destiny.”
Chapter LXIV.
How Mousqueton had a Narrow Escape of being eaten.
A deep silence reigned for a long time in the boat after the fearful
scene described.
The moon, which had shone for a short time, disappeared behind the
clouds; every object was again plunged in the obscurity that is so
awful in the deserts and still more so in that liquid desert, the
ocean, and nothing was heard save the whistling of the west wind
driving along the tops of the crested billows.
Porthos was the first to speak.
“I have seen,” he said, “many dreadful things, but nothing that ever
agitated me so much as what I have just witnessed. Nevertheless, even
in my present state of perturbation, I protest that I feel happy. I
have a hundred pounds’ weight less upon my chest. I breathe more
freely.” In fact, Porthos breathed so loud as to do credit to the free
play of his powerful lungs.
“For my part,” observed Aramis, “I cannot say the same as you do,
Porthos. I am still terrified to such a degree that I scarcely believe
my eyes. I look around the boat, expecting every moment to see that
poor wretch holding between his hands the poniard plunged into his
heart.”
“Oh! I feel easy,” replied Porthos. “The poniard was pointed at the
sixth rib and buried up to the hilt in his body. I do not reproach you,
Athos, for what you have done. On the contrary, when one aims a blow
that is the regulation way to strike. So now, I breathe again—I am
happy!”
“Don’t be in haste to celebrate a victory, Porthos,” interposed
D’Artagnan; “never have we incurred a greater danger than we are now
encountering. Men may subdue men—they cannot overcome the elements. We
are now on the sea, at night, without any pilot, in a frail bark;
should a blast of wind upset the boat we are lost.”
Mousqueton heaved a deep sigh.
“You are ungrateful, D’Artagnan,” said Athos; “yes, ungrateful to
Providence, to whom we owe our safety in the most miraculous manner.
Let us sail before the wind, and unless it changes we shall be drifted
either to Calais or Boulogne. Should our bark be upset we are five of
us good swimmers, able enough to turn it over again, or if not, to hold
on by it. Now we are on the very road which all the vessels between
Dover and Calais take, ’tis impossible but that we should meet with a
fisherman who will pick us up.”
“But should we not find any fisherman and should the wind shift to the
north?”
“That,” said Athos, “would be quite another thing; and we should
nevermore see land until we were upon the other side of the Atlantic.”
“Which implies that we may die of hunger,” said Aramis.
“’Tis more than possible,” answered the Comte de la Fère.
Mousqueton sighed again, more deeply than before.
“What is the matter? what ails you?” asked Porthos.
“I am cold, sir,” said Mousqueton.
“Impossible! your body is covered with a coating of fat which preserves
it from the cold air.”
“Ah! sir, ’tis this very coating of fat that makes me shiver.”
“How is that, Mousqueton?
“Alas! your honor, in the library of the Château of Bracieux there are
a lot of books of travels.”
“What then?”
“Amongst them the voyages of Jean Mocquet in the time of Henry IV.”
“Well?”
“In these books, your honor, ’tis told how hungry voyagers, drifting
out to sea, have a bad habit of eating each other and beginning with——”
“The fattest among them!” cried D’Artagnan, unable in spite of the
gravity of the occasion to help laughing.
“Yes, sir,” answered Mousqueton; “but permit me to say I see nothing
laughable in it. However,” he added, turning to Porthos, “I should not
regret dying, sir, were I sure that by doing so I might still be useful
to you.”
“Mouston,” replied Porthos, much affected, “should we ever see my
castle of Pierrefonds again you shall have as your own and for your
descendants the vineyard that surrounds the farm.”
“And you should call it ‘Devotion,’” added Aramis; “the vineyard of
self-sacrifice, to transmit to latest ages the recollection of your
devotion to your master.”
“Chevalier,” said D’Artagnan, laughing, “you could eat a piece of
Mouston, couldn’t you, especially after two or three days of fasting?”
“Oh, no,” replied Aramis, “I should much prefer Blaisois; we haven’t
known him so long.”
One may readily conceive that during these jokes which were intended
chiefly to divert Athos from the scene which had just taken place, the
servants, with the exception of Grimaud, were not silent. Suddenly
Mousqueton uttered a cry of delight, taking from beneath one of the
benches a bottle of wine; and on looking more closely in the same place
he discovered a dozen similar bottles, bread, and a monster junk of
salted beef.
“Oh, sir!” he cried, passing the bottle to Porthos, “we are saved—the
bark is supplied with provisions.”
This intelligence restored every one save Athos to gayety.
“Zounds!” exclaimed Porthos, “’tis astonishing how empty violent
agitation makes the stomach.”
And he drank off half a bottle at a draught and bit great mouthfuls of
the bread and meat.
“Now,” said Athos, “sleep, or try to sleep, my friends, and I will
watch.”
In a few moments, notwithstanding their wet clothes, the icy blast that
blew and the previous scene of terror, these hardy adventurers, with
their iron frames, inured to every hardship, threw themselves down,
intending to profit by the advice of Athos, who sat at the helm,
pensively wakeful, guiding the little bark the way it was to go, his
eyes fixed on the heavens, as if he sought to verify not only the road
to France, but the benign aspect of protecting Providence. After some
hours of repose the sleepers were aroused by Athos.
Dawn was shedding its pallid, placid glimmer on the purple ocean, when
at the distance of a musket shot from them was seen a dark gray mass,
above which gleamed a triangular sail; then masters and servants joined
in a fervent cry to the crew of that vessel to hear them and to save.
“A bark!” all cried together.
It was, in fact, a small craft from Dunkirk bound for Boulogne.
A quarter of an hour afterward the rowboat of this craft took them all
aboard. Grimaud tendered twenty guineas to the captain, and at nine
o’clock in the morning, having a fair wind, our Frenchmen set foot on
their native land.
“Egad! how strong one feels here!” said Porthos, almost burying his
large feet in the sands. “Zounds! I could defy a nation!”
“Be quiet, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “we are observed.”
“We are admired, i’faith,” answered Porthos.
“These people who are looking at us are only merchants,” said Athos,
“and are looking more at the cargo than at us.”
“I shall not trust to that,” said the lieutenant, “and I shall make for
the Dunes* as soon as possible.”
* Sandy hills about Dunkirk, from which it derives its name.
The party followed him and soon disappeared with him behind the
hillocks of sand unobserved. Here, after a short conference, they
proposed to separate.
“And why separate?” asked Athos.
“Because,” answered the Gascon, “we were sent, Porthos and I, by
Cardinal Mazarin to fight for Cromwell; instead of fighting for
Cromwell we have served Charles I.—not the same thing by any means. In
returning with the Comte de la Fère and Monsieur d’Herblay our crime
would be confirmed. We have circumvented Cromwell, Mordaunt, and the
sea, but we shall find a certain difficulty in circumventing Mazarin.”
“You forget,” replied Athos, “that we consider ourselves your prisoners
and not free from the engagement we entered into.”
“Truly, Athos,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “I am vexed that such a man as
you are should talk nonsense which schoolboys would be ashamed of.
Chevalier,” he continued, addressing Aramis, who, leaning proudly on
his sword, seemed to agree with his companion, “Chevalier, Porthos and
I run no risk; besides, should any ill-luck happen to two of us, will
it not be much better that the other two should be spared to assist
those who may be apprehended? Besides, who knows whether, divided, we
may not obtain a pardon—you from the queen, we from Mazarin—which, were
we all four together, would never be granted. Come, Athos and Aramis,
go to the right; Porthos, come with me to the left; these gentlemen
should file off into Normandy, whilst we, by the nearest road, reach
Paris.”
He then gave his friends minute directions as to their route.
“Ah! my dear friend,” exclaimed Athos, “how I should admire the
resources of your mind did I not stop to adore those of your heart.”
And he gave him his hand.
“Isn’t this fox a genius, Athos?” asked the Gascon. “No! he knows how
to crunch fowls, to dodge the huntsman and to find his way home by day
or by night, that’s all. Well, is all said?”
“All.”
“Then let’s count our money and divide it. Ah! hurrah! there’s the sun!
A merry morning to you, Sunshine. ’Tis a long time since I saw thee!”
“Come, come, D’Artagnan,” said Athos, “do not affect to be
strong-minded; there are tears in your eyes. Let us be open with each
other and sincere.”
“What!” cried the Gascon, “do you think, Athos, we can take leave,
calmly, of two friends at a time not free from danger to you and
Aramis?”
“No,” answered Athos; “embrace me, my son.”
“Zounds!” said Porthos, sobbing, “I believe I’m crying; but how foolish
all this is!”
Then they embraced. At that moment their fraternal bond of union was
closer than ever, and when they parted, each to take the route agreed
on, they turned back to utter affectionate expressions, which the
echoes of the Dunes repeated. At last they lost sight of each other.
“_Sacrebleu!_ D’Artagnan,” said Porthos, “I must out with it at once,
for I can’t keep to myself anything I have against you; I haven’t been
able to recognize you in this matter.”
“Why not?” said D’Artagnan, with his wise smile.
“Because if, as you say, Athos and Aramis are in real danger, this is
not the time to abandon them. For my part, I confess to you that I was
all ready to follow them and am still ready to rejoin them, in spite of
all the Mazarins in the world.”
“You would be right, Porthos, but for one thing, which may change the
current of your ideas; and that is, that it is not those gentlemen who
are in the greatest danger, it is ourselves; it is not to abandon them
that we have separated, but to avoid compromising them.”
“Really?” said Porthos, opening his eyes in astonishment.
“Yes, no doubt. If they are arrested they will only be put in the
Bastile; if we are arrested it is a matter of the Place de Greve.”
“Oh! oh!” said Porthos, “there is quite a gap between that fate and the
baronial coronet you promised me, D’Artagnan.”
“Bah! perhaps not so great as you think, Porthos; you know the proverb,
‘All roads lead to Rome.’”
“But how is it that we are incurring greater risks than Athos and
Aramis?” asked Porthos.
“Because they have but fulfilled the mission confided to them by Queen
Henrietta and we have betrayed that confided to us by Mazarin; because,
going hence as emissaries to Cromwell, we became partisans of King
Charles; because, instead of helping cut off the royal head condemned
by those fellows called Mazarin, Cromwell, Joyce, Bridge, Fairfax,
etc., we very nearly succeeded in saving it.”
“Upon my word that is true,” said Porthos; “but how can you suppose, my
dear friend, that in the midst of his great preoccupations General
Cromwell has had time to think——”
“Cromwell thinks of everything; Cromwell has time for everything; and
believe me, dear friend, we ought not to lose our time—it is precious.
We shall not be safe till we have seen Mazarin, and then——”
“The devil!” said Porthos; “what can we say to Mazarin?”
“Leave that to me—I have my plan. He laughs best who laughs last.
Cromwell is mighty, Mazarin is tricky, but I would rather have to do
with them than with the late Monsieur Mordaunt.”
“Ah!” said Porthos, “it is very pleasant to be able to say ‘the late
Monsieur Mordaunt.’”
“My faith, yes,” said D’Artagnan. “But we must be going.”
The two immediately started across country toward the road to Paris,
followed by Mousqueton, who, after being too cold all night, at the end
of a quarter of an hour found himself too warm.
Chapter LXXV.
The Return.
During the six weeks that Athos and Aramis had been absent from France,
the Parisians, finding themselves one morning without either queen or
king, were greatly annoyed at being thus deserted, and the absence of
Mazarin, a thing so long desired, did not compensate for that of the
two august fugitives.
The first feeling that pervaded Paris on hearing of the flight to Saint
Germain, was that sort of affright which seizes children when they
awake in the night and find themselves alone. A deputation was
therefore sent to the queen to entreat her to return to Paris; but she
not only declined to receive the deputies, but sent an intimation by
Chancellor Séguier, implying that if the parliament did not humble
itself before her majesty by negativing all the questions that had been
the cause of the quarrel, Paris would be besieged the very next day.
This threatening answer, unluckily for the court, produced quite a
different effect to that which was intended. It wounded the pride of
the parliament, which, supported by the citizens, replied by declaring
that Cardinal Mazarin was the cause of all the discontent; denounced
him as the enemy both of the king and the state, and ordered him to
retire from the court that same day and from France within a week
afterward; enjoining, in case of disobedience on his part, all the
subjects of the king to pursue and take him.
Mazarin being thus placed beyond the pale of the protection of the law,
preparations on both sides were commenced—by the queen, to attack
Paris, by the citizens, to defend it. The latter were occupied in
breaking up the pavement and stretching chains across the streets,
when, headed by the coadjutor, appeared the Prince de Conti (the
brother of the Prince de Condé) and the Duc de Longueville, his
brother-in-law. This unexpected band of auxiliaries arrived in Paris on
the tenth of January and the Prince of Conti was named, but not until
after a stormy discussion, generalissimo of the army of the king, out
of Paris.
As for the Duc de Beaufort, he arrived from Vendôme, according to the
annals of the day, bringing with him his high bearing and his long and
beautiful hair, qualifications which gained him the sovereignty of the
marketplaces.
The Parisian army had organized with the promptness characteristic of
the bourgeois whenever they are moved by any sentiment whatever to
disguise themselves as soldiers. On the nineteenth the impromptu army
had attempted a sortie, more to assure itself and others of its actual
existence than with any more serious intention. They carried a banner,
on which could be read this strange device: “_We are seeking our
king_.”
The next following days were occupied in trivial movements which
resulted only in the carrying off of a few herds of cattle and the
burning of two or three houses.
That was still the situation of affairs up to the early days of
February. On the first day of that month our four companions had landed
at Boulogne, and, in two parties, had set out for Paris. Toward the end
of the fourth day of the journey Athos and Aramis reached Nanterre,
which place they cautiously passed by on the outskirts, fearing that
they might encounter some troop from the queen’s army.
It was against his will that Athos took these precautions, but Aramis
had very judiciously reminded him that they had no right to be
imprudent, that they had been charged by King Charles with a supreme
and sacred mission, which, received at the foot of the scaffold, could
be accomplished only at the feet of Queen Henrietta. Upon that, Athos
yielded.
On reaching the capital Athos and Aramis found it in arms. The sentinel
at the gate refused even to let them pass, and called his sergeant.
The sergeant, with the air of importance which such people assume when
they are clad with military dignity, said:
“Who are you, gentlemen?”
“Two gentlemen.”
“And where do you come from?”
“From London.”
“And what are you going to do in Paris?”
“We are going with a mission to Her Majesty, the Queen of England.”
“Ah, every one seems to be going to see the queen of England. We have
already at the station three gentlemen whose passports are under
examination, who are on their way to her majesty. Where are your
passports?”
“We have none; we left England, ignorant of the state of politics here,
having left Paris before the departure of the king.”
“Ah!” said the sergeant, with a cunning smile, “you are Mazarinists,
who are sent as spies.”
“My dear friend,” here Athos spoke, “rest assured, if we were
Mazarinists we should come well prepared with every sort of passport.
In your situation distrust those who are well provided with every
formality.”
“Enter the guardroom,” said the sergeant; “we will lay your case before
the commandant of the post.”
The guardroom was filled with citizens and common people, some playing,
some drinking, some talking. In a corner, almost hidden from view, were
three gentlemen, who had preceded Athos and Aramis, and an officer was
examining their passports. The first impulse of these three, and of
those who last entered, was to cast an inquiring glance at each other.
The first arrivals wore long cloaks, in whose drapery they were
carefully enveloped; one of them, shorter than the rest, remained
pertinaciously in the background.
When the sergeant on entering the room announced that in all
probability he was bringing in two Mazarinists, it appeared to be the
unanimous opinion of the officers on guard that they ought not to pass.
“Be it so,” said Athos; “yet it is probable, on the contrary, that we
shall enter, because we seem to have to do with sensible people. There
seems to be only one thing to do, which is, to send our names to Her
Majesty the Queen of England, and if she engages to answer for us I
presume we shall be allowed to enter.”
On hearing these words the shortest of the other three men seemed more
attentive than ever to what was going on, wrapping his cloak around him
more carefully than before.
“Merciful goodness!” whispered Aramis to Athos, “did you see?”
“What?” asked Athos.
“The face of the shortest of those three gentlemen?”
“No.”
“He looked to me—but ’tis impossible.”
At this instant the sergeant, who had been for his orders, returned,
and pointing to the three gentlemen in cloaks, said:
“The passports are in order; let these three gentlemen pass.”
The three gentlemen bowed and hastened to take advantage of this
permission.
Aramis looked after them, and as the last of them passed close to him
he pressed the hand of Athos.
“What is the matter with you, my friend?” asked the latter.
“I have—doubtless I am dreaming; tell me, sir,” he said to the
sergeant, “do you know those three gentlemen who are just gone out?”
“Only by their passports; they are three Frondists, who are gone to
rejoin the Duc de Longueville.”
“’Tis strange,” said Aramis, almost involuntarily; “I fancied that I
recognized Mazarin himself.”
The sergeant burst into a fit of laughter.
“He!” he cried; “he venture himself amongst us, to be hung! Not so
foolish as all that.”
“Ah!” muttered Athos, “I may be mistaken, I haven’t the unerring eye of
D’Artagnan.”
“Who is speaking of Monsieur D’Artagnan?” asked an officer who appeared
at that moment upon the threshold of the room.
“What!” cried Aramis and Athos, “what! _Planchet!_”
“Planchet,” added Grimaud; “Planchet, with a gorget, indeed!”
“Ah, gentlemen!” cried Planchet, “so you are back again in Paris. Oh,
how happy you make us! no doubt you come to join the princes!”
“As thou seest, Planchet,” said Aramis, whilst Athos smiled on seeing
what important rank was held in the city militia by the former comrade
of Mousqueton, Bazin and Grimaud.
“And Monsieur d’Artagnan, of whom you spoke just now, Monsieur
d’Herblay; may I ask if you have any news of him?”
“We parted from him four days ago and we have reason to believe that he
has reached Paris before us.”
“No, sir; I am sure he hasn’t yet arrived. But then he may have stopped
at Saint Germain.”
“I don’t think so; we appointed to meet at La Chevrette.”
“I was there this very day.”
“And had the pretty Madeleine no news?” asked Aramis, smiling.
“No, sir, and it must be admitted that she seemed very anxious.”
“In fact,” said Aramis, “there is no time lost and we made our journey
quickly. Permit me, then, my dear Athos, without inquiring further
about our friend, to pay my respects to M. Planchet.”
“Ah, monsieur le chevalier,” said Planchet, bowing.
“Lieutenant?” asked Aramis.
“Lieutenant, with a promise of becoming captain.”
“’Tis capital; and pray, how did you acquire all these honors?”
“In the first place, gentlemen, you know that I was the means of
Monsieur de Rochefort’s escape; well, I was very near being hung by
Mazarin and that made me more popular than ever.”
“So, owing to your popularity——”
“No; thanks to something better. You know, gentlemen, that I served the
Piedmont regiment and had the honor of being a sergeant?”
“Yes.”
“Well, one day when no one could drill a mob of citizens, who began to
march, some with the right foot, others with the left, I succeeded, I
did, in making them all begin with the same foot, and I was made
lieutenant on the spot.”
“So I presume,” said Athos, “that you have a large number of the nobles
with you?”
“Certainly. There are the Prince de Conti, the Duc de Longueville, the
Duc de Beaufort, the Duc de Bouillon, the Maréchal de la Mothe, the
Marquis de Sevigné, and I don’t know who, for my part.”
“And the Vicomte Raoul de Bragelonne?” inquired Athos, in a tremulous
voice. “D’Artagnan told me that he had recommended him to your care, in
parting.”
“Yes, count; nor have I lost sight of him for a single instant since.”
“Then,” said Athos in a tone of delight, “he is well? no accident has
happened to him?”
“None, sir.”
“And he lives?”
“Still at the Hotel of the Great Charlemagne.”
“And passes his time?”
“Sometimes with the queen of England, sometimes with Madame de
Chevreuse. He and the Count de Guiche are like each other’s shadows.”
“Thanks, Planchet, thanks!” cried Athos, extending his hand to the
lieutenant.
“Oh, sir!” Planchet only touched the tips of the count’s fingers.
“Well, what are you doing, count—to a former lackey?
“My friend,” said Athos, “he has given me news of Raoul.”
“And now, gentlemen,” said Planchet, who had not heard what they were
saying, “what do you intend to do?”
“Re-enter Paris, if you will let us, my good Planchet.”
“Let you, sir? Now, as ever, I am nothing but your servant.” Then
turning to his men:
“Allow these gentlemen to pass,” he said; “they are friends of the Duc
de Beaufort.”
“Long live the Duc de Beaufort!” cried the sentinels.
The sergeant drew near to Planchet.
“What! without passports?” he murmured.
“Without passports,” said Planchet.
“Take notice, captain,” he continued, giving Planchet his expected
title, “take notice that one of the three men who just now went out
from here told me privately to distrust these gentlemen.”
“And I,” said Planchet, with dignity, “I know them and I answer for
them.”
As he said this, he pressed Grimaud’s hand, who seemed honored by the
distinction.
“Farewell till we meet again,” said Aramis, as they took leave of
Planchet; “if anything happens to us we shall blame you for it.”
“Sir,” said Planchet, “I am in all things at your service.”
“That fellow is no fool,” said Aramis, as he got on his horse.
“How should he be?” replied Athos, whilst mounting also, “seeing he was
used so long to brush _your_ hats.”
Chapter LXXVI.
The Ambassadors.
The two friends rode rapidly down the declivity of the Faubourg, but on
arriving at the bottom were surprised to find that the streets of Paris
had become rivers, and the open places lakes; after the great rains
which fell in January the Seine had overflowed its banks and the river
inundated half the capital. The two gentlemen were obliged, therefore,
to get off their horses and take a boat; and in that strange manner
they approached the Louvre.
Night had closed in, and Paris, seen thus, by the light of lanterns
flickering on the pools of water, crowded with ferry-boats of every
kind, including those that glittered with the armed patrols, with the
watchword, passing from post to post—Paris presented such an aspect as
to strongly seize the senses of Aramis, a man most susceptible to
warlike impressions.
They reached the queen’s apartments, but were compelled to stop in the
ante-chamber, since her majesty was at that moment giving audience to
gentlemen bringing her news from England.
“We, too,” said Athos, to the footman who had given him that answer,
“not only bring news from England, but have just come from there.”
“What? then, are your names, gentlemen?”
“The Comte de la Fère and the Chevalier d’Herblay,” said Aramis.
“Ah! in that case, gentlemen,” said the footman, on hearing the names
which the queen had so often pronounced with hope, “in that case it is
another thing, and I think her majesty will pardon me for not keeping
you here a moment. Please follow me,” and he went on before, followed
by Athos and Aramis.
On arriving at the door of the room where the queen was receiving he
made a sign for them to wait and opening the door:
“Madame,” he said, “I hope your majesty will forgive me for disobeying
your orders, when you learn that the gentlemen I have come to announce
are the Comte de la Fère and the Chevalier d’Herblay.”
On hearing those two names the queen uttered a cry of joy, which the
two gentlemen heard.
“Poor queen!” murmured Athos.
“Oh, let them come in! let them come in,” cried the young princess,
bounding to the door.
The poor child was constant in her attendance on her mother and sought
by her filial attentions to make her forget the absence of her two sons
and her other daughter.
“Come in, gentlemen,” repeated the princess, opening the door herself.
The queen was seated on a fauteuil and before her were standing two or
three gentlemen, and among them the Duc de Châtillon, the brother of
the nobleman killed eight or nine years previously in a duel on account
of Madame de Longueville, on the Place Royale. All these gentlemen had
been noticed by Athos and Aramis in the guardhouse, and when the two
friends were announced they started and exchanged some words in a low
tone. “Well, sirs!” cried the queen, on perceiving the two friends,
“you have come, faithful friends! But the royal couriers have been more
expeditious than you, and here are Monsieur de Flamarens and Monsieur
de Châtillon, who bring me from Her Majesty the Queen Anne of Austria,
the very latest intelligence.”
Aramis and Athos were astounded by the calmness, even the gayety of the
queen’s manner.
“Go on with your recital, sirs,” said the queen, turning to the Duc de
Châtillon. “You said that His Majesty, King Charles, my august consort,
had been condemned to death by a majority of his subjects!”
“Yes, madame,” Châtillon stammered out.
Athos and Aramis were more and more astonished.
“And that being conducted to the scaffold,” resumed the queen—“oh, my
lord! oh, my king!—and that being led to the scaffold he had been saved
by an indignant people.”
“Just so madame,” replied Châtillon, in so low a voice that though the
two friends were listening eagerly they could hardly hear this
affirmation.
The queen clasped her hands in enthusiastic gratitude, whilst her
daughter threw her arms around her mother’s neck and kissed her—her own
eyes streaming with tears.
“Now, madame, nothing remains to me except to proffer my respectful
homage,” said Châtillon, who felt confused and ashamed beneath the
stern gaze of Athos.
“One moment, yes,” answered the queen. “One moment—I beg—for here are
the Chevalier d’Herblay and the Comte de la Fère, just arrived from
London, and they can give you, as eye-witnesses, such details as you
can convey to the queen, my royal sister. Speak, gentlemen, speak—I am
listening; conceal nothing, gloss over nothing. Since his majesty still
lives, since the honor of the throne is safe, everything else is a
matter of indifference to me.”
Athos turned pale and laid his hand on his heart.
“Well!” exclaimed the queen, who remarked this movement and his
paleness. “Speak, sir! I beg you to do so.”
“I beg you to excuse me, madame; I wish to add nothing to the recital
of these gentlemen until they perceive themselves that they have
perhaps been mistaken.”
“Mistaken!” cried the queen, almost suffocated by emotion; “mistaken!
what has happened, then?”
“Sir,” interposed Monsieur de Flamarens to Athos, “if we are mistaken
the error has originated with the queen. I do not suppose you will have
the presumption to set it to rights—that would be to accuse Her
Majesty, Queen Anne, of falsehood.”
“With the queen, sir?” replied Athos, in his calm, vibrating voice.
“Yes,” murmured Flamarens, lowering his eyes.
Athos sighed deeply.
“Or rather, sir,” said Aramis, with his peculiar irritating politeness,
“the error of the person who was with you when we met you in the
guardroom; for if the Comte de la Fère and I are not mistaken, we saw
you in the company of a third gentleman.”
Châtillon and Flamarens started.
“Explain yourself, count!” cried the queen, whose anxiety grew greater
every moment. “On your brow I read despair—your lips falter ere you
announce some terrible tidings—your hands tremble. Oh, my God! my God!
what has happened?”
“Lord!” ejaculated the young princess, falling on her knees, “have
mercy on us!”
“Sir,” said Châtillon, “if you bring bad tidings it will be cruel in
you to announce them to the queen.”
Aramis went so close to Châtillon as almost to touch him.
“Sir,” said he, with compressed lips and flashing eyes, “you have not
the presumption to instruct the Comte de la Fère and myself what we
ought to say here?”
During this brief altercation Athos, with his hands on his heart, his
head bent low, approached the queen and in a voice of deepest sorrow
said:
“Madame, princes—who by nature are above other men—receive from Heaven
courage to support greater misfortunes than those of lower rank, for
their hearts are elevated as their fortunes. We ought not, therefore, I
think, to act toward a queen so illustrious as your majesty as we
should act toward a woman of our lowlier condition. Queen, destined as
you are to endure every sorrow on this earth, hear the result of our
unhappy mission.”
Athos, kneeling down before the queen, trembling and very cold, drew
from his bosom, inclosed in the same case, the order set in diamonds
which the queen had given to Lord de Winter and the wedding ring which
Charles I. before his death had placed in the hands of Aramis. Since
the moment he had first received these two mementoes Athos had never
parted with them.
He opened the case and offered them to the queen with deep and silent
anguish.
The queen stretched out her hand, seized the ring, pressed it
convulsively to her lips—and without being able to breathe a sigh, to
give vent to a sob, she extended her arms, became deadly pale, and fell
senseless in the arms of her attendants and her daughter.
Athos kissed the hem of the robe of the widowed queen and rising, with
a dignity that made a deep impression on those around:
“I, the Comte de la Fère, a gentleman who has never deceived any human
being, swear before God and before this unhappy queen, that all that
was possible to save the king of England was done whilst we were on
English ground. Now, chevalier,” he added, turning to Aramis, “let us
go. Our duty is fulfilled.”
“Not yet.” said Aramis; “we have still a word to say to these
gentlemen.”
And turning to Châtillon: “Sir, be so good as not to go away without
giving me an opportunity to tell you something I cannot say before the
queen.”
Châtillon bowed in token of assent and they all went out, stopping at
the window of a gallery on the ground floor.
“Sir,” said Aramis, “you allowed yourself just now to treat us in a
most extraordinary manner. That would not be endurable in any case, and
is still less so on the part of those who came to bring the queen the
message of a liar.”
“Sir!” cried De Châtillon.
“What have you done with Monsieur de Bruy? Has he by any possibility
gone to change his face which was too like that of Monsieur de Mazarin?
There is an abundance of Italian masks at the Palais Royal, from
harlequin even to pantaloon.”
“Chevalier! chevalier!” said Athos.
“Leave me alone,” said Aramis impatiently. “You know well that I don’t
like to leave things half finished.”
“Conclude, then, sir,” answered De Châtillon, with as much hauteur as
Aramis.
“Gentlemen,” resumed Aramis, “any one but the Comte de la Fère and
myself would have had you arrested—for we have friends in Paris—but we
are contented with another course. Come and converse with us for just
five minutes, sword in hand, upon this deserted terrace.”
“One moment, gentlemen,” cried Flamarens. “I know well that the
proposition is tempting, but at present it is impossible to accept it.”
“And why not?” said Aramis, in his tone of raillery. “Is it Mazarin’s
proximity that makes you so prudent?”
“Oh, you hear that, Flamarens!” said Châtillon. “Not to reply would be
a blot on my name and my honor.”
“That is my opinion,” said Aramis.
“You will not reply, however, and these gentlemen, I am sure, will
presently be of my opinion.”
Aramis shook his head with a motion of indescribable insolence.
Châtillon saw the motion and put his hand to his sword.
“Willingly,” replied De Châtillon.
“Duke,” said Flamarens, “you forget that to-morrow you are to command
an expedition of the greatest importance, projected by the prince,
assented to by the queen. Until to-morrow evening you are not at your
own disposal.”
“Let it be then the day after to-morrow,” said Aramis.
“To-morrow, rather,” said De Châtillon, “if you will take the trouble
of coming so far as the gates of Charenton.”
“How can you doubt it, sir? For the pleasure of a meeting with you I
would go to the end of the world.”
“Very well, to-morrow, sir.”
“I shall rely on it. Are you going to rejoin your cardinal? Swear
first, on your honor, not to inform him of our return.”
“Conditions?”
“Why not?”
“Because it is for victors to make conditions, and you are not yet
victors, gentlemen.”
“Then let us draw on the spot. It is all one to us—to us who do not
command to-morrow’s expedition.”
Châtillon and Flamarens looked at each other. There was such irony in
the words and in the bearing of Aramis that the duke had great
difficulty in bridling his anger, but at a word from Flamarens he
restrained himself and contented himself with saying:
“You promise, sir—that’s agreed—that I shall find you to-morrow at
Charenton?”
“Oh, don’t be afraid, sir,” replied Aramis; and the two gentlemen
shortly afterward left the Louvre.
“For what reason is all this fume and fury?” asked Athos. “What have
they done to you?”
“They—did you not see what they did?”
“No.”
“They laughed when we swore that we had done our duty in England. Now,
if they believed us, they laughed in order to insult us; if they did
not believe it they insulted us all the more. However, I’m glad not to
fight them until to-morrow. I hope we shall have something better to do
to-night than to draw the sword.”
“What have we to do?”
“Egad! to take Mazarin.”
Athos curled his lip with disdain.
“These undertakings do not suit me, as you know, Aramis.”
“Why?”
“Because it is taking people unawares.”
“Really, Athos, you would make a singular general. You would fight only
by broad daylight, warn your foe before an attack, and never attempt
anything by night lest you should be accused of taking advantage of the
darkness.”
Athos smiled.
“You know one cannot change his nature,” he said. “Besides, do you know
what is our situation, and whether Mazarin’s arrest wouldn’t be rather
an encumbrance than an advantage?”
“Say at once you disapprove of my proposal.”
“I think you ought to do nothing, since you exacted a promise from
these gentlemen not to let Mazarin know that we were in France.”
“I have entered into no engagement and consider myself quite free.
Come, come.”
“Where?”
“Either to seek the Duc de Beaufort or the Duc de Bouillon, and to tell
them about this.”
“Yes, but on one condition—that we begin by the coadjutor. He is a
priest, learned in cases of conscience, and we will tell him ours.”
It was then agreed that they were to go first to Monsieur de Bouillon,
as his house came first; but first of all Athos begged that he might go
to the Hôtel du Grand Charlemagne, to see Raoul.
They re-entered the boat which had brought them to the Louvre and
thence proceeded to the Halles; and taking up Grimaud and Blaisois,
they went on foot to the Rue Guénégaud.
But Raoul was not at the Hôtel du Grand Charlemagne. He had received a
message from the prince, to whom he had hastened with Olivain the
instant he had received it.
Chapter LXXVII.
The three Lieutenants of the Generalissimo.
The night was dark, but still the town resounded with those noises that
disclose a city in a state of siege. Athos and Aramis did not proceed a
hundred steps without being stopped by sentinels placed before the
barricades, who demanded the watchword; and on their saying that they
were going to Monsieur de Bouillon on a mission of importance a guide
was given them under pretext of conducting them, but in fact as a spy
over their movements.
On arriving at the Hôtel de Bouillon they came across a little troop of
three cavaliers, who seemed to know every possible password; for they
walked without either guide or escort, and on arriving at the
barricades had nothing to do but to speak to those who guarded them,
who instantly let them pass with evident deference, due probably to
their high birth.
On seeing them Athos and Aramis stood still.
“Oh!” cried Aramis, “do you see, count?”
“Yes,” said Athos.
“Who do these three cavaliers appear to you to be?”
“What do you think, Aramis?”
“Why, they are our men.”
“You are not mistaken; I recognize Monsieur de Flamarens.”
“And I, Monsieur de Châtillon.”
“As to the cavalier in the brown cloak——”
“It is the cardinal.”
“In person.”
“How the devil do they venture so near the Hôtel de Bouillon?”
Athos smiled, but did not reply. Five minutes afterward they knocked at
the prince’s door.
This door was guarded by a sentinel and there was also a guard placed
in the courtyard, ready to obey the orders of the Prince de Conti’s
lieutenant.
Monsieur de Bouillon had the gout, but notwithstanding his illness,
which had prevented his mounting on horseback for the last month—-that
is, since Paris had been besieged—he was ready to receive the Comte de
la Fère and the Chevalier d’Herblay.
He was in bed, but surrounded with all the paraphernalia of war.
Everywhere were swords, pistols, cuirasses, and arquebuses, and it was
plain that as soon as his gout was better Monsieur de Bouillon would
give a pretty tangle to the enemies of the parliament to unravel.
Meanwhile, to his great regret, as he said, he was obliged to keep his
bed.
“Ah, gentlemen,” he cried, as the two friends entered, “you are very
happy! you can ride, you can go and come and fight for the cause of the
people. But I, as you see, am nailed to my bed—ah! this demon,
gout—this demon, gout!”
“My lord,” said Athos, “we are just arrived from England and our first
concern is to inquire after your health.”
“Thanks, gentlemen, thanks! As you see, my health is but indifferent.
But you come from England. And King Charles is well, as I have just
heard?”
“He is dead, my lord!” said Aramis.
“Pooh!” said the duke, too much astonished to believe it true.
“Dead on the scaffold; condemned by parliament.”
“Impossible!”
“And executed in our presence.”
“What, then, has Monsieur de Flamarens been telling me?”
“Monsieur de Flamarens?”
“Yes, he has just gone out.”
Athos smiled. “With two companions?” he said.
“With two companions, yes,” replied the duke. Then he added with a
certain uneasiness, “Did you meet them?”
“Why, yes, I think so—in the street,” said Athos; and he looked
smilingly at Aramis, who looked at him with an expression of surprise.
“The devil take this gout!” cried Monsieur de Bouillon, evidently ill
at ease.
“My lord,” said Athos, “we admire your devotion to the cause you have
espoused, in remaining at the head of the army whilst so ill, in so
much pain.”
“One must,” replied Monsieur de Bouillon, “sacrifice one’s comfort to
the public good; but I confess to you I am now almost exhausted. My
spirit is willing, my head is clear, but this demon, the gout,
o’ercrows me. I confess, if the court would do justice to my claims and
give the head of my house the title of prince, and if my brother De
Turenne were reinstated in his command I would return to my estates and
leave the court and parliament to settle things between themselves as
they might.”
“You are perfectly right, my lord.”
“You think so? At this very moment the court is making overtures to me;
hitherto I have repulsed them; but since such men as you assure me that
I am wrong in doing so, I’ve a good mind to follow your advice and to
accept a proposition made to me by the Duc de Châtillon just now.”
“Accept it, my lord, accept it,” said Aramis.
“Faith! yes. I am even sorry that this evening I almost repulsed—but
there will be a conference to-morrow and we shall see.”
The two friends saluted the duke.
“Go, gentlemen,” he said; “you must be much fatigued after your voyage.
Poor King Charles! But, after all, he was somewhat to blame in all that
business and we may console ourselves with the reflection that France
has no cause of reproach in the matter and did all she could to serve
him.”
“Oh! as to that,” said Aramis, “we are witnesses. Mazarin especially——”
“Yes, do you know, I am very glad to hear you give that testimony; the
cardinal has some good in him, and if he were not a foreigner—well, he
would be more justly estimated. Oh! the devil take this gout!”
Athos and Aramis took their leave, but even in the ante-chamber they
could still hear the duke’s cries; he was evidently suffering the
tortures of the damned.
When they reached the street, Aramis said:
“Well, Athos, what do you think?”
“Of whom?”
“_Pardieu!_ of Monsieur de Bouillon.”
“My friend, I think that he is much troubled with gout.”
“You noticed that I didn’t breathe a word as to the purpose of our
visit?”
“You did well; you would have caused him an access of his disease. Let
us go to Monsieur de Beaufort.”
The two friends went to the Hôtel de Vendôme. It was ten o’clock when
they arrived. The Hôtel de Vendôme was not less guarded than the Hôtel
de Bouillon, and presented as warlike an appearance. There were
sentinels, a guard in the court, stacks of arms, and horses saddled.
Two horsemen going out as Athos and Aramis entered were obliged to give
place to them.
“Ah! ah! gentlemen,” said Aramis, “decidedly it is a night for
meetings. We shall be very unfortunate if, after meeting so often this
evening, we should not succeed in meeting to-morrow.”
“Oh, as to that, sir,” replied Châtillon (for it was he who, with
Flamarens, was leaving the Duc de Beaufort), “you may be assured; for
if we meet by night without seeking each other, much more shall we meet
by day when wishing it.”
“I hope that is true,” said Aramis.
“As for me, I am sure of it,” said the duke.
De Flamarens and De Châtillon continued on their way and Athos and
Aramis dismounted.
Hardly had they given the bridles of their horses to their lackeys and
rid themselves of their cloaks when a man approached them, and after
looking at them for an instant by the doubtful light of the lantern
hung in the centre of the courtyard he uttered an exclamation of joy
and ran to embrace them.
“Comte de la Fère!” the man cried out; “Chevalier d’Herblay! How does
it happen that you are in Paris?”
“Rochefort!” cried the two friends.
“Yes! we arrived four or five days ago from the Vendomois, as you know,
and we are going to give Mazarin something to do. You are still with
us, I presume?”
“More than ever. And the duke?”
“Furious against the cardinal. You know his success—our dear duke? He
is really king of Paris; he can’t go out without being mobbed by his
admirers.”
“Ah! so much the better! Can we have the honor of seeing his highness?”
“I shall be proud to present you,” and Rochefort walked on. Every door
was opened to him. Monsieur de Beaufort was at supper, but he rose
quickly on hearing the two friends announced.
“Ah!” he cried, “by Jove! you’re welcome, sirs. You are coming to sup
with me, are you not? Boisgoli, tell Noirmont that I have two guests.
You know Noirmont, do you not? The successor of Father Marteau who
makes the excellent pies you know of. Boisgoli, let him send one of his
best, but not such a one as he made for La Ramee. Thank God! we don’t
want either rope ladders or gag-pears _now_.”
“My lord,” said Athos, “do not let us disturb you. We came merely to
inquire after your health and to take your orders.”
“As to my health, since it has stood five years of prison, with
Monsieur de Chavigny to boot, ’tis excellent! As to my orders, since
every one gives his own commands in our party, I shall end, if this
goes on, by giving none at all.”
“In short, my lord,” said Athos, glancing at Aramis, “your highness is
discontented with your party?”
“Discontented, sir! say my highness is furious! To such a degree, I
assure you, though I would not say so to others, that if the queen,
acknowledging the injuries she has done me, would recall my mother and
give me the reversion of the admiralty, which belonged to my father and
was promised me at his death, well! it would not be long before I
should be training dogs to say that there were greater traitors in
France than the Cardinal Mazarin!”
At this Athos and Aramis could not help exchanging not only a look but
a smile; and had they not known it for a fact, this would have told
them that De Châtillon and De Flamarens had been there.
“My lord,” said Athos, “we are satisfied; we came here only to express
our loyalty and to say that we are at your lordship’s service and his
most faithful servants.”
“My most faithful friends, gentlemen, my most faithful friends; you
have proved it. And if ever I am reconciled with the court I shall
prove to you, I hope, that I remain your friend, as well as that
of—what the devil are their names—D’Artagnan and Porthos?”
“D’Artagnan and Porthos.”
“Ah, yes. You understand, then, Comte de la Fère, you understand,
Chevalier d’Herblay, that I am altogether and always at your service.”
Athos and Aramis bowed and went out.
“My dear Athos,” cried Aramis, “I think you consented to accompany me
only to give me a lesson—God forgive me!”
“Wait a little, Aramis; it will be time for you to perceive my motive
when we have paid our visit to the coadjutor.”
“Let us then go to the archiepiscopal palace,” said Aramis.
They directed their horses to the city. On arriving at the cradle from
which Paris sprang they found it inundated with water, and it was again
necessary to take a boat. The palace rose from the bosom of the water,
and to see the number of boats around it one would have fancied one’s
self not in Paris, but in Venice. Some of these boats were dark and
mysterious, others noisy and lighted up with torches. The friends slid
in through this congestion of embarkation and landed in their turn. The
palace was surrounded with water, but a kind of staircase had been
fixed to the lower walls; and the only difference was, that instead of
entering by the doors, people entered by the windows.
Thus did Athos and Aramis make their appearance in the ante-chamber,
where about a dozen noblemen were collected in waiting.
“Good heavens!” said Aramis to Athos, “does the coadjutor intend to
indulge himself in the pleasure of making us cool our hearts off in his
ante-chamber?”
“My dear friend, we must take people as we find them. The coadjutor is
at this moment one of the seven kings of Paris, and has a court. Let us
send in our names, and if he does not send us a suitable message we
will leave him to his own affairs or those of France. Let us call one
of these lackeys, with a demi-pistole in the left hand.”
“Exactly so,” cried Aramis. “Ah! if I’m not mistaken here’s Bazin. Come
here, fellow.”
Bazin, who was crossing the ante-chamber majestically in his clerical
dress, turned around to see who the impertinent gentleman was who thus
addressed him; but seeing his friends he went up to them quickly and
expressed delight at seeing them.
“A truce to compliments,” said Aramis; “we want to see the coadjutor,
and instantly, as we are in haste.”
“Certainly, sir—it is not such lords as you are who are allowed to wait
in the ante-chamber, only just now he has a secret conference with
Monsieur de Bruy.”
“De Bruy!” cried the friends, “’tis then useless our seeing monsieur
the coadjutor this evening,” said Aramis, “so we give it up.”
And they hastened to quit the palace, followed by Bazin, who was lavish
of bows and compliments.
“Well,” said Athos, when Aramis and he were in the boat again, “are you
beginning to be convinced that we should have done a bad turn to all
these people in arresting Mazarin?”
“You are wisdom incarnate, Athos,” Aramis replied.
What had especially been observed by the two friends was the little
interest taken by the court of France in the terrible events which had
occurred in England, which they thought should have arrested the
attention of all Europe.
In fact, aside from a poor widow and a royal orphan who wept in the
corner of the Louvre, no one appeared to be aware that Charles I. had
ever lived and that he had perished on the scaffold.
The two friends made an appointment for ten o’clock on the following
day; for though the night was well advanced when they reached the door
of the hotel, Aramis said that he had certain important visits to make
and left Athos to enter alone.
At ten o’clock the next day they met again. Athos had been out since
six o’clock.
“Well, have you any news?” Athos asked.
“Nothing. No one has seen D’Artagnan and Porthos has not appeared. Have
you anything?”
“Nothing.”
“The devil!” said Aramis.
“In fact,” said Athos, “this delay is not natural; they took the
shortest route and should have arrived before we did.”
“Add to that D’Artagnan’s rapidity in action and that he is not the man
to lose an hour, knowing that we were expecting him.”
“He expected, you will remember, to be here on the fifth.”
“And here we are at the ninth. This evening the margin of possible
delay expires.”
“What do you think should be done,” asked Athos, “if we have no news of
them to-night?”
“_Pardieu!_ we must go and look for them.”
“All right,” said Athos.
“But Raoul?” said Aramis.
A light cloud passed over the count’s face.
“Raoul gives me much uneasiness,” he said. “He received yesterday a
message from the Prince de Condé; he went to meet him at Saint Cloud
and has not returned.”
“Have you seen Madame de Chevreuse?”
“She was not at home. And you, Aramis, you were going, I think, to
visit Madame de Longueville.”
“I did go there.”
“Well?”
“She was no longer there, but she had left her new address.”
“Where was she?”
“Guess; I give you a thousand chances.”
“How should I know where the most beautiful and active of the Frondists
was at midnight? for I presume it was when you left me that you went to
visit her.”
“At the Hôtel de Ville, my dear fellow.”
“What! at the Hotel de Ville? Has she, then, been appointed provost of
merchants?”
“No; but she has become queen of Paris, _ad interim_, and since she
could not venture at once to establish herself in the Palais Royal or
the Tuileries, she is installed at the Hôtel de Ville, where she is on
the point of giving an heir or an heiress to that dear duke.”
“You didn’t tell me of that, Aramis.”
“Really? It was my forgetfulness then; pardon me.”
“Now,” asked Athos, “what are we to do with ourselves till evening?
Here we are without occupation, it seems to me.”
“You forget, my friend, that we have work cut out for us in the
direction of Charenton; I hope to see Monsieur de Châtillon, whom I’ve
hated for a long time, there.”
“Why have you hated him?”
“Because he is the brother of Coligny.”
“Ah, true! he who presumed to be a rival of yours, for which he was
severely punished; that ought to satisfy you.”
“‘Yes, but it does not; I am rancorous—the only stigma that proves me
to be a churchman. Do you understand? You understand that you are in no
way obliged to go with me.”
“Come, now,” said Athos, “you are joking.”
“In that case, my dear friend, if you are resolved to accompany me
there is no time to lose; the drum beats; I observed cannon on the
road; I saw the citizens in order of battle on the Place of the Hôtel
de Ville; certainly the fight will be in the direction of Charenton, as
the Duc de Châtillon said.”
“I supposed,” said Athos, “that last night’s conferences would modify
those warlike arrangements.”
“No doubt; but they will fight, none the less, if only to mask the
conferences.”
“Poor creatures!” said Athos, “who are going to be killed, in order
that Monsieur de Bouillon may have his estate at Sedan restored to him,
that the reversion of the admiralty may be given to the Duc de
Beaufort, and that the coadjutor may be made a cardinal.”
“Come, come, dear Athos, confess that you would not be so philosophical
if your Raoul were to be involved in this affair.”
“Perhaps you speak the truth, Aramis.”
“Well, let us go, then, where the fighting is, for that is the most
likely place to meet with D’Artagnan, Porthos, and possibly even Raoul.
Stop, there are a fine body of citizens passing; quite attractive, by
Jupiter! and their captain—see! he has the true military style.”
“What, ho!” said Grimaud.
“What?” asked Athos.
“Planchet, sir.”
“Lieutenant yesterday,” said Aramis, “captain to-day, colonel,
doubtless, to-morrow; in a fortnight the fellow will be marshal of
France.”
“Question him about the fight,” said Athos.
Planchet, prouder than ever of his new duties, deigned to explain to
the two gentlemen that he was ordered to take up his position on the
Place Royale with two hundred men, forming the rear of the army of
Paris, and to march on Charenton when necessary.
“This day will be a warm one,” said Planchet, in a warlike tone.
“No doubt,” said Aramis, “but it is far from here to the enemy.”
“Sir, the distance will be diminished,” said a subordinate.
Aramis saluted, then turning toward Athos:
“I don’t care to camp on the Place Royale with all these people,” he
said. “Shall we go forward? We shall see better what is going on.”
“And then Monsieur de Châtillon will not come to the Place Royale to
look for you. Come, then, my friend, we will go forward.”
“Haven’t you something to say to Monsieur de Flamarens on your own
account?”
“My friend,” said Athos, “I have made a resolution never to draw my
sword save when it is absolutely necessary.”
“And how long ago was that?”
“When I last drew my poniard.”
“Ah! Good! another souvenir of Monsieur Mordaunt. Well, my friend,
nothing now is lacking except that you should feel remorse for having
killed that fellow.”
“Hush!” said Athos, putting a finger on his lips, with the sad smile
peculiar to him; “let us talk no more of Mordaunt—it will bring bad
luck.” And Athos set forward toward Charenton, followed closely by
Aramis.
Chapter LXXVIII.
The Battle of Charenton.
As Athos and Aramis proceeded, and passed different companies on the
road, they became aware that they were arriving near the field of
battle.
“Ah! my friend!” cried Athos, suddenly, “where have you brought us? I
fancy I perceive around us faces of different officers in the royal
army; is not that the Duc de Châtillon himself coming toward us with
his brigadiers?”
“Good-day, sirs,” said the duke, advancing; “you are puzzled by what
you see here, but one word will explain everything. There is now a
truce and a conference. The prince, Monsieur de Retz, the Duc de
Beaufort, the Duc de Bouillon, are talking over public affairs. Now one
of two things must happen: either matters will not be arranged, or they
will be arranged, in which last case I shall be relieved of my command
and we shall still meet again.”
“Sir,” said Aramis, “you speak to the point. Allow me to ask you a
question: Where are the plenipotentiaries?”
“At Charenton, in the second house on the right on entering from the
direction of Paris.”
“And was this conference arranged beforehand?”
“No, gentlemen, it seems to be the result of certain propositions which
Mazarin made last night to the Parisians.”
Athos and Aramis exchanged smiles; for they well knew what those
propositions were, to whom they had been made and who had made them.
“And that house in which the plenipotentiaries are,” asked Athos,
“belongs to——”
“To Monsieur de Chanleu, who commands your troops at Charenton. I say
your troops, for I presume that you gentlemen are Frondeurs?”
“Yes, almost,” said Aramis.
“We are for the king and the princes,” added Athos.
“We must understand each other,” said the duke. “The king is with us
and his generals are the Duke of Orléans and the Prince de Condé,
although I must add ’tis almost impossible now to know to which party
any one belongs.”
“Yes,” answered Athos, “but his right place is in our ranks, with the
Prince de Conti, De Beaufort, D’Elbeuf, and De Bouillon; but, sir,
supposing that the conference is broken off—are you going to try to
take Charenton?”
“Such are my orders.”
“Sir, since you command the cavalry——”
“Pardon me, I am commander-in-chief.”
“So much the better. You must know all your officers—I mean those more
distinguished.”
“Why, yes, very nearly.”
“Will you then kindly tell me if you have in your command the Chevalier
d’Artagnan, lieutenant in the musketeers?”
“No, sir, he is not with us; he left Paris more than six weeks ago and
is believed to have gone on a mission to England.”
“I knew that, but I supposed he had returned.”
“No, sir; no one has seen him. I can answer positively on that point,
for the musketeers belong to our forces and Monsieur de Cambon, the
substitute for Monsieur d’Artagnan, still holds his place.”
The two friends looked at each other.
“You see,” said Athos.
“It is strange,” said Aramis.
“It is absolutely certain that some misfortune has happened to them on
the way.”
“If we have no news of them this evening, to-morrow we must start.”
Athos nodded affirmatively, then turning:
“And Monsieur de Bragelonne, a young man fifteen years of age, attached
to the Prince de Condé—has he the honor of being known to you?”
diffident in allowing the sarcastic Aramis to perceive how strong were
his paternal feelings.
“Yes, surely, he came with the prince; a charming young man; he is one
of your friends then, monsieur le comte?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Athos, agitated; “so much so that I wish to see
him if possible.”
“Quite possible, sir; do me the favor to accompany me and I will
conduct you to headquarters.”
“Halloo, there!” cried Aramis, turning around; “what a noise behind
us!”
“A body of cavaliers is coming toward us,” said Châtillon.
“I recognize the coadjutor by his Frondist hat.”
“And I the Duc de Beaufort by his white plume of ostrich feathers.”
“They are coming, full gallop; the prince is with them—ah! he is
leaving them!”
“They are beating the rappel!” cried Châtillon; “we must discover what
is going on.”
In fact, they saw the soldiers running to their arms; the trumpets
sounded; the drums beat; the Duc de Beaufort drew his sword. On his
side the prince sounded a rappel and all the officers of the royalist
army, mingling momentarily with the Parisian troops, ran to him.
“Gentlemen,” cried Châtillon, “the truce is broken, that is evident;
they are going to fight; go, then, into Charenton, for I shall begin in
a short time—there’s a signal from the prince!”
The cornet of a troop had in fact just raised the standard of the
prince.
“Farewell, till the next time we meet,” cried Châtillon, and he set
off, full gallop.
Athos and Aramis turned also and went to salute the coadjutor and the
Duc de Beaufort. As to the Duc de Bouillon, he had such a fit of gout
as obliged him to return to Paris in a litter; but his place was well
filled by the Duc d’Elbeuf and his four sons, ranged around him like a
staff. Meantime, between Charenton and the royal army was left a space
which looked ready to serve as a last resting place for the dead.
“Gentlemen,” cried the coadjutor, tightening his sash, which he wore,
after the fashion of the ancient military prelates, over his
archiepiscopal simar, “there’s the enemy approaching. Let us save them
half of their journey.”
And without caring whether he were followed or not he set off; his
regiment, which bore the name of the regiment of Corinth, from the name
of his archbishopric, darted after him and began the fight. Monsieur de
Beaufort sent his cavalry, toward Etampes and Monsieur de Chanleu, who
defended the place, was ready to resist an assault, or if the enemy
were repulsed, to attempt a sortie.
The battle soon became general and the coadjutor performed miracles of
valor. His proper vocation had always been the sword and he was
delighted whenever he could draw it from the scabbard, no matter for
whom or against whom.
Chanleu, whose fire at one time repulsed the royal regiment, thought
that the moment was come to pursue it; but it was reformed and led
again to the charge by the Duc de Châtillon in person. This charge was
so fierce, so skillfully conducted, that Chanleu was almost surrounded.
He commanded a retreat, which began, step by step, foot by foot;
unhappily, in an instant he fell, mortally wounded. De Châtillon saw
him fall and announced it in a loud voice to his men, which raised
their spirits and completely disheartened their enemies, so that every
man thought only of his own safety and tried to gain the trenches,
where the coadjutor was trying to reform his disorganized regiment.
Suddenly a squadron of cavalry galloped up to encounter the royal
troops, who were entering, _pêle-mêle_, the intrenchments with the
fugitives. Athos and Aramis charged at the head of their squadrons;
Aramis with sword and pistol in his hands, Athos with his sword in his
scabbard, his pistol in his saddle-bags; calm and cool as if on the
parade, except that his noble and beautiful countenance became sad as
he saw slaughtered so many men who were sacrificed on the one side to
the obstinacy of royalty and on the other to the personal rancor of the
princes. Aramis, on the contrary, struck right and left and was almost
delirious with excitement. His bright eyes kindled, and his mouth, so
finely formed, assumed a wicked smile; every blow he aimed was sure,
and his pistol finished the deed—annihilated the wounded wretch who
tried to rise again.
On the opposite side two cavaliers, one covered with a gilt cuirass,
the other wearing simply a buff doublet, from which fell the sleeves of
a vest of blue velvet, charged in front. The cavalier in the gilt
cuirass fell upon Aramis and struck a blow that Aramis parried with his
wonted skill.
“Ah! ’tis you, Monsieur de Châtillon,” cried the chevalier; “welcome to
you—I expected you.”
“I hope I have not made you wait too long, sir,” said the duke; “at all
events, here I am.”
“Monsieur de Châtillon,” cried Aramis, taking from his saddle-bags a
second pistol, “I think if your pistols have been discharged you are a
dead man.”
“Thank God, sir, they are not!”
And the duke, pointing his pistol at Aramis, fired. But Aramis bent his
head the instant he saw the duke’s finger press the trigger and the
ball passed without touching him.
“Oh! you’ve missed me,” cried Aramis, “but I swear to Heaven! I will
not miss you.”
“If I give you time!” cried the duke, spurring on his horse and rushing
upon him with his drawn sword.
Aramis awaited him with that terrible smile which was peculiar to him
on such occasions, and Athos, who saw the duke advancing toward Aramis
with the rapidity of lightning, was just going to cry out, “Fire! fire,
then!” when the shot was fired. De Châtillon opened his arms and fell
back on the crupper of his horse.
The ball had entered his breast through a notch in the cuirass.
“I am a dead man,” he said, and fell from his horse to the ground.
“I told you this, I am now grieved I have kept my word. Can I be of any
use to you?”
Châtillon made a sign with his hand and Aramis was about to dismount
when he received a violent shock; ’twas a thrust from a sword, but his
cuirass turned aside the blow.
He turned around and seized his new antagonist by the wrist, when he
started back, exclaiming, “Raoul!”
“Raoul?” cried Athos.
The young man recognized at the same instant the voices of his father
and the Chevalier d’Herblay; two officers in the Parisian forces rushed
at that instant on Raoul, but Aramis protected him with his sword.
“My prisoner!” he cried.
Athos took his son’s horse by the bridle and led him forth out of the
_mêlée_.
At this crisis of the battle, the prince, who had been seconding De
Châtillon in the second line, appeared in the midst of the fight; his
eagle eye made him known and his blows proclaimed the hero.
On seeing him, the regiment of Corinth, which the coadjutor had not
been able to reorganize in spite of all his efforts, threw itself into
the midst of the Parisian forces, put them into confusion and
re-entered Charenton flying. The coadjutor, dragged along with his
fugitive forces, passed near the group formed by Athos, Raoul and
Aramis. Aramis could not in his jealousy avoid being pleased at the
coadjutor’s misfortune, and was about to utter some _bon mot_ more
witty than correct, when Athos stopped him.
“On, on!” he cried, “this is no moment for compliments; or rather,
back, for the battle seems to be lost by the Frondeurs.”
“It is a matter of indifference to me,” said Aramis; “I came here only
to meet De Châtillon; I have met him, I am contented; ’tis something to
have met De Châtillon in a duel!”
“And besides, we have a prisoner,” said Athos, pointing to Raoul.
The three cavaliers continued their road on full gallop.
“What were you doing in the battle, my friend?” inquired Athos of the
youth; “’twas not your right place, I think, as you were not equipped
for an engagement!”
“I had no intention of fighting to-day, sir; I was charged, indeed,
with a mission to the cardinal and had set out for Rueil, when, seeing
Monsieur de Châtillon charge, an invincible desire possessed me to
charge at his side. It was then that he told me two cavaliers of the
Parisian army were seeking me and named the Comte de la Fère.”
“What! you knew we were there and yet wished to kill your friend the
chevalier?”
“I did not recognize the chevalier in armor, sir!” said Raoul,
blushing; “though I might have known him by his skill and coolness in
danger.”
“Thank you for the compliment, my young friend,” replied Aramis, “we
can see from whom you learned courtesy. Then you were going to Rueil?”
“Yes! I have a despatch from the prince to his eminence.”
“You must still deliver it,” said Athos.
“No false generosity, count! the fate of our friends, to say nothing of
our own, is perhaps in that very despatch.”
“This young man must not, however, fail in his duty,” said Athos.
“In the first place, count, this youth is our prisoner; you seem to
forget that. What I propose to do is fair in war; the vanquished must
not be dainty in the choice of means. Give me the despatch, Raoul.”
The young man hesitated and looked at Athos as if seeking to read in
his eyes a rule of conduct.
“Give him the despatch, Raoul! you are the chevalier’s prisoner.”
Raoul gave it up reluctantly; Aramis instantly seized and read it.
“You,” he said, “you, who are so trusting, read and reflect that there
is something in this letter important for us to see.”
Athos took the letter, frowning, but an idea that he should find
something in this letter about D’Artagnan conquered his unwillingness
to read it.
“My lord, I shall send this evening to your eminence in order to
reinforce the troop of Monsieur de Comminges, the ten men you demand.
They are good soldiers, fit to confront the two violent adversaries
whose address and resolution your eminence is fearful of.”
“Oh!” cried Athos.
“Well,” said Aramis, “what think you about these two enemies whom it
requires, besides Comminges’s troop, ten good soldiers to confront; are
they not as like as two drops of water to D’Artagnan and Porthos?”
“We’ll search Paris all day long,” said Athos, “and if we have no news
this evening we will return to the road to Picardy; and I feel no doubt
that, thanks to D’Artagnan’s ready invention, we shall then find some
clew which will solve our doubts.”
“Yes, let us search Paris and especially inquire of Planchet if he has
yet heard from his former master.”
“That poor Planchet! You speak of him very much at your ease, Aramis;
he has probably been killed. All those fighting citizens went out to
battle and they have been massacred.”
It was, then, with a sentiment of uneasiness whether Planchet, who
alone could give them information, was alive or dead, that the friends
returned to the Place Royale; to their great surprise they found the
citizens still encamped there, drinking and bantering each other,
although, doubtless, mourned by their families, who thought they were
at Charenton in the thickest of the fighting.
Athos and Aramis again questioned Planchet, but he had seen nothing of
D’Artagnan; they wished to take Planchet with them, but he could not
leave his troop, who at five o’clock returned home, saying that they
were returning from the battle, whereas they had never lost sight of
the bronze equestrian statue of Louis XIII.
Chapter LXXIX.
The Road to Picardy.
On leaving Paris, Athos and Aramis well knew that they would be
encountering great danger; but we know that for men like these there
could be no question of danger. Besides, they felt that the
_dénouement_ of this second Odyssey was at hand and that there remained
but a single effort to make.
Besides, there was no tranquillity in Paris itself. Provisions began to
fail, and whenever one of the Prince de Conti’s generals wished to gain
more influence he got up a little popular tumult, which he put down
again, and thus for the moment gained a superiority over his
colleagues.
In one of these risings, the Duc de Beaufort pillaged the house and
library of Mazarin, in order to give the populace, as he put it,
something to gnaw at. Athos and Aramis left Paris after this
_coup-d’état_, which took place on the very evening of the day in which
the Parisians had been beaten at Charenton.
They quitted Paris, beholding it abandoned to extreme want, bordering
on famine; agitated by fear, torn by faction. Parisians and Frondeurs
as they were, the two friends expected to find the same misery, the
same fears, the same intrigue in the enemy’s camp; but what was their
surprise, after passing Saint Denis, to hear that at Saint Germain
people were singing and laughing, and leading generally cheerful lives.
The two gentlemen traveled by byways in order not to encounter the
Mazarinists scattered about the Isle of France, and also to escape the
Frondeurs, who were in possession of Normandy and who never failed to
conduct captives to the Duc de Longueville, in order that he might
ascertain whether they were friends or foes. Having escaped these
dangers, they returned by the main road to Boulogne, at Abbeville, and
followed it step by step, examining every track.
Nevertheless, they were still in a state of uncertainty. Several inns
were visited by them, several innkeepers questioned, without a single
clew being given to guide their inquiries, when at Montreuil Athos felt
upon the table that something rough was touching his delicate fingers.
He turned up the cloth and found these hieroglyphics carved upon the
wood with a knife:
“Port.... D’Art.... 2d February.”
“This is capital!” said Athos to Aramis, “we were to have slept here,
but we cannot—we must push on.” They rode forward and reached
Abbeville. There the great number of inns puzzled them; they could not
go to all; how could they guess in which those whom they were seeking
had stayed?
“Trust me,” said Aramis, “do not expect to find anything in Abbeville.
If we had only been looking for Porthos, Porthos would have stationed
himself in one of the finest hotels and we could easily have traced
him. But D’Artagnan is devoid of such weaknesses. Porthos would have
found it very difficult even to make him see that he was dying of
hunger; he has gone on his road as inexorable as fate and we must seek
him somewhere else.”
They continued their route. It had now become a weary and almost
hopeless task, and had it not been for the threefold motives of honor,
friendship and gratitude, implanted in their hearts, our two travelers
would have given up many a time their rides over the sand, their
interrogatories of the peasantry and their close inspection of faces.
They proceeded thus to Péronne.
Athos began to despair. His noble nature felt that their ignorance was
a sort of reflection upon them. They had not looked carefully enough
for their lost friends. They had not shown sufficient pertinacity in
their inquiries. They were willing and ready to retrace their steps,
when, in crossing the suburb which leads to the gates of the town, upon
a white wall which was at the corner of a street turning around the
rampart, Athos cast his eyes upon a drawing in black chalk, which
represented, with the awkwardness of a first attempt, two cavaliers
riding furiously; one of them carried a roll of paper on which were
written these words: “They are following us.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Athos, “here it is, as clear as day; pursued as he was,
D’Artagnan would not have tarried here five minutes had he been pressed
very closely, which gives us hopes that he may have succeeded in
escaping.”
Aramis shook his head.
“Had he escaped we should either have seen him or have heard him spoken
of.”
“You are right, Aramis, let us travel on.”
To describe the impatience and anxiety of these two friends would be
impossible. Uneasiness took possession of the tender, constant heart of
Athos, and fearful forecasts were the torment of the impulsive Aramis.
They galloped on for two or three hours as furiously as the cavaliers
on the wall. All at once, in a narrow pass, they perceived that the
road was partially barricaded by an enormous stone. It had evidently
been rolled across the pass by some arm of giant strength.
Aramis stopped.
“Oh!” he said, looking at the stone, “this is the work of either
Hercules or Porthos. Let us get down, count, and examine this rock.”
They both alighted. The stone had been brought with the evident
intention of barricading the road, but some one having perceived the
obstacle had partially turned it aside.
With the assistance of Blaisois and Grimaud the friends succeeded in
turning the stone over. Upon the side next the ground were scratched
the following words:
“Eight of the light dragoons are pursuing us. If we reach Compiègne we
shall stop at the Peacock. It is kept by a friend of ours.”
“At last we have something definite,” said Athos; “let us go to the
Peacock.”
“Yes,” answered Aramis, “but if we are to get there we must rest our
horses, for they are almost broken-winded.”
Aramis was right; they stopped at the first tavern and made each horse
swallow a double quantity of corn steeped in wine; they gave them three
hours’ rest and then set off again. The men themselves were almost dead
with fatigue, but hope supported them.
In six hours they reached Compiègne and alighted at the Peacock. The
host proved to be a worthy man, as bald as a Chinaman. They asked him
if some time ago he had not received in his house two gentlemen who
were pursued by dragoons; without answering he went out and brought in
the blade of a rapier.
“Do you know that?” he asked.
Athos merely glanced at it.
“’Tis D’Artagnan’s sword,” he said.
“Does it belong to the smaller or to the larger of the two?” asked the
host.
“To the smaller.”
“I see that you are the friends of these gentlemen.”
“Well, what has happened to them?”
“They were pursued by eight of the light dragoons, who rode into the
courtyard before they had time to close the gate.”
“Eight!” said Aramis; “it surprises me that two such heroes as Porthos
and D’Artagnan should have allowed themselves to be arrested by eight
men.”
“The eight men would doubtless have failed had they not been assisted
by twenty soldiers of the regiment of Italians in the king’s service,
who are in garrison in this town so that your friends were overpowered
by numbers.”
“Arrested, were they?” inquired Athos; “is it known why?”
“No, sir, they were carried off instantly, and had not even time to
tell me why; but as soon as they were gone I found this broken
sword-blade, as I was helping to raise two dead men and five or six
wounded ones.”
“’Tis still a consolation that they were not wounded,” said Aramis.
“Where were they taken?” asked Athos.
“Toward the town of Louvres,” was the reply.
The two friends having agreed to leave Blaisois and Grimaud at
Compiègne with the horses, resolved to take post horses; and having
snatched a hasty dinner they continued their journey to Louvres. Here
they found only one inn, in which was consumed a liqueur which
preserves its reputation to our time and which is still made in that
town.
“Let us alight here,” said Athos. “D’Artagnan will not have let slip an
opportunity of drinking a glass of this liqueur, and at the same time
leaving some trace of himself.”
They went into the town and asked for two glasses of liqueur, at the
counter—as their friends must have done before them. The counter was
covered with a plate of pewter; upon this plate was written with the
point of a large pin: “Rueil... D..”
“They went to Rueil,” cried Aramis.
“Let us go to Rueil,” said Athos.
“It is to throw ourselves into the wolf’s jaws,” said Aramis.
“Had I been as great a friend of Jonah as I am of D’Artagnan I should
have followed him even into the inside of the whale itself; and you
would have done the same, Aramis.”
“Certainly—but you make me out better than I am, dear count. Had I been
alone I should scarcely have gone to Rueil without great caution. But
where you go, I go.”
They then set off for Rueil. Here the deputies of the parliament had
just arrived, in order to enter upon those famous conferences which
were to last three weeks, and produced eventually that shameful peace,
at the conclusion of which the prince was arrested. Rueil was crowded
with advocates, presidents and councillors, who came from the
Parisians, and, on the side of the court, with officers and guards; it
was therefore easy, in the midst of this confusion, to remain as
unobserved as any one might wish; besides, the conferences implied a
truce, and to arrest two gentlemen, even Frondeurs, at this time, would
have been an attack on the rights of the people.
The two friends mingled with the crowd and fancied that every one was
occupied with the same thought that tormented them. They expected to
hear some mention made of D’Artagnan or of Porthos, but every one was
engrossed by articles and reforms. It was the advice of Athos to go
straight to the minister.
“My friend,” said Aramis, “take care; our safety lies in our obscurity.
If we were to make ourselves known we should be sent to rejoin our
friends in some deep ditch, from which the devil himself could not take
us out. Let us try not to find them out by accident, but from our
notions. Arrested at Compiègne, they have been carried to Rueil; at
Rueil they have been questioned by the cardinal, who has either kept
them near him or sent them to Saint Germain. As to the Bastile, they
are not there, though the Bastile is especially for the Frondeurs. They
are not dead, for the death of D’Artagnan would make a sensation. As
for Porthos, I believe him to be eternal, like God, although less
patient. Do not let us despond, but wait at Rueil, for my conviction is
that they are at Rueil. But what ails you? You are pale.”
“It is this,” answered Athos, with a trembling voice.
“I remember that at the Castle of Rueil the Cardinal Richelieu had some
horrible ‘oubliettes’ constructed.”
“Oh! never fear,” said Aramis. “Richelieu was a gentleman, our equal in
birth, our superior in position. He could, like the king, touch the
greatest of us on the head, and touching them make such heads shake on
their shoulders. But Mazarin is a low-born rogue, who can at the most
take us by the collar, like an archer. Be calm—for I am sure that
D’Artagnan and Porthos are at Rueil, alive and well.”
“But,” resumed Athos, “I recur to my first proposal. I know no better
means than to act with candor. I shall seek, not Mazarin, but the
queen, and say to her, ‘Madame, restore to us your two servants and our
two friends.’”
Aramis shook his head.
“’Tis a last resource, but let us not employ it till it is imperatively
called for; let us rather persevere in our researches.”
They continued their inquiries and at last met with a light dragoon who
had formed one of the guard which had escorted D’Artagnan to Rueil.
Athos, however, perpetually recurred to his proposed interview with the
queen.
“In order to see the queen,” said Aramis, “we must first see the
cardinal; and when we have seen the cardinal—remember what I tell you,
Athos—we shall be reunited to our friends, but not in the way you wish.
Now, that way of joining them is not very attractive to me, I confess.
Let us act in freedom, that we may act well and quickly.”
“I shall go,” he said, “to the queen.”
“Well, then,” answered Aramis, “pray tell me a day or two beforehand,
that I may take that opportunity of going to Paris.”
“To whom?”
“Zounds! how do I know? perhaps to Madame de Longueville. She is
all-powerful yonder; she will help me. But send me word should you be
arrested, for then I will return directly.”
“Why do you not take your chance and be arrested with me?”
“No, I thank you.”
“Should we, by being arrested, be all four together again, we should
not, I am not sure, be twenty-four hours in prison without getting
free.”
“My friend, since I killed Châtillon, adored of the ladies of Saint
Germain, I am too great a celebrity not to fear a prison doubly. The
queen is likely to follow Mazarin’s counsels and to have me tried.”
“Do you think she loves this Italian so much as they say she does?”
“Did she not love an Englishman?”
“My friend, she is a woman.”
“No, no, you are deceived—she is a queen.”
“Dear friend, I shall sacrifice myself and go and see Anne of Austria.”
“Adieu, Athos, I am going to raise an army.”
“For what purpose?”
“To come back and besiege Rueil.”
“Where shall we meet again?”
“At the foot of the cardinal’s gallows.”
The two friends departed—Aramis to return to Paris, Athos to take
measures preparatory to an interview with the queen.
Chapter LXXX.
The Gratitude of Anne of Austria.
Athos found much less difficulty than he had expected in obtaining an
audience of Anne of Austria. It was granted, and was to take place
after her morning’s “levee,” at which, in accordance with his rights of
birth, he was entitled to be present. A vast crowd filled the
apartments of Saint Germain. Anne had never at the Louvre had so large
a court; but this crowd represented chiefly the second class of
nobility, while the Prince de Conti, the Duc de Beaufort and the
coadjutor assembled around them the first nobility of France.
The greatest possible gayety prevailed at court. The particular
characteristic of this was that more songs were made than cannons fired
during its continuance. The court made songs on the Parisians and the
Parisians on the court; and the casualties, though not mortal, were
painful, as are all wounds inflicted by the weapon of ridicule.
In the midst of this seeming hilarity, nevertheless, people’s minds
were uneasy. Was Mazarin to remain the favorite and minister of the
queen? Was he to be carried back by the wind which had blown him there?
Every one hoped so, so that the minister felt that all around him,
beneath the homage of the courtiers, lay a fund of hatred, ill
disguised by fear and interest. He felt ill at ease and at a loss what
to do.
Condé himself, whilst fighting for him, lost no opportunity of
ridiculing, of humbling him. The queen, on whom he threw himself as
sole support, seemed to him now not much to be relied upon.
When the hour appointed for the audience arrived Athos was obliged to
stay until the queen, who was waited upon by a new deputation from
Paris, had consulted with her minister as to the propriety and manner
of receiving them. All were fully engrossed with the affairs of the
day; Athos could not therefore have chosen a more inauspicious moment
to speak of his friends—poor atoms, lost in that raging whirlwind.
But Athos was a man of inflexible determination; he firmly adhered to a
purpose once formed, when it seemed to him to spring from conscience
and to be prompted by a sense of duty. He insisted on being introduced,
saying that although he was not a deputy from Monsieur de Conti, or
Monsieur de Beaufort, or Monsieur de Bouillon, or Monsieur d’Elbeuf, or
the coadjutor, or Madame de Longueville, or Broussel, or the
Parliament, and although he had come on his own private account, he
nevertheless had things to say to her majesty of the utmost importance.
The conference being finished, the queen summoned him to her cabinet.
Athos was introduced and announced by name. It was a name that too
often resounded in her majesty’s ears and too often vibrated in her
heart for Anne of Austria not to recognize it; yet she remained
impassive, looking at him with that fixed stare which is tolerated only
in women who are queens, either by the power of beauty or by the right
of birth.
“It is then a service which you propose to render us, count?” asked
Anne of Austria, after a moment’s silence.
“Yes, madame, another service,” said Athos, shocked that the queen did
not seem to recognize him.
Athos had a noble heart, and made, therefore, but a poor courtier.
Anne frowned. Mazarin, who was sitting at a table folding up papers, as
if he had only been a secretary of state, looked up.
“Speak,” said the queen.
Mazarin turned again to his papers.
“Madame,” resumed Athos, “two of my friends, named D’Artagnan and
Monsieur du Vallon, sent to England by the cardinal, suddenly
disappeared when they set foot on the shores of France; no one knows
what has become of them.”
“Well?” said the queen.
“I address myself, therefore, first to the benevolence of your majesty,
that I may know what has become of my friends, reserving to myself, if
necessary, the right of appealing hereafter to your justice.”
“Sir,” replied Anne, with a degree of haughtiness which to certain
persons became impertinence, “this is the reason that you trouble me in
the midst of so many absorbing concerns! an affair for the police!
Well, sir, you ought to know that we no longer have a police, since we
are no longer at Paris.”
“I think your majesty will have no need to apply to the police to know
where my friends are, but that if you will deign to interrogate the
cardinal he can reply without any further inquiry than into his own
recollections.”
“But, God forgive me!” cried Anne, with that disdainful curl of the
lips peculiar to her, “I believe that you are yourself interrogating.”
“Yes, madame, here I have a right to do so, for it concerns Monsieur
d’Artagnan—-d’Artagnan,” he repeated, in such a manner as to bow the
regal brow with recollections of the weak and erring woman.
The cardinal saw that it was now high time to come to the assistance of
Anne.
“Sir,” he said, “I can tell you what is at present unknown to her
majesty. These individuals are under arrest. They disobeyed orders.”
“I beg of your majesty, then,” said Athos, calmly and not replying to
Mazarin, “to quash these arrests of Messieurs d’Artagnan and du
Vallon.”
“What you ask is merely an affair of discipline and does not concern
me,” said the queen.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan never made such an answer as that when the service
of your majesty was concerned,” said Athos, bowing with great dignity.
He was going toward the door when Mazarin stopped him.
“You, too, have been in England, sir?” he said, making a sign to the
queen, who was evidently going to issue a severe order.
“I was a witness of the last hours of Charles I. Poor king! culpable,
at the most, of weakness, how cruelly punished by his subjects! Thrones
are at this time shaken and it is to little purpose for devoted hearts
to serve the interests of princes. This is the second time that
Monsieur d’Artagnan has been in England. He went the first time to save
the honor of a great queen; the second, to avert the death of a great
king.”
“Sir,” said Anne to Mazarin, with an accent from which daily habits of
dissimulation could not entirely chase the real expression, “see if we
can do something for these gentlemen.”
“I wish to do, madame, all that your majesty pleases.”
“Do what Monsieur de la Fère requests; that is your name, is it not,
sir?”
“I have another name, madame—I am called Athos.”
“Madame,” said Mazarin, with a smile, “you may rest easy; your wishes
shall be fulfilled.”
“You hear, sir?” said the queen.
“Yes, madame, I expected nothing less from the justice of your majesty.
May I not go and see my friends?”
“Yes, sir, you shall see them. But, àpropos, you belong to the Fronde,
do you not?”
“Madame, I serve the king.”
“Yes, in your own way.”
“My way is the way of all gentlemen, and I know only one way,” answered
Athos, haughtily.
“Go, sir, then,” said the queen; “you have obtained what you wish and
we know all we desire to know.”
Scarcely, however, had the tapestry closed behind Athos when she said
to Mazarin:
“Cardinal, desire them to arrest that insolent fellow before he leaves
the court.”
“Your majesty,” answered Mazarin, “desires me to do only what I was
going to ask you to let me do. These bravoes who resuscitate in our
epoch the traditions of another reign are troublesome; since there are
two of them already there, let us add a third.”
Athos was not altogether the queen’s dupe, but he was not a man to run
away on suspicion—above all, when distinctly told that he should see
his friends again. He waited, then, in the ante-chamber with
impatience, till he should be conducted to them.
He walked to the window and looked into the court. He saw the
deputation from the Parisians enter it; they were coming to assign the
definitive place for the conference and to make their bow to the queen.
A very imposing escort awaited them without the gates.
Athos was looking on attentively, when some one touched him softly on
the shoulder.
“Ah! Monsieur de Comminges,” he said.
“Yes, count, and charged with a commission for which I beg of you to
accept my excuses.”
“What is it?”
“Be so good as to give me up your sword, count.”
Athos smiled and opened the window.
“Aramis!” he cried.
A gentleman turned around. Athos fancied he had seen him among the
crowd. It was Aramis. He bowed with great friendship to the count.
“Aramis,” cried Athos, “I am arrested.”
“Good,” replied Aramis, calmly.
“Sir,” said Athos, turning to Comminges and giving him politely his
sword by the hilt, “here is my sword; have the kindness to keep it
safely for me until I quit my prison. I prize it—it was given to my
ancestor by King Francis I. In his time they armed gentlemen, not
disarmed them. Now, whither do you conduct me?”
“Into my room first,” replied Comminges; “the queen will ultimately
decide your place of domicile.”
Athos followed Comminges without saying a single word.
Chapter LXXXI.
Cardinal Mazarin as King.
The arrest produced no sensation, indeed was almost unknown, and
scarcely interrupted the course of events. To the deputation it was
formally announced that the queen would receive it.
Accordingly, it was admitted to the presence of Anne, who, silent and
lofty as ever, listened to the speeches and complaints of the deputies;
but when they had finished their harangues not one of them could say,
so calm remained her face, whether or no she had heard them.
On the other hand, Mazarin, present at that audience, heard very well
what those deputies demanded. It was purely and simply his removal, in
terms clear and precise.
The discourse being finished, the queen remained silent.
“Gentlemen,” said Mazarin, “I join with you in supplicating the queen
to put an end to the miseries of her subjects. I have done all in my
power to ameliorate them and yet the belief of the public, you say, is
that they proceed from me, an unhappy foreigner, who has been unable to
please the French. Alas! I have never been understood, and no wonder. I
succeeded a man of the most sublime genius that ever upheld the sceptre
of France. The memory of Richelieu annihilates me. In vain—were I an
ambitious man—should I struggle against such remembrances as he has
left; but that I am not ambitious I am going to prove to you. I own
myself conquered. I shall obey the wishes of the people. If Paris has
injuries to complain of, who has not some wrongs to be redressed? Paris
has been sufficiently punished; enough blood has flowed, enough misery
has humbled a town deprived of its king and of justice. ’Tis not for
me, a private individual, to disunite a queen from her kingdom. Since
you demand my resignation, I retire.”
“Then,” said Aramis, in his neighbor’s ear, “the conferences are over.
There is nothing to do but to send Monsieur Mazarin to the most distant
frontier and to take care that he does not return even by that, nor any
other entrance into France.”
“One instant, sir,” said the man in a gown, whom he addressed; “a
plague on’t! how fast you go! one may soon see that you’re a soldier.
There’s the article of remunerations and indemnifications to be
discussed and set to rights.”
“Chancellor,” said the queen, turning to Séguier, our old acquaintance,
“you will open the conferences. They can take place at Rueil. The
cardinal has said several things which have agitated me, therefore I
will not speak more fully now. As to his going or staying, I feel too
much gratitude to the cardinal not to leave him free in all his
actions; he shall do what he wishes to do.”
A transient pallor overspread the speaking countenance of the prime
minister; he looked at the queen with anxiety. Her face was so
passionless, that he, as every one else present, was incapable of
reading her thoughts.
“But,” added the queen, “in awaiting the cardinal’s decision let there
be, if you please, a reference to the king only.”
The deputies bowed and left the room.
“What!” exclaimed the queen, when the last of them had quitted the
apartment, “you would yield to these limbs of the law—these advocates?”
“To promote your majesty’s welfare, madame,” replied Mazarin, fixing
his penetrating eyes on the queen, “there is no sacrifice that I would
not make.”
Anne dropped her head and fell into one of those reveries so habitual
with her. A recollection of Athos came into her mind. His fearless
deportment, his words, so firm, yet dignified, the shades which by one
word he had evoked, recalled to her the past in all its intoxication of
poetry and romance, youth, beauty, the _éclat_ of love at twenty years
of age, the bloody death of Buckingham, the only man whom she had ever
really loved, and the heroism of those obscure champions who had saved
her from the double hatred of Richelieu and the king.
Mazarin looked at her, and whilst she deemed herself alone and freed
from the world of enemies who sought to spy into her secret thoughts,
he read her thoughts in her countenance, as one sees in a transparent
lake clouds pass—reflections, like thoughts, of the heavens.
“Must we, then,” asked Anne of Austria, “yield to the storm, buy peace,
and patiently and piously await better times?”
Mazarin smiled sarcastically at this speech, which showed that she had
taken the minister’s proposal seriously.
Anne’s head was bent down—she had not seen the Italian’s smile; but
finding that her question elicited no reply she looked up.
“Well, you do not answer, cardinal, what do you think about it?”
“I am thinking, madame, of the allusion made by that insolent
gentleman, whom you have caused to be arrested, to the Duke of
Buckingham—to him whom you allowed to be assassinated—to the Duchess de
Chevreuse, whom you suffered to be exiled—to the Duc de Beaufort, whom
you imprisoned; but if he made allusion to me it was because he is
ignorant of the relation in which I stand to you.”
Anne drew up, as she always did, when anything touched her pride. She
blushed, and that she might not answer, clasped her beautiful hands
till her sharp nails almost pierced them.
“That man has sagacity, honor and wit, not to mention likewise that he
is a man of undoubted resolution. You know something about him, do you
not, madame? I shall tell him, therefore, and in doing so I shall
confer a personal favor on him, how he is mistaken in regard to me.
What is proposed to me would be, in fact, almost an abdication, and an
abdication requires reflection.”
“An abdication?” repeated Anne; “I thought, sir, that it was kings
alone who _abdicated!_”
“Well,” replied Mazarin, “and am I not almost a king—king, indeed, of
France? Thrown over the foot of the royal bed, my simar, madame, looks
not unlike the mantle worn by kings.”
This was one of the humiliations which Mazarin made Anne undergo more
frequently than any other, and one that bowed her head with shame.
Queen Elizabeth and Catherine II. of Russia are the only two monarchs
of their set on record who were at once sovereigns and lovers. Anne of
Austria looked with a sort of terror at the threatening aspect of the
cardinal—his physiognomy in such moments was not destitute of a certain
grandeur.
“Sir,” she replied, “did I not say, and did you not hear me say to
those people, that you should do as you pleased?”
“In that case,” said Mazarin, “I think it must please me best to
remain; not only on account of my own interest, but for your safety.”
“Remain, then, sir; nothing can be more agreeable to me; only do not
allow me to be insulted.”
“You are referring to the demands of the rebels and to the tone in
which they stated them? Patience! They have selected a field of battle
on which I am an abler general than they—that of a conference. No, we
shall beat them by merely temporizing. They want food already. They
will be ten times worse off in a week.”
“Ah, yes! Good heavens! I know it will end in that way; but it is not
they who taunt me with the most wounding reproaches, but——”
“I understand; you mean to allude to the recollections perpetually
revived by these three gentlemen. However, we have them safe in prison,
and they are just sufficiently culpable for us to keep them in prison
as long as we find it convenient. One only is still not in our power
and braves us. But, devil take him! we shall soon succeed in sending
him to join his boon companions. We have accomplished more difficult
things than that. In the first place I have as a precaution shut up at
Rueil, near me, under my own eyes, within reach of my hand, the two
most intractable ones. To-day the third will be there also.”
“As long as they are in prison all will be well,” said Anne, “but one
of these days they will get out.”
“Yes, if your majesty releases them.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Anne, following the train of her own thoughts on such
occasions, “one regrets Paris!”
“Why so?”
“On account of the Bastile, sir, which is so strong and so secure.”
“Madame, these conferences will bring us peace; when we have peace we
shall regain Paris; with Paris, the Bastile, and our four bullies shall
rot therein.”
Anne frowned slightly when Mazarin, in taking leave, kissed her hand.
Mazarin, after this half humble, half gallant attention, went away.
Anne followed him with her eyes, and as he withdrew, at every step he
took, a disdainful smile was seen playing, then gradually burst upon
her lips.
“I once,” she said, “despised the love of a cardinal who never said ‘I
_shall_ do,’ but, ‘I _have_ done so and so.’ That man knew of retreats
more secure than Rueil, darker and more silent even than the Bastile.
Degenerate world!”
Chapter LXXXII.
Precautions.
After quitting Anne, Mazarin took the road to Rueil, where he usually
resided; in those times of disturbance he went about with numerous
followers and often disguised himself. In military dress he was,
indeed, as we have stated, a very handsome man.
In the court of the old Château of Saint Germain he entered his coach,
and reached the Seine at Chatou. The prince had supplied him with fifty
light horse, not so much by way of guard as to show the deputies how
readily the queen’s generals dispersed their troops and to prove that
they might be safely scattered at pleasure. Athos, on horseback,
without his sword and kept in sight by Comminges, followed the cardinal
in silence. Grimaud, finding that his master had been arrested, fell
back into the ranks near Aramis, without saying a word and as if
nothing had happened.
Grimaud had, indeed, during twenty-two years of service, seen his
master extricate himself from so many difficulties that nothing less
than Athos’s imminent death was likely to make him uneasy.
At the branching off of the road toward Paris, Aramis, who had followed
in the cardinal’s suite, turned back. Mazarin went to the right hand
and Aramis could see the prisoner disappear at the turning of the
avenue. Athos, at the same moment, moved by a similar impulse, looked
back also. The two friends exchanged a simple inclination of the head
and Aramis put his finger to his hat, as if to bow, Athos alone
comprehending by that signal that he had some project in his head.
Ten minutes afterward Mazarin entered the court of that château which
his predecessor had built for him at Rueil; as he alighted, Comminges
approached him.
“My lord,” he asked, “where does your eminence wish Monsieur Comte de
la Fère to be lodged?”
“In the pavilion of the orangery, of course, in front of the pavilion
where the guard is. I wish every respect to be shown the count,
although he is the prisoner of her majesty the queen.”
“My lord,” answered Comminges, “he begs to be taken to the place where
Monsieur d’Artagnan is confined—that is, in the hunting lodge, opposite
the orangery.”
Mazarin thought for an instant.
Comminges saw that he was undecided.
“’Tis a very strong post,” he resumed, “and we have forty good men,
tried soldiers, having no connection with Frondeurs nor any interest in
the Fronde.”
“If we put these three men together, Monsieur Comminges,” said Mazarin,
“we must double the guard, and we are not rich enough in fighting men
to commit such acts of prodigality.”
Comminges smiled; Mazarin read and construed that smile.
“You do not know these men, Monsieur Comminges, but I know them, first
personally, also by hearsay. I sent them to carry aid to King Charles
and they performed prodigies to save him; had it not been for an
adverse destiny, that beloved monarch would this day have been among
us.”
“But since they served your eminence so well, why are they, my lord
cardinal, in prison?”
“In prison?” said Mazarin, “and when has Rueil been a prison?”
“Ever since there were prisoners in it,” answered Comminges.
“These gentlemen, Comminges, are not prisoners,” returned Mazarin, with
his ironical smile, “only guests; but guests so precious that I have
put a grating before each of their windows and bolts to their doors,
that they may not refuse to continue my visitors. So much do I esteem
them that I am going to make the Comte de la Fère a visit, that I may
converse with him _tête-à-tête_, and that we may not be disturbed at
our interview you must conduct him, as I said before, to the pavilion
of the orangery; that, you know, is my daily promenade. Well, while
taking my walk I will call on him and we will talk. Although he
professes to be my enemy I have sympathy for him, and if he is
reasonable perhaps we shall arrange matters.”
Comminges bowed, and returned to Athos, who was awaiting with apparent
calmness, but with real anxiety, the result of the interview.
“Well?” he said to the lieutenant.
“Sir,” replied Comminges, “it seems that it is impossible.”
“Monsieur de Comminges,” said Athos, “I have been a soldier all my life
and I know the force of orders; but outside your orders there is a
service you can render me.”
“I will do it with all my heart,” said Comminges; “for I know who you
are and what service you once performed for her majesty; I know, too,
how dear to you is the young man who came so valiantly to my aid when
that old rogue of a Broussel was arrested. I am entirely at your
service, except only for my orders.”
“Thank you, sir; what I am about to ask will not compromise you in any
degree.”
“If it should even compromise me a little,” said Monsieur de Comminges,
with a smile, “still make your demand. I don’t like Mazarin any better
than you do. I serve the queen and that draws me naturally into the
service of the cardinal; but I serve the one with joy and the other
against my will. Speak, then, I beg of you; I wait and listen.”
“Since there is no harm,” said Athos, “in my knowing that D’Artagnan is
here, I presume there will be none in his knowing that I am here.”
“I have received no orders on that point.”
“Well, then, do me the kindness to give him my regards and tell him
that I am his neighbor. Tell him also what you have just told me—that
Mazarin has placed me in the pavilion of the orangery in order to make
me a visit, and assure him that I shall take advantage of this honor he
proposes to accord to me to obtain from him some amelioration of our
captivity.”
“Which cannot last,” interrupted Comminges; “the cardinal said so;
there is no prison here.”
“But there are oubliettes!” replied Athos, smiling.
“Oh! that’s a different thing; yes, I know there are traditions of that
sort,” said Comminges. “It was in the time of the other cardinal, who
was a great nobleman; but our Mazarin—impossible! an Italian adventurer
would not dare to go such lengths with such men as ourselves.
Oubliettes are employed as a means of kingly vengeance, and a low-born
fellow such as he is would not have recourse to them. Your arrest is
known, that of your friends will soon be known; and all the nobility of
France would demand an explanation of your disappearance. No, no, be
easy on that score. I will, however, inform Monsieur d’Artagnan of your
arrival here.”
Comminges then led the count to a room on the ground floor of a
pavilion, at the end of the orangery. They passed through a courtyard
as they went, full of soldiers and courtiers. In the centre of this
court, in the form of a horseshoe, were the buildings occupied by
Mazarin, and at each wing the pavilion (or smaller building), where
D’Artagnan was confined, and that, level with the orangery, where Athos
was to be. From the ends of these two wings extended the park.
Athos, when he reached his appointed room, observed through the
gratings of his window, walls and roofs; and was told, on inquiry, by
Comminges, that he was looking on the back of the pavilion where
D’Artagnan was confined.
“Yes, ’tis too true,” said Comminges, “’tis almost a prison; but what a
singular fancy this is of yours, count—you, who are the very flower of
our nobility—to squander your valor and loyalty amongst these upstarts,
the Frondists! Really, count, if ever I thought that I had a friend in
the ranks of the royal army, it was you. A Frondeur! you, the Comte de
la Fère, on the side of Broussel, Blancmesnil and Viole! For shame!
you, a Frondeur!”
“On my word of honor,” said Athos, “one must be either a Mazarinist or
a Frondeur. For a long time I had these words whispered in my ears, and
I chose the latter; at any rate, it is a French word. And now, I am a
Frondeur—not of Broussel’s party, nor of Blancmesnil’s, nor am I with
Viole; but with the Duc de Beaufort, the Ducs de Bouillon and d’Elbeuf;
with princes, not with presidents, councillors and low-born lawyers.
Besides, what a charming outlook it would have been to serve the
cardinal! Look at that wall—without a single window—which tells you
fine things about Mazarin’s gratitude!”
“Yes,” replied De Comminges, “more especially if it could reveal how
Monsieur d’Artagnan for this last week has been anathematizing him.”
“Poor D’Artagnan’” said Athos, with the charming melancholy that was
one of the traits of his character, “so brave, so good, so terrible to
the enemies of those he loves. You have two unruly prisoners there,
sir.”
“Unruly,” Comminges smiled; “you wish to terrify me, I suppose. When he
came here, Monsieur D’Artagnan provoked and braved the soldiers and
inferior officers, in order, I suppose, to have his sword back. That
mood lasted some time; but now he’s as gentle as a lamb and sings
Gascon songs, which make one die of laughing.”
“And Du Vallon?” asked Athos.
“Ah, he’s quite another sort of person—a formidable gentleman, indeed.
The first day he broke all the doors in with a single push of his
shoulder; and I expected to see him leave Rueil in the same way as
Samson left Gaza. But his temper cooled down, like his friend’s; he not
only gets used to his captivity, but jokes about it.”
“So much the better,” said Athos.
“Do you think anything else was to be expected of them?” asked
Comminges, who, putting together what Mazarin had said of his prisoners
and what the Comte de la Fère had said, began to feel a degree of
uneasiness.
Athos, on the other hand, reflected that this recent gentleness of his
friends most certainly arose from some plan formed by D’Artagnan.
Unwilling to injure them by praising them too highly, he replied:
“They? They are two hotheads—the one a Gascon, the other from Picardy;
both are easily excited, but they quiet down immediately. You have had
a proof of that in what you have just related to me.”
This, too, was the opinion of Comminges, who withdrew somewhat
reassured. Athos remained alone in the vast chamber, where, according
to the cardinal’s directions, he was treated with all the courtesy due
to a nobleman. He awaited Mazarin’s promised visit to get some light on
his present situation.
Chapter LXXXIII.
Strength and Sagacity.
Now let us pass the orangery to the hunting lodge. At the extremity of
the courtyard, where, close to a portico formed of Ionic columns, were
the dog kennels, rose an oblong building, the pavilion of the orangery,
a half circle, inclosing the court of honor. It was in this pavilion,
on the ground floor, that D’Artagnan and Porthos were confined,
suffering interminable hours of imprisonment in a manner suitable to
each different temperament.
D’Artagnan was pacing to and fro like a caged tiger; with dilated eyes,
growling as he paced along by the bars of a window looking upon the
yard of servant’s offices.
Porthos was ruminating over an excellent dinner he had just demolished.
The one seemed to be deprived of reason, yet he was meditating. The
other seemed to meditate, yet he was more than half asleep. But his
sleep was a nightmare, which might be guessed by the incoherent manner
in which he sometimes snored and sometimes snorted.
“Look,” said D’Artagnan, “day is declining. It must be nearly four
o’clock. We have been in this place nearly eighty-three hours.”
“Hem!” muttered Porthos, with a kind of pretense of answering.
“Did you hear, eternal sleeper?” cried D’Artagnan, irritated that any
one could doze during the day, when he had the greatest difficulty in
sleeping during the night.
“What?” said Porthos.
“I say we have been here eighty-three hours.”
“’Tis your fault,” answered Porthos.
“How, my fault?”
“Yes, I offered you escape.”
“By pulling out a bar and pushing down a door?”
“Certainly.”
“Porthos, men like us can’t go out from here purely and simply.”
“Faith!” said Porthos, “as for me, I could go out with that purity and
that simplicity which it seems to me you despise too much.”
D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders.
“And besides,” he said, “going out of this chamber isn’t all.”
“Dear friend,” said Porthos, “you appear to be in a somewhat better
humor to-day than you were yesterday. Explain to me why going out of
this chamber isn’t everything.”
“Because, having neither arms nor password, we shouldn’t take fifty
steps in the court without knocking against a sentinel.”
“Very well,” said Porthos, “we will kill the sentinel and we shall have
his arms.”
“Yes, but before we can kill him—and he will be hard to kill, that
Swiss—he will shriek out and the whole picket will come, and we shall
be taken like foxes, we, who are lions, and thrown into some dungeon,
where we shall not even have the consolation of seeing this frightful
gray sky of Rueil, which no more resembles the sky of Tarbes than the
moon is like the sun. Lack-a-day! if we only had some one to instruct
us about the physical and moral topography of this castle. Ah! when one
thinks that for twenty years, during which time I did not know what to
do with myself, it never occurred to me to come to study Rueil.”
“What difference does that make?” said Porthos. “We shall go out all
the same.”
“Do you know, my dear fellow, why master pastrycooks never work with
their hands?”
“No,” said Porthos, “but I should be glad to be informed.”
“It is because in the presence of their pupils they fear that some of
their tarts or creams may turn out badly cooked.”
“What then?”
“Why, then they would be laughed at, and a master pastrycook must never
be laughed at.”
“And what have master pastrycooks to do with us?”
“We ought, in our adventures, never to be defeated or give any one a
chance to laugh at us. In England, lately, we failed, we were beaten,
and that is a blemish on our reputation.”
“By whom, then, were we beaten?” asked Porthos.
“By Mordaunt.”
“Yes, but we have drowned Monsieur Mordaunt.”
“That is true, and that will redeem us a little in the eyes of
posterity, if posterity ever looks at us. But listen, Porthos: though
Monsieur Mordaunt was a man not to be despised, Mazarin is not less
strong than he, and we shall not easily succeed in drowning him. We
must, therefore, watch and play a close game; for,” he added with a
sigh, “we two are equal, perhaps, to eight others; but we are not equal
to the four that you know of.”
“That is true,” said Porthos, echoing D’Artagnan’s sigh.
“Well, Porthos, follow my examples; walk back and forth till some news
of our friends reaches us or till we are visited by a good idea. But
don’t sleep as you do all the time; nothing dulls the intellect like
sleep. As to what may lie before us, it is perhaps less serious than we
at first thought. I don’t believe that Monsieur de Mazarin thinks of
cutting off our heads, for heads are not taken off without previous
trial; a trial would make a noise, and a noise would get the attention
of our friends, who would check the operations of Monsieur de Mazarin.”
“How well you reason!” said Porthos, admiringly.
“Well, yes, pretty well,” replied D’Artagnan; “and besides, you see, if
they put us on trial, if they cut off our heads, they must meanwhile
either keep us here or transfer us elsewhere.”
“Yes, that is inevitable,” said Porthos.
“Well, it is impossible but that Master Aramis, that keen-scented
bloodhound, and Athos, that wise and prudent nobleman, will discover
our retreat. Then, believe me, it will be time to act.”
“Yes, we will wait. We can wait the more contentedly, that it is not
absolutely bad here, but for one thing, at least.”
“What is that?”
“Did you observe, D’Artagnan, that three days running they have brought
us braised mutton?”
“No; but if it occurs a fourth time I shall complain of it, so never
mind.”
“And then I feel the loss of my house, ’tis a long time since I visited
my castles.”
“Forget them for a time; we shall return to them, unless Mazarin razes
them to the ground.”
“Do you think that likely?”
“No; the _other_ cardinal would have done so, but this one is too mean
a fellow to risk it.”
“You reconcile me, D’Artagnan.”