With monseigneur were the oldest captains and his
aides-de-camp. M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne had received orders not to
leave his highness. In the meantime the enemy's cannon, which at first
had thundered with little success against the masses, had regulated its
fire, and the balls, better directed, had killed several men near the
prince. The regiments formed in column and which were advancing against
the ramparts were rather roughly handled. There was a sort of hesitation
in our troops, who found themselves ill-seconded by the artillery. In
fact, the batteries which had been established the evening before had
but a weak and uncertain aim, on account of their position. The
direction from low to high lessened the justness of the shots as well as
their range.
"Monseigneur, comprehending the bad effect of this position of the siege
artillery, commanded the frigates moored in the little road to commence
a regular fire against the place. M. de Bragelonne offered himself at
once to carry this order. But monseigneur refused to acquiesce in the
vicomte's request. Monseigneur was right, for he loved and wished to
spare the young nobleman. He was quite right, and the event took upon
itself to justify his foresight and refusal; for scarcely had the
sergeant charged with the message solicited by M. de Bragelonne gained
the sea-shore, when two shots from long carbines issued from the enemy's
ranks and laid him low. The sergeant fell, dyeing the sand with his
blood; observing which, M. de Bragelonne smiled at monseigneur, who said
to him, 'You see, vicomte, I have saved your life. Report that, some
day, to M. le Comte de la Fere, in order that, learning it from you, he
may thank me.' The young nobleman smiled sadly, and replied to the duc,
'It is true, monseigneur, that but for your kindness I should have been
killed, where the poor sergeant has fallen, and should be at rest.' M.
de Bragelonne made this reply in such a tone that monseigneur answered
him warmly. 'Vrai Dieu! young man, one would say that your mouth waters
for death; but, by the soul of Henry IV., I have promised your father to
bring you back alive; and, please the Lord, I will keep my word."
"Monsieur de Bragelonne colored, and replied in a lower voice,
'Monseigneur, pardon me, I beseech you; I have always had the desire to
go to meet good opportunities; and it is so delightful to distinguish
ourselves before our general, particularly when that general is M. le
Duc de Beaufort."
"Monseigneur was a little softened by this; and, turning to the officers
who surrounded him, gave his different orders. The grenadiers of the two
regiments got near enough to the ditches and the intrenchments to launch
their grenades, which had but little effect. In the meanwhile, M.
d'Estrées, who commanded the fleet, having seen the attempt of the
sergeant to approach the vessels, understood that he must act without
orders, and open his fire. Then the Arabs, finding themselves seriously
injured by the balls from the fleet, and beholding the destruction and
the ruins of their bad walls, uttered the most fearful cries. Their
horsemen descended the mountain at the gallop, bent over their saddles,
and rushed full tilt upon the columns of infantry, which, crossing their
pikes, stopped this mad assault. Repulsed by the firm attitude of the
battalion, the Arabs threw themselves with great fury toward the
_état-major_, which was not on its guard at that moment.
"The danger was great; monseigneur drew his sword; his secretaries and
people imitated him; the officers of the suite engaged in combat with
the furious Arabs. It was then M. de Bragelonne was able to satisfy the
inclination he had manifested from the commencement of the action. He
fought near the prince with the valor of a Roman, and killed three Arabs
with his small sword. But it was evident that his bravery did not arise
from one of those sentiments of pride natural to all who fight. It was
impetuous, affected, forced even; he sought to intoxicate himself with
noise and carnage. He heated himself to such a degree that monseigneur
called out to him to stop. He must have heard the voice of monseigneur,
because we who were close to him heard it. He did not, however, stop,
but continued his course toward the entrenchments. As M. de Bragelonne
was a well-disciplined officer, this disobedience to the orders of
monseigneur very much surprised everybody, and M. de Beaufort redoubled
his earnestness, crying, 'Stop, Bragelonne! Where are you going? Stop,'
repeated monsiegneur, 'I command you!'
"We all, imitating the gesture of M. le Duc, we all raised our hands. We
expected that the cavalier would turn bridle; but M. de Bragelonne
continued to ride toward the palisades.
"'Stop, Bragelonne!' repeated the prince, in a very loud voice; 'stop!
in the name of your father!'
"At these words M. de Bragelonne turned round, his countenance expressed
a lively grief, but he did not stop; we then concluded that his horse
must have run away with him. When M. le Duc had imagined that the
vicomte was not master of his horse, and had seen him precede the first
grenadiers, his highness cried, 'Musketeers, kill his horse! A hundred
pistoles for him who shall kill his horse!' But who could expect to hit
the beast without at least wounding his rider? No one durst venture. At
length one presented himself; he was a sharpshooter of the regiment of
Picardy, named Luzerne, who took aim at the animal, fired, and hit him
in the quarters, for we saw the blood redden the hair of the horse.
Instead of falling, the cursed jennet was irritated, and carried him on
more furiously than ever. Every Picard who saw this unfortunate young
man rushing on to meet death, shouted in the loudest manner, 'Throw
yourself off, Monsieur le Vicomte!--off!--off!--throw yourself off!' M.
de Bragelonne was an officer much beloved in the army. Already had the
vicomte arrived within pistol-shot of the ramparts, a discharge was
poured upon him, and enveloped him in its fire and smoke. We lost sight
of him; the smoke dispersed; he was on foot, standing; his horse was
killed.
"The vicomte was summoned to surrender by the Arabs, but he made them a
negative sign with his head, and continued to march toward the
palisades. This was a mortal imprudence. Nevertheless the whole army was
pleased that he would not retreat, since ill chance had led him so near.
He marched a few paces further, and the two regiments clapped their
hands. It was at this moment the second discharge shook the walls, and
the Vicomte de Bragelonne again disappeared in the smoke; but this time
the smoke was dispersed in vain, we no longer saw him standing. He was
down, with his head lower than his legs, among the bushes, and the Arabs
began to think of leaving their intrenchments to come and cut off his
head or take his body, as is the custom with the infidels. But
Monseigneur le Duc de Beaufort had followed all this with his eyes, and
the sad spectacle drew from him many and painful sighs. He then cried
aloud, seeing the Arabs running like white phantoms among the
mastic-trees, 'Grenadiers! piqueurs! will you let them take that noble
body?'
"Saying these words and waving his sword, he himself rode toward the
enemy. The regiments, rushing in his steps, ran in their turns, uttering
cries as terrible as those of the Arabs were wild.
"The combat commenced over the body of M. de Bragelonne, and with such
inveteracy was it fought, that a hundred and sixty Arabs were left upon
the field, by the side of at least fifty of our troops. It was a
lieutenant from Normandy who took the body of the vicomte on his
shoulders and carried it back to the lines. The advantage was, however,
pursued, the regiments took the reserve with them, and the enemy's
palisades were destroyed. At three o'clock the fire of the Arabs ceased;
the hand to hand fight lasted two hours; that was a massacre. At five
o'clock we were victorious on all the points; the enemy had abandoned
his positions, and M. le Duc had ordered the white flag to be planted
upon the culminating point of the little mountain. It was then we had
time to think of M. de Bragelonne, who had eight large wounds through
his body, by which almost all his blood had escaped. Still, however, he
breathed, which afforded inexpressible joy to monseigneur, who insisted
upon being present at the first dressing of the wounds and at the
consultation of the surgeons. There were two among them who declared M.
de Bragelonne would live. Monseigneur threw his arms round their necks,
and promised them a thousand louis each if they could save him.
"The vicomte heard these transports of joy, and whether he was in
despair, or whether he suffered much from his wounds, he expressed by
his countenance a contradiction, which gave rise to reflection,
particularly in one of the secretaries when he had heard what follows.
The third surgeon was the brother of Sylvain de Saint-Cosme, the most
learned of ours. He probed the wounds in his turn, and said nothing. M.
de Bragelonne fixed his eyes steadily upon the skillful surgeon, and
seemed to interrogate his every movement. The latter, upon being
questioned by monseigneur, replied that he saw plainly three mortal
wounds out of eight, but so strong was the constitution of the wounded,
so rich was he in youth, and so merciful was the goodness of God, that
perhaps M. de Bragelonne might recover, particularly if he did not move
in the slightest manner. Frere Sylvain added, turning toward his
assistants, 'Above everything, do not allow him to move even a finger,
or you will kill him;' and we all left the tent in very low spirits.
That secretary I have mentioned, on leaving the tent, thought he
perceived a faint and sad smile glide over the lips of M. de Bragelonne
when the duc said to him, in a cheerful, kind voice, 'We shall save you,
vicomte, we shall save you!'
"In the evening, when it was believed the wounded young man had taken
some repose, one of the assistants entered his tent, but rushed
immediately out again, uttering loud cries. We all ran up in disorder,
M. le Duc with us, and the assistant pointed to the body of M. de
Bragelonne upon the ground, at the foot of his bed, bathed in the
remainder of his blood. It appeared that he had had some convulsion,
some febrile movement, and that he had fallen; that the fall had
accelerated his end, according to the prognostic of Frere Sylvain. We
raised the vicomte; he was cold and dead. He held a lock of fair hair in
his right hand, and that hand was pressed tightly upon his heart."
Then followed the details of the expedition, and of the victory obtained
over the Arabs. D'Artagnan stopped at the account of the death of poor
Raoul. "Oh!" murmured he, "unhappy boy! a suicide!"
And turning his eyes toward the chamber of the chateau, in which Athos
slept in eternal sleep, "They kept their words with each other," said
he, in a low voice; "now I believe them to be happy; they must be
reunited." And he returned through the parterre with slow and melancholy
steps. All the village--all the neighborhood--were filled with grieving
neighbors relating to each other the double catastrophe, and making
preparations for the funeral.