Chapter XC. Conclusion.

Chapter I.

The Shade of Cardinal Richelieu.

In a splendid chamber of the Palais Royal, formerly styled the Palais

Cardinal, a man was sitting in deep reverie, his head supported on his

hands, leaning over a gilt and inlaid table which was covered with

letters and papers. Behind this figure glowed a vast fireplace alive

with leaping flames; great logs of oak blazed and crackled on the

polished brass andirons whose flicker shone upon the superb habiliments

of the lonely tenant of the room, which was illumined grandly by twin

candelabra rich with wax-lights.

Any one who happened at that moment to contemplate that red simar—the

gorgeous robe of office—and the rich lace, or who gazed on that pale

brow, bent in anxious meditation, might, in the solitude of that

apartment, combined with the silence of the ante-chambers and the

measured paces of the guards upon the landing-place, have fancied that

the shade of Cardinal Richelieu lingered still in his accustomed haunt.

It was, alas! the ghost of former greatness. France enfeebled, the

authority of her sovereign contemned, her nobles returning to their

former turbulence and insolence, her enemies within her frontiers—all

proved the great Richelieu no longer in existence.

In truth, that the red simar which occupied the wonted place was his no

longer, was still more strikingly obvious from the isolation which

seemed, as we have observed, more appropriate to a phantom than a

living creature—from the corridors deserted by courtiers, and courts

crowded with guards—from that spirit of bitter ridicule, which, arising

from the streets below, penetrated through the very casements of the

room, which resounded with the murmurs of a whole city leagued against

the minister; as well as from the distant and incessant sounds of guns

firing—let off, happily, without other end or aim, except to show to

the guards, the Swiss troops and the military who surrounded the Palais

Royal, that the people were possessed of arms.

The shade of Richelieu was Mazarin. Now Mazarin was alone and

defenceless, as he well knew.

“Foreigner!” he ejaculated, “Italian! that is their mean yet mighty

byword of reproach—the watchword with which they assassinated, hanged,

and made away with Concini; and if I gave them their way they would

assassinate, hang, and make away with me in the same manner, although

they have nothing to complain of except a tax or two now and then.

Idiots! ignorant of their real enemies, they do not perceive that it is

not the Italian who speaks French badly, but those who can say fine

things to them in the purest Parisian accent, who are their real foes.

“Yes, yes,” Mazarin continued, whilst his wonted smile, full of

subtlety, lent a strange expression to his pale lips; “yes, these

noises prove to me, indeed, that the destiny of favorites is

precarious; but ye shall know I am no ordinary favorite. No! The Earl

of Essex, ’tis true, wore a splendid ring, set with diamonds, given him

by his royal mistress, whilst I—I have nothing but a simple circlet of

gold, with a cipher on it and a date; but that ring has been blessed in

the chapel of the Palais Royal,* so they will never ruin me, as they

long to do, and whilst they shout, ‘Down with Mazarin!’ I, unknown, and

unperceived by them, incite them to cry out, ‘Long live the Duke de

Beaufort’ one day; another, ‘Long live the Prince de Condé;’ and again,

‘Long live the parliament!’” And at this word the smile on the

cardinal’s lips assumed an expression of hatred, of which his mild

countenance seemed incapable. “The parliament! We shall soon see how to

dispose,” he continued, “of the parliament! Both Orléans and Montargis

are ours. It will be a work of time, but those who have begun by crying

out: Down with Mazarin! will finish by shouting out, Down with all the

people I have mentioned, each in his turn.

* It is said that Mazarin, who, though a cardinal, had not taken such

vows as to prevent it, was secretly married to Anne of Austria.—La

Porte’s Memoirs.

“Richelieu, whom they hated during his lifetime and whom they now

praise after his death, was even less popular than I am. Often he was

driven away, oftener still had he a dread of being sent away. The queen

will never banish me, and even were I obliged to yield to the populace

she would yield with me; if I fly, she will fly; and then we shall see

how the rebels will get on without either king or queen.

“Oh, were I not a foreigner! were I but a Frenchman! were I but of

gentle birth!”

The position of the cardinal was indeed critical, and recent events had

added to his difficulties. Discontent had long pervaded the lower ranks

of society in France. Crushed and impoverished by taxation—imposed by

Mazarin, whose avarice impelled him to grind them down to the very

dust—the people, as the Advocate-General Talon described it, had

nothing left to them except their souls; and as those could not be sold

by auction, they began to murmur. Patience had in vain been recommended

to them by reports of brilliant victories gained by France; laurels,

however, were not meat and drink, and the people had for some time been

in a state of discontent.

Had this been all, it might not, perhaps, have greatly signified; for

when the lower classes alone complained, the court of France, separated

as it was from the poor by the intervening classes of the gentry and

the _bourgeoisie_, seldom listened to their voice; but unluckily,

Mazarin had had the imprudence to attack the magistrates and had sold

no less than twelve appointments in the Court of Requests, at a high

price; and as the officers of that court paid very dearly for their

places, and as the addition of twelve new colleagues would necessarily

lower the value of each place, the old functionaries formed a union

amongst themselves, and, enraged, swore on the Bible not to allow of

this addition to their number, but to resist all the persecutions which

might ensue; and should any one of them chance to forfeit his post by

this resistance, to combine to indemnify him for his loss.

Now the following occurrences had taken place between the two

contending parties.

On the seventh of January between seven and eight hundred tradesmen had

assembled in Paris to discuss a new tax which was to be levied on house

property. They deputed ten of their number to wait upon the Duke of

Orléans, who, according to his custom, affected popularity. The duke

received them and they informed him that they were resolved not to pay

this tax, even if they were obliged to defend themselves against its

collectors by force of arms. They were listened to with great

politeness by the duke, who held out hopes of easier measures, promised

to speak in their behalf to the queen, and dismissed them with the

ordinary expression of royalty, “We will see what we can do.”

Two days afterward these same magistrates appeared before the cardinal

and their spokesman addressed Mazarin with so much fearlessness and

determination that the minister was astounded and sent the deputation

away with the same answer as it had received from the Duke of

Orléans—that he would see what could be done; and in accordance with

that intention a council of state was assembled and the superintendent

of finance was summoned.

This man, named Emery, was the object of popular detestation, in the

first place because he _was_ superintendent of finance, and every

superintendent of finance deserved to be hated; in the second place,

because he rather deserved the odium which he had incurred.

He was the son of a banker at Lyons named Particelli, who, after

becoming a bankrupt, chose to change his name to Emery; and Cardinal

Richelieu having discovered in him great financial aptitude, had

introduced him with a strong recommendation to Louis XIII. under his

assumed name, in order that he might be appointed to the post he

subsequently held.

“You surprise me!” exclaimed the monarch. “I am rejoiced to hear you

speak of Monsieur d’Emery as calculated for a post which requires a man

of probity. I was really afraid that you were going to force that

villain Particelli upon me.”

“Sire,” replied Richelieu, “rest assured that Particelli, the man to

whom your majesty refers, has been hanged.”

“Ah; so much the better!” exclaimed the king. “It is not for nothing

that I am styled Louis the Just,” and he signed Emery’s appointment.

This was the same Emery who became eventually superintendent of

finance.

He was sent for by the ministers and he came before them pale and

trembling, declaring that his son had very nearly been assassinated the

day before, near the palace. The mob had insulted him on account of the

ostentatious luxury of his wife, whose house was hung with red velvet

edged with gold fringe. This lady was the daughter of Nicholas de

Camus, who arrived in Paris with twenty francs in his pocket, became

secretary of state, and accumulated wealth enough to divide nine

millions of francs among his children and to keep an income of forty

thousand for himself.

The fact was that Emery’s son had run a great chance of being

suffocated, one of the rioters having proposed to squeeze him until he

gave up all the gold he had swallowed. Nothing, therefore, was settled

that day, as Emery’s head was not steady enough for business after such

an occurrence.

On the next day Mathieu Molé, the chief president, whose courage at

this crisis, says the Cardinal de Retz, was equal to that of the Duc de

Beaufort and the Prince de Condé—in other words, of the two men who

were considered the bravest in France—had been attacked in his turn.

The people threatened to hold him responsible for the evils that hung

over them. But the chief president had replied with his habitual

coolness, without betraying either disturbance or surprise, that should

the agitators refuse obedience to the king’s wishes he would have

gallows erected in the public squares and proceed at once to hang the

most active among them. To which the others had responded that they

would be glad to see the gallows erected; they would serve for the

hanging of those detestable judges who purchased favor at court at the

price of the people’s misery.

Nor was this all. On the eleventh the queen in going to mass at Notre

Dame, as she always did on Saturdays, was followed by more than two

hundred women demanding justice. These poor creatures had no bad

intentions. They wished only to be allowed to fall on their knees

before their sovereign, and that they might move her to compassion; but

they were prevented by the royal guard and the queen proceeded on her

way, haughtily disdainful of their entreaties.

At length parliament was convoked; the authority of the king was to be

maintained.

One day—it was the morning of the day my story begins—the king, Louis

XIV., then ten years of age, went in state, under pretext of returning

thanks for his recovery from the small-pox, to Notre Dame. He took the

opportunity of calling out his guard, the Swiss troops and the

musketeers, and he had planted them round the Palais Royal, on the

quays, and on the Pont Neuf. After mass the young monarch drove to the

Parliament House, where, upon the throne, he hastily confirmed not only

such edicts as he had already passed, but issued new ones, each one,

according to Cardinal de Retz, more ruinous than the others—a

proceeding which drew forth a strong remonstrance from the chief

president, Molé—whilst President Blancmesnil and Councillor Broussel

raised their voices in indignation against fresh taxes.

The king returned amidst the silence of a vast multitude to the Palais

Royal. All minds were uneasy, most were foreboding, many of the people

used threatening language.

At first, indeed, they were doubtful whether the king’s visit to the

parliament had been in order to lighten or increase their burdens; but

scarcely was it known that the taxes were to be still further

increased, when cries of “Down with Mazarin!” “Long live Broussel!”

“Long live Blancmesnil!” resounded through the city. For the people had

learned that Broussel and Blancmesnil had made speeches in their

behalf, and, although the eloquence of these deputies had been without

avail, it had none the less won for them the people’s good-will. All

attempts to disperse the groups collected in the streets, or silence

their exclamations, were in vain. Orders had just been given to the

royal guards and the Swiss guards, not only to stand firm, but to send

out patrols to the streets of Saint Denis and Saint Martin, where the

people thronged and where they were the most vociferous, when the mayor

of Paris was announced at the Palais Royal.

He was shown in directly; he came to say that if these offensive

precautions were not discontinued, in two hours Paris would be under

arms.

Deliberations were being held when a lieutenant in the guards, named

Comminges, made his appearance, with his clothes all torn, his face

streaming with blood. The queen on seeing him uttered a cry of surprise

and asked him what was going on.

As the mayor had foreseen, the sight of the guards had exasperated the

mob. The tocsin was sounded. Comminges had arrested one of the

ringleaders and had ordered him to be hanged near the cross of Du

Trahoir; but in attempting to execute this command the soldiery were

attacked in the market-place with stones and halberds; the delinquent

had escaped to the Rue des Lombards and rushed into a house. They broke

open the doors and searched the dwelling, but in vain. Comminges,

wounded by a stone which had struck him on the forehead, had left a

picket in the street and returned to the Palais Royal, followed by a

menacing crowd, to tell his story.

This account confirmed that of the mayor. The authorities were not in a

condition to cope with serious revolt. Mazarin endeavored to circulate

among the people a report that troops had only been stationed on the

quays and on the Pont Neuf, on account of the ceremonial of the day,

and that they would soon withdraw. In fact, about four o’clock they

were all concentrated about the Palais Royal, the courts and ground

floors of which were filled with musketeers and Swiss guards, and there

awaited the outcome of all this disturbance.

Such was the state of affairs at the very moment we introduced our

readers to the study of Cardinal Mazarin—once that of Cardinal

Richelieu. We have seen in what state of mind he listened to the

murmurs from below, which even reached him in his seclusion, and to the

guns, the firing of which resounded through that room. All at once he

raised his head; his brow slightly contracted like that of a man who

has formed a resolution; he fixed his eyes upon an enormous clock that

was about to strike ten, and taking up a whistle of silver gilt that

stood upon the table near him, he shrilled it twice.

A door hidden in the tapestry opened noiselessly and a man in black

silently advanced and stood behind the chair on which Mazarin sat.

“Bernouin,” said the cardinal, not turning round, for having whistled,

he knew that it was his _valet-de-chambre_ who was behind him; “what

musketeers are now within the palace?”

“The Black Musketeers, my lord.”

“What company?”

“Tréville’s company.”

“Is there any officer belonging to this company in the ante-chamber?”

“Lieutenant d’Artagnan.”

“A man on whom we can depend, I hope.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Give me a uniform of one of these musketeers and help me to put it

on.”

The valet went out as silently as he had entered and appeared in a few

minutes bringing the dress demanded.

The cardinal, in deep thought and in silence, began to take off the

robes of state he had assumed in order to be present at the sitting of

parliament, and to attire himself in the military coat, which he wore

with a certain degree of easy grace, owing to his former campaigns in

Italy. When he was completely dressed he said:

“Send hither Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

The valet went out of the room, this time by the centre door, but still

as silently as before; one might have fancied him an apparition.

When he was left alone the cardinal looked at himself in the glass with

a feeling of self-satisfaction. Still young—for he was scarcely

forty-six years of age—he possessed great elegance of form and was

above the middle height; his complexion was brilliant and beautiful;

his glance full of expression; his nose, though large, was well

proportioned; his forehead broad and majestic; his hair, of a chestnut

color, was curled slightly; his beard, which was darker than his hair,

was turned carefully with a curling iron, a practice that greatly

improved it. After a short time the cardinal arranged his shoulder

belt, then looked with great complacency at his hands, which were most

elegant and of which he took the greatest care; and throwing on one

side the large kid gloves tried on at first, as belonging to the

uniform, he put on others of silk only. At this instant the door

opened.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the _valet-de-chambre_.

An officer, as he spoke, entered the apartment. He was a man between

thirty-nine and forty years of age, of medium height but a very well

proportioned figure; with an intellectual and animated physiognomy; his

beard black, and his hair turning gray, as often happens when people

have found life either too gay or too sad, more especially when they

happen to be of swart complexion.

D’Artagnan advanced a few steps into the apartment.

How perfectly he remembered his former entrance into that very room!

Seeing, however, no one there except a musketeer of his own troop, he

fixed his eyes upon the supposed soldier, in whose dress, nevertheless,

he recognized at the first glance the cardinal.

The lieutenant remained standing in a dignified but respectful posture,

such as became a man of good birth, who had in the course of his life

been frequently in the society of the highest nobles.

The cardinal looked at him with a cunning rather than serious glance,

yet he examined his countenance with attention and after a momentary

silence said:

“You are Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“I am that individual,” replied the officer.

Mazarin gazed once more at a countenance full of intelligence, the play

of which had been, nevertheless, subdued by age and experience; and

D’Artagnan received the penetrating glance like one who had formerly

sustained many a searching look, very different, indeed, from those

which were inquiringly directed on him at that instant.

“Sir,” resumed the cardinal, “you are to come with me, or rather, I am

to go with you.”

“I am at your command, my lord,” returned D’Artagnan.

“I wish to visit in person the outposts which surround the Palais

Royal; do you suppose that there is any danger in so doing?”

“Danger, my lord!” exclaimed D’Artagnan with a look of astonishment,

“what danger?”

“I am told that there is a general insurrection.”

“The uniform of the king’s musketeers carries a certain respect with

it, and even if that were not the case I would engage with four of my

men to put to flight a hundred of these clowns.”

“Did you witness the injury sustained by Comminges?”

“Monsieur de Comminges is in the guards and not in the musketeers——”

“Which means, I suppose, that the musketeers are better soldiers than

the guards.” The cardinal smiled as he spoke.

“Every one likes his own uniform best, my lord.”

“Myself excepted,” and again Mazarin smiled; “for you perceive that I

have left off mine and put on yours.”

“Lord bless us! this is modesty indeed!” cried D’Artagnan. “Had I such

a uniform as your eminence possesses, I protest I should be mightily

content, and I would take an oath never to wear any other costume——”

“Yes, but for to-night’s adventure I don’t suppose my dress would have

been a very safe one. Give me my felt hat, Bernouin.”

The valet instantly brought to his master a regimental hat with a wide

brim. The cardinal put it on in military style.

“Your horses are ready saddled in their stables, are they not?” he

said, turning to D’Artagnan.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, let us set out.”

“How many men does your eminence wish to escort you?”

“You say that with four men you will undertake to disperse a hundred

low fellows; as it may happen that we shall have to encounter two

hundred, take eight——”

“As many as my lord wishes.”

“I will follow you. This way—light us downstairs Bernouin.”

The valet held a wax-light; the cardinal took a key from his bureau and

opening the door of a secret stair descended into the court of the

Palais Royal.

Chapter II.

A Nightly Patrol.

In ten minutes Mazarin and his party were traversing the street “Les

Bons Enfants” behind the theatre built by Richelieu expressly for the

play of “Mirame,” and in which Mazarin, who was an amateur of music,

but not of literature, had introduced into France the first opera that

was ever acted in that country.

The appearance of the town denoted the greatest agitation. Numberless

groups paraded the streets and, whatever D’Artagnan might think of it,

it was obvious that the citizens had for the night laid aside their

usual forbearance, in order to assume a warlike aspect. From time to

time noises came in the direction of the public markets. The report of

firearms was heard near the Rue Saint Denis and occasionally church

bells began to ring indiscriminately and at the caprice of the

populace. D’Artagnan, meantime, pursued his way with the indifference

of a man upon whom such acts of folly made no impression. When he

approached a group in the middle of the street he urged his horse upon

it without a word of warning; and the members of the group, whether

rebels or not, as if they knew with what sort of a man they had to

deal, at once gave place to the patrol. The cardinal envied that

composure, which he attributed to the habit of meeting danger; but none

the less he conceived for the officer under whose orders he had for the

moment placed himself, that consideration which even prudence pays to

careless courage. On approaching an outpost near the Barrière des

Sergens, the sentinel cried out, “Who’s there?” and D’Artagnan

answered—having first asked the word of the cardinal—“Louis and

Rocroy.” After which he inquired if Lieutenant Comminges were not the

commanding officer at the outpost. The soldier replied by pointing out

to him an officer who was conversing, on foot, his hand upon the neck

of a horse on which the individual to whom he was talking sat. Here was

the officer D’Artagnan was seeking.

“Here is Monsieur Comminges,” said D’Artagnan, returning to the

cardinal. He instantly retired, from a feeling of respectful delicacy;

it was, however, evident that the cardinal was recognized by both

Comminges and the other officers on horseback.

“Well done, Guitant,” cried the cardinal to the equestrian; “I see

plainly that, notwithstanding the sixty-four years that have passed

over your head, you are still the same man, active and zealous. What

were you saying to this youngster?”

“My lord,” replied Guitant, “I was observing that we live in troublous

times and that to-day’s events are very like those in the days of the

Ligue, of which I heard so much in my youth. Are you aware that the mob

have even suggested throwing up barricades in the Rue Saint Denis and

the Rue Saint Antoine?”

“And what was Comminges saying to you in reply, my good Guitant?”

“My lord,” said Comminges, “I answered that to compose a Ligue only one

ingredient was wanting—in my opinion an essential one—a Duc de Guise;

moreover, no generation ever does the same thing twice.”

“No, but they mean to make a Fronde, as they call it,” said Guitant.

“And what is a Fronde?” inquired Mazarin.

“My lord, Fronde is the name the discontented give to their party.”

“And what is the origin of this name?”

“It seems that some days since Councillor Bachaumont remarked at the

palace that rebels and agitators reminded him of schoolboys

slinging—_qui frondent_—stones from the moats round Paris, young

urchins who run off the moment the constable appears, only to return to

their diversion the instant his back is turned. So they have picked up

the word and the insurrectionists are called ‘Frondeurs,’ and yesterday

every article sold was ‘à la Fronde;’ bread ‘à la Fronde,’ hats ‘à la

Fronde,’ to say nothing of gloves, pocket-handkerchiefs, and fans; but

listen——”

At that moment a window opened and a man began to sing:

“A tempest from the Fronde

Did blow to-day:

I think ’twill blow

Sieur Mazarin away.”

“Insolent wretch!” cried Guitant.

“My lord,” said Comminges, who, irritated by his wounds, wished for

revenge and longed to give back blow for blow, “shall I fire off a ball

to punish that jester, and to warn him not to sing so much out of tune

in the future?”

And as he spoke he put his hand on the holster of his uncle’s

saddle-bow.

“Certainly not! certainly not,” exclaimed Mazarin. “_Diavolo!_ my dear

friend, you are going to spoil everything—everything is going on

famously. I know the French as well as if I had made them myself. They

sing—let them pay the piper. During the Ligue, about which Guitant was

speaking just now, the people chanted nothing except the mass, so

everything went to destruction. Come, Guitant, come along, and let’s

see if they keep watch at the Quinze-Vingts as at the Barrière des

Sergens.”

And waving his hand to Comminges he rejoined D’Artagnan, who instantly

put himself at the head of his troop, followed by the cardinal, Guitant

and the rest of the escort.

“Just so,” muttered Comminges, looking after Mazarin. “True, I forgot;

provided he can get money out of the people, that is all he wants.”

The street of Saint Honoré, when the cardinal and his party passed

through it, was crowded by an assemblage who, standing in groups,

discussed the edicts of that memorable day. They pitied the young king,

who was unconsciously ruining his country, and threw all the odium of

his proceedings on Mazarin. Addresses to the Duke of Orléans and to

Condé were suggested. Blancmesnil and Broussel seemed in the highest

favor.

D’Artagnan passed through the very midst of this discontented mob just

as if his horse and he had been made of iron. Mazarin and Guitant

conversed together in whispers. The musketeers, who had already

discovered who Mazarin was, followed in profound silence. In the street

of Saint Thomas-du-Louvre they stopped at the barrier distinguished by

the name of Quinze-Vingts. Here Guitant spoke to one of the subalterns,

asking how matters were progressing.

“Ah, captain!” said the officer, “everything is quiet hereabout—if I

did not know that something is going on in yonder house!”

And he pointed to a magnificent hotel situated on the very spot whereon

the Vaudeville now stands.

“In that hotel? it is the Hotel Rambouillet,” cried Guitant.

“I really don’t know what hotel it is; all I do know is that I observed

some suspicious looking people go in there——”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Guitant, with a burst of laughter; “those men

must be poets.”

“Come, Guitant, speak, if you please, respectfully of these gentlemen,”

said Mazarin; “don’t you know that I was in my youth a poet? I wrote

verses in the style of Benserade——”

“_You_, my lord?”

“Yes, I; shall I repeat to you some of my verses?”

“Just as you please, my lord. I do not understand Italian.”

“Yes, but you understand French,” and Mazarin laid his hand upon

Guitant’s shoulder. “My good, my brave Guitant, whatsoever command I

may give you in that language—in French—whatever I may order you to do,

will you not perform it?”

“Certainly. I have already answered that question in the affirmative;

but that command must come from the queen herself.”

“Yes! ah yes!” Mazarin bit his lips as he spoke; “I know your devotion

to her majesty.”

“I have been a captain in the queen’s guards for twenty years,” was the

reply.

“_En route_, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the cardinal; “all goes well in

this direction.”

D’Artagnan, in the meantime, had taken the head of his detachment

without a word and with that ready and profound obedience which marks

the character of an old soldier.

He led the way toward the hill of Saint Roche. The Rue Richelieu and

the Rue Villedot were then, owing to their vicinity to the ramparts,

less frequented than any others in that direction, for the town was

thinly inhabited thereabout.

“Who is in command here?” asked the cardinal.

“Villequier,” said Guitant.

“_Diavolo!_ Speak to him yourself, for ever since you were deputed by

me to arrest the Duc de Beaufort, this officer and I have been on bad

terms. He laid claim to that honor as captain of the royal guards.”

“I am aware of that, and I have told him a hundred times that he was

wrong. The king could not give that order, since at that time he was

hardly four years old.”

“Yes, but I could give him the order—I, Guitant—and I preferred to give

it to you.”

Guitant, without reply, rode forward and desired the sentinel to call

Monsieur de Villequier.

“Ah! so you are here!” cried the officer, in the tone of ill-humor

habitual to him; “what the devil are you doing here?”

“I wish to know—can you tell me, pray—is anything fresh occurring in

this part of the town?”

“What do you mean? People cry out, ‘Long live the king! down with

Mazarin!’ That’s nothing new; no, we’ve been used to those acclamations

for some time.”

“And you sing chorus,” replied Guitant, laughing.

“Faith, I’ve half a mind to do it. In my opinion the people are right;

and cheerfully would I give up five years of my pay—which I am never

paid, by the way—to make the king five years older.”

“Really! And pray what would come to pass, supposing the king were five

years older than he is?”

“As soon as ever the king comes of age he will issue his commands

himself, and ’tis far pleasanter to obey the grandson of Henry IV. than

the son of Peter Mazarin. ’Sdeath! I would die willingly for the king,

but supposing I happened to be killed on account of Mazarin, as your

nephew came near being to-day, there could be nothing in Paradise,

however well placed I might be there, that could console me for it.”

“Well, well, Monsieur de Villequier,” Mazarin interposed, “I shall make

it my care the king hears of your loyalty. Come, gentlemen,” addressing

the troop, “let us return.”

“Stop,” exclaimed Villequier, “so Mazarin was here! so much the better.

I have been waiting for a long time to tell him what I think of him. I

am obliged to you Guitant, although your intention was perhaps not very

favorable to me, for such an opportunity.”

He turned away and went off to his post, whistling a tune then popular

among the party called the “Fronde,” whilst Mazarin returned, in a

pensive mood, toward the Palais Royal. All that he had heard from these

three different men, Comminges, Guitant and Villequier, confirmed him

in his conviction that in case of serious tumults there would be no one

on his side except the queen; and then Anne of Austria had so often

deserted her friends that her support seemed most precarious. During

the whole of this nocturnal ride, during the whole time that he was

endeavoring to understand the various characters of Comminges, Guitant

and Villequier, Mazarin was, in truth, studying more especially one

man. This man, who had remained immovable as bronze when menaced by the

mob—not a muscle of whose face was stirred, either at Mazarin’s

witticisms or by the jests of the multitude—seemed to the cardinal a

peculiar being, who, having participated in past events similar to

those now occurring, was calculated to cope with those now on the eve

of taking place.

The name of D’Artagnan was not altogether new to Mazarin, who, although

he did not arrive in France before the year 1634 or 1635, that is to

say, about eight or nine years after the events which we have related

in a preceding narrative, * fancied he had heard it pronounced as that

of one who was said to be a model of courage, address and loyalty.

* “The Three Musketeers.”

Possessed by this idea, the cardinal resolved to know all about

D’Artagnan immediately; of course he could not inquire from D’Artagnan

himself who he was and what had been his career; he remarked, however,

in the course of conversation that the lieutenant of musketeers spoke

with a Gascon accent. Now the Italians and the Gascons are too much

alike and know each other too well ever to trust what any one of them

may say of himself; so in reaching the walls which surrounded the

Palais Royal, the cardinal knocked at a little door, and after thanking

D’Artagnan and requesting him to wait in the court of the Palais Royal,

he made a sign to Guitant to follow him.

They both dismounted, consigned their horses to the lackey who had

opened the door, and disappeared in the garden.

“My dear friend,” said the cardinal, leaning, as they walked through

the garden, on his friend’s arm, “you told me just now that you had

been twenty years in the queen’s service.”

“Yes, it’s true. I have,” returned Guitant.

“Now, my dear Guitant, I have often remarked that in addition to your

courage, which is indisputable, and your fidelity, which is invincible,

you possess an admirable memory.”

“You have found that out, have you, my lord? Deuce take it—all the

worse for me!”

“How?”

“There is no doubt but that one of the chief accomplishments of a

courtier is to know when to forget.”

“But you, Guitant, are not a courtier. You are a brave soldier, one of

the few remaining veterans of the days of Henry IV. Alas! how few

to-day exist!”

“Plague on’t, my lord, have you brought me here to get my horoscope out

of me?”

“No; I only brought you here to ask you,” returned Mazarin, smiling,

“if you have taken any particular notice of our lieutenant of

musketeers?”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan? I have had no occasion to notice him

particularly; he’s an old acquaintance. He’s a Gascon. De Tréville

knows him and esteems him very highly, and De Tréville, as you know, is

one of the queen’s greatest friends. As a soldier the man ranks well;

he did his whole duty and even more, at the siege of Rochelle—as at

Suze and Perpignan.”

“But you know, Guitant, we poor ministers often want men with other

qualities besides courage; we want men of talent. Pray, was not

Monsieur d’Artagnan, in the time of the cardinal, mixed up in some

intrigue from which he came out, according to report, quite cleverly?”

“My lord, as to the report you allude to”—Guitant perceived that the

cardinal wished to make him speak out—“I know nothing but what the

public knows. I never meddle in intrigues, and if I occasionally become

a confidant of the intrigues of others I am sure your eminence will

approve of my keeping them secret.”

Mazarin shook his head.

“Ah!” he said; “some ministers are fortunate and find out all that they

wish to know.”

“My lord,” replied Guitant, “such ministers do not weigh men in the

same balance; they get their information on war from warriors; on

intrigues, from intriguers. Consult some politician of the period of

which you speak, and if you pay well for it you will certainly get to

know all you want.”

“Eh, _pardieu!_” said Mazarin, with a grimace which he always made when

spoken to about money. “They will be paid, if there is no way of

getting out of it.”

“Does my lord seriously wish me to name any one who was mixed up in the

cabals of that day?”

“By Bacchus!” rejoined Mazarin, impatiently, “it’s about an hour since

I asked you for that very thing, wooden-head that you are.”

“There is one man for whom I can answer, if he will speak out.”

“That’s my concern; I will make him speak.”

“Ah, my lord, ’tis not easy to make people say what they don’t wish to

let out.”

“Pooh! with patience one must succeed. Well, this man. Who is he?”

“The Comte de Rochefort.”

“The Comte de Rochefort!”

“Unfortunately he has disappeared these four or five years and I don’t

know where he is.”

“_I_ know, Guitant,” said Mazarin.

“Well, then, how is it that your eminence complained just now of want

of information?”

“You think,” resumed Mazarin, “that Rochefort——”

“He was Cardinal Richelieu’s creature, my lord. I warn you, however,

his services will cost you something. The cardinal was lavish to his

underlings.”

“Yes, yes, Guitant,” said Mazarin; “Richelieu was a great man, a very

great man, but he had that defect. Thanks, Guitant; I shall benefit by

your advice this very evening.”

Here they separated and bidding adieu to Guitant in the court of the

Palais Royal, Mazarin approached an officer who was walking up and down

within that inclosure.

It was D’Artagnan, who was waiting for him.

“Come hither,” said Mazarin in his softest voice; “I have an order to

give you.”

D’Artagnan bent low and following the cardinal up the secret staircase,

soon found himself in the study whence they had first set out.

The cardinal seated himself before his bureau and taking a sheet of

paper wrote some lines upon it, whilst D’Artagnan stood imperturbable,

without showing either impatience or curiosity. He was like a soldierly

automaton, or rather, like a magnificent marionette.

The cardinal folded and sealed his letter.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said, “you are to take this dispatch to the

Bastile and bring back here the person it concerns. You must take a

carriage and an escort, and guard the prisoner with the greatest care.”

D’Artagnan took the letter, touched his hat with his hand, turned round

upon his heel like a drill-sergeant, and a moment afterward was heard,

in his dry and monotonous tone, commanding “Four men and an escort, a

carriage and a horse.” Five minutes afterward the wheels of the

carriage and the horses’ shoes were heard resounding on the pavement of

the courtyard.

Chapter III.

Dead Animosities.

D’Artagnan arrived at the Bastile just as it was striking half-past

eight. His visit was announced to the governor, who, on hearing that he

came from the cardinal, went to meet him and received him at the top of

the great flight of steps outside the door. The governor of the Bastile

was Monsieur du Tremblay, the brother of the famous Capuchin, Joseph,

that fearful favorite of Richelieu’s, who went by the name of the Gray

Cardinal.

During the period that the Duc de Bassompierre passed in the

Bastile—where he remained for twelve long years—when his companions, in

their dreams of liberty, said to each other: “As for me, I shall go out

of the prison at such a time,” and another, at such and such a time,

the duke used to answer, “As for me, gentlemen, I shall leave only when

Monsieur du Tremblay leaves;” meaning that at the death of the cardinal

Du Tremblay would certainly lose his place at the Bastile and De

Bassompierre regain his at court.

His prediction was nearly fulfilled, but in a very different way from

that which De Bassompierre supposed; for after the death of Richelieu

everything went on, contrary to expectation, in the same way as before;

and Bassompierre had little chance of leaving his prison.

Monsieur du Tremblay received D’Artagnan with extreme politeness and

invited him to sit down with him to supper, of which he was himself

about to partake.

“I should be delighted to do so,” was the reply; “but if I am not

mistaken, the words ‘In haste,’ are written on the envelope of the

letter which I brought.”

“You are right,” said Du Tremblay. “Halloo, major! tell them to order

Number 25 to come downstairs.”

The unhappy wretch who entered the Bastile ceased, as he crossed the

threshold, to be a man—he became a number.

D’Artagnan shuddered at the noise of the keys; he remained on

horseback, feeling no inclination to dismount, and sat looking at the

bars, at the buttressed windows and the immense walls he had hitherto

only seen from the other side of the moat, but by which he had for

twenty years been awe-struck.

A bell resounded.

“I must leave you,” said Du Tremblay; “I am sent for to sign the

release of a prisoner. I shall be happy to meet you again, sir.”

“May the devil annihilate me if I return thy wish!” murmured

D’Artagnan, smiling as he pronounced the imprecation; “I declare I feel

quite ill after only being five minutes in the courtyard. Go to! go to!

I would rather die on straw than hoard up a thousand a year by being

governor of the Bastile.”

He had scarcely finished this soliloquy before the prisoner arrived. On

seeing him D’Artagnan could hardly suppress an exclamation of surprise.

The prisoner got into the carriage without seeming to recognize the

musketeer.

“Gentlemen,” thus D’Artagnan addressed the four musketeers, “I am

ordered to exercise the greatest possible care in guarding the

prisoner, and since there are no locks to the carriage, I shall sit

beside him. Monsieur de Lillebonne, lead my horse by the bridle, if you

please.” As he spoke he dismounted, gave the bridle of his horse to the

musketeer and placing himself by the side of the prisoner said, in a

voice perfectly composed, “To the Palais Royal, at full trot.”

The carriage drove on and D’Artagnan, availing himself of the darkness

in the archway under which they were passing, threw himself into the

arms of the prisoner.

“Rochefort!” he exclaimed; “you! is it you, indeed? I am not mistaken?”

“D’Artagnan!” cried Rochefort.

“Ah! my poor friend!” resumed D’Artagnan, “not having seen you for four

or five years I concluded you were dead.”

“I’faith,” said Rochefort, “there’s no great difference, I think,

between a dead man and one who has been buried alive; now I have been

buried alive, or very nearly so.”

“And for what crime are you imprisoned in the Bastile.”

“Do you wish me to speak the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, _I don’t know_.”

“Have you any suspicion of me, Rochefort?”

“No! on the honor of a gentleman; but I cannot be imprisoned for the

reason alleged; it is impossible.”

“What reason?” asked D’Artagnan.

“For stealing.”

“For stealing! you, Rochefort! you are laughing at me.”

“I understand. You mean that this demands explanation, do you not?”

“I admit it.”

“Well, this is what actually took place: One evening after an orgy in

Reinard’s apartment at the Tuileries with the Duc d’Harcourt,

Fontrailles, De Rieux and others, the Duc d’Harcourt proposed that we

should go and pull cloaks on the Pont Neuf; that is, you know, a

diversion which the Duc d’Orléans made quite the fashion.”

“Were you crazy, Rochefort? at your age!”

“No, I was drunk. And yet, since the amusement seemed to me rather

tame, I proposed to Chevalier de Rieux that we should be spectators

instead of actors, and, in order to see to advantage, that we should

mount the bronze horse. No sooner said than done. Thanks to the spurs,

which served as stirrups, in a moment we were perched upon the

_croupe;_ we were well placed and saw everything. Four or five cloaks

had already been lifted, with a dexterity without parallel, and not one

of the victims had dared to say a word, when some fool of a fellow,

less patient than the others, took it into his head to cry out,

‘Guard!’ and drew upon us a patrol of archers. Duc d’Harcourt,

Fontrailles, and the others escaped; De Rieux was inclined to do

likewise, but I told him they wouldn’t look for us where we were. He

wouldn’t listen, put his foot on the spur to get down, the spur broke,

he fell with a broken leg, and, instead of keeping quiet, took to

crying out like a gallows-bird. I then was ready to dismount, but it

was too late; I descended into the arms of the archers. They conducted

me to the Châtelet, where I slept soundly, being very sure that on the

next day I should go forth free. The next day came and passed, the day

after, a week; I then wrote to the cardinal. The same day they came for

me and took me to the Bastile. That was five years ago. Do you believe

it was because I committed the sacrilege of mounting _en croupe_ behind

Henry IV.?”

“No; you are right, my dear Rochefort, it couldn’t be for that; but you

will probably learn the reason soon.”

“Ah, indeed! I forgot to ask you—where are you taking me?”

“To the cardinal.”

“What does he want with me?”

“I do not know. I did not even know that you were the person I was sent

to fetch.”

“Impossible—you—a favorite of the minister!”

“A favorite! no, indeed!” cried D’Artagnan. “Ah, my poor friend! I am

just as poor a Gascon as when I saw you at Meung, twenty-two years ago,

you know; alas!” and he concluded his speech with a deep sigh.

“Nevertheless, you come as one in authority.”

“Because I happened to be in the ante-chamber when the cardinal called

me, by the merest chance. I am still a lieutenant in the musketeers and

have been so these twenty years.”

“Then no misfortune has happened to you?”

“And what misfortune could happen to me? To quote some Latin verses I

have forgotten, or rather, never knew well, ‘the thunderbolt never

falls on the valleys,’ and I am a valley, dear Rochefort,—one of the

lowliest of the low.”

“Then Mazarin is still Mazarin?”

“The same as ever, my friend; it is said that he is married to the

queen.”

“Married?”

“If not her husband, he is unquestionably her lover.”

“You surprise me. Rebuff Buckingham and consent to Mazarin!”

“Just like the women,” replied D’Artagnan, coolly.

“Like women, not like queens.”

“Egad! queens are the weakest of their sex, when it comes to such

things as these.”

“And M. de Beaufort—is he still in prison?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Oh, nothing, but that he might get me out of this, if he were

favorably inclined to me.”

“You are probably nearer freedom than he is, so it will be your

business to get him out.”

“And,” said the prisoner, “what talk is there of war with Spain?”

“With Spain, no,” answered D’Artagnan; “but Paris.”

“What do you mean?” cried Rochefort.

“Do you hear the guns, pray? The citizens are amusing themselves in the

meantime.”

“And you—do you really think that anything could be done with these

_bourgeois?_”

“Yes, they might do well if they had any leader to unite them in one

body.”

“How miserable not to be free!”

“Don’t be downcast. Since Mazarin has sent for you, it is because he

wants you. I congratulate you! Many a long year has passed since any

one has wanted to employ _me;_ so you see in what a situation _I_ am.”

“Make your complaints known; that’s my advice.”

“Listen, Rochefort; let us make a compact. We are friends, are we not?”

“Egad! I bear the traces of our friendship—three slits or slashes from

your sword.”

“Well, if you should be restored to favor, don’t forget me.”

“On the honor of a Rochefort; but you must do the like for me.”

“There’s my hand,—I promise.”

“Therefore, whenever you find any opportunity of saying something in my

behalf——”

“I shall say it, and you?”

“I shall do the same.”

“Apropos, are we to speak of your friends also, Athos, Porthos, and

Aramis? or have you forgotten them?”

“Almost.”

“What has become of them?”

“I don’t know; we separated, as you know. They are alive, that’s all

that I can say about them; from time to time I hear of them indirectly,

but in what part of the world they are, devil take me if I know, No, on

my honor, I have not a friend in the world but you, Rochefort.”

“And the illustrious—what’s the name of the lad whom I made a sergeant

in Piedmont’s regiment?”

“Planchet!”

“The illustrious Planchet. What has become of him?”

“I shouldn’t wonder if he were at the head of the mob at this very

moment. He married a woman who keeps a confectioner’s shop in the Rue

des Lombards, for he’s a lad who was always fond of sweetmeats; he’s

now a citizen of Paris. You’ll see that that queer fellow will be a

sheriff before I shall be a captain.”

“Come, dear D’Artagnan, look up a little! Courage! It is when one is

lowest on the wheel of fortune that the merry-go-round wheels and

rewards us. This evening your destiny begins to change.”

“Amen!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, stopping the carriage.

“What are you doing?” asked Rochefort.

“We are almost there and I want no one to see me getting out of your

carriage; we are supposed not to know each other.”

“You are right. Adieu.”

“_Au revoir_. Remember your promise.”

In five minutes the party entered the courtyard and D’Artagnan led the

prisoner up the great staircase and across the corridor and

ante-chamber.

As they stopped at the door of the cardinal’s study, D’Artagnan was

about to be announced when Rochefort slapped him on his shoulder.

“D’Artagnan, let me confess to you what I’ve been thinking about during

the whole of my drive, as I looked out upon the parties of citizens who

perpetually crossed our path and looked at you and your four men with

fiery eyes.”

“Speak out,” answered D’Artagnan.

“I had only to cry out ‘Help!’ for you and for your companions to be

cut to pieces, and _then_ I should have been free.”

“Why didn’t you do it?” asked the lieutenant.

“Come, come!” cried Rochefort. “Did we not swear friendship? Ah! had

any one but you been there, I don’t say——”

D’Artagnan bowed. “Is it possible that Rochefort has become a better

man than I am?” he said to himself. And he caused himself to be

announced to the minister.

“Let M. de Rochefort enter,” said Mazarin, eagerly, on hearing their

names pronounced; “and beg M. d’Artagnan to wait; I shall have further

need of him.”

These words gave great joy to D’Artagnan. As he had said, it had been a

long time since any one had needed him; and that demand for his

services on the part of Mazarin seemed to him an auspicious sign.

Rochefort, rendered suspicious and cautious by these words, entered the

apartment, where he found Mazarin sitting at the table, dressed in his

ordinary garb and as one of the prelates of the Church, his costume

being similar to that of the abbés in that day, excepting that his

scarf and stockings were violet.

As the door was closed Rochefort cast a glance toward Mazarin, which

was answered by one, equally furtive, from the minister.

There was little change in the cardinal; still dressed with sedulous

care, his hair well arranged and curled, his person perfumed, he

looked, owing to his extreme taste in dress, only half his age. But

Rochefort, who had passed five years in prison, had become old in the

lapse of a few years; the dark locks of this estimable friend of the

defunct Cardinal Richelieu were now white; the deep bronze of his

complexion had been succeeded by a mortal pallor which betokened

debility. As he gazed at him Mazarin shook his head slightly, as much

as to say, “This is a man who does not appear to me fit for much.”

After a pause, which appeared an age to Rochefort, Mazarin took from a

bundle of papers a letter, and showing it to the count, he said:

“I find here a letter in which you sue for liberty, Monsieur de

Rochefort. You are in prison, then?”

Rochefort trembled in every limb at this question. “But I thought,” he

said, “that your eminence knew that circumstance better than any one——”

“I? Oh no! There is a congestion of prisoners in the Bastile, who were

cooped up in the time of Monsieur de Richelieu; I don’t even know their

names.”

“Yes, but in regard to myself, my lord, it cannot be so, for I was

removed from the Châtelet to the Bastile owing to an order from your

eminence.”

“You _think_ you were.”

“I am certain of it.”

“Ah, stay! I fancy I remember it. Did you not once refuse to undertake

a journey to Brussels for the queen?”

“Ah! ah!” exclaimed Rochefort. “There is the true reason! Idiot that I

am, though I have been trying to find it out for five years, I never

found it out.”

“But I do not _say_ it was the cause of your imprisonment. I merely ask

you, did you not refuse to go to Brussels for the queen, whilst you had

consented to go there to do some service for the late cardinal?”

“That is the very reason I refused to go back to Brussels. I was there

at a fearful moment. I was sent there to intercept a correspondence

between Chalais and the archduke, and even then, when I was discovered

I was nearly torn to pieces. How could I, then, return to Brussels? I

should injure the queen instead of serving her.”

“Well, since the best motives are liable to misconstruction, the queen

saw in your refusal nothing but a refusal—a distinct refusal she had

also much to complain of you during the lifetime of the late cardinal;

yes, her majesty the queen——”

Rochefort smiled contemptuously.

“Since I was a faithful servant, my lord, to Cardinal Richelieu during

his life, it stands to reason that now, after his death, I should serve

you well, in defiance of the whole world.”

“With regard to myself, Monsieur de Rochefort,” replied Mazarin, “I am

not, like Monsieur de Richelieu, all-powerful. I am but a minister, who

wants no servants, being myself nothing but a servant of the queen’s.

Now, the queen is of a sensitive nature. Hearing of your refusal to

obey her she looked upon it as a declaration of war, and as she

considers you a man of superior talent, and consequently dangerous, she

desired me to make sure of you; that is the reason of your being shut

up in the Bastile. But your release can be managed. You are one of

those men who can comprehend certain matters and having understood

them, can act with energy——”

“Such was Cardinal Richelieu’s opinion, my lord.”

“The cardinal,” interrupted Mazarin, “was a great politician and

therein shone his vast superiority over me. I am a straightforward,

simple man; that’s my great disadvantage. I am of a frankness of

character quite French.”

Rochefort bit his lips in order to prevent a smile.

“Now to the point. I want friends; I want faithful servants. When I say

I want, I mean the queen wants them. I do nothing without her

commands—pray understand that; not like Monsieur de Richelieu, who went

on just as he pleased. So I shall never be a great man, as he was, but

to compensate for that, I shall be a good man, Monsieur de Rochefort,

and I hope to prove it to you.”

Rochefort knew well the tones of that soft voice, in which sounded

sometimes a sort of gentle lisp, like the hissing of young vipers.

“I am disposed to believe your eminence,” he replied; “though I have

had but little evidence of that good-nature of which your eminence

speaks. Do not forget that I have been five years in the Bastile and

that no medium of viewing things is so deceptive as the grating of a

prison.”

“Ah, Monsieur de Rochefort! have I not told you already that I had

nothing to do with that? The queen—cannot you make allowances for the

pettishness of a queen and a princess? But that has passed away as

suddenly as it came, and is forgotten.”

“I can easily suppose, sir, that her majesty has forgotten it amid the

_fêtes_ and the courtiers of the Palais Royal, but I who have passed

those years in the Bastile——”

“Ah! _mon Dieu!_ my dear Monsieur de Rochefort! do you absolutely think

that the Palais Royal is the abode of gayety? No. We have had great

annoyances there. As for me, I play my game squarely, fairly, and above

board, as I always do. Let us come to some conclusion. Are you one of

us, Monsieur de Rochefort?”

“I am very desirous of being so, my lord, but I am totally in the dark

about everything. In the Bastile one talks politics only with soldiers

and jailers, and you have not an idea, my lord, how little is known of

what is going on by people of that sort; I am of Monsieur de

Bassompierre’s party. Is he still one of the seventeen peers of

France?”

“He is dead, sir; a great loss. His devotion to the queen was

boundless; men of loyalty are scarce.”

“I think so, forsooth,” said Rochefort, “and when you find any of them,

you march them off to the Bastile. However, there are plenty in the

world, but you don’t look in the right direction for them, my lord.”

“Indeed! explain to me. Ah! my dear Monsieur de Rochefort, how much you

must have learned during your intimacy with the late cardinal! Ah! he

was a great man.”

“Will your eminence be angry if I read you a lesson?”

“I! never! you know you may say _anything_ to me. I try to be beloved,

not feared.”

“Well, there is on the wall of my cell, scratched with a nail, a

proverb, which says, ‘Like master, like servant.’”

“Pray, what does that mean?”

“It means that Monsieur de Richelieu was able to find trusty servants,

dozens and dozens of them.”

“He! the point aimed at by every poniard! Richelieu, who passed his

life in warding off blows which were forever aimed at him!”

“But he _did_ ward them off,” said De Rochefort, “and the reason was,

that though he had bitter enemies he possessed also true friends. I

have known persons,” he continued—for he thought he might avail himself

of the opportunity of speaking of D’Artagnan—“who by their sagacity and

address have deceived the penetration of Cardinal Richelieu; who by

their valor have got the better of his guards and spies; persons

without money, without support, without credit, yet who have preserved

to the crowned head its crown and made the cardinal crave pardon.”

“But those men you speak of,” said Mazarin, smiling inwardly on seeing

Rochefort approach the point to which he was leading him, “those men

were not devoted to the cardinal, for they contended against him.”

“No; in that case they would have met with more fitting reward. They

had the misfortune to be devoted to that very queen for whom just now

you were seeking servants.”

“But how is it that you know so much of these matters?”

“I know them because the men of whom I speak were at that time my

enemies; because they fought against me; because I did them all the

harm I could and they returned it to the best of their ability; because

one of them, with whom I had most to do, gave me a pretty sword-thrust,

now about seven years ago, the third that I received from the same

hand; it closed an old account.”

“Ah!” said Mazarin, with admirable suavity, “could I but find such

men!”

“My lord, there has stood for six years at your very door a man such as

I describe, and during those six years he has been unappreciated and

unemployed by you.”

“Who is it?”

“It is Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

“That Gascon!” cried Mazarin, with well acted surprise.

“‘That Gascon’ has saved a queen and made Monsieur de Richelieu confess

that in point of talent, address and political skill, to him he was

only a tyro.”

“Really?”

“It is as I have the honor of telling it to your excellency.”

“Tell me a little about it, my dear Monsieur de Rochefort.”

“That is somewhat difficult, my lord,” said Rochefort, with a smile.

“Then he will tell it me himself.”

“I doubt it, my lord.”

“Why do you doubt it?”

“Because the secret does not belong to him; because, as I have told

you, it has to do with a great queen.”

“And he was alone in achieving an enterprise like that?”

“No, my lord, he had three colleagues, three brave men, men such as you

were wishing for just now.”

“And were these four men attached to each other, true in heart, really

united?”

“As if they had been one man—as if their four hearts had pulsated in

one breast.”

“You pique my curiosity, dear Rochefort; pray tell me the whole story.”

“That is impossible; but I will tell you a true story, my lord.”

“Pray do so, I delight in stories,” cried the cardinal.

“Listen, then,” returned Rochefort, as he spoke endeavoring to read in

that subtle countenance the cardinal’s motive. “Once upon a time there

lived a queen—a powerful monarch—who reigned over one of the greatest

kingdoms of the universe; and a minister; and this minister wished much

to injure the queen, whom once he had loved too well. (Do not try, my

lord, you cannot guess who it is; all this happened long before you

came into the country where this queen reigned.) There came to the

court an ambassador so brave, so magnificent, so elegant, that every

woman lost her heart to him; and the queen had even the indiscretion to

give him certain ornaments so rare that they could never be replaced by

any like them.

“As these ornaments were given by the king the minister persuaded his

majesty to insist upon the queen’s appearing in them as part of her

jewels at a ball which was soon to take place. There is no occasion to

tell you, my lord, that the minister knew for a fact that these

ornaments had sailed away with the ambassador, who was far away, beyond

seas. This illustrious queen had fallen low as the least of her

subjects—fallen from her high estate.”

“Indeed!”

“Well, my lord, four men resolved to save her. These four men were not

princes, neither were they dukes, neither were they men in power; they

were not even rich. They were four honest soldiers, each with a good

heart, a good arm and a sword at the service of those who wanted it.

They set out. The minister knew of their departure and had planted

people on the road to prevent them ever reaching their destination.

Three of them were overwhelmed and disabled by numerous assailants; one

of them alone arrived at the port, having either killed or wounded

those who wished to stop him. He crossed the sea and brought back the

set of ornaments to the great queen, who was able to wear them on her

shoulder on the appointed day; and this very nearly ruined the

minister. What do you think of that exploit, my lord?”

“It is magnificent!” said Mazarin, thoughtfully.

“Well, I know of ten such men.”

Mazarin made no reply; he reflected.

Five or six minutes elapsed.

“You have nothing more to ask of me, my lord?” said Rochefort.

“Yes. And you say that Monsieur d’Artagnan was one of those four men?”

“He led the enterprise.”

“And who were the others?”

“I leave it to Monsieur d’Artagnan to name them, my lord. They were his

friends and not mine. He alone would have any influence with them; I do

not even know them under their true names.”

“You suspect me, Monsieur de Rochefort; I want him and you and all to

aid me.”

“Begin with me, my lord; for after five or six years of imprisonment it

is natural to feel some curiosity as to one’s destination.”

“You, my dear Monsieur de Rochefort, shall have the post of confidence;

you shall go to Vincennes, where Monsieur de Beaufort is confined; you

will guard him well for me. Well, what is the matter?”

“The matter is that you have proposed to me what is impossible,” said

Rochefort, shaking his head with an air of disappointment.

“What! impossible? And why is it impossible?”

“Because Monsieur de Beaufort is one of my friends, or rather, I am one

of his. Have you forgotten, my lord, that it is he who answered for me

to the queen?”

“Since then Monsieur de Beaufort has become an enemy of the State.”

“That may be, my lord; but since I am neither king nor queen nor

minister, he is not my enemy and I cannot accept your offer.”

“This, then, is what you call devotion! I congratulate you. Your

devotion does not commit you too far, Monsieur de Rochefort.”

“And then, my lord,” continued Rochefort, “you understand that to

emerge from the Bastile in order to enter Vincennes is only to change

one’s prison.”

“Say at once that you are on the side of Monsieur de Beaufort; that

will be the most sincere line of conduct,” said Mazarin.

“My lord, I have been so long shut up, that I am only of one party—I am

for fresh air. Employ me in any other way; employ me even actively, but

let it be on the high roads.”

“My dear Monsieur de Rochefort,” Mazarin replied in a tone of raillery,

“you think yourself still a young man; your spirit is that of the

phoenix, but your strength fails you. Believe me, you ought now to take

a rest. Here!”

“You decide, then, nothing about me, my lord?”

“On the contrary, I have come to a decision.”

Bernouin came into the room.

“Call an officer of justice,” he said; “and stay close to me,” he

added, in a low tone.

The officer entered. Mazarin wrote a few words, which he gave to this

man; then he bowed.

“Adieu, Monsieur de Rochefort,” he said.

Rochefort bent low.

“I see, my lord, I am to be taken back to the Bastile.”

“You are sagacious.”

“I shall return thither, my lord, but it is a mistake on your part not

to employ me.”

“You? the friend of my greatest foes? Don’t suppose that you are the

only person who can serve me, Monsieur de Rochefort. I shall find many

men as able as you are.”

“I wish you may, my lord,” replied De Rochefort.

He was then reconducted by the little staircase, instead of passing

through the ante-chamber where D’Artagnan was waiting. In the courtyard

the carriage and the four musketeers were ready, but he looked around

in vain for his friend.

“Ah!” he muttered to himself, “this changes the situation, and if there

is still a crowd of people in the streets we will try to show Mazarin

that we are still, thank God, good for something else than keeping

guard over a prisoner;” and he jumped into the carriage with the

alacrity of a man of five-and-twenty.

Chapter IV.

Anne of Austria at the Age of Forty-six.

When left alone with Bernouin, Mazarin was for some minutes lost in

thought. He had gained much information, but not enough. Mazarin was a

cheat at the card-table. This is a detail preserved to us by Brienne.

He called it using his advantages. He now determined not to begin the

game with D’Artagnan till he knew completely all his adversary’s cards.

“My lord, have you any commands?” asked Bernouin.

“Yes, yes,” replied Mazarin. “Light me; I am going to the queen.”

Bernouin took up a candlestick and led the way.

There was a secret communication between the cardinal’s apartments and

those of the queen; and through this corridor* Mazarin passed whenever

he wished to visit Anne of Austria.

* This secret passage is still to be seen in the Palais Royal.

In the bedroom in which this passage ended, Bernouin encountered Madame

de Beauvais, like himself intrusted with the secret of these

subterranean love affairs; and Madame de Beauvais undertook to prepare

Anne of Austria, who was in her oratory with the young king, Louis

XIV., to receive the cardinal.

Anne, reclining in a large easy-chair, her head supported by her hand,

her elbow resting on a table, was looking at her son, who was turning

over the leaves of a large book filled with pictures. This celebrated

woman fully understood the art of being dull with dignity. It was her

practice to pass hours either in her oratory or in her room, without

either reading or praying.

When Madame de Beauvais appeared at the door and announced the

cardinal, the child, who had been absorbed in the pages of Quintus

Curtius, enlivened as they were by engravings of Alexander’s feats of

arms, frowned and looked at his mother.

“Why,” he said, “does he enter without first asking for an audience?”

Anne colored slightly.

“The prime minister,” she said, “is obliged in these unsettled days to

inform the queen of all that is happening from time to time, without

exciting the curiosity or remarks of the court.”

“But Richelieu never came in this manner,” said the pertinacious boy.

“How can you remember what Monsieur de Richelieu did? You were too

young to know about such things.”

“I do not remember what he did, but I have inquired and I have been

told all about it.”

“And who told you about it?” asked Anne of Austria, with a movement of

impatience.

“I know that I ought never to name the persons who answer my

questions,” answered the child, “for if I do I shall learn nothing

further.”

At this very moment Mazarin entered. The king rose immediately, took

his book, closed it and went to lay it down on the table, near which he

continued standing, in order that Mazarin might be obliged to stand

also.

Mazarin contemplated these proceedings with a thoughtful glance. They

explained what had occurred that evening.

He bowed respectfully to the king, who gave him a somewhat cavalier

reception, but a look from his mother reproved him for the hatred

which, from his infancy, Louis XIV. had entertained toward Mazarin, and

he endeavored to receive the minister’s homage with civility.

Anne of Austria sought to read in Mazarin’s face the occasion of this

unexpected visit, since the cardinal usually came to her apartment only

after every one had retired.

The minister made a slight sign with his head, whereupon the queen said

to Madame Beauvais:

“It is time for the king to go to bed; call Laporte.”

The queen had several times already told her son that he ought to go to

bed, and several times Louis had coaxingly insisted on staying where he

was; but now he made no reply, but turned pale and bit his lips with

anger.

In a few minutes Laporte came into the room. The child went directly to

him without kissing his mother.

“Well, Louis,” said Anne, “why do you not kiss me?”

“I thought you were angry with me, madame; you sent me away.”

“I do not send you away, but you have had the small-pox and I am afraid

that sitting up late may tire you.”

“You had no fears of my being tired when you ordered me to go to the

palace to-day to pass the odious decrees which have raised the people

to rebellion.”

“Sire!” interposed Laporte, in order to turn the subject, “to whom does

your majesty wish me to give the candle?”

“To any one, Laporte,” the child said; and then added in a loud voice,

“to any one except Mancini.”

Now Mancini was a nephew of Mazarin’s and was as much hated by Louis as

the cardinal himself, although placed near his person by the minister.

And the king went out of the room without either embracing his mother

or even bowing to the cardinal.

“Good,” said Mazarin, “I am glad to see that his majesty has been

brought up with a hatred of dissimulation.”

“Why do you say that?” asked the queen, almost timidly.

“Why, it seems to me that the way in which he left us needs no

explanation. Besides, his majesty takes no pains to conceal how little

affection he has for me. That, however, does not hinder me from being

entirely devoted to his service, as I am to that of your majesty.”

“I ask your pardon for him, cardinal,” said the queen; “he is a child,

not yet able to understand his obligations to you.”

The cardinal smiled.

“But,” continued the queen, “you have doubtless come for some important

purpose. What is it, then?”

Mazarin sank into a chair with the deepest melancholy painted on his

countenance.

“It is likely,” he replied, “that we shall soon be obliged to separate,

unless you love me well enough to follow me to Italy.”

“Why,” cried the queen; “how is that?”

“Because, as they say in the opera of ‘Thisbe,’ ‘The whole world

conspires to break our bonds.’”

“You jest, sir!” answered the queen, endeavoring to assume something of

her former dignity.

“Alas! I do not, madame,” rejoined Mazarin. “Mark well what I say. The

whole world conspires to break our bonds. Now as you are one of the

whole world, I mean to say that you also are deserting me.”

“Cardinal!”

“Heavens! did I not see you the other day smile on the Duke of Orléans?

or rather at what he said?”

“And what was he saying?”

“He said this, madame: ‘Mazarin is a stumbling-block. Send him away and

all will then be well.’”

“What do you wish me to do?”

“Oh, madame! you are the queen!”

“Queen, forsooth! when I am at the mercy of every scribbler in the

Palais Royal who covers waste paper with nonsense, or of every country

squire in the kingdom.”

“Nevertheless, you have still the power of banishing from your presence

those whom you do not like!”

“That is to say, whom _you_ do not like,” returned the queen.

“I! persons whom _I_ do not like!”

“Yes, indeed. Who sent away Madame de Chevreuse after she had been

persecuted twelve years under the last reign?”

“A woman of intrigue, who wanted to keep up against me the spirit of

cabal she had raised against M. de Richelieu.”

“Who dismissed Madame de Hautefort, that friend so loyal that she

refused the favor of the king that she might remain in mine?”

“A prude, who told you every night, as she undressed you, that it was a

sin to love a priest, just as if one were a priest because one happens

to be a cardinal.”

“Who ordered Monsieur de Beaufort to be arrested?”

“An incendiary the burden of whose song was his intention to

assassinate me.”

“You see, cardinal,” replied the queen, “that your enemies are mine.”

“That is not enough madame, it is necessary that your friends should be

also mine.”

“My friends, monsieur?” The queen shook her head. “Alas, I have them no

longer!”

“How is it that you have no friends in your prosperity when you had

many in adversity?”

“It is because in my prosperity I forgot those old friends, monsieur;

because I have acted like Queen Marie de Médicis, who, returning from

her first exile, treated with contempt all those who had suffered for

her and, being proscribed a second time, died at Cologne abandoned by

every one, even by her own son.”

“Well, let us see,” said Mazarin; “isn’t there still time to repair the

evil? Search among your friends, your oldest friends.”

“What do you mean, monsieur?”

“Nothing else than I say—search.”

“Alas, I look around me in vain! I have no influence with any one.

Monsieur is, as usual, led by his favorite; yesterday it was Choisy,

to-day it is La Rivière, to-morrow it will be some one else. Monsieur

le Prince is led by the coadjutor, who is led by Madame de Guéménée.”

“Therefore, madame, I ask you to look, not among your friends of

to-day, but among those of other times.”

“Among my friends of other times?” said the queen.

“Yes, among your friends of other times; among those who aided you to

contend against the Duc de Richelieu and even to conquer him.”

“What is he aiming at?” murmured the queen, looking uneasily at the

cardinal.

“Yes,” continued his eminence; “under certain circumstances, with that

strong and shrewd mind your majesty possesses, aided by your friends,

you were able to repel the attacks of that adversary.”

“I!” said the queen. “I suffered, that is all.”

“Yes,” said Mazarin, “as women suffer in avenging themselves. Come, let

us come to the point. Do you know Monsieur de Rochefort?”

“One of my bitterest enemies—the faithful friend of Cardinal

Richelieu.”

“I know that, and we sent him to the Bastile,” said Mazarin.

“Is he at liberty?” asked the queen.

“No; still there, but I only speak of him in order that I may introduce

the name of another man. Do you know Monsieur d’Artagnan?” he added,

looking steadfastly at the queen.

Anne of Austria received the blow with a beating heart.

“Has the Gascon been indiscreet?” she murmured to herself, then said

aloud:

“D’Artagnan! stop an instant, the name seems certainly familiar.

D’Artagnan! there was a musketeer who was in love with one of my women.

Poor young creature! she was poisoned on my account.”

“That’s all you know of him?” asked Mazarin.

The queen looked at him, surprised.

“You seem, sir,” she remarked, “to be making me undergo a course of

cross-examination.”

“Which you answer according to your fancy,” replied Mazarin.

“Tell me your wishes and I will comply with them.”

The queen spoke with some impatience.

“Well, madame,” said Mazarin, bowing, “I desire that you give me a

share in your friends, as I have shared with you the little industry

and talent that Heaven has given me. The circumstances are grave and it

will be necessary to act promptly.”

“Still!” said the queen. “I thought that we were finally quit of

Monsieur de Beaufort.”

“Yes, you saw only the torrent that threatened to overturn everything

and you gave no attention to the still water. There is, however, a

proverb current in France relating to water which is quiet.”

“Continue,” said the queen.

“Well, then, madame, not a day passes in which I do not suffer affronts

from your princes and your lordly servants, all of them automata who do

not perceive that I wind up the spring that makes them move, nor do

they see that beneath my quiet demeanor lies the still scorn of an

injured, irritated man, who has sworn to himself to master them one of

these days. We have arrested Monsieur de Beaufort, but he is the least

dangerous among them. There is the Prince de Condé——”

“The hero of Rocroy. Do you think of _him?_”

“Yes, madame, often and often, but _pazienza_, as we say in Italy;

next, after Monsieur de Condé, comes the Duke of Orléans.”

“What are you saying? The first prince of the blood, the king’s uncle!”

“No! not the first prince of the blood, not the king’s uncle, but the

base conspirator, the soul of every cabal, who pretends to lead the

brave people who are weak enough to believe in the honor of a prince of

the blood—not the prince nearest to the throne, not the king’s uncle, I

repeat, but the murderer of Chalais, of Montmorency and of Cinq-Mars,

who is playing now the same game he played long ago and who thinks that

he will win the game because he has a new adversary—instead of a man

who threatened, a man who smiles. But he is mistaken; I shall not leave

so near the queen that source of discord with which the deceased

cardinal so often caused the anger of the king to rage above the

boiling point.”

Anne blushed and buried her face in her hands.

“What am I to do?” she said, bowed down beneath the voice of her

tyrant.

“Endeavor to remember the names of those faithful servants who crossed

the Channel, in spite of Monsieur de Richelieu, tracking the roads

along which they passed by their blood, to bring back to your majesty

certain jewels given by you to Buckingham.”

Anne arose, full of majesty, and as if touched by a spring, and looking

at the cardinal with the haughty dignity which in the days of her youth

had made her so powerful: “You are insulting me!” she said.

“I wish,” continued Mazarin, finishing, as it were, the speech this

sudden movement of the queen had cut; “I wish, in fact, that you should

now do for your husband what you formerly did for your lover.”

“Again that accusation!” cried the queen. “I thought that calumny was

stifled or extinct; you have spared me till now, but since you speak of

it, once for all, I tell you——”

“Madame, I do not ask you to tell me,” said Mazarin, astounded by this

returning courage.

“I will tell you all,” replied Anne. “Listen: there were in truth, at

that epoch, four devoted hearts, four loyal spirits, four faithful

swords, who saved more than my life—my honor——”

“Ah! you confess it!” exclaimed Mazarin.

“Is it only the guilty whose honor is at the sport of others, sir? and

cannot women be dishonored by appearances? Yes, appearances were

against me and I was about to suffer dishonor. However, I swear I was

not guilty, I swear it by——”

The queen looked around her for some sacred object by which she could

swear, and taking out of a cupboard hidden in the tapestry, a small

coffer of rosewood set in silver, and laying it on the altar:

“I swear,” she said, “by these sacred relics that Buckingham was not my

lover.”

“What relics are those by which you swear?” asked Mazarin, smiling. “I

am incredulous.”

The queen untied from around her throat a small golden key which hung

there, and presented it to the cardinal.

“Open, sir,” she said, “and look for yourself.”

Mazarin opened the coffer; a knife, covered with rust, and two letters,

one of which was stained with blood, alone met his gaze.

“What are these things?” he asked.

“What are these things?” replied Anne, with queen-like dignity,

extending toward the open coffer an arm, despite the lapse of years,

still beautiful. “These two letters are the only ones I ever wrote to

him. This knife is the knife with which Felton stabbed him. Read the

letters and see if I have lied or spoken the truth.”

But Mazarin, notwithstanding this permission, instead of reading the

letters, took the knife which the dying Buckingham had snatched out of

the wound and sent by Laporte to the queen. The blade was red, for the

blood had become rust; after a momentary examination during which the

queen became as white as the cloth which covered the altar on which she

was leaning, he put it back into the coffer with an involuntary

shudder.

“It is well, madame, I believe your oath.”

“No, no, read,” exclaimed the queen, indignantly; “read, I command you,

for I am resolved that everything shall be finished to-night and never

will I recur to this subject again. Do you think,” she said, with a

ghastly smile, “that I shall be inclined to reopen this coffer to

answer any future accusations?”

Mazarin, overcome by this determination, read the two letters. In one

the queen asked for the ornaments back again. This letter had been

conveyed by D’Artagnan and had arrived in time. The other was that

which Laporte had placed in the hands of the Duke of Buckingham,

warning him that he was about to be assassinated; that communication

had arrived too late.

“It is well, madame,” said Mazarin; “nothing can gainsay such

testimony.”

“Sir,” replied the queen, closing the coffer and leaning her hand upon

it, “if there is anything to be said, it is that I have always been

ungrateful to the brave men who saved me—that I have given nothing to

that gallant officer, D’Artagnan, you were speaking of just now, but my

hand to kiss and this diamond.”

As she spoke she extended her beautiful hand to the cardinal and showed

him a superb diamond which sparkled on her finger.

“It appears,” she resumed, “that he sold it—-he sold it in order to

save me another time—to be able to send a messenger to the duke to warn

him of his danger—he sold it to Monsieur des Essarts, on whose finger I

remarked it. I bought it from him, but it belongs to D’Artagnan. Give

it back to him, sir, and since you have such a man in your service,

make him useful.”

“Thank you, madame,” said Mazarin. “I will profit by the advice.”

“And now,” added the queen, her voice broken by her emotion, “have you

any other question to ask me?”

“Nothing,”—the cardinal spoke in his most conciliatory manner—“except

to beg of you to forgive my unworthy suspicions. I love you so tenderly

that I cannot help being jealous, even of the past.”

A smile, which was indefinable, passed over the lips of the queen.

“Since you have no further interrogations to make, leave me, I beseech

you,” she said. “I wish, after such a scene, to be alone.”

Mazarin bent low before her.

“I will retire, madame. Do you permit me to return?”

“Yes, to-morrow.”

The cardinal took the queen’s hand and pressed it with an air of

gallantry to his lips.

Scarcely had he left her when the queen went into her son’s room, and

inquired from Laporte if the king was in bed. Laporte pointed to the

child, who was asleep.

Anne ascended the steps side of the bed and softly kissed the placid

forehead of her son; then she retired as silently as she had come,

merely saying to Laporte:

“Try, my dear Laporte, to make the king more courteous to Monsieur le

Cardinal, to whom both he and I are under such important obligations.”

Chapter V.

The Gascon and the Italian.

Meanwhile the cardinal returned to his own room; and after asking

Bernouin, who stood at the door, whether anything had occurred during

his absence, and being answered in the negative, he desired that he

might be left alone.

When he was alone he opened the door of the corridor and then that of

the ante-chamber. There D’Artagnan was asleep upon a bench.

The cardinal went up to him and touched his shoulder. D’Artagnan

started, awakened himself, and as he awoke, stood up exactly like a

soldier under arms.

“Here I am,” said he. “Who calls me?”

“I,” said Mazarin, with his most smiling expression.

“I ask pardon of your eminence,” said D’Artagnan, “but I was so

fatigued——”

“Don’t ask my pardon, monsieur,” said Mazarin, “for you fatigued

yourself in my service.”

D’Artagnan admired Mazarin’s gracious manner. “Ah,” said he, between

his teeth, “is there truth in the proverb that fortune comes while one

sleeps?”

“Follow me, monsieur,” said Mazarin.

“Come, come,” murmured D’Artagnan, “Rochefort has kept his promise, but

where in the devil is he?” And he searched the cabinet even to the

smallest recesses, but there was no sign of Rochefort.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the cardinal, sitting down on a _fauteuil_,

“you have always seemed to me to be a brave and honorable man.”

“Possibly,” thought D’Artagnan, “but he has taken a long time to let me

know his thoughts;” nevertheless, he bowed to the very ground in

gratitude for Mazarin’s compliment.

“Well,” continued Mazarin, “the time has come to put to use your

talents and your valor.”

There was a sudden gleam of joy in the officer’s eyes, which vanished

immediately, for he knew nothing of Mazarin’s purpose.

“Order, my lord,” he said; “I am ready to obey your eminence.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued the cardinal, “you performed sundry

superb exploits in the last reign.”

“Your eminence is too good to remember such trifles in my favor. It is

true I fought with tolerable success.”

“I don’t speak of your warlike exploits, monsieur,” said Mazarin;

“although they gained you much reputation, they were surpassed by

others.”

D’Artagnan pretended astonishment.

“Well, you do not reply?” resumed Mazarin.

“I am waiting, my lord, till you tell me of what exploits you speak.”

“I speak of the adventure—Eh, you know well what I mean.”

“Alas, no, my lord!” replied D’Artagnan, surprised.

“You are discreet—so much the better. I speak of that adventure in

behalf of the queen, of the ornaments, of the journey you made with

three of your friends.”

“Aha!” thought the Gascon; “is this a snare or not? Let me be on my

guard.”

And he assumed a look of stupidity which Mendori or Bellerose, two of

the first actors of the day, might have envied.

“Bravo!” cried Mazarin; “they told me that you were the man I wanted.

Come, let us see what you will do for me.”

“Everything that your eminence may please to command me,” was the

reply.

“You will do for me what you have done for the queen?”

“Certainly,” D’Artagnan said to himself, “he wishes to make me speak

out. He’s not more cunning than De Richelieu was! Devil take him!” Then

he said aloud:

“The queen, my lord? I don’t comprehend.”

“You don’t comprehend that I want you and your three friends to be of

use to me?”

“Which of my friends, my lord?”

“Your _three_ friends—the friends of former days.”

“Of former days, my lord! In former days I had not only three friends,

I had thirty; at two-and-twenty one calls every man one’s friend.”

“Well, sir,” returned Mazarin, “prudence is a fine thing, but to-day

you might regret having been too prudent.”

“My lord, Pythagoras made his disciples keep silence for five years

that they might learn to hold their tongues.”

“But you have been silent for twenty years, sir. Speak, now the queen

herself releases you from your promise.”

“The queen!” said D’Artagnan, with an astonishment which this time was

not pretended.

“Yes, the queen! And as a proof of what I say she commanded me to show

you this diamond, which she thinks you know.”

And so saying, Mazarin extended his hand to the officer, who sighed as

he recognized the ring so gracefully given to him by the queen on the

night of the ball at the Hotel de Ville and which she had repurchased

from Monsieur des Essarts.

“’Tis true. I remember well that diamond, which belonged to the queen.”

“You see, then, that I speak to you in the queen’s name. Answer me

without acting as if you were on the stage; your interests are

concerned in your so doing.”

“Faith, my lord, it is very necessary for me to make my fortune, your

eminence has so long forgotten me.”

“We need only a week to amend all that. Come, you are accounted for,

you are here, but where are your friends?”

“I do not know, my lord. We have parted company this long time; all

three have left the service.”

“Where can you find them, then?”

“Wherever they are, that’s my business.”

“Well, now, what are your conditions, if I employ you?”

“Money, my lord, as much money as what you wish me to undertake will

require. I remember too well how sometimes we were stopped for want of

money, and but for that diamond, which I was obliged to sell, we should

have remained on the road.”

“The devil he does! Money! and a large sum!” said Mazarin. “Pray, are

you aware that the king has no money in his treasury?”

“Do then as I did, my lord. Sell the crown diamonds. Trust me, don’t

let us try to do things cheaply. Great undertakings come poorly off

with paltry means.”

“Well,” returned Mazarin, “we will satisfy you.”

“Richelieu,” thought D’Artagnan, “would have given me five hundred

pistoles in advance.”

“You will then be at my service?” asked Mazarin.

“Yes, if my friends agree.”

“But if they refuse can I count on you?”

“I have never accomplished anything alone,” said D’Artagnan, shaking

his head.

“Go, then, and find them.”

“What shall I say to them by way of inducement to serve your eminence?”

“You know them better than I. Adapt your promises to their respective

characters.”

“What shall I promise?”

“That if they serve me as well as they served the queen my gratitude

shall be magnificent.”

“But what are we to do?”

“Make your mind easy; when the time for action comes you shall be put

in full possession of what I require from you; wait till that time

arrives and find out your friends.”

“My lord, perhaps they are not in Paris. It is even probable that I

shall have to make a journey. I am only a lieutenant of musketeers,

very poor, and journeys cost money.

“My intention,” said Mazarin, “is not that you go with a great

following; my plans require secrecy, and would be jeopardized by a too

extravagant equipment.”

“Still, my lord, I can’t travel on my pay, for it is now three months

behind; and I can’t travel on my savings, for in my twenty-two years of

service I have accumulated nothing but debts.”

Mazarin remained some moments in deep thought, as if he were fighting

with himself; then, going to a large cupboard closed with a triple

lock, he took from it a bag of silver, and weighing it twice in his

hands before he gave it to D’Artagnan:

“Take this,” he said with a sigh, “’tis merely for your journey.”

“If these are Spanish doubloons, or even gold crowns,” thought

D’Artagnan, “we shall yet be able to do business together.” He saluted

the cardinal and plunged the bag into the depths of an immense pocket.

“Well, then, all is settled; you are to set off,” said the cardinal.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Apropos, what are the names of your friends?”

“The Count de la Fère, formerly styled Athos; Monsieur du Vallon, whom

we used to call Porthos; the Chevalier d’Herblay, now the Abbé

d’Herblay, whom we styled Aramis——”

The cardinal smiled.

“Younger sons,” he said, “who enlisted in the musketeers under feigned

names in order not to lower their family names. Long swords but light

purses. Was that it?”

“If, God willing, these swords should be devoted to the service of your

eminence,” said D’Artagnan, “I shall venture to express a wish, which

is, that in its turn the purse of your eminence may become light and

theirs heavy—for with these three men your eminence may rouse all

Europe if you like.”

“These Gascons,” said the cardinal, laughing, “almost beat the Italians

in effrontery.”

“At all events,” answered D’Artagnan, with a smile almost as crafty as

the cardinal’s, “they beat them when they draw their swords.”

He then withdrew, and as he passed into the courtyard he stopped near a

lamp and dived eagerly into the bag of money.

“Crown pieces only—silver pieces! I suspected it. Ah! Mazarin! Mazarin!

thou hast no confidence in me! so much the worse for thee, for harm may

come of it!”

Meanwhile the cardinal was rubbing his hands in great satisfaction.

“A hundred pistoles! a hundred pistoles! for a hundred pistoles I have

discovered a secret for which Richelieu would have paid twenty thousand

crowns; without reckoning the value of that diamond”—he cast a

complacent look at the ring, which he had kept, instead of restoring to

D’Artagnan—“which is worth, at least, ten thousand francs.”

He returned to his room, and after depositing the ring in a casket

filled with brilliants of every sort, for the cardinal was a

connoisseur in precious stones, he called to Bernouin to undress him,

regardless of the noises of gun-fire that, though it was now near

midnight, continued to resound through Paris.

In the meantime D’Artagnan took his way toward the Rue Tiquetonne,

where he lived at the Hotel de la Chevrette.

We will explain in a few words how D’Artagnan had been led to choose

that place of residence.

Chapter VI.

D’Artagnan in his Fortieth Year.

Years have elapsed, many events have happened, alas! since, in our

romance of “The Three Musketeers,” we took leave of D’Artagnan at No.

12 Rue des Fossoyeurs. D’Artagnan had not failed in his career, but

circumstances had been adverse to him. So long as he was surrounded by

his friends he retained his youth and the poetry of his character. He

was one of those fine, ingenuous natures which assimilate themselves

easily to the dispositions of others. Athos imparted to him his

greatness of soul, Porthos his enthusiasm, Aramis his elegance. Had

D’Artagnan continued his intimacy with these three men he would have

become a superior character. Athos was the first to leave him, in order

that he might retire to a little property he had inherited near Blois;

Porthos, the second, to marry an attorney’s wife; and lastly, Aramis,

the third, to take orders and become an abbé. From that day D’Artagnan

felt lonely and powerless, without courage to pursue a career in which

he could only distinguish himself on condition that each of his three

companions should endow him with one of the gifts each had received

from Heaven.

Notwithstanding his commission in the musketeers, D’Artagnan felt

completely solitary. For a time the delightful remembrance of Madame

Bonancieux left on his character a certain poetic tinge, perishable

indeed; for like all other recollections in this world, these

impressions were, by degrees, effaced. A garrison life is fatal even to

the most aristocratic organization; and imperceptibly, D’Artagnan,

always in the camp, always on horseback, always in garrison, became (I

know not how in the present age one would express it) a typical

trooper. His early refinement of character was not only not lost, it

grew even greater than ever; but it was now applied to the little,

instead of to the great things of life—to the martial condition of the

soldier—comprised under the head of a good lodging, a rich table, a

congenial hostess. These important advantages D’Artagnan found to his

own taste in the Rue Tiquetonne at the sign of the Roe.

From the time D’Artagnan took quarters in that hotel, the mistress of

the house, a pretty and fresh looking Flemish woman, twenty-five or

twenty-six years old, had been singularly interested in him; and after

certain love passages, much obstructed by an inconvenient husband to

whom a dozen times D’Artagnan had made a pretence of passing a sword

through his body, that husband had disappeared one fine morning, after

furtively selling certain choice lots of wine, carrying away with him

money and jewels. He was thought to be dead; his wife, especially, who

cherished the pleasing idea that she was a widow, stoutly maintained

that death had taken him. Therefore, after the connection had continued

three years, carefully fostered by D’Artagnan, who found his bed and

his mistress more agreeable every year, each doing credit to the other,

the mistress conceived the extraordinary desire of becoming a wife and

proposed to D’Artagnan that he should marry her.

“Ah, fie!” D’Artagnan replied. “Bigamy, my dear! Come now, you don’t

really wish it?”

“But he is dead; I am sure of it.”

“He was a very contrary fellow and might come back on purpose to have

us hanged.”

“All right; if he comes back you will kill him, you are so skillful and

so brave.”

“_Peste!_ my darling! another way of getting hanged.”

“So you refuse my request?”

“To be sure I do—furiously!”

The pretty landlady was desolate. She would have taken D’Artagnan not

only as her husband, but as her God, he was so handsome and had so

fierce a mustache.

Then along toward the fourth year came the expedition of Franche-Comté.

D’Artagnan was assigned to it and made his preparations to depart.

There were then great griefs, tears without end and solemn promises to

remain faithful—all of course on the part of the hostess. D’Artagnan

was too grand to promise anything; he purposed only to do all that he

could to increase the glory of his name.

As to that, we know D’Artagnan’s courage; he exposed himself freely to

danger and while charging at the head of his company he received a ball

through the chest which laid him prostrate on the field of battle. He

had been seen falling from his horse and had not been seen to rise;

every one, therefore, believed him to be dead, especially those to whom

his death would give promotion. One believes readily what he wishes to

believe. Now in the army, from the division-generals who desire the

death of the general-in-chief, to the soldiers who desire the death of

the corporals, all desire some one’s death.

But D’Artagnan was not a man to let himself be killed like that. After

he had remained through the heat of the day unconscious on the

battle-field, the cool freshness of the night brought him to himself.

He gained a village, knocked at the door of the finest house and was

received as the wounded are always and everywhere received in France.

He was petted, tended, cured; and one fine morning, in better health

than ever before, he set out for France. Once in France he turned his

course toward Paris, and reaching Paris went straight to Rue

Tiquetonne.

But D’Artagnan found in his chamber the personal equipment of a man,

complete, except for the sword, arranged along the wall.

“He has returned,” said he. “So much the worse, and so much the

better!”

It need not be said that D’Artagnan was still thinking of the husband.

He made inquiries and discovered that the servants were new and that

the mistress had gone for a walk.

“Alone?” asked D’Artagnan.

“With monsieur.”

“Monsieur has returned, then?”

“Of course,” naïvely replied the servant.

“If I had any money,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “I would go away; but

I have none. I must stay and follow the advice of my hostess, while

thwarting the conjugal designs of this inopportune apparition.”

He had just completed this monologue—which proves that in momentous

circumstances nothing is more natural than the monologue—when the

servant-maid, watching at the door, suddenly cried out:

“Ah! see! here is madame returning with monsieur.”

D’Artagnan looked out and at the corner of Rue Montmartre saw the

hostess coming along hanging to the arm of an enormous Swiss, who

tiptoed in his walk with a magnificent air which pleasantly reminded

him of his old friend Porthos.

“Is that monsieur?” said D’Artagnan to himself. “Oh! oh! he has grown a

good deal, it seems to me.” And he sat down in the hall, choosing a

conspicuous place.

The hostess, as she entered, saw D’Artagnan and uttered a little cry,

whereupon D’Artagnan, judging that he had been recognized, rose, ran to

her and embraced her tenderly. The Swiss, with an air of stupefaction,

looked at the hostess, who turned pale.

“Ah, it is you, monsieur! What do you want of me?” she asked, in great

distress.

“Is monsieur your cousin? Is monsieur your brother?” said D’Artagnan,

not in the slightest degree embarrassed in the rôle he was playing. And

without waiting for her reply he threw himself into the arms of the

Helvetian, who received him with great coldness.

“Who is that man?” he asked.

The hostess replied only by gasps.

“Who is that Swiss?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Monsieur is going to marry me,” replied the hostess, between two

gasps.

“Your husband, then, is at last dead?”

“How does that concern you?” replied the Swiss.

“It concerns me much,” said D’Artagnan, “since you cannot marry madame

without my consent and since——”

“And since?” asked the Swiss.

“And since—I do not give it,” said the musketeer.

The Swiss became as purple as a peony. He wore his elegant uniform,

D’Artagnan was wrapped in a sort of gray cloak; the Swiss was six feet

high, D’Artagnan was hardly more than five; the Swiss considered

himself on his own ground and regarded D’Artagnan as an intruder.

“Will you go away from here?” demanded the Swiss, stamping violently,

like a man who begins to be seriously angry.

“I? By no means!” said D’Artagnan.

“Some one must go for help,” said a lad, who could not comprehend that

this little man should make a stand against that other man, who was so

large.

D’Artagnan, with a sudden accession of wrath, seized the lad by the ear

and led him apart, with the injunction:

“Stay you where you are and don’t you stir, or I will pull this ear

off. As for you, illustrious descendant of William Tell, you will

straightway get together your clothes which are in my room and which

annoy me, and go out quickly to another lodging.”

The Swiss began to laugh boisterously. “I go out?” he said. “And why?”

“Ah, very well!” said D’Artagnan; “I see that you understand French.

Come then, and take a turn with me and I will explain.”

The hostess, who knew D’Artagnan’s skill with the sword, began to weep

and tear her hair. D’Artagnan turned toward her, saying, “Then send him

away, madame.”

“Pooh!” said the Swiss, who had needed a little time to take in

D’Artagnan’s proposal, “pooh! who are you, in the first place, to ask

me to take a turn with you?”

“I am lieutenant in his majesty’s musketeers,” said D’Artagnan, “and

consequently your superior in everything; only, as the question now is

not of rank, but of quarters—you know the custom—come and seek for

yours; the first to return will recover his chamber.”

D’Artagnan led away the Swiss in spite of lamentations on the part of

the hostess, who in reality found her heart inclining toward her former

lover, though she would not have been sorry to give a lesson to that

haughty musketeer who had affronted her by the refusal of her hand.

It was night when the two adversaries reached the field of battle.

D’Artagnan politely begged the Swiss to yield to him the disputed

chamber; the Swiss refused by shaking his head, and drew his sword.

“Then you will lie here,” said D’Artagnan. “It is a wretched bed, but

that is not my fault, and it is you who have chosen it.” With these

words he drew in his turn and crossed swords with his adversary.

He had to contend against a strong wrist, but his agility was superior

to all force. The Swiss received two wounds and was not aware of it, by

reason of the cold; but suddenly feebleness, occasioned by loss of

blood, obliged him to sit down.

“There!” said D’Artagnan, “what did I tell you? Fortunately, you won’t

be laid up more than a fortnight. Remain here and I will send you your

clothes by the boy. Good-by! Oh, by the way, you’d better take lodging

in the Rue Montorgueil at the Chat Qui Pelote. You will be well fed

there, if the hostess remains the same. Adieu.”

Thereupon he returned in a lively mood to his room and sent to the

Swiss the things that belonged to him. The boy found him sitting where

D’Artagnan had left him, still overwhelmed by the coolness of his

adversary.

The boy, the hostess, and all the house had the same regard for

D’Artagnan that one would have for Hercules should he return to earth

to repeat his twelve labors.

But when he was alone with the hostess he said: “Now, pretty Madeleine,

you know the difference between a Swiss and a gentleman. As for you,

you have acted like a barmaid. So much the worse for you, for by such

conduct you have lost my esteem and my patronage. I have driven away

the Swiss to humiliate you, but I shall lodge here no longer. I will

not sleep where I must scorn. Ho, there, boy! Have my valise carried to

the Muid d’Amour, Rue des Bourdonnais. Adieu, madame.”

In saying these words D’Artagnan appeared at the same time majestic and

grieved. The hostess threw herself at his feet, asked his pardon and

held him back with a sweet violence. What more need be said? The spit

turned, the stove roared, the pretty Madeleine wept; D’Artagnan felt

himself invaded by hunger, cold and love. He pardoned, and having

pardoned he remained.

And this explains how D’Artagnan had quarters in the Rue Tiquetonne, at

the Hotel de la Chevrette.

D’Artagnan then returned home in thoughtful mood, finding a somewhat

lively pleasure in carrying Mazarin’s bag of money and thinking of that

fine diamond which he had once called his own and which he had seen on

the minister’s finger that night.

“Should that diamond ever fall into my hands again,” he reflected, “I

would turn it at once into money; I would buy with the proceeds certain

lands around my father’s château, which is a pretty place, well enough,

but with no land to it at all, except a garden about the size of the

Cemetery des Innocents; and I should wait in all my glory till some

rich heiress, attracted by my good looks, rode along to marry me. Then

I should like to have three sons; I should make the first a nobleman,

like Athos; the second a good soldier, like Porthos; the third an

excellent abbé, like Aramis. Faith! that would be a far better life

than I lead now; but Monsieur Mazarin is a mean wretch, who won’t

dispossess himself of his diamond in my favor.”

On entering the Rue Tiquetonne he heard a tremendous noise and found a

dense crowd near the house.

“Oho!” said he, “is the hotel on fire?” On approaching the hotel of the

Roe he found, however, that it was in front of the next house the mob

was collected. The people were shouting and running about with torches.

By the light of one of these torches D’Artagnan perceived men in

uniform.

He asked what was going on.

He was told that twenty citizens, headed by one man, had attacked a

carriage which was escorted by a troop of the cardinal’s bodyguard; but

a reinforcement having come up, the assailants had been put to flight

and the leader had taken refuge in the hotel next to his lodgings; the

house was now being searched.

In his youth D’Artagnan had often headed the _bourgeoisie_ against the

military, but he was cured of all those hot-headed propensities;

besides, he had the cardinal’s hundred pistoles in his pocket, so he

went into the hotel without a word. There he found Madeleine alarmed

for his safety and anxious to tell him all the events of the evening,

but he cut her short by ordering her to put his supper in his room and

give him with it a bottle of good Burgundy.

He took his key and candle and went upstairs to his bedroom. He had

been contented, for the convenience of the house, to lodge in the

fourth story; and truth obliges us even to confess that his chamber was

just above the gutter and below the roof. His first care on entering it

was to lock up in an old bureau with a new lock his bag of money, and

then as soon as supper was ready he sent away the waiter who brought it

up and sat down to table.

Not to reflect on what had passed, as one might fancy. No, D’Artagnan

considered that things are never well done when they are not reserved

to their proper time. He was hungry; he supped, he went to bed. Neither

was he one of those who think that the necessary silence of the night

brings counsel with it. In the night he slept, but in the morning,

refreshed and calm, he was inspired with his clearest views of

everything. It was long since he had any reason for his morning’s

inspiration, but he always slept all night long. At daybreak he awoke

and took a turn around his room.

“In ’43,” he said, “just before the death of the late cardinal, I

received a letter from Athos. Where was I then? Let me see. Oh! at the

siege of Besançon I was in the trenches. He told me—let me think—what

was it? That he was living on a small estate—but where? I was just

reading the name of the place when the wind blew my letter away, I

suppose to the Spaniards; there’s no use in thinking any more about

Athos. Let me see: with regard to Porthos, I received a letter from

him, too. He invited me to a hunting party on his property in the month

of September, 1646. Unluckily, as I was then in Bearn, on account of my

father’s death, the letter followed me there. I had left Bearn when it

arrived and I never received it until the month of April, 1647; and as

the invitation was for September, 1646, I couldn’t accept it. Let me

look for this letter; it must be with my title deeds.”

D’Artagnan opened an old casket which stood in a corner of the room,

and which was full of parchments referring to an estate during a period

of two hundred years lost to his family. He uttered an exclamation of

delight, for the large handwriting of Porthos was discernible, and

underneath some lines traced by his worthy spouse.

D’Artagnan eagerly searched for the heading of this letter; it was

dated from the Château du Vallon.

Porthos had forgotten that any other address was necessary; in his

pride he fancied that every one must know the Château du Vallon.

“Devil take the vain fellow,” said D’Artagnan. “However, I had better

find him out first, since he can’t want money. Athos must have become

an idiot by this time from drinking. Aramis must have worn himself to a

shadow of his former self by constant genuflexion.”

He cast his eyes again on the letter. There was a postscript:

“I write by the same courier to our worthy friend Aramis in his

convent.”

“In his convent! What convent? There are about two hundred in Paris and

three thousand in France; and then, perhaps, on entering the convent he

changed his name. Ah! if I were but learned in theology I should

recollect what it was he used to dispute about with the curate of

Montdidier and the superior of the Jesuits, when we were at Crèvecœur;

I should know what doctrine he leans to and I should glean from that

what saint he has adopted as his patron.

“Well, suppose I go back to the cardinal and ask him for a passport

into all the convents one can find, even into the nunneries? It would

be a curious idea, and maybe I should find my friend under the name of

Achilles. But, no! I should lose myself in the cardinal’s opinion.

Great people only thank you for doing the impossible; what’s possible,

they say, they can effect themselves, and they are right. But let us

wait a little and reflect. I received a letter from him, the dear

fellow, in which he even asked me for some small service, which, in

fact, I rendered him. Yes, yes; but now what did I do with that

letter?”

D’Artagnan thought a moment and then went to the wardrobe in which hung

his old clothes. He looked for his doublet of the year 1648 and as he

had orderly habits, he found it hanging on its nail. He felt in the

pocket and drew from it a paper; it was the letter of Aramis:

“Monsieur D’Artagnan: You know that I have had a quarrel with a certain

gentleman, who has given me an appointment for this evening in the

Place Royale. As I am of the church, and the affair might injure me if

I should share it with any other than a sure friend like you, I write

to beg that you will serve me as second.

“You will enter by the Rue Neuve Sainte Catherine; under the second

lamp on the right you will find your adversary. I shall be with mine

under the third.

“Wholly yours,

“Aramis.”

D’Artagnan tried to recall his remembrances. He had gone to the

rendezvous, had encountered there the adversary indicated, whose name

he had never known, had given him a pretty sword-stroke on the arm,

then had gone toward Aramis, who at the same time came to meet him,

having already finished his affair. “It is over,” Aramis had said. “I

think I have killed the insolent fellow. But, dear friend, if you ever

need me you know that I am entirely devoted to you.” Thereupon Aramis

had given him a clasp of the hand and had disappeared under the

arcades.

So, then, he no more knew where Aramis was than where Athos and Porthos

were, and the affair was becoming a matter of great perplexity, when he

fancied he heard a pane of glass break in his room window. He thought

directly of his bag and rushed from the inner room where he was

sleeping. He was not mistaken; as he entered his bedroom a man was

getting in by the window.

“Ah! you scoundrel!” cried D’Artagnan, taking the man for a thief and

seizing his sword.

“Sir!” cried the man, “in the name of Heaven put your sword back into

the sheath and don’t kill me unheard. I’m no thief, but an honest

citizen, well off in the world, with a house of my own. My name is—ah!

but surely you are Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“And thou—Planchet!” cried the lieutenant.

“At your service, sir,” said Planchet, overwhelmed with joy; “if I were

still capable of serving you.”

“Perhaps so,” replied D’Artagnan. “But why the devil dost thou run

about the tops of houses at seven o’clock of the morning in the month

of January?”

“Sir,” said Planchet, “you must know; but, perhaps you ought not to

know——”

“Tell us what,” returned D’Artagnan, “but first put a napkin against

the window and draw the curtains.”

“Sir,” said the prudent Planchet, “in the first place, are you on good

terms with Monsieur de Rochefort?”

“Perfectly; one of my dearest friends.”

“Ah! so much the better!”

“But what has De Rochefort to do with this manner you have of invading

my room?”

“Ah, sir! I must first tell you that Monsieur de Rochefort is——”

Planchet hesitated.

“Egad, I know where he is,” said D’Artagnan. “He’s in the Bastile.”

“That is to say, he was there,” replied Planchet. “But in returning

thither last night, when fortunately you did not accompany him, as his

carriage was crossing the Rue de la Ferronnerie his guards insulted the

people, who began to abuse them. The prisoner thought this a good

opportunity for escape; he called out his name and cried for help. I

was there. I heard the name of Rochefort. I remembered him well. I said

in a loud voice that he was a prisoner, a friend of the Duc de

Beaufort, who called for help. The people were infuriated; they stopped

the horses and cut the escort to pieces, whilst I opened the doors of

the carriage and Monsieur de Rochefort jumped out and soon was lost

amongst the crowd. At this moment a patrol passed by. I was obliged to

sound a retreat toward the Rue Tiquetonne; I was pursued and took

refuge in the house next to this, where I have been concealed between

two mattresses. This morning I ventured to run along the gutters and——”

“Well,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “I am delighted that De Rochefort is

free, but as for thee, if thou shouldst fall into the hands of the

king’s servants they will hang thee without mercy. Nevertheless, I

promise thee thou shalt be hidden here, though I risk by concealing

thee neither more nor less than my lieutenancy, if it was found out

that I gave one rebel an asylum.”

“Ah! sir, you know well I would risk my life for you.”

“Thou mayst add that thou hast risked it, Planchet. I have not

forgotten all I owe thee. Sit down there and eat in security. I see

thee cast expressive glances at the remains of my supper.”

“Yes, sir; for all I’ve had since yesterday was a slice of bread and

butter, with preserves on it. Although I don’t despise sweet things in

proper time and place, I found the supper rather light.”

“Poor fellow!” said D’Artagnan. “Well, come; set to.”

“Ah, sir, you are going to save my life a second time!” cried Planchet.

And he seated himself at the table and ate as he did in the merry days

of the Rue des Fossoyeurs, whilst D’Artagnan walked to and fro and

thought how he could make use of Planchet under present circumstances.

While he turned this over in his mind Planchet did his best to make up

for lost time at table. At last he uttered a sigh of satisfaction and

paused, as if he had partially appeased his hunger.

“Come,” said D’Artagnan, who thought that it was now a convenient time

to begin his interrogations, “dost thou know where Athos is?”

“No, sir,” replied Planchet.

“The devil thou dost not! Dost know where Porthos is?”

“No—not at all.”

“And Aramis?”

“Not in the least.”

“The devil! the devil! the devil!”

“But, sir,” said Planchet, with a look of shrewdness, “I know where

Bazin is.”

“Where is he?”

“At Notre Dame.”

“What has he to do at Notre Dame?”

“He is beadle.”

“Bazin beadle at Notre Dame! He must know where his master is!”

“Without a doubt he must.”

D’Artagnan thought for a moment, then took his sword and put on his

cloak to go out.

“Sir,” said Planchet, in a mournful tone, “do you abandon me thus to my

fate? Think, if I am found out here, the people of the house, who have

not seen me enter it, will take me for a thief.”

“True,” said D’Artagnan. “Let’s see. Canst thou speak any patois?”

“I can do something better than that, sir, I can speak Flemish.”

“Where the devil didst thou learn it?”

“In Artois, where I fought for years. Listen, sir. _Goeden morgen,

mynheer, eth ben begeeray le weeten the ge sond heets omstand._”

“Which means?”

“Good-day, sir! I am anxious to know the state of your health.”

“He calls that a language! But never mind, that will do capitally.”

D’Artagnan opened the door and called out to a waiter to desire

Madeleine to come upstairs.

When the landlady made her appearance she expressed much astonishment

at seeing Planchet.

“My dear landlady,” said D’Artagnan, “I beg to introduce to you your

brother, who is arrived from Flanders and whom I am going to take into

my service.”

“My brother?”

“Wish your sister good-morning, Master Peter.”

“Wilkom, suster,” said Planchet.

“Goeden day, broder,” replied the astonished landlady.

“This is the case,” said D’Artagnan; “this is your brother, Madeleine;

you don’t know him perhaps, but I know him; he has arrived from

Amsterdam. You must dress him up during my absence. When I return,

which will be in about an hour, you must offer him to me as a servant,

and upon your recommendation, though he doesn’t speak a word of French,

I take him into my service. You understand?”

“That is to say, I guess your wishes, and that is all that’s

necessary,” said Madeleine.

“You are a precious creature, my pretty hostess, and I am much obliged

to you.”

The next moment D’Artagnan was on his way to Notre Dame.

Chapter VII.

Touches upon the Strange Effects a Half-pistole may have.

D’Artagnan, as he crossed the Pont Neuf, congratulated himself on

having found Planchet again, for at that time an intelligent servant

was essential to him; nor was he sorry that through Planchet and the

situation which he held in Rue des Lombards, a connection with the

_bourgeoisie_ might be commenced, at that critical period when that

class were preparing to make war with the court party. It was like

having a spy in the enemy’s camp. In this frame of mind, grateful for

the accidental meeting with Planchet, pleased with himself, D’Artagnan

reached Notre Dame. He ran up the steps, entered the church, and

addressing a verger who was sweeping the chapel, asked him if he knew

Monsieur Bazin.

“Monsieur Bazin, the beadle?” said the verger. “Yes. There he is,

attending mass, in the chapel of the Virgin.”

D’Artagnan nearly jumped for joy; he had despaired of finding Bazin,

but now, he thought, since he held one end of the thread he would be

pretty sure to reach the other end.

He knelt down just opposite the chapel in order not to lose sight of

his man; and as he had almost forgotten his prayers and had omitted to

take a book with him, he made use of his time in gazing at Bazin.

Bazin wore his dress, it may be observed, with equal dignity and

saintly propriety. It was not difficult to understand that he had

gained the crown of his ambition and that the silver-mounted wand he

brandished was in his eyes as honorable a distinction as the marshal’s

baton which Condé threw, or did not throw, into the enemy’s line of

battle at Fribourg. His person had undergone a change, analogous to the

change in his dress; his figure had grown rotund and, as it were,

canonical. The striking points of his face were effaced; he had still a

nose, but his cheeks, fattened out, each took a portion of it unto

themselves; his chin had joined his throat; his eyes were swelled up

with the puffiness of his cheeks; his hair, cut straight in holy guise,

covered his forehead as far as his eyebrows.

The officiating priest was just finishing mass whilst D’Artagnan was

looking at Bazin; he pronounced the words of the holy Sacrament and

retired, giving the benediction, which was received by the kneeling

communicants, to the astonishment of D’Artagnan, who recognized in the

priest the coadjutor* himself, the famous Jean Francois Gondy, who at

that time, having a presentiment of the part he was to play, was

beginning to court popularity by almsgiving. It was to this end that he

performed from time to time some of those early masses which the common

people, generally, alone attended.

* A sacerdotal officer.

D’Artagnan knelt as well as the rest, received his share of the

benediction and made the sign of the cross; but when Bazin passed in

his turn, with his eyes raised to Heaven and walking, in all humility,

the very last, D’Artagnan pulled him by the hem of his robe.

Bazin looked down and started, as if he had seen a serpent.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” he cried; “_Vade retro Satanas!_”

“So, my dear Bazin!” said the officer, laughing, “this is the way you

receive an old friend.”

“Sir,” replied Bazin, “the true friends of a Christian are those who

aid him in working out his salvation, not those who hinder him in doing

so.”

“I don’t understand you, Bazin; nor can I see how I can be a

stumbling-block in the way of your salvation,” said D’Artagnan.

“You forget, sir, that you very nearly ruined forever that of my

master; and that it was owing to you that he was very nearly being

damned eternally for remaining a musketeer, whilst all the time his

true vocation was the church.”

“My dear Bazin, you ought to perceive,” said D’Artagnan, “from the

place in which you find me, that I am greatly changed in everything.

Age produces good sense, and, as I doubt not but that your master is on

the road to salvation, I want you to tell me where he is, that he may

help me to mine.”