beautiful Indian.”
Raoul looked surprised and his eyes met those of the young lady, who
smiled.
The company went on speaking of the poet Voiture.
“Monsieur,” said Mademoiselle d’Aubigné to Scarron, as if she wished to
join in the conversation he was engaged in with Raoul, “do you not
admire Monsieur Voiture’s friends? Listen how they pull him to pieces
even whilst they praise him; one takes away from him all claim to good
sense, another robs him of his poetry, a third of his originality,
another of his humor, another of his independence of character, a
sixth—but, good heavens! what will they _leave_ him? as Mademoiselle de
Scudéry remarks.”
Scarron and Raoul laughed. The fair Indian, astonished at the sensation
her observation produced, looked down and resumed her air of naïveté.
Athos, still within the inclosure of the window, watched this scene
with a smile of disdain on his lips.
“Tell the Comte de la Fère to come to me,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “I
want to speak to him.”
“And I,” said the coadjutor, “want it to be thought that I do _not_
speak to him. I admire, I love him—for I know his former adventures—but
I shall not speak to him until the day after to-morrow.”
“And why day after to-morrow?” asked Madame de Chevreuse.
“You will know that to-morrow evening,” said the coadjutor, smiling.
“Really, my dear Gondy,” said the duchess, “you remind one of the
Apocalypse. Monsieur d’Herblay,” she added, turning toward Aramis,
“will you be my servant once more this evening?”
“How can you doubt it?” replied Aramis; “this evening, to-morrow,
always; command me.”
“I will, then. Go and look for the Comte de la Fère; I wish to speak
with him.”
Aramis found Athos and brought him.
“Monsieur le comte,” said the duchess, giving him a letter, “here is
what I promised you; our young friend will be extremely well received.”
“Madame, he is very happy in owing any obligation to you.”
“You have no reason to envy him on that score, for I owe to you the
pleasure of knowing him,” replied the witty woman, with a smile which
recalled Marie Michon to Aramis and to Athos.
As she uttered that _bon mot_, she arose and asked for her carriage.
Mademoiselle Paulet had already gone; Mademoiselle de Scudéry was
going.
“Vicomte,” said Athos to Raoul, “follow the duchess; beg her to do you
the favor to take your arm in going downstairs, and thank her as you
descend.”
The fair Indian approached Scarron.
“You are going already?” he said.
“One of the last, as you see; if you hear anything of Monsieur Voiture,
be so kind as to send me word to-morrow.”
“Oh!” said Scarron, “he may die now.”
“Why?” asked the young girl with the velvet eyes.
“Certainly; his panegyric has been uttered.”
They parted, laughing, she turning back to gaze at the poor paralytic
man with interest, he looking after her with eyes of love.
One by one the several groups broke up. Scarron seemed not to observe
that certain of his guests had talked mysteriously, that letters had
passed from hand to hand and that the assembly had seemed to have a
secret purpose quite apart from the literary discussion carried on with
so much ostentation. What was all that to Scarron? At his house
rebellion could be planned with impunity, for, as we have said, since
that morning he had ceased to be “the queen’s invalid.”
As to Raoul, he had attended the duchess to her carriage, where, as she
took her seat, she gave him her hand to kiss; then, by one of those
wild caprices which made her so adorable and at the same time so
dangerous, she had suddenly put her arm around his neck and kissed his
forehead, saying:
“Vicomte, may my good wishes and this kiss bring you good fortune!”
Then she had pushed him away and directed the coachman to stop at the
Hotel de Luynes. The carriage had started, Madame de Chevreuse had made
a parting gesture to the young man, and Raoul had returned in a state
of stupefaction.
Athos surmised what had taken place and smiled. “Come, vicomte,” he
said, “it is time for you to go to bed; you will start in the morning
for the army of monsieur le prince. Sleep well your last night as
citizen.”
“I am to be a soldier then?” said the young man. “Oh, monsieur, I thank
you with all my heart.”
“Adieu, count,” said the Abbé d’Herblay; “I return to my convent.”
“Adieu, abbé,” said the coadjutor, “I am to preach to-morrow and have
twenty texts to examine this evening.”
“Adieu, gentlemen,” said the count; “I am going to sleep twenty-four
hours; I am just falling down with fatigue.”
The three men saluted one another, whilst exchanging a last look.
Scarron followed their movements with a glance from the corner of his
eye.
“Not one of them will do as he says,” he murmured, with his little
monkey smile; “but they may do as they please, the brave gentlemen! Who
knows if they will not manage to restore to me my pension? They can
move their arms, they can, and that is much. Alas, I have only my
tongue, but I will try to show that it is good for something. Ho,
there, Champenois! here, it is eleven o’clock. Come and roll me to bed.
Really, that Demoiselle d’Aubigné is very charming!”
So the invalid disappeared soon afterward and went into his
sleeping-room; and one by one the lights in the _salon_ of the Rue des
Tournelles were extinguished.
Chapter XXII.
Saint Denis.
The day had begun to break when Athos arose and dressed himself. It was
plain, by a paleness still greater than usual, and by those traces
which loss of sleep leaves on the face, that he must have passed almost
the whole of the night without sleeping. Contrary to the custom of a
man so firm and decided, there was this morning in his personal
appearance something tardy and irresolute.
He was occupied with the preparations for Raoul’s departure and was
seeking to gain time. In the first place he himself furbished a sword,
which he drew from its perfumed leather sheath; he examined it to see
if its hilt was well guarded and if the blade was firmly attached to
the hilt. Then he placed at the bottom of the valise belonging to the
young man a small bag of louis, called Olivain, the lackey who had
followed him from Blois, and made him pack the valise under his own
eyes, watchful to see that everything should be put in which might be
useful to a young man entering on his first campaign.
At length, after occupying about an hour in these preparations, he
opened the door of the room in which the vicomte slept, and entered.
The sun, already high, penetrated into the room through the window, the
curtains of which Raoul had neglected to close on the previous evening.
He was still sleeping, his head gracefully reposing on his arm.
Athos approached and hung over the youth in an attitude full of tender
melancholy; he looked long on this young man, whose smiling mouth and
half closed eyes bespoke soft dreams and lightest slumber, as if his
guardian angel watched over him with solicitude and affection. By
degrees Athos gave himself up to the charms of his reverie in the
proximity of youth, so pure, so fresh. His own youth seemed to
reappear, bringing with it all those savoury remembrances, which are
like perfumes more than thoughts. Between the past and the present was
an ineffable abyss. But imagination has the wings of an angel of light
and travels safely through or over the seas where we have been almost
shipwrecked, the darkness in which our illusions are lost, the
precipice whence our happiness has been hurled and swallowed up. He
remembered that all the first part of his life had been embittered by a
woman and he thought with alarm of the influence love might assume over
so fine, and at the same time so vigorous an organization as that of
Raoul.
In recalling all he had been through, he foresaw all that Raoul might
suffer; and the expression of the deep and tender compassion which
throbbed in his heart was pictured in the moist eye with which he gazed
on the young man.
At this moment Raoul awoke, without a cloud on his face without
weariness or lassitude; his eyes were fixed on those of Athos and
perhaps he comprehended all that passed in the heart of the man who was
awaiting his awakening as a lover awaits the awakening of his mistress,
for his glance, in return, had all the tenderness of love.
“You are there, sir?” he said, respectfully.
“Yes, Raoul,” replied the count.
“And you did not awaken me?”
“I wished to leave you still to enjoy some moments of sleep, my child;
you must be fatigued from yesterday.”
“Oh, sir, how good you are!”
Athos smiled.
“How do you feel this morning?” he inquired.
“Perfectly well; quite rested, sir.”
“You are still growing,” Athos continued, with that charming and
paternal interest felt by a grown man for a youth.
“Oh, sir, I beg your pardon!” exclaimed Raoul, ashamed of so much
attention; “in an instant I shall be dressed.”
Athos then called Olivain.
“Everything,” said Olivain to Athos, “has been done according to your
directions; the horses are waiting.”
“And I was asleep,” cried Raoul, “whilst you, sir, you had the kindness
to attend to all these details. Truly, sir, you overwhelm me with
benefits!”
“Therefore you love me a little, I hope,” replied Athos, in a tone of
emotion.
“Oh, sir! God knows how much I love, revere you.”
“See that you forget nothing,” said Athos, appearing to look about him,
that he might hide his emotion.
“No, indeed, sir,” answered Raoul.
The servant then approached Athos and said, hesitatingly:
“Monsieur le vicomte has no sword.”
“’Tis well,” said Athos, “I will take care of that.”
They went downstairs, Raoul looking every now and then at the count to
see if the moment of farewell was at hand, but Athos was silent. When
they reached the steps Raoul saw three horses.
“Oh, sir! then you are going with me?”
“I will accompany you a portion of the way,” said Athos.
Joy shone in Raoul’s eyes and he leaped lightly to his saddle.
Athos mounted more slowly, after speaking in a low voice to the lackey,
who, instead of following them immediately, returned to their rooms.
Raoul, delighted at the count’s companionship, perceived, or affected
to perceive nothing of this byplay.
They set out, passing over the Pont Neuf; they pursued their way along
the quay then called L’Abreuvoir Pepin, and went along by the walls of
the Grand Châtelet. They proceeded to the Rue Saint Denis.
After passing through the Porte Saint Denis, Athos looked at Raoul’s
way of riding and observed:
“Take care, Raoul! I have already often told you of this; you must not
forget it, for it is a great defect in a rider. See! your horse is
tired already, he froths at the mouth, whilst mine looks as if he had
only just left the stable. You hold the bit too tight and so make his
mouth hard, so that you will not be able to make him manœuvre quickly.
The safety of a cavalier often depends on the prompt obedience of his
horse. In a week, remember, you will no longer be performing your
manœuvres for practice, but on a field of battle.”
Then suddenly, in order not to give too uncomfortable an importance to
this observation:
“See, Raoul!” he resumed; “what a fine plain for partridge shooting.”
The young man stored in his mind the admonition whilst he admired the
delicate tenderness with which it was bestowed.
“I have remarked also another thing,” said Athos, “which is, that in
firing off your pistol you hold your arm too far outstretched. This
tension lessens the accuracy of the aim. So in twelve times you thrice
missed the mark.”
“Which you, sir, struck twelve times,” answered Raoul, smiling.
“Because I bent my arm and rested my hand on my elbow—so; do you
understand what I mean?”
“Yes, sir. I have fired since in that manner and have been quite
successful.”
“What a cold wind!” resumed Athos; “a wintry blast. Apropos, if you
fire—and you will do so, for you are recommended to a young general who
is very fond of powder—remember that in single combat, which often
takes place in the cavalry, never to fire the first shot. He who fires
the first shot rarely hits his man, for he fires with the apprehension
of being disarmed, before an armed foe; then, whilst he fires, make
your horse rear; that manœuvre has saved my life several times.”
“I shall do so, if only in gratitude——”
“Eh!” cried Athos, “are not those fellows poachers they have arrested
yonder? They are. Then another important thing, Raoul: should you be
wounded in a battle, and fall from your horse, if you have any strength
left, disentangle yourself from the line that your regiment has formed;
otherwise, it may be driven back and you will be trampled to death by
the horses. At all events, should you be wounded, write to me that very
instant, or get some one at once to write to me. We are judges of
wounds, we old soldiers,” Athos added, smiling.
“Thank you, sir,” answered the young man, much moved.
They arrived that very moment at the gate of the town, guarded by two
sentinels.
“Here comes a young gentleman,” said one of them, “who seems as if he
were going to join the army.”
“How do you make that out?” inquired Athos.
“By his manner, sir, and his age; he’s the second to-day.”
“Has a young man, such as I am, gone through this morning, then?” asked
Raoul.
“Faith, yes, with a haughty presence, a fine equipage; such as the son
of a noble house would have.”
“He will be my companion on the journey, sir,” cried Raoul. “Alas! he
cannot make me forget what I shall have lost!”
Thus talking, they traversed the streets, full of people on account of
the _fête_, and arrived opposite the old cathedral, where first mass
was going on.
“Let us alight; Raoul,” said Athos. “Olivain, take care of our horses
and give me my sword.”
The two gentlemen then went into the church. Athos gave Raoul some of
the holy water. A love as tender as that of a lover for his mistress
dwells, undoubtedly, in some paternal hearts toward a son.
Athos said a word to one of the vergers, who bowed and proceeded toward
the basement.
“Come, Raoul,” he said, “let us follow this man.”
The verger opened the iron grating that guarded the royal tombs and
stood on the topmost step, whilst Athos and Raoul descended. The
sepulchral depths of the descent were dimly lighted by a silver lamp on
the lowest step; and just below this lamp there was laid, wrapped in a
flowing mantle of violet velvet, worked with fleurs-de-lis of gold, a
catafalque resting on trestles of oak. The young man, prepared for this
scene by the state of his own feelings, which were mournful, and by the
majesty of the cathedral which he had passed through, descended in a
slow and solemn manner and stood with head uncovered before these
mortal spoils of the last king, who was not to be placed by the side of
his forefathers until his successor should take his place there; and
who appeared to abide on that spot, that he might thus address human
pride, so sure to be exalted by the glories of a throne: “Dust of the
earth! Here I await thee!”
There was profound silence.
Then Athos raised his hand and pointing to the coffin:
“This temporary sepulture is,” he said, “that of a man who was of
feeble mind, yet one whose reign was full of great events; because over
this king watched the spirit of another man, even as this lamp keeps
vigil over this coffin and illumines it. He whose intellect was thus
supreme, Raoul, was the actual sovereign; the other, nothing but a
phantom to whom he lent a soul; and yet, so powerful is majesty amongst
us, this man has not even the honor of a tomb at the feet of him in
whose service his life was worn away. Remember, Raoul, this! If
Richelieu made the king, by comparison, seem small, he made royalty
great. The Palace of the Louvre contains two things—the king, who must
die, and royalty, which never dies. The minister, so feared, so hated
by his master, has descended into the tomb, drawing after him the king,
whom he would not leave alone on earth, lest his work should be
destroyed. So blind were his contemporaries that they regarded the
cardinal’s death as a deliverance; and I, even I, opposed the designs
of the great man who held the destinies of France within the hollow of
his hand. Raoul, learn how to distinguish the king from royalty; the
king is but a man; royalty is the gift of God. Whenever you hesitate as
to whom you ought to serve, abandon the exterior, the material
appearance for the invisible principle, for the invisible principle is
everything. Raoul, I seem to read your future destiny as through a
cloud. It will be happier, I think, than ours has been. Different in
your fate from us, you will have a king without a minister, whom you
may serve, love, respect. Should the king prove a tyrant, for power
begets tyranny, serve, love, respect royalty, that Divine right, that
celestial spark which makes this dust still powerful and holy, so that
we—gentlemen, nevertheless, of rank and condition—are as nothing in
comparison with the cold corpse there extended.”
“I shall adore God, sir,” said Raoul, “respect royalty and ever serve
the king. And if death be my lot, I hope to die for the king, for
royalty and for God. Have I, sir, comprehended your instructions?”
Athos smiled.
“Yours is a noble nature.” he said; “here is your sword.”
Raoul bent his knee to the ground.
“It was worn by my father, a loyal gentleman. I have worn it in my turn
and it has sometimes not been disgraced when the hilt was in my hand
and the sheath at my side. Should your hand still be too weak to use
this sword, Raoul, so much the better. You will have the more time to
learn to draw it only when it ought to be used.”
“Sir,” replied Raoul, putting the sword to his lips as he received it
from the count, “I owe you everything and yet this sword is the most
precious gift you have yet made me. I will wear it, I swear to you, as
a grateful man should do.”
“’Tis well; arise, vicomte, embrace me.”
Raoul arose and threw himself with emotion into the count’s arms.
“Adieu,” faltered the count, who felt his heart die away within him;
“adieu, and think of me.”
“Oh! for ever and ever!” cried the youth; “oh! I swear to you, sir,
should any harm befall me, your name will be the last name that I shall
utter, the remembrance of you my last thought.”
Athos hastened upstairs to conceal his emotion, and regained with
hurried steps the porch where Olivain was waiting with the horses.
“Olivain,” said Athos, showing the servant Raoul’s shoulder-belt,
“tighten the buckle of the sword, it falls too low. You will accompany
monsieur le vicomte till Grimaud rejoins you. You know, Raoul, Grimaud
is an old and zealous servant; he will follow you.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Raoul.
“Now to horse, that I may see you depart!”
Raoul obeyed.
“Adieu, Raoul,” said the count; “adieu, my dearest boy!”
“Adieu, sir, adieu, my beloved protector.”
Athos waved his hand—he dared not trust himself to speak: and Raoul
went away, his head uncovered. Athos remained motionless, looking after
him until he turned the corner of the street.
Then the count threw the bridle of his horse into the hands of a
peasant, remounted the steps, went into the cathedral, there to kneel
down in the darkest corner and pray.
Chapter XXIII.
One of the Forty Methods of Escape of the Duc de Beaufort.
Meanwhile time was passing on for the prisoner, as well as for those
who were preparing his escape; only for him it passed more slowly.
Unlike other men, who enter with ardor upon a perilous resolution and
grow cold as the moment of execution approaches, the Duc de Beaufort,
whose buoyant courage had become a proverb, seemed to push time before
him and sought most eagerly to hasten the hour of action. In his escape
alone, apart from his plans for the future, which, it must be admitted,
were for the present sufficiently vague and uncertain, there was a
beginning of vengeance which filled his heart. In the first place his
escape would be a serious misfortune to Monsieur de Chavigny, whom he
hated for the petty persecutions he owed to him. It would be a still
worse affair for Mazarin, whom he execrated for the greater offences he
had committed. It may be observed that there was a proper proportion in
his sentiments toward the governor of the prison and the
minister—toward the subordinate and the master.
Then Monsieur de Beaufort, who was so familiar with the interior of the
Palais Royal, though he did not know the relations existing between the
queen and the cardinal, pictured to himself, in his prison, all that
dramatic excitement which would ensue when the rumor should run from
the minister’s cabinet to the chamber of Anne of Austria: “Monsieur de
Beaufort has escaped!” Whilst saying that to himself, Monsieur de
Beaufort smiled pleasantly and imagined himself already outside,
breathing the air of the plains and the forests, pressing a strong
horse between his knees and crying out in a loud voice, “I am free!”
It is true that on coming to himself he found that he was still within
four walls; he saw La Ramee twirling his thumbs ten feet from him, and
his guards laughing and drinking in the ante-chamber. The only thing
that was pleasant to him in that odious tableau—such is the instability
of the human mind—was the sullen face of Grimaud, for whom he had at
first conceived such a hatred and who now was all his hope. Grimaud
seemed to him an Antinous. It is needless to say that this
transformation was visible only to the prisoner’s feverish imagination.
Grimaud was still the same, and therefore he retained the entire
confidence of his superior, La Ramee, who now relied upon him more than
he did upon himself, for, as we have said, La Ramee felt at the bottom
of his heart a certain weakness for Monsieur de Beaufort.
And so the good La Ramee made a festivity of the little supper with his
prisoner. He had but one fault—he was a gourmand; he had found the
pâtés good, the wine excellent. Now the successor of Père Marteau had
promised him a pâté of pheasant instead of a pâté of fowl, and
Chambertin wine instead of Macon. All this, set off by the presence of
that excellent prince, who was so good-natured, who invented so droll
tricks against Monsieur de Chavigny and so fine jokes against Mazarin,
made for La Ramee the approaching Pentecost one of the four great
feasts of the year. He therefore looked forward to six o’clock with as
much impatience as the duke himself.
Since daybreak La Ramee had been occupied with the preparations, and
trusting no one but himself, he had visited personally the successor of
Père Marteau. The latter had surpassed himself; he showed La Ramee a
monstrous pâté, ornamented with Monsieur de Beaufort’s coat-of-arms. It
was empty as yet, but a pheasant and two partridges were lying near it.
La Ramee’s mouth watered and he returned to the duke’s chamber rubbing
his hands. To crown his happiness, Monsieur de Chavigny had started on
a journey that morning and in his absence La Ramee was deputy-governor
of the château.
As for Grimaud, he seemed more sullen than ever.
In the course of the forenoon Monsieur de Beaufort had a game of tennis
with La Ramee; a sign from Grimaud put him on the alert. Grimaud, going
in advance, followed the course which they were to take in the evening.
The game was played in an inclosure called the little court of the
château, a place quite deserted except when Monsieur de Beaufort was
playing; and even then the precaution seemed superfluous, the wall was
so high.
There were three gates to open before reaching the inclosure, each by a
different key. When they arrived Grimaud went carelessly and sat down
by a loophole in the wall, letting his legs dangle outside. It was
evident that there the rope ladder was to be attached.
This manœuvre, transparent to the Duc de Beaufort, was quite
unintelligible to La Ramee.
The game at tennis, which, upon a sign from Grimaud, Monsieur de
Beaufort had consented to play, began in the afternoon. The duke was in
full strength and beat La Ramee completely.
Four of the guards, who were constantly near the prisoner, assisted in
picking up the tennis balls. When the game was over, the duke, laughing
at La Ramee for his bad play, offered these men two louis d’or to go
and drink his health, with their four other comrades.
The guards asked permission of La Ramee, who gave it to them, but not
till the evening, however; until then he had business and the prisoner
was not to be left alone.
Six o’clock came and, although they were not to sit down to table until
seven o’clock, dinner was ready and served up. Upon a sideboard
appeared the colossal pie with the duke’s arms on it, and seemingly
cooked to a turn, as far as one could judge by the golden color which
illuminated the crust.
The rest of the dinner was to come.
Every one was impatient, La Ramee to sit down to table, the guards to
go and drink, the duke to escape.
Grimaud alone was calm as ever. One might have fancied that Athos had
educated him with the express forethought of such a great event.
There were moments when, looking at Grimaud, the duke asked himself if
he was not dreaming and if that marble figure was really at his service
and would grow animated when the moment came for action.
La Ramee sent away the guards, desiring them to drink to the duke’s
health, and as soon as they were gone shut all the doors, put the keys
in his pocket and showed the table to the prince with an air that
signified:
“Whenever my lord pleases.”
The prince looked at Grimaud, Grimaud looked at the clock; it was
hardly a quarter-past six. The escape was fixed to take place at seven
o’clock; there was therefore three-quarters of an hour to wait.
The duke, in order to pass away another quarter of an hour, pretended
to be reading something that interested him and muttered that he wished
they would allow him to finish his chapter. La Ramee went up to him and
looked over his shoulder to see what sort of a book it was that had so
singular an influence over the prisoner as to make him put off taking
his dinner.
It was “Cæsar’s Commentaries,” which La Ramee had lent him, contrary to
the orders of the governor; and La Ramee resolved never again to
disobey these injunctions.
Meantime he uncorked the bottles and went to smell if the pie was good.
At half-past six the duke arose and said very gravely:
“Certainly, Cæsar was the greatest man of ancient times.”
“You think so, my lord?” answered La Ramee.
“Yes.”
“Well, as for me, I prefer Hannibal.”
“And why, pray, Master La Ramee?” asked the duke.
“Because he left no Commentaries,” replied La Ramee, with his coarse
laugh.
The duke vouchsafed no reply, but sitting down at the table made a sign
that La Ramee should seat himself opposite. There is nothing so
expressive as the face of an epicure who finds himself before a well
spread table, so La Ramee, when receiving his plate of soup from
Grimaud, presented a type of perfect bliss.
The duke smiled.
“Zounds!” he said; “I don’t suppose there is a more contented man at
this moment in all the kingdom than yourself!”
“You are right, my lord duke,” answered the officer; “I don’t know any
pleasanter sight on earth than a well covered table; and when, added to
that, he who does the honors is the grandson of Henry IV., you will, my
lord duke, easily comprehend that the honor fairly doubles the pleasure
one enjoys.”
The duke, in his turn, bowed, and an imperceptible smile appeared on
the face of Grimaud, who kept behind La Ramee.
“My dear La Ramee,” said the duke, “you are the only man to turn such
faultless compliments.”
“No, my lord duke,” replied La Ramee, in the fullness of his heart; “I
say what I think; there is no compliment in what I say to you——”
“Then you are attached to me?” asked the duke.
“To own the truth, I should be inconsolable if you were to leave
Vincennes.”
“A droll way of showing your affliction.” The duke meant to say
“affection.”
“But, my lord,” returned La Ramee, “what would you do if you got out?
Every folly you committed would embroil you with the court and they
would put you into the Bastile, instead of Vincennes. Now, Monsieur de
Chavigny is not amiable, I allow, but Monsieur du Tremblay is
considerably worse.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the duke, who from time to time looked at the
clock, the fingers of which seemed to move with sickening slowness.
“But what can you expect from the brother of a capuchin monk, brought
up in the school of Cardinal Richelieu? Ah, my lord, it is a great
happiness that the queen, who always wished you well, had a fancy to
send you here, where there’s a promenade and a tennis court, good air,
and a good table.”
“In short,” answered the duke, “if I comprehend you aright, La Ramee, I
am ungrateful for having ever thought of leaving this place?”
“Oh! my lord duke, ’tis the height of ingratitude; but your highness
has never seriously thought of it?”
“Yes,” returned the duke, “I must confess I sometimes think of it.”
“Still by one of your forty methods, your highness?”
“Yes, yes, indeed.”
“My lord,” said La Ramee, “now we are quite at our ease and enjoying
ourselves, pray tell me one of those forty ways invented by your
highness.”
“Willingly,” answered the duke, “give me the pie!”
“I am listening,” said La Ramee, leaning back in his armchair and
raising his glass of Madeira to his lips, and winking his eye that he
might see the sun through the rich liquid that he was about to taste.
The duke glanced at the clock. In ten minutes it would strike seven.
Grimaud placed the pie before the duke, who took a knife with a silver
blade to raise the upper crust; but La Ramee, who was afraid of any
harm happening to this fine work of art, passed his knife, which had an
iron blade, to the duke.
“Thank you, La Ramee,” said the prisoner.
“Well, my lord! this famous invention of yours?”
“Must I tell you,” replied the duke, “on what I most reckon and what I
determine to try first?”
“Yes, that’s the thing, my lord!” cried his custodian, gaily.
“Well, I should hope, in the first instance, to have for keeper an
honest fellow like you.”
“And you have me, my lord. Well?”
“Having, then, a keeper like La Ramee, I should try also to have
introduced to him by some friend or other a man who would be devoted to
me, who would assist me in my flight.”
“Come, come,” said La Ramee, “that’s not a bad idea.”
“Capital, isn’t it? for instance, the former servingman of some brave
gentleman, an enemy himself to Mazarin, as every gentleman ought to
be.”
“Hush! don’t let us talk politics, my lord.”
“Then my keeper would begin to trust this man and to depend upon him,
and I should have news from those without the prison walls.”
“Ah, yes! but how can the news be brought to you?”
“Nothing easier; in a game of tennis, for example.”
“In a game of tennis?” asked La Ramee, giving more serious attention to
the duke’s words.
“Yes; see, I send a ball into the moat; a man is there who picks it up;
the ball contains a letter. Instead of returning the ball to me when I
call for it from the top of the wall, he throws me another; that other
ball contains a letter. Thus we have exchanged ideas and no one has
seen us do it.”
“The devil it does! The devil it does!” said La Ramee, scratching his
head; “you are in the wrong to tell me that, my lord. I shall have to
watch the men who pick up balls.”
The duke smiled.
“But,” resumed La Ramee, “that is only a way of corresponding.”
“And that is a great deal, it seems to me.”
“But not enough.”
“Pardon me; for instance, I say to my friends, Be on a certain day, on
a certain hour, at the other side of the moat with two horses.”
“Well, what then?” La Ramee began to be uneasy; “unless the horses have
wings to mount the ramparts and come and fetch you.”
“That’s not needed. I have,” replied the duke, “a way of descending
from the ramparts.”
“What?”
“A rope ladder.”
“Yes, but,” answered La Ramee, trying to laugh, “a ladder of ropes
can’t be sent around a ball, like a letter.”
“No, but it may be sent in something else.”
“In something else—in something else? In what?”
“In a pâté, for example.”
“In a pâté?” said La Ramee.
“Yes. Let us suppose one thing,” replied the duke “let us suppose, for
instance, that my _maître d’hôtel_, Noirmont, has purchased the shop of
Père Marteau——”
“Well?” said La Ramee, shuddering.
“Well, La Ramee, who is a gourmand, sees his pâtés, thinks them more
attractive than those of Père Marteau and proposes to me that I shall
try them. I consent on condition that La Ramee tries them with me. That
we may be more at our ease, La Ramee removes the guards, keeping only
Grimaud to wait on us. Grimaud is the man whom a friend has sent to
second me in everything. The moment for my escape is fixed—seven
o’clock. Well, at a few minutes to seven——”
“At a few minutes to seven?” cried La Ramee, cold sweat upon his brow.
“At a few minutes to seven,” returned the duke (suiting the action to
the words), “I raise the crust of the pie; I find in it two poniards, a
ladder of rope, and a gag. I point one of the poniards at La Ramee’s
breast and I say to him, ‘My friend, I am sorry for it, but if thou
stirrest, if thou utterest one cry, thou art a dead man!’”
The duke, in pronouncing these words, suited, as we have said, the
action to the words. He was standing near the officer and he directed
the point of the poniard in such a manner, close to La Ramee’s heart,
that there could be no doubt in the mind of that individual as to his
determination. Meanwhile, Grimaud, still mute as ever, drew from the
pie the other poniard, the rope ladder and the gag.
La Ramee followed all these objects with his eyes, his alarm every
moment increasing.
“Oh, my lord,” he cried, with an expression of stupefaction in his
face; “you haven’t the heart to kill me!”
“No; not if thou dost not oppose my flight.”
“But, my lord, if I allow you to escape I am a ruined man.”
“I will compensate thee for the loss of thy place.”
“You are determined to leave the château?”
“By Heaven and earth! This night I am determined to be free.”
“And if I defend myself, or call, or cry out?”
“I will kill thee, on the honor of a gentleman.”
At this moment the clock struck.
“Seven o’clock!” said Grimaud, who had not spoken a word.
La Ramee made one movement, in order to satisfy his conscience. The
duke frowned, the officer felt the point of the poniard, which, having
penetrated through his clothes, was close to his heart.
“Let us dispatch,” said the duke.
“My lord, one last favor.”
“What? speak, make haste.”
“Bind my arms, my lord, fast.”
“Why bind thee?”
“That I may not be considered as your accomplice.”
“Your hands?” asked Grimaud.
“Not before me, behind me.”
“But with what?” asked the duke.
“With your belt, my lord!” replied La Ramee.
The duke undid his belt and gave it to Grimaud, who tied La Ramee in
such a way as to satisfy him.
“Your feet, too,” said Grimaud.
La Ramee stretched out his legs, Grimaud took a table-cloth, tore it
into strips and tied La Ramee’s feet together.
“Now, my lord,” said the poor man, “let me have the _poire d’angoisse_.
I ask for it; without it I should be tried in a court of justice
because I did not raise the alarm. Thrust it into my mouth, my lord,
thrust it in.”
Grimaud prepared to comply with this request, when the officer made a
sign as if he had something to say.
“Speak,” said the duke.
“Now, my lord, do not forget, if any harm happens to me on your
account, that I have a wife and four children.”
“Rest assured; put the gag in, Grimaud.”
In a second La Ramee was gagged and laid prostrate. Two or three chairs
were thrown down as if there had been a struggle. Grimaud then took
from the pocket of the officer all the keys it contained and first
opened the door of the room in which they were, then shut it and
double-locked it, and both he and the duke proceeded rapidly down the
gallery which led to the little inclosure. At last they reached the
tennis court. It was completely deserted. No sentinels, no one at any
of the windows. The duke ran to the rampart and perceived on the other
side of the ditch, three cavaliers with two riding horses. The duke
exchanged a signal with them. It was indeed for him that they were
there.
Grimaud, meantime, undid the means of escape.
This was not, however, a rope ladder, but a ball of silk cord, with a
narrow board which was to pass between the legs, the ball to unwind
itself by the weight of the person who sat astride upon the board.
“Go!” said the duke.
“First, my lord?” inquired Grimaud.
“Certainly. If I am caught, I risk nothing but being taken back again
to prison. If they catch thee, thou wilt be hung.”
“True,” replied Grimaud.
And instantly, Grimaud, sitting upon the board as if on horseback,
commenced his perilous descent.
The duke followed him with his eyes, with involuntary terror. He had
gone down about three-quarters of the length of the wall when the cord
broke. Grimaud fell—precipitated into the moat.
The duke uttered a cry, but Grimaud did not give a single moan. He must
have been dreadfully hurt, for he did not stir from the place where he
fell.
Immediately one of the men who were waiting slipped down into the moat,
tied under Grimaud’s shoulders the end of a cord, and the remaining
two, who held the other end, drew Grimaud to them.
“Descend, my lord,” said the man in the moat. “There are only fifteen
feet more from the top down here, and the grass is soft.”
The duke had already begun to descend. His task was the more difficult,
as there was no board to support him. He was obliged to let himself
down by his hands and from a height of fifty feet. But as we have said
he was active, strong, and full of presence of mind. In less than five
minutes he arrived at the end of the cord. He was then only fifteen
feet from the ground, as the gentlemen below had told him. He let go
the rope and fell upon his feet, without receiving any injury.
He instantly began to climb up the slope of the moat, on the top of
which he met De Rochefort. The other two gentlemen were unknown to him.
Grimaud, in a swoon, was tied securely to a horse.
“Gentlemen,” said the duke, “I will thank you later; now we have not a
moment to lose. On, then! on! those who love me, follow me!”
And he jumped on his horse and set off at full gallop, snuffing the
fresh air in his triumph and shouting out, with an expression of face
which it would be impossible to describe:
“Free! free! free!”
Chapter XXIV.
The timely Arrival of D’Artagnan in Paris.
At Blois, D’Artagnan received the money paid to him by Mazarin for any
future service he might render the cardinal.
From Blois to Paris was a journey of four days for ordinary travelers,
but D’Artagnan arrived on the third day at the Barrière Saint Denis. In
turning the corner of the Rue Montmartre, in order to reach the Rue
Tiquetonne and the Hotel de la Chevrette, where he had appointed
Porthos to meet him, he saw at one of the windows of the hotel, that
friend himself dressed in a sky-blue waistcoat, embroidered with
silver, and gaping, till he showed every one of his white teeth; whilst
the people passing by admiringly gazed at this gentleman, so handsome
and so rich, who seemed to weary of his riches and his greatness.
D’Artagnan and Planchet had hardly turned the corner when Porthos
recognized them.
“Eh! D’Artagnan!” he cried. “Thank God you have come!”
“Eh! good-day, dear friend!” replied D’Artagnan.
Porthos came down at once to the threshold of the hotel.
“Ah, my dear friend!” he cried, “what bad stabling for my horses here.”
“Indeed!” said D’Artagnan; “I am most unhappy to hear it, on account of
those fine animals.”
“And I, also—I was also wretchedly off,” he answered, moving backward
and forward as he spoke; “and had it not been for the hostess,” he
added, with his air of vulgar self-complacency, “who is very agreeable
and understands a joke, I should have got a lodging elsewhere.”
The pretty Madeleine, who had approached during this colloquy, stepped
back and turned pale as death on hearing Porthos’s words, for she
thought the scene with the Swiss was about to be repeated. But to her
great surprise D’Artagnan remained perfectly calm, and instead of being
angry he laughed, and said to Porthos:
“Yes, I understand, the air of La Rue Tiquetonne is not like that of
Pierrefonds; but console yourself, I will soon conduct you to one much
better.”
“When will you do that?”
“Immediately, I hope.”
“Ah! so much the better!”
To that exclamation of Porthos’s succeeded a groaning, low and
profound, which seemed to come from behind a door. D’Artagnan, who had
just dismounted, then saw, outlined against the wall, the enormous
stomach of Mousqueton, whose down-drawn mouth emitted sounds of
distress.
“And you, too, my poor Monsieur Mouston, are out of place in this poor
hotel, are you not?” asked D’Artagnan, in that rallying tone which may
indicate either compassion or mockery.
“He finds the cooking detestable,” replied Porthos.
“Why, then, doesn’t he attend to it himself, as at Chantilly?”
“Ah, monsieur, I have not here, as I had there, the ponds of monsieur
le prince, where I could catch those beautiful carp, nor the forests of
his highness to provide me with partridges. As for the cellar, I have
searched every part and poor stuff I found.”
“Monsieur Mouston,” said D’Artagnan, “I should indeed condole with you
had I not at this moment something very pressing to attend to.”
Then taking Porthos aside:
“My dear Du Vallon,” he said, “here you are in full dress most
fortunately, for I am going to take you to the cardinal’s.”
“Gracious me! really!” exclaimed Porthos, opening his great wondering
eyes.
“Yes, my friend.”
“A presentation? indeed!”
“Does that alarm you?”
“No, but it agitates me.”
“Oh! don’t be distressed; you have to deal with a cardinal of another
kind. This one will not oppress you by his dignity.”
“’Tis the same thing—you understand me, D’Artagnan—a court.”
“There’s no court now. Alas!”
“The queen!”
“I was going to say, there’s no longer a queen. The queen! Rest
assured, we shall not see her.”
“And you say that we are going from here to the Palais Royal?”
“Immediately. Only, that there may be no delay, I shall borrow one of
your horses.”
“Certainly; all the four are at your service.”
“Oh, I need only one of them for the time being.”
“Shall we take our valets?”
“Yes, you may as well take Mousqueton. As to Planchet, he has certain
reasons for not going to court.”
“And what are they?”
“Oh, he doesn’t stand well with his eminence.”
“Mouston,” said Porthos, “saddle Vulcan and Bayard.”
“And for myself, monsieur, shall I saddle Rustaud?”
“No, take a more stylish horse, Phœbus or Superbe; we are going with
some ceremony.”
“Ah,” said Mousqueton, breathing more freely, “you are only going,
then, to make a visit?”
“Oh! yes, of course, Mouston; nothing else. But to avoid risk, put the
pistols in the holsters. You will find mine on my saddle, already
loaded.”
Mouston breathed a sigh; he couldn’t understand visits of ceremony made
under arms.
“Indeed,” said Porthos, looking complacently at his old lackey as he
went away, “you are right, D’Artagnan; Mouston will do; Mouston has a
very fine appearance.”
D’Artagnan smiled.
“But you, my friend—are you not going to change your dress?”
“No, I shall go as I am. This traveling dress will serve to show the
cardinal my haste to obey his commands.”
They set out on Vulcan and Bayard, followed by Mousqueton on Phœbus,
and arrived at the Palais Royal at about a quarter to seven. The
streets were crowded, for it was the day of Pentecost, and the crowd
looked in wonder at these two cavaliers; one as fresh as if he had come
out of a bandbox, the other so covered with dust that he looked as if
he had but just come off a field of battle.
Mousqueton also attracted attention; and as the romance of Don Quixote
was then the fashion, they said that he was Sancho, who, after having
lost one master, had found two.
On reaching the palace, D’Artagnan sent to his eminence the letter in
which he had been ordered to return without delay. He was soon ordered
to the presence of the cardinal.
“Courage!” he whispered to Porthos, as they proceeded. “Do not be
intimidated. Believe me, the eye of the eagle is closed forever. We
have only the vulture to deal with. Hold yourself as bolt upright as on
the day of the bastion of St. Gervais, and do not bow too low to this
Italian; that might give him a poor idea of you.”
“Good!” answered Porthos. “Good!”
Mazarin was in his study, working at a list of pensions and benefices,
of which he was trying to reduce the number. He saw D’Artagnan and
Porthos enter with internal pleasure, yet showed no joy in his
countenance.
“Ah! you, is it? Monsieur le lieutenant, you have been very prompt.
’Tis well. Welcome to ye.”
“Thanks, my lord. Here I am at your eminence’s service, as well as
Monsieur du Vallon, one of my old friends, who used to conceal his
nobility under the name of Porthos.”
Porthos bowed to the cardinal.
“A magnificent cavalier,” remarked Mazarin.
Porthos turned his head to the right and to the left, and drew himself
up with a movement full of dignity.
“The best swordsman in the kingdom, my lord,” said D’Artagnan.
Porthos bowed to his friend.
Mazarin was as fond of fine soldiers as, in later times, Frederick of
Prussia used to be. He admired the strong hands, the broad shoulders
and the steady eye of Porthos. He seemed to see before him the
salvation of his administration and of the kingdom, sculptured in flesh
and bone. He remembered that the old association of musketeers was
composed of four persons.
“And your two other friends?” he asked.
Porthos opened his mouth, thinking it a good opportunity to put in a
word in his turn; D’Artagnan checked him by a glance from the corner of
his eye.
“They are prevented at this moment, but will join us later.”
Mazarin coughed a little.
“And this gentleman, being disengaged, takes to the service willingly?”
he asked.
“Yes, my lord, and from pure devotion to the cause, for Monsieur de
Bracieux is rich.”
“Rich!” said Mazarin, whom that single word always inspired with a
great respect.
“Fifty thousand francs a year,” said Porthos.
These were the first words he had spoken.
“From pure zeal?” resumed Mazarin, with his artful smile; “from pure
zeal and devotion then?”
“My lord has, perhaps, no faith in those words?” said D’Artagnan.
“Have _you_, Monsieur le Gascon?” asked Mazarin, supporting his elbows
on his desk and his chin on his hands.
“I,” replied the Gascon, “I believe in devotion as a word at one’s
baptism, for instance, which naturally comes before one’s proper name;
every one is naturally more or less devout, certainly; but there should
be at the end of one’s devotion something to gain.”
“And your friend, for instance; what does he expect to have at the end
of his devotion?”
“Well, my lord, my friend has three magnificent estates: that of
Vallon, at Corbeil; that of Bracieux, in the Soissonais; and that of
Pierrefonds, in the Valois. Now, my lord, he would like to have one of
his three estates erected into a barony.”
“Only that?” said Mazarin, his eyes twinkling with joy on seeing that
he could pay for Porthos’s devotion without opening his purse; “only
that? That can be managed.”
“I shall be baron!” explained Porthos, stepping forward.
“I told you so,” said D’Artagnan, checking him with his hand; “and now
his eminence confirms it.”
“And you, Monsieur D’Artagnan, what do you want?”
“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “it is twenty years since Cardinal de
Richelieu made me lieutenant.”
“Yes, and you would be gratified if Cardinal Mazarin should make you
captain.”
D’Artagnan bowed.
“Well, that is not impossible. We will see, gentlemen, we will see.
Now, Monsieur de Vallon,” said Mazarin, “what service do you prefer, in
the town or in the country?”
Porthos opened his mouth to reply.
“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “Monsieur de Vallon is like me, he prefers
service extraordinary—that is to say, enterprises that are considered
mad and impossible.”
That boastfulness was not displeasing to Mazarin; he fell into
meditation.
“And yet,” he said, “I must admit that I sent for you to appoint you to
quiet service; I have certain apprehensions—well, what is the meaning
of that?”
In fact, a great noise was heard in the ante-chamber; at the same time
the door of the study was burst open and a man, covered with dust,
rushed into it, exclaiming:
“My lord the cardinal! my lord the cardinal!”
Mazarin thought that some one was going to assassinate him and he drew
back, pushing his chair on the castors. D’Artagnan and Porthos moved so
as to plant themselves between the person entering and the cardinal.
“Well, sir,” exclaimed Mazarin, “what’s the matter? and why do you rush
in here, as if you were about to penetrate a crowded market-place?”
“My lord,” replied the messenger, “I wish to speak to your eminence in
secret. I am Monsieur du Poins, an officer in the guards, on duty at
the donjon of Vincennes.”
Mazarin, perceiving by the paleness and agitation of the messenger that
he had something of importance to say, made a sign that D’Artagnan and
Porthos should give place.
D’Artagnan and Porthos withdrew to a corner of the cabinet.
“Speak, monsieur, speak at once!” said Mazarin “What is the matter?”
“The matter is, my lord, that the Duc de Beaufort has contrived to
escape from the Château of Vincennes.”
Mazarin uttered a cry and became paler than the man who had brought the
news. He fell back, almost fainting, in his chair.
“Escaped? Monsieur de Beaufort escaped?”
“My lord, I saw him run off from the top of the terrace.”
“And you did not fire on him?”
“He was out of range.”
“Monsieur de Chavigny—where was he?”
“Absent.”
“And La Ramee?”
“Was found locked up in the prisoner’s room, a gag in his mouth and a
poniard near him.”
“But the man who was under him?”
“Was an accomplice of the duke’s and escaped along with him.”
Mazarin groaned.
“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, advancing toward the cardinal, “it seems to
me that your eminence is losing precious time. It may still be possible
to overtake the prisoner. France is large; the nearest frontier is
sixty leagues distant.”
“And who is to pursue him?” cried Mazarin.
“I, _pardieu!_”
“And you would arrest him?”
“Why not?”
“You would arrest the Duc de Beaufort, armed, in the field?”
“If your eminence should order me to arrest the devil, I would seize
him by the horns and would bring him in.”
“So would I,” said Porthos.
“So would you!” said Mazarin, looking with astonishment at those two
men. “But the duke will not yield himself without a furious battle.”
“Very well,” said D’Artagnan, his eyes aflame, “battle! It is a long
time since we have had a battle, eh, Porthos?”
“Battle!” cried Porthos.
“And you think you can catch him?”
“Yes, if we are better mounted than he.”
“Go then, take what guards you find here, and pursue him.”
“You command us, my lord, to do so?”
“And I sign my orders,” said Mazarin, taking a piece of paper and
writing some lines; “Monsieur du Vallon, your barony is on the back of
the Duc de Beaufort’s horse; you have nothing to do but to overtake it.
As for you, my dear lieutenant, I promise you nothing; but if you bring
him back to me, dead or alive, you may ask all you wish.”
“To horse, Porthos!” said D’Artagnan, taking his friend by the hand.
“Here I am,” smiled Porthos, with his sublime composure.
They descended the great staircase, taking with them all the guards
they found on their road, and crying out, “To arms! To arms!” and
immediately put spur to horse, which set off along the Rue Saint Honoré
with the speed of the whirlwind.
“Well, baron, I promise you some good exercise!” said the Gascon.
“Yes, my captain.”
As they went, the citizens, awakened, left their doors and the street
dogs followed the cavaliers, barking. At the corner of the Cimetière
Saint Jean, D’Artagnan upset a man; it was too insignificant an
occurrence to delay people so eager to get on. The troop continued its
course as though their steeds had wings.
Alas! there are no unimportant events in this world and we shall see
that this apparently slight incident came near endangering the
monarchy.
Chapter XXV.
An Adventure on the High Road.
The musketeers rode the whole length of the Faubourg Saint Antoine and
of the road to Vincennes, and soon found themselves out of the town,
then in a forest and then within sight of a village.
The horses seemed to become more lively with each successive step;
their nostrils reddened like glowing furnaces. D’Artagnan, freely
applying his spurs, was in advance of Porthos two feet at the most;
Mousqueton followed two lengths behind; the guards were scattered
according to the varying excellence of their respective mounts.
From the top of an eminence D’Artagnan perceived a group of people
collected on the other side of the moat, in front of that part of the
donjon which looks toward Saint Maur. He rode on, convinced that in
this direction he would gain intelligence of the fugitive. In five
minutes he had arrived at the place, where the guards joined him,
coming up one by one.
The several members of that group were much excited. They looked at the
cord, still hanging from the loophole and broken at about twenty feet
from the ground. Their eyes measured the height and they exchanged
conjectures. On the top of the wall sentinels went and came with a
frightened air.
A few soldiers, commanded by a sergeant, drove away idlers from the
place where the duke had mounted his horse. D’Artagnan went straight to
the sergeant.
“My officer,” said the sergeant, “it is not permitted to stop here.”
“That prohibition is not for me,” said D’Artagnan. “Have the fugitives
been pursued?”
“Yes, my officer; unfortunately, they are well mounted.”
“How many are there?”
“Four, and a fifth whom they carried away wounded.”
“Four!” said D’Artagnan, looking at Porthos. “Do you hear, baron? They
are only four!”
A joyous smile lighted Porthos’s face.
“How long a start have they?”
“Two hours and a quarter, my officer.”
“Two hours and a quarter—that is nothing; we are well mounted, are we
not, Porthos?”
Porthos breathed a sigh; he thought of what was in store for his poor
horses.
“Very good,” said D’Artagnan; “and now in what direction did they set
out?”
“That I am forbidden to tell.”
D’Artagnan drew from his pocket a paper. “Order of the king,” he said.
“Speak to the governor, then.”
“And where is the governor?”
“In the country.”
Anger mounted to D’Artagnan’s face; he frowned and his cheeks were
colored.
“Ah, you scoundrel!” he said to the sergeant, “I believe you are
impudent to me! Wait!”
He unfolded the paper, presented it to the sergeant with one hand and
with the other took a pistol from his holsters and cocked it.
“Order of the king, I tell you. Read and answer, or I will blow out
your brains!”
The sergeant saw that D’Artagnan was in earnest. “The Vendomois road,”
he replied.
“And by what gate did they go out?”
“By the Saint Maur gate.”
“If you are deceiving me, rascal, you will be hanged to-morrow.”
“And if you catch up with them you won’t come back to hang me,”
murmured the sergeant.
D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders, made a sign to his escort and
started.
“This way, gentlemen, this way!” he cried, directing his course toward
the gate that had been pointed out.
But, now that the duke had escaped, the concierge had seen fit to
fasten the gate with a double lock. It was necessary to compel him to
open it, as the sergeant had been compelled to speak, and this took
another ten minutes. This last obstacle having been overcome, the troop
pursued their course with their accustomed ardor; but some of the
horses could no longer sustain this pace; three of them stopped after
an hour’s gallop, and one fell down.
D’Artagnan, who never turned his head, did not perceive it. Porthos
told him of it in his calm manner.
“If only we two arrive,” said D’Artagnan, “it will be enough, since the
duke’s troop are only four in number.”
“That is true,” said Porthos
And he spurred his courser on.
At the end of another two hours the horses had gone twelve leagues
without stopping; their legs began to tremble, and the foam they shed
whitened the doublets of their masters.
“Let us rest here an instant to give these poor creatures breathing
time,” said Porthos.
“Let us rather kill them! yes, kill them!” cried D’Artagnan; “I see
fresh tracks; ’tis not a quarter of an hour since they passed this
place.”
In fact, the road was trodden by horses’ feet, visible even in the
approaching gloom of evening.
They set out; after a run of two leagues, Mousqueton’s horse sank.
“Gracious me!” said Porthos, “there’s Phœbus ruined.”
“The cardinal will pay you a hundred pistoles.”
“I’m above that.”
“Let us set out again, at full gallop.”
“Yes, if we can.”
But at last the lieutenant’s horse refused to go on; he could not
breathe; one last spur, instead of making him advance, made him fall.
“The devil!” exclaimed Porthos; “there’s Vulcan foundered.”
“Zounds!” cried D’Artagnan, “then we must stop! Give me your horse,
Porthos. What the devil are you doing?”
“By Jove, I am falling, or rather, Bayard is falling,” answered
Porthos.
All three then cried: “All’s over.”
“Hush!” said D’Artagnan.
“What is it?”
“I hear a horse.”
“It belongs to one of our companions, who is overtaking us.”
“No,” said D’Artagnan, “it is in advance.”
“That is another thing,” said Porthos; and he listened toward the
quarter indicated by D’Artagnan.
“Monsieur,” said Mousqueton, who, abandoning his horse on the high
road, had come on foot to rejoin his master, “Phœbus could no longer
hold out and——”
“Silence!” said Porthos.
In fact, at that moment a second neighing was borne to them on the
night wind.
“It is five hundred feet from here, in advance,” said D’Artagnan.
“True, monsieur,” said Mousqueton; “and five hundred feet from here is
a small hunting-house.”
“Mousqueton, thy pistols,” said D’Artagnan.
“I have them at hand, monsieur.”
“Porthos, take yours from your holsters.”
“I have them.”
“Good!” said D’Artagnan, seizing his own; “now you understand,
Porthos?”
“Not too well.”
“We are out on the king’s service.”
“Well?”
“For the king’s service we need horses.”
“That is true,” said Porthos.
“Then not a word, but set to work!”
They went on through the darkness, silent as phantoms; they saw a light
glimmering in the midst of some trees.
“Yonder is the house, Porthos,” said the Gascon; “let me do what I
please and do you what I do.”
They glided from tree to tree till they arrived at twenty steps from
the house unperceived and saw by means of a lantern suspended under a
hut, four fine horses. A groom was rubbing them down; near them were
saddles and bridles.
D’Artagnan approached quickly, making a sign to his two companions to
remain a few steps behind.
“I buy those horses,” he said to the groom.
The groom turned toward him with a look of surprise, but made no reply.
“Didn’t you hear, fellow?”
“Yes, I heard.”
“Why, then, didn’t you reply?”
“Because these horses are not to be sold,” was the reply.
“I take them, then,” said the lieutenant.
And he took hold of one within his reach; his two companions did the
same thing.
“Sir,” cried the groom, “they have traversed six leagues and have only
been unsaddled half an hour.”
“Half an hour’s rest is enough,” replied the Gascon.
The groom cried aloud for help. A kind of steward appeared, just as
D’Artagnan and his companions were prepared to mount. The steward
attempted to expostulate.
“My dear friend,” cried the lieutenant, “if you say a word I will blow
out your brains.”
“But, sir,” answered the steward, “do you know that these horses belong
to Monsieur de Montbazon?”
“So much the better; they must be good animals, then.”
“Sir, I shall call my people.”
“And I, mine; I’ve ten guards behind me, don’t you hear them gallop?
and I’m one of the king’s musketeers. Come, Porthos; come, Mousqueton.”
They all mounted the horses as quickly as possible.
“Halloo! hi! hi!” cried the steward; “the house servants, with the
carbines!”
“On! on!” cried D’Artagnan; “there’ll be firing! on!”
They all set off, swift as the wind.
“Here!” cried the steward, “here!” whilst the groom ran to a
neighboring building.
“Take care of your horses!” cried D’Artagnan to him.
“Fire!” replied the steward.
A gleam, like a flash of lightning, illumined the road, and with the
flash was heard the whistling of balls, which were fired wildly in the
air.
“They fire like grooms,” said Porthos. “In the time of the cardinal
people fired better than that, do you remember the road to Crèvecœur,
Mousqueton?”
“Ah, sir! my left side still pains me!”
“Are you sure we are on the right track, lieutenant?”
“Egad, didn’t you hear? these horses belong to Monsieur de Montbazon;
well, Monsieur de Montbazon is the husband of Madame de Montbazon——”
“And——”
“And Madame de Montbazon is the mistress of the Duc de Beaufort.”
“Ah! I understand,” replied Porthos; “she has ordered relays of
horses.”
“Exactly so.”
“And we are pursuing the duke with the very horses he has just left?”
“My dear Porthos, you are really a man of most superior understanding,”
said D’Artagnan, with a look as if he spoke against his conviction.
“Pooh!” replied Porthos, “I am what I am.”
They rode on for an hour, till the horses were covered with foam and
dust.
“Zounds! what is yonder?” cried D’Artagnan.
“You are very lucky if you see anything such a night as this,” said
Porthos.
“Something bright.”
“I, too,” cried Mousqueton, “saw them also.”
“Ah! ah! have we overtaken them?”
“Good! a dead horse!” said D’Artagnan, pulling up his horse, which
shied; “it seems their horses, too, are breaking down, as well as
ours.”
“I seem to hear the noise of a troop of horsemen,” exclaimed Porthos,
leaning over his horse’s mane.
“Impossible.”
“They appear to be numerous.”
“Then ’tis something else.”
“Another horse!” said Porthos.
“Dead?”
“No, dying.”
“Saddled?”
“Yes, saddled and bridled.”
“Then we are upon the fugitives.”
“Courage, we have them!”
“But if they are numerous,” observed Mousqueton, “’tis not we who have
them, but they who have us.”
“Nonsense!” cried D’Artagnan, “they’ll suppose us to be stronger than
themselves, as we’re in pursuit; they’ll be afraid and will disperse.”
“Certainly,” remarked Porthos.
“Ah! do you see?” cried the lieutenant.
“The lights again! this time I, too, saw them,” said Porthos.
“On! on! forward! forward!” cried D’Artagnan, in his stentorian voice;
“we shall laugh over all this in five minutes.”
And they darted on anew. The horses, excited by pain and emulation,
raced over the dark road, in the midst of which was now seen a moving
mass, denser and more obscure than the rest of the horizon.
Chapter XXVI.
The Rencontre.
They rode on in this way for ten minutes. Suddenly two dark forms
seemed to separate from the mass, advanced, grew in size, and as they
loomed up larger and larger, assumed the appearance of two horsemen.
“Aha!” cried D’Artagnan, “they’re coming toward us.”
“So much the worse for them,” said Porthos.
“Who goes there?” cried a hoarse voice.
The three horsemen made no reply, stopped not, and all that was heard
was the noise of swords drawn from the scabbards and the cocking of the
pistols with which the two phantoms were armed.
“Bridle in mouth!” said D’Artagnan.
Porthos understood him and he and the lieutenant each drew with the
left hand a pistol from their bolsters and cocked it in their turn.
“Who goes there?” was asked a second time. “Not a step forward, or
you’re dead men.”
“Stuff!” cried Porthos, almost choked with dust and chewing his bridle
as a horse chews his bit. “Stuff and nonsense; we have seen plenty of
dead men in our time.”
Hearing these words, the two shadows blockaded the road and by the
light of the stars might be seen the shining of their arms.
“Back!” shouted D’Artagnan, “or you are dead!”
Two shots were the reply to this threat; but the assailants attacked
their foes with such velocity that in a moment they were upon them; a
third pistol-shot was heard, aimed by D’Artagnan, and one of his
adversaries fell. As for Porthos, he assaulted the foe with such
violence that, although his sword was thrust aside, the enemy was
thrown off his horse and fell about ten steps from it.
“Finish, Mouston, finish the work!” cried Porthos. And he darted on
beside his friend, who had already begun a fresh pursuit.
“Well?” said Porthos.
“I’ve broken my man’s skull,” cried D’Artagnan. “And you——”
“I’ve only thrown the fellow down, but hark!”
Another shot of a carbine was heard. It was Mousqueton, who was obeying
his master’s command.
“On! on!” cried D’Artagnan; “all goes well! we have the first throw.”
“Ha! ha!” answered Porthos, “behold, other players appear.”
And in fact, two other cavaliers made their appearance, detached, as it
seemed, from the principal group; they again disputed the road.
This time the lieutenant did not wait for the opposite party to speak.
“Stand aside!” he cried; “stand off the road!”
“What do you want?” asked a voice.
“The duke!” Porthos and D’Artagnan roared out both at once.
A burst of laughter was the answer, but finished with a groan.
D’Artagnan had, with his sword, cut in two the poor wretch who had
laughed.
At the same time Porthos and his adversary fired on each other and
D’Artagnan turned to him.
“Bravo! you’ve killed him, I think.”
“No, wounded his horse only.”
“What would you have, my dear fellow? One doesn’t hit the bull’s-eye
every time; it is something to hit inside the ring. Ho! _parbleu!_ what
is the matter with my horse?”
“Your horse is falling,” said Porthos, reining in his own.
In truth, the lieutenant’s horse stumbled and fell on his knees; then a
rattling in his throat was heard and he lay down to die. He had
received in the chest the bullet of D’Artagnan’s first adversary.
D’Artagnan swore loud enough to be heard in the skies.
“Does your honor want a horse?” asked Mousqueton.
“Zounds! want one!” cried the Gascon.
“Here’s one, your honor——”
“How the devil hast thou two horses?” asked D’Artagnan, jumping on one
of them.
“Their masters are dead! I thought they might be useful, so I took
them.”
Meantime Porthos had reloaded his pistols.
“Be on the _qui vive!_” cried D’Artagnan. “Here are two other
cavaliers.”
As he spoke, two horsemen advanced at full speed.
“Ho! your honor!” cried Mousqueton, “the man you upset is getting up.”
“Why didn’t thou do as thou didst to the first man?” said Porthos.
“I held the horses, my hands were full, your honor.”
A shot was fired that moment; Mousqueton shrieked with pain.
“Ah, sir! I’m hit in the other side! exactly opposite the other! This
hurt is just the fellow of the one I had on the road to Amiens.”
Porthos turned around like a lion, plunged on the dismounted cavalier,
who tried to draw his sword; but before it was out of the scabbard,
Porthos, with the hilt of his had struck him such a terrible blow on
the head that he fell like an ox beneath the butcher’s knife.
Mousqueton, groaning, slipped from his horse, his wound not allowing
him to keep the saddle.
On perceiving the cavaliers, D’Artagnan had stopped and charged his
pistol afresh; besides, his horse, he found, had a carbine on the bow
of the saddle.
“Here I am!” exclaimed Porthos. “Shall we wait, or shall we charge?”
“Let us charge them,” answered the Gascon.
“Charge!” cried Porthos.
They spurred on their horses; the other cavaliers were only twenty
steps from them.
“For the king!” cried D’Artagnan.
“The king has no authority here!” answered a deep voice, which seemed
to proceed from a cloud, so enveloped was the cavalier in a whirlwind
of dust.
“’Tis well, we will see if the king’s name is not a passport
everywhere,” replied the Gascon.
“See!” answered the voice.
Two shots were fired at once, one by D’Artagnan, the other by the
adversary of Porthos. D’Artagnan’s ball took off his enemy’s hat. The
ball fired by Porthos’s foe went through the throat of his horse, which
fell, groaning.
“For the last time, where are you going?”
“To the devil!” answered D’Artagnan.
“Good! you may be easy, then—you’ll get there.”
D’Artagnan then saw a musket-barrel leveled at him; he had no time to
draw from his holsters. He recalled a bit of advice which Athos had
once given him, and made his horse rear.
The ball struck the animal full in front. D’Artagnan felt his horse
giving way under him and with his wonderful agility threw himself to
one side.
“Ah! this,” cried the voice, the tone of which was at once polished and
jeering, “this is nothing but a butchery of horses and not a combat
between men. To the sword, sir! the sword!”
And he jumped off his horse.
“To the swords! be it so!” replied D’Artagnan; “that is exactly what I
want.”
D’Artagnan, in two steps, was engaged with the foe, whom, according to
custom, he attacked impetuously, but he met this time with a skill and
a strength of arm that gave him pause. Twice he was obliged to step
back; his opponent stirred not one inch. D’Artagnan returned and again
attacked him.
Twice or thrice thrusts were attempted on both sides, without effect;
sparks were emitted from the swords like water spouting forth.
At last D’Artagnan thought it was time to try one of his favorite
feints in fencing. He brought it to bear, skillfully executed it with
the rapidity of lightning, and struck the blow with a force which he
fancied would prove irresistible.
The blow was parried.
“’Sdeath!” he cried, with his Gascon accent.
At this exclamation his adversary bounded back and, bending his bare
head, tried to distinguish in the gloom the features of the lieutenant.
As to D’Artagnan, afraid of some feint, he still stood on the
defensive.
“Have a care,” cried Porthos to his opponent; “I’ve still two pistols
charged.”
“The more reason you should fire the first!” cried his foe.
Porthos fired; the flash threw a gleam of light over the field of
battle.
As the light shone on them a cry was heard from the other two
combatants.
“Athos!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.
“D’Artagnan!” ejaculated Athos.
Athos raised his sword; D’Artagnan lowered his.
“Aramis!” cried Athos, “don’t fire!”
“Ah! ha! is it you, Aramis?” said Porthos.
And he threw away his pistol.
Aramis pushed his back into his saddle-bags and sheathed his sword.
“My son!” exclaimed Athos, extending his hand to D’Artagnan.
This was the name which he gave him in former days, in their moments of
tender intimacy.
“Athos!” cried D’Artagnan, wringing his hands. “So you defend him! And
I, who have sworn to take him dead or alive, I am dishonored—and by
_you!_”
“Kill me!” replied Athos, uncovering his breast, “if your honor
requires my death.”
“Oh! woe is me! woe is me!” cried the lieutenant; “there’s only one man
in the world who could stay my hand; by a fatality that very man bars
my way. What shall I say to the cardinal?”
“You can tell him, sir,” answered a voice which was the voice of high
command in the battle-field, “that he sent against me the only two men
capable of getting the better of four men; of fighting man to man,
without discomfiture, against the Comte de la Fère and the Chevalier
d’Herblay, and of surrendering only to fifty men!
“The prince!” exclaimed at the same moment Athos and Aramis, unmasking
as they addressed the Duc de Beaufort, whilst D’Artagnan and Porthos
stepped backward.
“Fifty cavaliers!” cried the Gascon and Porthos.
“Look around you, gentlemen, if you doubt the fact,” said the duke.
The two friends looked to the right, to the left; they were encompassed
by a troop of horsemen.
“Hearing the noise of the fight,” resumed the duke, “I fancied you had
about twenty men with you, so I came back with those around me, tired
of always running away, and wishing to draw my sword in my own cause;
but you are only two.”
“Yes, my lord; but, as you have said, two that are a match for twenty,”
said Athos.
“Come, gentlemen, your swords,” said the duke.
“Our swords!” cried D’Artagnan, raising his head and regaining his
self-possession. “Never!”
“Never!” added Porthos.
Some of the men moved toward them.
“One moment, my lord,” whispered Athos, and he said something in a low
voice.
“As you will,” replied the duke. “I am too much indebted to you to
refuse your first request. Gentlemen,” he said to his escort,
“withdraw. Monsieur d’Artagnan, Monsieur du Vallon, you are free.”
The order was obeyed; D’Artagnan and Porthos then found themselves in
the centre of a large circle.
“Now, D’Herblay,” said Athos, “dismount and come here.”
Aramis dismounted and went to Porthos, whilst Athos approached
D’Artagnan.
All four once more together.
“Friends!” said Athos, “do you regret you have not shed our blood?”
“No,” replied D’Artagnan; “I regret to see that we, hitherto united,
are opposed to each other. Ah! nothing will ever go well with us
hereafter!”
“Oh, Heaven! No, all is over!” said Porthos.
“Well, be on our side now,” resumed Aramis.
“Silence, D’Herblay!” cried Athos; “such proposals are not to be made
to gentlemen such as these. ’Tis a matter of conscience with them, as
with us.”
“Meantime, here we are, enemies!” said Porthos. “Gramercy! who would
ever have thought it?”
D’Artagnan only sighed.
Athos looked at them both and took their hands in his.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is a serious business and my heart bleeds
as if you had pierced it through and through. Yes, we are severed;
there is the great, the distressing truth! But we have not as yet
declared war; perhaps we shall have to make certain conditions,
therefore a solemn conference is indispensable.”
“For my own part, I demand it,” said Aramis.
“I accept it,” interposed D’Artagnan, proudly.
Porthos bowed, as if in assent.
“Let us choose a place of rendezvous,” continued Athos, “and in a last
interview arrange our mutual position and the conduct we are to
maintain toward each other.”
“Good!” the other three exclaimed.
“Well, then, the place?”
“Will the Place Royale suit you?” asked D’Artagnan.
“In Paris?”
“Yes.”
Athos and Aramis looked at each other.
“The Place Royale—be it so!” replied Athos.
“When?”
“To-morrow evening, if you like!”
“At what hour?”
“At ten in the evening, if that suits you; by that time we shall have
returned.”
“Good.”
“There,” continued Athos, “either peace or war will be decided; honor,
at all events, will be maintained!”
“Alas!” murmured D’Artagnan, “_our_ honor as soldiers is lost to us
forever!”
“D’Artagnan,” said Athos, gravely, “I assure you that you do me wrong
in dwelling so upon that. What I think of is, that we have crossed
swords as enemies. Yes,” he continued, sadly shaking his head, “Yes, it
is as you said, misfortune, indeed, has overtaken us. Come, Aramis.”
“And we, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “will return, carrying our shame to
the cardinal.”
“And tell him,” cried a voice, “that I am not too old yet for a man of
action.”
D’Artagnan recognized the voice of De Rochefort.
“Can I do anything for you, gentlemen?” asked the duke.
“Bear witness that we have done all that we could.”
“That shall be testified to, rest assured. Adieu! we shall meet soon, I
trust, in Paris, where you shall have your revenge.” The duke, as he
spoke, kissed his hand, spurred his horse into a gallop and
disappeared, followed by his troop, who were soon lost in distance and
darkness.
D’Artagnan and Porthos were now alone with a man who held by the
bridles two horses; they thought it was Mousqueton and went up to him.
“What do I see?” cried the lieutenant. “Grimaud, is it thou?”
Grimaud signified that he was not mistaken.
“And whose horses are these?” cried D’Artagnan.
“Who has given them to us?” said Porthos.
“The Comte de la Fère.”
“Athos! Athos!” muttered D’Artagnan; “you think of every one; you are
indeed a nobleman! Whither art thou going, Grimaud?”
“To join the Vicomte de Bragelonne in Flanders, your honor.”
They were taking the road toward Paris, when groans, which seemed to
proceed from a ditch, attracted their attention.
“What is that?” asked D’Artagnan.
“It is I—Mousqueton,” said a mournful voice, whilst a sort of shadow
arose out of the side of the road.
Porthos ran to him. “Art thou dangerously wounded, my dear Mousqueton?”
he said.
“No, sir, but I am severely.”
“What can we do?” said D’Artagnan; “we must return to Paris.”
“I will take care of Mousqueton,” said Grimaud; and he gave his arm to
his old comrade, whose eyes were full of tears, nor could Grimaud tell
whether the tears were caused by wounds or by the pleasure of seeing
him again.
D’Artagnan and Porthos went on, meantime, to Paris. They were passed by
a sort of courier, covered with dust, the bearer of a letter from the
duke to the cardinal, giving testimony to the valor of D’Artagnan and
Porthos.
Mazarin had passed a very bad night when this letter was brought to
him, announcing that the duke was free and that he would henceforth
raise up mortal strife against him.
“What consoles me,” said the cardinal after reading the letter, “is
that, at least, in this chase, D’Artagnan has done me one good turn—he
has destroyed Broussel. This Gascon is a precious fellow; even his
misadventures are of use.”
The cardinal referred to that man whom D’Artagnan upset at the corner
of the Cimetière Saint Jean in Paris, and who was no other than the
Councillor Broussel.
Chapter XXVII.
The four old Friends prepare to meet again.
Well,” said Porthos, seated in the courtyard of the Hotel de la
Chevrette, to D’Artagnan, who, with a long and melancholy face, had
returned from the Palais Royal; “did he receive you ungraciously, my
dear friend?”
“I’faith, yes! a brute, that cardinal. What are you eating there,
Porthos?”
“I am dipping a biscuit in a glass of Spanish wine; do the same.”
“You are right. Gimblou, a glass of wine.”
“Well, how has all gone off?”
“Zounds! you know there’s only one way of saying things, so I went in
and said, ‘My lord, we were not the strongest party.’
“‘Yes, I know that,’ he said, ‘but give me the particulars.’
“You know, Porthos, I could not give him the particulars without naming
our friends; to name them would be to commit them to ruin, so I merely
said they were fifty and we were two.
“‘There was firing, nevertheless, I heard,’ he said; ‘and your
swords—they saw the light of day, I presume?’
“‘That is, the night, my lord,’ I answered.
“‘Ah!’ cried the cardinal, ‘I thought you were a Gascon, my friend?’
“‘I am a Gascon,’ said I, ‘only when I succeed.’ The answer pleased him
and he laughed.
“‘That will teach me,’ he said, ‘to have my guards provided with better
horses; for if they had been able to keep up with you and if each one
of them had done as much as you and your friend, you would have kept
your word and would have brought him back to me dead or alive.’”
“Well, there’s nothing bad in that, it seems to me,” said Porthos.
“Oh, _mon Dieu!_ no, nothing at all. It was the way in which he spoke.
It is incredible how these biscuit soak up wine! They are veritable
sponges! Gimblou, another bottle.”
The bottle was brought with a promptness which showed the degree of
consideration D’Artagnan enjoyed in the establishment. He continued:
“So I was going away, but he called me back.
“‘You have had three horses foundered or killed?’ he asked me.
“‘Yes, my lord.’
“‘How much were they worth?’”
“Why,” said Porthos, “that was very good of him, it seems to me.”
“‘A thousand pistoles,’ I said.”
“A thousand pistoles!” Porthos exclaimed. “Oh! oh! that is a large sum.
If he knew anything about horses he would dispute the price.”
“Faith! he was very much inclined to do so, the contemptible fellow. He
made a great start and looked at me. I also looked at him; then he
understood, and putting his hand into a drawer, he took from it a
quantity of notes on a bank in Lyons.”
“For a thousand pistoles?”
“For a thousand pistoles—just that amount, the beggar; not one too
many.”
“And you have them?”
“They are here.”
“Upon my word, I think he acted very generously.”
“Generously! to men who had risked their lives for him, and besides had
done him a great service?”
“A great service—what was that?”
“Why, it seems that I crushed for him a parliament councillor.”
“What! that little man in black that you upset at the corner of Saint
Jean Cemetery?”
“That’s the man, my dear fellow; he was an annoyance to the cardinal.
Unfortunately, I didn’t crush him flat. It seems that he came to
himself and that he will continue to be an annoyance.”
“See that, now!” said Porthos; “and I turned my horse aside from going
plump on to him! That will be for another time.”
“He owed me for the councillor, the pettifogger!”
“But,” said Porthos, “if he was not crushed completely——”
“Ah! Monsieur de Richelieu would have said, ‘Five hundred crowns for
the councillor.’ Well, let’s say no more about it. How much were your
animals worth, Porthos?”
“Ah, if poor Mousqueton were here he could tell you to a fraction.”
“No matter; you can tell within ten crowns.”
“Why, Vulcan and Bayard cost me each about two hundred pistoles, and
putting Phœbus at a hundred and fifty, we should be pretty near the
amount.”
“There will remain, then, four hundred and fifty pistoles,” said
D’Artagnan, contentedly.
“Yes,” said Porthos, “but there are the equipments.”
“That is very true. Well, how much for the equipments?”
“If we say one hundred pistoles for the three——”
“Good for the hundred pistoles; there remains, then, three hundred and
fifty.”
Porthos made a sign of assent.
“We will give the fifty pistoles to the hostess for our expenses,” said
D’Artagnan, “and share the three hundred.”
“We will share,” said Porthos.
“A paltry piece of business!” murmured D’Artagnan crumpling his note.
“Pooh!” said Porthos, “it is always that. But tell me——”
“What?”
“Didn’t he speak of me in any way?”
“Ah! yes, indeed!” cried D’Artagnan, who was afraid of disheartening
his friend by telling him that the cardinal had not breathed a word
about him; “yes, surely, he said——”
“He said?” resumed Porthos.
“Stop, I want to remember his exact words. He said, ‘As to your friend,
tell him he may sleep in peace.’”
“Good, very good,” said Porthos; “that signified as clear as daylight
that he still intends to make me a baron.”
At this moment nine o’clock struck. D’Artagnan started.
“Ah, yes,” said Porthos, “there is nine o’clock. We have a rendezvous,
you remember, at the Place Royale.”
“Ah! stop! hold your peace, Porthos, don’t remind me of it; ’tis that
which has made me so cross since yesterday. I shall not go.”
“Why?” asked Porthos.
“Because it is a grievous thing for me to meet again those two men who
caused the failure of our enterprise.”
“And yet,” said Porthos, “neither of them had any advantage over us. I
still had a loaded pistol and you were in full fight, sword in hand.”
“Yes,” said D’Artagnan; “but what if this rendezvous had some hidden
purpose?”
“Oh!” said Porthos, “you can’t think that, D’Artagnan!”
D’Artagnan did not believe Athos to be capable of a deception, but he
sought an excuse for not going to the rendezvous.
“We must go,” said the superb lord of Bracieux, “lest they should say
we were afraid. We who have faced fifty foes on the high road can well
meet two in the Place Royale.”
“Yes, yes, but they took part with the princes without apprising us of
it. Athos and Aramis have played a game with me which alarms me. We
discovered yesterday the truth; what is the use of going to-day to
learn something else?”
“You really have some distrust, then?” said Porthos.
“Of Aramis, yes, since he has become an abbé. You can’t imagine, my
dear fellow, the sort of man he is. He sees us on the road which leads
him to a bishopric, and perhaps will not be sorry to get us out of his
way.”
“Ah, as regards Aramis, that is another thing,” said Porthos, “and it
wouldn’t surprise me at all.”
“Perhaps Monsieur de Beaufort will try, in his turn, to lay hands on
us.”
“Nonsense! He had us in his power and he let us go. Besides we can be
on our guard; let us take arms, let Planchet post himself behind us
with his carbine.”
“Planchet is a Frondeur,” answered D’Artagnan.
“Devil take these civil wars! one can no more now reckon on one’s
friends than on one’s footmen,” said Porthos. “Ah! if Mousqueton were
here! there’s a fellow who will never desert me!”
“So long as you are rich! Ah! my friend! ’tis not civil war that
disunites us. It is that we are each of us twenty years older; it is
that the honest emotions of youth have given place to suggestions of
interest, whispers of ambition, counsels of selfishness. Yes, you are
right; let us go, Porthos, but let us go well armed; were we not to
keep the rendezvous, they would declare we were afraid. Halloo!
Planchet! here! saddle our horses, take your carbine.”
“Whom are we going to attack, sir?”
“No one; a mere matter of precaution,” answered the Gascon.
“You know, sir, that they wished to murder that good councillor,
Broussel, the father of the people?”
“Really, did they?” said D’Artagnan.
“Yes, but he has been avenged. He was carried home in the arms of the
people. His house has been full ever since. He has received visits from
the coadjutor, from Madame de Longueville, and the Prince de Conti;
Madame de Chevreuse and Madame de Vendôme have left their names at his
door. And now, whenever he wishes——”
“Well, whenever he wishes?”
Planchet began to sing:
“Un vent de fronde
S’est levé ce matin;
Je crois qu’il gronde
Contre le Mazarin.
Un vent de fronde
S’est levé ce matin.”
“It doesn’t surprise me,” said D’Artagnan, in a low tone to Porthos,
“that Mazarin would have been much better satisfied had I crushed the
life out of his councillor.”
“You understand, then, monsieur,” resumed Planchet, “that if it were
for some enterprise like that undertaken against Monsieur Broussel that
you should ask me to take my carbine——”
“No, don’t be alarmed; but where did you get all these details?”
“From a good source, sir; I heard it from Friquet.”
“From Friquet? I know that name——”
“A son of Monsieur de Broussel’s servant, and a lad that, I promise
you, in a revolt will not give away his share to the dogs.”
“Is he not a singing boy at Notre Dame?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Yes, that is the very boy; he’s patronized by Bazin.”
“Ah, yes, I know.”
“Of what importance is this little reptile to you?” asked Porthos.
“Gad!” replied D’Artagnan; “he has already given me good information
and he may do the same again.”
Whilst all this was going on, Athos and Aramis were entering Paris by
the Faubourg St. Antoine. They had taken some refreshment on the road
and hastened on, that they might not fail at the appointed place. Bazin
was their only attendant, for Grimaud had stayed behind to take care of
Mousqueton. As they were passing onward, Athos proposed that they
should lay aside their arms and military costume, and assume a dress
more suited to the city.
“Oh, no, dear count!” cried Aramis, “is it not a warlike encounter that
we are going to?”
“What do you mean, Aramis?”
“That the Place Royale is the termination to the main road to
Vendomois, and nothing else.”
“What! our friends?”
“Are become our most dangerous enemies, Athos. Let us be on our guard.”
“Oh! my dear D’Herblay!”
“Who can say whether D’Artagnan may not have betrayed us to the
cardinal? who can tell whether Mazarin may not take advantage of this
rendezvous to seize us?”
“What! Aramis, you think that D’Artagnan, that Porthos, would lend
their hands to such an infamy?”
“Among friends, my dear Athos, no, you are right; but among enemies it
would be only a stratagem.”
Athos crossed his arms and bowed his noble head.
“What can you expect, Athos? Men are so made; and we are not always
twenty years old. We have cruelly wounded, as you know, that personal
pride by which D’Artagnan is blindly governed. He has been beaten. Did
you not observe his despair on the journey? As to Porthos, his barony
was perhaps dependent on that affair. Well, he found us on his road and
will not be baron this time. Perhaps that famous barony will have
something to do with our interview this evening. Let us take our
precautions, Athos.”
“But suppose they come unarmed? What a disgrace to us.”
“Oh, never fear! besides, if they do, we can easily make an excuse; we
came straight off a journey and are insurgents, too.”
“An excuse for us! to meet D’Artagnan with a false excuse! to have to
make a false excuse to Porthos! Oh, Aramis!” continued Athos, shaking
his head mournfully, “upon my soul, you make me the most miserable of
men; you disenchant a heart not wholly dead to friendship. Go in
whatever guise you choose; for my part, I shall go unarmed.”
“No, for I will not allow you to do so. ’Tis not one man, not Athos
only, not the Comte de la Fère whom you will ruin by this amiable
weakness, but a whole party to whom you belong and who depend upon
you.”
“Be it so then,” replied Athos, sorrowfully.
And they pursued their road in mournful silence.
Scarcely had they reached by the Rue de la Mule the iron gate of the
Place Royale, when they perceived three cavaliers, D’Artagnan, Porthos,
and Planchet, the two former wrapped up in their military cloaks under
which their swords were hidden, and Planchet, his musket by his side.
They were waiting at the entrance of the Rue Sainte Catharine, and
their horses were fastened to the rings of the arcade. Athos,
therefore, commanded Bazin to fasten up his horse and that of Aramis in
the same manner.
They then advanced two and two, and saluted each other politely.
“Now where will it be agreeable to you that we hold our conference?”
inquired Aramis, perceiving that people were stopping to look at them,
supposing that they were going to engage in one of those far-famed
duels still extant in the memory of the Parisians, and especially the
inhabitants of the Place Royale.
“The gate is shut,” said Aramis, “but if these gentlemen like a cool
retreat under the trees, and perfect seclusion, I will get the key from
the Hotel de Rohan and we shall be well suited.”
D’Artagnan darted a look into the obscurity of the Place. Porthos
ventured to put his head between the railings, to try if his glance
could penetrate the gloom.
“If you prefer any other place,” said Athos, in his persuasive voice,
“choose for yourselves.”
“This place, if Monsieur d’Herblay can procure the key, is the best
that we can have,” was the answer.
Aramis went off at once, begging Athos not to remain alone within reach
of D’Artagnan and Porthos; a piece of advice which was received with a
contemptuous smile.
Aramis returned soon with a man from the Hotel de Rohan, who was saying
to him:
“You swear, sir, that it is not so?”
“Stop,” and Aramis gave him a louis d’or.
“Ah! you will not swear, my master,” said the concierge, shaking his
head.
“Well, one can never say what may happen; at present we and these
gentlemen are excellent friends.”
“Yes, certainly,” added Athos and the other two.
D’Artagnan had heard the conversation and had understood it.
“You see?” he said to Porthos.
“What do I see?”
“That he wouldn’t swear.”
“Swear what?”
“That man wanted Aramis to swear that we are not going to the Place
Royale to fight.”
“And Aramis wouldn’t swear?”
“No.”
“Attention, then!”
Athos did not lose sight of the two speakers. Aramis opened the gate
and faced around in order that D’Artagnan and Porthos might enter. In
passing through the gate, the hilt of the lieutenant’s sword was caught
in the grating and he was obliged to pull off his cloak; in doing so he
showed the butt end of his pistols and a ray of the moon was reflected
on the shining metal.
“Do you see?” whispered Aramis to Athos, touching his shoulder with one
hand and pointing with the other to the arms which the Gascon wore
under his belt.
“Alas! I do!” replied Athos, with a deep sigh.
He entered third, and Aramis, who shut the gate after him, last. The
two serving-men waited without; but as if they likewise mistrusted each
other, they kept their respective distances.
Chapter XXVIII.
The Place Royale.
They proceeded silently to the centre of the Place, but as at this very
moment the moon had just emerged from behind a cloud, they thought they
might be observed if they remained on that spot and therefore regained
the shade of the lime-trees.
There were benches here and there; the four gentlemen stopped near
them; at a sign from Athos, Porthos and D’Artagnan sat down, the two
others stood in front of them.
After a few minutes of silent embarrassment, Athos spoke.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “our presence here is the best proof of former
friendship; not one of us has failed the others at this rendezvous; not
one has, therefore, to reproach himself.”
“Hear me, count,” replied D’Artagnan; “instead of making compliments to
each other, let us explain our conduct to each other, like men of right
and honest hearts.”
“I wish for nothing more; have you any cause of complaint against me or
Monsieur d’Herblay? If so, speak out,” answered Athos.
“I have,” replied D’Artagnan. “When I saw you at your château at
Bragelonne, I made certain proposals to you which you perfectly
understood; instead of answering me as a friend, you played with me as
a child; the friendship, therefore, that you boast of was not broken
yesterday by the shock of swords, but by your dissimulation at your
castle.”
“D’Artagnan!” said Athos, reproachfully.
“You asked for candor and you have it. You ask what I have against you;
I tell you. And I have the same sincerity to show you, if you wish,
Monsieur d’Herblay; I acted in a similar way to you and you also
deceived me.”
“Really, monsieur, you say strange things,” said Aramis. “You came
seeking me to make to me certain proposals, but did you make them? No,
you sounded me, nothing more. Very well what did I say to you? that
Mazarin was contemptible and that I wouldn’t serve Mazarin. But that is
all. Did I tell you that I wouldn’t serve any other? On the contrary, I
gave you to understand, I think, that I adhered to the princes. We even
joked very pleasantly, if I remember rightly, on the very probable
contingency of your being charged by the cardinal with my arrest. Were
you a party man? There is no doubt of that. Well, why should not we,
too, belong to a party? You had your secret and we had ours; we didn’t
exchange them. So much the better; it proves that we know how to keep
our secrets.”
“I do not reproach you, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan; “’tis only because
Monsieur de la Fère has spoken of friendship that I question your
conduct.”
“And what do you find in it that is worthy of blame?” asked Aramis,
haughtily.
The blood mounted instantly to the temples of D’Artagnan, who arose,
and replied:
“I consider it worthy conduct of a pupil of Jesuits.”
On seeing D’Artagnan rise, Porthos rose also; these four men were
therefore all standing at the same time, with a menacing aspect,
opposite to each other.
Upon hearing D’Artagnan’s reply, Aramis seemed about to draw his sword,
when Athos prevented him.
“D’Artagnan,” he said, “you are here to-night, still infuriated by
yesterday’s adventure. I believed your heart noble enough to enable a
friendship of twenty years to overcome an affront of a quarter of an
hour. Come, do you really think you have anything to say against me?
Say it then; if I am in fault I will avow the error.”
The grave and harmonious tones of that beloved voice seemed to have
still its ancient influence, whilst that of Aramis, which had become
harsh and tuneless in his moments of ill-humor, irritated him. He
answered therefore:
“I think, monsieur le comte, that you had something to communicate to
me at your château of Bragelonne, and that gentleman”—he pointed to
Aramis—“had also something to tell me when I was in his convent. At
that time I was not concerned in the adventure, in the course of which
you have so successfully estopped me! However, because I was prudent
you must not take me for a fool. If I had wished to widen the breach
between those whom Monsieur d’Herblay chooses to receive with a rope
ladder and those whom he receives with a wooden ladder, I could have
spoken out.”
“What are you meddling with?” cried Aramis, pale with anger, suspecting
that D’Artagnan had acted as a spy on him and had seen him with Madame
de Longueville.
“I never meddle save with what concerns me, and I know how to make
believe that I haven’t seen what does not concern me; but I hate
hypocrites, and among that number I place musketeers who are abbés and
abbés who are musketeers; and,” he added, turning to Porthos “here’s a
gentleman who’s of the same opinion as myself.”
Porthos, who had not spoken one word, answered merely by a word and a
gesture.
He said “yes” and he put his hand on his sword.
Aramis started back and drew his. D’Artagnan bent forward, ready either
to attack or to stand on his defense.
Athos at that moment extended his hand with the air of supreme command
which characterized him alone, drew out his sword and the scabbard at
the same time, broke the blade in the sheath on his knee and threw the
pieces to his right. Then turning to Aramis:
“Aramis,” he said, “break your sword.”
Aramis hesitated.
“It must be done,” said Athos; then in a lower and more gentle voice,
he added. “I wish it.”
Then Aramis, paler than before, but subdued by these words, snapped the
serpent blade between his hands, and then folding his arms, stood
trembling with rage.
These proceedings made D’Artagnan and Porthos draw back. D’Artagnan did
not draw his sword; Porthos put his back into the sheath.
“Never!” exclaimed Athos, raising his right hand to Heaven, “never! I
swear before God, who seeth us, and who, in the darkness of this night
heareth us, never shall my sword cross yours, never my eye express a
glance of anger, nor my heart a throb of hatred, at you. We lived
together, we loved, we hated together; we shed, we mingled our blood
together, and too probably, I may still add, that there may be yet a
bond between us closer even than that of friendship; perhaps there may
be the bond of crime; for we four, we once did condemn, judge and slay
a human being whom we had not any right to cut off from this world,
although apparently fitter for hell than for this life. D’Artagnan, I
have always loved you as my son; Porthos, we slept six years side by
side; Aramis is your brother as well as mine, and Aramis has once loved
you, as I love you now and as I have ever loved you. What can Cardinal
Mazarin be to us, to four men who compelled such a man as Richelieu to
act as we pleased? What is such or such a prince to us, who fixed the
diadem upon a great queen’s head? D’Artagnan, I ask your pardon for
having yesterday crossed swords with you; Aramis does the same to
Porthos; now hate me if you can; but for my own part, I shall ever,
even if you do hate me, retain esteem and friendship for you. I repeat
my words, Aramis, and then, if you desire it, and if they desire it,
let us separate forever from our old friends.”
There was a solemn, though momentary silence, which was broken by
Aramis.
“I swear,” he said, with a calm brow and kindly glance, but in a voice
still trembling with recent emotion, “I swear that I no longer bear
animosity to those who were once my friends. I regret that I ever
crossed swords with you, Porthos; I swear not only that it shall never
again be pointed at your breast, but that in the bottom of my heart
there will never in future be the slightest hostile sentiment; now,
Athos, come.”
Athos was about to retire.
“Oh! no! no! do not go away!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, impelled by one of
those irresistible impulses which showed the nobility of his nature,
the native brightness of his character; “I swear that I would give the
last drop of my blood and the last fragment of my limbs to preserve the
friendship of such a friend as you, Athos—of such a man as you,
Aramis.” And he threw himself into the arms of Athos.
“My son!” exclaimed Athos, pressing him in his arms.
“And as for me,” said Porthos, “I swear nothing, but I’m choked.
Forsooth! If I were obliged to fight against you, I think I should
allow myself to be pierced through and through, for I never loved any
one but you in the wide world;” and honest Porthos burst into tears as
he embraced Athos.
“My friends,” said Athos, “this is what I expected from such hearts as
yours. Yes, I have said it and I now repeat it: our destinies are
irrevocably united, although we now pursue divergent roads. I respect
your convictions, and whilst we fight for opposite sides, let us remain
friends. Ministers, princes, kings, will pass away like mountain
torrents; civil war, like a forest flame; but we—we shall remain; I
have a presentiment that we shall.”
“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan, “let us still be musketeers, and let us
retain as our battle-standard that famous napkin of the bastion St.
Gervais, on which the great cardinal had three fleurs-de-lis
embroidered.”
“Be it so,” cried Aramis. “Cardinalists or Frondeurs, what matters it?
Let us meet again as capital seconds in a duel, devoted friends in
business, merry companions in our ancient pleasures.”
“And whenever,” added Athos, “we meet in battle, at this word, ‘Place
Royale!’ let us put our swords into our left hands and shake hands with
the right, even in the very lust and music of the hottest carnage.”
“You speak charmingly,” said Porthos.
“And are the first of men!” added D’Artagnan. “You excel us all.”
Athos smiled with ineffable pleasure.
“’Tis then all settled. Gentlemen, your hands; are we not pretty good
Christians?”
“Egad!” said D’Artagnan, “by Heaven! yes.”
“We should be so on this occasion, if only to be faithful to our oath,”
said Aramis.
“Ah, I’m ready to do what you will,” cried Porthos; “even to swear by
Mahomet. Devil take me if I’ve ever been so happy as at this moment.”
And he wiped his eyes, still moist.
“Has not one of you a cross?” asked Athos.
Aramis smiled and drew from his vest a cross of diamonds, which was
hung around his neck by a chain of pearls. “Here is one,” he said.
“Well,” resumed Athos, “swear on this cross, which, in spite of its
magnificent material, is still a cross; swear to be united in spite of
everything, and forever, and may this oath bind us to each other, and
even, also, our descendants! Does this oath satisfy you?”
“Yes,” said they all, with one accord.
“Ah, traitor!” muttered D’Artagnan, leaning toward Aramis and
whispering in his ear, “you have made us swear on the crucifix of a
Frondeuse.”
Chapter XXIX.
The Ferry across the Oise.
We hope that the reader has not quite forgotten the young traveler whom
we left on the road to Flanders.
In losing sight of his guardian, whom he had quitted, gazing after him
in front of the royal basilican, Raoul spurred on his horse, in order
not only to escape from his own melancholy reflections, but also to
hide from Olivain the emotion his face might betray.
One hour’s rapid progress, however, sufficed to disperse the gloomy
fancies that had clouded the young man’s bright anticipations; and the
hitherto unfelt pleasure of freedom—a pleasure which is sweet even to
those who have never known dependence—seemed to Raoul to gild not only
Heaven and earth, but especially that blue but dim horizon of life we
call the future.
Nevertheless, after several attempts at conversation with Olivain he
foresaw that many days passed thus would prove exceedingly dull; and
the count’s agreeable voice, his gentle and persuasive eloquence,
recurred to his mind at the various towns through which they journeyed
and about which he had no longer any one to give him those interesting
details which he would have drawn from Athos, the most amusing and the
best informed of guides. Another recollection contributed also to
sadden Raoul: on their arrival at Sonores he had perceived, hidden
behind a screen of poplars, a little château which so vividly recalled
that of La Vallière to his mind that he halted for nearly ten minutes
to gaze at it, and resumed his journey with a sigh too abstracted even
to reply to Olivain’s respectful inquiry about the cause of so much
fixed attention. The aspect of external objects is often a mysterious
guide communicating with the fibres of memory, which in spite of us
will arouse them at times; this thread, like that of Ariadne, when once
unraveled will conduct one through a labyrinth of thought, in which one
loses one’s self in endeavoring to follow that phantom of the past
which is called recollection.
Now the sight of this château had taken Raoul back fifty leagues
westward and had caused him to review his life from the moment when he
had taken leave of little Louise to that in which he had seen her for
the first time; and every branch of oak, every gilded weathercock on
roof of slates, reminded him that, instead of returning to the friends
of his childhood, every instant estranged him further and that perhaps
he had even left them forever.
With a full heart and burning head he desired Olivain to lead on the
horses to a wayside inn, which he observed within gunshot range, a
little in advance of the place they had reached.
As for himself, he dismounted and remained under a beautiful group of
chestnuts in flower, amidst which were murmuring a multitude of happy
bees, and bade Olivain send the host to him with writing paper and ink,
to be placed on a table which he found there, conveniently ready.
Olivain obeyed and continued on his way, whilst Raoul remained sitting,
with his elbow leaning on the table, from time to time gently shaking
the flowers from his head, which fell upon him like snow, and gazing
vaguely on the charming landscape spread out before him, dotted over
with green fields and groups of trees. Raoul had been there about ten
minutes, during five of which he was lost in reverie, when there
appeared within the circle comprised in his rolling gaze a man with a
rubicund face, who, with a napkin around his body, another under his
arm, and a white cap upon his head, approached him, holding paper, pen
and ink in hand.
“Ha! ha!” laughed the apparition, “every gentleman seems to have the
same fancy, for not a quarter of an hour ago a young lad, well mounted
like you, as tall as you and of about your age, halted before this
clump of trees and had this table and this chair brought here, and
dined here, with an old gentleman who seemed to be his tutor, upon a
pie, of which they haven’t left a mouthful, and two bottles of Macon
wine, of which they haven’t left a drop, but fortunately we have still
some of the same wine and some of the same pies left, and if your
worship will but give your orders——”