In which the King and the Lieutenant each give Proofs of Memory
When the king, like all the people in the world who are in love, had
long and attentively watched disappear in the distance the carriage
which bore away his mistress; when he had turned and turned again a
hundred times to the same side and had at length succeeded in somewhat
calming the agitation of his heart and thoughts, he recollected that he
was not alone. The officer still held the horse by the bridle, and had
not lost all hope of seeing the king recover his resolution. He had
still the resource of mounting and riding after the carriage; they
would have lost nothing by waiting a little. But the imagination of the
lieutenant of the musketeers was too rich and too brilliant; it left
far behind it that of the king, who took care not to allow himself to
be carried away to any such excess. He contented himself with
approaching the officer, and in a doleful voice, “Come,” said he, “let
us be gone; all is ended. To horse!”
The officer imitated this carriage, this slowness, this sadness, and
leisurely mounted his horse. The king pushed on sharply, the lieutenant
followed him. At the bridge Louis turned around for the last time. The
lieutenant, patient as a god who has eternity behind and before him,
still hoped for a return of energy. But it was groundless, nothing
appeared. Louis gained the street which led to the castle, and entered
as seven was striking. When the king had returned, and the musketeer,
who saw everything, had seen a corner of the tapestry over the
cardinal’s window lifted up, he breathed a profound sigh, like a man
unloosed from the tightest bounds, and said in a low voice:
“Now, then, my officer, I hope that it is over.”
The king summoned his gentleman. “Please to understand I shall receive
nobody before two o’clock,” said he.
“Sire,” replied the gentleman, “there is, however, some one who
requests admittance.”
“Who is that?”
“Your lieutenant of musketeers.”
“He who accompanied me?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Ah,” said the king, “let him come in.”
The officer entered. The king made a sign, and the gentleman and the
valet retired. Louis followed them with his eyes until they had shut
the door, and when the tapestries had fallen behind them,—“You remind
me by your presence, monsieur, of something I had forgotten to
recommend to you, that is to say, the most absolute discretion.”
“Oh! sire, why does your majesty give yourself the trouble of making me
such a recommendation? It is plain you do not know me.”
“Yes, monsieur, that is true. I know that you are discreet; but as I
had prescribed nothing——”
The officer bowed. “Has your majesty nothing else to say to me?”
“No, monsieur; you may retire.”
“Shall I obtain permission not to do so till I have spoken to the king,
sire?”
“What have you to say to me? Explain yourself, monsieur.”
“Sire, a thing without importance to you, but which interests me
greatly. Pardon me, then, for speaking of it. Without urgency, without
necessity, I never would have done it, and I would have disappeared,
mute and insignificant as I always have been.”
“How! Disappeared! I do not understand you, monsieur.”
“Sire, in a word,” said the officer, “I am come to ask for my discharge
from your majesty’s service.”
The king made a movement of surprise, but the officer remained as
motionless as a statue.
“Your discharge—yours, monsieur? and for how long a time, I pray?”
“Why, forever, sire.”
“What, you are desirous of quitting my service, monsieur?” said Louis,
with an expression that revealed something more than surprise.
“Sire, I regret to say that I am.”
“Impossible!”
“It is so, however, sire. I am getting old; I have worn harness now
thirty-five years; my poor shoulders are tired; I feel that I must give
place to the young. I don’t belong to this age; I have still one foot
in the old one; it results that everything is strange in my eyes,
everything astonishes and bewilders me. In short, I have the honor to
ask your majesty for my discharge.”
“Monsieur,” said the king, looking at the officer, who wore his uniform
with an ease that would have caused envy in a young man, “you are
stronger and more vigorous than I am.”
“Oh!” replied the officer, with an air of false modesty, “your majesty
says so because I still have a good eye and a tolerably firm
foot—because I can still ride a horse, and my mustache is black; but,
sire, vanity of vanities all that—illusions all that—appearance, smoke,
sire! I have still a youthful air, it is true, but I feel old, and
within six months I am certain I shall be broken down, gouty, impotent.
Therefore, then sire——”
“Monsieur,” interrupted the king, “remember your words of yesterday.
You said to me in this very place where you now are, that you were
endowed with the best health of any man in France; that fatigue was
unknown to you! that you did not mind spending whole days and nights at
your post. Did you tell me that, monsieur, or not? Try and recall,
monsieur.”
The officer sighed. “Sire,” said he, “old age is boastful; and it is
pardonable for old men to praise themselves when others no longer do
it. It is very possible I said that; but the fact is, sire, I am very
much fatigued, and request permission to retire.”
“Monsieur,” said the king, advancing towards the officer with a gesture
full of majesty, “you are not assigning me the true reason. You wish to
quit my service, it may be true, but you disguise from me the motive of
your retreat.”
“Sire, believe that——”
“I believe what I see, monsieur; I see a vigorous, energetic man, full
of presence of mind, the best soldier in France, perhaps; and this
personage cannot persuade me the least in the world that you stand in
need of rest.”
“Ah! sire,” said the lieutenant, with bitterness, “what praise! Indeed,
your majesty confounds me! Energetic, vigorous, brave, intelligent, the
best soldier in the army! But, sire, your majesty exaggerates my small
portion of merit to such a point, that however good an opinion I may
have of myself, I do not recognize myself; in truth I do not. If I were
vain enough to believe only half of your majesty’s words, I should
consider myself a valuable, indispensable man. I should say that a
servant possessed of such brilliant qualities was a treasure beyond all
price. Now, sire, I have been all my life—I feel bound to say it—except
at the present time, appreciated, in my opinion, much below my value. I
therefore repeat, your majesty exaggerates.”
The king knitted his brow, for he saw a bitter raillery beneath the
words of the officer. “Come, monsieur,” said he, “let us meet the
question frankly. Are you dissatisfied with my service, say? No
evasions; speak boldly, frankly—I command you to do so.”
The officer, who had been twisting his hat about in his hands, with an
embarrassed air, for several minutes, raised his head at these words.
“Oh! sire,” said he, “that puts me a little more at my ease. To a
question put so frankly, I will reply frankly. To tell the truth is a
good thing, as much from the pleasure one feels in relieving one’s
heart, as on account of the rarity of the fact. I will speak the truth,
then, to my king, at the same time imploring him to excuse the
frankness of an old soldier.”
Louis looked at his officer with anxiety, which he manifested by the
agitation of his gesture. “Well, then speak,” said he, “for I am
impatient to hear the truths you have to tell me.”
The officer threw his hat upon a table, and his countenance, always so
intelligent and martial, assumed, all at once, a strange character of
grandeur and solemnity. “Sire,” said he, “I quit the king’s service
because I am dissatisfied. The valet, in these times, can approach his
master as respectfully as I do, can give him an account of his labor,
bring back his tools, return the funds that have been intrusted to him,
and say, ‘Master, my day’s work is done. Pay me, if you please, and let
us part.’”
“Monsieur! monsieur!” exclaimed the king, crimson with rage.
“Ah! sire,” replied the officer, bending his knee for a moment, “never
was servant more respectful than I am before your majesty; only you
commanded me to tell the truth. Now I have begun to tell it, it must
come out, even if you command me to hold my tongue.”
There was so much resolution expressed in the deep-sunk muscles of the
officer’s countenance, that Louis XIV. had no occasion to tell him to
continue; he continued, therefore, whilst the king looked at him with a
curiosity mingled with admiration.
“Sire, I have, as I have said, now served the house of France
thirty-five years; few people have worn out so many swords in that
service as I have, and the swords I speak of were good swords, too,
sire. I was a boy, ignorant of everything except courage, when the king
your father guessed that there was a man in me. I was a man, sire, when
the Cardinal de Richelieu, who was a judge of manhood, discovered an
enemy in me. Sire, the history of that enmity between the ant and the
lion may be read from the first to the last line, in the secret
archives of your family. If ever you feel an inclination to know it, do
so, sire; the history is worth the trouble—it is I who tell you so. You
will there read that the lion, fatigued, harassed, out of breath, at
length cried for quarter, and the justice must be rendered him to say
that he gave as much as he required. Oh! those were glorious times,
sire, strewed over with battles like one of Tasso’s or Ariosto’s epics.
The wonders of those times, to which the people of ours would refuse
belief, were every-day occurrences. For five years together, I was a
hero every day; at least, so I was told by persons of judgment; and
that is a long period for heroism, trust me, sire, a period of five
years. Nevertheless, I have faith in what these people told me, for
they were good judges. They were named M. de Richelieu, M. de
Buckingham, M. de Beaufort, M. de Retz, a mighty genius himself in
street warfare,—in short, the king, Louis XIII., and even the queen,
your noble mother, who one day condescended to say, ‘Thank you.’ I
don’t know what service I had had the good fortune to render her.
Pardon me, sire, for speaking so boldly; but what I relate to you, as I
have already had the honor to tell your majesty, is history.”
The king bit his lips, and threw himself violently on a chair.
“I appear importunate to your majesty,” said the lieutenant. “Eh! sire,
that is the fate of truth; she is a stern companion; she bristles all
over with steel; she wounds those whom she attacks, and sometimes him
who speaks her.”
“No, monsieur,” replied the king; “I bade you speak—speak then.”
“After the service of the king and the cardinal came the service of the
regency, sire; I fought pretty well in the Fronde—much less, though,
than the first time. The men began to diminish in stature. I have,
nevertheless, led your majesty’s musketeers on some perilous occasions,
which stand upon the orders of the day of the company. Mine was a
beautiful luck at that time. I was the favorite of M. de Mazarin.
Lieutenant here! lieutenant there! lieutenant to the right! lieutenant
to the left! There was not a buffet dealt in France, of which your
humble servant did not have the dealing; but soon France was not
enough. The cardinal sent me to England on Cromwell’s account; another
gentleman who was not over gentle, I assure you, sire. I had the honor
of knowing him, and I was well able to appreciate him. A great deal was
promised me on account of that mission. So, as I did much more than I
had been bidden to do, I was generously paid, for I was at length
appointed captain of the musketeers, that is to say, the most envied
position in court, which takes precedence over the marshals of France,
and justly, for who says captain of the musketeers says the flower of
chivalry and king of the brave.”
“Captain, monsieur!” interrupted the king, “you make a mistake.
Lieutenant, you mean.”
“Not at all, sire—I make no mistake; your majesty may rely upon me in
that respect. Monsieur le cardinal gave me the commission himself.”
“Well!”
“But M. de Mazarin, as you know better than anybody, does not often
give, and sometimes takes back what he has given; he took it back again
as soon as peace was made and he was no longer in want of me. Certainly
I was not worthy to replace M. de Tréville, of illustrious memory; but
they had promised me, and they had given me; they ought to have stopped
there.”
“Is that what dissatisfies you, monsieur? Well I shall make inquiries.
I love justice; and your claim, though made in military fashion, does
not displease me.”
“Oh, sire!” said the officer, “your majesty has ill understood me; I no
longer claim anything now.”
“Excess of delicacy, monsieur; but I will keep my eye upon your
affairs, and later——”
“Oh, sire! what a word!—later! Thirty years have I lived upon that
promising word, which has been pronounced by so many great personages,
and which your mouth has, in its turn, just pronounced. Later—that is
how I have received a score of wounds, and how I have reached
fifty-four years of age without ever having had a louis in my purse,
and without ever having met with a protector on my way,—I who have
protected so many people! So I change my formula, sire; and when any
one says to me ‘Later,’ I reply ‘Now.’ It is rest that I solicit, sire.
That may be easily granted me. That will cost nobody anything.”
“I did not look for this language, monsieur, particularly from a man
who has always lived among the great. You forget you are speaking to
the king, to a gentleman who is, I suppose, of as good a house as
yourself; and when I say later, I mean a certainty.”
“I do not at all doubt it, sire, but this is the end of the terrible
truth I had to tell you. If I were to see upon that table a marshal’s
stick, the sword of constable, the crown of Poland, instead of later, I
swear to you, sire, that I should still say Now! Oh, excuse me, sire! I
am from the country of your grandfather, Henry IV. I do not speak
often; but when I do speak, I speak all.”
“The future of my reign has little temptation for you, monsieur, it
appears,” said Louis, haughtily.
“Forgetfulness, forgetfulness everywhere!” cried the officer, with a
noble air; “the master has forgotten the servant, so that the servant
is reduced to forget his master. I live in unfortunate times, sire. I
see youth full of discouragement and fear, I see it timid and
despoiled, when it ought to be rich and powerful. I yesterday evening,
for example, open the door to a king of England, whose father, humble
as I am, I was near saving, if God had not been against me—God, who
inspired His elect, Cromwell! I open, I said, the door, that is to say,
the palace of one brother to another brother, and I see—stop, sire,
that is a load on my heart!—I see the minister of that king drive away
the proscribed prince, and humiliate his master by condemning to want
another king, his equal. Then I see my prince, who is young, handsome,
and brave, who has courage in his heart, and lightning in his eye,—I
see him tremble before a priest, who laughs at him behind the curtain
of his alcove, where he digests all the gold of France, which he
afterwards stuffs into secret coffers. Yes—I understand your looks,
sire. I am bold to madness; but what is to be said? I am an old man,
and I tell you here, sire, to you, my king, things which I would cram
down the throat of any one who should dare to pronounce them before me.
You have commanded me to pour out the bottom of my heart before you,
sire, and I cast at the feet of your majesty the pent-up indignation of
thirty years, as I would pour out all my blood, if your majesty
commanded me to do so.”
The king, without speaking a word, wiped the drops of cold and abundant
perspiration which trickled from his temples. The moment of silence
which followed this vehement outbreak represented for him who had
spoken, and for him who had listened, ages of suffering.
“Monsieur,” said the king at length, “you spoke the word forgetfulness.
I have heard nothing but that word; I will reply, then, to it alone.
Others have perhaps been able to forget, but I have not, and the proof
is, that I remember that one day of riot, that one day when the furious
people, raging and roaring as the sea, invaded the royal palace; that
one day when I feigned sleep in my bed, one man alone, naked sword in
hand, concealed behind my curtain, watched over my life, ready to risk
his own for me, as he had before risked it twenty times for the lives
of my family. Was not the gentleman, whose name I then demanded, called
M. d’Artagnan? say, monsieur.”
“Your majesty has a good memory,” replied the officer, coldly.
“You see, then,” continued the king, “if I have such remembrances of my
childhood, what an amount I may gather in the age of reason.”
“Your majesty has been richly endowed by God,” said the officer, in the
same tone.
“Come, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued Louis, with feverish agitation,
“ought you not to be as patient as I am? Ought you not to do as I do?
Come!”
“And what do you do, sire?”
“I wait.”
“Your majesty may do so, because you are young; but I, sire, have not
time to wait; old age is at my door, and death is behind it, looking
into the very depths of my house. Your majesty is beginning life, its
future is full of hope and fortune; but I, sire, I am on the other side
of the horizon, and we are so far from each other, that I should never
have time to wait till your majesty came up to me.”
Louis made another turn in his apartment, still wiping the moisture
from his brow, in a manner that would have terrified his physicians, if
his physicians had witnessed the state his majesty was in.
“It is very well, monsieur,” said Louis XIV., in a sharp voice; “you
are desirous of having your discharge, and you shall have it. You offer
me your resignation of the rank of lieutenant of the musketeers?”
“I deposit it humbly at your majesty’s feet, sire.”
“That is sufficient. I will order your pension.”
“I shall have a thousand obligations to your majesty.”
“Monsieur,” said the king, with a violent effort, “I think you are
losing a good master.”
“And I am sure of it, sire.”
“Shall you ever find such another?”
“Oh, sire! I know that your majesty is alone in the world; therefore
will I never again take service with any king upon earth, and will
never again have other master than myself.”
“You say so?”
“I swear so, your majesty.”
“I shall remember that word, monsieur.”
D’Artagnan bowed.
“And you know I have a good memory,” said the king.
“Yes, sire, and yet I should desire that that memory should fail your
majesty in this instance, in order that you might forget all the
miseries I have been forced to spread before your eyes. Your majesty is
so much above the poor and the mean that I hope——”
“My majesty, monsieur, will act like the sun, which looks upon all,
great and small, rich and poor, giving luster to some, warmth to
others, and life to all. Adieu Monsieur d’Artagnan—adieu: you are
free.”
And the king, with a hoarse sob, which was lost in his throat, passed
quickly into the next room. D’Artagnan took up his hat from the table
upon which he had thrown it, and went out.