“Remember!”
A horseman was going rapidly along the road leading towards Blois,
which he had left nearly half an hour before, passed the two travelers,
and, though apparently in haste, raised his hat as he passed them. The
king scarcely observed this young man, who was about twenty-five years
of age, and who, turning round several times, made friendly signals to
a man standing before the gate of a handsome white-and-red house; that
is to say, built of brick and stone, with a slated roof, situated on
the left hand of the road the prince was traveling.
This man, old, tall, and thin, with white hair,—we speak of the one
standing by the gate;—this man replied to the farewell signals of the
young one by signs of parting as tender as could have been made by a
father, The young man disappeared at the first turn of the road,
bordered by fine trees, and the old man was preparing to return to the
house, when the two travelers, arriving in front of the gate, attracted
his attention.
The king, we have said, was riding with his head cast down, his arms
inert, leaving his horse to go what pace he liked, whilst Parry, behind
him, the better to imbibe the genial influence of the sun, had taken
off his hat, and was looking about right and left. His eyes encountered
those of the old man leaning against the gate; the latter, as if struck
by some strange spectacle, uttered an exclamation, and made one step
towards the two travelers. From Parry his eyes immediately turned
towards the king, upon whom they rested for an instant. This
exclamation, however rapid, was instantly reflected in a visible manner
upon the features of the tall old man. For scarcely had he recognized
the younger of the travelers—and we say recognized, for nothing but a
perfect recognition could have explained such an act—scarcely, we say,
had he recognized the younger of the two travelers, than he clapped his
hands together, with respectful surprise, and, raising his hat from his
head, bowed so profoundly that it might have been said he was kneeling.
This demonstration, however absent, or rather, however absorbed was the
king in his reflections, attracted his attention instantly; and
checking his horse and turning towards Parry, he exclaimed, “Good God,
Parry, who is that man who salutes me in such a marked manner? Can he
know me, think you?”
Parry, much agitated and very pale, had already turned his horse
towards the gate. “Ah, sire!” said he, stopping suddenly at five of six
paces’ distance from the still bending man: “sire, I am seized with
astonishment, for I think I recognize that brave man. Yes, it must be
he! Will your majesty permit me to speak to him?”
“Certainly.”
“Can it be you, Monsieur Grimaud?” asked Parry.
“Yes, it is I,” replied the tall old man, drawing himself up, but
without losing his respectful demeanor.
“Sire,” then said Parry, “I was not deceived. This good man is the
servant of the Comte de la Fere, and the Comte de la Fere, if you
remember, is the worthy gentleman of whom I have so often spoken to
your majesty that the remembrance of him must remain, not only in your
mind, but in your heart.”
“He who assisted my father at his last moments?” asked Charles,
evidently affected at the remembrance.
“The same, sire.”
“Alas!” said Charles; and then addressing Grimaud, whose penetrating
and intelligent eyes seemed to search and divine his thoughts,—“My
friend,” said he, “does your master, Monsieur le Comte de la Fere, live
in this neighborhood?”
“There,” replied Grimaud, pointing with his outstretched arm to the
white-and-red house behind the gate.
“And is Monsieur le Comte de la Fere at home at present?”
“At the back, under the chestnut trees.”
“Parry,” said the king, “I will not miss this opportunity, so precious
for me, to thank the gentleman to whom our house is indebted for such a
noble example of devotedness and generosity. Hold my horse, my friend,
if you please.” And, throwing the bridle to Grimaud, the king entered
the abode of Athos, quite alone, as one equal enters the dwelling of
another. Charles had been informed by the concise explanation of
Grimaud,—“At the back, under the chestnut trees;” he left, therefore,
the house on the left, and went straight down the path indicated. The
thing was easy; the tops of those noble trees, already covered with
leaves and flowers, rose above all the rest.
On arriving under the lozenges, by turns luminous and dark, which
checkered the ground of this path according as the trees were more or
less in leaf, the young prince perceived a gentleman walking with his
arms behind him, apparently plunged in a deep meditation. Without
doubt, he had often had this gentleman described to him, for, without
hesitating, Charles II. walked straight up to him. At the sound of his
footsteps, the Comte de la Fere raised his head, and seeing an unknown
man of noble and elegant carriage coming towards him, he raised his hat
and waited. At some paces from him, Charles II. likewise took off his
hat. Then, as if in reply to the comte’s mute interrogation,—
“Monsieur le Comte,” said he, “I come to discharge a duty towards you.
I have, for a long time, had the expression of a profound gratitude to
bring you. I am Charles II., son of Charles Stuart, who reigned in
England, and died on the scaffold.”
On hearing this illustrious name, Athos felt a kind of shudder creep
through his veins, but at the sight of the young prince standing
uncovered before him, and stretching out his hand towards him, two
tears, for an instant, dimmed his brilliant eyes. He bent respectfully,
but the prince took him by the hand.
“See how unfortunate I am, my lord count; it is only due to chance that
I have met with you. Alas! I ought to have people around me whom I love
and honor, whereas I am reduced to preserve their services in my heart,
and their names in my memory: so that if your servant had not
recognized mine, I should have passed by your door as by that of a
stranger.”
“It is but too true,” said Athos, replying with his voice to the first
part of the king’s speech, and with a bow to the second; “it is but too
true, indeed, that your majesty has seen many evil days.”
“And the worst, alas!” replied Charles, “are perhaps still to come.”
“Sire, let us hope.”
“Count, count,” continued Charles, shaking his head, “I entertained
hope till last night, and that of a good Christian, I swear.”
Athos looked at the king as if to interrogate him.
“Oh, the history is soon related,” said Charles. “Proscribed,
despoiled, disdained, I resolved, in spite of all my repugnance, to
tempt fortune one last time. Is it not written above, that, for our
family, all good fortune and all bad fortune shall eternally come from
France? You know something of that, monsieur,—you, who are one of the
Frenchmen whom my unfortunate father found at the foot of his scaffold,
on the day of his death, after having found them at his right hand on
the day of battle.”
“Sire,” said Athos modestly, “I was not alone. My companions and I did,
under the circumstances, our duty as gentlemen, and that was all. Your
majesty was about to do me the honor to relate——”
“That is true. I had the protection,—pardon my hesitation, count, but,
for a Stuart, you, who understand everything, you will comprehend that
the word is hard to pronounce;—I had, I say, the protection of my
cousin the stadtholder of Holland; but without the intervention, or at
least without the authorization of France, the stadtholder would not
take the initiative. I came, then, to ask this authorization of the
king of France, who has refused me.”
“The king has refused you, sire!”
“Oh, not he; all justice must be rendered to my younger brother Louis;
but Monsieur de Mazarin——”
Athos bit his lips.
“You perhaps think I should have expected this refusal?” said the king,
who had noticed the movement.
“That was, in truth, my thought, sire,” replied Athos, respectfully, “I
know that Italian of old.”
“Then I determined to come to the test, and know at once the last word
of my destiny. I told my brother Louis, that, not to compromise either
France or Holland, I would tempt fortune myself in person, as I had
already done, with two hundred gentlemen, if he would give them to me,
and a million, if he would lend it me.”
“Well, sire?”
“Well, monsieur, I am suffering at this moment something strange, and
that is, the satisfaction of despair. There is in certain souls,—and I
have just discovered that mine is of the number,—a real satisfaction in
the assurance that all is lost, and the time is come to yield.”
“Oh, I hope,” said Athos, “that your majesty is not come to that
extremity.”
“To say so, my lord count, to endeavor to revive hope in my heart, you
must have ill understood what I have just told you. I came to Blois to
ask of my brother Louis the alms of a million, with which I had the
hopes of re-establishing my affairs; and my brother Louis has refused
me. You see, then, plainly, that all is lost.”
“Will your majesty permit me to express a contrary opinion?”
“How is that, count? Do you think my heart of so low an order that I do
not know how to face my position?”
“Sire, I have always seen that it was in desperate positions that
suddenly the great turns of fortune have taken place.”
“Thank you, count, it is some comfort to meet with a heart like yours,
that is to say, sufficiently trustful in God and in monarchy, never to
despair of a royal fortune, however low it may be fallen.
Unfortunately, my dear count, your words are like those remedies they
call ‘sovereign,’ and which, though able to cure curable wounds or
diseases, fail against death. Thank you for your perseverance in
consoling me, count, thanks for your devoted remembrance, but I know in
what I must trust—nothing will save me now. And see, my friend, I was
so convinced, that I was taking the route of exile with my old Parry; I
was returning to devour my poignant griefs in the little hermitage
offered me by Holland. There, believe me, count, all will soon be over,
and death will come quickly, it is called so often by this body, eaten
up by its soul, and by this soul, which aspires to heaven.”
“Your majesty has a mother, a sister, and brothers; your majesty is the
head of the family, and ought, therefore, to ask a long life of God,
instead of imploring Him for a prompt death. Your majesty is an exile,
a fugitive, but you have right on your side; you ought to aspire to
combats, dangers, business, and not to rest in heavens.”
“Count,” said Charles II., with a smile of indescribable sadness, “have
you ever heard of a king who reconquered his kingdom with one servant
of the age of Parry, and with three hundred crowns which that servant
carried in his purse?”
“No, sire; but I have heard—and that more than once—that a dethroned
king has recovered his kingdom with a firm will, perseverance, some
friends, and a million skillfully employed.”
“But you cannot have understood me. The million I asked of my brother
Louis was refused me.”
“Sire,” said Athos, “will your majesty grant me a few minutes, and
listen attentively to what remains for me to say to you?”
Charles II. looked earnestly at Athos. “Willingly, monsieur,” said he.
“Then I will show your majesty the way,” resumed the count, directing
his steps towards the house. He then conducted the king to his study,
and begged him to be seated. “Sire,” said he, “your majesty just now
told me that, in the present state of England, a million would suffice
for the recovery of your kingdom.”
“To attempt it at least, monsieur, and to die as a king if I should not
succeed.”
“Well, then, sire, let your majesty, according to the promise you have
made me, have the goodness to listen to what I have to say.” Charles
made an affirmative sign with his head. Athos walked straight up to the
door, the bolts of which he drew, after looking to see if anybody was
near, and then returned. “Sire,” said he, “your majesty has kindly
remembered that I lent assistance to the very noble and very
unfortunate Charles I., when his executioners conducted him from St.
James’s to Whitehall.”
“Yes, certainly, I do remember it, and always shall remember it.”
“Sire, it is a dismal history to be heard by a son who no doubt has had
it related to him many times; and yet I ought to repeat it to your
majesty without omitting one detail.”
“Speak on, monsieur.”
“When the king your father ascended the scaffold, or rather when he
passed from his chamber to the scaffold on a level with his window,
everything was prepared for his escape. The executioner was got out of
the way; a hole contrived under the floor of his apartment; I myself
was beneath the funeral vault, which I heard all at once creak beneath
his feet.”
“Parry has related to me all these terrible details, monsieur.”
Athos bowed, and resumed. “But here is something he has not related to
you, sire, for what follows passed between God, your father, and
myself; and never has the revelation of it been made even to my dearest
friends. ‘Go a little further off,’ said the august patient to the
executioner; ‘it is but for an instant, and I know that I belong to
you; but remember not to strike till I give the signal. I wish to offer
up my prayers in freedom.’”
“Pardon me,” said Charles II., turning very pale, “but you, count, who
know so many details of this melancholy event,—details which, as you
said just now, have never been revealed to anyone,—do you know the name
of that infernal executioner, of that base wretch who concealed his
face that he might assassinate a king with impunity?”
Athos became slightly pale. “His name?” said he, “yes, I know it, but
cannot tell it.”
“And what is become of him, for nobody in England knows his destiny?”
“He is dead.”
“But he did not die in his bed; he did not die a calm and peaceful
death, he did not die the death of the good?”
“He died a violent death, in a terrible night, rendered so by the
passions of man and a tempest from God. His body, pierced by a dagger,
sank to the depths of the ocean. God pardon his murderer!”
“Proceed, then,” said Charles II., seeing that the count was unwilling
to say more.
“The king of England, after having, as I have said, spoken thus to the
masked executioner, added,—‘Observe, you will not strike till I shall
stretch out my arms saying—REMEMBER!’”
“I was aware,” said Charles, in an agitated voice, “that that was the
last word pronounced by my unfortunate father. But why and for whom?”
“For the French gentleman placed beneath his scaffold.”
“For you, then, monsieur?”
“Yes, sire; and every one of the words which he spoke to me, through
the planks of the scaffold covered with a black cloth, still sounds in
my ears. The king knelt down on one knee: ‘Comte de la Fere,’ said he,
‘are you there?’ ‘Yes, sire,’ replied I. Then the king stooped towards
the boards.”
Charles II., also palpitating with interest, burning with grief,
stooped towards Athos, to catch, one by one, every word that escaped
from him. His head touched that of the comte.
“Then,” continued Athos, “the king stooped. ‘Comte de la Fere,’ said
he, ‘I could not be saved by you: it was not to be. Now, even though I
commit a sacrilege, I must speak to you. Yes, I have spoken to men—yes,
I have spoken to God, and I speak to you the last. To sustain a cause
which I thought sacred, I have lost the throne of my fathers and the
heritage of my children.’”
Charles II. concealed his face in his hands, and a bitter tear glided
between his white and slender fingers.
“‘I have still a million in gold,’ continued the king. ‘I buried it in
the vaults of the castle of Newcastle, a moment before I left that
city.’” Charles raised his head with an expression of such painful joy
that it would have drawn tears from any one acquainted with his
misfortunes.
“A million!” murmured he. “Oh, count!”
“‘You alone know that this money exists: employ it when you think it
can be of the greatest service to my eldest son. And now, Comte de la
Fere, bid me adieu!’
“‘Adieu, adieu, sire!’ cried I.”
Charles arose, and went and leant his burning brow against the window.
“It was then,” continued Athos, “that the king pronounced the word,
‘REMEMBER!’ addressed to me. You see, sire, that I have remembered.”
The king could not resist or conceal his emotion. Athos beheld the
movement of his shoulders, which undulated convulsively; he heard the
sobs which burst from his overcharged breast. He was silent himself,
suffocated by the flood of bitter remembrances he had just poured upon
that royal head. Charles II., with a violent effort, left the window,
devoured his tears, and came and sat by Athos. “Sire,” said the latter,
“I thought till to-day that the time had not yet arrived for the
employment of that last resource; but, with my eyes fixed upon England,
I felt it was approaching. To-morrow I meant to go and inquire in what
part of the world your majesty was, and then I purposed going to you.
You come to me, sire; that is an indication that God is with us.”
“My lord,” said Charles, in a voice choked by emotion, “you are, for
me, what an angel sent from heaven would be,—you are a preserver sent
to me from the tomb of my father himself; but, believe me, for ten
years’ civil war has passed over my country, striking down men, tearing
up the soil, it is no more probable that gold should remain in the
entrails of the earth, than love in the hearts of my subjects.”
“Sire, the spot in which his majesty buried the million is well known
to me, and no one, I am sure, has been able to discover it. Besides, is
the castle of Newcastle quite destroyed? Have they demolished it stone
by stone, and uprooted the soil to the last tree?”
“No, it is still standing: but at this moment General Monk occupies it
and is encamped there. The only spot from which I could look for
succor, where I possess a single resource, you see, is invaded by my
enemies.”
“General Monk, sire, cannot have discovered the treasure which I speak
of.”
“Yes, but can I go and deliver myself up to Monk, in order to recover
this treasure? Ah! count, you see plainly I must yield to destiny,
since it strikes me to the earth every time I rise. What can I do with
Parry as my only servant, with Parry, whom Monk has already driven from
his presence? No, no, no, count, we must yield to this last blow.”
“But what your majesty cannot do, and what Parry can no more attempt,
do you not believe that I could succeed in accomplishing?”
“You—you, count—you would go?”
“If it please your majesty,” said Athos, bowing to the king, “yes, I
will go, sire.”
“What! you so happy here, count?”
“I am never happy when I have a duty left to accomplish, and it is an
imperative duty which the king your father left me to watch over your
fortunes, and make a royal use of his money. So, if your majesty honors
me with a sign, I will go with you.”
“Ah, monsieur!” said the king, forgetting all royal etiquette, and
throwing his arms around the neck of Athos, “you prove to me that there
is a God in heaven, and that this God sometimes sends messengers to the
unfortunate who groan on the earth.”
Athos, exceedingly moved by this burst of feeling of the young man,
thanked him with profound respect, and approached the window.
“Grimaud!” cried he, “bring out my horses.”
“What, now—immediately!” said the king. “Ah, monsieur, you are indeed a
wonderful man!”
“Sire,” said Athos, “I know nothing more pressing than your majesty’s
service. Besides,” added he, smiling, “it is a habit contracted long
since, in the service of the queen your aunt, and of the king your
father. How is it possible for me to lose it at the moment your
majesty’s service calls for it?”
“What a man!” murmured the king.
Then after a moment’s reflection,—“But no, count, I cannot expose you
to such privations. I have no means of rewarding such services.”
“Bah!” said Athos, laughing. “Your majesty is joking, have you not a
million? Ah! why am I not possessed of half such a sum! I would already
have raised a regiment. But, thank God! I have still a few rolls of
gold and some family diamonds left. Your majesty will, I hope, deign to
share with a devoted servant.”
“With a friend—yes, count, but on condition that, in his turn, that
friend will share with me hereafter!”
“Sire!” said Athos, opening a casket, from which he drew both gold and
jewels, “you see, sire, we are too rich. Fortunately, there are four of
us, in the event of our meeting with thieves.”
Joy made the blood rush to the pale cheeks of Charles II., as he saw
Athos’s two horses, led by Grimaud, already booted for the journey,
advance towards the porch.
“Blaisois, this letter for the Vicomte de Bragelonne. For everybody
else I am gone to Paris. I confide the house to you, Blaisois.”
Blaisois bowed, shook hands with Grimaud, and shut the gate.