“No, friend,” replied Raoul, smiling, “I am obliged to you, but at this

moment I want nothing but the things for which I have asked—only I

shall be very glad if the ink prove black and the pen good; upon these

conditions I will pay for the pen the price of the bottle, and for the

ink the price of the pie.”

“Very well, sir,” said the host, “I’ll give the pie and the bottle of

wine to your servant, and in this way you will have the pen and ink

into the bargain.”

“Do as you like,” said Raoul, who was beginning his apprenticeship with

that particular class of society, who, when there were robbers on the

highroads, were connected with them, and who, since highwaymen no

longer exist, have advantageously and aptly filled their vacant place.

The host, his mind at ease about his bill, placed pen, ink and paper

upon the table. By a lucky chance the pen was tolerably good and Raoul

began to write. The host remained standing in front of him, looking

with a kind of involuntary admiration at his handsome face, combining

both gravity and sweetness of expression. Beauty has always been and

always will be all-powerful.

“He’s not a guest like the other one here just now,” observed mine host

to Olivain, who had rejoined his master to see if he wanted anything,

“and your young master has no appetite.”

“My master had appetite enough three days ago, but what can one do? he

lost it the day before yesterday.”

And Olivain and the host took their way together toward the inn,

Olivain, according to the custom of serving-men well pleased with their

place, relating to the tavern-keeper all that he could say in favor of

the young gentleman; whilst Raoul wrote on thus:

“Sir,—After a four hours’ march I stop to write to you, for I miss you

every moment, and I am always on the point of turning my head as if to

reply when you speak to me. I was so bewildered by your departure and

so overcome with grief at our separation, that I am sure I was able to

but very feebly express all the affection and gratitude I feel toward

you. You will forgive me, sir, for your heart is of such a generous

nature that you can well understand all that has passed in mine. I

entreat you to write to me, for you form a part of my existence, and,

if I may venture to tell you so, I also feel anxious. It seemed to me

as if you were yourself preparing for some dangerous undertaking, about

which I did not dare to question you, since you told me nothing. I

have, therefore, as you see, great need of hearing from you. Now that

you are no longer beside me I am afraid every moment of erring. You

sustained me powerfully, sir, and I protest to you that to-day I feel

very lonely. Will you have the goodness, sir, should you receive news

from Blois, to send me a few lines about my little friend Mademoiselle

de la Vallière, about whose health, when we left, so much anxiety was

felt? You can understand, honored and dear guardian, how precious and

indispensable to me is the remembrance of the years that I have passed

with you. I hope that you will sometimes, too, think of me, and if at

certain hours you should miss me, if you should feel any slight regret

at my absence, I shall be overwhelmed with joy at the thought that you

appreciate my affection for and my devotion to yourself, and that I

have been able to prove them to you whilst I had the happiness of

living with you.”

After finishing this letter Raoul felt more composed; he looked well

around him to see if Olivain and the host might not be watching him,

whilst he impressed a kiss upon the paper, a mute and touching caress,

which the heart of Athos might well divine on opening the letter.

During this time Olivain had finished his bottle and eaten his pie; the

horses were also refreshed. Raoul motioned to the host to approach,

threw a crown upon the table, mounted his horse, and posted his letter

at Senlis. The rest that had been thus afforded to men and horses

enabled them to continue their journey at a good round pace. At

Verberie, Raoul desired Olivain to make some inquiry about the young

man who was preceding them; he had been observed to pass only

three-quarters of an hour previously, but he was well mounted, as the

tavern-keeper had already said, and rode at a rapid pace.

“Let us try and overtake this gentleman,” said Raoul to Olivain; “like

ourselves he is on his way to join the army and may prove agreeable

company.”

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when Raoul arrived at

Compiègne; there he dined heartily and again inquired about the young

gentleman who was in advance of them. He had stopped, like Raoul, at

the Hotel of the Bell and Bottle, the best at Compiègne; and had

started again on his journey, saying that he should sleep at Noyon.

“Well, let us sleep at Noyon,” said Raoul.

“Sir,” replied Olivain, respectfully, “allow me to remark that we have

already much fatigued the horses this morning. I think it would be well

to sleep here and to start again very early to-morrow. Eighteen leagues

is enough for the first stage.”

“The Comte de la Fère wished me to hasten on,” replied Raoul, “that I

might rejoin the prince on the morning of the fourth day; let us push

on, then, to Noyon; it will be a stage similar to those we traveled

from Blois to Paris. We shall arrive at eight o’clock. The horses will

have a long night’s rest, and at five o’clock to-morrow morning we can

be again on the road.”

Olivain dared offer no opposition to this determination but he followed

his master, grumbling.

“Go on, go on,” said he, between his teeth, “expend your ardor the

first day; to-morrow, instead of journeying twenty leagues, you will

travel ten, the day after to-morrow, five, and in three days you will

be in bed. There you must rest; young people are such braggarts.”

It was easy to see that Olivain had not been taught in the school of

the Planchets and the Grimauds. Raoul really felt tired, but he was

desirous of testing his strength, and, brought up in the principles of

Athos and certain of having heard him speak a thousand times of stages

of twenty-five leagues, he did not wish to fall far short of his model.

D’Artagnan, that man of iron, who seemed to be made of nerve and muscle

only, had struck him with admiration. Therefore, in spite of Olivain’s

remarks, he continued to urge his steed more and more, and following a

pleasant little path, leading to a ferry, and which he had been assured

shortened the journey by the distance of one league, he arrived at the

summit of a hill and perceived the river flowing before him. A little

troop of men on horseback were waiting on the edge of the stream, ready

to embark. Raoul did not doubt this was the gentleman and his escort;

he called out to him, but they were too distant to be heard; then, in

spite of the weariness of his beast, he made it gallop but the rising

ground soon deprived him of all sight of the travelers, and when he had

again attained a new height, the ferryboat had left the shore and was

making for the opposite bank. Raoul, seeing that he could not arrive in

time to cross the ferry with the travelers, halted to wait for Olivain.

At this moment a shriek was heard that seemed to come from the river.

Raoul turned toward the side whence the cry had sounded, and shaded his

eyes from the glare of the setting sun with his hand.

“Olivain!” he exclaimed, “what do I see below there?”

A second scream, more piercing than the first, now sounded.

“Oh, sir!” cried Olivain, “the rope which holds the ferryboat has

broken and the boat is drifting. But what do I see in the

water—something struggling?”

“Oh, yes,” exclaimed Raoul, fixing his glance on one point in the

stream, splendidly illumined by the setting sun, “a horse, a rider!”

“They are sinking!” cried Olivain in his turn.

It was true, and Raoul was convinced that some accident had happened

and that a man was drowning; he gave his horse its head, struck his

spurs into its sides, and the animal, urged by pain and feeling that he

had space open before him, bounded over a kind of paling which inclosed

the landing place, and fell into the river, scattering to a distance

waves of white froth.

“Ah, sir!” cried Olivain, “what are you doing? Good God!”

Raoul was directing his horse toward the unhappy man in danger. This

was, in fact, a custom familiar to him. Having been brought up on the

banks of the Loire, he might have been said to have been cradled on its

waves; a hundred times he had crossed it on horseback, a thousand times

had swum across. Athos, foreseeing the period when he should make a

soldier of the viscount, had inured him to all kinds of arduous

undertakings.

“Oh, heavens!” continued Olivain, in despair, “what would the count say

if he only saw you now!”

“The count would do as I do,” replied Raoul, urging his horse

vigorously forward.

“But I—but I,” cried Olivain, pale and disconsolate rushing about on

the shore, “how shall I cross?”

“Leap, coward!” cried Raoul, swimming on; then addressing the traveler,

who was struggling twenty yards in front of him: “Courage, sir!” said

he, “courage! we are coming to your aid.”

Olivain advanced, retired, then made his horse rear—turned it and then,

struck to the core by shame, leaped, as Raoul had done, only repeating:

“I am a dead man! we are lost!”

In the meantime, the ferryboat had floated away, carried down by the

stream, and the shrieks of those whom it contained resounded more and

more. A man with gray hair had thrown himself from the boat into the

river and was swimming vigorously toward the person who was drowning;

but being obliged to go against the current he advanced but slowly.

Raoul continued his way and was visibly gaining ground; but the horse

and its rider, of whom he did not lose sight, were evidently sinking.

The nostrils of the horse were no longer above water, and the rider,

who had lost the reins in struggling, fell with his head back and his

arms extended. One moment longer and all would disappear.

“Courage!” cried Raoul, “courage!”

“Too late!” murmured the young man, “too late!”

The water closed above his head and stifled his voice.

Raoul sprang from his horse, to which he left the charge of its own

preservation, and in three or four strokes was at the gentleman’s side;

he seized the horse at once by the curb and raised its head above

water; the animal began to breathe again and, as if he comprehended

that they had come to his aid, redoubled his efforts. Raoul at the same

time seized one of the young man’s hands and placed it on the mane,

which it grasped with the tenacity of a drowning man. Thus, sure that

the rider would not release his hold, Raoul now only directed his

attention to the horse, which he guided to the opposite bank, helping

it to cut through the water and encouraging it with words.

All at once the horse stumbled against a ridge and then placed its foot

on the sand.

“Saved!” exclaimed the man with gray hair, who also touched bottom.

“Saved!” mechanically repeated the young gentleman, releasing the mane

and sliding from the saddle into Raoul’s arms; Raoul was but ten yards

from the shore; there he bore the fainting man, and laying him down

upon the grass, unfastened the buttons of his collar and unhooked his

doublet. A moment later the gray-headed man was beside him. Olivain

managed in his turn to land, after crossing himself repeatedly; and the

people in the ferryboat guided themselves as well as they were able

toward the bank, with the aid of a pole which chanced to be in the

boat.

Thanks to the attentions of Raoul and the man who accompanied the young

gentleman, the color gradually returned to the pale cheeks of the dying

man, who opened his eyes, at first entirely bewildered, but who soon

fixed his gaze upon the person who had saved him.

“Ah, sir,” he exclaimed, “it was you! Without you I was a dead

man—thrice dead.”

“But one recovers, sir, as you perceive,” replied Raoul, “and we have

but had a little bath.”

“Oh! sir, what gratitude I feel!” exclaimed the man with gray hair.

“Ah, there you are, my good D’Arminges; I have given you a great

fright, have I not? but it is your own fault. You were my tutor, why

did you not teach me to swim?”

“Oh, monsieur le comte,” replied the old man, “had any misfortune

happened to you, I should never have dared to show myself to the

marshal again.”

“But how did the accident happen?” asked Raoul.

“Oh, sir, in the most natural way possible,” replied he to whom they

had given the title of count. “We were about a third of the way across

the river when the cord of the ferryboat broke. Alarmed by the cries

and gestures of the boatmen, my horse sprang into the water. I cannot

swim, and dared not throw myself into the river. Instead of aiding the

movements of my horse, I paralyzed them; and I was just going to drown

myself with the best grace in the world, when you arrived just in time

to pull me out of the water; therefore, sir, if you will agree,

henceforward we are friends until death.”

“Sir,” replied Raoul, bowing, “I am entirely at your service, I assure

you.”

“I am called the Count de Guiche,” continued the young man; “my father

is the Maréchal de Grammont; and now that you know who I am, do me the

honor to inform me who you are.”

“I am the Viscount de Bragelonne,” answered Raoul, blushing at being

unable to name his father, as the Count de Guiche had done.

“Viscount, your countenance, your goodness and your courage incline me

toward you; my gratitude is already due. Shake hands—I crave your

friendship.”

“Sir,” said Raoul, returning the count’s pressure of the hand, “I like

you already, from my heart; pray regard me as a devoted friend, I

beseech you.”

“And now, where are you going, viscount?” inquired De Guiche.

“To join the army, under the prince, count.”

“And I, too!” exclaimed the young man, in a transport of joy. “Oh, so

much the better, we will fire the first shot together.”

“It is well; be friends,” said the tutor; “young as you both are, you

were perhaps born under the same star and were destined to meet. And

now,” continued he, “you must change your clothes; your servants, to

whom I gave directions the moment they had left the ferryboat, ought to

be already at the inn. Linen and wine are both being warmed; come.”

The young men had no objection to this proposition; on the contrary,

they thought it very timely.

They mounted again at once, whilst looks of admiration passed between

them. They were indeed two elegant horsemen, with figures slight and

upright, noble faces, bright and proud looks, loyal and intelligent

smiles.

De Guiche might have been about eighteen years of age, but he was

scarcely taller than Raoul, who was only fifteen.

Chapter XXX.

Skirmishing.

The halt at Noyon was but brief, every one there being wrapped in

profound sleep. Raoul had desired to be awakened should Grimaud arrive,

but Grimaud did not arrive. Doubtless, too, the horses on their part

appreciated the eight hours of repose and the abundant stabling which

was granted them. The Count de Guiche was awakened at five o’clock in

the morning by Raoul, who came to wish him good-day. They breakfasted

in haste, and at six o’clock had already gone ten miles.

The young count’s conversation was most interesting to Raoul, therefore

he listened much, whilst the count talked well and long. Brought up in

Paris, where Raoul had been but once; at the court, which Raoul had

never seen; his follies as page; two duels, which he had already found

the means of fighting, in spite of the edicts against them and, more

especially, in spite of his tutor’s vigilance—these things excited the

greatest curiosity in Raoul. Raoul had only been at M. Scarron’s house;

he named to Guiche the people whom he had seen there. Guiche knew

everybody—Madame de Neuillan, Mademoiselle d’Aubigné, Mademoiselle de

Scudéry, Mademoiselle Paulet, Madame de Chevreuse. He criticised

everybody humorously. Raoul trembled, lest he should laugh among the

rest at Madame de Chevreuse, for whom he entertained deep and genuine

sympathy, but either instinctively, or from affection for the duchess,

he said everything in her favor. His praises increased Raoul’s

friendship twofold. Then came the question of gallantry and love

affairs. Under this head, also, Bragelonne had much more to hear than

to tell. He listened attentively and fancied that he discovered through

three or four rather frivolous adventures, that the count, like

himself, had a secret to hide in the depths of his heart.

De Guiche, as we have said before, had been educated at the court, and

the intrigues of this court were not unknown to him. It was the same

court of which Raoul had so often heard the Comte de la Fère speak,

except that its aspect had much changed since the period when Athos had

himself been part of it; therefore everything which the Count de Guiche

related was new to his traveling companion. The young count, witty and

caustic, passed all the world in review; the queen herself was not

spared, and Cardinal Mazarin came in for his share of ridicule.

The day passed away as rapidly as an hour. The count’s tutor, a man of

the world and a _bon vivant_, up to his eyes in learning, as his pupil

described him, often recalled the profound erudition, the witty and

caustic satire of Athos to Raoul; but as regarded grace, delicacy, and

nobility of external appearance, no one in these points was to be

compared to the Comte de la Fère.

The horses, which were more kindly used than on the previous day,

stopped at Arras at four o’clock in the evening. They were approaching

the scene of war; and as bands of Spaniards sometimes took advantage of

the night to make expeditions even as far as the neighborhood of Arras,

they determined to remain in the town until the morrow. The French army

held all between Pont-à-Marc as far as Valenciennes, falling back upon

Douai. The prince was said to be in person at Bethune.

The enemy’s army extended from Cassel to Courtray; and as there was no

species of violence or pillage it did not commit, the poor people on

the frontier quitted their isolated dwellings and fled for refuge into

the strong cities which held out a shelter to them. Arras was

encumbered with fugitives. An approaching battle was much spoken of,

the prince having manœuvred, until that movement, only in order to

await a reinforcement that had just reached him.

The young men congratulated themselves on having arrived so

opportunely. The evening was employed in discussing the war; the grooms

polished their arms; the young men loaded the pistols in case of a

skirmish, and they awoke in despair, having both dreamed that they had

arrived too late to participate in the battle. In the morning it was

rumored that Prince de Condé had evacuated Bethune and fallen back on

Carvin, leaving, however, a strong garrison in the former city.

But as there was nothing positively certain in this report, the young

warriors decided to continue their way toward Bethune, free on the road

to diverge to the right and march to Carvin if necessary.

The count’s tutor was well acquainted with the country; he consequently

proposed to take a crossroad, which lay between that of Lens and that

of Bethune. They obtained information at Ablain, and a statement of

their route was left for Grimaud. About seven o’clock in the morning

they set out. De Guiche, who was young and impulsive, said to Raoul,

“Here we are, three masters and three servants. Our valets are well

armed and yours seems to be tough enough.”

“I have never seen him put to the test,” replied Raoul, “but he is a

Breton, which promises something.”

“Yes, yes,” resumed De Guiche; “I am sure he can fire a musket when

required. On my side I have two sure men, who have been in action with

my father. We therefore represent six fighting men; if we should meet a

little troop of enemies, equal or even superior in number to our own,

shall we charge them, Raoul?”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the viscount.

“Holloa! young people—stop there!” said the tutor, joining in the

conversation. “Zounds! how you manœuvre my instructions, count! You

seem to forget the orders I received to conduct you safe and sound to

his highness the prince! Once with the army you may be killed at your

good pleasure; but until that time, I warn you that in my capacity of

general of the army I shall order a retreat and turn my back on the

first red coat we come across.” De Guiche and Raoul glanced at each

other, smiling.

They arrived at Ablain without accident. There they inquired and

learned that the prince had in reality quitted Bethune and stationed

himself between Cambria and La Venthie. Therefore, leaving directions

at every place for Grimaud, they took a crossroad which conducted the

little troop by the bank of a small stream flowing into the Lys. The

country was beautiful, intersected by valleys as green as the emerald.

Here and there they passed little copses crossing the path which they

were following. In anticipation of some ambuscade in each of these

little woods the tutor placed his two servants at the head of the band,

thus forming the advance guard. Himself and the two young men

represented the body of the army, whilst Olivain, with his rifle upon

his knee and his eyes upon the watch, protected the rear.

They had observed for some time before them, on the horizon, a rather

thick wood; and when they had arrived at a distance of a hundred steps

from it, Monsieur d’Arminges took his usual precautions and sent on in

advance the count’s two grooms. The servants had just disappeared under

the trees, followed by the tutor, and the young men were laughing and

talking about a hundred yards off. Olivain was at the same distance in

the rear, when suddenly there resounded five or six musket-shots. The

tutor cried halt; the young men obeyed, pulling up their steeds, and at

the same moment the two valets were seen returning at a gallop.

The young men, impatient to learn the cause of the firing, spurred on

toward the servants. The tutor followed them.

“Were you stopped?” eagerly inquired the two youths.

“No,” replied the servants, “it is even probable that we have not been

seen; the shots were fired about a hundred paces in advance of us, in

the thickest part of the wood, and we returned to ask your advice.”

“My advice is this,” said Monsieur d’Arminges, “and if needs be, my

will, that we beat a retreat. There may be an ambuscade concealed in

this wood.”

“Did you see nothing there?” asked the count.

“I thought I saw,” said one of the servants, “horsemen dressed in

yellow, creeping along the bed of the stream.

“That’s it,” said the tutor. “We have fallen in with a party of

Spaniards. Come back, sirs, back.”

The two youths looked at each other, and at this moment a pistol-shot

and cries for help were heard. Another glance between the young men

convinced them both that neither had any wish to go back, and as the

tutor had already turned his horse’s head, they both spurred forward,

Raoul crying: “Follow me, Olivain!” and the Count de Guiche: “Follow,

Urban and Planchet!” And before the tutor could recover from his

surprise they had both disappeared into the forest. Whilst they spurred

their steeds they held their pistols ready also. In five minutes they

arrived at the spot whence the noise had proceeded, and then

restraining their horses, they advanced cautiously.

“Hush,” whispered De Guiche, “these are cavaliers.”

“Yes, three on horseback and three who have dismounted.”

“Can you see what they are doing?”

“Yes, they appear to be searching a wounded or dead man.”

“It is some cowardly assassination,” said De Guiche.

“They are soldiers, though,” resumed De Bragelonne.

“Yes, skirmishers; that is to say, highway robbers.”

“At them!” cried Raoul. “At them!” echoed De Guiche.

“Oh! gentlemen! gentlemen! in the name of Heaven!” cried the poor

tutor.

But he was not listened to, and his cries only served to arouse the

attention of the Spaniards.

The men on horseback at once rushed at the two youths, leaving the

three others to complete the plunder of the dead or wounded travelers;

for on approaching nearer, instead of one extended figure, the young

men discovered two. De Guiche fired the first shot at ten paces and

missed his man; and the Spaniard, who had advanced to meet Raoul, aimed

in his turn, and Raoul felt a pain in the left arm, similar to that of

a blow from a whip. He let off his fire at but four paces. Struck in

the breast and extending his arms, the Spaniard fell back on the

crupper, and the terrified horse, turning around, carried him off.

Raoul at this moment perceived the muzzle of a gun pointed at him, and

remembering the recommendation of Athos, he, with the rapidity of

lightning, made his horse rear as the shot was fired. His horse bounded

to one side, losing its footing, and fell, entangling Raoul’s leg under

its body. The Spaniard sprang forward and seized the gun by its muzzle,

in order to strike Raoul on the head with the butt. In the position in

which Raoul lay, unfortunately, he could neither draw his sword from

the scabbard, nor his pistols from their holsters. The butt end of the

musket hovered over his head, and he could scarcely restrain himself

from closing his eyes, when with one bound Guiche reached the Spaniard

and placed a pistol at his throat. “Yield!” he cried, “or you are a

dead man!” The musket fell from the soldier’s hands, who yielded on the

instant. Guiche summoned one of his grooms, and delivering the prisoner

into his charge, with orders to shoot him through the head if he

attempted to escape, he leaped from his horse and approached Raoul.

“Faith, sir,” said Raoul, smiling, although his pallor betrayed the

excitement consequent on a first affair, “you are in a great hurry to

pay your debts and have not been long under any obligation to me.

Without your aid,” continued he, repeating the count’s words “I should

have been a dead man—thrice dead.”

“My antagonist took flight,” replied De Guiche “and left me at liberty

to come to your assistance. But are you seriously wounded? I see you

are covered with blood!”

“I believe,” said Raoul, “that I have got something like a scratch on

the arm. If you will help me to drag myself from under my horse I hope

nothing need prevent us continuing our journey.”

Monsieur d’Arminges and Olivain had already dismounted and were

attempting to raise the struggling horse. At last Raoul succeeded in

drawing his foot from the stirrup and his leg from under the animal,

and in a second he was on his feet again.

“Nothing broken?” asked De Guiche.

“Faith, no, thank Heaven!” replied Raoul; “but what has become of the

poor wretches whom these scoundrels were murdering?”

“I fear we arrived too late. They have killed them, I think, and taken

flight, carrying off their booty. My servants are examining the

bodies.”

“Let us go and see whether they are quite dead, or if they can still be

helped,” suggested Raoul. “Olivain, we have come into possession of two

horses, but I have lost my own. Take for yourself the better of the two

and give me yours.”

They approached the spot where the unfortunate victims lay.

Chapter XXXI.

The Monk.

Two men lay prone upon the ground, one bathed in blood and motionless,

with his face toward the earth; this one was dead. The other leaned

against a tree, supported there by the two valets, and was praying

fervently, with clasped hands and eyes raised to Heaven. He had

received a ball in his thigh, which had broken the bone. The young men

first approached the dead man.

“He is a priest,” said Bragelonne, “he has worn the tonsure. Oh, the

scoundrels! to lift their hands against a minister of God.”

“Come here, sir,” said Urban, an old soldier who had served under the

cardinal duke in all his campaigns; “come here, there is nothing to be

done with him, whilst we may perhaps be able to save the other.”

The wounded man smiled sadly. “Save me! Oh, no!” said he, “but help me

to die, if you can.”

“Are you a priest?” asked Raoul.

“No sir.”

“I ask, as your unfortunate companion appeared to me to belong to the

church.”

“He is the curate of Bethune, sir, and was carrying the holy vessels

belonging to his church, and the treasure of the chapter, to a safe

place, the prince having abandoned our town yesterday; and as it was

known that bands of the enemy were prowling about the country, no one

dared to accompany the good man, so I offered to do so.

“And, sir,” continued the wounded man, “I suffer much and would like,

if possible, to be carried to some house.”

“Where you can be relieved?” asked De Guiche.

“No, where I can confess.”

“But perhaps you are not so dangerously wounded as you think,” said

Raoul.

“Sir,” replied the wounded man, “believe me, there is no time to lose;

the ball has broken the thigh bone and entered the intestines.”

“Are you a surgeon?” asked De Guiche.

“No, but I know a little about wounds, and mine, I know, is mortal.

Try, therefore, either to carry me to some place where I may see a

priest or take the trouble to send one to me here. It is my soul that

must be saved; as for my body, it is lost.”

“To die whilst doing a good deed! It is impossible. God will help you.”

“Gentlemen, in the name of Heaven!” said the wounded man, collecting

all his forces, as if to get up, “let us not lose time in useless

words. Either help me to gain the nearest village or swear to me on

your salvation that you will send me the first monk, the first curé,

the first priest you may meet. But,” he added in a despairing tone,

“perhaps no one will dare to come for it is known that the Spaniards

are ranging through the country, and I shall die without absolution. My

God! my God! Good God! good God!” added the wounded man, in an accent

of terror which made the young men shudder; “you will not allow that?

that would be too terrible!”

“Calm yourself, sir,” replied De Guiche. “I swear to you, you shall

receive the consolation that you ask. Only tell us where we shall find

a house at which we can demand aid and a village from which we can

fetch a priest.”

“Thank you, and God reward you! About half a mile from this, on the

same road, there is an inn, and about a mile further on, after leaving

the inn, you will reach the village of Greney. There you must find the

curate, or if he is not at home, go to the convent of the Augustines,

which is the last house on the right, and bring me one of the brothers.

Monk or priest, it matters not, provided only that he has received from

holy church the power of absolving _in articulo mortis_.”

“Monsieur d’Arminges,” said De Guiche, “remain beside this unfortunate

man and see that he is removed as gently as possible. The vicomte and

myself will go and find a priest.”

“Go, sir,” replied the tutor; “but in Heaven’s name do not expose

yourself to danger!”

“Do not fear. Besides, we are safe for to-day; you know the axiom,

‘_Non bis in idem_.’”

“Courage, sir,” said Raoul to the wounded man. “We are going to execute

your wishes.”

“May Heaven prosper you!” replied the dying man, with an accent of

gratitude impossible to describe.

The two young men galloped off in the direction mentioned and in ten

minutes reached the inn. Raoul, without dismounting, called to the host

and announced that a wounded man was about to be brought to his house

and begged him in the meantime to prepare everything needful. He

desired him also, should he know in the neighborhood any doctor or

chirurgeon, to fetch him, taking on himself the payment of the

messenger.

The host, who saw two young noblemen, richly clad, promised everything

they required, and our two cavaliers, after seeing that preparations

for the reception were actually begun, started off again and proceeded

rapidly toward Greney.

They had gone rather more than a league and had begun to descry the

first houses of the village, the red-tiled roofs of which stood out

from the green trees which surrounded them, when, coming toward them

mounted on a mule, they perceived a poor monk, whose large hat and gray

worsted dress made them take him for an Augustine brother. Chance for

once seemed to favor them in sending what they were so assiduously

seeking. He was a man about twenty-two or twenty-three years old, but

who appeared much older from ascetic exercises. His complexion was

pale, not of that deadly pallor which is a kind of neutral beauty, but

of a bilious, yellow hue; his colorless hair was short and scarcely

extended beyond the circle formed by the hat around his head, and his

light blue eyes seemed destitute of any expression.

“Sir,” began Raoul, with his usual politeness, “are you an

ecclesiastic?”

“Why do you ask me that?” replied the stranger, with a coolness which

was barely civil.

“Because we want to know,” said De Guiche, haughtily.

The stranger touched his mule with his heel and continued his way.

In a second De Guiche had sprung before him and barred his passage.

“Answer, sir,” exclaimed he; “you have been asked politely, and every

question is worth an answer.”

“I suppose I am free to say or not to say who I am to two strangers who

take a fancy to ask me.”

It was with difficulty that De Guiche restrained the intense desire he

had of breaking the monk’s bones.

“In the first place,” he said, making an effort to control himself, “we

are not people who may be treated anyhow; my friend there is the

Viscount of Bragelonne and I am the Count de Guiche. Nor was it from

caprice we asked the question, for there is a wounded and dying man who

demands the succor of the church. If you be a priest, I conjure you in

the name of humanity to follow me to aid this man; if you be not, it is

a different matter, and I warn you in the name of courtesy, of which

you appear profoundly ignorant, that I shall chastise you for your

insolence.”

The pale face of the monk became so livid and his smile so strange,

that Raoul, whose eyes were still fixed upon him, felt as if this smile

had struck to his heart like an insult.

“He is some Spanish or Flemish spy,” said he, putting his hand to his

pistol. A glance, threatening and transient as lightning, replied to

Raoul.

“Well, sir,” said De Guiche, “are you going to reply?”

“I am a priest,” said the young man.

“Then, father,” said Raoul, forcing himself to convey a respect by

speech that did not come from his heart, “if you are a priest you have

an opportunity, as my friend has told you, of exercising your vocation.

At the next inn you will find a wounded man, now being attended by our

servants, who has asked the assistance of a minister of God.”

“I will go,” said the monk.

And he touched his mule.

“If you do not go, sir,” said De Guiche, “remember that we have two

steeds able to catch your mule and the power of having you seized

wherever you may be; and then I swear your trial will be summary; one

can always find a tree and a cord.”

The monk’s eye again flashed, but that was all; he merely repeated his

phrase, “I will go,”—and he went.

“Let us follow him,” said De Guiche; “it will be the surest plan.”

“I was about to propose so doing,” answered De Bragelonne.

In the space of five minutes the monk turned around to ascertain

whether he was followed or not.

“You see,” said Raoul, “we have done wisely.”

“What a horrible face that monk has,” said De Guiche.

“Horrible!” replied Raoul, “especially in expression.”

“Yes, yes,” said De Guiche, “a strange face; but these monks are

subject to such degrading practices; their fasts make them pale, the

blows of the discipline make them hypocrites, and their eyes become

inflamed through weeping for the good things of this life we common

folk enjoy, but they have lost.”

“Well,” said Raoul, “the poor man will get his priest, but, by Heaven,

the penitent appears to me to have a better conscience than the

confessor. I confess I am accustomed to priests of a very different

appearance.”

“Ah!” exclaimed De Guiche, “you must understand that this is one of

those wandering brothers, who go begging on the high road until some

day a benefice falls down from Heaven on them; they are mostly

foreigners—Scotch, Irish or Danish. I have seen them before.”

“As ugly?”

“No, but reasonably hideous.”

“What a misfortune for the wounded man to die under the hands of such a

friar!”

“Pshaw!” said De Guiche. “Absolution comes not from him who administers

it, but from God. However, for my part, I would rather die unshriven

than have anything to say to such a confessor. You are of my opinion,

are you not, viscount? and I see you playing with the pommel of your

sword, as if you had a great inclination to break the holy father’s

head.”

“Yes, count, it is a strange thing and one which might astonish you,

but I feel an indescribable horror at the sight of yonder man. Have you

ever seen a snake rise up on your path?”

“Never,” answered De Guiche.

“Well, it has happened to me to do so in our Blaisois forests, and I

remember that the first time I encountered one with its eyes fixed upon

me, curled up, swinging its head and pointing its tongue, I remained

fixed, pale and as though fascinated, until the moment when the Comte

de la Fère——”

“Your father?” asked De Guiche.

“No, my guardian,” replied Raoul, blushing.

“Very well——”

“Until the moment when the Comte de la Fère,” resumed Raoul, “said,

‘Come, Bragelonne, draw your sword;’ then only I rushed upon the

reptile and cut it in two, just at the moment when it was rising on its

tail and hissing, ere it sprang upon me. Well, I vow I felt exactly the

same sensation at sight of that man when he said, ‘Why do you ask me

that?’ and looked so strangely at me.”

“Then you regret that you did not cut your serpent in two morsels?”

“Faith, yes, almost,” said Raoul.

They had now arrived within sight of the little inn and could see on

the opposite side the procession bearing the wounded man and guided by

Monsieur d’Arminges. The youths spurred on.

“There is the wounded man,” said De Guiche, passing close to the

Augustine brother. “Be good enough to hurry yourself a little, monsieur

monk.”

As for Raoul, he avoided the monk by the whole width of the road and

passed him, turning his head away in repulsion.

The young men rode up to the wounded man to announce that they were

followed by the priest. He raised himself to glance in the direction

which they pointed out, saw the monk, and fell back upon the litter,

his face illumined by joy.

“And now,” said the youths, “we have done all we can for you; and as we

are in haste to rejoin the prince’s army we must continue our journey.

You will excuse us, sir, but we are told that a battle is expected and

we do not wish to arrive the day after it.”

“Go, my young sirs,” said the sick man, “and may you both be blessed

for your piety. You have done for me, as you promised, all that you

could do. As for me I can only repeat, may God protect you and all dear

to you!”

“Sir,” said De Guiche to his tutor, “we will precede you, and you can

rejoin us on the road to Cambrin.”

The host was at his door and everything was prepared—bed, bandages, and

lint; and a groom had gone to Lens, the nearest village, for a doctor.

“Everything,” said he to Raoul, “shall be done as you desire; but you

will not stop to have your wound dressed?”

“Oh, my wound—mine—’tis nothing,” replied the viscount; “it will be

time to think about it when we next halt; only have the goodness,

should you see a cavalier who makes inquiries about a young man on a

chestnut horse followed by a servant, to tell him, in fact, that you

have seen me, but that I have continued my journey and intend to dine

at Mazingarbe and to stop at Cambrin. This cavalier is my attendant.”

“Would it not be safer and more certain if I should ask him his name

and tell him yours?” demanded the host.

“There is no harm in over-precaution. I am the Viscount de Bragelonne

and he is called Grimaud.”

At this moment the wounded man arrived from one direction and the monk

from the other, the latter dismounting from his mule and desiring that

it should be taken to the stables without being unharnessed.

“Sir monk,” said De Guiche, “confess well that brave man; and be not

concerned for your expenses or for those of your mule; all is paid.”

“Thanks, monsieur,” said the monk, with one of those smiles that made

Bragelonne shudder.

“Come, count,” said Raoul, who seemed instinctively to dislike the

vicinity of the Augustine; “come, I feel ill here,” and the two young

men spurred on.

The litter, borne by two servants, now entered the house. The host and

his wife were standing on the steps, whilst the unhappy man seemed to

suffer dreadful pain and yet to be concerned only to know if he was

followed by the monk. At sight of this pale, bleeding man, the wife

grasped her husband’s arm.

“Well, what’s the matter?” asked the latter, “are you going to be ill

just now?”

“No, but look,” replied the hostess, pointing to the wounded man; “I

ask you if you recognize him?”

“That man—wait a bit.”

“Ah! I see you know him,” exclaimed the wife; “for you have become pale

in your turn.”

“Truly,” cried the host, “misfortune is coming on our house; it is the

former executioner of Bethune.”

“The former executioner of Bethune!” murmured the young monk, shrinking

back and showing on his countenance the feeling of repugnance which his

penitent inspired.

Monsieur d’Arminges, who was at the door, perceived his hesitation.

“Sir monk,” said he, “whether he is now or has been an executioner,

this unfortunate being is none the less a man. Render to him, then, the

last service he can by any possibility ask of you, and your work will

be all the more meritorious.”

The monk made no reply, but silently wended his way to the room where

the two valets had deposited the dying man on a bed. D’Arminges and

Olivain and the two grooms then mounted their horses, and all four

started off at a quick trot to rejoin Raoul and his companion. Just as

the tutor and his escort disappeared in their turn, a new traveler

stopped on the threshold of the inn.

“What does your worship want?” demanded the host, pale and trembling

from the discovery he had just made.

The traveler made a sign as if he wished to drink, and then pointed to

his horse and gesticulated like a man who is brushing something.

“Ah, _diable!_” said the host to himself; “this man seems dumb. And

where will your worship drink?”

“There,” answered the traveler, pointing to the table.

“I was mistaken,” said the host, “he’s not quite dumb. And what else

does your worship wish for?”

“To know if you have seen a young man pass, fifteen years of age,

mounted on a chestnut horse and followed by a groom?”

“The Viscount de Bragelonne?

“Just so.”

“Then you are called Monsieur Grimaud?”

The traveler made a sign of assent.

“Well, then,” said the host, “your young master was here a quarter of

an hour ago; he will dine at Mazingarbe and sleep at Cambrin.”

“How far is Mazingarbe?”

“Two miles and a half.”

“Thank you.”

Grimaud was drinking his wine silently and had just placed his glass on

the table to be filled a second time, when a terrific scream resounded

from the room occupied by the monk and the dying man. Grimaud sprang

up.

“What is that?” said he; “whence comes that cry?”

“From the wounded man’s room,” replied the host.

“What wounded man?”

“The former executioner of Bethune, who has just been brought in here,

assassinated by Spaniards, and who is now being confessed by an

Augustine friar.”

“The old executioner of Bethune,” muttered Grimaud; “a man between

fifty-five and sixty, tall, strong, swarthy, black hair and beard?”

“That is he, except that his beard has turned gray and his hair is

white; do you know him?” asked the host.

“I have seen him once,” replied Grimaud, a cloud darkening his

countenance at the picture so suddenly summoned to the bar of

recollection.

At this instant a second cry, less piercing than the first, but

followed by prolonged groaning, was heard.

The three listeners looked at one another in alarm.

“We must see what it is,” said Grimaud.

“It sounds like the cry of one who is being murdered,” murmured the

host.

“_Mon Dieu!_” said the woman, crossing herself.

If Grimaud was slow in speaking, we know that he was quick to act; he

sprang to the door and shook it violently, but it was bolted on the

other side.

“Open the door!” cried the host; “open it instantly, sir monk!”

No reply.

“Unfasten it, or I will break it in!” said Grimaud.

The same silence, and then, ere the host could oppose his design,

Grimaud seized a pair of pincers he perceived in a corner and forced

the bolt. The room was inundated with blood, dripping from the

mattresses upon which lay the wounded man, speechless; the monk had

disappeared.

“The monk!” cried the host; “where is the monk?”

Grimaud sprang toward an open window which looked into the courtyard.

“He has escaped by this means,” exclaimed he.

“Do you think so?” said the host, bewildered; “boy, see if the mule

belonging to the monk is still in the stable.”

“There is no mule,” cried he to whom this question was addressed.

The host clasped his hands and looked around him suspiciously, whilst

Grimaud knit his brows and approached the wounded man, whose worn, hard

features awoke in his mind such awful recollections of the past.

“There can be no longer any doubt but that it is himself,” said he.

“Does he still live?” inquired the innkeeper.

Making no reply, Grimaud opened the poor man’s jacket to feel if the

heart beat, whilst the host approached in his turn; but in a moment

they both fell back, the host uttering a cry of horror and Grimaud

becoming pallid. The blade of a dagger was buried up to the hilt in the

left side of the executioner.

“Run! run for help!” cried Grimaud, “and I will remain beside him

here.”

The host quitted the room in agitation, and as for his wife, she had

fled at the sound of her husband’s cries.

Chapter XXXII.

The Absolution.

This is what had taken place: We have seen that it was not of his own

free will, but, on the contrary, very reluctantly, that the monk

attended the wounded man who had been recommended to him in so strange

a manner. Perhaps he would have sought to escape by flight had he seen

any possibility of doing so. He was restrained by the threats of the

two gentlemen and by the presence of their attendants, who doubtless

had received their instructions. And besides, he considered it most

expedient, without exhibiting too much ill-will, to follow to the end

his rôle as confessor.

The monk entered the chamber and approached the bed of the wounded man.

The executioner searched his face with the quick glance peculiar to

those who are about to die and have no time to lose. He made a movement

of surprise and said:

“Father, you are very young.”

“Men who bear my robe have no age,” replied the monk, dryly.

“Alas, speak to me more gently, father; in my last moments I need a

friend.”

“Do you suffer much?” asked the monk.

“Yes, but in my soul much more than in my body.”

“We will save your soul,” said the young man; “but are you really the

executioner of Bethune, as these people say?”

“That is to say,” eagerly replied the wounded man, who doubtless feared

that the name of executioner would take from him the last help that he

could claim—“that is to say, I was, but am no longer; it is fifteen

years since I gave up the office. I still assist at executions, but no

longer strike the blow myself—no, indeed.”

“You have, then, a repugnance to your profession?”

“So long as I struck in the name of the law and of justice my

profession allowed me to sleep quietly, sheltered as I was by justice

and law; but since that terrible night when I became an instrument of

private vengeance and when with personal hatred I raised the sword over

one of God’s creatures—since that day——”

The executioner paused and shook his head with an expression of

despair.

“Tell me about it,” said the monk, who, sitting on the foot of the bed,

began to be interested in a story so strangely introduced.

“Ah!” cried the dying man, with all the effusiveness of a grief

declared after long suppression, “ah! I have sought to stifle remorse

by twenty years of good deeds; I have assuaged the natural ferocity of

those who shed blood; on every occasion I have exposed my life to save

those who were in danger, and I have preserved lives in exchange for

that I took away. That is not all; the money gained in the exercise of

my profession I have distributed to the poor; I have been assiduous in

attending church and those who formerly fled from me have become

accustomed to seeing me. All have forgiven me, some have even loved me;

but I think that God has not pardoned me, for the memory of that

execution pursues me constantly and every night I see that woman’s

ghost rising before me.”

“A woman! You have assassinated a woman, then?” cried the monk.

“You also!” exclaimed the executioner, “you use that word which sounds

ever in my ears—‘assassinated!’ I have assassinated, then, and not

executed! I am an assassin, then, and not an officer of justice!” and

he closed his eyes with a groan.

The monk doubtless feared that he would die without saying more, for he

exclaimed eagerly:

“Go on, I know nothing, as yet; when you have finished your story, God

and I will judge.”

“Oh, father,” continued the executioner, without opening his eyes, as

if he feared on opening them to see some frightful object, “it is

especially when night comes on and when I have to cross a river, that

this terror which I have been unable to conquer comes upon me; it then

seems as if my hand grew heavy, as if the cutlass was still in its

grasp, as if the water had the color of blood, and all the voices of

nature—the whispering of the trees, the murmur of the wind, the lapping

of the wave—united in a voice tearful, despairing, terrible, crying to

me, ‘Place for the justice of God!’”

“Delirium!” murmured the monk, shaking his head.

The executioner opened his eyes, turned toward the young man and

grasped his arm.

“‘Delirium,’” he repeated; “‘delirium,’ do you say? Oh, no! I remember

too well. It was evening; I had thrown the body into the river and

those words which my remorse repeats to me are those which I in my

pride pronounced. After being the instrument of human justice I aspired

to be that of the justice of God.”

“But let me see, how was it done? Speak,” said the monk.

“It was at night. A man came to me and showed me an order and I

followed him. Four other noblemen awaited me. They led me away masked.

I reserved the right of refusing if the office they required of me

should seem unjust. We traveled five or six leagues, serious, silent,

and almost without speaking. At length, through the window of a little

hut, they showed me a woman sitting, leaning on a table, and said,

‘there is the person to be executed.’”

“Horrible!” said the monk. “And you obeyed?”

“Father, that woman was a monster. It was said that she had poisoned

her second husband; she had tried to assassinate her brother-in-law;

she had just poisoned a young woman who was her rival, and before

leaving England she had, it was believed, caused the favorite of the

king to be murdered.”

“Buckingham?” cried the monk.

“Yes, Buckingham.”

“The woman was English, then?”

“No, she was French, but she had married in England.”

The monk turned pale, wiped his brow and went and bolted the door. The

executioner thought that he had abandoned him and fell back, groaning,

upon his bed.

“No, no; I am here,” said the monk, quickly coming back to him. “Go on;

who were those men?”

“One of them was a foreigner, English, I think. The four others were

French and wore the uniform of musketeers.”

“Their names?” asked the monk.

“I don’t know them, but the four other noblemen called the Englishman

‘my lord.’”

“Was the woman handsome?”

“Young and beautiful. Oh, yes, especially beautiful. I see her now, as

on her knees at my feet, with her head thrown back, she begged for

life. I have never understood how I could have laid low a head so

beautiful, with a face so pale.”

The monk seemed agitated by a strange emotion; he trembled all over; he

seemed eager to put a question which yet he dared not ask. At length,

with a violent effort at self-control:

“The name of that woman?” he said.

“I don’t know what it was. As I have said, she was twice married, once

in France, the second time in England.”

“She was young, you say?”

“Twenty-five years old.”

“Beautiful?”

“Ravishingly.”

“Blond?”

“Yes.”

“Abundance of hair—falling over her shoulders?”

“Yes.”

“Eyes of an admirable expression?”

“When she chose. Oh, yes, it is she!”

“A voice of strange sweetness?”

“How do you know it?”

The executioner raised himself on his elbow and gazed with a frightened

air at the monk, who became livid.

“And you killed her?” the monk exclaimed. “You were the tool of those

cowards who dared not kill her themselves? You had no pity for that

youthfulness, that beauty, that weakness? you killed that woman?”

“Alas! I have already told you, father, that woman, under that angelic

appearance, had an infernal soul, and when I saw her, when I recalled

all the evil she had done to me——”

“To you? What could she have done to you? Come, tell me!”

“She had seduced and ruined my brother, a priest. She had fled with him

from her convent.”

“With your brother?”

“Yes, my brother was her first lover, and she caused his death. Oh,

father, do not look in that way at me! Oh, I am guilty, then; you will

not pardon me?”

The monk recovered his usual expression.

“Yes, yes,” he said, “I will pardon you if you tell me all.”

“Oh!” cried the executioner, “all! all! all!”

“Answer, then. If she seduced your brother—you said she seduced him,

did you not?”

“Yes.”

“If she caused his death—you said that she caused his death?”

“Yes,” repeated the executioner.

“Then you must know what her name was as a young girl.”

“Oh, _mon Dieu!_” cried the executioner, “I think I am dying.

Absolution, father! absolution.”

“Tell me her name and I will give it.”

“Her name was——My God, have pity on me!” murmured the executioner; and

he fell back on the bed, pale, trembling, and apparently about to die.

“Her name!” repeated the monk, bending over him as if to tear from him

the name if he would not utter it; “her name! Speak, or no absolution!”

The dying man collected all his forces.

The monk’s eyes glittered.

“Anne de Bueil,” murmured the wounded man.

“Anne de Bueil!” cried the monk, standing up and lifting his hands to

Heaven. “Anne de Bueil! You said Anne de Bueil, did you not?”

“Yes, yes, that was her name; and now absolve me, for I am dying.”

“I, absolve you!” cried the priest, with a laugh which made the dying

man’s hair stand on end; “I, absolve you? I am not a priest.”

“You are not a priest!” cried the executioner. “What, then, are you?”

“I am about to tell you, wretched man.”

“Oh, _mon Dieu!_”

“I am John Francis de Winter.”

“I do not know you,” said the executioner.

“Wait, wait; you are going to know me. I am John Francis de Winter,” he

repeated, “and that woman——”

“Well, that woman?”

“Was my mother!”

The executioner uttered the first cry, that terrible cry which had been

first heard.

“Oh, pardon me, pardon me!” he murmured; “if not in the name of God, at

least in your own name; if not as priest, then as son.”

“Pardon you!” cried the pretended monk, “pardon you! Perhaps God will

pardon you, but I, never!”

“For pity’s sake,” said the executioner, extending his arms.

“No pity for him who had no pity! Die, impenitent, die in despair, die

and be damned!” And drawing a poniard from beneath his robe he thrust

it into the breast of the wounded man, saying, “Here is my absolution!”

Then was heard that second cry, not so loud as the first and followed

by a long groan.

The executioner, who had lifted himself up, fell back upon his bed. As

to the monk, without withdrawing the poniard from the wound, he ran to

the window, opened it, leaped out into the flowers of a small garden,

glided onward to the stable, took out his mule, went out by a back

gate, ran to a neighbouring thicket, threw off his monkish garb, took

from his valise the complete habiliment of a cavalier, clothed himself

in it, went on foot to the first post, secured there a horse and

continued with a loose rein his journey to Paris.

Chapter XXXIII.

Grimaud Speaks.

Grimaud was left alone with the executioner, who in a few moments

opened his eyes.

“Help, help,” he murmured; “oh, God! have I not a single friend in the

world who will aid me either to live or to die?”

“Take courage,” said Grimaud; “they are gone to find assistance.”

“Who are you?” asked the wounded man, fixing his half opened eyes on

Grimaud.

“An old acquaintance,” replied Grimaud.

“You?” and the wounded man sought to recall the features of the person

now before him.

“Under what circumstances did we meet?” he asked again.

“One night, twenty years ago, my master fetched you from Bethune and

conducted you to Armentières.”

“I know you well now,” said the executioner; “you were one of the four

grooms.”

“Just so.”

“Where do you come from now?”

“I was passing by and drew up at this inn to rest my horse. They told

me the executioner of Bethune was here and wounded, when you uttered

two piercing cries. At the first we ran to the door and at the second

forced it open.”

“And the monk?” exclaimed the executioner, “did you see the monk?”

“What monk?”

“The monk that was shut in with me.”

“No, he was no longer here; he appears to have fled by the window. Was

he the man that stabbed you?”

“Yes,” said the executioner.

Grimaud moved as if to leave the room.

“What are you going to do?” asked the wounded man.

“He must be apprehended.”

“Do not attempt it; he has revenged himself and has done well. Now I

may hope that God will forgive me, since my crime is expiated.”

“Explain yourself.” said Grimaud.

“The woman whom you and your masters commanded me to kill——”

“Milady?”

“Yes, Milady; it is true you called her thus.”

“What has the monk to do with this Milady?”

“She was his mother.”

Grimaud trembled and stared at the dying man in a dull and leaden

manner.

“His mother!” he repeated.

“Yes, his mother.”

“But does he know this secret, then?”

“I mistook him for a monk and revealed it to him in confession.”

“Unhappy man!” cried Grimaud, whose face was covered with sweat at the

bare idea of the evil results such a revelation might cause; “unhappy

man, you named no one, I hope?”

“I pronounced no name, for I knew none, except his mother’s, as a young

girl, and it was by this name that he recognized her, but he knows that

his uncle was among her judges.”

Thus speaking, he fell back exhausted. Grimaud, wishing to relieve him,

advanced his hand toward the hilt of the dagger.

“Touch me not!” said the executioner; “if this dagger is withdrawn I

shall die.”

Grimaud remained with his hand extended; then, striking his forehead,

he exclaimed:

“Oh! if this man should ever discover the names of the others, my

master is lost.”

“Haste! haste to him and warn him,” cried the wounded man, “if he still

lives; warn his friends, too. My death, believe me, will not be the end

of this atrocious misadventure.”

“Where was the monk going?” asked Grimaud.

“Toward Paris.”

“Who stopped him?”

“Two young gentlemen, who were on their way to join the army and the

name of one of whom I heard his companion mention—the Viscount de

Bragelonne.”

“And it was this young man who brought the monk to you? Then it was the

will of God that it should be so and this it is which makes it all so

awful,” continued Grimaud. “And yet that woman deserved her fate; do

you not think so?”

“On one’s death-bed the crimes of others appear very small in

comparison with one’s own,” said the executioner; and falling back

exhausted he closed his eyes.

Grimaud was reluctant to leave the man alone and yet he perceived the

necessity of starting at once to bear these tidings to the Comte de la

Fère. Whilst he thus hesitated the host re-entered the room, followed

not only by a surgeon, but by many other persons, whom curiosity had

attracted to the spot. The surgeon approached the dying man, who seemed

to have fainted.

“We must first extract the steel from the side,” said he, shaking his

head in a significant manner.

The prophecy which the wounded man had just uttered recurred to

Grimaud, who turned away his head. The weapon, as we have already

stated, was plunged into the body to the hilt, and as the surgeon,

taking it by the end, drew it forth, the wounded man opened his eyes

and fixed them on him in a manner truly frightful. When at last the

blade had been entirely withdrawn, a red froth issued from the mouth of

the wounded man and a stream of blood spouted afresh from the wound

when he at length drew breath; then, fixing his eyes upon Grimaud with

a singular expression, the dying man uttered the last death-rattle and

expired.

Then Grimaud, lifting the dagger from the pool of blood which was

gliding along the room, to the horror of all present, made a sign to

the host to follow him, paid him with a generosity worthy of his master

and again mounted his horse. Grimaud’s first intention had been to

return to Paris, but he remembered the anxiety which his prolonged

absence might occasion Raoul, and reflecting that there were now only

two miles between the vicomte and himself and a quarter of an hour’s

riding would unite them, and that the going, returning and explanation

would not occupy an hour, he put spurs to his horse and a few minutes

after had reached the only inn of Mazingarbe.

Raoul was seated at table with the Count de Guiche and his tutor, when

all at once the door opened and Grimaud presented himself,

travel-stained, dirty, and sprinkled with the blood of the unhappy

executioner.

“Grimaud, my good Grimaud!” exclaimed Raoul “here you are at last!

Excuse me, sirs, this is not a servant, but a friend. How did you leave

the count?” continued he. “Does he regret me a little? Have you seen

him since I left him? Answer, for I have many things to tell you, too;

indeed, the last three days some odd adventures have happened—but what

is the matter? how pale you are! and blood, too! What is this?”

“It is the blood of the unfortunate man whom you left at the inn and

who died in my arms.”

“In your arms?—that man! but know you who he was?”

“He used to be the headsman of Bethune.”

“You knew him? and he is dead?”

“Yes.”

“Well, sir,” said D’Arminges, “it is the common lot; even an

executioner is not exempted. I had a bad opinion of him the moment I

saw his wound, and since he asked for a monk you know that it was his

opinion, too, that death would follow.”

At the mention of the monk, Grimaud became pale.

“Come, come,” continued D’Arminges, “to dinner;” for like most men of

his age and generation he did not allow sentiment or sensibility to

interfere with a repast.

“You are right, sir,” said Raoul. “Come, Grimaud, order dinner for

yourself and when you have rested a little we can talk.”

“No, sir, no,” said Grimaud. “I cannot stop a moment; I must start for

Paris again immediately.”

“What? You start for Paris? You are mistaken; it is Olivain who leaves

me; you are to remain.”

“On the contrary, Olivain is to stay and I am to go. I have come for

nothing else but to tell you so.”

“But what is the meaning of this change?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I cannot explain myself.”

“Come, tell me, what is the joke?”

“Monsieur le vicomte knows that I never joke.”

“Yes, but I know also that Monsieur le Comte de la Fère arranged that

you were to remain with me and that Olivain should return to Paris. I

shall follow the count’s directions.”

“Not under present circumstances, monsieur.”

“Perhaps you mean to disobey me?”

“Yes, monsieur, I must.”

“You persist, then?”

“Yes, I am going; may you be happy, monsieur,” and Grimaud saluted and

turned toward the door to go out.

Raoul, angry and at the same time uneasy, ran after him and seized him

by the arm. “Grimaud!” he cried; “remain; I wish it.”

“Then,” replied Grimaud, “you wish me to allow monsieur le comte to be

killed.” He saluted and made a movement to depart.

“Grimaud, my friend,” said the viscount, “will you leave me thus, in

such anxiety? Speak, speak, in Heaven’s name!” And Raoul fell back

trembling upon his chair.

“I can tell you but one thing, sir, for the secret you wish to know is

not my own. You met a monk, did you not?”

“Yes.”

The young men looked at each other with an expression of fear.

“You conducted him to the wounded man and you had time to observe him,

and perhaps you would know him again were you to meet him.”

“Yes, yes!” cried both young men.

“Very well; if ever you meet him again, wherever it may be, whether on

the high road or in the street or in a church, anywhere that he or you

may be, put your foot on his neck and crush him without pity, without

mercy, as you would crush a viper or a scorpion! destroy him utterly

and quit him not until he is dead; the lives of five men are not safe,

in my opinion, as long as he is on the earth.”

And without adding another word, Grimaud, profiting by the astonishment

and terror into which he had thrown his auditors, rushed from the room.

Two minutes later the thunder of a horse’s hoofs was heard upon the

road; it was Grimaud, on his way to Paris. When once in the saddle

Grimaud reflected on two things; first, that at the pace he was going

his horse would not carry him ten miles, and secondly, that he had no

money. But Grimaud’s ingenuity was more prolific than his speech, and

therefore at the first halt he sold his steed and with the money

obtained from the purchase took post horses.

Chapter XXXIV.

On the Eve of Battle.

Raoul was aroused from his sombre reflections by his host, who rushed

into the apartment crying out, “The Spaniards! the Spaniards!”

That cry was of such importance as to overcome all preoccupation. The

young men made inquiries and ascertained that the enemy was advancing

by way of Houdin and Bethune.

While Monsieur d’Arminges gave orders for the horses to be made ready

for departure, the two young men ascended to the upper windows of the

house and saw in the direction of Marsin and of Lens a large body of

infantry and cavalry. This time it was not a wandering troop of

partisans; it was an entire army. There was therefore nothing for them

to do but to follow the prudent advice of Monsieur d’Arminges and beat

a retreat. They quickly went downstairs. Monsieur d’Arminges was

already mounted. Olivain had ready the horses of the young men, and the

lackeys of the Count de Guiche guarded carefully between them the

Spanish prisoner, mounted on a pony which had been bought for his use.

As a further precaution they had bound his hands.

The little company started off at a trot on the road to Cambrin, where

they expected to find the prince. But he was no longer there, having

withdrawn on the previous evening to La Bassee, misled by false

intelligence of the enemy’s movements. Deceived by this intelligence he

had concentrated his forces between Vieille-Chapelle and La Venthie;

and after a reconnoissance along the entire line, in company with

Marshal de Grammont, he had returned and seated himself before a table,

with his officers around him. He questioned them as to the news they

had each been charged to obtain, but nothing positive had been learned.

The hostile army had disappeared two days before and seemed to have

gone out of existence.

Now an enemy is never so near and consequently so threatening, as when

he has completely disappeared. The prince was, therefore, contrary to

his custom, gloomy and anxious, when an officer entered and announced

to Marshal de Grammont that some one wished to see him.

The Duc de Grammont received permission from the prince by a glance and

went out. The prince followed him with his eyes and continued looking

at the door; no one ventured to speak, for fear of disturbing him.

Suddenly a dull and heavy noise was heard. The prince leaped to his

feet, extending his hand in the direction whence came the sound, there

was no mistaking it—it was the noise of cannon. Every one stood up.

At that moment the door opened.

“Monseigneur,” said Marshal de Grammont, with a radiant face, “will

your highness permit my son, Count de Guiche, and his traveling

companion, Viscount de Bragelonne, to come in and give news of the

enemy, whom they have found while we were looking for him?”

“What!” eagerly replied the prince, “will I permit? I not only permit,

I desire; let them come in.”

The marshal introduced the two young men and placed them face to face

with the prince.

“Speak, gentlemen,” said the prince, saluting them; “first speak; we

shall have time afterward for the usual compliments. The most urgent

thing now is to learn where the enemy is and what he is doing.”

It fell naturally to the Count de Guiche to make reply; not only was he

the elder, but he had been presented to the prince by his father.

Besides, he had long known the prince, whilst Raoul now saw him for the

first time. He therefore narrated to the prince what they had seen from

the inn at Mazingarbe.

Meanwhile Raoul closely observed the young general, already made so

famous by the battles of Rocroy, Fribourg, and Nordlingen.

Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Condé, who, since the death of his father,

Henri de Bourbon, was called, in accordance with the custom of that

period, Monsieur le Prince, was a young man, not more than twenty-six

or twenty-seven years old, with the eye of an eagle—_agl’ occhi

grifani_, as Dante says—aquiline nose, long, waving hair, of medium

height, well formed, possessed of all the qualities essential to the

successful soldier—that is to say, the rapid glance, quick decision,

fabulous courage. At the same time he was a man of elegant manners and

strong mind, so that in addition to the revolution he had made in war,

by his new contributions to its methods, he had also made a revolution

at Paris, among the young noblemen of the court, whose natural chief he

was and who, in distinction from the social leaders of the ancient

court, modeled after Bassompierre, Bellegarde and the Duke d’Angouleme,

were called the _petits-maîtres_.

At the first words of the Count de Guiche, the prince, having in mind

the direction whence came the sound of cannon, had understood

everything. The enemy was marching upon Lens, with the intention,

doubtless, of securing possession of that town and separating from

France the army of France. But in what force was the enemy? Was it a

corps sent out to make a diversion? Was it an entire army? To this

question De Guiche could not respond.

Now, as these questions involved matters of gravest consequence, it was

these to which the prince had especially desired an answer, exact,

precise, positive.

Raoul conquered the very natural feeling of timidity he experienced and

approaching the prince:

“My lord,” he said, “will you permit me to hazard a few words on that

subject, which will perhaps relieve you of your uncertainty?”

The prince turned and seemed to cover the young man with a single

glance; he smiled on perceiving that he was a child hardly fifteen

years old.

“Certainly, monsieur, speak,” he said, softening his stern, accented

tones, as if he were speaking to a woman.

“My lord,” said Raoul, blushing, “might examine the Spanish prisoner.”

“Have you a Spanish prisoner?” cried the prince.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Ah, that is true,” said De Guiche; “I had forgotten it.”

“That is easily understood; it was you who took him, count,” said

Raoul, smiling.

The old marshal turned toward the viscount, grateful for that praise of

his son, whilst the prince exclaimed:

“The young man is right; let the prisoner be brought in.”

Meanwhile the prince took De Guiche aside and asked him how the

prisoner had been taken and who this young man was.

“Monsieur,” said the prince, turning toward Raoul, “I know that you

have a letter from my sister, Madame de Longueville; but I see that you

have preferred commending yourself to me by giving me good counsel.”

“My lord,” said Raoul, coloring up, “I did not wish to interrupt your

highness in a conversation so important as that in which you were

engaged with the count. But here is the letter.”

“Very well,” said the prince; “give it to me later. Here is the

prisoner; let us attend to what is most pressing.”

The prisoner was one of those military adventurers who sold their blood

to whoever would buy, and grew old in stratagems and spoils. Since he

had been taken he had not uttered a word, so that it was not known to

what country he belonged. The prince looked at him with unspeakable

distrust.

“Of what country are you?” asked the prince.

The prisoner muttered a few words in a foreign tongue.

“Ah! ah! it seems that he is a Spaniard. Do you speak Spanish,

Grammont?”

“Faith, my lord, but indifferently.”

“And I not at all,” said the prince, laughing. “Gentlemen,” he said,

turning to those who were near him “can any one of you speak Spanish

and serve me as interpreter?”

“I can, my lord,” said Raoul.

“Ah, you speak Spanish?”

“Enough, I think, to fulfill your highness’s wishes on this occasion.”

Meanwhile the prisoner had remained impassive and as if he had no

understanding of what was taking place.

“My lord asks of what country you are,” said the young man, in the

purest Castilian.

“_Ich bin ein Deutscher_,” replied the prisoner.

“What in the devil does he say?” asked the prince. “What new gibberish

is that?”

“He says he is German, my lord,” replied Raoul; “but I doubt it, for

his accent is bad and his pronunciation defective.”

“Then you speak German, also?” asked the prince.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well enough to question him in that language?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Question him, then.”

Raoul began the examination, but the result justified his opinion. The

prisoner did not understand, or seemed not to understand, what Raoul

said to him; and Raoul could hardly understand his replies, containing

a mixture of Flemish and Alsatian. However, amidst all the prisoner’s

efforts to elude a systematic examination, Raoul had recognized his

natural accent.

“_Non siete Spagnuolo_,” he said; “_non siete Tedesco; siete

Italiano_.”

The prisoner started and bit his lips.

“Ah, that,” said the prince, “I understand that language thoroughly;

and since he is Italian I will myself continue the examination. Thank

you, viscount,” continued the prince, laughing, “and I appoint you from

this moment my interpreter.”

But the prisoner was not less unwilling to respond in Italian than in

the other languages; his aim was to elude the examination. Therefore,

he knew nothing either of the enemy’s numbers, or of those in command,

or of the purpose of the army.

“Very good,” said the prince, understanding the reason of that

ignorance; “the man was caught in the act of assassination and robbery;

he might have purchased his life by speaking; he doesn’t wish to speak.

Take him out and shoot him.”

The prisoner turned pale. The two soldiers who had brought him in took

him, each by one arm, and led him toward the door, whilst the prince,

turning to Marshal de Grammont, seemed to have already forgotten the

order he had given.

When he reached the threshold of the door the prisoner stopped. The

soldiers, who knew only their orders, attempted to force him along.

“One moment,” said the prisoner, in French. “I am ready to speak, my

lord.”

“Ah! ah!” said the prince, laughing, “I thought we should come to that.

I have a sure method of limbering tongues. Young men, take advantage of

it against the time when you may be in command.”

“But on condition,” continued the prisoner, “that your highness will

swear that my life shall be safe.”

“Upon my honor,” said the prince.

“Question, then, my lord.”

“Where did the army cross the Lys?”

“Between Saint-Venant and Aire.”

“By whom is it commanded?”

“By Count de Fuonsaldagna, General Beck and the archduke.”

“Of how many does it consist?”

“Eighteen thousand men and thirty-six cannon.”

“And its aim is?”

“Lens.”

“You see; gentlemen!” said the prince, turning with a triumphant air

toward Marshal de Grammont and the other officers.

“Yes, my lord,” said the marshal, “you have divined all that was

possible to human genius.”

“Recall Le Plessis, Bellièvre, Villequier and D’Erlac,” said the

prince, “recall all the troops that are on this side of the Lys. Let

them hold themselves in readiness to march to-night. To-morrow,

according to all probability, we shall attack the enemy.”

“But, my lord,” said Marshal de Grammont, “consider that when we have

collected all our forces we shall have hardly thirteen thousand men.”

“Monsieur le maréchal,” said the prince, with that wonderful glance

that was peculiar to him, “it is with small armies that great battles

are won.”

Then turning toward the prisoner, “Take away that man,” he said, “and

keep him carefully in sight. His life is dependent on the information

he has given us; if it is true, he shall be free; if false, let him be

shot.”

The prisoner was led away.

“Count de Guiche,” said the prince, “it is a long time since you saw

your father, remain here with him. Monsieur,” he continued, addressing

Raoul, “if you are not too tired, follow me.”

“To the end of the world, my lord!” cried Raoul, feeling an unknown

enthusiasm for that young general, who seemed to him so worthy of his

renown.

The prince smiled; he despised flatterers, but he appreciated

enthusiasts.

“Come, monsieur,” he said, “you are good in council, as we have already

discovered; to-morrow we shall know if you are good in action.”

“And I,” said the marshal, “what am I to do?”

“Wait here to receive the troops. I shall either return for them myself

or shall send a courier directing you to bring them to me. Twenty

guards, well mounted, are all that I shall need for my escort.”

“That is very few,” said the marshal.

“It is enough,” replied the prince. “Have you a good horse, Monsieur de

Bragelonne?”

“My horse was killed this morning, my lord, and I am mounted

provisionally on my lackey’s.”

“Choose for yourself in my stables the horse you like best. No false

modesty; take the best horse you can find. You will need it this

evening, perhaps; you will certainly need it to-morrow.”

Raoul didn’t wait to be told twice; he knew that with superiors,

especially when those superiors are princes, the highest politeness is

to obey without delay or argument; he went down to the stables, picked

out a pie-bald Andalusian horse, saddled and bridled it himself, for

Athos had advised him to trust no one with those important offices at a

time of danger, and went to rejoin the prince, who at that moment

mounted his horse.

“Now, monsieur,” he said to Raoul, “will you give me the letter you

have brought?”

Raoul handed the letter to the prince.

“Keep near me,” said the latter.

The prince threw his bridle over the pommel of the saddle, as he was

wont to do when he wished to have both hands free, unsealed the letter

of Madame de Longueville and started at a gallop on the road to Lens,

attended by Raoul and his small escort, whilst messengers sent to

recall the troops set out with a loose rein in other directions. The

prince read as he hastened on.

“Monsieur,” he said, after a moment, “they tell me great things of you.

I have only to say, after the little that I have seen and heard, that I

think even better of you than I have been told.”

Raoul bowed.

Meanwhile, as the little troop drew nearer to Lens, the noise of the

cannon sounded louder. The prince kept his gaze fixed in the direction

of the sound with the steadfastness of a bird of prey. One would have

said that his gaze could pierce the branches of trees which limited his

horizon. From time to time his nostrils dilated as if eager for the

smell of powder, and he panted like a horse.

At length they heard the cannon so near that it was evident they were

within a league of the field of battle, and at a turn of the road they

perceived the little village of Aunay.

The peasants were in great commotion. The report of Spanish cruelty had

gone out and every one was frightened. The women had already fled,

taking refuge in Vitry; only a few men remained. On seeing the prince

they hastened to meet him. One of them recognized him.

“Ah, my lord,” he said, “have you come to drive away those rascal

Spaniards and those Lorraine robbers?”

“Yes,” said the prince, “if you will serve me as guide.”

“Willingly, my lord. Where does your highness wish to go?”

“To some elevated spot whence I can look down on Lens and the

surrounding country——”

“In that case, I’m your man.”

“I can trust you—you are a true Frenchman?”

“I am an old soldier of Rocroy, my lord.”

“Here,” said the prince, handing him a purse, “here is for Rocroy. Now,

do you want a horse, or will you go afoot?”

“Afoot, my lord; I have served always in the infantry. Besides, I

expect to lead your highness into places where you will have to walk.”

“Come, then,” said the prince; “let us lose no time.”

The peasant started off, running before the prince’s horse; then, a

hundred steps from the village, he took a narrow road hidden at the

bottom of the valley. For a half league they proceeded thus, the

cannon-shot sounding so near that they expected at each discharge to

hear the hum of the balls. At length they entered a path which, going

out from the road, skirted the mountainside. The prince dismounted,

ordered one of his aids and Raoul to follow his example, and directed

the others to await his orders, keeping themselves meanwhile on the

alert. He then began to ascend the path.

In about ten minutes they reached the ruins of an old château; those

ruins crowned the summit of a hill which overlooked the surrounding

country. At a distance of hardly a quarter of a league they looked down

on Lens, at bay, and before Lens the enemy’s entire army.

With a single glance the prince took in the extent of country that lay

before him, from Lens as far as Vimy. In a moment the plan of the

battle which on the following day was to save France the second time

from invasion was unrolled in his mind. He took a pencil, tore a page

from his tablets and wrote:

“My Dear Marshal,—In an hour Lens will be in the enemy’s possession.

Come and rejoin me; bring with you the whole army. I shall be at Vendin

to place it in position. To-morrow we shall retake Lens and beat the

enemy.”

Then, turning toward Raoul: “Go, monsieur,” he said; “ride fast and

give this letter to Monsieur de Grammont.”

Raoul bowed, took the letter, went hastily down the mountain, leaped on

his horse and set out at a gallop. A quarter of an hour later he was

with the marshal.

A portion of the troops had already arrived and the remainder was

expected from moment to moment. Marshal de Grammont put himself at the

head of all the available cavalry and infantry and took the road to

Vendin, leaving the Duc de Châtillon to await and bring on the rest.

All the artillery was ready to move, and started off at a moment’s

notice.

It was seven o’clock in the evening when the marshal arrived at the

appointed place. The prince awaited him there. As he had foreseen, Lens

had fallen into the hands of the enemy immediately after Raoul’s

departure. The event was announced by the cessation of the firing.

As the shadows of night deepened the troops summoned by the prince

arrived in successive detachments. Orders were given that no drum

should be beaten, no trumpet sounded.

At nine o’clock the night had fully come. Still a last ray of twilight

lighted the plain. The army marched silently, the prince at the head of

the column. Presently the army came in sight of Lens; two or three

houses were in flames and a dull noise was heard which indicated what

suffering was endured by a town taken by assault.

The prince assigned to every one his post. Marshal de Grammont was to

hold the extreme left, resting on Mericourt. The Duc de Châtillon

commanded the centre. Finally, the prince led the right wing, resting

on Aunay. The order of battle on the morrow was to be that of the

positions taken in the evening. Each one, on awaking, would find

himself on the field of battle.

The movement was executed in silence and with precision. At ten o’clock

every one was in his appointed position; at half-past ten the prince

visited the posts and gave his final orders for the following day.

Three things were especially urged upon the officers, who were to see

that the soldiers observed them scrupulously: the first, that the

different corps should so march that cavalry and infantry should be on

the same line and that each body should protect its gaps; the second,

to go to the charge no faster than a walk; the third, to let the enemy

fire first.

The prince assigned the Count de Guiche to his father and kept

Bragelonne near his own person; but the two young men sought the

privilege of passing the night together and it was accorded them. A

tent was erected for them near that of the marshal.

Although the day had been fatiguing, neither of them was inclined to

sleep. And besides, even for old soldiers the evening before a battle

is a serious time; it was so with greater reason to two young men who

were about to witness for the first time that terrible spectacle. On

the evening before a battle one thinks of a thousand things forgotten

till then; those who are indifferent to one another become friends and

those who are friends become brothers. It need not be said that if in

the depths of the heart there is a sentiment more tender, it reaches

then, quite naturally, the highest exaltation of which it is capable.

Some sentiment of this kind must have been cherished by each one of

these two friends, for each of them almost immediately sat down by

himself at an end of the tent and began to write.

The letters were long—the four pages were covered with closely written

words. The writers sometimes looked up at each other and smiled; they

understood without speaking, their organizations were so delicate and

sympathetic. The letters being finished, each put his own into two

envelopes, so that no one, without tearing the first envelope, could

discover to whom the second was addressed; then they drew near to each

other and smilingly exchanged their letters.

“In case any evil should happen to me,” said Bragelonne.

“In case I should be killed,” said De Guiche.

They then embraced each other like two brothers, and each wrapping

himself in his cloak they soon passed into that kindly sleep of youth

which is the prerogative of birds, flowers and infants.

Chapter XXXV.

A Dinner in the Old Style.

The second interview between the former musketeers was not so formal

and threatening as the first. Athos, with his superior understanding,

wisely deemed that the supper table would be the most complete and

satisfactory point of reunion, and at the moment when his friends, in

deference to his deportment and sobriety, dared scarcely speak of some

of their former good dinners, he was the first to propose that they

should all assemble around some well spread table and abandon

themselves unreservedly to their own natural character and manners—a

freedom which had formerly contributed so much to that good

understanding between them which gave them the name of the

inseparables. For different reasons this was an agreeable proposition

to them all, and it was therefore agreed that each should leave a very

exact address and that upon the request of any of the associates a

meeting should be convoked at a famous eating house in the Rue de la

Monnaie, of the sign of the Hermitage. The first rendezvous was fixed

for the following Wednesday, at eight o’clock in the evening precisely.

On that day, in fact, the four friends arrived punctually at the hour,

each from his own abode or occupation. Porthos had been trying a new

horse; D’Artagnan was on guard at the Louvre; Aramis had been to visit

one of his penitents in the neighborhood; and Athos, whose domicile was

established in the Rue Guénégaud, found himself close at hand. They

were, therefore, somewhat surprised to meet altogether at the door of

the Hermitage, Athos starting out from the Pont Neuf, Porthos by the

Rue de la Roule, D’Artagnan by the Rue des Fosse Saint Germain

l’Auxerrois, and Aramis by the Rue de Bethisy.

The first words exchanged between the four friends, on account of the

ceremony which each of them mingled with their demonstration, were

somewhat forced and even the repast began with a kind of stiffness.

Athos perceived this embarrassment, and by way of supplying an

effectual remedy, called for four bottles of champagne.

At this order, given in Athos’s habitually calm manner, the face of the

Gascon relaxed and Porthos’s brow grew smooth. Aramis was astonished.

He knew that Athos not only never drank, but more, that he had a kind

of repugnance to wine. This astonishment was doubled when Aramis saw

Athos fill a bumper and toss it off with all his former enthusiasm. His

companions followed his example. In a very few minutes the four bottles

were empty and this excellent specific succeeded in dissipating even

the slightest cloud that might have rested on their spirits. Now the

four friends began to speak loud, scarcely waiting till one had

finished before another began, and each assumed his favorite attitude

on or at the table. Soon—strange fact—Aramis undid two buttons of his

doublet, seeing which, Porthos unfastened his entirely.

Battles, long journeys, blows given and received, sufficed for the

first themes of conversation, which turned upon the silent struggles

sustained against him who was now called the great cardinal.

“Faith,” said Aramis, laughing, “we have praised the dead enough, let

us revile the living a little; I should like to say something evil of

Mazarin; is it permissible?”

“Go on, go on,” replied D’Artagnan, laughing heartily; “relate your

story and I will applaud it if it is a good one.”

“A great prince,” said Aramis, “with whom Mazarin sought an alliance,

was invited by him to send him a list of the conditions on which he

would do him the honor to negotiate with him. The prince, who had a

great repugnance to treat with such an ill-bred fellow, made out a

list, against the grain, and sent it. In this list there were three

conditions which displeased Mazarin and he offered the prince ten

thousand crowns to renounce them.”

“Ah, ha, ha!” laughed the three friends, “not a bad bargain; and there

was no fear of being taken at his word; what did the prince do then?”

“The prince immediately sent fifty thousand francs to Mazarin, begging

him never to write to him again, and offered twenty thousand francs

more, on condition that he would never speak to him. What did Mazarin

do?”

“Stormed!” suggested Athos.

“Beat the messenger!” cried Porthos.

“Accepted the money!” said D’Artagnan.

“You have guessed it,” answered Aramis; and they all laughed so

heartily that the host appeared in order to inquire whether the

gentlemen wanted anything; he thought they were fighting.

At last their hilarity calmed down and:

“Faith!” exclaimed D’Artagnan to the two friends, “you may well wish

ill to Mazarin; for I assure you, on his side he wishes you no good.”

“Pooh! really?” asked Athos. “If I thought the fellow knew me by my

name I would be rebaptized, for fear it might be thought I knew him.”

“He knows you better by your actions than your name; he is quite aware

that there are two gentlemen who greatly aided the escape of Monsieur

de Beaufort, and he has instigated an active search for them, I can

answer for it.”

“By whom?”

“By me; and this morning he sent for me to ask me if I had obtained any

information.”

“And what did you reply?”

“That I had none as yet; but that I was to dine to-day with two

gentlemen, who would be able to give me some.”

“You told him that?” said Porthos, a broad smile spreading over his

honest face. “Bravo! and you are not afraid of that, Athos?”

“No,” replied Athos, “it is not the search of Mazarin that I fear.”

“Now,” said Aramis, “tell me a little what you do fear.”

“Nothing for the present; at least, nothing in good earnest.”

“And with regard to the past?” asked Porthos.

“Oh! the past is another thing,” said Athos, sighing; “the past and the

future.”

“Are you afraid for your young Raoul?” asked Aramis.

“Well,” said D’Artagnan, “one is never killed in a first engagement.”

“Nor in the second,” said Aramis

“Nor in the third,” returned Porthos; “and even when one is killed, one

rises again, the proof of which is, that here we are!”

“No,” said Athos, “it is not Raoul about whom I am anxious, for I trust

he will conduct himself like a gentleman; and if he is killed—well, he

will die bravely; but hold—should such a misfortune happen—well—” Athos

passed his hand across his pale brow.

“Well?” asked Aramis.

“Well, I shall look upon it as an expiation.”

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan; “I know what you mean.”

“And I, too,” added Aramis; “but you must not think of that, Athos;

what is past, is past.”

“I don’t understand,” said Porthos.

“The affair at Armentières,” whispered D’Artagnan.

“The affair at Armentières?” asked he again.

“Milady.”

“Oh, yes!” said Porthos; “true, I had forgotten it!”

Athos looked at him intently.

“You have forgotten it, Porthos?” said he.

“Faith! yes, it is so long ago,” answered Porthos.

“This affair does not, then, weigh upon your conscience?”

“Faith, no.”

“And you, D’Artagnan?”

“I—I own that when my mind returns to that terrible period I have no

recollection of anything but the rigid corpse of poor Madame

Bonancieux. Yes, yes,” murmured he, “I have often felt regret for the

victim, but never the very slightest remorse for the assassin.”

Athos shook his dead doubtfully.

“Consider,” said Aramis, “if you admit divine justice and its

participation in the things of this world, that woman was punished by

the will of heaven. We were but the instruments, that is all.”

“But as to free will, Aramis?”

“How acts the judge? He has a free will, yet he fearlessly condemns.

What does the executioner? He is master of his arm, yet he strikes

without remorse.”

“The executioner!” muttered Athos, as if arrested by some recollection.

“I know that it is terrible,” said D’Artagnan; “but when I reflect that

we have killed English, Rochellais, Spaniards, nay, even French, who

never did us any other harm but to aim at and to miss us, whose only

fault was to cross swords with us and to be unable to ward off our

blows—I can, on my honor, find an excuse for my share in the murder of

that woman.”

“As for me,” said Porthos, “now that you have reminded me of it, Athos,

I have the scene again before me, as if I now were there. Milady was

there, as it were, where _you_ sit.” (Athos changed color.) “I—I was

where D’Artagnan stands. I wore a long sword which cut like a

Damascus—you remember it, Aramis for you always called it Balizarde.

Well, I swear to you, all three, that had the executioner of

Bethune—was he not of Bethune?—yes, egad! of Bethune!—not been there, I

would have cut off the head of that infamous being without thinking of

it, or even after thinking of it. She was a most atrocious woman.”

“And then,” said Aramis, with the tone of philosophical indifference

which he had assumed since he had belonged to the church and in which

there was more atheism than confidence in God, “what is the use of

thinking of it all? At the last hour we must confess this action and

God knows better than we can whether it is a crime, a fault, or a

meritorious deed. _I_ repent of it? Egad! no. Upon my honor and by the

holy cross; I only regret it because she was a woman.”

“The most satisfactory part of the matter,” said D’Artagnan, “is that

there remains no trace of it.”

“She had a son,” observed Athos.

“Oh! yes, I know that,” said D’Artagnan, “and you mentioned it to me;

but who knows what has become of him? If the serpent be dead, why not

its brood? Do you think his uncle De Winter would have brought up that

young viper? De Winter probably condemned the son as he had done the

mother.”

“Then,” said Athos, “woe to De Winter, for the child had done no harm.”

“May the devil take me, if the child be not dead,” said Porthos. “There

is so much fog in that detestable country, at least so D’Artagnan

declares.”

Just as the quaint conclusion reached by Porthos was about to bring

back hilarity to faces now more or less clouded, hasty footsteps were

heard upon the stair and some one knocked at the door.

“Come in,” cried Athos.

“Please your honors,” said the host, “a person in a great hurry wishes

to speak to one of you.”

“To which of us?” asked all the four friends.

“To him who is called the Comte de la Fère.”

“It is I,” said Athos, “and what is the name of the person?”

“Grimaud.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Athos, turning pale. “Back already! What can have

happened, then, to Bragelonne?”

“Let him enter,” cried D’Artagnan; “let him come up.”

But Grimaud had already mounted the staircase and was waiting on the

last step; so springing into the room he motioned the host to leave it.

The door being closed, the four friends waited in expectation.

Grimaud’s agitation, his pallor, the sweat which covered his face, the

dust which soiled his clothes, all indicated that he was the messenger

of some important and terrible news.

“Your honors,” said he, “that woman had a child; that child has become

a man; the tigress had a little one, the tiger has roused himself; he

is ready to spring upon you—beware!”

Athos glanced around at his friends with a melancholy smile. Porthos

turned to look at his sword, which was hanging on the wall; Aramis

seized his knife; D’Artagnan arose.

“What do you mean, Grimaud?” he exclaimed.

“That Milady’s son has left England, that he is in France, on his road

to Paris, if he be not here already.”

“The devil he is!” said Porthos. “Are you sure of it?”

“Certain,” replied Grimaud.

This announcement was received in silence. Grimaud was so breathless,

so exhausted, that he had fallen back upon a chair. Athos filled a

beaker with champagne and gave it to him.

“Well, after all,” said D’Artagnan, “supposing that he lives, that he

comes to Paris; we have seen many other such. Let him come.”

“Yes,” echoed Porthos, glancing affectionately at his sword, still

hanging on the wall; “we can wait for him; let him come.”

“Moreover, he is but a child,” said Aramis.

Grimaud rose.

“A child!” he exclaimed. “Do you know what he has done, this child?

Disguised as a monk he discovered the whole history in confession from

the executioner of Bethune, and having confessed him, after having

learned everything from him, he gave him absolution by planting this

dagger into his heart. See, it is on fire yet with his hot blood, for

it is not thirty hours since it was drawn from the wound.”

And Grimaud threw the dagger on the table.

D’Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis rose and in one spontaneous motion

rushed to their swords. Athos alone remained seated, calm and

thoughtful.

“And you say he is dressed as a monk, Grimaud?”

“Yes, as an Augustine monk.”

“What sized man is he?”

“About my height; thin, pale, with light blue eyes and tawny flaxen

hair.”

“And he did not see Raoul?” asked Athos.

“Yes, on the contrary, they met, and it was the viscount himself who

conducted him to the bed of the dying man.”

Athos, in his turn, rising without speaking, went and unhooked his

sword.

“Heigh, sir,” said D’Artagnan, trying to laugh, “do you know we look

very much like a flock of silly, mouse-evading women! How is it that

we, four men who have faced armies without blinking, begin to tremble

at the mention of a child?”

“It is true,” said Athos, “but this child comes in the name of Heaven.”

And very soon they left the inn.

Chapter XXXVI.

A Letter from Charles the First.

The reader must now cross the Seine with us and follow us to the door

of the Carmelite Convent in the Rue Saint Jacques. It is eleven o’clock

in the morning and the pious sisters have just finished saying mass for

the success of the armies of King Charles I. Leaving the church, a

woman and a young girl dressed in black, the one as a widow and the

other as an orphan, have re-entered their cell.

The woman kneels on a _prie-dieu_ of painted wood and at a short

distance from her stands the young girl, leaning against a chair,

weeping.

The woman must have once been handsome, but traces of sorrow have aged

her. The young girl is lovely and her tears only embellish her; the

lady appears to be about forty years of age, the girl about fourteen.

“Oh, God!” prayed the kneeling suppliant, “protect my husband, guard my

son, and take my wretched life instead!”

“Oh, God!” murmured the girl, “leave me my mother!”

“Your mother can be of no use to you in this world, Henrietta,” said

the lady, turning around. “Your mother has no longer either throne or

husband; she has neither son, money nor friends; the whole world, my

poor child, has abandoned your mother!” And she fell back, weeping,

into her daughter’s arms.

“Courage, take courage, my dear mother!” said the girl.

“Ah! ’tis an unfortunate year for kings,” said the mother. “And no one

thinks of us in this country, for each must think about his own

affairs. As long as your brother was with me he kept me up; but he is

gone and can no longer send us news of himself, either to me or to your

father. I have pledged my last jewels, sold your clothes and my own to

pay his servants, who refused to accompany him unless I made this

sacrifice. We are now reduced to live at the expense of these daughters

of Heaven; we are the poor, succored by God.”

“But why not address yourself to your sister, the queen?” asked the

girl.

“Alas! the queen, my sister, is no longer queen, my child. Another

reigns in her name. One day you will be able to understand how all this

is.”

“Well, then, to the king, your nephew. Shall I speak to him? You know

how much he loves me, my mother.

“Alas! my nephew is not yet king, and you know Laporte has told us

twenty times that he himself is in need of almost everything.”

“Then let us pray to Heaven,” said the girl.

The two women who thus knelt in united prayer were the daughter and

grand-daughter of Henry IV., the wife and daughter of Charles I.

They had just finished their double prayer, when a nun softly tapped at

the door of the cell.

“Enter, my sister,” said the queen.

“I trust your majesty will pardon this intrusion on her meditations,

but a foreign lord has arrived from England and waits in the parlor,

demanding the honor of presenting a letter to your majesty.”

“Oh, a letter! a letter from the king, perhaps. News from your father,

do you hear, Henrietta? And the name of this lord?”

“Lord de Winter.”

“Lord de Winter!” exclaimed the queen, “the friend of my husband. Oh,

bid him enter!”

And the queen advanced to meet the messenger, whose hand she seized

affectionately, whilst he knelt down and presented a letter to her,

contained in a case of gold.

“Ah! my lord!” said the queen, “you bring us three things which we have

not seen for a long time. Gold, a devoted friend, and a letter from the

king, our husband and master.”

De Winter bowed again, unable to reply from excess of emotion.

On their side the mother and daughter retired into the embrasure of a

window to read eagerly the following letter:

“Dear Wife,—We have now reached the moment of decision. I have

concentrated here at Naseby camp all the resources Heaven has left me,

and I write to you in haste from thence. Here I await the army of my

rebellious subjects. I am about to struggle for the last time with

them. If victorious, I shall continue the struggle; if beaten, I am

lost. I shall try, in the latter case (alas! in our position, one must

provide for everything), I shall try to gain the coast of France. But

can they, will they receive an unhappy king, who will bring such a sad

story into a country already agitated by civil discord? Your wisdom and

your affection must serve me as guides. The bearer of this letter will

tell you, madame, what I dare not trust to pen and paper and the risks

of transit. He will explain to you the steps that I expect you to

pursue. I charge him also with my blessing for my children and with the

sentiments of my soul for yourself, my dearest sweetheart.”

The letter bore the signature, not of “Charles, King,” but of

“Charles—still king.”

“And let him be no longer king,” cried the queen. “Let him be

conquered, exiled, proscribed, provided he still lives. Alas! in these

days the throne is too dangerous a place for me to wish him to retain

it. But my lord, tell me,” she continued, “hide nothing from me—what

is, in truth, the king’s position? Is it as hopeless as he thinks?”

“Alas! madame, more hopeless than he thinks. His majesty has so good a

heart that he cannot understand hatred; is so loyal that he does not

suspect treason! England is torn in twain by a spirit of disturbance

which, I greatly fear, blood alone can exorcise.”

“But Lord Montrose,” replied the queen, “I have heard of his great and

rapid successes of battles gained. I heard it said that he was marching

to the frontier to join the king.”

“Yes, madame; but on the frontier he was met by Lesly; he had tried

victory by means of superhuman undertakings. Now victory has abandoned

him. Montrose, beaten at Philiphaugh, was obliged to disperse the

remains of his army and to fly, disguised as a servant. He is at

Bergen, in Norway.”

“Heaven preserve him!” said the queen. “It is at least a consolation to

know that some who have so often risked their lives for us are safe.

And now, my lord, that I see how hopeless the position of the king is,

tell me with what you are charged on the part of my royal husband.”

“Well, then, madame,” said De Winter, “the king wishes you to try and

discover the dispositions of the king and queen toward him.”

“Alas! you know that even now the king is but a child and the queen a

woman weak enough. Here, Monsieur Mazarin is everything.”

“Does he desire to play the part in France that Cromwell plays in

England?”

“Oh, no! He is a subtle, conscienceless Italian, who though he very

likely dreams of crime, dares not commit it; and unlike Cromwell, who

disposes of both Houses, Mazarin has had the queen to support him in

his struggle with the parliament.”

“More reason, then, he should protect a king pursued by parliament.”

The queen shook her head despairingly.

“If I judge for myself, my lord,” she said, “the cardinal will do

nothing, and will even, perhaps, act against us. The presence of my

daughter and myself in France is already irksome to him; much more so

would be that of the king. My lord,” added Henrietta, with a melancholy

smile, “it is sad and almost shameful to be obliged to say that we have

passed the winter in the Louvre without money, without linen, almost

without bread, and often not rising from bed because we wanted fire.”

“Horrible!” cried De Winter; “the daughter of Henry IV., and the wife

of King Charles! Wherefore did you not apply, then, madame, to the

first person you saw from us?”

“Such is the hospitality shown to a queen by the minister from whom a

king demands it.”

“But I heard that a marriage between the Prince of Wales and

Mademoiselle d’Orléans was spoken of,” said De Winter.

“Yes, for an instant I hoped it was so. The young people felt a mutual

esteem; but the queen, who at first sanctioned their affection, changed

her mind, and Monsieur, the Duc d’Orléans, who had encouraged the

familiarity between them, has forbidden his daughter to think any more

about the union. Oh, my lord!” continued the queen, without restraining

her tears, “it is better to fight as the king has done, and to die, as

perhaps he will, than live in beggary like me.”

“Courage, madame! courage! Do not despair! The interests of the French

crown, endangered at this moment, are to discountenance rebellion in a

neighboring nation. Mazarin, as a statesman, will understand the

politic necessity.”

“Are you sure,” said the queen doubtfully, “that you have not been

forestalled?”

“By whom?”

“By the Joices, the Prinns, the Cromwells?”

“By a tailor, a coachmaker, a brewer! Ah! I hope, madame, that the

cardinal will not enter into negotiations with such men!”

“Ah! what is he himself?” asked Madame Henrietta.

“But for the honor of the king—of the queen.”

“Well, let us hope he will do something for the sake of their honor,”

said the queen. “A true friend’s eloquence is so powerful, my lord,

that you have reassured me. Give me your hand and let us go to the

minister; and yet,” she added, “suppose he should refuse and that the

king loses the battle?”

“His majesty will then take refuge in Holland, where I hear his

highness the Prince of Wales now is.”

“And can his majesty count upon many such subjects as yourself for his

flight?”

“Alas! no, madame,” answered De Winter; “but the case is provided for

and I am come to France to seek allies.”

“Allies!” said the queen, shaking her head.

“Madame,” replied De Winter, “provided I can find some of my good old

friends of former times I will answer for anything.”

“Come then, my lord,” said the queen, with the painful doubt that is

felt by those who have suffered much; “come, and may Heaven hear you.”

Chapter XXXVII.

Cromwell’s Letter.

At the very moment when the queen quitted the convent to go to the

Palais Royal, a young man dismounted at the gate of this royal abode

and announced to the guards that he had something of importance to

communicate to Cardinal Mazarin. Although the cardinal was often

tormented by fear, he was more often in need of counsel and

information, and he was therefore sufficiently accessible. The true

difficulty of being admitted was not to be found at the first door, and

even the second was passed easily enough; but at the third watched,

besides the guard and the doorkeepers, the faithful Bernouin, a

Cerberus whom no speech could soften, no wand, even of gold, could

charm.

It was therefore at the third door that those who solicited or were

bidden to an audience underwent their formal interrogatory.

The young man having left his horse tied to the gate in the court,

mounted the great staircase and addressed the guard in the first

chamber.

“Cardinal Mazarin?” said he.

“Pass on,” replied the guard.

The cavalier entered the second hall, which was guarded by the

musketeers and doorkeepers.

“Have you a letter of audience?” asked a porter, advancing to the new

arrival.

“I have one, but not one from Cardinal Mazarin.”

“Enter, and ask for Monsieur Bernouin,” said the porter, opening the

door of the third room. Whether he only held his usual post or whether

it was by accident, Monsieur Bernouin was found standing behind the

door and must have heard all that had passed.

“You seek me, sir,” said he. “From whom may the letter be you bear to

his eminence?”

“From General Oliver Cromwell,” said the new comer. “Be so good as to

mention this name to his eminence and to bring me word whether he will

receive me—yes or no.”

Saying which, he resumed the proud and sombre bearing peculiar at that

time to Puritans. Bernouin cast an inquisitorial glance at the person

of the young man and entered the cabinet of the cardinal, to whom he

transmitted the messenger’s words.

“A man bringing a letter from Oliver Cromwell?” said Mazarin. “And what

kind of a man?”

“A genuine Englishman, your eminence. Hair sandy-red—more red than

sandy; gray-blue eyes—more gray than blue; and for the rest, stiff and

proud.”

“Let him give in his letter.”

“His eminence asks for the letter,” said Bernouin, passing back into

the ante-chamber.

“His eminence cannot see the letter without the bearer of it,” replied

the young man; “but to convince you that I am really the bearer of a

letter, see, here it is; and kindly add,” continued he, “that I am not

a simple messenger, but an envoy extraordinary.”

Bernouin re-entered the cabinet, returning in a few seconds. “Enter,

sir,” said he.

The young man appeared on the threshold of the minister’s closet, in

one hand holding his hat, in the other the letter. Mazarin rose. “Have

you, sir,” asked he, “a letter accrediting you to me?”

“There it is, my lord,” said the young man.

Mazarin took the letter and read it thus:

“Mr. Mordaunt, one of my secretaries, will remit this letter of

introduction to His Eminence, the Cardinal Mazarin, in Paris. He is

also the bearer of a second confidential epistle for his eminence.

“Oliver Cromwell.”

“Very well, Monsieur Mordaunt,” said Mazarin, “give me this second

letter and sit down.”

The young man drew from his pocket a second letter, presented it to the

cardinal, and took his seat. The cardinal, however, did not unseal the

letter at once, but continued to turn it again and again in his hand;

then, in accordance with his usual custom and judging from experience

that few people could hide anything from him when he began to question

them, fixing his eyes upon them at the same time, he thus addressed the

messenger:

“You are very young, Monsieur Mordaunt, for this difficult task of

ambassador, in which the oldest diplomatists often fail.”

“My lord, I am twenty-three years of age; but your eminence is mistaken

in saying that I am young. I am older than your eminence, although I

possess not your wisdom. Years of suffering, in my opinion, count

double, and I have suffered for twenty years.”

“Ah, yes, I understand,” said Mazarin; “want of fortune, perhaps. You

are poor, are you not?” Then he added to himself: “These English

Revolutionists are all beggars and ill-bred.”

“My lord, I ought to have a fortune of six millions, but it has been

taken from me.”

“You are not, then, a man of the people?” said Mazarin, astonished.

“If I bore my proper title I should be a lord. If I bore my name you

would have heard one of the most illustrious names of England.”

“What is your name, then?” asked Mazarin.

“My name is Mordaunt,” replied the young man, bowing.

Mazarin now understood that Cromwell’s envoy desired to retain his

incognito. He was silent for an instant, and during that time he

scanned the young man even more attentively than he had done at first.

The messenger was unmoved.

“Devil take these Puritans,” said Mazarin aside; “they are carved from

granite.” Then he added aloud, “But you have relations left you?”

“I have one remaining. Three times I presented myself to ask his

support and three times he ordered his servants to turn me away.”

“Oh, _mon Dieu!_ my dear Mr. Mordaunt,” said Mazarin, hoping by a

display of affected pity to catch the young man in a snare, “how

extremely your history interests me! You know not, then, anything of

your birth—you have never seen your mother?”

“Yes, my lord; she came three times, whilst I was a child, to my

nurse’s house; I remember the last time she came as well as if it were

to-day.”

“You have a good memory,” said Mazarin.

“Oh! yes, my lord,” said the young man, with such peculiar emphasis

that the cardinal felt a shudder run through every vein.

“And who brought you up?” he asked again.

“A French nurse, who sent me away when I was five years old because no

one paid her for me, telling me the name of a relation of whom she had

heard my mother often speak.”

“What became of you?”

“As I was weeping and begging on the high road, a minister from

Kingston took me in, instructed me in the Calvinistic faith, taught me

all he knew himself and aided me in my researches after my family.”

“And these researches?”

“Were fruitless; chance did everything.”

“You discovered what had become of your mother?”

“I learned that she had been assassinated by my relation, aided by four

friends, but I was already aware that I had been robbed of my wealth

and degraded from my nobility by King Charles I.”

“Oh! I now understand why you are in the service of Cromwell; you hate

the king.”

“Yes, my lord, I hate him!” said the young man.

Mazarin marked with surprise the diabolical expression with which the

young man uttered these words. Just as, ordinarily, faces are colored

by blood, his face seemed dyed by hatred and became livid.

“Your history is a terrible one, Mr. Mordaunt, and touches me keenly;

but happily for you, you serve an all-powerful master; he ought to aid

you in your search; we have so many means of gaining information.”

“My lord, to a well-bred dog it is only necessary to show one end of a

track; he is certain to reach the other.”

“But this relation you mentioned—do you wish me to speak to him?” said

Mazarin, who was anxious to make a friend about Cromwell’s person.

“Thanks, my lord, I will speak to him myself. He will treat me better

the next time I see him.”

“You have the means, then, of touching him?”

“I have the means of making myself feared.”

Mazarin looked at the young man, but at the fire which shot from his

glance he bent his head; then, embarrassed how to continue such a

conversation, he opened Cromwell’s letter.

The young man’s eyes gradually resumed their dull and glassy appearance

and he fell into a profound reverie. After reading the first lines of

the letter Mazarin gave a side glance at him to see if he was watching

the expression of his face as he read. Observing his indifference, he

shrugged his shoulders, saying:

“Send on your business those who do theirs at the same time! Let us see

what this letter contains.”

We here present the letter _verbatim:_

“_To his Eminence, Monseigneur le Cardinal Mazarini:_

“I have wished, monseigneur, to learn your intentions relating to the

existing state of affairs in England. The two kingdoms are so near that

France must be interested in our situation, as we are interested in

that of France. The English are almost of one mind in contending

against the tyranny of Charles and his adherents. Placed by popular

confidence at the head of that movement, I can appreciate better than

any other its significance and its probable results. I am at present in

the midst of war, and am about to deliver a decisive battle against

King Charles. I shall gain it, for the hope of the nation and the

Spirit of the Lord are with me. This battle won by me, the king will

have no further resources in England or in Scotland; and if he is not

captured or killed, he will endeavor to pass over into France to

recruit soldiers and to refurnish himself with arms and money. France

has already received Queen Henrietta, and, unintentionally, doubtless,

has maintained a centre of inextinguishable civil war in my country.

But Madame Henrietta is a daughter of France and was entitled to the

hospitality of France. As to King Charles, the question must be viewed

differently; in receiving and aiding him, France will censure the acts

of the English nation, and thus so essentially harm England, and

especially the well-being of the government, that such a proceeding

will be equivalent to pronounced hostilities.”

At this moment Mazarin became very uneasy at the turn which the letter

was taking and paused to glance under his eyes at the young man. The

latter continued in thought. Mazarin resumed his reading:

“It is important, therefore, monseigneur, that I should be informed as

to the intentions of France. The interests of that kingdom and those of

England, though taking now diverse directions, are very nearly the

same. England needs tranquillity at home, in order to consummate the

expulsion of her king; France needs tranquillity to establish on solid

foundations the throne of her young monarch. You need, as much as we

do, that interior condition of repose which, thanks to the energy of

our government, we are about to attain.

“Your quarrels with the parliament, your noisy dissensions with the

princes, who fight for you to-day and to-morrow will fight against you,

the popular following directed by the coadjutor, President Blancmesnil,

and Councillor Broussel—all that disorder, in short, which pervades the

several departments of the state, must lead you to view with uneasiness

the possibility of a foreign war; for in that event England, exalted by

the enthusiasm of new ideas, will ally herself with Spain, already

seeking that alliance. I have therefore believed, monseigneur, knowing

your prudence and your personal relation to the events of the present

time, that you will choose to hold your forces concentrated in the

interior of the French kingdom and leave to her own the new government

of England. That neutrality consists simply in excluding King Charles

from the territory of France and in refraining from helping him—a

stranger to your country—with arms, with money or with troops.

“My letter is private and confidential, and for that reason I send it

to you by a man who shares my most intimate counsels. It anticipates,

through a sentiment which your eminence will appreciate, measures to be

taken after the events. Oliver Cromwell considered it more expedient to

declare himself to a mind as intelligent as Mazarin’s than to a queen

admirable for firmness, without doubt, but too much guided by vain

prejudices of birth and of divine right.

“Farewell, monseigneur; should I not receive a reply in the space of

fifteen days, I shall presume my letter will have miscarried.

“Oliver Cromwell.”