guards, we must gain the good-will of the soldiers, since we can’t
corrupt them. Try, Porthos, to please them more than you are wont to do
when they are under our windows. Thus far you have done nothing but
show them your fist; and the more respectable your fist is, Porthos,
the less attractive it is. Ah, I would give much to have five hundred
louis, only.”
“So would I,” said Porthos, unwilling to be behind D’Artagnan in
generosity; “I would give as much as a hundred pistoles.”
The two prisoners were at this point of their conversation when
Comminges entered, preceded by a sergeant and two men, who brought
supper in a basket with two handles, filled with basins and plates.
“What!” exclaimed Porthos, “mutton again?”
“My dear Monsieur de Comminges,” said D’Artagnan, “you will find that
my friend, Monsieur du Vallon, will go to the most fatal lengths if
Cardinal Mazarin continues to provide us with this sort of meat; mutton
every day.”
“I declare,” said Porthos, “I shall eat nothing if they do not take it
away.”
“Remove the mutton,” cried Comminges; “I wish Monsieur du Vallon to sup
well, more especially as I have news to give him that will improve his
appetite.”
“Is Mazarin dead?” asked Porthos.
“No; I am sorry to tell you he is perfectly well.”
“So much the worse,” said Porthos.
“What is that news?” asked D’Artagnan. “News in prison is a fruit so
rare that I trust, Monsieur de Comminges, you will excuse my
impatience—the more eager since you have given us to understand that
the news is good.”
“Should you be glad to hear that the Comte de la Fère is well?” asked
De Comminges.
D’Artagnan’s penetrating gray eyes were opened to the utmost.
“Glad!” he cried; “I should be more than glad! Happy—beyond measure!”
“Well, I am desired by him to give you his compliments and to say that
he is in good health.”
D’Artagnan almost leaped with joy. A quick glance conveyed his thought
to Porthos: “If Athos knows where we are, if he opens communication
with us, before long Athos will act.”
Porthos was not very quick to understand the language of glances, but
now since the name of Athos had suggested to him the same idea, he
understood.
“Do you say,” asked the Gascon, timidly, “that the Comte de la Fère has
commissioned you to give his compliments to Monsieur du Vallon and
myself?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you have seen him?”
“Certainly I have.”
“Where? if I may ask without indiscretion.”
“Near here,” replied De Comminges, smiling; “so near that if the
windows which look on the orangery were not stopped up you could see
him from where you are.”
“He is wandering about the environs of the castle,” thought D’Artagnan.
Then he said aloud:
“You met him, I dare say, in the park—hunting, perhaps?”
“No; nearer, nearer still. Look, behind this wall,” said De Comminges,
knocking against the wall.
“Behind this wall? What is there, then, behind this wall? I was brought
here by night, so devil take me if I know where I am.”
“Well,” said Comminges, “suppose one thing.”
“I will suppose anything you please.”
“Suppose there were a window in this wall.”
“Well?”
“From that window you would see Monsieur de la Fère at his.”
“The count, then, is in the château?”
“Yes.”
“For what reason?”
“The same as yourself.”
“Athos—a prisoner?”
“You know well,” replied De Comminges, “that there are no prisoners at
Rueil, because there is no prison.”
“Don’t let us play upon words, sir. Athos has been arrested.”
“Yesterday, at Saint Germain, as he came out from the presence of the
queen.”
The arms of D’Artagnan fell powerless by his side. One might have
supposed him thunderstruck; a paleness ran like a cloud over his dark
skin, but disappeared immediately.
“A prisoner?” he reiterated.
“A prisoner,” repeated Porthos, quite dejected.
Suddenly D’Artagnan looked up and in his eyes there was a gleam which
scarcely even Porthos observed; but it died away and he appeared more
sorrowful than before.
“Come, come,” said Comminges, who, since D’Artagnan, on the day of
Broussel’s arrest, had saved him from the hands of the Parisians, had
entertained a real affection for him, “don’t be unhappy; I never
thought of bringing you bad news. Laugh at the chance which has brought
your friend near to you and Monsieur du Vallon, instead of being in the
depths of despair about it.”
But D’Artagnan was still in a desponding mood.
“And how did he look?” asked Porthos, who, perceiving that D’Artagnan
had allowed the conversation to drop, profited by it to put in a word
or two.
“Very well, indeed, sir,” replied Comminges; “at first, like you, he
seemed distressed; but when he heard that the cardinal was going to pay
him a visit this very evening——”
“Ah!” cried D’Artagnan, “the cardinal is about to visit the Comte de la
Fère?”
“Yes; and the count desired me to tell you that he should take
advantage of this visit to plead for you and for himself.”
“Ah! our dear count!” said D’Artagnan.
“A fine thing, indeed!” grunted Porthos. “A great favor! Zounds!
Monsieur the Comte de la Fère, whose family is allied to the
Montmorency and the Rohan, is easily the equal of Monsieur de Mazarin.”
“No matter,” said D’Artagnan, in his most wheedling tone. “On
reflection, my dear Du Vallon, it is a great honor for the Comte de la
Fère, and gives good reason to hope. In fact, it seems to me so great
an honor for a prisoner that I think Monsieur de Comminges must be
mistaken.”
“What? I am mistaken?”
“Monsieur de Mazarin will not come to visit the Comte de la Fère, but
the Comte de la Fère will be sent for to visit him.”
“No, no, no,” said Comminges, who made a point of having the facts
appear exactly as they were, “I clearly understood what the cardinal
said to me. He will come and visit the Comte de la Fère.”
D’Artagnan tried to gather from the expression of his eyes whether
Porthos understood the importance of that visit, but Porthos did not
even look toward him.
“It is, then, the cardinal’s custom to walk in his orangery?” asked
D’Artagnan.
“Every evening he shuts himself in there. That, it seems, is where he
meditates on state affairs.”
“In that case,” said D’Artagnan, “I begin to believe that Monsieur de
la Fère will receive the visit of his eminence; he will, of course,
have an escort.”
“Yes—two soldiers.”
“And will he talk thus of affairs in presence of two strangers?”
“The soldiers are Swiss, who understand only German. Besides, according
to all probability they will wait at the door.”
D’Artagnan made a violent effort over himself to keep his face from
being too expressive.
“Let the cardinal take care of going alone to visit the Comte de la
Fère,” said D’Artagnan; “for the count must be furious.”
Comminges began to laugh. “Oh, oh! why, really, one would say that you
four were anthropaphagi! The count is an affable man; besides, he is
unarmed; at the first word from his eminence the two soldiers about him
would run to his assistance.”
“Two soldiers,” said D’Artagnan, seeming to remember something, “two
soldiers, yes; that, then, is why I hear two men called every evening
and see them walking sometimes for half an hour, under my window.”
“That is it; they are waiting for the cardinal, or rather for Bernouin,
who comes to call them when the cardinal goes out.”
“Fine-looking men, upon my word!” said D’Artagnan.
“They belong to the regiment that was at Lens, which the prince
assigned to the cardinal.”
“Ah, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, as if to sum up in a word all that
conversation, “if only his eminence would relent and grant to Monsieur
de la Fère our liberty.”
“I wish it with all my heart,” said Comminges.
“Then, if he should forget that visit, you would find no inconvenience
in reminding him of it?”
“Not at all.”
“Ah, that gives me more confidence.”
This skillful turn of the conversation would have seemed a sublime
manœuvre to any one who could have read the Gascon’s soul.
“Now,” said D’Artagnan, “I’ve one last favor to ask of you, Monsieur de
Comminges.”
“At your service, sir.”
“You will see the count again?”
“To-morrow morning.”
“Will you remember us to him and ask him to solicit for me the same
favor that he will have obtained?”
“You want the cardinal to come here?”
“No; I know my place and am not so presumptuous. Let his eminence do me
the honor to give me a hearing; that is all I want.”
“Oh!” muttered Porthos, shaking his head, “never should I have thought
this of _him!_ How misfortune humbles a man!”
“I promise you it shall be done,” answered De Comminges.
“Tell the count that I am well; that you found me sad, but resigned.”
“I am pleased, sir, to hear that.”
“And the same, also, for Monsieur du Vallon——”
“Not for me,” cried Porthos; “I am not by any means resigned.”
“But you will be resigned, my friend.”
“Never!”
“He will become so, monsieur; I know him better than he knows himself.
Be silent, dear Du Vallon, and resign yourself.”
“Adieu, gentlemen,” said De Comminges; “sleep well!”
“We will try.”
De Comminges went away, D’Artagnan remaining apparently in the same
attitude of humble resignation; but scarcely had he departed when he
turned and clasped Porthos in his arms with an expression not to be
doubted.
“Oh!” cried Porthos; “what’s the matter now? Have you gone mad, my dear
friend?”
“What is the matter?” returned D’Artagnan; “we are saved!”
“I don’t see that at all,” answered Porthos. “I think we are all taken
prisoners, except Aramis, and that our chances of getting out are
lessened since one more of us is caught in Mazarin’s mousetrap.”
“Which is far too strong for two of us, but not strong enough for three
of us,” returned D’Artagnan.
“I don’t understand,” said Porthos.
“Never mind; let’s sit down to table and take something to strengthen
us for the night.”
“What are we to do, then, to-night?”
“To travel—perhaps.”
“But——”
“Sit down, dear friend, to table. When one is eating, ideas flow
easily. After supper, when they are perfected, I will communicate my
plans to you.”
So Porthos sat down to table without another word and ate with an
appetite that did honor to the confidence that was ever inspired in him
by D’Artagnan’s inventive imagination.
Chapter LXXXIV.
Strength and Sagacity—Continued.
Supper was eaten in silence, but not in sadness; for from time to time
one of those sweet smiles which were habitual to him in moments of
good-humor illumined the face of D’Artagnan. Not a scintilla of these
was lost on Porthos; and at every one he uttered an exclamation which
betrayed to his friend that he had not lost sight of the idea which
possessed his brain.
At dessert D’Artagnan reposed in his chair, crossed one leg over the
other and lounged about like a man perfectly at his ease.
Porthos rested his chin on his hands, placed his elbows on the table
and looked at D’Artagnan with an expression of confidence which
imparted to that colossus an admirable appearance of good-fellowship.
“Well?” said D’Artagnan, at last.
“Well!” repeated Porthos.
“You were saying, my dear friend——”
“No; I said nothing.”
“Yes; you were saying you wished to leave this place.”
“Ah, indeed! the will was never wanting.”
“To get away you would not mind, you added, knocking down a door or a
wall.”
“’Tis true—I said so, and I say it again.”
“And I answered you, Porthos, that it was not a good plan; that we
couldn’t go a hundred steps without being recaptured, because we were
without clothes to disguise ourselves and arms to defend ourselves.”
“That is true; we should need clothes and arms.”
“Well,” said D’Artagnan, rising, “we have them, friend Porthos, and
even something better.”
“Bah!” said Porthos, looking around.
“Useless to look; everything will come to us when wanted. At about what
time did we see the two Swiss guards walking yesterday?”
“An hour after sunset.”
“If they go out to-day as they did yesterday we shall have the honor,
then, of seeing them in half an hour?”
“In a quarter of an hour at most.”
“Your arm is still strong enough, is it not, Porthos?”
Porthos unbuttoned his sleeve, raised his shirt and looked complacently
on his strong arm, as large as the leg of any ordinary man.
“Yes, indeed,” said he, “I believe so.”
“So that you could without trouble convert these tongs into a hoop and
yonder shovel into a corkscrew?”
“Certainly.” And the giant took up these two articles, and without any
apparent effort produced in them the metamorphoses suggested by his
companion.
“There!” he cried.
“Capital!” exclaimed the Gascon. “Really, Porthos, you are a gifted
individual!”
“I have heard speak,” said Porthos, “of a certain Milo of Crotona, who
performed wonderful feats, such as binding his forehead with a cord and
bursting it—of killing an ox with a blow of his fist and carrying it
home on his shoulders, _et cetera_. I used to learn all these feat by
heart yonder, down at Pierrefonds, and I have done all that he did
except breaking a cord by the corrugation of my temples.”
“Because your strength is not in your head, Porthos,” said his friend.
“No; it is in my arms and shoulders,” answered Porthos with gratified
_naïveté_.
“Well, my dear friend, let us approach the window and there you can
match your strength against that of an iron bar.”
Porthos went to the window, took a bar in his hands, clung to it and
bent it like a bow; so that the two ends came out of the sockets of
stone in which for thirty years they had been fixed.
“Well! friend, the cardinal, although such a genius, could never have
done that.”
“Shall I take out any more of them?” asked Porthos.
“No; that is sufficient; a man can pass through that.”
Porthos tried, and passed the upper portion of his body through.
“Yes,” he said.
“Now pass your arm through this opening.”
“Why?”
“You will know presently—pass it.”
Porthos obeyed with military promptness and passed his arm through the
opening.
“Admirable!” said D’Artagnan.
“The scheme goes forward, it seems.”
“On wheels, dear friend.”
“Good! What shall I do now?”
“Nothing.”
“It is finished, then?”
“No, not yet.”
“I should like to understand,” said Porthos.
“Listen, my dear friend; in two words you will know all. The door of
the guardhouse opens, as you see.”
“Yes, I see.”
“They are about to send into our court, which Monsieur de Mazarin
crosses on his way to the orangery, the two guards who attend him.”
“There they are, coming out.”
“If only they close the guardhouse door! Good! They close it.”
“What, then?”
“Silence! They may hear us.”
“I don’t understand it at all.”
“As you execute you will understand.”
“And yet I should have preferred——”
“You will have the pleasure of the surprise.”
“Ah, that is true.”
“Hush!”
Porthos remained silent and motionless.
In fact, the two soldiers advanced on the side where the window was,
rubbing their hands, for it was cold, it being the month of February.
At this moment the door of the guardhouse was opened and one of the
soldiers was summoned away.
“Now,” said D’Artagnan, “I am going to call this soldier and talk to
him. Don’t lose a word of what I’m going to say to you, Porthos.
Everything lies in the execution.”
“Good, the execution of plots is my _forte_.”
“I know it well. I depend on you. Look, I shall turn to the left, so
that the soldier will be at your right, as soon as he mounts on the
bench to talk to us.”
“But supposing he doesn’t mount?”
“He will; rely upon it. As soon as you see him get up, stretch out your
arm and seize him by the neck. Then, raising him up as Tobit raised the
fish by the gills, you must pull him into the room, taking care to
squeeze him so tight that he can’t cry out.”
“Oh!” said Porthos. “Suppose I happen to strangle him?”
“To be sure there would only be a Swiss the less in the world; but you
will not do so, I hope. Lay him down here; we’ll gag him and tie him—no
matter where—somewhere. So we shall get from him one uniform and a
sword.”
“Marvelous!” exclaimed Porthos, looking at the Gascon with the most
profound admiration.
“Pooh!” replied D’Artagnan.
“Yes,” said Porthos, recollecting himself, “but one uniform and one
sword will not suffice for two.”
“Well; but there’s his comrade.”
“True,” said Porthos.
“Therefore, when I cough, stretch out your arm.”
“Good!”
The two friends then placed themselves as they had agreed, Porthos
being completely hidden in an angle of the window.
“Good-evening, comrade,” said D’Artagnan in his most fascinating voice
and manner.
“Good-evening, sir,” answered the soldier, in a strong provincial
accent.
“’Tis not too warm to walk,” resumed D’Artagnan.
“No, sir.”
“And I think a glass of wine will not be disagreeable to you?”
“A glass of wine will be extremely welcome.”
“The fish bites—the fish bites!” whispered the Gascon to Porthos.
“I understand,” said Porthos.
“A bottle, perhaps?”
“A whole bottle? Yes, sir.”
“A whole bottle, if you will drink my health.”
“Willingly,” answered the soldier.
“Come, then, and take it, friend,” said the Gascon.
“With all my heart. How convenient that there’s a bench here. Egad! one
would think it had been placed here on purpose.”
“Get on it; that’s it, friend.”
And D’Artagnan coughed.
That instant the arm of Porthos fell. His hand of iron grasped, quick
as lightning, firm as a pair of blacksmith’s pincers, the soldier’s
throat. He raised him, almost stifling him as he drew him through the
aperture, at the risk of flaying him in the passage. He then laid him
down on the floor, where D’Artagnan, after giving him just time enough
to draw his breath, gagged him with his long scarf; and the moment he
had done so began to undress him with the promptitude and dexterity of
a man who had learned his business on the field of battle. Then the
soldier, gagged and bound, was placed upon the hearth, the fire of
which had been previously extinguished by the two friends.
“Here’s a sword and a dress,” said Porthos.
“I take them,” said D’Artagnan, “for myself. If you want another
uniform and sword you must play the same trick over again. Stop! I see
the other soldier issue from the guardroom and come toward us.”
“I think,” replied Porthos, “it would be imprudent to attempt the same
manœuvre again; it is said that no man can succeed twice in the same
way, and a failure would be ruinous. No; I will go down, seize the man
unawares and bring him to you ready gagged.”
“That is better,” said the Gascon.
“Be ready,” said Porthos, as he slipped through the opening.
He did as he said. Porthos seized his opportunity, caught the next
soldier by his neck, gagged him and pushed him like a mummy through the
bars into the room, and entered after him. Then they undressed him as
they had done the first, laid him on their bed and bound him with the
straps which composed the bed—the bedstead being of oak. This operation
proved as great a success as the first.
“There,” said D’Artagnan, “this is capital! Now let me try on the dress
of yonder chap. Porthos, I doubt if you can wear it; but should it be
too tight, never mind, you can wear the breastplate and the hat with
the red feathers.”
It happened, however, that the second soldier was a Swiss of gigantic
proportions, so, save that some few of the seams split, his uniform
fitted Porthos perfectly.
They then dressed themselves.
“’Tis done!” they both exclaimed at once. “As to you, comrades,” they
said to the men, “nothing will happen to you if you are discreet; but
if you stir you are dead men.”
The soldiers were complaisant; they had found the grasp of Porthos
pretty powerful and that it was no joke to fight against it.
“Now,” said D’Artagnan, “you wouldn’t be sorry to understand the plot,
would you, Porthos?”
“Well, no, not very.”
“Well, then, we shall go down into the court.”
“Yes.”
“We shall take the place of those two fellows.”
“Well?”
“We will walk back and forth.”
“That’s a good idea, for it isn’t warm.”
“In a moment the _valet-de-chambre_ will call the guard, as he did
yesterday and the day before.”
“And we shall answer?”
“No, on the contrary, we shall not answer.”
“As you please; I don’t insist on answering.”
“We will not answer, then; we will simply settle our hats on our heads
and we will escort his eminence.”
“Where shall we escort him?”
“Where he is going—to visit Athos. Do you think Athos will be sorry to
see us?”
“Oh!” cried Porthos, “oh! I understand.”
“Wait a little, Porthos, before crying out; for, on my word, you
haven’t reached the end,” said the Gascon, in a jesting tone.
“What is to happen?” said Porthos.
“Follow me,” replied D’Artagnan. “The man who lives to see shall see.”
And slipping through the aperture, he alighted in the court. Porthos
followed him by the same road, but with more difficulty and less
diligence. They could hear the two soldiers shivering with fear, as
they lay bound in the chamber.
Scarcely had the two Frenchmen touched the ground when a door opened
and the voice of the _valet-de-chambre_ called out:
“Make ready!”
At the same moment the guardhouse was opened and a voice called out:
“La Bruyère and Du Barthois! March!”
“It seems that I am named La Bruyère,” remarked D’Artagnan.
“And I, Du Barthois,” added Porthos.
“Where are you?” asked the _valet-de-chambre_, whose eyes, dazzled by
the light, could not clearly distinguish our heroes in the gloom.
“Here we are,” said the Gascon.
“What say you to that, Monsieur du Vallon?” he added in a low tone to
Porthos.
“If it but lasts, most capital,” responded Porthos.
These two newly enlisted soldiers marched gravely after the
_valet-de-chambre_, who opened the door of the vestibule, then another
which seemed to be that of a waiting-room, and showing them two stools:
“Your orders are very simple,” he said; “don’t allow anybody, except
one person, to enter here. Do you hear—not a single creature! Obey that
person implicitly. On your return you cannot make a mistake. You have
only to wait here till I release you.”
D’Artagnan was known to this _valet-de-chambre_, who was no other than
Bernouin, and he had during the last six or eight months introduced the
Gascon a dozen times to the cardinal. The Gascon, therefore, instead of
answering, growled out “Ja! Ja!” in the most German and the least
Gascon accent possible.
As for Porthos, on whom D’Artagnan had impressed the necessity of
absolute silence and who did not even now begin to comprehend the
scheme of his friend, which was to follow Mazarin in his visit to
Athos, he was simply mute. All that he was allowed to say, in case of
emergencies, was the proverbial _Der Teufel!_
Bernouin shut the door and went away. When Porthos heard the key turn
in the lock he began to be alarmed, lest they should only have
exchanged one prison for another.
“Porthos, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “don’t distrust Providence! Let
me meditate and consider.”
“Meditate and consider as much as you like,” replied Porthos, who was
now quite out of humor at seeing things take this turn.
“We have walked eight paces,” whispered D’Artagnan, “and gone up six
steps, so hereabouts is the pavilion called the pavilion of the
orangery. The Comte de la Fère cannot be far off, only the doors are
locked.”
“That is a slight difficulty,” said Porthos, “and a good push with the
shoulders——”
“For God’s sake, Porthos my friend, reserve your feats of strength, or
they will not have, when needed, the honor they deserve. Have you not
heard that some one is coming here?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that some one will open the doors.”
“But, my dear fellow, if that some one recognizes us, if that some one
cries out, we are lost; for you don’t propose, I imagine, that I shall
kill that man of the church. That might do if we were dealing with
Englishmen or Germans.”
“Oh, may God keep me from it, and you, too!” said D’Artagnan. “The
young king would, perhaps, show us some gratitude; but the queen would
never forgive us, and it is she whom we have to consider. And then,
besides, the useless blood! never! no, never! I have my plan; let me
carry it out and we shall laugh.”
“So much the better,” said Porthos; “I feel some need of it.”
“Hush!” said D’Artagnan; “the some one is coming.”
The sound of a light step was heard in the vestibule. The hinges of the
door creaked and a man appeared in the dress of a cavalier, wrapped in
a brown cloak, with a lantern in one hand and a large beaver hat pulled
down over his eyes.
Porthos effaced himself against the wall, but he could not render
himself invisible; and the man in the cloak said to him, giving him his
lantern:
“Light the lamp which hangs from the ceiling.”
Then addressing D’Artagnan:
“You know the watchword?” he said.
“Ja!” replied the Gascon, determined to confine himself to this
specimen of the German tongue.
“_Tedesco!”_ answered the cavalier; “_va bene_.”
And advancing toward the door opposite to that by which he came in, he
opened it and disappeared behind it, shutting it as he went.
“Now,” asked Porthos, “what are we to do?”
“Now we shall make use of your shoulder, friend Porthos, if this door
proves to be locked. Everything in its proper time, and all comes right
to those who know how to wait patiently. But first barricade the first
door well; then we will follow yonder cavalier.”
The two friends set to work and crowded the space before the door with
all the furniture in the room, as not only to make the passage
impassable, but so to block the door that by no means could it open
inward.
“There!” said D’Artagnan, “we can’t be overtaken. Come! forward!”
Chapter LXXXV.
The Oubliettes of Cardinal Mazarin.
At first, on arriving at the door through which Mazarin had passed,
D’Artagnan tried in vain to open it, but on the powerful shoulder of
Porthos being applied to one of the panels, which gave way, D’Artagnan
introduced the point of his sword between the bolt and the staple of
the lock. The bolt gave way and the door opened.
“As I told you, everything can be attained, Porthos, women and doors,
by proceeding with gentleness.”
“You’re a great moralist, and that’s the fact,” said Porthos.
They entered; behind a glass window, by the light of the cardinal’s
lantern, which had been placed on the floor in the midst of the
gallery, they saw the orange and pomegranate trees of the Castle of
Rueil, in long lines, forming one great alley and two smaller side
alleys.
“No cardinal!” said D’Artagnan, “but only his lantern; where the devil,
then, is _he?_”
Exploring, however, one of the side wings of the gallery, after making
a sign to Porthos to explore the other, he saw, all at once, at his
left, a tub containing an orange tree, which had been pushed out of its
place and in its place an open aperture.
Ten men would have found difficulty in moving that tub, but by some
mechanical contrivance it had turned with the flagstone on which it
rested.
D’Artagnan, as we have said, perceived a hole in that place and in this
hole the steps of a winding staircase.
He called Porthos to look at it.
“Were our object money only,” he said, “we should be rich directly.”
“How’s that?”
“Don’t you understand, Porthos? At the bottom of that staircase lies,
probably, the cardinal’s treasury of which folk tell such wonders, and
we should only have to descend, empty a chest, shut the cardinal up in
it, double lock it, go away, carrying off as much gold as we could, put
back this orange-tree over the place, and no one in the world would
ever ask us where our fortune came from—not even the cardinal.”
“It would be a happy hit for clowns to make, but as it seems to be
unworthy of two gentlemen——” said Porthos.
“So I think; and therefore I said, ‘Were our object money only;’ but we
want something else,” replied the Gascon.
At the same moment, whilst D’Artagnan was leaning over the aperture to
listen, a metallic sound, as if some one was moving a bag of gold,
struck on his ear; he started; instantly afterward a door opened and a
light played upon the staircase.
Mazarin had left his lamp in the gallery to make people believe that he
was walking about, but he had with him a waxlight, to help him to
explore his mysterious strong box.
“Faith,” he said, in Italian, as he was reascending the steps and
looking at a bag of reals, “faith, there’s enough to pay five
councillors of parliament, and two generals in Paris. I am a great
captain—that I am! but I make war in my own way.”
The two friends were crouching down, meantime, behind a tub in the side
alley.
Mazarin came within three steps of D’Artagnan and pushed a spring in
the wall; the slab turned and the orange tree resumed its place.
Then the cardinal put out the waxlight, slipped it into his pocket, and
taking up the lantern: “Now,” he said, “for Monsieur de la Fère.”
“Very good,” thought D’Artagnan, “’tis our road likewise; we will go
together.”
All three set off on their walk, Mazarin taking the middle alley and
the friends the side ones.
The cardinal reached a second door without perceiving he was being
followed; the sand with which the alleys were covered deadened the
sound of footsteps.
He then turned to the left, down a corridor which had escaped the
attention of the two friends, but as he opened the door he paused, as
if in thought.
“Ah! _Diavolo!_” he exclaimed, “I forgot the recommendation of De
Comminges, who advised me to take a guard and place it at this door, in
order not to put myself at the mercy of that four-headed combination of
devils.” And with a movement of impatience he turned to retrace his
steps.
“Do not give yourself the trouble, my lord,” said D’Artagnan, with his
right foot forward, his beaver in his hand, a smile on his face, “we
have followed your eminence step by step and here we are.”
“Yes—_here_ we are,” said Porthos.
And he made the same friendly salute as D’Artagnan.
Mazarin gazed at each of them with an affrighted stare, recognized
them, and let drop his lantern, uttering a cry of terror.
D’Artagnan picked it up; by good luck it had not been extinguished.
“Oh, what imprudence, my lord,” said D’Artagnan; “’tis not good to be
about just here without a light. Your eminence might knock against
something, or fall into a hole.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” muttered Mazarin, unable to recover from his
astonishment.
“Yes, my lord, it is I. I have the honor to present to you Monsieur du
Vallon, that excellent friend of mine, in whom your eminence had the
kindness to interest yourself formerly.”
And D’Artagnan held the lamp before the merry face of Porthos, who now
began to comprehend the affair and be very proud of the whole
undertaking.
“You were going to visit Monsieur de la Fère?” said D’Artagnan. “Don’t
let us disarrange your eminence. Be so good as to show us the way and
we will follow you.”
Mazarin was by degrees recovering his senses.
“Have you been long in the orangery?” he asked in a trembling voice,
remembering the visits he had been paying to his treasury.
Porthos opened his mouth to reply; D’Artagnan made him a sign, and his
mouth, remaining silent, gradually closed.
“This moment come, my lord,” said D’Artagnan.
Mazarin breathed again. His fears were now no longer for his hoard, but
for himself. A sort of smile played on his lips.
“Come,” he said, “you have me in a snare, gentlemen. I confess myself
conquered. You wish to ask for liberty, and—I give it you.”
“Oh, my lord!” answered D’Artagnan, “you are too good; as to our
liberty, we have that; we want to ask something else of you.”
“You have your liberty?” repeated Mazarin, in terror.
“Certainly; and on the other hand, my lord, you have lost it, and now,
in accordance with the law of war, sir, you must buy it back again.”
Mazarin felt a shiver run through him—a chill even to his heart’s core.
His piercing look was fixed in vain on the satirical face of the Gascon
and the unchanging countenance of Porthos. Both were in shadow and the
Sybil of Cuma herself could not have read them.
“To purchase back my liberty?” said the cardinal.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And how much will that cost me, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
“Zounds, my lord, I don’t know yet. We must ask the Comte de la Fère
the question. Will your eminence deign to open the door which leads to
the count’s room, and in ten minutes all will be settled.”
Mazarin started.
“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “your eminence sees that we wish to act
with all formality and due respect; but I must warn you that we have no
time to lose; open the door then, my lord, and be so good as to
remember, once for all, that on the slightest attempt to escape or the
faintest cry for help, our position being very critical indeed, you
must not be angry with us if we go to extremities.”
“Be assured,” answered Mazarin, “that I shall attempt nothing; I give
you my word of honor.”
D’Artagnan made a sign to Porthos to redouble his watchfulness; then
turning to Mazarin:
“Now, my lord, let us enter, if you please.”
Chapter LXXXVI.
Conferences.
Mazarin turned the lock of a double door, on the threshold of which
they found Athos ready to receive his illustrious guests according to
the notice Comminges had given him.
On perceiving Mazarin he bowed.
“Your eminence,” he said, “might have dispensed with your attendants;
the honor bestowed on me is too great for me to be unmindful of it.”
“And so, my dear count,” said D’Artagnan, “his eminence didn’t actually
insist on our attending him; it is Du Vallon and I who have insisted,
and even in a manner somewhat impolite, perhaps, so great was our
longing to see you.”
At that voice, that mocking tone, and that familiar gesture, accenting
voice and tone, Athos made a bound of surprise.
“D’Artagnan! Porthos!” he exclaimed.
“My very self, dear friend.”
“Me, also!” repeated Porthos.
“What means this?” asked the count.
“It means,” replied Mazarin, trying to smile and biting his lips in the
attempt, “that our parts are changed, and that instead of these
gentlemen being my prisoners I am theirs; but, gentlemen, I warn you,
unless you kill me, your victory will be of very short duration; people
will come to the rescue.”
“Ah! my lord!” cried the Gascon, “don’t threaten! ’tis a bad example.
We are so good and gentle to your eminence. Come, let us put aside all
rancor and talk pleasantly.”
“There’s nothing I wish more,” replied Mazarin. “But don’t think
yourselves in a better position than you are. In ensnaring me you have
fallen into the trap yourselves. How are you to get away from here?
remember the soldiers and sentinels who guard these doors. Now, I am
going to show you how sincere I am.”
“Good,” thought D’Artagnan; “we must look about us; he’s going to play
us a trick.”
“I offered you your liberty,” continued the minister; “will you take
it? Before an hour has passed you will be discovered, arrested, obliged
to kill me, which would be a crime unworthy of loyal gentlemen like
you.”
“He is right,” thought Athos.
And, like every other reflection passing in a mind that entertained
none but noble thoughts, this feeling was expressed in his eyes.
“And therefore,” said D’Artagnan, to clip the hope which Athos’s tacit
adhesion had imparted to Mazarin, “we shall not proceed to that
violence save in the last extremity.”
“If on the contrary,” resumed Mazarin, “you accept your liberty——”
“Why you, my lord, might take it away from us in less than five minutes
afterward; and from my knowledge of you I believe you will so take it
away from us.”
“No—on the faith of a cardinal. You do not believe me?”
“My lord, I never believe cardinals who are not priests.”
“Well, on the faith of a minister.”
“You are no longer a minister, my lord; you are a prisoner.”
“Then, on the honor of a Mazarin, as I am and ever shall be, I hope,”
said the cardinal.
“Hem,” replied D’Artagnan. “I have heard speak of a Mazarin who had not
much religion when his oaths were in question. I fear he may have been
an ancestor of your eminence.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, you are a great wit and I am really sorry to be
on bad terms with you.”
“My lord, let us come to terms; I ask nothing better.”
“Very well,” said Mazarin, “if I place you in security, in a manner
evident, palpable——”
“Ah! that is another thing,” said Porthos.
“Let us see,” said Athos.
“Let us see,” said D’Artagnan.
“In the first place, do you accept?” asked the cardinal.
“Unfold your plan, my lord, and we will see.”
“Take notice that you are shut up—captured.”
“You well know, my lord, that there always remains to us a last
resource.”
“What?”
“That of dying together.”
Mazarin shuddered.
“Listen,” he said; “at the end of yonder corridor is a door, of which I
have the key, it leads into the park. Go, and take this key with you;
you are active, vigorous, and you have arms. At a hundred steps, on
turning to the left, you will find the wall of the park; get over it,
and in three leaps you will be on the road and free.”
“Ah! by Jove, my lord,” said D’Artagnan, “you have well said, but these
are only words. Where is the key you speak of?”
“Here it is.”
“Ah, my lord! You will conduct us yourself, then, to that door?”
“Very willingly, if it be necessary to reassure you,” answered the
minister, and Mazarin, who was delighted to get off so cheaply, led the
way, in high spirits, to the corridor and opened the door.
It led into the park, as the three fugitives perceived by the night
breeze which rushed into the corridor and blew the wind into their
faces.
“The devil!” exclaimed the Gascon, “’tis a dreadful night, my lord. We
don’t know the locality, and shall never find the wall. Since your
eminence has come so far, come a few steps further; conduct us, my
lord, to the wall.”
“Be it so,” replied the cardinal; and walking in a straight line he
went to the wall, at the foot of which they all four arrived at the
same instant.
“Are you satisfied, gentlemen?” asked Mazarin.
“I think so, indeed; we should be hard to please if we were not. Deuce
take it! three poor gentlemen escorted by a prince of the church! Ah!
apropos, my lord! you remarked that we were all active, vigorous and
armed.”
“Yes.”
“You are mistaken. Monsieur du Vallon and I are the only two who are
armed. The count is not; and should we meet with one of your patrol we
must defend ourselves.”
“’Tis true.”
“Where can we find another sword?” asked Porthos.
“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “will lend his, which is of no use to him,
to the Comte de la Fère.”
“Willingly,” said the cardinal; “I will even ask the count to keep it
for my sake.”
“I promise you, my lord, never to part with it,” replied Athos.
“Well, well,” cried D’Artagnan, “this reconciliation is truly touching;
have you not tears in your eyes, Porthos?”
“Yes,” said Porthos; “but I do not know if it is feeling or the wind
that makes me weep; I think it is the wind.”
“Now climb up, Athos, quickly,” said D’Artagnan. Athos, assisted by
Porthos, who lifted him up like a feather, arrived at the top.
“Now, jump down, Athos.”
Athos jumped and disappeared on the other side of the wall.
“Are you on the ground?” asked D’Artagnan.
“Yes.”
“Without accident?”
“Perfectly safe and sound.”
“Porthos, whilst I get up, watch the cardinal. No, I don’t want your
help, watch the cardinal.”
“I am watching,” said Porthos. “Well?”
“You are right; it is more difficult than I thought. Lend me your
back—but don’t let the cardinal go.”
Porthos lent him his back and D’Artagnan was soon on the summit of the
wall, where he seated himself.
Mazarin pretended to laugh.
“Are you there?” asked Porthos.
“Yes, my friend; and now——”
“Now, what?” asked Porthos.
“Now give me the cardinal up here; if he makes any noise stifle him.”
Mazarin wished to call out, but Porthos held him tight and passed him
to D’Artagnan, who seized him by the neck and made him sit down by him;
then in a menacing tone, he said:
“Sir! jump directly down, close to Monsieur de la Fère, or, on the
honor of a gentleman, I’ll kill you!”
“Monsieur, monsieur,” cried Mazarin, “you are breaking your word to
me!”
“I—did I promise you anything, my lord?”
Mazarin groaned.
“You are free,” he said, “through me; your liberty was my ransom.”
“Agreed; but the ransom of that immense treasure buried under the
gallery, to which one descends on pushing a spring hidden in the wall,
which causes a tub to turn, revealing a staircase—must not one speak of
that a little, my lord?”
“_Diavolo!_” cried Mazarin, almost choked, and clasping his hands; “I
am a lost and ruined man!”
But without listening to his protestations of alarm, D’Artagnan slipped
him gently down into the arms of Athos, who stood immovable at the
bottom of the wall.
Porthos next made an effort which shook the solid wall, and by the aid
of his friend’s hand gained the summit.
“I didn’t understand it all,” he said, “but I understand now; how droll
it is!”
“You think so? so much the better; but that it may prove
laughter-worthy even to the end, let us not lose time.” And he jumped
off the wall.
Porthos did the same.
“Attend to monsieur le cardinal, gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan; “for
myself, I will reconnoitre.”
The Gascon then drew his sword and marched as _avant_ guard.
“My lord,” he said, “which way do we go? Think well of your reply, for
should your eminence be mistaken, there might ensue most grave results
for all of us.”
“Along the wall, sir,” said Mazarin, “there will be no danger of losing
yourselves.”
The three friends hastened on, but in a short time were obliged to
slacken the pace. The cardinal could not keep up with them, though with
every wish to do so.
Suddenly D’Artagnan touched something warm, which moved.
“Stop! a horse!” he cried; “I have found a horse!”
“And I, likewise,” said Athos.
“I, too,” said Porthos, who, faithful to the instructions, still held
the cardinal’s arm.
“There’s luck, my lord! just as you were complaining of being tired and
obliged to walk.”
But as he spoke the barrel of a pistol was presented at his breast and
these words were pronounced:
“Touch it not!”
“Grimaud!” he cried; “Grimaud! what art thou about? Why, thou art
posted here by Heaven!”
“No, sir,” said the honest servant, “it was Monsieur Aramis who posted
me here to take care of the horses.”
“Is Aramis here?”
“Yes, sir; he has been here since yesterday.”
“What are you doing?”
“On the watch——”
“What! Aramis here?” cried Athos.
“At the lesser gate of the castle; he’s posted there.”
“Are you a large party?”
“Sixty.”
“Let him know.”
“This moment, sir.”
And believing that no one could execute the commission better than
himself, Grimaud set off at full speed; whilst, enchanted at being all
together again, the friends awaited his return.
There was no one in the whole group in a bad humor except Cardinal
Mazarin.
Chapter LXXXVII.
Thinking that Porthos will be at last a Baron, and D’Artagnan a Captain.
At the expiration of ten minutes Aramis arrived, accompanied by Grimaud
and eight or ten followers. He was excessively delighted and threw
himself into his friends’ arms.
“You are free, my brothers! free without my aid! and I shall have
succeeded in doing nothing for you in spite of all my efforts.”
“Do not be unhappy, dear friend, on that account; if you have done
nothing as yet, you will do something soon,” replied Athos.
“I had well concerted my plans,” pursued Aramis; “the coadjutor gave me
sixty men; twenty guard the walls of the park, twenty the road from
Rueil to Saint Germain, twenty are dispersed in the woods. Thus I was
able, thanks to the strategic disposition of my forces, to intercept
two couriers from Mazarin to the queen.”
Mazarin listened intently.
“But,” said D’Artagnan, “I trust that you honorably sent them back to
monsieur le cardinal!”
“Ah, yes!” said Aramis, “toward him I should be very likely to practice
such delicacy of sentiment! In one of the despatches the cardinal
declares to the queen that the treasury is empty and that her majesty
has no more money. In the other he announces that he is about to
transport his prisoners to Melun, since Rueil seemed to him not
sufficiently secure. You can understand, dear friend, with what hope I
was inspired by that last letter. I placed myself in ambuscade with my
sixty men; I encircled the castle; the riding horses I entrusted to
Grimaud and I awaited your coming out, which I did not expect till
to-morrow, and I didn’t hope to free you without a skirmish. You are
free to-night, without fighting; so much the better! How did you manage
to escape that scoundrel Mazarin? You must have much reason to complain
of him.”
“Not very much,” said D’Artagnan.
“Really!”
“I might even say that we have some reason to praise him.”
“Impossible!”
“Yes, really; it is owing to him that we are free.”
“Owing to him?”
“Yes, he had us conducted into the orangery by Monsieur Bernouin, his
_valet-de-chambre_, and from there we followed him to visit the Comte
de la Fère. Then he offered us our liberty and we accepted it. He even
went so far as to show us the way out; he led us to the park wall,
which we climbed over without accident, and then we fell in with
Grimaud.”
“Well!” exclaimed Aramis, “this will reconcile me to him; but I wish he
were here that I might tell him that I did not believe him capable of
so noble an act.”
“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, no longer able to contain himself, “allow
me to introduce to you the Chevalier d’Herblay, who wishes—as you may
have heard—to offer his congratulations to your eminence.”
And he retired, discovering Mazarin, who was in great confusion, to the
astonished gaze of Aramis.
“Ho! ho!” exclaimed the latter, “the cardinal! a glorious prize!
Halloo! halloo! friends! to horse! to horse!”
Several horsemen ran quickly to him.
“Zounds!” cried Aramis, “I may have done some good; so, my lord, deign
to receive my most respectful homage! I will lay a wager that ’twas
that Saint Christopher, Porthos, who performed this feat! Apropos! I
forgot——” and he gave some orders in a low voice to one of the
horsemen.
“I think it will be wise to set off,” said D’Artagnan.
“Yes; but I am expecting some one, a friend of Athos.”
“A friend!” exclaimed the count.
“And here he comes, by Jupiter! galloping through the bushes.”
“The count! the count!” cried a young voice that made Athos start.
“Raoul! Raoul!” he ejaculated.
For one moment the young man forgot his habitual respect—he threw
himself on his father’s neck.
“Look, my lord cardinal,” said Aramis, “would it not have been a pity
to have separated men who love each other as we love? Gentlemen,” he
continued, addressing the cavaliers, who became more and more numerous
every instant; “gentlemen, encircle his eminence, that you may show him
the greater honor. He will, indeed give us the favor of his company;
you will, I hope, be grateful for it; Porthos, do not lose sight of his
eminence.”
Aramis then joined Athos and D’Artagnan, who were consulting together.
“Come,” said D’Artagnan, after a conference of five minutes’ duration,
“let us begin our journey.”
“Where are we to go?” asked Porthos.
“To your house, dear Porthos, at Pierrefonds; your fine château is
worthy of affording its princely hospitality to his eminence; it is,
likewise, well situated—neither too near Paris, nor too far from it; we
can establish a communication between it and the capital with great
facility. Come, my lord, you shall be treated like a prince, as you
are.”
“A fallen prince!” exclaimed Mazarin, piteously.
“The chances of war,” said Athos, “are many, but be assured we shall
take no improper advantage of them.”
“No, but we shall make use of them,” said D’Artagnan.
The rest of the night was employed by these cavaliers in traveling with
the wonderful rapidity of former days. Mazarin, still sombre and
pensive, permitted himself to be dragged along in this way; it looked a
race of phantoms. At dawn twelve leagues had been passed without
drawing rein; half the escort were exhausted and several horses fell
down.
“Horses, nowadays, are not what they were formerly,” observed Porthos;
“everything degenerates.”
“I have sent Grimaud to Dammartin,” said Aramis. “He is to bring us
five fresh horses—one for his eminence, four for us. We, at least, must
keep close to monseigneur; the rest of the start will rejoin us later.
Once beyond Saint Denis we shall have nothing to fear.”
Grimaud, in fact, brought back five horses. The nobleman to whom he
applied, being a friend of Porthos, was very ready, not to sell them,
as was proposed, but to lend them. Ten minutes later the escort stopped
at Ermenonville, but the four friends went on with well sustained
ardor, guarding Mazarin carefully. At noon they rode into the avenue of
Pierrefonds.
“Ah!” said Mousqueton, who had ridden by the side of D’Artagnan without
speaking a word on the journey, “you may think what you will, sir, but
I can breathe now for the first time since my departure from
Pierrefonds;” and he put his horse to a gallop to announce to the other
servants the arrival of Monsieur du Vallon and his friends.
“We are four of us,” said D’Artagnan; “we must relieve each other in
mounting guard over my lord and each of us must watch three hours at a
time. Athos is going to examine the castle, which it will be necessary
to render impregnable in case of siege; Porthos will see to the
provisions and Aramis to the troops of the garrison. That is to say,
Athos will be chief engineer, Porthos purveyor-in-general, and Aramis
governor of the fortress.”
Meanwhile, they gave up to Mazarin the handsomest room in the château.
“Gentlemen,” he said, when he was in his room, “you do not expect, I
presume, to keep me here a long time _incognito?_”
“No, my lord,” replied the Gascon; “on the contrary, we think of
announcing very soon that we have you here.”
“Then you will be besieged.”
“We expect it.”
“And what shall you do?”
“Defend ourselves. Were the late Cardinal Richelieu alive he would tell
you a certain story of the Bastion Saint Gervais, which we four, with
our four lackeys and twelve dead men, held out against a whole army.”
“Such feats, sir, are done once—and never repeated.”
“However, nowadays there’s no need of so much heroism. To-morrow the
army of Paris will be summoned, the day after it will be here! The
field of battle, instead, therefore, of being at Saint Denis or at
Charenton, will be near Compiègne or Villars-Cotterets.”
“The prince will vanquish you, as he has always done.”
“’Tis possible; my lord; but before an engagement ensues we shall move
your eminence to _another_ castle belonging to our friend Du Vallon,
who has _three_. We will not expose your eminence to the chances of
war.”
“Come,” answered Mazarin, “I see it will be necessary for me to
capitulate.”
“Before a siege?”
“Yes; the conditions will be better than afterward.”
“Ah, my lord! as to conditions, you would soon see how moderate and
reasonable we are!”
“Come, now, what are your conditions?”
“Rest yourself first, my lord, and we—we will reflect.”
“I do not need rest, gentlemen; I need to know whether I am among
enemies or friends.”
“Friends, my lord! friends!”
“Well, then, tell me at once what you want, that I may see if any
arrangement be possible. Speak, Comte de la Fère!”
“My lord,” replied Athos, “for myself I have nothing to demand. For
France, were I to specify my wishes, I should have too much. I beg you
to excuse me and propose to the chevalier.”
And Athos, bowing, retired and remained leaning against the
mantelpiece, a spectator of the scene.
“Speak, then, chevalier!” said the cardinal. “What do you want? Nothing
ambiguous, if you please. Be clear, short and precise.”
“As for me,” replied Aramis, “I have in my pocket the very programme of
the conditions which the deputation—of which I formed one—went
yesterday to Saint Germain to impose on you. Let us consider first the
ancient rights. The demands in that programme _must_ be granted.”
“We were almost agreed on those,” replied Mazarin; “let us pass on to
private and personal stipulations.”
“You suppose, then, that there _are_ some?” said Aramis, smiling.
“I do not suppose that you will all be quite so disinterested as
Monsieur de la Fère,” replied the cardinal, bowing to Athos.
“My lord, you are right, and I am glad to see that you do justice to
the count at last. The count has a mind above vulgar desires and
earthly passions. He is a proud soul—he is a man by himself! You are
right—he is worth us all, and we avow it to you!”
“Aramis,” said Athos, “are you jesting?”
“No, no, dear friend; I state only what we all know. You are right; it
is not you alone this matter concerns, but my lord and his unworthy
servant, myself.”
“Well, then, what do you require besides the general conditions before
recited?”
“I require, my lord, that Normandy should be given to Madame de
Longueville, with five hundred thousand francs and full absolution. I
require that his majesty should deign to be godfather to the child she
has just borne; and that my lord, after having been present at the
christening, should go to proffer his homage to our Holy Father the
Pope.”
“That is, you wish me to lay aside my ministerial functions, to quit
France and be an exile.”
“I wish his eminence to become pope on the first opportunity, allowing
me then the right of demanding full indulgences for myself and my
friends.”
Mazarin made a grimace which was quite indescribable, and then turned
to D’Artagnan.
“And you, sir?” he said.
“I, my lord,” answered the Gascon, “I differ from Monsieur d’Herblay
entirely as to the last point, though I agree with him on the first.
Far from wishing my lord to quit Paris, I hope he will stay there and
continue to be prime minister, as he is a great statesman. I shall try
also to help him to down the Fronde, but on one condition—that he
sometimes remembers the king’s faithful servants and gives the first
vacant company of musketeers to a man that I could name. And you,
Monsieur du Vallon——”
“Yes, you, sir! Speak, if you please,” said Mazarin.
“As for me,” answered Porthos, “I wish my lord cardinal, in order to do
honor to my house, which gives him an asylum, would in remembrance of
this adventure erect my estate into a barony, with a promise to confer
that order on one of my particular friends, whenever his majesty next
creates peers.”
“You know, sir, that before receiving the order one must submit
proofs.”
“My friends will submit them. Besides, should it be necessary,
monseigneur will show him how that formality may be avoided.”
Mazarin bit his lips; the blow was direct and he replied rather dryly:
“All this appears to me to be ill conceived, disjointed, gentlemen; for
if I satisfy some I shall displease others. If I stay in Paris I cannot
go to Rome; if I became pope I could not continue to be prime minister;
and it is only by continuing prime minister that I can make Monsieur
d’Artagnan a captain and Monsieur du Vallon a baron.”
“True,” said Aramis, “so, as I am in a minority, I withdraw my
proposition, so far as it relates to the voyage to Rome and
monseigneur’s resignation.”
“I am to remain minister, then?” said Mazarin.
“You remain minister; that is understood,” said D’Artagnan; “France
needs you.”
“And I desist from my pretensions,” said Aramis. “His eminence will
continue to be prime minister and her majesty’s favorite, if he will
grant to me and my friends what we demand for France and for
ourselves.”
“Occupy yourselves with your own affairs, gentlemen, and let France
settle matters as she will with me,” resumed Mazarin.
“Ho! ho!” replied Aramis. “The Frondeurs will have a treaty and your
eminence must sign it before us, promising at the same time to obtain
the queen’s consent to it.”
“I can answer only for myself,” said Mazarin. “I cannot answer for the
queen. Suppose her majesty refuses?”
“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, “monseigneur knows very well that her majesty
refuses him nothing.”
“Here, monseigneur,” said Aramis, “is the treaty proposed by the
deputation of Frondeurs. Will your eminence please read and examine?”
“I am acquainted with it.”
“Sign it, then.”
“Reflect, gentlemen, that a signature given under circumstances like
the present might be regarded as extorted by violence.”
“Monseigneur will be at hand to testify that it was freely given.”
“Suppose I refuse?”
“Then,” said D’Artagnan, “your eminence must expect the consequences of
a refusal.”
“Would you dare to touch a cardinal?”
“You have dared, my lord, to imprison her majesty’s musketeers.”
“The queen will revenge me, gentlemen.”
“I do not think so, although inclination might lead her to do so, but
we shall take your eminence to Paris, and the Parisians will defend
us.”
“How uneasy they must be at this moment at Rueil and Saint Germain,”
said Aramis. “How they must be asking, ‘Where is the cardinal?’ ‘What
has become of the minister?’ ‘Where has the favorite gone?’ How they
must be looking for monseigneur in all corners! What comments must be
made; and if the Fronde knows that monseigneur has disappeared, how the
Fronde must triumph!”
“It is frightful,” murmured Mazarin.
“Sign the treaty, then, monseigneur,” said Aramis.
“Suppose the queen should refuse to ratify it?”
“Ah! nonsense!” cried D’Artagnan, “I can manage so that her majesty
will receive me well; I know an excellent method.”
“What?”
“I shall take her majesty the letter in which you tell her that the
finances are exhausted.”
“And then?” asked Mazarin, turning pale.
“When I see her majesty embarrassed, I shall conduct her to Rueil, make
her enter the orangery and show her a certain spring which turns a
box.”
“Enough, sir,” muttered the cardinal, “you have said enough; where is
the treaty?”
“Here it is,” replied Aramis. “Sign, my lord,” and he gave him a pen.
Mazarin arose, walked some moments, thoughtful, but not dejected.
“And when I have signed,” he said, “what is to be my guarantee?”
“My word of honor, sir,” said Athos.
Mazarin started, turned toward the Comte de la Fère, and looking for an
instant at that grand and honest countenance, took the pen.
“It is sufficient, count,” he said, and signed the treaty.
“And now, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said, “prepare to set off for Saint
Germain and take a letter from me to the queen.”
Chapter LXXXVIII.
Shows how with Threat and Pen more is effected than by the Sword.
D’Artagnan knew his part well; he was aware that opportunity has a
forelock only for him who will take it and he was not a man to let it
go by him without seizing it. He soon arranged a prompt and certain
manner of traveling, by sending relays of horses to Chantilly, so that
he might be in Paris in five or six hours. But before setting out he
reflected that for a lad of intelligence and experience he was in a
singular predicament, since he was proceeding toward uncertainty and
leaving certainty behind him.
“In fact,” he said, as he was about to mount and start on his dangerous
mission, “Athos, for generosity, is a hero of romance; Porthos has an
excellent disposition, but is easily influenced; Aramis has a
hieroglyphic countenance, always illegible. What will come out of those
three elements when I am no longer present to combine them? The
deliverance of the cardinal, perhaps. Now, the deliverance of the
cardinal would be the ruin of our hopes; and our hopes are thus far the
only recompense we have for labors in comparison with which those of
Hercules were pygmean.”
He went to find Aramis.
“You, my dear Chevalier d’Herblay,” he said, “are the Fronde incarnate.
Mistrust Athos, therefore, who will not prosecute the affairs of any
one, even his own. Mistrust Porthos, especially, who, to please the
count whom he regards as God on earth, will assist him in contriving
Mazarin’s escape, if Mazarin has the wit to weep or play the
chivalric.”
Aramis smiled; his smile was at once cunning and resolute.
“Fear nothing,” he said; “I have my conditions to impose. My private
ambition tends only to the profit of him who has justice on his side.”
“Good!” thought D’Artagnan: “in this direction I am satisfied.” He
pressed Aramis’s hand and went in search of Porthos.
“Friend,” he said, “you have worked so hard with me toward building up
our fortune, that, at the moment when we are about to reap the fruits
of our labours, it would be a ridiculous piece of silliness in you to
allow yourself to be controlled by Aramis, whose cunning you know—a
cunning which, we may say between ourselves, is not always without
egotism; or by Athos, a noble and disinterested man, but _blasé_, who,
desiring nothing further for himself, doesn’t sympathize with the
desires of others. What should you say if either of these two friends
proposed to you to let Mazarin go?”
“Why, I should say that we had too much trouble in taking him to let
him off so easily.”
“Bravo, Porthos! and you would be right, my friend; for in losing him
you would lose your barony, which you have in your grasp, to say
nothing of the fact that, were he once out of this, Mazarin would have
you hanged.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Then I would kill him rather than let him go.”
“And you would act rightly. There is no question, you understand,
provided we secure our own interests, of securing those of the
Frondeurs; who, besides, don’t understand political matters as we old
soldiers do.”
“Never fear, dear friend,” said Porthos. “I shall see you through the
window as you mount your horse; I shall follow you with my eyes as long
as you are in sight; then I shall place myself at the cardinal’s door—a
door with glass windows. I shall see everything, and at the least
suspicious sign I shall begin to exterminate.”
“Bravo!” thought D’Artagnan; “on this side I think the cardinal will be
well guarded.” He pressed the hand of the lord of Pierrefonds and went
in search of Athos.
“My dear Athos,” he said, “I am going away. I have only one thing to
say to you. You know Anne of Austria; the captivity of Mazarin alone
guarantees my life; if you let him go I am a dead man.”
“I needed nothing less than that consideration, my dear D’Artagnan, to
persuade myself to adopt the _rôle_ of jailer. I give you my word that
you will find the cardinal where you leave him.”
“This reassures me more than all the royal signatures,” thought
D’Artagnan. “Now that I have the word of Athos I can set out.”
D’Artagnan started alone on his journey, without other escort than his
sword, and with a simple passport from Mazarin to secure his admission
to the queen’s presence. Six hours after he left Pierrefonds he was at
Saint Germain.
The disappearance of Mazarin was not as yet generally known. Anne of
Austria was informed of it and concealed her uneasiness from every one.
In the chamber of D’Artagnan and Porthos the two soldiers had been
found bound and gagged. On recovering the use of their limbs and
tongues they could, of course, tell nothing but what they knew—that
they had been seized, stripped and bound. But as to what had been done
by Porthos and D’Artagnan afterward they were as ignorant as all the
inhabitants of the château.
Bernouin alone knew a little more than the others. Bernouin, seeing
that his master did not return and hearing the stroke of midnight, had
made an examination of the orangery. The first door, barricaded with
furniture, had aroused in him certain suspicions, but without
communicating his suspicions to any one he had patiently worked his way
into the midst of all that confusion. Then he came to the corridor, all
the doors of which he found open; so, too, was the door of Athos’s
chamber and that of the park. From the latter point it was easy to
follow tracks on the snow. He saw that these tracks tended toward the
wall; on the other side he found similar tracks, then footprints of
horses and then signs of a troop of cavalry which had moved away in the
direction of Enghien. He could no longer cherish any doubt that the
cardinal had been carried off by the three prisoners, since the
prisoners had disappeared at the same time; and he had hastened to
Saint Germain to warn the queen of that disappearance.
Anne had enforced the utmost secrecy and had disclosed the event to no
one except the Prince de Condé, who had sent five or six hundred
horsemen into the environs of Saint Germain with orders to bring in any
suspicious person who was going away from Rueil, in whatsoever
direction it might be.
Now, since D’Artagnan did not constitute a body of horsemen, since he
was alone, since he was not going away from Rueil and was going to
Saint Germain, no one paid any attention to him and his journey was not
obstructed in any way.
On entering the courtyard of the old château the first person seen by
our ambassador was Maître Bernouin in person, who, standing on the
threshold, awaited news of his vanished master.
At the sight of D’Artagnan, who entered the courtyard on horseback,
Bernouin rubbed his eyes and thought he must be mistaken. But
D’Artagnan made a friendly sign to him with his head, dismounted, and
throwing his bridle to a lackey who was passing, he approached the
_valet-de-chambre_ with a smile on his lips.
“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried the latter, like a man who has the
nightmare and talks in his sleep, “Monsieur d’Artagnan!”
“Himself, Monsieur Bernouin.”
“And why have you come here?”
“To bring news of Monsieur de Mazarin—the freshest news there is.”
“What has become of him, then?”
“He is as well as you and I.”
“Nothing bad has happened to him, then?”
“Absolutely nothing. He felt the need of making a trip in the Ile de
France, and begged us—the Comte de la Fère and Monsieur du Vallon—to
accompany him. We were too devoted servants to refuse him a request of
that sort. We set out last evening and here we are.”
“Here you are.”
“His eminence had something to communicate to her majesty, something
secret and private—a mission that could be confided only to a sure
man—and so has sent me to Saint Germain. And therefore, my dear
Monsieur Bernouin, if you wish to do what will be pleasing to your
master, announce to her majesty that I have come, and tell her with
what purpose.”
Whether he spoke seriously or in jest, since it was evident that under
existing circumstances D’Artagnan was the only man who could relieve
the queen’s uneasiness, Bernouin went without hesitation to announce to
her this strange embassy; and as he had foreseen, the queen gave orders
to introduce Monsieur d’Artagnan at once.
D’Artagnan approached the sovereign with every mark of profound
respect, and having fallen on his knees presented to her the cardinal’s
letter
It was, however, merely a letter of introduction. The queen read it,
recognized the writing, and, since there were no details in it of what
had occurred, asked for particulars. D’Artagnan related everything with
that simple and ingenuous air which he knew how to assume on occasions.
The queen, as he went on, looked at him with increasing astonishment.
She could not comprehend how a man could conceive such an enterprise
and still less how he could have the audacity to disclose it to her
whose interest and almost duty it was to punish him.
“How, sir!” she cried, as D’Artagnan finished, “you dare to tell me the
details of your crime—to give me an account of your treason!”
“Pardon, madame, but I think that either I have expressed myself badly
or your majesty has imperfectly understood me. There is here no
question of crime or treason. Monsieur de Mazarin held us in prison,
Monsieur du Vallon and myself, because we could not believe that he had
sent us to England to quietly look on while they cut off the head of
Charles I., brother-in-law of the late king, your husband, the consort
of Madame Henrietta, your sister and your guest, and because we did all
that we could do to save the life of the royal martyr. We were then
convinced, my friend and I, that there was some error of which we were
the victims, and that an explanation was called for between his
eminence and ourselves. Now, that an explanation may bear fruit, it is
necessary that it should be quietly conducted, far from noise and
interruption. We have therefore taken away monsieur le cardinal to my
friend’s château and there we have come to an understanding. Well,
madame, it proved to be as we had supposed; there was a mistake.
Monsieur de Mazarin had thought that we had rendered service to General
Cromwell, instead of King Charles, which would have been a disgrace,
rebounding from us to him, and from him to your majesty—a dishonor
which would have tainted the royalty of your illustrious son. We were
able to prove the contrary, and that proof we are ready to give to your
majesty, calling in support of it the august widow weeping in the
Louvre, where your royal munificence has provided for her a home. That
proof satisfied him so completely that, as a sign of satisfaction, he
has sent me, as your majesty may see, to consider with you what
reparation should be made to gentlemen unjustly treated and wrongfully
persecuted.”
“I listen to you, and I wonder at you, sir,” said the queen. “In fact,
I have rarely seen such excess of impudence.”
“Your majesty, on your side,” said D’Artagnan, “is as much mistaken as
to our intentions as the Cardinal Mazarin has always been.”
“You are in error, sir,” answered the queen. “I am so little mistaken
that in ten minutes you shall be arrested, and in an hour I shall set
off at the head of my army to release my minister.”
“I am sure your majesty will not commit such an act of imprudence,
first, because it would be useless and would produce the most
disastrous results. Before he could be possibly set free the cardinal
would be dead; and indeed, so convinced is he of this, that he
entreated me, should I find your majesty disposed to act in this way,
to do all I could to induce you to change your resolution.”
“Well, then, I will content myself with arresting you!”
“Madame, the possibility of my arrest has been foreseen, and should I
not have returned by to-morrow, at a certain hour the next day the
cardinal will be brought to Paris and delivered to the parliament.”
“It is evident, sir, that your position has kept you out of relation to
men and affairs; otherwise you would know that since we left Paris
monsieur le cardinal has returned thither five or six times; that he
has there met De Beaufort, De Bouillon, the coadjutor and D’Elbeuf and
that not one of them had any desire to arrest him.”
“Your pardon, madame, I know all that. And therefore my friends will
conduct monsieur le cardinal neither to De Beaufort, nor to De
Bouillon, nor to the coadjutor, nor to D’Elbeuf. These gentlemen wage
war on private account, and in buying them up, by granting them what
they wished, monsieur le cardinal has made a good bargain. He will be
delivered to the parliament, members of which can, of course, be
bought, but even Monsieur de Mazarin is not rich enough to buy the
whole body.”
“I think,” returned Anne of Austria, fixing upon him a glance, which in
any woman’s face would have expressed disdain, but in a queen’s, spread
terror to those she looked upon, “nay, I perceive you dare to threaten
the mother of your sovereign.”
“Madame,” replied D’Artagnan, “I threaten simply and solely because I
am obliged to do so. Believe me, madame, as true a thing as it is that
a heart beats in this bosom—a heart devoted to you—believe that you
have been the idol of our lives; that we have, as you well know—good
Heaven!—risked our lives twenty times for your majesty. Have you, then,
madame, no compassion for your servants who for twenty years have
vegetated in obscurity, without betraying in a single sigh the solemn
and sacred secrets they have had the honor to share with you? Look at
me, madame—at me, whom you accuse of speaking loud and threateningly.
What am I? A poor officer, without fortune, without protection, without
a future, unless the eye of my queen, which I have sought so long,
rests on me for a moment. Look at the Comte de la Fère, a type of
nobility, a flower of chivalry. He has taken part against his queen, or
rather, against her minister. He has not been unreasonably exacting, it
seems to me. Look at Monsieur du Vallon, that faithful soul, that arm
of steel, who for twenty years has awaited the word from your lips
which will make him in rank what he is in sentiment and in courage.
Consider, in short, your people who love you and who yet are famished,
who have no other wish than to bless you, and who, nevertheless—no, I
am wrong, your subjects, madame, will never curse you; say one word to
them and all will be ended—peace succeed war, joy tears, and happiness
to misfortune!”
Anne of Austria looked with wonderment on the warlike countenance of
D’Artagnan, which betrayed a singular expression of deep feeling.
“Why did you not say all this before you took action, sir?” she said.
“Because, madame, it was necessary to prove to your majesty one thing
of which you doubted—-that is, that we still possess amongst us some
valor and are worthy of some consideration at your hands.”
“And that valor would shrink from no undertaking, according to what I
see.”
“It has hesitated at nothing in the past; why, then, should it be less
daring in the future?”
“Then, in case of my refusal, this valor, should a struggle occur, will
even go the length of carrying me off in the midst of my court, to
deliver me into the hands of the Fronde, as you propose to deliver my
minister?”
“We have not thought about it _yet_, madame,” answered D’Artagnan, with
that Gascon effrontery which had in him the appearance of _naïveté;_
“but if we four had resolved upon it we should do it most certainly.”
“I ought,” muttered Anne to herself, “by this time to remember that
these men are giants.”
“Alas, madame!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, “this proves to me that not till
to-day has your majesty had a just idea of us.”
“Perhaps,” said Anne; “but that idea, if at last I have it——”
“Your majesty will do us justice. In doing us justice you will no
longer treat us as men of vulgar stamp. You will see in me an
ambassador worthy of the high interests he is authorized to discuss
with his sovereign.”
“Where is the treaty?”
“Here it is.”
Anne of Austria cast her eyes upon the treaty that D’Artagnan presented
to her.
“I do not see here,” she said, “anything but general conditions; the
interests of the Prince de Conti or of the Ducs de Beaufort, de
Bouillon and d’Elbeuf and of the coadjutor, are herein consulted; but
with regard to yours?”
“We do ourselves justice, madame, even in assuming the high position
that we have. We do not think ourselves worthy to stand near such great
names.”
“But you, I presume, have decided to assert your pretensions _viva
voce?_”
“I believe you, madame, to be a great and powerful queen, and that it
will be unworthy of your power and greatness if you do not recompense
the arms which will bring back his eminence to Saint Germain.”
“It is my intention so to do; come, let us hear you. Speak.”
“He who has negotiated these matters (forgive me if I begin by speaking
of myself, but I must claim that importance which has been given to me,
not assumed by me) he who has arranged matters for the return of the
cardinal, ought, it appears to me, in order that his reward may not be
unworthy of your majesty, to be made commandant of the guards—an
appointment something like that of captain of the musketeers.”
“’Tis the appointment Monsieur de Tréville held, you ask of me.”
“The place, madame, is vacant, and although ’tis a year since Monsieur
de Tréville has left it, it has not been filled.”
“But it is one of the principal military appointments in the king’s
household.”
“Monsieur de Tréville was but a younger son of a simple Gascon family,
like me, madame; he occupied that post for twenty years.”
“You have an answer ready for everything,” replied the queen, and she
took from her bureau a document, which she filled up and signed.
“Undoubtedly, madame,” said D’Artagnan, taking the document and bowing,
“this is a noble reward; but everything in the world is unstable, and
the man who happened to fall into disgrace with your majesty might lose
this office to-morrow.”
“What more do you want?” asked the queen, coloring, as she found that
she had to deal with a mind as subtle as her own.
“A hundred thousand francs for this poor captain of musketeers, to be
paid whenever his services shall no longer be acceptable to your
majesty.”
Anne hesitated.
“To think of the Parisians,” soliloquized D’Artagnan, “offering only
the other day, by an edict of the parliament, six hundred thousand
francs to any man soever who would deliver up the cardinal to them,
dead or alive—if alive, in order to hang him; if dead, to deny him the
rites of Christian burial!”
“Come,” said Anne, “’tis reasonable, since you only ask from a queen
the sixth of what the parliament has proposed;” and she signed an order
for a hundred thousand francs.
“Now, then,” she said, “what next?”
“Madame, my friend Du Vallon is rich and has therefore nothing in the
way of fortune to desire; but I think I remember that there was a
question between him and Monsieur Mazarin as to making his estate a
barony. Nay, it must have been a promise.”
“A country clown,” said Anne of Austria, “people will laugh.”
“Let them,” answered D’Artagnan. “But I am sure of _one_ thing—that
those who laugh at him in his presence will never laugh a second time.”
“Here goes the barony.” said the queen; she signed a patent.
“Now there remains the chevalier, or the Abbé d’Herblay, as your
majesty pleases.”
“Does he wish to be a bishop?”
“No, madame, something easier to grant.”
“What?”
“It is that the king should deign to stand godfather to the son of
Madame de Longueville.”
The queen smiled.
“Monsieur de Longueville is of royal blood, madame,” said D’Artagnan.
“Yes,” said the queen; “but his son?”
“His son, madame, must be, since the husband of the son’s mother is.”
“And your friend has nothing more to ask for Madame de Longueville?”
“No, madame, for I presume that the king, standing godfather to him,
could do no less than present him with five hundred thousand francs,
giving his father, also, the government of Normandy.”
“As to the government of Normandy,” replied the queen, “I think I can
promise; but with regard to the present, the cardinal is always telling
me there is no more money in the royal coffers.”
“We shall search for some, madame, and I think we can find a little,
and if your majesty approves, we will seek for some together.”
“What next?”
“What next, madame?”
“Yes.”
“That is all.”
“Haven’t you, then, a fourth companion?”
“Yes, madame, the Comte de la Fère.”
“What does he ask?”
“Nothing.”
“There is in the world, then, one man who, having the power to ask,
asks—_nothing!_”
“There is the Comte de la Fère, madame. The Comte de la Fère is not a
man.”
“What is he, then?”
“The Comte de la Fère is a demi-god.”
“Has he not a son, a young man, a relative, a nephew, of whom Comminges
spoke to me as being a brave boy, and who, with Monsieur de Châtillon,
brought the standards from Lens?”
“He has, as your majesty has said, a ward, who is called the Vicomte de
Bragelonne.”
“If that young man should be appointed to a regiment what would his
guardian say?”
“Perhaps he would accept.”
“Perhaps?”
“Yes, if your majesty herself should beg him to accept.”
“He must be indeed a strange man. Well, we will reflect and perhaps we
will beg him. Are you satisfied, sir?”
“There is one thing the queen has not signed—her assent to the treaty.”
“Of what use to-day? I will sign it to-morrow.”
“I can assure her majesty that if she does not sign to-day she will not
have time to sign to-morrow. Consent, then, I beg you, madame, to write
at the bottom of this schedule, which has been drawn up by Mazarin, as
you see:
“‘I consent to ratify the treaty proposed by the Parisians.’”
Anne was caught, she could not draw back—she signed; but scarcely had
she done so when pride burst forth and she began to weep.
D’Artagnan started on seeing these tears. Since that period of history
queens have shed tears, like other women.
The Gascon shook his head, these tears from royalty melted his heart.
“Madame,” he said, kneeling, “look upon the unhappy man at your feet.
He begs you to believe that at a gesture of your majesty everything
will be possible to him. He has faith in himself; he has faith in his
friends; he wishes also to have faith in his queen. And in proof that
he fears nothing, that he counts on nothing, he will restore Monsieur
de Mazarin to your majesty without conditions. Behold, madame! here are
the august signatures of your majesty’s hand; if you think you are
right in giving them to me, you shall do so, but from this very moment
you are free from any obligation to keep them.”
And D’Artagnan, full of splendid pride and manly intrepidity, placed in
Anne’s hands, in a bundle, the papers that he had one by one won from
her with so much difficulty.
There are moments—for if everything is not good, everything in this
world is not bad—in which the most rigid and the coldest soul is
softened by the tears of strong emotion, heart-arraigning sentiment:
one of these momentary impulses actuated Anne. D’Artagnan, when he gave
way to his own feelings—which were in accordance with those of the
queen—had accomplished more than the most astute diplomacy could have
attempted. He was therefore instantly recompensed, either for his
address or for his sensibility, whichever it might be termed.
“You were right, sir,” said Anne. “I misunderstood you. There are the
acts signed; I deliver them to you without compulsion. Go and bring me
back the cardinal as soon as possible.”
“Madame,” faltered D’Artagnan, “’tis twenty years ago—I have a good
memory—since I had the honor behind a piece of tapestry in the Hotel de
Ville, of kissing one of those lovely hands.”
“There is the other,” replied the queen; “and that the left hand should
not be less liberal than the right,” she drew from her finger a diamond
similar to the one formerly given to him, “take and keep this ring in
remembrance of me.
“Madame,” said D’Artagnan, rising, “I have only one thing more to wish,
which is, that the next thing you ask from me, shall be—_my life_.”
And with this conclusion—a way peculiar to himself—he rose and left the
room.
“I never rightly understood those men,” said the queen, as she watched
him retiring from her presence; “and it is now too late, for in a year
the king will be of age.”
In twenty-four hours D’Artagnan and Porthos conducted Mazarin to the
queen; and the one received his commission, the other his patent of
nobility.
On the same day the Treaty of Paris was signed, and it was everywhere
announced that the cardinal had shut himself up for three days in order
to draw it up with the greatest care.
Here is what each of the parties concerned gained by that treaty:
Monsieur de Conti received Damvilliers, and having made his proofs as
general, he succeeded in remaining a soldier, instead of being made
cardinal. Moreover, something had been said of a marriage with
Mazarin’s niece. The idea was welcomed by the prince, to whom it was of
little importance whom he married, so long as he married some one.
The Duc de Beaufort made his entrance at court, receiving ample
reparation for the wrongs he had suffered, and all the honor due to his
rank. Full pardon was accorded to those who had aided in his escape. He
received also the office of admiral, which had been held by his father,
the Duc de Vendôme and an indemnity for his houses and castles,
demolished by the Parliament of Bretagne.
The Duc de Bouillon received domains of a value equal to that of his
principality of Sedan, and the title of prince, granted to him and to
those belonging to his house.
The Duc de Longueville gained the government of Pont-de-l’Arche, five
hundred thousand francs for his wife and the honor of seeing her son
held at the baptismal font by the young king and Henrietta of England.
Aramis stipulated that Bazin should officiate at that ceremony and that
Planchet should furnish the christening sugar plums.
The Duc d’Elbeuf obtained payment of certain sums due to his wife, one
hundred thousand francs for his eldest son and twenty-five thousand for
each of the three others.
The coadjutor alone obtained nothing. They promised, indeed, to
negotiate with the pope for a cardinal’s hat for him; but he knew how
little reliance should be placed on such promises, made by the queen
and Mazarin. Quite contrary to the lot of Monsieur de Conti, unable to
be cardinal, he was obliged to remain a soldier.
And therefore, when all Paris was rejoicing in the expected return of
the king, appointed for the next day, Gondy alone, in the midst of the
general happiness, was dissatisfied; he sent for the two men whom he
was wont to summon when in especially bad humor. Those two men were the
Count de Rochefort and the mendicant of Saint Eustache. They came with
their usual promptness, and the coadjutor spent with them a part of the
night.
Chapter LXXXIX.
Difficult for Kings to return to the Capitals of their Kingdoms.
Whilst D’Artagnan and Porthos were engaged in conducting the cardinal
to Saint Germain, Athos and Aramis returned to Paris.
Each had his own particular visit to make.
Aramis rushed to the Hôtel de Ville, where Madame de Longueville was
sojourning. The duchess loudly lamented the announcement of peace. War
had made her a queen; peace brought her abdication. She declared that
she would never assent to the treaty and that she wished eternal war.
But when Aramis had presented that peace to her in a true light—that is
to say, with all its advantages; when he had pointed out to her, in
exchange for the precarious and contested royalty of Paris, the
viceroyalty of Font-de-l’Arche, in other words, of all Normandy; when
he had rung in her ears the five hundred thousand francs promised by
the cardinal; when he had dazzled her eyes with the honor bestowed on
her by the king in holding her child at the baptismal font, Madame de
Longueville contended no longer, except as is the custom with pretty
women to contend, and defended herself only to surrender at last.
Aramis made a presence of believing in the reality of her opposition
and was unwilling to deprive himself in his own view of the credit of
her conversion.
“Madame,” he said, “you have wished to conquer the prince your
brother—that is to say, the greatest captain of the age; and when women
of genius wish anything they always succeed in attaining it. You have
succeeded; the prince is beaten, since he can no longer fight. Now
attach him to our party. Withdraw him gently from the queen, whom he
does not like, from Mazarin, whom he despises. The Fronde is a comedy,
of which the first act only is played. Let us wait for a
_dénouement_—for the day when the prince, thanks to you, shall have
turned against the court.”
Madame de Longueville was persuaded. This Frondist duchess trusted so
confidently to the power of her fine eyes, that she could not doubt
their influence even over Monsieur de Condé; and the chronicles of the
time aver that her confidence was justified.
Athos, on quitting Aramis, went to Madame de Chevreuse. Here was
another _frondeuse_ to persuade, and she was even less open to
conviction than her younger rival. There had been no stipulation in her
favor. Monsieur de Chevreuse had not been appointed governor of a
province, and if the queen should consent to be godmother it could be
only of her grandson or granddaughter. At the first announcement of
peace Madame de Chevreuse frowned, and in spite of all the logic of
Athos to show her that a prolonged war would have been impracticable,
contended in favor of hostilities.
“My fair friend,” said Athos, “allow me to tell you that everybody is
tired of war. You will get yourself exiled, as you did in the time of
Louis XIII. Believe me, we have passed the time of success in intrigue,
and your fine eyes are not destined to be eclipsed by regretting Paris,
where there will always be two queens as long as you are there.”
“Oh,” cried the duchess, “I cannot make war alone, but I can avenge
myself on that ungrateful queen and most ambitious favorite-on the
honor of a duchess, I will avenge myself.”
“Madame,” replied Athos, “do not injure the Vicomte de Bragelonne—do
not ruin his prospects. Alas! excuse my weakness! There are moments
when a man grows young again in his children.”
The duchess smiled, half tenderly, half ironically.
“Count,” she said, “you are, I fear, gained over to the court. I
suppose you have a blue ribbon in your pocket?”
“Yes, madame; I have that of the Garter, which King Charles I. gave me
some days before he died.”
“Come, I am growing an old woman!” said the duchess, pensively.
Athos took her hand and kissed it. She sighed, as she looked at him.
“Count,” she said, “Bragelonne must be a charming place. You are a man
of taste. You have water—woods—flowers there?”
She sighed again and leaned her charming head, gracefully reclined, on
her hand, still beautiful in form and color.
“Madame!” exclaimed Athos, “what were you saying just now about growing
old? Never have I seen you look so young, so beautiful!”
The duchess shook her head.
“Does Monsieur de Bragelonne remain in Paris?” she inquired.
“What think you of it?” inquired Athos.
“Leave him with me,” replied the duchess.
“No, madame; if you have forgotten the history of Œdipus, I, at least,
remember it.”
“Really, sir, you are delightful, and I should like to spend a month at
Bragelonne.”
“Are you not afraid of making people envious of me, duchess?” replied
Athos.
“No, I shall go _incognito_, count, under the name of Marie Michon.”
“You are adorable, madame.”
“But do not keep Raoul with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because he is in love.”
“He! he is quite a child!”
“And ’tis a child he loves.”
Athos became thoughtful.
“You are right, duchess. This singular passion for a child of seven may
some day make him very unhappy. There is to be war in Flanders. He
shall go thither.”
“And at his return you will send him to me. I will arm him against
love.”
“Alas, madame!” exclaimed Athos, “to-day love is like war—the
breastplate is becoming useless.”
Raoul entered at this moment; he came to announce that the solemn
entrance of the king, queen, and her ministers was to take place on the
ensuing day.
The next day, in fact, at daybreak, the court made preparations to quit
Saint Germain.
Meanwhile, the queen every hour had been sending for D’Artagnan.
“I hear,” she said, “that Paris is not quiet. I am afraid for the
king’s safety; place yourself close to the coach door on the right.”
“Reassure yourself, madame, I will answer for the king’s safety.”
As he left the queen’s presence Bernouin summoned him to the cardinal.
“Sir,” said Mazarin to him “an _émeute_ is spoken of in Paris. I shall
be on the king’s left and as I am the chief person threatened, remain
at the coach door to the left.”
“Your eminence may be perfectly easy,” replied D’Artagnan; “they will
not touch a hair of your head.”
“Deuce take it!” he thought to himself, “how can I take care of both?
Ah! plague on’t, I will guard the king and Porthos shall guard the
cardinal.”
This arrangement pleased every one. The queen had confidence in the
courage of D’Artagnan, which she knew, and the cardinal in the strength
of Porthos, which he had experienced.
The royal procession set out for Paris. Guitant and Comminges, at the
head of the guards, marched first; then came the royal carriage, with
D’Artagnan on one side, Porthos on the other; then the musketeers, for
two and twenty years staunch friends of D’Artagnan. During twenty he
had been lieutenant, their captain since the night before.
The cortège proceeded to Notre Dame, where a _Te Deum_ was chanted. All
Paris were in the streets. The Swiss were drawn up along the road, but
as the road was long, they were placed at six or eight feet distant
from each other and one deep only. This force was therefore wholly
insufficient, and from time to time the line was broken through by the
people and was formed again with difficulty. Whenever this occurred,
although it proceeded only from goodwill and a desire to see the king
and queen, Anne looked at D’Artagnan anxiously.
Mazarin, who had dispensed a thousand louis to make the people cry
“Long live Mazarin,” and who had accordingly no confidence in
acclamations bought at twenty pistoles each, kept one eye on Porthos;
but that gigantic body-guard replied to the look with his great bass
voice, “Be tranquil, my lord,” and Mazarin became more and more
composed.
At the Palais Royal, the crowd, which had flowed in from the adjacent
street was still greater; like an impetuous mob, a wave of human beings
came to meet the carriage and rolled tumultuously into the Rue Saint
Honoré.
When the procession reached the palace, loud cries of “Long live their
majesties!” resounded. Mazarin leaned out of the window. One or two
shouts of “Long live the cardinal” saluted his shadow; but instantly
hisses and yells stifled them remorselessly. Mazarin turned pale and
shrank back in the coach.
“Low-born fellows!” ejaculated Porthos.
D’Artagnan said nothing, but twirled his mustache with a peculiar
gesture which showed that his fine Gascon humor was awake.
Anne of Austria bent down and whispered in the young king’s ear:
“Say something gracious to Monsieur d’Artagnan, my son.”
The young king leaned toward the door.
“I have not said good-morning to you, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said;
“nevertheless, I have remarked you. It was you who were behind my
bed-curtains that night the Parisians wished to see me asleep.”
“And if the king permits me,” returned the Gascon, “I shall be near him
always when there is danger to be encountered.”
“Sir,” said Mazarin to Porthos, “what would you do if the crowd fell
upon us?”
“Kill as many as I could, my lord.”
“Hem! brave as you are and strong as you are, you could not kill them
all.”
“’Tis true,” answered Porthos, rising on his saddle, in order that he
might appraise the immense crowd, “there are a lot of them.”
“I think I should like the other fellow better than this one,” said
Mazarin to himself, and he threw himself back in his carriage.
The queen and her minister, more especially the latter, had reason to
feel anxious. The crowd, whilst preserving an appearance of respect and
even of affection for the king and queen regent, began to be
tumultuous. Reports were whispered about, like certain sounds which
announce, as they whistle from wave to wave, the coming storm—and when
they pass athwart a multitude, presage an _émeute_.
D’Artagnan turned toward the musketeers and made a sign imperceptible
to the crowd, but very easily understood by that chosen regiment, the
flower of the army.
The ranks closed firmly in and a kind of majestic tremor ran from man
to man.
At the Barrière des Sergents the procession was obliged to stop.
Comminges left the head of the escort and went to the queen’s carriage.
Anne questioned D’Artagnan by a look. He answered in the same language.
“Proceed,” she said.
Comminges returned to his post. An effort was made and the living
barrier was violently broken through.
Some complaints arose from the crowd and were addressed this time to
the king as well as the minister.
“Onward!” cried D’Artagnan, in a loud voice.
“Onward!” cried Porthos.
But as if the multitude had waited only for this demonstration to burst
out, all the sentiments of hostility that possessed it exploded
simultaneously. Cries of “Down with Mazarin!” “Death to the cardinal!”
resounded on all sides.
At the same time through the streets of Grenelle, Saint Honoré, and Du
Coq, a double stream of people broke the feeble hedge of Swiss guards
and came like a whirlwind even to the very legs of Porthos’s horse and
that of D’Artagnan.
This new eruption was more dangerous than the others, being composed of
armed men. It was plain that it was not the chance combination of those
who had collected a number of the malcontents at the same spot, but a
concerted organized attack.
Each of these mobs was led by a chief, one of whom appeared to belong,
not to the people, but to the honorable corporation of mendicants, and
the other, notwithstanding his affected imitation of the people, might
easily be discerned to be a gentleman. Both were evidently stimulated
by the same impulse.
There was a shock which was perceived even in the royal carriage.
Myriads of hoarse cries, forming one vast uproar, were heard, mingled
with guns firing.
“Ho! Musketeers!” cried D’Artagnan.
The escort divided into two files. One of them passed around to the
right of the carriage, the other to the left. One went to support
D’Artagnan, the other Porthos. Then came a skirmish, the more terrible
because it had no definite object; the more melancholy, because those
engaged in it knew not for whom they were fighting. Like all popular
movements, the shock given by the rush of this mob was formidable. The
musketeers, few in number, not being able, in the midst of this crowd,
to make their horses wheel around, began to give way. D’Artagnan
offered to lower the blinds of the royal carriage, but the young king
stretched out his arm, saying:
“No, sir! I wish to see everything.”
“If your majesty wishes to look out—well, then, look!” replied
D’Artagnan. And turning with that fury which made him so formidable, he
rushed toward the chief of the insurgents, a man who, with a huge sword
in his hand, was trying to hew a passage to the coach door through the
musketeers.
“Make room!” cried D’Artagnan. “Zounds! give way!”
At these words the man with a pistol and sword raised his head, but it
was too late. The blow was sped by D’Artagnan; the rapier had pierced
his bosom.
“Ah! confound it!” cried the Gascon, trying in vain, too late, to
retract the thrust. “What the devil are you doing here, count?”
“Accomplishing my destiny,” replied Rochefort, falling on one knee. “I
have already got up again after three stabs from you, I shall never
rise after this fourth.”
“Count!” said D’Artagnan, with some degree of emotion, “I struck
without knowing that it was you. I am sorry, if you die, that you
should die with sentiments of hatred toward me.”
Rochefort extended his hand to D’Artagnan, who took it. The count
wished to speak, but a gush of blood stifled him. He stiffened in the
last convulsions of death and expired.
“Back, people!” cried D’Artagnan, “your leader is dead; you have no
longer any business here.”
Indeed, as if De Rochefort had been the very soul of the attack, the
crowd who had followed and obeyed him took to flight on seeing him
fall. D’Artagnan charged, with a party of musketeers, up the Rue du
Coq, and the portion of the mob he assailed disappeared like smoke,
dispersing near the Place Saint Germain-l’Auxerrois and taking the
direction of the quays.
D’Artagnan returned to help Porthos, if Porthos needed help; but
Porthos, for his part, had done his work as conscientiously as
D’Artagnan. The left of the carriage was as well cleared as the right,
and they drew up the blind of the window which Mazarin, less heroic
than the king, had taken the precaution to lower.
Porthos looked very melancholy.
“What a devil of a face you have, Porthos! and what a strange air for a
victor!”
“But you,” answered Porthos, “seem to me agitated.”
“There’s a reason! Zounds! I have just killed an old friend.”
“Indeed!” replied Porthos, “who?”
“That poor Count de Rochefort.”
“Well! exactly like me! I have just killed a man whose face is not
unknown to me. Unluckily, I hit him on the head and immediately his
face was covered with blood.”
“And he said nothing as he died?”
“Yes; he exclaimed, ‘Oh!’”
“I suppose,” answered D’Artagnan, laughing, “if he only said that, it
did not enlighten you much.”
“Well, sir!” cried the queen.
“Madame, the passage is quite clear and your majesty can continue your
road.”
In fact, the procession arrived, in safety at Notre Dame, at the front
gate of which all the clergy, with the coadjutor at their head, awaited
the king, the queen and the minister, for whose happy return they
chanted a _Te Deum_.
As the service was drawing to a close a boy entered the church in great
excitement, ran to the sacristy, dressed himself quickly in the choir
robes, and cleaving, thanks to that uniform, the crowd that filled the
temple, approached Bazin, who, clad in his blue robe, was standing
gravely in his place at the entrance to the choir.
Bazin felt some one pulling his sleeve. He lowered to earth his eyes,
beatifically raised to Heaven, and recognized Friquet.
“Well, you rascal, what is it? How do you dare to disturb me in the
exercise of my functions?” asked the beadle.
“Monsieur Bazin,” said Friquet, “Monsieur Maillard—you know who he is,
he gives holy water at Saint Eustache——”
“Well, go on.”
“Well, he received in the scrimmage a sword stroke on the head. That
great giant who was there gave it to him.”
“In that case,” said Bazin, “he must be pretty sick.”
“So sick that he is dying, and he wants to confess to the coadjutor,
who, they say, has power to remit great sins.”
“And does he imagine that the coadjutor will put himself out for him?”
“To be sure; the coadjutor has promised.”
“Who told you that?”
“Monsieur Maillard himself.”
“You have seen him, then?”
“Certainly; I was there when he fell.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I was shouting, ‘Down with Mazarin!’ ‘Death to the cardinal!’ ‘The
Italian to the gallows!’ Isn’t that what you would have me shout?”
“Be quiet, you rascal!” said Bazin, looking uneasily around.
“So that he told me, that poor Monsieur Maillard, ‘Go find the
coadjutor, Friquet, and if you bring him to me you shall be my heir.’
Say, then, Father Bazin—the heir of Monsieur Maillard, the giver of
holy water at Saint Eustache! Hey! I shall have nothing to do but to
fold my arms! All the same, I should like to do him that service—what
do you say to it?”
“I will tell the coadjutor,” said Bazin.
In fact, he slowly and respectfully approached the prelate and spoke to
him privately a few words, to which the latter responded by an
affirmative sign. He then returned with the same slow step and said:
“Go and tell the dying man that he must be patient. Monseigneur will be
with him in an hour.”
“Good!” said Friquet, “my fortune is made.”
“By the way,” said Bazin, “where was he carried?”
“To the tower Saint Jacques la Boucherie;” and delighted with the
success of his embassy, Friquet started off at the top of his speed.
When the _Te Deum_ was over, the coadjutor, without stopping to change
his priestly dress, took his way toward that old tower which he knew so
well. He arrived in time. Though sinking from moment to moment, the
wounded man was not yet dead. The door was opened to the coadjutor of
the room in which the mendicant was suffering.
A moment later Friquet went out, carrying in his hand a large leather
bag; he opened it as soon as he was outside the chamber and to his
great astonishment found it full of gold. The mendicant had kept his
word and made Friquet his heir.
“Ah! Mother Nanette!” cried Friquet, suffocating; “ah! Mother Nanette!”
He could say no more; but though he hadn’t strength to speak he had
enough for action. He rushed headlong to the street, and like the Greek
from Marathon who fell in the square at Athens, with his laurel in his
hand, Friquet reached Councillor Broussel’s threshold, and then fell
exhausted, scattering on the floor the louis disgorged by his leather
bag.
Mother Nanette began by picking up the louis; then she picked up
Friquet.
In the meantime the cortège returned to the Palais Royal.
“That Monsieur d’Artagnan is a very brave man, mother,” said the young
king.
“Yes, my son; and he rendered very important services to your father.
Treat him kindly, therefore, in the future.”
“Captain,” said the young king to D’Artagnan, on descending from the
carriage, “the queen has charged me to invite you to dinner to-day—you
and your friend the Baron du Vallon.”
That was a great honor for D’Artagnan and for Porthos. Porthos was
delighted; and yet during the entire repast he seemed to be
preoccupied.
“What was the matter with you, baron?” D’Artagnan said to him as they
descended the staircase of the Palais Royal. “You seemed at dinner to
be anxious about something.”
“I was trying,” said Porthos, “to recall where I had seen that
mendicant whom I must have killed.”
“And you couldn’t remember?”
“No.”
“Well, search, my friend, search; and when you have found, you will
tell me, will you not?”
“_Pardieu!_” said Porthos.
Chapter XC.
Conclusion.
On going home, the two friends found a letter from Athos, who desired
them to meet him at the Grand Charlemagne on the following day.
The friends went to bed early, but neither of them slept. When we
arrive at the summit of our wishes, success has usually the power to
drive away sleep on the first night after the fulfilment of long
cherished hopes.
The next day at the appointed hour they went to see Athos and found him
and Aramis in traveling costume.
“What!” cried Porthos, “are we all going away, then? I also have made
my preparations this morning.”
“Oh, heavens! yes,” said Aramis. “There’s nothing to do in Paris now
there’s no Fronde. The Duchess de Longueville has invited me to pass a
few days in Normandy, and has deputed me, while her son is being
baptized, to go and prepare her residence at Rouen; after which, if
nothing new occurs, I shall go and bury myself in my convent at
Noisy-le-Sec.”
“And I,” said Athos, “am returning to Bragelonne. You know, dear
D’Artagnan, I am nothing more than a good honest country gentleman.
Raoul has no fortune other than I possess, poor child! and I must take
care of it for him, since I only lend him my name.”
“And Raoul—what shall you do with him?”
“I leave him with _you_, my friend. War has broken out in Flanders. You
shall take him with you there. I am afraid that remaining at Blois
would be dangerous to his youthful mind. Take him and teach him to be
as brave and loyal as you are yourself.”
“Then,” replied D’Artagnan, “though I shall not have _you_, Athos, at
all events I shall have that dear fair-haired head by me; and though
he’s but a boy, yet, since your soul lives again in him, dear Athos, I
shall always fancy that you are near me, sustaining and encouraging
me.”
The four friends embraced with tears in their eyes.
Then they departed, without knowing whether they would ever see each
other again.
D’Artagnan returned to the Rue Tiquetonne with Porthos, still possessed
by the wish to find out who the man was that he had killed. On arriving
at the Hôtel de la Chevrette they found the baron’s equipage all ready
and Mousqueton on his saddle.
“Come, D’Artagnan,” said Porthos, “bid adieu to your sword and go with
me to Pierrefonds, to Bracieux, or to Du Vallon. We will grow old
together and talk of our companions.”
“No!” replied D’Artagnan, “deuce take it, the campaign is going to
begin; I wish to be there, I expect to get something by it.”
“What do you expect to get?”
“Why, I expect to be made Maréchal of France!”
“Ha! ha!” cried Porthos, who was not completely taken in by
D’Artagnan’s Gasconades.
“Come my brother, go with me,” added D’Artagnan, “and I will see that
you are made a duke!”
“No,” answered Porthos, “Mouston has no desire to fight; besides, they
have erected a triumphal arch for me to enter my barony, which will
kill my neighbors with envy.”
“To that I can say nothing,” returned D’Artagnan, who knew the vanity
of the new baron. “Then, here’s to our next merry meeting!”
“Adieu, dear captain,” said Porthos, “I shall always be happy to
welcome you to my barony.”
“Yes, yes, when the campaign is over,” replied the Gascon.
“His honor’s equipage is waiting,” said Mousqueton.
The two friends, after a cordial pressure of the hands, separated.
D’Artagnan was standing at the door looking after Porthos with a
mournful gaze, when the baron, after walking scarcely more than twenty
paces, returned—stood still—struck his forehead with his finger and
exclaimed:
“I recollect!”
“What?” inquired D’Artagnan.
“Who the beggar was that I killed.”
“Ah! indeed! and who was he?”
“’Twas that low fellow, Bonacieux.”
And Porthos, enchanted at having relieved his mind, rejoined Mousqueton
and they disappeared around an angle of the street. D’Artagnan stood
for an instant, mute, pensive and motionless; then, as he went in, he
saw the fair Madeleine, his hostess, standing on the threshold.
“Madeleine,” said the Gascon, “give me your apartment on the first
floor; now that I am a captain in the royal musketeers I must make an
appearance; nevertheless, reserve my old room on the fifth story for
me; one never knows what may happen.”