the dreamer, “my reply to this letter will be more satisfactory to
General Cromwell if I am convinced that all are ignorant of my having
given one; go, therefore, and await it at Boulogne-sur-Mer, and promise
me to set out to-morrow morning.”
“I promise, my lord,” replied Mordaunt; “but how many days does your
eminence expect me to await your reply?”
“If you do not receive it in ten days you can leave.”
Mordaunt bowed.
“That is not all, sir,” continued Mazarin; “your private adventures
have touched me to the quick; besides, the letter from Mr. Cromwell
makes you an important person as ambassador; come, tell me, what can I
do for you?”
Mordaunt reflected a moment and, after some hesitation, was about to
speak, when Bernouin entered hastily and bending down to the ear of the
cardinal, whispered:
“My lord, the Queen Henrietta Maria, accompanied by an English noble,
is entering the Palais Royal at this moment.”
Mazarin made a bound from his chair, which did not escape the attention
of the young man and suppressed the confidence he was about to make.
“Sir,” said the cardinal, “you have heard me? I fix on Boulogne because
I presume that every town in France is indifferent to you; if you
prefer another, name it; but you can easily conceive that, surrounded
as I am by influences I can only muzzle by discretion, I desire your
presence in Paris to be unknown.”
“I go, sir,” said Mordaunt, advancing a few steps to the door by which
he had entered.
“No, not that way, I beg, sir,” quickly exclaimed the cardinal, “be so
good as to pass by yonder gallery, by which you can regain the hall. I
do not wish you to be seen leaving; our interview must be kept secret.”
Mordaunt followed Bernouin, who led him through the adjacent chamber
and left him with a doorkeeper, showing him the way out.
Chapter XXXVIII.
Henrietta Maria and Mazarin.
The cardinal rose, and advanced in haste to receive the queen of
England. He showed the more respect to this queen, deprived of every
mark of pomp and stripped of followers, as he felt some self-reproach
for his own want of heart and his avarice. But supplicants for favor
know how to accommodate the expression of their features, and the
daughter of Henry IV. smiled as she advanced to meet a man she hated
and despised.
“Ah!” said Mazarin to himself, “what a sweet face; does she come to
borrow money of me?”
And he threw an uneasy glance at his strong box; he even turned inside
the bevel of the magnificent diamond ring, the brilliancy of which drew
every eye upon his hand, which indeed was white and handsome.
“Your eminence,” said the august visitor, “it was my first intention to
speak of the matters that have brought me here to the queen, my sister,
but I have reflected that political affairs are more especially the
concern of men.”
“Madame,” said Mazarin, “your majesty overwhelms me with flattering
distinction.”
“He is very gracious,” thought the queen; “can he have guessed my
errand?”
“Give,” continued the cardinal, “your commands to the most respectful
of your servants.”
“Alas, sir,” replied the queen, “I have lost the habit of commanding
and have adopted instead that of making petitions. I am here to
petition you, too happy should my prayer be favorably heard.”
“I am listening, madame, with the greatest interest,” said Mazarin.
“Your eminence, it concerns the war which the king, my husband, is now
sustaining against his rebellious subjects. You are perhaps ignorant
that they are fighting in England,” added she, with a melancholy smile,
“and that in a short time they will fight in a much more decided
fashion than they have done hitherto.”
“I am completely ignorant of it, madame,” said the cardinal,
accompanying his words with a slight shrug of the shoulders; “alas, our
own wars quite absorb the time and the mind of a poor, incapable,
infirm old minister like me.”
“Well, then, your eminence,” said the queen, “I must inform you that
Charles I., my husband, is on the eve of a decisive engagement. In case
of a check” (Mazarin made a slight movement), “one must foresee
everything; in the case of a check, he desires to retire into France
and to live here as a private individual. What do you say to this
project?”
The cardinal had listened without permitting a single fibre of his face
to betray what he felt, and his smile remained as it ever was—false and
flattering; and when the queen finished speaking, he said:
“Do you think, madame, that France, agitated and disturbed as it is,
would be a safe retreat for a dethroned king? How will the crown, which
is scarce firmly set on the head of Louis XIV., support a double
weight?”
“The weight was not so heavy when I was in peril,” interrupted the
queen, with a sad smile, “and I ask no more for my husband than has
been done for me; you see that we are very humble monarchs, sir.”
“Oh, you, madame,” the cardinal hastened to say, in order to cut short
the explanation he foresaw was coming, “with regard to you, that is
another thing. A daughter of Henry IV., of that great, that sublime
sovereign——”
“All which does not prevent you refusing hospitality to his son-in-law,
sir! Nevertheless, you ought to remember that that great, that sublime
monarch, when proscribed at one time, as my husband may be, demanded
aid from England and England accorded it to him; and it is but just to
say that Queen Elizabeth was not his niece.”
“_Peccato!_” said Mazarin, writhing beneath this simple eloquence,
“your majesty does not understand me; you judge my intentions wrongly,
and that is partly because, doubtless, I explain myself in French.”
“Speak Italian, sir. Ere the cardinal, your predecessor, sent our
mother, Marie de Médicis, to die in exile, she taught us that language.
If anything yet remains of that great, that sublime king, Henry, of
whom you have just spoken, he would be much surprised at so little pity
for his family being united to such a profound admiration of himself.”
The perspiration stood in large drops on Mazarin’s brow.
“That admiration is, on the contrary, so great, so real, madame,”
returned Mazarin, without noticing the change of language offered to
him by the queen, “that if the king, Charles I.—whom Heaven protect
from evil!—came into France, I would offer him my house—my own house;
but, alas! it would be but an unsafe retreat. Some day the people will
burn that house, as they burned that of the Maréchal d’Ancre. Poor
Concino Concini! And yet he but desired the good of the people.”
“Yes, my lord, like yourself!” said the queen, ironically.
Mazarin pretended not to understand the double meaning of his own
sentence, but continued to compassionate the fate of Concino Concini.
“Well then, your eminence,” said the queen, becoming impatient, “what
is your answer?”
“Madame,” cried Mazarin, more and more moved, “will your majesty permit
me to give you counsel?”
“Speak, sir,” replied the queen; “the counsels of so prudent a man as
yourself ought certainly to be available.”
“Madame, believe me, the king ought to defend himself to the last.”
“He has done so, sir, and this last battle, which he encounters with
resources much inferior to those of the enemy, proves that he will not
yield without a struggle; but in case he is beaten?”
“Well, madame, in that case, my advice—I know that I am very bold to
offer advice to your majesty—my advice is that the king should not
leave his kingdom. Absent kings are very soon forgotten; if he passes
over into France his cause is lost.”
“But,” persisted the queen, “if such be your advice and you have his
interest at heart, send him help of men and money, for I can do nothing
for him; I have sold even to my last diamond to aid him. If I had had a
single ornament left, I should have bought wood this winter to make a
fire for my daughter and myself.”
“Oh, madame,” said Mazarin, “your majesty knows not what you ask. On
the day when foreign succor follows in the train of a king to replace
him on his throne, it is an avowal that he no longer possesses the help
and love of his own subjects.”
“To the point, sir,” said the queen, “to the point, and answer me, yes
or no; if the king persists in remaining in England will you send him
succor? If he comes to France will you accord him hospitality? What do
you intend to do? Speak.”
“Madame,” said the cardinal, affecting an effusive frankness of speech,
“I shall convince your majesty, I trust, of my devotion to you and my
desire to terminate an affair which you have so much at heart. After
which your majesty will, I think, no longer doubt my zeal in your
behalf.”
The queen bit her lips and moved impatiently on her chair.
“Well, what do you propose to do?” she, said at length; “come, speak.”
“I will go this instant and consult the queen, and we will refer the
affair at once to parliament.”
“With which you are at war—is it not so? You will charge Broussel to
report it. Enough, sir, enough. I understand you or rather, I am wrong.
Go to the parliament, for it was from this parliament, the enemy of
monarchs, that the daughter of the great, the sublime Henry IV., whom
you so much admire, received the only relief this winter which
prevented her from dying of hunger and cold!”
And with these words Henrietta rose in majestic indignation, whilst the
cardinal, raising his hands clasped toward her, exclaimed, “Ah, madame,
madame, how little you know me, _mon Dieu!_”
But Queen Henrietta, without even turning toward him who made these
hypocritical pretensions, crossed the cabinet, opened the door for
herself and passing through the midst of the cardinal’s numerous
guards, courtiers eager to pay homage, the luxurious show of a
competing royalty, she went and took the hand of De Winter, who stood
apart in isolation. Poor queen, already fallen! Though all bowed before
her, as etiquette required, she had now but a single arm on which she
could lean.
“It signifies little,” said Mazarin, when he was alone. “It gave me
pain and it was an ungracious part to play, but I have said nothing
either to the one or to the other. Bernouin!”
Bernouin entered.
“See if the young man with the black doublet and the short hair, who
was with me just now, is still in the palace.”
Bernouin went out and soon returned with Comminges, who was on guard.
“Your eminence,” said Comminges, “as I was re-conducting the young man
for whom you have asked, he approached the glass door of the gallery,
and gazed intently upon some object, doubtless the picture by Raphael,
which is opposite the door. He reflected for a second and then
descended the stairs. I believe I saw him mount a gray horse and leave
the palace court. But is not your eminence going to the queen?”
“For what purpose?”
“Monsieur de Guitant, my uncle, has just told me that her majesty had
received news of the army.”
“It is well; I will go.”
Comminges had seen rightly, and Mordaunt had really acted as he had
related. In crossing the gallery parallel to the large glass gallery,
he perceived De Winter, who was waiting until the queen had finished
her negotiation.
At this sight the young man stopped short, not in admiration of
Raphael’s picture, but as if fascinated at the sight of some terrible
object. His eyes dilated and a shudder ran through his body. One would
have said that he longed to break through the wall of glass which
separated him from his enemy; for if Comminges had seen with what an
expression of hatred the eyes of this young man were fixed upon De
Winter, he would not have doubted for an instant that the Englishman
was his eternal foe.
But he stopped, doubtless to reflect; for instead of allowing his first
impulse, which had been to go straight to Lord de Winter, to carry him
away, he leisurely descended the staircase, left the palace with his
head down, mounted his horse, which he reined in at the corner of the
Rue Richelieu, and with his eyes fixed on the gate, waited until the
queen’s carriage had left the court.
He had not long to wait, for the queen scarcely remained a quarter of
an hour with Mazarin, but this quarter of an hour of expectation
appeared a century to him. At last the heavy machine, which was called
a chariot in those days, came out, rumbling against the gates, and De
Winter, still on horseback, bent again to the door to converse with her
majesty.
The horses started on a trot and took the road to the Louvre, which
they entered. Before leaving the convent of the Carmelites, Henrietta
had desired her daughter to attend her at the palace, which she had
inhabited for a long time and which she had only left because their
poverty seemed to them more difficult to bear in gilded chambers.
Mordaunt followed the carriage, and when he had watched it drive
beneath the sombre arches he went and stationed himself under a wall
over which the shadow was extended, and remained motionless, amidst the
moldings of Jean Goujon, like a _bas-relievo_, representing an
equestrian statue.
Chapter XXXIX.
How, sometimes, the Unhappy mistake Chance for Providence.
Well, madame,” said De Winter, when the queen had dismissed her
attendants.
“Well, my lord, what I foresaw has come to pass.”
“What? does the cardinal refuse to receive the king? France refuse
hospitality to an unfortunate prince? Ay, but it is for the first time,
madame!”
“I did not say France, my lord; I said the cardinal, and the cardinal
is not even a Frenchman.”
“But did you see the queen?”
“It is useless,” replied Henrietta, “the queen will not say yes when
the cardinal says no. Are you not aware that this Italian directs
everything, both indoors and out? And moreover, I should not be
surprised had we been forestalled by Cromwell. He was embarrassed
whilst speaking to me and yet quite firm in his determination to
refuse. Then did you not observe the agitation in the Palais Royal, the
passing to and fro of busy people? Can they have received any news, my
lord?”
“Not from England, madame. I made such haste that I am certain of not
having been forestalled. I set out three days ago, passing miraculously
through the Puritan army, and I took post horses with my servant Tony;
the horses upon which we were mounted were bought in Paris. Besides,
the king, I am certain, awaits your majesty’s reply before risking
anything.”
“You will tell him, my lord,” resumed the queen, despairingly, “that I
can do nothing; that I have suffered as much as himself—more than he
has—obliged as I am to eat the bread of exile and to ask hospitality
from false friends who smile at my tears; and as regards his royal
person, he must sacrifice it generously and die like a king. I shall go
and die by his side.”
“Madame, madame,” exclaimed De Winter, “your majesty abandons yourself
to despair; and yet, perhaps, there still remains some hope.”
“No friends left, my lord; no other friends left in the wide world but
yourself! Oh, God!” exclaimed the poor queen, raising her eyes to
Heaven, “have You indeed taken back all the generous hearts that once
existed in the world?”
“I hope not, madame,” replied De Winter, thoughtfully; “I once spoke to
you of four men.”
“What can be done with four?”
“Four devoted, resolute men can do much, assure yourself, madame; and
those of whom I speak performed great things at one time.”
“And where are these four men?”
“Ah, that is what I do not know. It is twenty years since I saw them,
and yet whenever I have seen the king in danger I have thought of
them.”
“And these men were your friends?”
“One of them held my life in his hands and gave it to me. I know not
whether he is still my friend, but since that time I have remained
his.”
“And these men are in France, my lord?”
“I believe so.”
“Tell me their names; perhaps I may have heard them mentioned and might
be able to aid you in finding them.”
“One of them was called the Chevalier d’Artagnan.”
“Ah, my lord, if I mistake not, the Chevalier d’Artagnan is lieutenant
of royal guards; but take care, for I fear that this man is entirely
devoted to the cardinal.”
“That would be a misfortune,” said De Winter, “and I shall begin to
think that we are really doomed.”
“But the others,” said the queen, who clung to this last hope as a
shipwrecked man clings to the hull of his vessel. “The others, my
lord!”
“The second—I heard his name by chance; for before fighting us, these
four gentlemen told us their names; the second was called the Comte de
la Fère. As for the two others, I had so much the habit of calling them
by nicknames that I have forgotten their real ones.”
“Oh, _mon Dieu_, it is a matter of the greatest urgency to find them
out,” said the queen, “since you think these worthy gentlemen might be
so useful to the king.”
“Oh, yes,” said De Winter, “for they are the same men. Listen, madame,
and recall your remembrances. Have you never heard that Queen Anne of
Austria was once saved from the greatest danger ever incurred by a
queen?”
“Yes, at the time of her relations with Monsieur de Buckingham; it had
to do in some way with certain studs and diamonds.”
“Well, it was that affair, madame; these men are the ones who saved
her; and I smile with pity when I reflect that if the names of those
gentlemen are unknown to you it is because the queen has forgotten
them, who ought to have made them the first noblemen of the realm.”
“Well, then, my lord, they must be found; but what can four men, or
rather three men do—for I tell you, you must not count on Monsieur
d’Artagnan.”
“It will be one valiant sword the less, but there will remain still
three, without reckoning my own; now four devoted men around the king
to protect him from his enemies, to be at his side in battle, to aid
him with counsel, to escort him in flight, are sufficient, not to make
the king a conqueror, but to save him if conquered; and whatever
Mazarin may say, once on the shores of France your royal husband may
find as many retreats and asylums as the seabird finds in a storm.”
“Seek, then, my lord, seek these gentlemen; and if they will consent to
go with you to England, I will give to each a duchy the day that we
reascend the throne, besides as much gold as would pave Whitehall. Seek
them, my lord, and find them, I conjure you.”
“I will search for them, madame,” said De Winter “and doubtless I shall
find them; but time fails me. Has your majesty forgotten that the king
expects your reply and awaits it in agony?”
“Then indeed we are lost!” cried the queen, in the fullness of a broken
heart.
At this moment the door opened and the young Henrietta appeared; then
the queen, with that wonderful strength which is the privilege of
parents, repressed her tears and motioned to De Winter to change the
subject.
But that act of self-control, effective as it was, did not escape the
eyes of the young princess. She stopped on the threshold, breathed a
sigh, and addressing the queen:
“Why, then, do you always weep, mother, when I am away from you?” she
said.
The queen smiled, but instead of answering:
“See, De Winter,” she said, “I have at least gained one thing in being
only half a queen; and that is that my children call me ‘mother’
instead of ‘madame.’”
Then turning toward her daughter:
“What do you want, Henrietta?” she demanded.
“My mother,” replied the young princess, “a cavalier has just entered
the Louvre and wishes to present his respects to your majesty; he
arrives from the army and has, he says, a letter to remit to you, on
the part of the Maréchal de Grammont, I think.”
“Ah!” said the queen to De Winter, “he is one of my faithful adherents;
but do you not observe, my dear lord, that we are so poorly served that
it is left to my daughter to fill the office of doorkeeper?”
“Madame, have pity on me,” exclaimed De Winter; “you wring my heart!”
“And who is this cavalier, Henrietta?” asked the queen.
“I saw him from the window, madame; he is a young man that appears
scarce sixteen years of age, and is called the Viscount de Bragelonne.”
The queen, smiling, made a sign with her head; the young princess
opened the door and Raoul appeared on the threshold.
Advancing a few steps toward the queen, he knelt down.
“Madame,” said he, “I bear to your majesty a letter from my friend the
Count de Guiche, who told me he had the honor of being your servant;
this letter contains important news and the expression of his respect.”
At the name of the Count de Guiche a blush spread over the cheeks of
the young princess and the queen glanced at her with some degree of
severity.
“You told me that the letter was from the Maréchal de Grammont,
Henrietta!” said the queen.
“I thought so, madame,” stammered the young girl.
“It is my fault, madame,” said Raoul. “I did announce myself, in truth,
as coming on the part of the Maréchal de Grammont; but being wounded in
the right arm he was unable to write and therefore the Count de Guiche
acted as his secretary.”
“There has been fighting, then?” asked the queen, motioning to Raoul to
rise.
“Yes, madame,” said the young man.
At this announcement of a battle having taken place, the princess
opened her mouth as though to ask a question of interest; but her lips
closed again without articulating a word, while the color gradually
faded from her cheeks.
The queen saw this, and doubtless her maternal heart translated the
emotion, for addressing Raoul again:
“And no evil has happened to the young Count de Guiche?” she asked;
“for not only is he our servant, as you say, sir, but more—he is one of
our friends.”
“No, madame,” replied Raoul; “on the contrary, he gained great glory
and had the honor of being embraced by his highness, the prince, on the
field of battle.”
The young princess clapped her hands; and then, ashamed of having been
betrayed into such a demonstration of joy, she half turned away and
bent over a vase of roses, as if to inhale their odor.
“Let us see,” said the queen, “what the count says.” And she opened the
letter and read:
“Madame,—Being unable to have the honor of writing to you myself, by
reason of a wound I have received in my right hand, I have commanded my
son, the Count de Guiche, who, with his father, is equally your humble
servant, to write to tell you that we have just gained the battle of
Lens, and that this victory cannot fail to give great power to Cardinal
Mazarin and to the queen over the affairs of Europe. If her majesty
will have faith in my counsels she ought to profit by this event to
address at this moment, in favor of her august husband, the court of
France. The Vicomte de Bragelonne, who will have the honor of remitting
this letter to your majesty, is the friend of my son, who owes to him
his life; he is a gentleman in whom your majesty may confide entirely,
in case your majesty may have some verbal or written order to remit to
me.
“I have the honor to be, with respect, etc.,
“Maréchal de Grammont.”
At the moment mention occurred of his having rendered a service to the
count, Raoul could not help turning his glance toward the young
princess, and then he saw in her eyes an expression of infinite
gratitude to the young man; he no longer doubted that the daughter of
King Charles I. loved his friend.
“The battle of Lens gained!” said the queen; “they are lucky here
indeed; they can gain battles! Yes, the Maréchal de Grammont is right;
this will change the aspect of French affairs, but I much fear it will
do nothing for English, even if it does not harm them. This is recent
news, sir,” continued she, “and I thank you for having made such haste
to bring it to me; without this letter I should not have heard till
to-morrow, perhaps after to-morrow—the last of all Paris.”
“Madame,” said Raoul, “the Louvre is but the second palace this news
has reached; it is as yet unknown to all, and I had sworn to the Count
de Guiche to remit this letter to your majesty before even I should
embrace my guardian.”
“Your guardian! is he, too, a Bragelonne?” asked Lord de Winter. “I
once knew a Bragelonne—is he still alive?”
“No, sir, he is dead; and I believe it is from him my guardian, whose
near relation he was, inherited the estate from which I take my name.”
“And your guardian, sir,” asked the queen, who could not help feeling
some interest in the handsome young man before her, “what is his name?”
“The Comte de la Fère, madame,” replied the young man, bowing.
De Winter made a gesture of surprise and the queen turned to him with a
start of joy.
“The Comte de la Fère!” she cried. “Have you not mentioned that name to
me?”
As for De Winter he could scarcely believe that he had heard aright.
“The Comte de la Fère!” he cried in his turn. “Oh, sir, reply, I
entreat you—is not the Comte de la Fère a noble whom I remember,
handsome and brave, a musketeer under Louis XIII., who must be now
about forty-seven or forty-eight years of age?”
“Yes, sir, you are right in every particular!”
“And who served under an assumed name?”
“Under the name of Athos. Latterly I heard his friend, Monsieur
d’Artagnan, give him that name.”
“That is it, madame, that is the same. God be praised! And he is in
Paris?” continued he, addressing Raoul; then turning to the queen: “We
may still hope. Providence has declared for us, since I have found this
brave man again in so miraculous a manner. And, sir, where does he
reside, pray?”
“The Comte de la Fère lodges in the Rue Guénégaud, Hotel du Grand Roi
Charlemagne.”
“Thanks, sir. Inform this dear friend that he may remain within, that I
shall go and see him immediately.”
“Sir, I obey with pleasure, if her majesty will permit me to depart.”
“Go, Monsieur de Bragelonne,” said the queen, “and rest assured of our
affection.”
Raoul bent respectfully before the two princesses, and bowing to De
Winter, departed.
The queen and De Winter continued to converse for some time in low
voices, in order that the young princess should not overhear them; but
the precaution was needless: she was in deep converse with her own
thoughts.
Then, when De Winter rose to take leave:
“Listen, my lord,” said the queen; “I have preserved this diamond cross
which came from my mother, and this order of St. Michael which came
from my husband. They are worth about fifty thousand pounds. I had
sworn to die of hunger rather than part with these precious pledges;
but now that this ornament may be useful to him or his defenders,
everything must be sacrificed. Take them, and if you need money for
your expedition, sell them fearlessly, my lord. But should you find the
means of retaining them, remember, my lord, that I shall esteem you as
having rendered the greatest service that a gentleman can render to a
queen; and in the day of my prosperity he who brings me this order and
this cross shall be blessed by me and my children.”
“Madame,” replied De Winter, “your majesty will be served by a man
devoted to you. I hasten to deposit these two objects in a safe place,
nor should I accept them if the resources of our ancient fortune were
left to us, but our estates are confiscated, our ready money is
exhausted, and we are reduced to turn to service everything we possess.
In an hour hence I shall be with the Comte de la Fère, and to-morrow
your majesty shall have a definite reply.”
The queen tendered her hand to Lord de Winter, who, kissing it
respectfully, went out and traversed alone and unconducted those large,
dark and deserted apartments, brushing away tears which, blasé as he
was by fifty years spent as a courtier, he could not withhold at the
spectacle of royal distress so dignified, yet so intense.
Chapter XL.
Uncle and Nephew.
The horse and servant belonging to De Winter were waiting for him at
the door; he proceeded toward his abode very thoughtfully, looking
behind him from time to him to contemplate the dark and silent frontage
of the Louvre. It was then that he saw a horseman, as it were, detach
himself from the wall and follow him at a little distance. In leaving
the Palais Royal he remembered to have observed a similar shadow.
“Tony,” he said, motioning to his groom to approach.
“Here I am, my lord.”
“Did you remark that man who is following us?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Who is he?”
“I do not know, only he has followed your grace from the Palais Royal,
stopped at the Louvre to wait for you, and now leaves the Louvre with
you.”
“Some spy of the cardinal,” said De Winter to him, aside. “Let us
pretend not to notice that he is watching us.”
And spurring on he plunged into the labyrinth of streets which led to
his hotel, situated near the Marais, for having for so long a time
lived near the Place Royale, Lord de Winter naturally returned to lodge
near his ancient dwelling.
The unknown spurred his horse to a gallop.
De Winter dismounted at his hotel and went up into his apartment,
intending to watch the spy; but as he was about to place his gloves and
hat on a table, he saw reflected in a glass opposite to him a figure
which stood on the threshold of the room. He turned around and Mordaunt
stood before him.
There was a moment of frozen silence between these two.
“Sir,” said De Winter, “I thought I had already made you aware that I
am weary of this persecution; withdraw, then, or I shall call and have
you turned out as you were in London. I am not your uncle, I know you
not.”
“My uncle,” replied Mordaunt, with his harsh and bantering tone, “you
are mistaken; you will not have me turned out this time as you did in
London—you dare not. As for denying that I am your nephew, you will
think twice about it, now that I have learned some things of which I
was ignorant a year ago.”
“And how does it concern me what you have learned?” said De Winter.
“Oh, it concerns you very closely, my uncle, I am sure, and you will
soon be of my opinion,” added he, with a smile which sent a shudder
through the veins of him he thus addressed. “When I presented myself
before you for the first time in London, it was to ask you what had
become of my fortune; the second time it was to demand who had sullied
my name; and this time I come before you to ask a question far more
terrible than any other, to say to you as God said to the first
murderer: ‘Cain, what hast thou done to thy brother Abel?’ My lord,
what have you done with your sister—your sister, who was my mother?”
De Winter shrank back from the fire of those scorching eyes.
“Your mother?” he said.
“Yes, my lord, my mother,” replied the young man, advancing into the
room until he was face to face with Lord de Winter, and crossing his
arms. “I have asked the headsman of Bethune,” he said, his voice hoarse
and his face livid with passion and grief. “And the headsman of Bethune
gave me a reply.”
De Winter fell back in a chair as though struck by a thunderbolt and in
vain attempted a reply.
“Yes,” continued the young man; “all is now explained; with this key I
open the abyss. My mother inherited an estate from her husband, you
have assassinated her; my name would have secured me the paternal
estate, you have deprived me of it; you have despoiled me of my
fortune. I am no longer astonished that you knew me not. I am not
surprised that you refused to recognize me. When a man is a robber it
is hard to call him nephew whom he has impoverished; when one is a
murderer, to recognize the man whom one has made an orphan.”
These words produced a contrary effect to that which Mordaunt had
anticipated. De Winter remembered the monster that Milady had been; he
rose, dignified and calm, restraining by the severity of his look the
wild glance of the young man.
“You desire to fathom this horrible secret?” said De Winter; “well,
then, so be it. Know, then, what manner of woman it was for whom to-day
you call me to account. That woman had, in all probability, poisoned my
brother, and in order to inherit from me she was about to assassinate
me in my turn. I have proof of it. What say you to that?”
“I say that she was my mother.”
“She caused the unfortunate Duke of Buckingham to be stabbed by a man
who was, ere that, honest, good and pure. What say you to that crime,
of which I have the proof?”
“She was my mother.”
“On our return to France she had a young woman who was attached to one
of her opponents poisoned in the convent of the Augustines at Bethune.
Will this crime persuade you of the justice of her punishment—for of
all this I have the proofs?”
“She was my mother!” cried the young man, who uttered these three
successive exclamations with constantly increasing force.
“At last, charged with murders, with debauchery, hated by every one and
yet threatening still, like a panther thirsting for blood, she fell
under the blows of men whom she had rendered desperate, though they had
never done her the least injury; she met with judges whom her hideous
crimes had evoked; and that executioner you saw—that executioner who
you say told you everything—that executioner, if he told you
everything, told you that he leaped with joy in avenging on her his
brother’s shame and suicide. Depraved as a girl, adulterous as a wife,
an unnatural sister, homicide, poisoner, execrated by all who knew her,
by every nation that had been visited by her, she died accursed by
Heaven and earth.”
A sob which Mordaunt could not repress burst from his throat and his
livid face became suffused with blood; he clenched his fists, sweat
covered his face, his hair, like Hamlet’s, stood on end, and racked
with fury he cried out:
“Silence, sir! she was my mother! Her crimes, I know them not; her
disorders, I know them not; her vices, I know them not. But this I
know, that I had a mother, that five men leagued against one woman,
murdered her clandestinely by night—silently—like cowards. I know that
you were one of them, my uncle, and that you cried louder than the
others: ‘She must die.’ Therefore I warn you, and listen well to my
words, that they may be engraved upon your memory, never to be
forgotten: this murder, which has robbed me of everything—this murder,
which has deprived me of my name—this murder, which has impoverished
me—this murder, which has made me corrupt, wicked, implacable—I shall
summon you to account for it first and then those who were your
accomplices, when I discover them!”
With hatred in his eyes, foaming at his mouth, and his fist extended,
Mordaunt had advanced one more step, a threatening, terrible step,
toward De Winter. The latter put his hand to his sword, and said, with
the smile of a man who for thirty years has jested with death:
“Would you assassinate me, sir? _Then_ I shall recognize you as my
nephew, for you would be a worthy son of such a mother.”
“No,” replied Mordaunt, forcing his features and the muscles of his
body to resume their usual places and be calm; “no, I shall not kill
you; at least not at this moment, for without you I could not discover
the others. But when I have found them, then tremble, sir. I stabbed to
the heart the headsman of Bethune, without mercy or pity, and he was
the least guilty of you all.”
With these words the young man went out and descended the stairs with
sufficient calmness to pass unobserved; then upon the lowest landing
place he passed Tony, leaning over the balustrade, waiting only for a
call from his master to mount to his room.
But De Winter did not call; crushed, enfeebled, he remained standing
and with listening ear; then only when he had heard the step of the
horse going away he fell back on a chair, saying:
“My God, I thank Thee that he knows me only.”
Chapter XLI.
Paternal Affection.
Whilst this terrible scene was passing at Lord de Winter’s, Athos,
seated near his window, his elbow on the table and his head supported
on his hand, was listening intently to Raoul’s account of the
adventures he met with on his journey and the details of the battle.
Listening to the relation of those emotions so fresh and pure, the
fine, noble face of Athos betrayed indescribable pleasure; he inhaled
the tones of that young voice, as harmonious music. He forgot all that
was dark in the past and that was cloudy in the future. It almost
seemed as if the return of this much loved boy had changed his fears to
hopes. Athos was happy—happy as he had never been before.
“And you assisted and took part in this great battle, Bragelonne!”
cried the former musketeer.
“Yes, sir.”
“And it was a fierce one?”
“His highness the prince charged eleven times in person.”
“He is a great commander, Bragelonne.”
“He is a hero, sir. I did not lose sight of him for an instant. Oh! how
fine it is to be called Condé and to be so worthy of such a name!”
“He was calm and radiant, was he not?”
“As calm as at parade, radiant as at a _fête_. When we went up to the
enemy it was slowly; we were forbidden to draw first and we were
marching toward the Spaniards, who were on a height with lowered
muskets. When we arrived about thirty paces from them the prince turned
around to the soldiers: ‘Comrades,’ he said, ‘you are about to suffer a
furious discharge; but after that you will make short work with those
fellows.’ There was such dead silence that friends and enemies could
have heard these words; then raising his sword, ‘Sound trumpets!’ he
cried.”
“Well, very good; you will do as much when the opportunity occurs, will
you, Raoul?”
“I know not, sir, but I thought it really very fine and grand!”
“Were you afraid, Raoul?” asked the count.
“Yes, sir,” replied the young man naïvely; “I felt a great chill at my
heart, and at the word ‘fire,’ which resounded in Spanish from the
enemy’s ranks, I closed my eyes and thought of you.”
“In honest truth, Raoul?” said Athos, pressing his hand.
“Yes, sir; at that instant there was such a rataplan of musketry that
one might have imagined the infernal regions had opened. Those who were
not killed felt the heat of the flames. I opened my eyes, astonished to
find myself alive and even unhurt; a third of the squadron were lying
on the ground, wounded, dead or dying. At that moment I encountered the
eye of the prince. I had but one thought and that was that he was
observing me. I spurred on and found myself in the enemy’s ranks.”
“And the prince was pleased with you?”
“He told me so, at least, sir, when he desired me to return to Paris
with Monsieur de Châtillon, who was charged to carry the news to the
queen and to bring the colors we had taken. ‘Go,’ said he; ‘the enemy
will not rally for fifteen days and until that time I have no need of
your service. Go and see those whom you love and who love you, and tell
my sister De Longueville that I thank her for the present that she made
me of you.’ And I came, sir,” added Raoul, gazing at the count with a
smile of real affection, “for I thought you would be glad to see me
again.”
Athos drew the young man toward him and pressed his lips to his brow,
as he would have done to a young daughter.
“And now, Raoul,” said he, “you are launched; you have dukes for
friends, a marshal of France for godfather, a prince of the blood as
commander, and on the day of your return you have been received by two
queens; it is not so bad for a novice.”
“Oh sir,” said Raoul, suddenly, “you recall something, which, in my
haste to relate my exploits, I had forgotten; it is that there was with
Her Majesty the Queen of England, a gentleman who, when I pronounced
your name, uttered a cry of surprise and joy; he said he was a friend
of yours, asked your address, and is coming to see you.”
“What is his name?”
“I did not venture to ask, sir; he spoke elegantly, although I thought
from his accent he was an Englishman.”
“Ah!” said Athos, leaning down his head as if to remember who it could
be. Then, when he raised it again, he was struck by the presence of a
man who was standing at the open door and was gazing at him with a
compassionate air.
“Lord de Winter!” exclaimed the count.
“Athos, my friend!”
And the two gentlemen were for an instant locked in each other’s arms;
then Athos, looking into his friend’s face and taking him by both
hands, said:
“What ails you, my lord? you appear as unhappy as I am the reverse.”
“Yes, truly, dear friend; and I may even say the sight of you increases
my dismay.”
And De Winter glancing around him, Raoul quickly understood that the
two friends wished to be alone and he therefore left the room
unaffectedly.
“Come, now that we are alone,” said Athos, “let us talk of yourself.”
“Whilst we are alone let us speak of ourselves,” replied De Winter. “He
is here.”
“Who?”
“Milady’s son.”
Athos, again struck by this name, which seemed to pursue him like an
echo, hesitated for a moment, then slightly knitting his brows, he
calmly said:
“I know it, Grimaud met him between Bethune and Arras and then came
here to warn me of his presence.”
“Does Grimaud know him, then?”
“No; but he was present at the deathbed of a man who knew him.”
“The headsman of Bethune?” exclaimed De Winter.
“You know about that?” cried Athos, astonished.
“He has just left me,” replied De Winter, “after telling me all. Ah! my
friend! what a horrible scene! Why did we not destroy the child with
the mother?”
“What need you fear?” said Athos, recovering from the instinctive fear
he had at first experienced, by the aid of reason; “are we not men
accustomed to defend ourselves? Is this young man an assassin by
profession—a murderer in cold blood? He has killed the executioner of
Bethune in an access of passion, but now his fury is assuaged.”
De Winter smiled sorrowfully and shook his head.
“Do you not know the race?” said he.
“Pooh!” said Athos, trying to smile in his turn. “It must have lost its
ferocity in the second generation. Besides, my friend, Providence has
warned us, that we may be on our guard. All we can now do is to wait.
Let us wait; and, as I said before, let us speak of yourself. What
brings you to Paris?”
“Affairs of importance which you shall know later. But what is this
that I hear from Her Majesty the Queen of England? Monsieur d’Artagnan
sides with Mazarin! Pardon my frankness, dear friend. I neither hate
nor blame the cardinal, and your opinions will be held ever sacred by
me. But do you happen to belong to him?”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” replied Athos, “is in the service; he is a
soldier and obeys all constitutional authority. Monsieur d’Artagnan is
not rich and has need of his position as lieutenant to enable him to
live. Millionaires like yourself, my lord, are rare in France.”
“Alas!” said De Winter, “I am at this moment as poor as he is, if not
poorer. But to return to our subject.”
“Well, then, you wish to know if I am of Mazarin’s party? No. Pardon my
frankness, too, my lord.”
“I am obliged to you, count, for this pleasing intelligence! You make
me young and happy again by it. Ah! so you are not a Mazarinist?
Delightful! Indeed, you could not belong to him. But pardon me, are you
free? I mean to ask if you are married?”
“Ah! as to that, no,” replied Athos, laughing.
“Because that young man, so handsome, so elegant, so polished——”
“Is a child I have adopted and who does not even know who was his
father.”
“Very well; you are always the same, Athos, great and generous. Are you
still friends with Monsieur Porthos and Monsieur Aramis?”
“Add Monsieur d’Artagnan, my lord. We still remain four friends devoted
to each other; but when it becomes a question of serving the cardinal
or of fighting him, of being Mazarinists or Frondists, then we are only
two.”
“Is Monsieur Aramis with D’Artagnan?” asked Lord de Winter.
“No,” said Athos; “Monsieur Aramis does me the honor to share my
opinions.”
“Could you put me in communication with your witty and agreeable
friend? Is he much changed?”
“He has become an abbé, that is all.”
“You alarm me; his profession must have made him renounce any great
undertakings.”
“On the contrary,” said Athos, smiling, “he has never been so much a
musketeer as since he became an abbé, and you will find him a veritable
soldier.”
“Could you engage to bring him to me to-morrow morning at ten o’clock,
on the Pont du Louvre?”
“Oh, oh!” exclaimed Athos, smiling, “you have a duel in prospect.”
“Yes, count, and a splendid duel, too; a duel in which I hope you will
take your part.”
“Where are we to go, my lord?”
“To Her Majesty the Queen of England, who has desired me to present you
to her.”
“This is an enigma,” said Athos, “but it matters not; since you know
the solution of it I ask no further. Will your lordship do me the honor
to sup with me?”
“Thanks, count, no,” replied De Winter. “I own to you that that young
man’s visit has subdued my appetite and probably will rob me of my
sleep. What undertaking can have brought him to Paris? It was not to
meet me that he came, for he was ignorant of my journey. This young man
terrifies me, my lord; there lies in him a sanguinary predisposition.”
“What occupies him in England?”
“He is one of Cromwell’s most enthusiastic disciples.”
“But what attached him to the cause? His father and mother were
Catholics, I believe?”
“His hatred of the king, who deprived him of his estates and forbade
him to bear the name of De Winter.”
“And what name does he now bear?”
“Mordaunt.”
“A Puritan, yet disguised as a monk he travels alone in France.”
“Do you say as a monk?”
“It was thus, and by mere accident—may God pardon me if I
blaspheme—that he heard the confession of the executioner of Bethune.”
“Then I understand it all! he has been sent by Cromwell to Mazarin, and
the queen guessed rightly; we have been forestalled. Everything is
clear to me now. Adieu, count, till to-morrow.”
“But the night is dark,” said Athos, perceiving that Lord de Winter
seemed more uneasy than he wished to appear; “and you have no servant.”
“I have Tony, a safe if simple youth.”
“Halloo, there, Grimaud, Olivain, and Blaisois! call the viscount and
take the musket with you.”
Blaisois was the tall youth, half groom, half peasant, whom we saw at
the Château de Bragelonne, whom Athos had christened by the name of his
province.
“Viscount,” said Athos to Raoul, as he entered, “you will conduct my
lord as far as his hotel and permit no one to approach him.”
“Oh! count,” said De Winter, “for whom do you take me?”
“For a stranger who does not know Paris,” said Athos, “and to whom the
viscount will show the way.”
De Winter shook him by the hand.
“Grimaud,” said Athos, “put yourself at the head of the troop and
beware of the monk.”
Grimaud shuddered, and nodding, awaited the departure, regarding the
butt of his musket with silent eloquence. Then obeying the orders given
him by Athos, he headed the small procession, bearing the torch in one
hand and the musket in the other, until it reached De Winter’s inn,
when pounding on the portal with his fist, he bowed to my lord and
faced about without a word.
The same order was followed in returning, nor did Grimaud’s searching
glance discover anything of a suspicious appearance, save a dark
shadow, as it were, in ambuscade, at the corner of the Rue Guénégaud
and of the Quai. He fancied, also, that in going he had already
observed the street watcher who had attracted his attention. He pushed
on toward him, but before he could reach it the shadow had disappeared
into an alley, into which Grimaud deemed it scarcely prudent to pursue
it.
The next day, on awaking, the count perceived Raoul by his bedside. The
young man was already dressed and was reading a new book by M.
Chapelain.
“Already up, Raoul?” exclaimed the count.
“Yes, sir,” replied Raoul, with slight hesitation; “I did not sleep
well.”
“You, Raoul, not sleep well! then you must have something on your
mind!” said Athos.
“Sir, you will perhaps think that I am in a great hurry to leave you
when I have only just arrived, but——”
“Have you only two days of leave, Raoul?”
“On the contrary, sir, I have ten; nor is it to the camp I wish to go.”
“Where, then?” said Athos, smiling, “if it be not a secret. You are now
almost a man, since you have made your first passage of arms, and have
acquired the right to go where you will without consulting me.”
“Never, sir,” said Raoul, “as long as I possess the happiness of having
you for a protector, shall I deem I have the right of freeing myself
from a guardianship so valuable to me. I have, however, a wish to go
and pass a day at Blois. You look at me and you are going to laugh at
me.”
“No, on the contrary, I am not inclined to laugh,” said Athos,
suppressing a sigh. “You wish to see Blois again; it is but natural.”
“Then you permit me to go, you are not angry in your heart?” exclaimed
Raoul, joyously.
“Certainly; and why should I regret what gives you pleasure?”
“Oh! how kind you are,” exclaimed the young man, pressing his
guardian’s hand; “and I can set out immediately?”
“When you like, Raoul.”
“Sir,” said Raoul, as he turned to leave the room, “I have thought of
one thing, and that is about the Duchess of Chevreuse, who was so kind
to me and to whom I owe my introduction to the prince.”
“And you ought to thank her, Raoul. Well, try the Hotel de Luynes,
Raoul, and ask if the duchess can receive you. I am glad to see you pay
attention to the usages of the world. You must take Grimaud and
Olivain.”
“Both, sir?” asked Raoul, astonished.
“Both.”
Raoul went out, and when Athos heard his young, joyous voice calling to
Grimaud and Olivain, he sighed.
“It is very soon to leave me,” he thought, “but he follows the common
custom. Nature has made us thus; she makes the young look ever forward,
not behind. He certainly likes the child, but will he love me less as
his affection grows for _her?_”
And Athos confessed to himself that, he was unprepared for so prompt a
departure; but Raoul was so happy that this reflection effaced
everything else from the consideration of his guardian.
Everything was ready at ten o’clock for the departure, and as Athos was
watching Raoul mount, a groom rode up from the Duchess de Chevreuse. He
was charged to tell the Comte de la Fère, that she had learned of the
return of her youthful _protégé_, and also the manner he had conducted
himself on the field, and she added that she should be very glad to
offer him her congratulations.
“Tell her grace,” replied Athos, “that the viscount has just mounted
his horse to proceed to the Hotel de Luynes.”
Then, with renewed instructions to Grimaud, Athos signified to Raoul
that he could set out, and ended by reflecting that it was perhaps
better that Raoul should be away from Paris at that moment.
Chapter XLII.
Another Queen in Want of Help.
Athos had not failed to send early to Aramis and had given his letter
to Blaisois, the only serving-man whom he had left. Blaisois found
Bazin donning his beadle’s gown, his services being required that day
at Notre Dame.
Athos had desired Blaisois to try to speak to Aramis himself. Blaisois,
a tall, simple youth, who understood nothing but what he was expressly
told, asked, therefore for the Abbé d’Herblay, and in spite of Bazin’s
assurances that his master was not at home, he persisted in such a
manner as to put Bazin into a passion. Blaisois seeing Bazin in
clerical guise, was a little discomposed at his denials and wanted to
pass at all risks, believing too, that the man with whom he had to do
was endowed with the virtues of his cloth, namely, patience and
Christian charity.
But Bazin, still the servant of a musketeer, when once the blood
mounted to his fat cheeks, seized a broomstick and began belaboring
Blaisois, saying:
“You have insulted the church, my friend, you have insulted the
church!”
At this moment Aramis, aroused by this unusual disturbance, cautiously
opened the door of his room; and Blaisois, looking reproachfully at the
Cerberus, drew the letter from his pocket and presented it to Aramis.
“From the Comte de la Fère,” said Aramis. “All right.” And he retired
into his room without even asking the cause of so much noise.
Blaisois returned disconsolate to the Hotel of the Grand Roi
Charlemagne and when Athos inquired if his commission was executed, he
related his adventure.
“You foolish fellow!” said Athos, laughing. “And you did not tell him
that you came from me?”
“No, sir.”
At ten o’clock Athos, with his habitual exactitude, was waiting on the
Pont du Louvre and was almost immediately joined by Lord de Winter.
They waited ten minutes and then his lordship began to fear Aramis was
not coming to join them.
“Patience,” said Athos, whose eyes were fixed in the direction of the
Rue du Bac, “patience; I see an abbé cuffing a man, then bowing to a
woman; it must be Aramis.”
It was indeed Aramis. Having run against a young shopkeeper who was
gaping at the crows and who had splashed him, Aramis with one blow of
his fist had distanced him ten paces.
At this moment one of his penitents passed, and as she was young and
pretty Aramis took off his cap to her with his most gracious smile.
A most affectionate greeting, as one can well believe took place
between him and Lord de Winter.
“Where are we going?” inquired Aramis; “are we going to fight,
perchance? I carry no sword this morning and cannot return home to
procure one.”
“No,” said Lord de Winter, “we are going to pay a visit to Her Majesty
the Queen of England.”
“Oh, very well,” replied Aramis; then bending his face down to Athos’s
ear, “what is the object of this visit?” continued he.
“Nay, I know not; some evidence required from us, perhaps.”
“May it not be about that cursed affair?” asked Aramis, “in which case
I do not greatly care to go, for it will be to pocket a lecture; and
since it is my function to give them to others I am rather averse to
receiving them myself.”
“If it were so,” answered Athos, “we should not be taken there by Lord
de Winter, for he would come in for his share; he was one of us.”
“You’re right; yes, let us go.”
On arriving at the Louvre Lord de Winter entered first; indeed, there
was but one porter there to receive them at the gate.
It was impossible in daylight for the impoverished state of the
habitation grudging charity had conceded to an unfortunate queen to
pass unnoticed by Athos, Aramis, and even the Englishman. Large rooms,
completely stripped of furniture, bare walls upon which, here and
there, shone the old gold moldings which had resisted time and neglect,
windows with broken panes (impossible to close), no carpets, neither
guards nor servants: this is what first met the eyes of Athos, to which
he, touching his companion’s elbow, directed his attention by his
glances.
“Mazarin is better lodged,” said Aramis.
“Mazarin is almost king,” answered Athos; “Madame Henrietta is almost
no longer queen.”
“If you would condescend to be clever, Athos,” observed Aramis, “I
really do think you would be wittier than poor Monsieur de Voiture.”
Athos smiled.
The queen appeared to be impatiently expecting them, for at the first
slight noise she heard in the hall leading to her room she came herself
to the door to receive these courtiers in the corridors of Misfortune.
“Enter. You are welcome, gentlemen,” she said.
The gentlemen entered and remained standing, but at a motion from the
queen they seated themselves. Athos was calm and grave, but Aramis was
furious; the sight of such royal misery exasperated him and his eyes
examined every new trace of poverty that presented itself.
“You are examining the luxury I enjoy,” said the queen, glancing sadly
around her.
“Madame,” replied Aramis, “I must ask your pardon, but I know not how
to hide my indignation at seeing how a daughter of Henry IV. is treated
at the court of France.”
“Monsieur Aramis is not an officer?” asked the queen of Lord de Winter.
“That gentleman is the Abbé d’Herblay,” replied he.
Aramis blushed. “Madame,” he said, “I am an abbé, it is true, but I am
so against my will. I never had a vocation for the bands; my cassock is
fastened by one button only, and I am always ready to become a
musketeer once more. This morning, being ignorant that I should have
the honor of seeing your majesty, I encumbered myself with this dress,
but you will find me none the less a man devoted to your majesty’s
service, in whatever way you may see fit to use me.”
“The Abbé d’Herblay,” resumed De Winter, “is one of those gallant
musketeers formerly belonging to His Majesty King Louis XIII., of whom
I have spoken to you, madame.” Then turning to Athos, he continued,
“And this gentleman is that noble Comte de la Fère, whose high
reputation is so well known to your majesty.”
“Gentlemen,” said the queen, “a few years ago I had around me ushers,
treasures, armies; and by the lifting of a finger all these were busied
in my service. To-day, look around you, and it may astonish you, that
in order to accomplish a plan which is dearer to me than life I have
only Lord de Winter, the friend of twenty years, and you, gentlemen,
whom I see for the first time and whom I know but as my countrymen.”
“It is enough,” said Athos, bowing low, “if the lives of three men can
purchase yours, madame.”
“I thank you, gentlemen. But hear me,” continued she. “I am not only
the most miserable of queens, but the most unhappy of mothers, the most
wretched of wives. My children, two of them, at least, the Duke of York
and the Princess Elizabeth, are far away from me, exposed to the blows
of the ambitious and our foes; my husband, the king, is leading in
England so wretched an existence that it is no exaggeration to aver
that he seeks death as a thing to be desired. Hold! gentlemen, here is
the letter conveyed to me by Lord de Winter. Read it.”
Obeying the queen, Athos read aloud the letter which we have already
seen, in which King Charles demanded to know whether the hospitality of
France would be accorded him.
“Well?” asked Athos, when he had closed the letter.
“Well,” said the queen, “it has been refused.”
The two friends exchanged a smile of contempt.
“And now,” said Athos, “what is to be done? I have the honor to inquire
from your majesty what you desire Monsieur d’Herblay and myself to do
in your service. We are ready.”
“Ah, sir, you have a noble heart!” exclaimed the queen, with a burst of
gratitude; whilst Lord de Winter turned to her with a glance which
said, “Did I not answer for them?”
“But you, sir?” said the queen to Aramis.
“I, madame,” replied he, “follow Monsieur de la Fère wherever he leads,
even were it on to death, without demanding wherefore; but when it
concerns your majesty’s service, then,” added he, looking at the queen
with all the grace of former days, “I precede the count.”
“Well, then, gentlemen,” said the queen, “since it is thus, and since
you are willing to devote yourselves to the service of a poor princess
whom the whole world has abandoned, this is what is required to be done
for me. The king is alone with a few gentlemen, whom he fears to lose
every day; surrounded by the Scotch, whom he distrusts, although he be
himself a Scotchman. Since Lord de Winter left him I am distracted,
sirs. I ask much, too much, perhaps, for I have no title to request it.
Go to England, join the king, be his friends, protectors, march to
battle at his side, and be near him in his house, where conspiracies,
more dangerous than the perils of war, are hatching every day. And in
exchange for the sacrifice that you make, gentlemen, I promise—not to
reward you, I believe that word would offend you—but to love you as a
sister, to prefer you, next to my husband and my children, to every
one. I swear it before Heaven.”
And the queen raised her eyes solemnly upward.
“Madame,” said Athos, “when must we set out?”
“You consent then?” exclaimed the queen, joyfully.
“Yes, madame; only it seems to me that your majesty goes too far in
engaging to load us with a friendship so far above our merit. We render
service to God, madame, in serving a prince so unfortunate, a queen so
virtuous. Madame, we are yours, body and soul.”
“Oh, sirs,” said the queen, moved even to tears, “this is the first
time for five years I have felt the least approach to joy or hope. God,
who can read my heart, all the gratitude I feel, will reward you! Save
my husband! Save the king, and although you care not for the price that
is placed upon a good action in this world, leave me the hope that we
shall meet again, when I may be able to thank you myself. In the
meantime, I remain here. Have you anything to ask of me? From this
moment I become your friend, and since you are engaged in my affairs I
ought to occupy myself in yours.”
“Madame,” replied Athos, “I have only to ask your majesty’s prayers.”
“And I,” said Aramis, “I am alone in the world and have only your
majesty to serve.”
The queen held out her hand, which they kissed, and she said in a low
tone to De Winter:
“If you need money, my lord, separate the jewels I have given you;
detach the diamonds and sell them to some Jew. You will receive for
them fifty or sixty thousand francs; spend them if necessary, but let
these gentlemen be treated as they deserve, that is to say, like
kings.”
The queen had two letters ready, one written by herself, the other by
her daughter, the Princess Henrietta. Both were addressed to King
Charles. She gave the first to Athos and the other to Aramis, so that
should they be separated by chance they might make themselves known to
the king; after which they withdrew.
At the foot of the staircase De Winter stopped.
“Not to arouse suspicions, gentlemen,” said he, “go your way and I will
go mine, and this evening at nine o’clock we will assemble again at the
Gate Saint Denis. We will travel on horseback as far as our horses can
go and afterward we can take the post. Once more, let me thank you, my
good friends, both in my own name and the queen’s.”
The three gentlemen then shook hands, Lord de Winter taking the Rue
Saint Honoré, and Athos and Aramis remaining together.
“Well,” said Aramis, when they were alone, “what do you think of this
business, my dear count?”
“Bad,” replied Athos, “very bad.”
“But you received it with enthusiasm.”
“As I shall ever receive the defense of a great principle, my dear
D’Herblay. Monarchs are only strong by the assistance of the
aristocracy, but aristocracy cannot survive without the countenance of
monarchs. Let us, then, support monarchy, in order to support
ourselves.
“We shall be murdered there,” said Aramis. “I hate the English—they are
coarse, like every nation that swills beer.”
“Would it be better to remain here,” said Athos, “and take a turn in
the Bastile or the dungeon of Vincennes for having favored the escape
of Monsieur de Beaufort? I’faith, Aramis, believe me, there is little
left to regret. We avoid imprisonment and we play the part of heroes;
the choice is easy.”
“It is true; but in everything, friend, one must always return to the
same question—a stupid one, I admit, but very necessary—have you any
money?”
“Something like a hundred pistoles, that my farmer sent to me the day
before I left Bragelonne; but out of that sum I ought to leave fifty
for Raoul—a young man must live respectably. I have then about fifty
pistoles. And you?”
“As for me, I am quite sure that after turning out all my pockets and
emptying my drawers I shall not find ten louis at home. Fortunately
Lord de Winter is rich.”
“Lord de Winter is ruined for the moment; Oliver Cromwell has annexed
his income resources.”
“Now is the time when Baron Porthos would be useful.”
“Now it is that I regret D’Artagnan.”
“Let us entice them away.”
“This secret, Aramis, does not belong to us; take my advice, then, and
let no one into our confidence. And moreover, in taking such a step we
should appear to be doubtful of ourselves. Let us regret their absence
to ourselves for our own sakes, but not speak of it.”
“You are right; but what are you going to do until this evening? I have
two things to postpone.”
“And what are they?”
“First, a thrust with the coadjutor, whom I met last night at Madame de
Rambouillet’s and whom I found particular in his remarks respecting
me.”
“Oh, fie—a quarrel between priests, a duel between allies!”
“What can I do, friend? he is a bully and so am I; his cassock is a
burden to him and I imagine I have had enough of mine; in fact, there
is so much resemblance between us that I sometimes believe he is Aramis
and I am the coadjutor. This kind of life fatigues and oppresses me;
besides, he is a turbulent fellow, who will ruin our party. I am
convinced that if I gave him a box on the ear, such as I gave this
morning to the little citizen who splashed me, it would change the
appearance of things.”
“And I, my dear Aramis,” quietly replied Athos, “I think it would only
change Monsieur de Retz’s appearance. Take my advice, leave things just
as they are; besides, you are neither of you now your own masters; he
belongs to the Fronde and you to the queen of England. So, if the
second matter which you regret being unable to attend to is not more
important than the first——”
“Oh! that is of the first importance.”
“Attend to it, then, at once.”
“Unfortunately, it is a thing that I can’t perform at any time I
choose. It was arranged for the evening and no other time will serve.”
“I understand,” said Athos smiling, “midnight.”
“About that time.”
“But, my dear fellow, those are things that bear postponement and you
must put it off, especially with so good an excuse to give on your
return——”
“Yes, if I return.”
“If you do not return, how does it concern you? Be reasonable. Come,
you are no longer twenty years old.”
“To my great regret, _mordieu!_ Ah, if I were but twenty years old!”
“Yes,” said Athos, “doubtless you would commit great follies! But now
we must part. I have one or two visits to make and a letter yet to
write. Call for me at eight o’clock or shall I wait supper for you at
seven?”
“That will do very well,” said Aramis. “I have twenty visits to make
and as many letters to write.”
They then separated. Athos went to pay a visit to Madame de Vendôme,
left his name at Madame de Chevreuse’s and wrote the following letter
to D’Artagnan:
“Dear Friend,—I am about to set off with Aramis on important business.
I wished to make my adieux to you, but time does not permit. Remember
that I write to you now to repeat how much affection for you I still
cherish.
“Raoul is gone to Blois and is ignorant of my departure; watch over him
in my absence as much as you possibly can; and if by chance you receive
no news of me three months hence, tell him to open a packet which he
will find addressed to him in my bronze casket at Blois, of which I
send you now the key.
“Embrace Porthos from Aramis and myself. Adieu, perhaps farewell.”
At the hour agreed upon Aramis arrived; he was dressed as an officer
and had the old sword at his side which he had drawn so often and which
he was more than ever ready to draw.
“By-the-bye,” he said, “I think that we are decidedly wrong to depart
thus, without leaving a line for Porthos and D’Artagnan.”
“The thing is done, dear friend,” said Athos; “I foresaw that and have
embraced them both from you and myself.”
“You are a wonderful man, my dear count,” said Aramis; “you think of
everything.”
“Well, have you made up your mind to this journey?”
“Quite; and now that I reflect about it, I am glad to leave Paris at
this moment.”
“And so am I,” replied Athos; “my only regret is not having seen
D’Artagnan; but the rascal is so cunning, he might have guessed our
project.”
When supper was over Blaisois entered. “Sir,” said he, “here is
Monsieur d’Artagnan’s answer.”
“But I did not tell you there would be an answer, stupid!” said Athos.
“And I set off without waiting for one, but he called me back and gave
me this;” and he presented a little leather bag, plump and giving out a
golden jingle.
Athos opened it and began by drawing forth a little note, written in
these terms:
“My dear Count,—When one travels, and especially for three months, one
never has a superfluity of money. Now, recalling former times of mutual
distress, I send you half my purse; it is money to obtain which I made
Mazarin sweat. Don’t make a bad use of it, I entreat you.
“As to what you say about not seeing you again, I believe not a word of
it; with such a heart as yours—and such a sword—one passes through the
valley of the shadow of death a dozen times, unscathed and unalarmed.
Au revoir, not farewell.
“It is unnecessary to say that from the day I saw Raoul I loved him;
nevertheless, believe that I heartily pray that I may not become to him
a father, however much I might be proud of such a son.
“Your
“D’Artagnan.
“P.S.—Be it well understood that the fifty louis which I send are
equally for Aramis as for you—for you as Aramis.”
Athos smiled, and his fine eye was dimmed by a tear. D’Artagnan, who
had loved him so tenderly, loved him still, although a Mazarinist.
“There are the fifty louis, i’faith,” said Aramis, emptying the purse
on the table, all bearing the effigy of Louis XIII. “Well, what shall
you do with this money, count? Shall you keep it or send it back?”
“I shall keep it, Aramis, and even though I had no need of it I still
should keep it. What is offered from a generous heart should be
accepted generously. Take twenty-five of them, Aramis, and give me the
remaining twenty-five.”
“All right; I am glad to see you are of my opinion. There now, shall we
start?”
“When you like; but have you no groom?”
“No; that idiot Bazin had the folly to make himself verger, as you
know, and therefore cannot leave Notre Dame.
“Very well, take Blaisois, with whom I know not what to do, since I
already have Grimaud.”
“Willingly,” said Aramis.
At this moment Grimaud appeared at the door. “Ready,” said he, with his
usual curtness.
“Let us go, then,” said Athos.
The two friends mounted, as did their servants. At the corner of the
Quai they encountered Bazin, who was running breathlessly.
“Oh, sir!” exclaimed he, “thank Heaven I have arrived in time. Monsieur
Porthos has just been to your house and has left this for you, saying
that the letter was important and must be given to you before you
left.”
“Good,” said Aramis, taking a purse which Bazin presented to him. “What
is this?”
“Wait, your reverence, there is a letter.”
“You know I have already told you that if you ever call me anything but
chevalier I will break every bone in your body. Give me the letter.”
“How can you read?” asked Athos, “it is as dark as a cold oven.”
“Wait,” said Bazin, striking a flint, and setting afire a twisted
wax-light, with which he started the church candles. Thus illumined,
Aramis read the following epistle:
“My dear D’Herblay,—I learned from D’Artagnan who has embraced me on
the part of the Comte de la Fère and yourself, that you are setting out
on a journey which may perhaps last two or three months; as I know that
you do not like to ask money of your friends I offer you some of my own
accord. Here are two hundred pistoles, which you can dispose of as you
wish and return to me when opportunity occurs. Do not fear that you put
me to inconvenience; if I want money I can send for some to any of my
châteaux; at Bracieux alone, I have twenty thousand francs in gold. So,
if I do not send you more it is because I fear you would not accept a
larger sum.
“I address you, because you know, that although I esteem him from my
heart I am a little awed by the Comte de la Fère; but it is understood
that what I offer you I offer him at the same time.
“I am, as I trust you do not doubt, your devoted
“Du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds.”
“Well,” said Aramis, “what do you say to that?”
“I say, my dear D’Herblay, that it is almost sacrilege to distrust
Providence when one has such friends, and therefore we will divide the
pistoles from Porthos, as we divided the louis sent by D’Artagnan.”
The division being made by the light of Bazin’s taper, the two friends
continued their road and a quarter of an hour later they had joined De
Winter at the Porte Saint Denis.
Chapter XLIII.
In which it is proved that first Impulses are oftentimes the best.
The three gentlemen took the road to Picardy, a road so well known to
them and which recalled to Athos and Aramis some of the most
picturesque adventures of their youth.
“If Mousqueton were with us,” observed Athos, on reaching the spot
where they had had a dispute with the paviers, “how he would tremble at
passing this! Do you remember, Aramis, that it was here he received
that famous bullet wound?”
“By my faith, ’twould be excusable in him to tremble,” replied Aramis,
“for even I feel a shudder at the recollection; hold, just above that
tree is the little spot where I thought I was killed.”
It was soon time for Grimaud to recall the past. Arriving before the
inn at which his master and himself had made such an enormous repast,
he approached Athos and said, showing him the airhole of the cellar:
“Sausages!”
Athos began to laugh, for this juvenile escapade of his appeared to be
as amusing as if some one had related it of another person.
At last, after traveling two days and a night, they arrived at Boulogne
toward the evening, favored by magnificent weather. Boulogne was a
strong position, then almost a deserted town, built entirely on the
heights; what is now called the lower town did not then exist.
“Gentlemen,” said De Winter, on reaching the gate of the town, “let us
do here as at Paris—let us separate to avoid suspicion. I know an inn,
little frequented, but of which the host is entirely devoted to me. I
will go there, where I expect to find letters, and you go to the first
tavern in the town, to L’Epée du Grand Henri for instance, refresh
yourselves, and in two hours be upon the jetty; our boat is waiting for
us there.”
The matter being thus decided, the two friends found, about two hundred
paces further, the tavern indicated. Their horses were fed, but not
unsaddled; the grooms supped, for it was already late, and their two
masters, impatient to return, appointed a place of meeting with them on
the jetty and desired them on no account to exchange a word with any
one. It is needless to say that this caution concerned Blaisois
alone—long enough since it had been a useless one to Grimaud.
Athos and Aramis walked down toward the port. From their dress, covered
with dust, and from a certain easy manner by means of which a man
accustomed to travel is always recognizable, the two friends excited
the attention of a few promenaders. There was more especially one upon
whom their arrival had produced a decided impression. This man, whom
they had noticed from the first for the same reason they had themselves
been remarked by others, was walking in a listless way up and down the
jetty. From the moment he perceived them he did not cease to look at
them and seemed to burn with the wish to speak to them.
On reaching the jetty Athos and Aramis stopped to look at a little boat
made fast to a pile and ready rigged as if waiting to start.
“That is doubtless our boat,” said Athos.
“Yes,” replied Aramis, “and the sloop out there making ready to sail
must be that which is to take us to our destination; now,” continued
he, “if only De Winter does not keep us waiting. It is not at all
amusing here; there is not a single woman passing.”
“Hush!” said Athos, “we are overheard.”
In truth, the walker, who, during the observations of the two friends,
had passed and repassed behind them several times, stopped at the name
of De Winter; but as his face betrayed no emotion at mention of this
name, it might have been by chance he stood so still.
“Gentlemen,” said the man, who was young and pale, bowing with ease and
courtesy, “pardon my curiosity, but I see you come from Paris, or at
least that you are strangers at Boulogne.”
“We come from Paris, yes,” replied Athos, with the same courtesy; “what
is there we can do for you?”
“Sir,” said the young man, “will you be so good as to tell me if it be
true that Cardinal Mazarin is no longer minister?”
“That is a strange question,” said Aramis.
“He is and he is not,” replied Athos; “that is to say, he is dismissed
by one-half of France, but by intrigues and promises he makes the other
half sustain him; you will perceive that this may last a long time.”
“However, sir,” said the stranger, “he has neither fled nor is in
prison?”
“No, sir, not at this moment at least.”
“Sirs, accept my thanks for your politeness,” said the young man,
retreating.
“What do you think of that interrogator?” asked Aramis.
“I think he is either a dull provincial person or a spy in search of
information.”
“And you replied to him with that notion?”
“Nothing warranted me to answer him otherwise; he was polite to me and
I was so to him.”
“But if he be a spy——”
“What do you think a spy would be about here? We are not living in the
time of Cardinal Richelieu, who would have closed the ports on bare
suspicion.”
“It matters not; you were wrong to reply to him as you did,” continued
Aramis, following with his eyes the young man, now vanishing behind the
cliffs.
“And you,” said Athos, “you forget that you committed a very different
kind of imprudence in pronouncing Lord de Winter’s name. Did you not
see that at that name the young man stopped?”
“More reason, then, when he spoke to you, for sending him about his
business.”
“A quarrel?” asked Athos.
“And since when have you become afraid of a quarrel?”
“I am always afraid of a quarrel when I am expected at any place and
when such a quarrel might possibly prevent my reaching it. Besides, let
me own something to you. I am anxious to see that young man nearer.”
“And wherefore?”
“Aramis, you will certainly laugh at me, you will say that I am always
repeating the same thing, you will call me the most timorous of
visionaries; but to whom do you see a resemblance in that young man?”
“In beauty or on the contrary?” asked Aramis, laughing.
“In ugliness, in so far as a man can resemble a woman.”
“Ah! Egad!” cried Aramis, “you set me thinking. No, in truth you are no
visionary, my dear friend, and now I think of it—you—yes, i’faith,
you’re right—those delicate, yet firm-set lips, those eyes which seem
always at the command of the intellect and never of the heart! Yes, it
is one of Milady’s bastards!”
“You laugh Aramis.”
“From habit, that is all. I swear to you, I like no better than
yourself to meet that viper in my path.”
“Ah! here is De Winter coming,” said Athos.
“Good! one thing now is only awanting and that is, that our grooms
should not keep us waiting.”
“No,” said Athos. “I see them about twenty paces behind my lord. I
recognize Grimaud by his long legs and his determined slouch. Tony
carries our muskets.”
“Then we set sail to-night?” asked Aramis, glancing toward the west,
where the sun had left a single golden cloud, which, dipping into the
ocean, appeared by degrees to be extinguished.
“Probably,” said Athos.
“_Diable!_” resumed Aramis, “I have little fancy for the sea by day,
still less at night; the sounds of wind and wave, the frightful
movements of the vessel; I confess I prefer the convent of Noisy.”
Athos smiled sadly, for it was evident that he was thinking of other
things as he listened to his friend and moved toward De Winter.
“What ails our friend?” said Aramis, “he resembles one of Dante’s
damned, whose neck Apollyon has dislocated and who are ever looking at
their heels. What the devil makes him glower thus behind him?”
When De Winter perceived them, in his turn he advanced toward them with
surprising rapidity.
“What is the matter, my lord?” said Athos, “and what puts you out of
breath thus?”
“Nothing,” replied De Winter; “nothing; and yet in passing the heights
it seemed to me——” and he again turned round.
Athos glanced at Aramis.
“But let us go,” continued De Winter; “let us be off; the boat must be
waiting for us and there is our sloop at anchor—do you see it there? I
wish I were on board already,” and he looked back again.
“He has seen him,” said Athos, in a low tone, to Aramis.
They had reached the ladder which led to the boat. De Winter made the
grooms who carried the arms and the porters with the luggage descend
first and was about to follow them.
At this moment Athos perceived a man walking on the seashore parallel
to the jetty, and hastening his steps, as if to reach the other side of
the port, scarcely twenty steps from the place of embarking. He fancied
in the darkness that he recognized the young man who had questioned
him. Athos now descended the ladder in his turn, without losing sight
of the young man. The latter, to make a short cut, had appeared on a
sluice.
“He certainly bodes us no good,” said Athos; “but let us embark; once
out at sea, let him come.”
And Athos sprang into the boat, which was immediately pushed off and
which soon sped seawards under the efforts of four stalwart rowers.
But the young man had begun to follow, or rather to advance before the
boat. She was obliged to pass between the point of the jetty,
surmounted by a beacon just lighted, and a rock which jutted out. They
saw him in the distance climbing the rock in order to look down upon
the boat as it passed.
“Ay, but,” said Aramis, “that young fellow is decidedly a spy.”
“Which is the young man?” asked De Winter, turning around.
“He who followed us and spoke to us awaits us there; behold!”
De Winter turned and followed the direction of Aramis’s finger. The
beacon bathed with light the little strait through which they were
about to pass and the rock where the young man stood with bare head and
crossed arms.
“It is he!” exclaimed De Winter, seizing the arm of Athos; “it is he! I
thought I recognized him and I was not mistaken.”
“Whom do you mean?” asked Aramis.
“Milady’s son,” replied Athos.
“The monk!” exclaimed Grimaud.
The young man heard these words and bent so forward over the rock that
one might have supposed he was about to precipitate himself from it.
“Yes, it is I, my uncle—I, the son of Milady—I, the monk—I, the
secretary and friend of Cromwell—_I know you now_, both you and your
companions.”
In that boat sat three men, unquestionably brave, whose courage no man
would have dared dispute; nevertheless, at that voice, that accent and
those gestures, they felt a chill access of terror cramp their veins.
As for Grimaud, his hair stood on end and drops of sweat ran down his
brow.
“Ah!” exclaimed Aramis, “that is the nephew, the monk, and the son of
Milady, as he says himself.”
“Alas, yes,” murmured De Winter.
“Then wait,” said Aramis; and with the terrible coolness which on
important occasions he showed, he took one of the muskets from Tony,
shouldered and aimed it at the young man, who stood, like the accusing
angel, upon the rock.
“Fire!” cried Grimaud, unconsciously.
Athos threw himself on the muzzle of the gun and arrested the shot
which was about to be fired.
“The devil take you,” said Aramis. “I had him so well at the point of
my gun I should have sent a ball into his breast.”
“It is enough to have killed the mother,” said Athos, hoarsely.
“The mother was a wretch, who struck at us all and at those dear to
us.”
“Yes, but the son has done us no harm.”
Grimaud, who had risen to watch the effect of the shot, fell back
hopeless, wringing his hands.
The young man burst into a laugh.
“Ah, it is certainly you!” he cried. “I know you even better now.”
His mocking laugh and threatening words passed over their heads,
carried by the breeze, until lost in the depths of the horizon. Aramis
shuddered.
“Be calm,” exclaimed Athos, “for Heaven’s sake! have we ceased to be
men?”
“No,” said Aramis, “but that fellow is a fiend; and ask the uncle
whether I was wrong to rid him of his dear nephew.”
De Winter only replied by a groan.
“It was all up with him,” continued Aramis; “ah I much fear that with
all your wisdom such mercy yet will prove supernal folly.”
Athos took Lord de Winter’s hand and tried to turn the conversation.
“When shall we land in England?” he asked; but De Winter seemed not to
hear his words and made no reply.
“Hold, Athos,” said Aramis, “perhaps there is yet time. See if he is
still in the same place.”
Athos turned around with an effort; the sight of the young man was
evidently painful to him, and there he still was, in fact, on the rock,
the beacon shedding around him, as it were, a doubtful aureole.
“Decidedly, Aramis,” said Athos, “I think I was wrong not to let you
fire.”
“Hold your tongue,” replied Aramis; “you would make me weep, if such a
thing were possible.”
At this moment they were hailed by a voice from the sloop and a few
seconds later men, servants and baggage were aboard. The captain was
only waiting for his passengers; hardly had they put foot on deck ere
her head was turned towards Hastings, where they were to disembark. At
this instant the three friends turned, in spite of themselves, a last
look on the rock, upon the menacing figure which pursued them and now
stood out with a distinctness still. Then a voice reached them once
more, sending this threat: “To our next meeting, sirs, in England.”
Chapter XLIV.
Te Deum for the Victory of Lens.
The bustle which had been observed by Henrietta Maria and for which she
had vainly sought to discover a reason, was occasioned by the battle of
Lens, announced by the prince’s messenger, the Duc de Châtillon, who
had taken such a noble part in the engagement; he was, besides, charged
to hang five and twenty flags, taken from the Lorraine party, as well
as from the Spaniards, upon the arches of Notre Dame.
Such news was decisive; it destroyed, in favor of the court, the
struggle commenced with parliament. The motive given for all the taxes
summarily imposed and to which the parliament had made opposition, was
the necessity of sustaining the honor of France and the uncertain hope
of beating the enemy. Now, since the affair of Nordlingen, they had
experienced nothing but reverses; the parliament had a plea for calling
Mazarin to account for imaginary victories, always promised, ever
deferred; but this time there really had been fighting, a triumph and a
complete one. And this all knew so well that it was a double victory
for the court, a victory at home and abroad; so that even when the
young king learned the news he exclaimed, “Ah, gentlemen of the
parliament, we shall see what you will say now!” Upon which the queen
had pressed the royal child to her heart, whose haughty and unruly
sentiments were in such harmony with her own. A council was called on
the same evening, but nothing transpired of what had been decided on.
It was only known that on the following Sunday a _Te Deum_ would be
sung at Notre Dame in honor of the victory of Lens.
The following Sunday, then, the Parisians arose with joy; at that
period a _Te Deum_ was a grand affair; this kind of ceremony had not
then been abused and it produced a great effect. The shops were
deserted, houses closed; every one wished to see the young king with
his mother, and the famous Cardinal Mazarin whom they hated so much
that no one wished to be deprived of his presence. Moreover, great
liberty prevailed throughout the immense crowd; every opinion was
openly expressed and chorused, so to speak, of coming insurrection, as
the thousand bells of all the Paris churches rang out the _Te Deum_.
The police belonging to the city being formed by the city itself,
nothing threatening presented itself to disturb this concert of
universal hatred or freeze the frequent scoffs of slanderous lips.
Nevertheless, at eight o’clock in the morning the regiment of the
queen’s guards, commanded by Guitant, under whom was his nephew
Comminges, marched publicly, preceded by drums and trumpets, filing off
from the Palais Royal as far as Notre Dame, a manœuvre which the
Parisians witnessed tranquilly, delighted as they were with military
music and brilliant uniforms.
Friquet had put on his Sunday clothes, under the pretext of having a
swollen face which he had managed to simulate by introducing a handful
of cherry kernels into one side of his mouth, and had procured a whole
holiday from Bazin. On leaving Bazin, Friquet started off to the Palais
Royal, where he arrived at the moment of the turning out of the
regiment of guards; and as he had only gone there for the enjoyment of
seeing it and hearing the music, he took his place at their head,
beating the drum on two pieces of slate and passing from that exercise
to that of the trumpet, which he counterfeited quite naturally with his
mouth in a manner which had more than once called forth the praises of
amateurs of imitative harmony.
This amusement lasted from the Barrière des Sergens to the place of
Notre Dame, and Friquet found in it very real enjoyment; but when at
last the regiment separated, penetrated the heart of the city and
placed itself at the extremity of the Rue Saint Christophe, near the
Rue Cocatrix, in which Broussel lived, then Friquet remembered that he
had not had breakfast; and after thinking in which direction he had
better turn his steps in order to accomplish this important act of the
day, he reflected deeply and decided that Councillor Broussel should
bear the cost of this repast.
In consequence he took to his heels, arrived breathlessly at the
councillor’s door, and knocked violently.
His mother, the councillor’s old servant, opened it.
“What doest thou here, good-for-nothing?” she said, “and why art thou
not at Notre Dame?”
“I have been there, mother,” said Friquet, “but I saw things happen of
which Master Broussel ought to be warned, and so with Monsieur Bazin’s
permission—you know, mother, Monsieur Bazin, the verger—I came to speak
to Monsieur Broussel.”
“And what hast thou to say, boy, to Monsieur Broussel?”
“I wish to tell him,” replied Friquet, screaming with all his might,
“that there is a whole regiment of guards coming this way. And as I
hear everywhere that at the court they are ill-disposed to him, I wish
to warn him, that he may be on his guard.”
Broussel heard the scream of the young oddity, and, enchanted with this
excess of zeal, came down to the first floor, for he was, in truth,
working in his room on the second.
“Well,” said he, “friend, what matters the regiment of guards to us,
and art thou not mad to make such a disturbance? Knowest thou not that
it is the custom of these soldiers to act thus and that it is usual for
the regiment to form themselves into two solid walls when the king goes
by?”
Friquet counterfeited surprise, and twisting his new cap around in his
fingers, said:
“It is not astonishing for you to know it, Monsieur Broussel, who knows
everything; but as for me, by holy truth, I did not know it and I
thought I would give you good advice; you must not be angry with me for
that, Monsieur Broussel.”
“On the contrary, my boy, on the contrary, I am pleased with your zeal.
Dame Nanette, look for those apricots which Madame de Longueville sent
to us yesterday from Noisy and give half a dozen of them to your son,
with a crust of new bread.”
“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you, Monsieur Broussel,” said Friquet; “I am
so fond of apricots!”
Broussel then proceeded to his wife’s room and asked for breakfast; it
was nine o’clock. The councillor placed himself at the window; the
street was completely deserted, but in the distance was heard, like the
noise of the tide rushing in, the deep hum of the populous waves
increasing now around Notre Dame.
This noise redoubled when D’Artagnan, with a company of musketeers,
placed himself at the gates of Notre Dame to secure the service of the
church. He had instructed Porthos to profit by this opportunity to see
the ceremony; and Porthos, in full dress, mounted his finest horse,
taking the part of supernumerary musketeer, as D’Artagnan had so often
done formerly. The sergeant of this company, a veteran of the Spanish
wars, had recognized Porthos, his old companion, and very soon all
those who served under him were placed in possession of startling facts
concerning the honor of the ancient musketeers of Tréville. Porthos had
not only been well received by the company, but he was moreover looked
on with great admiration.
At ten o’clock the guns of the Louvre announced the departure of the
king, and then a movement, similar to that of trees in a stormy wind
that bend and writhe with agitated tops, ran though the multitude,
which was compressed behind the immovable muskets of the guard. At last
the king appeared with the queen in a gilded chariot. Ten other
carriages followed, containing the ladies of honor, the officers of the
royal household, and the court.
“God save the king!” was the cry in every direction; the young monarch
gravely put his head out of the window, looked sufficiently grateful
and even bowed; at which the cries of the multitude were renewed.
Just as the court was settling down in the cathedral, a carriage,
bearing the arms of Comminges, quitted the line of the court carriages
and proceeded slowly to the end of the Rue Saint Christophe, now
entirely deserted. When it arrived there, four guards and a police
officer, who accompanied it, mounted into the heavy machine and closed
the shutters; then through an opening cautiously made, the policeman
began to watch the length of the Rue Cocatrix, as if he was waiting for
some one.
All the world was occupied with the ceremony, so that neither the
chariot nor the precautions taken by those who were within it had been
observed. Friquet, whose eye, ever on the alert, could alone have
discovered them, had gone to devour his apricots upon the entablature
of a house in the square of Notre Dame. Thence he saw the king, the
queen and Monsieur Mazarin, and heard the mass as well as if he had
been on duty.
Toward the end of the service, the queen, seeing Comminges standing
near her, waiting for a confirmation of the order she had given him
before quitting the Louvre, said in a whisper:
“Go, Comminges, and may God aid you!”
Comminges immediately left the church and entered the Rue Saint
Christophe. Friquet, seeing this fine officer thus walk away, followed
by two guards, amused himself by pursuing them and did this so much the
more gladly as the ceremony ended at that instant and the king
remounted his carriage.
Hardly had the police officer observed Comminges at the end of the Rue
Cocatrix when he said one word to the coachman, who at once put his
vehicle into motion and drove up before Broussel’s door. Comminges
knocked at the door at the same moment, and Friquet was waiting behind
Comminges until the door should be opened.
“What dost thou there, rascal?” asked Comminges.
“I want to go into Master Broussel’s house, captain,” replied Friquet,
in that wheedling way the “gamins” of Paris know so well how to assume
when necessary.
“And on what floor does he live?” asked Comminges.
“In the whole house,” said Friquet; “the house belongs to him; he
occupies the second floor when he works and descends to the first to
take his meals; he must be at dinner now; it is noon.”
“Good,” said Comminges.
At this moment the door was opened, and having questioned the servant
the officer learned that Master Broussel was at home and at dinner.
Broussel was seated at the table with his family, having his wife
opposite to him, his two daughters by his side, and his son, Louvières,
whom we have already seen when the accident happened to the
councillor—an accident from which he had quite recovered—at the bottom
of the table. The worthy man, restored to perfect health, was tasting
the fine fruit which Madame de Longueville had sent to him.
At sight of the officer Broussel was somewhat moved, but seeing him bow
politely he rose and bowed also. Still, in spite of this reciprocal
politeness, the countenances of the women betrayed a certain amount of
uneasiness; Louvières became very pale and waited impatiently for the
officer to explain himself.
“Sir,” said Comminges, “I am the bearer of an order from the king.”
“Very well, sir,” replied Broussel, “what is this order?” And he held
out his hand.
“I am commissioned to seize your person, sir,” said Comminges, in the
same tone and with the same politeness; “and if you will believe me you
had better spare yourself the trouble of reading that long letter and
follow me.”
A thunderbolt falling in the midst of these good people, so peacefully
assembled there, would not have produced a more appalling effect. It
was a horrible thing at that period to be imprisoned by the enmity of
the king. Louvières sprang forward to snatch his sword, which stood
against a chair in a corner of the room; but a glance from the worthy
Broussel, who in the midst of it all did not lose his presence of mind,
checked this foolhardy action of despair. Madame Broussel, separated by
the width of the table from her husband, burst into tears, and the
young girls clung to their father’s arms.
“Come, sir,” said Comminges, “make haste; you must obey the king.”
“Sir,” said Broussel, “I am in bad health and cannot give myself up a
prisoner in this state; I must have time.”
“It is impossible,” said Comminges; “the order is strict and must be
put into execution this instant.”
“Impossible!” said Louvières; “sir, beware of driving us to despair.”
“Impossible!” cried a shrill voice from the end of the room.
Comminges turned and saw Dame Nanette, her eyes flashing with anger and
a broom in her hand.
“My good Nanette, be quiet, I beseech you,” said Broussel.
“Me! keep quiet while my master is being arrested! he, the support, the
liberator, the father of the people! Ah! well, yes; you have to know me
yet. Are you going?” added she to Comminges.
The latter smiled.
“Come, sir,” said he, addressing Broussel, “silence that woman and
follow me.”
“Silence me! me! me!” said Nanette. “Ah! yet one wants some one besides
you for that, my fine king’s cockatoo! You shall see.” And Dame Nanette
sprang to the window, threw it open, and in such a piercing voice that
it might have been heard in the square of Notre Dame:
“Help!” she screamed, “my master is being arrested; the Councillor
Broussel is being arrested! Help!”
“Sir,” said Comminges, “declare yourself at once; will you obey or do
you intend to rebel against the king?”
“I obey, I obey, sir!” cried Broussel, trying to disengage himself from
the grasp of his two daughters and by a look restrain his son, who
seemed determined to dispute authority.
“In that case,” commanded Comminges, “silence that old woman.”
“Ah! old woman!” screamed Nanette.
And she began to shriek more loudly, clinging to the bars of the
window:
“Help! help! for Master Broussel, who is arrested because he has
defended the people! Help!”
Comminges seized the servant around the waist and would have dragged
her from her post; but at that instant a treble voice, proceeding from
a kind of _entresol_, was heard screeching:
“Murder! fire! assassins! Master Broussel is being killed! Master
Broussel is being strangled.”
It was Friquet’s voice; and Dame Nanette, feeling herself supported,
recommenced with all her strength to sound her shrilly squawk.
Many curious faces had already appeared at the windows and the people
attracted to the end of the street began to run, first men, then
groups, and then a crowd of people; hearing cries and seeing a chariot
they could not understand it; but Friquet sprang from the _entresol_ on
to the top of the carriage.
“They want to arrest Master Broussel!” he cried; “the guards are in the
carriage and the officer is upstairs!”
The crowd began to murmur and approached the house. The two guards who
had remained in the lane mounted to the aid of Comminges; those who
were in the chariot opened the doors and presented arms.
“Don’t you see them?” cried Friquet, “don’t you see? there they are!”
The coachman turning around, gave Friquet a slash with his whip which
made him scream with pain.
“Ah! devil’s coachman!” cried Friquet, “you’re meddling too! Wait!”
And regaining his _entresol_ he overwhelmed the coachman with every
projectile he could lay hands on.
The tumult now began to increase; the street was not able to contain
the spectators who assembled from every direction; the crowd invaded
the space which the dreaded pikes of the guards had till then kept
clear between them and the carriage. The soldiers, pushed back by these
living walls, were in danger of being crushed against the spokes of the
wheels and the panels of the carriages. The cries which the police
officer repeated twenty times: “In the king’s name,” were powerless
against this formidable multitude—seemed, on the contrary, to
exasperate it still more; when, at the shout, “In the name of the
king,” an officer ran up, and seeing the uniforms ill-treated, he
sprang into the scuffle sword in hand, and brought unexpected help to
the guards. This gentleman was a young man, scarcely sixteen years of
age, now white with anger. He leaped from his charger, placed his back
against the shaft of the carriage, making a rampart of his horse, drew
his pistols from their holsters and fastened them to his belt, and
began to fight with the back sword, like a man accustomed to the
handling of his weapon.
During ten minutes he alone kept the crowd at bay; at last Comminges
appeared, pushing Broussel before him.
“Let us break the carriage!” cried the people.
“In the king’s name!” cried Comminges.
“The first who advances is a dead man!” cried Raoul, for it was in fact
he, who, feeling himself pressed and almost crushed by a gigantic
citizen, pricked him with the point of his sword and sent him howling
back.
Comminges, so to speak, threw Broussel into the carriage and sprang in
after him. At this moment a shot was fired and a ball passed through
the hat of Comminges and broke the arm of one of the guards. Comminges
looked up and saw amidst the smoke the threatening face of Louvières
appearing at the window of the second floor.
“Very well, sir,” said Comminges, “you shall hear of this anon.”
“And you of me, sir,” said Louvières; “and we shall see then who can
speak the loudest.”
Friquet and Nanette continued to shout; the cries, the noise of the
shot and the intoxicating smell of powder produced their usual
maddening effects.
“Down with the officer! down with him!” was the cry.
“One step nearer,” said Comminges, putting down the sashes, that the
interior of the carriage might be well seen, and placing his sword on
his prisoner’s breast, “one step nearer, and I kill the prisoner; my
orders were to carry him off alive or dead. I will take him dead,
that’s all.”
A terrible cry was heard, and the wife and daughters of Broussel held
up their hands in supplication to the people; the latter knew that this
officer, who was so pale, but who appeared so determined, would keep
his word; they continued to threaten, but they began to disperse.
“Drive to the palace,” said Comminges to the coachman, who was by then
more dead than alive.
The man whipped his animals, which cleared a way through the crowd; but
on arriving on the Quai they were obliged to stop; the carriage was
upset, the horses carried off, stifled, mangled by the crowd. Raoul, on
foot, for he had not time to mount his horse again, tired, like the
guards, of distributing blows with the flat of his sword, had recourse
to its point. But this last and dreaded resource served only to
exasperate the multitude. From time to time a shot from a musket or the
blade of a rapier flashed among the crowd; projectiles continued to
hail down from the windows and some shots were heard, the echo of
which, though they were probably fired in the air, made all hearts
vibrate. Voices, unheard except on days of revolution, were
distinguished; faces were seen that only appeared on days of bloodshed.
Cries of “Death! death to the guards! to the Seine with the officer!”
were heard above all the noise, deafening as it was. Raoul, his hat in
ribbons, his face bleeding, felt not only his strength but also his
reason going; a red mist covered his sight, and through this mist he
saw a hundred threatening arms stretched over him, ready to seize upon
him when he fell. The guards were unable to help any one—each one was
occupied with his self-preservation. All was over; carriages, horses,
guards, and perhaps even the prisoner were about to be torn to shreds,
when all at once a voice well known to Raoul was heard, and suddenly a
great sword glittered in the air; at the same time the crowd opened,
upset, trodden down, and an officer of the musketeers, striking and
cutting right and left, rushed up to Raoul and took him in his arms
just as he was about to fall.
“God’s blood!” cried the officer, “have they killed him? Woe to them if
it be so!”
And he turned around, so stern with anger, strength and threat, that
the most excited rebels hustled back on one another, in order to
escape, and some of them even rolled into the Seine.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” murmured Raoul.
“Yes, ’sdeath! in person, and fortunately it seems for you, my young
friend. Come on, here, you others,” he continued, rising in his
stirrups, raising his sword, and addressing those musketeers who had
not been able to follow his rapid onslaught. “Come, sweep away all that
for me! Shoulder muskets! Present arms! Aim——”
At this command the mountain of populace thinned so suddenly that
D’Artagnan could not repress a burst of Homeric laughter.
“Thank you, D’Artagnan,” said Comminges, showing half of his body
through the window of the broken vehicle, “thanks, my young friend;
your name—that I may mention it to the queen.”
Raoul was about to reply when D’Artagnan bent down to his ear.
“Hold your tongue,” said he, “and let me answer. Do not lose time,
Comminges,” he continued; “get out of the carriage if you can and make
another draw up; be quick, or in five minutes the mob will be on us
again with swords and muskets and you will be killed. Hold! there’s a
carriage coming over yonder.”
Then bending again to Raoul, he whispered: “Above all things do not
divulge your name.”
“That’s right. I will go,” said Comminges; “and if they come back,
fire!”
“Not at all—not at all,” replied D’Artagnan; “let no one move. On the
contrary, one shot at this moment would be paid for dearly to-morrow.”
Comminges took his four guards and as many musketeers and ran to the
carriage, from which he made the people inside dismount, and brought
them to the vehicle which had upset. But when it was necessary to
convey the prisoner from one carriage to the other, the people,
catching sight of him whom they called their liberator, uttered every
imaginable cry and knotted themselves once more around the vehicle.
“Start, start!” said D’Artagnan. “There are ten men to accompany you. I
will keep twenty to hold in check the mob; go, and lose not a moment.
Ten men for Monsieur de Comminges.”
As the carriage started off the cries were redoubled and more than ten
thousand people thronged the Quai and overflowed the Pont Neuf and
adjacent streets. A few shots were fired and one musketeer was wounded.
“Forward!” cried D’Artagnan, driven to extremities, biting his
moustache; and then he charged with his twenty men and dispersed them
in fear. One man alone remained in his place, gun in hand.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “it is thou who wouldst have him assassinated? Wait
an instant.” And he pointed his gun at D’Artagnan, who was riding
toward him at full speed. D’Artagnan bent down to his horse’s neck, the
young man fired, and the ball severed the feathers from the hat. The
horse started, brushed against the imprudent man, who thought by his
strength alone to stay the tempest, and he fell against the wall.
D’Artagnan pulled up his horse, and whilst his musketeers continued to
charge, he returned and bent with drawn sword over the man he had
knocked down.
“Oh, sir!” exclaimed Raoul, recognizing the young man as having seen
him in the Rue Cocatrix, “spare him! it is his son!”
D’Artagnan’s arm dropped to his side. “Ah, you are his son!” he said;
“that is a different thing.”
“Sir, I surrender,” said Louvières, presenting his unloaded musket to
the officer.
“Eh, no! do not surrender, egad! On the contrary, be off, and quickly.
If I take you, you will be hung!”
The young man did not wait to be told twice, but passing under the
horse’s head disappeared at the corner of the Rue Guénégaud.
“I’faith!” said D’Artagnan to Raoul, “you were just in time to stay my
hand. He was a dead man; and on my honor, if I had discovered that it
was his son, I should have regretted having killed him.”
“Ah! sir!” said Raoul, “allow me, after thanking you for that poor
fellow’s life, to thank you on my own account. I too, sir, was almost
dead when you arrived.”
“Wait, wait, young man; do not fatigue yourself with speaking. We can
talk of it afterward.”
Then seeing that the musketeers had cleared the Quai from the Pont Neuf
to the Quai Saint Michael, he raised his sword for them to double their
speed. The musketeers trotted up, and at the same time the ten men whom
D’Artagnan had given to Comminges appeared.
“Halloo!” cried D’Artagnan; “has something fresh happened?”
“Eh, sir!” replied the sergeant, “their vehicle has broken down a
second time; it really must be doomed.”
“They are bad managers,” said D’Artagnan, shrugging his shoulders.
“When a carriage is chosen, it ought to be strong. The carriage in
which a Broussel is to be arrested ought to be able to bear ten
thousand men.”
“What are your commands, lieutenant?”
“Take the detachment and conduct him to his place.”
“But you will be left alone?”
“Certainly. So you suppose I have need of an escort? Go.”
The musketeers set off and D’Artagnan was left alone with Raoul.
“Now,” he said, “are you in pain?”
“Yes; my head is not only swimming but burning.”
“What’s the matter with this head?” said D’Artagnan, raising the
battered hat. “Ah! ah! a bruise.”
“Yes, I think I received a flower-pot upon my head.”
“Brutes!” said D’Artagnan. “But were you not on horseback? you have
spurs.”
“Yes, but I got down to defend Monsieur de Comminges and my horse was
taken away. Here it is, I see.”
At this very moment Friquet passed, mounted on Raoul’s horse, waving
his parti-colored cap and crying, “Broussel! Broussel!”
“Halloo! stop, rascal!” cried D’Artagnan. “Bring hither that horse.”
Friquet heard perfectly, but he pretended not to do so and tried to
continue his road. D’Artagnan felt inclined for an instant to pursue
Master Friquet, but not wishing to leave Raoul alone he contented
himself with taking a pistol from the holster and cocking it.
Friquet had a quick eye and a fine ear. He saw D’Artagnan’s movement,
heard the sound of the click, and stopped at once.
“Ah! it is you, your honor,” he said, advancing toward D’Artagnan; “and
I am truly pleased to meet you.”
D’Artagnan looked attentively at Friquet and recognized the little
chorister of the Rue de la Calandre.
“Ah! ’tis thou, rascal!” said he, “come here: so thou hast changed thy
trade; thou art no longer a choir boy nor a tavern boy; thou hast
become a horse stealer?”
“Ah, your honor, how can you say so?” exclaimed Friquet. “I was seeking
the gentleman to whom this horse belongs—an officer, brave and handsome
as a youthful Cæsar;” then, pretending to see Raoul for the first time:
“Ah! but if I mistake not,” continued he, “here he is; you won’t forget
the boy, sir.”
Raoul put his hand in his pocket.
“What are you about?” asked D’Artagnan.
“To give ten francs to this honest fellow,” replied Raoul, taking a
pistole from his pocket.
“Ten kicks on his back!” said D’Artagnan; “be off, you little villain,
and forget not that I have your address.”
Friquet, who did not expect to be let off so cheaply, bounded off like
a gazelle up the Quai a la Rue Dauphine, and disappeared. Raoul mounted
his horse, and both leisurely took their way to the Rue Tiquetonne.
D’Artagnan watched over the youth as if he had been his own son.
They arrived without accident at the Hotel de la Chevrette.
The handsome Madeleine announced to D’Artagnan that Planchet had
returned, bringing Mousqueton with him, who had heroically borne the
extraction of the ball and was as well as his state would permit.
D’Artagnan desired Planchet to be summoned, but he had disappeared.
“Then bring some wine,” said D’Artagnan. “You are much pleased with
yourself,” said he to Raoul when they were alone, “are you not?”
“Well, yes,” replied Raoul. “It seems to me I did my duty. I defended
the king.”
“And who told you to defend the king?”
“The Comte de la Fère himself.”
“Yes, the king; but to-day you have not fought for the king, you have
fought for Mazarin; which is not quite the same thing.”
“But you yourself?”
“Oh, for me; that is another matter. I obey my captain’s orders. As for
you, your captain is the prince, understand that rightly; you have no
other. But has one ever seen such a wild fellow,” continued he, “making
himself a Mazarinist and helping to arrest Broussel! Breathe not a word
of that, or the Comte de la Fère will be furious.”
“You think the count will be angry with me?”
“Think it? I’m certain of it; were it not for that, I should thank you,
for you have worked for us. However, I scold you instead of him, and in
his place; the storm will blow over more easily, believe me. And
moreover, my dear child,” continued D’Artagnan, “I am making use of the
privilege conceded to me by your guardian.”
“I do not understand you, sir,” said Raoul.
D’Artagnan rose, and taking a letter from his writing-desk, presented
it to Raoul. The face of the latter became serious when he had cast his
eyes upon the paper.
“Oh, _mon Dieu!_” he said, raising his fine eyes to D’Artagnan, moist
with tears, “the count has left Paris without seeing me?”
“He left four days ago,” said D’Artagnan.
“But this letter seems to intimate that he is about to incur danger,
perhaps death.”
“He—he—incur danger of death! No, be not anxious; he is traveling on
business and will return ere long. I hope you have no repugnance to
accept me as your guardian in the interim.”
“Oh, no, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Raoul, “you are such a brave
gentleman and the Comte de la Fère has so much affection for you!”
“Eh! Egad! love me too; I will not torment you much, but only on
condition that you become a Frondist, my young friend, and a hearty
Frondist, too.”
“But can I continue to visit Madame de Chevreuse?”
“I should say you could! and the coadjutor and Madame de Longueville;
and if the worthy Broussel were there, whom you so stupidly helped
arrest, I should tell you to excuse yourself to him at once and kiss
him on both cheeks.”
“Well, sir, I will obey you, although I do not understand you.”
“It is unnecessary for you to understand. Hold,” continued D’Artagnan,
turning toward the door, which had just opened, “here is Monsieur du
Vallon, who comes with his coat torn.”
“Yes, but in exchange,” said Porthos, covered with perspiration and
soiled by dust, “in exchange, I have torn many skins. Those wretches
wanted to take away my sword! Deuce take ’em, what a popular
commotion!” continued the giant, in his quiet manner; “but I knocked
down more than twenty with the hilt of Balizarde. A draught of wine,
D’Artagnan.”
“Oh, I’ll answer for you,” said the Gascon, filling Porthos’s glass to
the brim; “but when you have drunk, give me your opinion.”
“Upon what?” asked Porthos.
“Look here,” resumed D’Artagnan; “here is Monsieur de Bragelonne, who
determined at all risks to aid the arrest of Broussel and whom I had
great difficulty to prevent defending Monsieur de Comminges.”
“The devil!” said Porthos; “and his guardian, what would he have said
to that?”
“Do you hear?” interrupted D’Artagnan; “become a Frondist, my friend,
belong to the Fronde, and remember that I fill the count’s place in
everything;” and he jingled his money.
“Will you come?” said he to Porthos.
“Where?” asked Porthos, filling a second glass of wine.
“To present our respects to the cardinal.”
Porthos swallowed the second glass with the same grace with which he
had imbibed the first, took his beaver and followed D’Artagnan. As for
Raoul, he remained bewildered with what he had seen, having been
forbidden by D’Artagnan to leave the room until the tumult was over.
Chapter XLV.
The Beggar of St. Eustache.
D’Artagnan had calculated that in not going at once to the Palais Royal
he would give Comminges time to arrive before him, and consequently to
make the cardinal acquainted with the eminent services which he,
D’Artagnan, and his friend had rendered to the queen’s party in the
morning.
They were indeed admirably received by Mazarin, who paid them numerous
compliments, and announced that they were more than half on their way
to obtain what they desired, namely, D’Artagnan his captaincy, Porthos
his barony.
D’Artagnan would have preferred money in hand to all that fine talk,
for he knew well that to Mazarin it was easy to promise and hard to
perform. But, though he held the cardinal’s promises as of little
worth, he affected to be completely satisfied, for he was unwilling to
discourage Porthos.
Whilst the two friends were with the cardinal, the queen sent for him.
Mazarin, thinking that it would be the means of increasing the zeal of
his two defenders if he procured them personal thanks from the queen,
motioned them to follow him. D’Artagnan and Porthos pointed to their
dusty and torn dresses, but the cardinal shook his head.
“Those costumes,” he said, “are of more worth than most of those which
you will see on the backs of the queen’s courtiers; they are costumes
of battle.”
D’Artagnan and Porthos obeyed. The court of Anne of Austria was full of
gayety and animation; for, after having gained a victory over the
Spaniard, it had just gained another over the people. Broussel had been
conducted out of Paris without further resistance, and was at this time
in the prison of Saint Germain; while Blancmesnil, who was arrested at
the same time, but whose arrest had been made without difficulty or
noise, was safe in the Castle of Vincennes.
Comminges was near the queen, who was questioning him upon the details
of his expedition, and every one was listening to his account, when
D’Artagnan and Porthos were perceived at the door, behind the cardinal.
“Ah, madame,” said Comminges, hastening to D’Artagnan, “here is one who
can tell you better than myself, for he was my protector. Without him I
should probably at this moment be a dead fish in the nets at Saint
Cloud, for it was a question of nothing less than throwing me into the
river. Speak, D’Artagnan, speak.”
D’Artagnan had been a hundred times in the same room with the queen
since he had become lieutenant of the musketeers, but her majesty had
never once spoken to him.
“Well, sir,” at last said Anne of Austria, “you are silent, after
rendering such a service?”
“Madame,” replied D’Artagnan, “I have nought to say, save that my life
is ever at your majesty’s service, and that I shall only be happy the
day I lose it for you.”
“I know that, sir; I have known that,” said the queen, “a long time;
therefore I am delighted to be able thus publicly to mark my gratitude
and my esteem.”
“Permit me, madame,” said D’Artagnan, “to reserve a portion for my
friend; like myself” (he laid an emphasis on these words) “an ancient
musketeer of the company of Tréville; he has done wonders.”
“His name?” asked the queen.
“In the regiment,” said D’Artagnan, “he is called Porthos” (the queen
started), “but his true name is the Chevalier du Vallon.”
“De Bracieux de Pierrefonds,” added Porthos.
“These names are too numerous for me to remember them all, and I will
content myself with the first,” said the queen, graciously. Porthos
bowed. At this moment the coadjutor was announced; a cry of surprise
ran through the royal assemblage. Although the coadjutor had preached
that same morning it was well known that he leaned much to the side of
the Fronde; and Mazarin, in requesting the archbishop of Paris to make
his nephew preach, had evidently had the intention of administering to
Monsieur de Retz one of those Italian kicks he so much enjoyed giving.
The fact was, in leaving Notre Dame the coadjutor had learned the event
of the day. Although almost engaged to the leaders of the Fronde he had
not gone so far but that retreat was possible should the court offer
him the advantages for which he was ambitious and to which the
coadjutorship was but a stepping-stone. Monsieur de Retz wished to
become archbishop in his uncle’s place, and cardinal, like Mazarin; and
the popular party could with difficulty accord him favors so entirely
royal. He therefore hastened to the palace to congratulate the queen on
the battle of Lens, determined beforehand to act with or against the
court, as his congratulations were well or ill received.
The coadjutor possessed, perhaps, as much wit as all those put together
who were assembled at the court to laugh at him. His speech, therefore,
was so well turned, that in spite of the great wish felt by the
courtiers to laugh, they could find no point on which to vent their
ridicule. He concluded by saying that he placed his feeble influence at
her majesty’s command.
During the whole time he was speaking, the queen appeared to be well
pleased with the coadjutor’s harangue; but terminating as it did with
such a phrase, the only one which could be caught at by the jokers,
Anne turned around and directed a glance toward her favorites, which
announced that she delivered up the coadjutor to their tender mercies.
Immediately the wits of the court plunged into satire. Nogent-Beautin,
the fool of the court, exclaimed that “the queen was very happy to have
the succor of religion at such a moment.” This caused a universal burst
of laughter. The Count de Villeroy said that “he did not know how any
fear could be entertained for a moment, when the court had, to defend
itself against the parliament and the citizens of Paris, his holiness
the coadjutor, who by a signal could raise an army of curates, church
porters and vergers.”
The Maréchal de la Meilleraie added that in case the coadjutor should
appear on the field of battle it would be a pity that he should not be
distinguished in the mêlée by wearing a red hat, as Henry IV. had been
distinguished by his white plume at the battle of Ivry.
During this storm, Gondy, who had it in his power to make it most
unpleasant for the jesters, remained calm and stern. The queen at last
asked him if he had anything to add to the fine discourse he had just
made to her.
“Yes, madame,” replied the coadjutor; “I have to beg you to reflect
twice ere you cause a civil war in the kingdom.”
The queen turned her back and the laughing recommenced.
The coadjutor bowed and left the palace, casting upon the cardinal such
a glance as is best understood by mortal foes. That glance was so sharp
that it penetrated the heart of Mazarin, who, reading in it a
declaration of war, seized D’Artagnan by the arm and said:
“If occasion requires, monsieur, you will remember that man who has
just gone out, will you not?”
“Yes, my lord,” he replied. Then, turning toward Porthos, “The devil!”
said he, “this has a bad look. I dislike these quarrels among men of
the church.”
Gondy withdrew, distributing benedictions on his way, and finding a
malicious satisfaction in causing the adherents of his foes to
prostrate themselves at his feet.
“Oh!” he murmured, as he left the threshold of the palace: “ungrateful
court! faithless court! cowardly court! I will teach you how to laugh
to-morrow—but in another manner.”
But whilst they were indulging in extravagant joy at the Palais Royal,
to increase the hilarity of the queen, Mazarin, a man of sense, and
whose fear, moreover, gave him foresight, lost no time in making idle
and dangerous jokes; he went out after the coadjutor, settled his
account, locked up his gold, and had confidential workmen to contrive
hiding places in his walls.