1. The Shade of Cardinal Richelieu.
 In a splendid chamber of the Palais Royal, formerly styled the Palais Cardinal, a man was sitting in deep reverie, his head supported on his hands, leaning over a gilt and inlaid table which was covered with letters and papers. Behind this figure glowed a vast fireplace alive with leaping flames; great logs of oak blazed and crackled on the polished brass andirons whose flicker shone upon the superb habiliments of the lonely tenant of the room, which was illumined grandly by twin candelabra rich with wax-lights.
 
Any one who happened at that moment to contemplate that red simar--the gorgeous robe of office--and the rich lace, or who gazed on that pale brow, bent in anxious meditation, might, in the solitude of that apartment, combined with the silence of the ante-chambers and the measured paces of the guards upon the landing-place, have fancied that the shade of Cardinal Richelieu lingered still in his accustomed haunt.
 
It was, alas! the ghost of former greatness. France enfeebled, the authority of her sovereign contemned, her nobles returning to their former turbulence and insolence, her enemies within her frontiers--all proved the great Richelieu no longer in existence.
 
In truth, that the red simar which occupied the wonted place was his no longer, was still more strikingly obvious from the isolation which seemed, as we have observed, more appropriate to a phantom than a living creature--from the corridors deserted by courtiers, and courts crowded with guards--from that spirit of bitter ridicule, which, arising from the streets below, penetrated through the very casements of the room, which resounded with the murmurs of a whole city leagued against the minister; as well as from the distant and incessant sounds of guns firing--let off, happily, without other end or aim, except to show to the guards, the Swiss troops and the military who surrounded the Palais Royal, that the people were possessed of arms.
 
The shade of Richelieu was Mazarin. Now Mazarin was alone and defenceless, as he well knew.
 
“Foreigner!” he ejaculated, “Italian! that is their mean yet mighty byword of reproach--the watchword with which they assassinated, hanged, and made away with Concini; and if I gave them their way they would assassinate, hang, and make away with me in the same manner, although they have nothing to complain of except a tax or two now and then. Idiots! ignorant of their real enemies, they do not perceive that it is not the Italian who speaks French badly, but those who can say fine things to them in the purest Parisian accent, who are their real foes.
 
“Yes, yes,” Mazarin continued, whilst his wonted smile, full of subtlety, lent a strange expression to his pale lips; “yes, these noises prove to me, indeed, that the destiny of favorites is precarious; but ye shall know I am no ordinary favorite. No! The Earl of Essex, ‘tis true, wore a splendid ring, set with diamonds, given him by his royal mistress, whilst I--I have nothing but a simple circlet of gold, with a cipher on it and a date; but that ring has been blessed in the chapel of the Palais Royal, * so they will never ruin me, as they long to do, and whilst they shout, ‘Down with Mazarin!’ I, unknown, and unperceived by them, incite them to cry out, ‘Long live the Duke de Beaufort’ one day; another, ‘Long live the Prince de Conde;’ and again, ‘Long live the parliament!’” And at this word the smile on the cardinal’s lips assumed an expression of hatred, of which his mild countenance seemed incapable. “The parliament! We shall soon see how to dispose,” he continued, “of the parliament! Both Orleans and Montargis are ours. It will be a work of time, but those who have begun by crying out: Down with Mazarin! will finish by shouting out, Down with all the people I have mentioned, each in his turn.
 
* It is said that Mazarin, who, though a cardinal, had not
taken such vows as to prevent it, was secretly married to
Anne of Austria.--La Porte’s Memoirs.
“Richelieu, whom they hated during his lifetime and whom they now praise after his death, was even less popular than I am. Often he was driven away, oftener still had he a dread of being sent away. The queen will never banish me, and even were I obliged to yield to the populace she would yield with me; if I fly, she will fly; and then we shall see how the rebels will get on without either king or queen.
 
“Oh, were I not a foreigner! were I but a Frenchman! were I but of gentle birth!”
 
The position of the cardinal was indeed critical, and recent events had added to his difficulties. Discontent had long pervaded the lower ranks of society in France. Crushed and impoverished by taxation--imposed by Mazarin, whose avarice impelled him to grind them down to the very dust--the people, as the Advocate-General Talon described it, had nothing left to them except their souls; and as those could not be sold by auction, they began to murmur. Patience had in vain been recommended to them by reports of brilliant victories gained by France; laurels, however, were not meat and drink, and the people had for some time been in a state of discontent.
 
Had this been all, it might not, perhaps, have greatly signified; for when the lower classes alone complained, the court of France, separated as it was from the poor by the intervening classes of the gentry and the bourgeoisie, seldom listened to their voice; but unluckily, Mazarin had had the imprudence to attack the magistrates and had sold no less than twelve appointments in the Court of Requests, at a high price; and as the officers of that court paid very dearly for their places, and as the addition of twelve new colleagues would necessarily lower the value of each place, the old functionaries formed a union amongst themselves, and, enraged, swore on the Bible not to allow of this addition to their number, but to resist all the persecutions which might ensue; and should any one of them chance to forfeit his post by this resistance, to combine to indemnify him for his loss.
 
Now the following occurrences had taken place between the two contending parties.
 
On the seventh of January between seven and eight hundred tradesmen had assembled in Paris to discuss a new tax which was to be levied on house property. They deputed ten of their number to wait upon the Duke of Orleans, who, according to his custom, affected popularity. The duke received them and they informed him that they were resolved not to pay this tax, even if they were obliged to defend themselves against its collectors by force of arms. They were listened to with great politeness by the duke, who held out hopes of easier measures, promised to speak in their behalf to the queen, and dismissed them with the ordinary expression of royalty, “We will see what we can do.”
 
Two days afterward these same magistrates appeared before the cardinal and their spokesman addressed Mazarin with so much fearlessness and determination that the minister was astounded and sent the deputation away with the same answer as it had received from the Duke of Orleans--that he would see what could be done; and in accordance with that intention a council of state was assembled and the superintendent of finance was summoned.
 
This man, named Emery, was the object of popular detestation, in the first place because he was superintendent of finance, and every superintendent of finance deserved to be hated; in the second place, because he rather deserved the odium which he had incurred.
 
He was the son of a banker at Lyons named Particelli, who, after becoming a bankrupt, chose to change his name to Emery; and Cardinal Richelieu having discovered in him great financial aptitude, had introduced him with a strong recommendation to Louis XIII. under his assumed name, in order that he might be appointed to the post he subsequently held.
 
“You surprise me!” exclaimed the monarch. “I am rejoiced to hear you speak of Monsieur d’Emery as calculated for a post which requires a man of probity. I was really afraid that you were going to force that villain Particelli upon me.”
 
“Sire,” replied Richelieu, “rest assured that Particelli, the man to whom your majesty refers, has been hanged.”
 
“Ah; so much the better!” exclaimed the king. “It is not for nothing that I am styled Louis the Just,” and he signed Emery’s appointment.
 
This was the same Emery who became eventually superintendent of finance.
 
He was sent for by the ministers and he came before them pale and trembling, declaring that his son had very nearly been assassinated the day before, near the palace. The mob had insulted him on account of the ostentatious luxury of his wife, whose house was hung with red velvet edged with gold fringe. This lady was the daughter of Nicholas de Camus, who arrived in Paris with twenty francs in his pocket, became secretary of state, and accumulated wealth enough to divide nine millions of francs among his children and to keep an income of forty thousand for himself.
 
The fact was that Emery’s son had run a great chance of being suffocated, one of the rioters having proposed to squeeze him until he gave up all the gold he had swallowed. Nothing, therefore, was settled that day, as Emery’s head was not steady enough for business after such an occurrence.
 
On the next day Mathieu Mole, the chief president, whose courage at this crisis, says the Cardinal de Retz, was equal to that of the Duc de Beaufort and the Prince de Conde--in other words, of the two men who were considered the bravest in France--had been attacked in his turn. The people threatened to hold him responsible for the evils that hung over them. But the chief president had replied with his habitual coolness, without betraying either disturbance or surprise, that should the agitators refuse obedience to the king’s wishes he would have gallows erected in the public squares and proceed at once to hang the most active among them. To which the others had responded that they would be glad to see the gallows erected; they would serve for the hanging of those detestable judges who purchased favor at court at the price of the people’s misery.
 
Nor was this all. On the eleventh the queen in going to mass at Notre Dame, as she always did on Saturdays, was followed by more than two hundred women demanding justice. These poor creatures had no bad intentions. They wished only to be allowed to fall on their knees before their sovereign, and that they might move her to compassion; but they were prevented by the royal guard and the queen proceeded on her way, haughtily disdainful of their entreaties.
 
At length parliament was convoked; the authority of the king was to be maintained.
 
One day--it was the morning of the day my story begins--the king, Louis XIV., then ten years of age, went in state, under pretext of returning thanks for his recovery from the small-pox, to Notre Dame. He took the opportunity of calling out his guard, the Swiss troops and the musketeers, and he had planted them round the Palais Royal, on the quays, and on the Pont Neuf. After mass the young monarch drove to the Parliament House, where, upon the throne, he hastily confirmed not only such edicts as he had already passed, but issued new ones, each one, according to Cardinal de Retz, more ruinous than the others--a proceeding which drew forth a strong remonstrance from the chief president, Mole--whilst President Blancmesnil and Councillor Broussel raised their voices in indignation against fresh taxes.
 
The king returned amidst the silence of a vast multitude to the Palais Royal. All minds were uneasy, most were foreboding, many of the people used threatening language.
 
At first, indeed, they were doubtful whether the king’s visit to the parliament had been in order to lighten or increase their burdens; but scarcely was it known that the taxes were to be still further increased, when cries of “Down with Mazarin!” “Long live Broussel!” “Long live Blancmesnil!” resounded through the city. For the people had learned that Broussel and Blancmesnil had made speeches in their behalf, and, although the eloquence of these deputies had been without avail, it had none the less won for them the people’s good-will. All attempts to disperse the groups collected in the streets, or silence their exclamations, were in vain. Orders had just been given to the royal guards and the Swiss guards, not only to stand firm, but to send out patrols to the streets of Saint Denis and Saint Martin, where the people thronged and where they were the most vociferous, when the mayor of Paris was announced at the Palais Royal.
 
He was shown in directly; he came to say that if these offensive precautions were not discontinued, in two hours Paris would be under arms.
 
Deliberations were being held when a lieutenant in the guards, named Comminges, made his appearance, with his clothes all torn, his face streaming with blood. The queen on seeing him uttered a cry of surprise and asked him what was going on.
 
As the mayor had foreseen, the sight of the guards had exasperated the mob. The tocsin was sounded. Comminges had arrested one of the ringleaders and had ordered him to be hanged near the cross of Du Trahoir; but in attempting to execute this command the soldiery were attacked in the market-place with stones and halberds; the delinquent had escaped to the Rue des Lombards and rushed into a house. They broke open the doors and searched the dwelling, but in vain. Comminges, wounded by a stone which had struck him on the forehead, had left a picket in the street and returned to the Palais Royal, followed by a menacing crowd, to tell his story.
 
This account confirmed that of the mayor. The authorities were not in a condition to cope with serious revolt. Mazarin endeavored to circulate among the people a report that troops had only been stationed on the quays and on the Pont Neuf, on account of the ceremonial of the day, and that they would soon withdraw. In fact, about four o’clock they were all concentrated about the Palais Royal, the courts and ground floors of which were filled with musketeers and Swiss guards, and there awaited the outcome of all this disturbance.
 
Such was the state of affairs at the very moment we introduced our readers to the study of Cardinal Mazarin--once that of Cardinal Richelieu. We have seen in what state of mind he listened to the murmurs from below, which even reached him in his seclusion, and to the guns, the firing of which resounded through that room. All at once he raised his head; his brow slightly contracted like that of a man who has formed a resolution; he fixed his eyes upon an enormous clock that was about to strike ten, and taking up a whistle of silver gilt that stood upon the table near him, he shrilled it twice.
 
A door hidden in the tapestry opened noiselessly and a man in black silently advanced and stood behind the chair on which Mazarin sat.
 
“Bernouin,” said the cardinal, not turning round, for having whistled, he knew that it was his valet-de-chambre who was behind him; “what musketeers are now within the palace?”
 
“The Black Musketeers, my lord.”
 
“What company?”
 
“Treville’s company.”
 
“Is there any officer belonging to this company in the ante-chamber?”
 
“Lieutenant d’Artagnan.”
 
“A man on whom we can depend, I hope.”
 
“Yes, my lord.”
 
“Give me a uniform of one of these musketeers and help me to put it on.”
 
The valet went out as silently as he had entered and appeared in a few minutes bringing the dress demanded.
 
The cardinal, in deep thought and in silence, began to take off the robes of state he had assumed in order to be present at the sitting of parliament, and to attire himself in the military coat, which he wore with a certain degree of easy grace, owing to his former campaigns in Italy. When he was completely dressed he said:
 
“Send hither Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
 
The valet went out of the room, this time by the centre door, but still as silently as before; one might have fancied him an apparition.
 
When he was left alone the cardinal looked at himself in the glass with a feeling of self-satisfaction. Still young--for he was scarcely forty-six years of age--he possessed great elegance of form and was above the middle height; his complexion was brilliant and beautiful; his glance full of expression; his nose, though large, was well proportioned; his forehead broad and majestic; his hair, of a chestnut color, was curled slightly; his beard, which was darker than his hair, was turned carefully with a curling iron, a practice that greatly improved it. After a short time the cardinal arranged his shoulder belt, then looked with great complacency at his hands, which were most elegant and of which he took the greatest care; and throwing on one side the large kid gloves tried on at first, as belonging to the uniform, he put on others of silk only. At this instant the door opened.
 
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the valet-de-chambre.
 
An officer, as he spoke, entered the apartment. He was a man between thirty-nine and forty years of age, of medium height but a very well proportioned figure; with an intellectual and animated physiognomy; his beard black, and his hair turning gray, as often happens when people have found life either too gay or too sad, more especially when they happen to be of swart complexion.
 
D’Artagnan advanced a few steps into the apartment.
 
How perfectly he remembered his former entrance into that very room! Seeing, however, no one there except a musketeer of his own troop, he fixed his eyes upon the supposed soldier, in whose dress, nevertheless, he recognized at the first glance the cardinal.
 
The lieutenant remained standing in a dignified but respectful posture, such as became a man of good birth, who had in the course of his life been frequently in the society of the highest nobles.
 
The cardinal looked at him with a cunning rather than serious glance, yet he examined his countenance with attention and after a momentary silence said:
 
“You are Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
 
“I am that individual,” replied the officer.
 
Mazarin gazed once more at a countenance full of intelligence, the play of which had been, nevertheless, subdued by age and experience; and D’Artagnan received the penetrating glance like one who had formerly sustained many a searching look, very different, indeed, from those which were inquiringly directed on him at that instant.
 
“Sir,” resumed the cardinal, “you are to come with me, or rather, I am to go with you.”
 
“I am at your command, my lord,” returned D’Artagnan.
 
“I wish to visit in person the outposts which surround the Palais Royal; do you suppose that there is any danger in so doing?”
 
“Danger, my lord!” exclaimed D’Artagnan with a look of astonishment, “what danger?”
 
“I am told that there is a general insurrection.”
 
“The uniform of the king’s musketeers carries a certain respect with it, and even if that were not the case I would engage with four of my men to put to flight a hundred of these clowns.”
 
“Did you witness the injury sustained by Comminges?”
 
“Monsieur de Comminges is in the guards and not in the musketeers----”
 
“Which means, I suppose, that the musketeers are better soldiers than the guards.” The cardinal smiled as he spoke.
 
“Every one likes his own uniform best, my lord.”
 
“Myself excepted,” and again Mazarin smiled; “for you perceive that I have left off mine and put on yours.”
 
“Lord bless us! this is modesty indeed!” cried D’Artagnan. “Had I such a uniform as your eminence possesses, I protest I should be mightily content, and I would take an oath never to wear any other costume----”
 
“Yes, but for to-night’s adventure I don’t suppose my dress would have been a very safe one. Give me my felt hat, Bernouin.”
 
The valet instantly brought to his master a regimental hat with a wide brim. The cardinal put it on in military style.
 
“Your horses are ready saddled in their stables, are they not?” he said, turning to D’Artagnan.
 
“Yes, my lord.”
 
“Well, let us set out.”
 
“How many men does your eminence wish to escort you?”
 
“You say that with four men you will undertake to disperse a hundred low fellows; as it may happen that we shall have to encounter two hundred, take eight----”
 
“As many as my lord wishes.”
 
“I will follow you. This way--light us downstairs Bernouin.”
 
The valet held a wax-light; the cardinal took a key from his bureau and opening the door of a secret stair descended into the court of the Palais Royal.
 
2. A Nightly Patrol.
 In ten minutes Mazarin and his party were traversing the street “Les Bons Enfants” behind the theatre built by Richelieu expressly for the play of “Mirame,” and in which Mazarin, who was an amateur of music, but not of literature, had introduced into France the first opera that was ever acted in that country.
 
The appearance of the town denoted the greatest agitation. Numberless groups paraded the streets and, whatever D’Artagnan might think of it, it was obvious that the citizens had for the night laid aside their usual forbearance, in order to assume a warlike aspect. From time to time noises came in the direction of the public markets. The report of firearms was heard near the Rue Saint Denis and occasionally church bells began to ring indiscriminately and at the caprice of the populace. D’Artagnan, meantime, pursued his way with the indifference of a man upon whom such acts of folly made no impression. When he approached a group in the middle of the street he urged his horse upon it without a word of warning; and the members of the group, whether rebels or not, as if they knew with what sort of a man they had to deal, at once gave place to the patrol. The cardinal envied that composure, which he attributed to the habit of meeting danger; but none the less he conceived for the officer under whose orders he had for the moment placed himself, that consideration which even prudence pays to careless courage. On approaching an outpost near the Barriere des Sergens, the sentinel cried out, “Who’s there?” and D’Artagnan answered--having first asked the word of the cardinal--“Louis and Rocroy.” After which he inquired if Lieutenant Comminges were not the commanding officer at the outpost. The soldier replied by pointing out to him an officer who was conversing, on foot, his hand upon the neck of a horse on which the individual to whom he was talking sat. Here was the officer D’Artagnan was seeking.
 
“Here is Monsieur Comminges,” said D’Artagnan, returning to the cardinal. He instantly retired, from a feeling of respectful delicacy; it was, however, evident that the cardinal was recognized by both Comminges and the other officers on horseback.
 
“Well done, Guitant,” cried the cardinal to the equestrian; “I see plainly that, notwithstanding the sixty-four years that have passed over your head, you are still the same man, active and zealous. What were you saying to this youngster?”
 
“My lord,” replied Guitant, “I was observing that we live in troublous times and that to-day’s events are very like those in the days of the Ligue, of which I heard so much in my youth. Are you aware that the mob have even suggested throwing up barricades in the Rue Saint Denis and the Rue Saint Antoine?”
 
“And what was Comminges saying to you in reply, my good Guitant?”
 
“My lord,” said Comminges, “I answered that to compose a Ligue only one ingredient was wanting--in my opinion an essential one--a Duc de Guise; moreover, no generation ever does the same thing twice.”
 
“No, but they mean to make a Fronde, as they call it,” said Guitant.
 
“And what is a Fronde?” inquired Mazarin.
 
“My lord, Fronde is the name the discontented give to their party.”
 
“And what is the origin of this name?”
 
“It seems that some days since Councillor Bachaumont remarked at the palace that rebels and agitators reminded him of schoolboys slinging--qui frondent--stones from the moats round Paris, young urchins who run off the moment the constable appears, only to return to their diversion the instant his back is turned. So they have picked up the word and the insurrectionists are called ‘Frondeurs,’ and yesterday every article sold was ‘a la Fronde;’ bread ‘a la Fronde,’ hats ‘a la Fronde,’ to say nothing of gloves, pocket-handkerchiefs, and fans; but listen----”
 
At that moment a window opened and a man began to sing:
 
| “A tempest from the Fronde
| Did blow to-day:
| I think ‘twill blow
| Sieur Mazarin away.”
“Insolent wretch!” cried Guitant.
 
“My lord,” said Comminges, who, irritated by his wounds, wished for revenge and longed to give back blow for blow, “shall I fire off a ball to punish that jester, and to warn him not to sing so much out of tune in the future?”
 
And as he spoke he put his hand on the holster of his uncle’s saddle-bow.
 
“Certainly not! certainly not,” exclaimed Mazarin. “Diavolo! my dear friend, you are going to spoil everything--everything is going on famously. I know the French as well as if I had made them myself. They sing--let them pay the piper. During the Ligue, about which Guitant was speaking just now, the people chanted nothing except the mass, so everything went to destruction. Come, Guitant, come along, and let’s see if they keep watch at the Quinze-Vingts as at the Barriere des Sergens.”
 
And waving his hand to Comminges he rejoined D’Artagnan, who instantly put himself at the head of his troop, followed by the cardinal, Guitant and the rest of the escort.
 
“Just so,” muttered Comminges, looking after Mazarin. “True, I forgot; provided he can get money out of the people, that is all he wants.”
 
The street of Saint Honore, when the cardinal and his party passed through it, was crowded by an assemblage who, standing in groups, discussed the edicts of that memorable day. They pitied the young king, who was unconsciously ruining his country, and threw all the odium of his proceedings on Mazarin. Addresses to the Duke of Orleans and to Conde were suggested. Blancmesnil and Broussel seemed in the highest favor.
 
D’Artagnan passed through the very midst of this discontented mob just as if his horse and he had been made of iron. Mazarin and Guitant conversed together in whispers. The musketeers, who had already discovered who Mazarin was, followed in profound silence. In the street of Saint Thomas-du-Louvre they stopped at the barrier distinguished by the name of Quinze-Vingts. Here Guitant spoke to one of the subalterns, asking how matters were progressing.
 
“Ah, captain!” said the officer, “everything is quiet hereabout--if I did not know that something is going on in yonder house!”
 
And he pointed to a magnificent hotel situated on the very spot whereon the Vaudeville now stands.
 
“In that hotel? it is the Hotel Rambouillet,” cried Guitant.
 
“I really don’t know what hotel it is; all I do know is that I observed some suspicious looking people go in there----”
 
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Guitant, with a burst of laughter; “those men must be poets.”
 
“Come, Guitant, speak, if you please, respectfully of these gentlemen,” said Mazarin; “don’t you know that I was in my youth a poet? I wrote verses in the style of Benserade----”
 
“You, my lord?”
 
“Yes, I; shall I repeat to you some of my verses?”
 
“Just as you please, my lord. I do not understand Italian.”
 
“Yes, but you understand French,” and Mazarin laid his hand upon Guitant’s shoulder. “My good, my brave Guitant, whatsoever command I may give you in that language--in French--whatever I may order you to do, will you not perform it?”
 
“Certainly. I have already answered that question in the affirmative; but that command must come from the queen herself.”
 
“Yes! ah yes!” Mazarin bit his lips as he spoke; “I know your devotion to her majesty.”
 
“I have been a captain in the queen’s guards for twenty years,” was the reply.
 
“En route, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the cardinal; “all goes well in this direction.”
 
D’Artagnan, in the meantime, had taken the head of his detachment without a word and with that ready and profound obedience which marks the character of an old soldier.
 
He led the way toward the hill of Saint Roche. The Rue Richelieu and the Rue Villedot were then, owing to their vicinity to the ramparts, less frequented than any others in that direction, for the town was thinly inhabited thereabout.
 
“Who is in command here?” asked the cardinal.
 
“Villequier,” said Guitant.
 
“Diavolo! Speak to him yourself, for ever since you were deputed by me to arrest the Duc de Beaufort, this officer and I have been on bad terms. He laid claim to that honor as captain of the royal guards.”
 
“I am aware of that, and I have told him a hundred times that he was wrong. The king could not give that order, since at that time he was hardly four years old.”
 
“Yes, but I could give him the order--I, Guitant--and I preferred to give it to you.”
 
Guitant, without reply, rode forward and desired the sentinel to call Monsieur de Villequier.
 
“Ah! so you are here!” cried the officer, in the tone of ill-humor habitual to him; “what the devil are you doing here?”
 
“I wish to know--can you tell me, pray--is anything fresh occurring in this part of the town?”
 
“What do you mean? People cry out, ‘Long live the king! down with Mazarin!’ That’s nothing new; no, we’ve been used to those acclamations for some time.”
 
“And you sing chorus,” replied Guitant, laughing.
 
“Faith, I’ve half a mind to do it. In my opinion the people are right; and cheerfully would I give up five years of my pay--which I am never paid, by the way--to make the king five years older.”
 
“Really! And pray what would come to pass, supposing the king were five years older than he is?”
 
“As soon as ever the king comes of age he will issue his commands himself, and ‘tis far pleasanter to obey the grandson of Henry IV. than the son of Peter Mazarin. ‘Sdeath! I would die willingly for the king, but supposing I happened to be killed on account of Mazarin, as your nephew came near being to-day, there could be nothing in Paradise, however well placed I might be there, that could console me for it.”
 
“Well, well, Monsieur de Villequier,” Mazarin interposed, “I shall make it my care the king hears of your loyalty. Come, gentlemen,” addressing the troop, “let us return.”
 
“Stop,” exclaimed Villequier, “so Mazarin was here! so much the better. I have been waiting for a long time to tell him what I think of him. I am obliged to you Guitant, although your intention was perhaps not very favorable to me, for such an opportunity.”
 
He turned away and went off to his post, whistling a tune then popular among the party called the “Fronde,” whilst Mazarin returned, in a pensive mood, toward the Palais Royal. All that he had heard from these three different men, Comminges, Guitant and Villequier, confirmed him in his conviction that in case of serious tumults there would be no one on his side except the queen; and then Anne of Austria had so often deserted her friends that her support seemed most precarious. During the whole of this nocturnal ride, during the whole time that he was endeavoring to understand the various characters of Comminges, Guitant and Villequier, Mazarin was, in truth, studying more especially one man. This man, who had remained immovable as bronze when menaced by the mob--not a muscle of whose face was stirred, either at Mazarin’s witticisms or by the jests of the multitude--seemed to the cardinal a peculiar being, who, having participated in past events similar to those now occurring, was calculated to cope with those now on the eve of taking place.
 
The name of D’Artagnan was not altogether new to Mazarin, who, although he did not arrive in France before the year 1634 or 1635, that is to say, about eight or nine years after the events which we have related in a preceding narrative, * fancied he had heard it pronounced as that of one who was said to be a model of courage, address and loyalty.
 
* “The Three Musketeers.”
Possessed by this idea, the cardinal resolved to know all about D’Artagnan immediately; of course he could not inquire from D’Artagnan himself who he was and what had been his career; he remarked, however, in the course of conversation that the lieutenant of musketeers spoke with a Gascon accent. Now the Italians and the Gascons are too much alike and know each other too well ever to trust what any one of them may say of himself; so in reaching the walls which surrounded the Palais Royal, the cardinal knocked at a little door, and after thanking D’Artagnan and requesting him to wait in the court of the Palais Royal, he made a sign to Guitant to follow him.
 
They both dismounted, consigned their horses to the lackey who had opened the door, and disappeared in the garden.
 
“My dear friend,” said the cardinal, leaning, as they walked through the garden, on his friend’s arm, “you told me just now that you had been twenty years in the queen’s service.”
 
“Yes, it’s true. I have,” returned Guitant.
 
“Now, my dear Guitant, I have often remarked that in addition to your courage, which is indisputable, and your fidelity, which is invincible, you possess an admirable memory.”
 
“You have found that out, have you, my lord? Deuce take it--all the worse for me!”
 
“How?”
 
“There is no doubt but that one of the chief accomplishments of a courtier is to know when to forget.”
 
“But you, Guitant, are not a courtier. You are a brave soldier, one of the few remaining veterans of the days of Henry IV. Alas! how few to-day exist!”
 
“Plague on’t, my lord, have you brought me here to get my horoscope out of me?”
 
“No; I only brought you here to ask you,” returned Mazarin, smiling, “if you have taken any particular notice of our lieutenant of musketeers?”
 
“Monsieur d’Artagnan? I have had no occasion to notice him particularly; he’s an old acquaintance. He’s a Gascon. De Treville knows him and esteems him very highly, and De Treville, as you know, is one of the queen’s greatest friends. As a soldier the man ranks well; he did his whole duty and even more, at the siege of Rochelle--as at Suze and Perpignan.”
 
“But you know, Guitant, we poor ministers often want men with other qualities besides courage; we want men of talent. Pray, was not Monsieur d’Artagnan, in the time of the cardinal, mixed up in some intrigue from which he came out, according to report, quite cleverly?”
 
“My lord, as to the report you allude to”--Guitant perceived that the cardinal wished to make him speak out--“I know nothing but what the public knows. I never meddle in intrigues, and if I occasionally become a confidant of the intrigues of others I am sure your eminence will approve of my keeping them secret.”
 
Mazarin shook his head.
 
“Ah!” he said; “some ministers are fortunate and find out all that they wish to know.”
 
“My lord,” replied Guitant, “such ministers do not weigh men in the same balance; they get their information on war from warriors; on intrigues, from intriguers. Consult some politician of the period of which you speak, and if you pay well for it you will certainly get to know all you want.”
 
“Eh, pardieu!” said Mazarin, with a grimace which he always made when spoken to about money. “They will be paid, if there is no way of getting out of it.”
 
“Does my lord seriously wish me to name any one who was mixed up in the cabals of that day?”
 
“By Bacchus!” rejoined Mazarin, impatiently, “it’s about an hour since I asked you for that very thing, wooden-head that you are.”
 
“There is one man for whom I can answer, if he will speak out.”
 
“That’s my concern; I will make him speak.”
 
“Ah, my lord, ‘tis not easy to make people say what they don’t wish to let out.”
 
“Pooh! with patience one must succeed. Well, this man. Who is he?”
 
“The Comte de Rochefort.”
 
“The Comte de Rochefort!”
 
“Unfortunately he has disappeared these four or five years and I don’t know where he is.”
 
“I know, Guitant,” said Mazarin.
 
“Well, then, how is it that your eminence complained just now of want of information?”
 
“You think,” resumed Mazarin, “that Rochefort----”
 
“He was Cardinal Richelieu’s creature, my lord. I warn you, however, his services will cost you something. The cardinal was lavish to his underlings.”
 
“Yes, yes, Guitant,” said Mazarin; “Richelieu was a great man, a very great man, but he had that defect. Thanks, Guitant; I shall benefit by your advice this very evening.”
 
Here they separated and bidding adieu to Guitant in the court of the Palais Royal, Mazarin approached an officer who was walking up and down within that inclosure.
 
It was D’Artagnan, who was waiting for him.
 
“Come hither,” said Mazarin in his softest voice; “I have an order to give you.”
 
D’Artagnan bent low and following the cardinal up the secret staircase, soon found himself in the study whence they had first set out.
 
The cardinal seated himself before his bureau and taking a sheet of paper wrote some lines upon it, whilst D’Artagnan stood imperturbable, without showing either impatience or curiosity. He was like a soldierly automaton, or rather, like a magnificent marionette.
 
The cardinal folded and sealed his letter.
 
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said, “you are to take this dispatch to the Bastile and bring back here the person it concerns. You must take a carriage and an escort, and guard the prisoner with the greatest care.”
 
D’Artagnan took the letter, touched his hat with his hand, turned round upon his heel like a drill-sergeant, and a moment afterward was heard, in his dry and monotonous tone, commanding “Four men and an escort, a carriage and a horse.” Five minutes afterward the wheels of the carriage and the horses’ shoes were heard resounding on the pavement of the courtyard.
3. Dead Animosities.
 D’Artagnan arrived at the Bastile just as it was striking half-past eight. His visit was announced to the governor, who, on hearing that he came from the cardinal, went to meet him and received him at the top of the great flight of steps outside the door. The governor of the Bastile was Monsieur du Tremblay, the brother of the famous Capuchin, Joseph, that fearful favorite of Richelieu’s, who went by the name of the Gray Cardinal.
 
During the period that the Duc de Bassompierre passed in the Bastile--where he remained for twelve long years--when his companions, in their dreams of liberty, said to each other: “As for me, I shall go out of the prison at such a time,” and another, at such and such a time, the duke used to answer, “As for me, gentlemen, I shall leave only when Monsieur du Tremblay leaves;” meaning that at the death of the cardinal Du Tremblay would certainly lose his place at the Bastile and De Bassompierre regain his at court.
 
His prediction was nearly fulfilled, but in a very different way from that which De Bassompierre supposed; for after the death of Richelieu everything went on, contrary to expectation, in the same way as before; and Bassompierre had little chance of leaving his prison.
 
Monsieur du Tremblay received D’Artagnan with extreme politeness and invited him to sit down with him to supper, of which he was himself about to partake.
 
“I should be delighted to do so,” was the reply; “but if I am not mistaken, the words ‘In haste,’ are written on the envelope of the letter which I brought.”
 
“You are right,” said Du Tremblay. “Halloo, major! tell them to order Number 25 to come downstairs.”
 
The unhappy wretch who entered the Bastile ceased, as he crossed the threshold, to be a man--he became a number.
 
D’Artagnan shuddered at the noise of the keys; he remained on horseback, feeling no inclination to dismount, and sat looking at the bars, at the buttressed windows and the immense walls he had hitherto only seen from the other side of the moat, but by which he had for twenty years been awe-struck.
 
A bell resounded.
 
“I must leave you,” said Du Tremblay; “I am sent for to sign the release of a prisoner. I shall be happy to meet you again, sir.”
 
“May the devil annihilate me if I return thy wish!” murmured D’Artagnan, smiling as he pronounced the imprecation; “I declare I feel quite ill after only being five minutes in the courtyard. Go to! go to! I would rather die on straw than hoard up a thousand a year by being governor of the Bastile.”
 
He had scarcely finished this soliloquy before the prisoner arrived. On seeing him D’Artagnan could hardly suppress an exclamation of surprise. The prisoner got into the carriage without seeming to recognize the musketeer.
 
“Gentlemen,” thus D’Artagnan addressed the four musketeers, “I am ordered to exercise the greatest possible care in guarding the prisoner, and since there are no locks to the carriage, I shall sit beside him. Monsieur de Lillebonne, lead my horse by the bridle, if you please.” As he spoke he dismounted, gave the bridle of his horse to the musketeer and placing himself by the side of the prisoner said, in a voice perfectly composed, “To the Palais Royal, at full trot.”
 
The carriage drove on and D’Artagnan, availing himself of the darkness in the archway under which they were passing, threw himself into the arms of the prisoner.
 
“Rochefort!” he exclaimed; “you! is it you, indeed? I am not mistaken?”
 
“D’Artagnan!” cried Rochefort.
 
“Ah! my poor friend!” resumed D’Artagnan, “not having seen you for four or five years I concluded you were dead.”
 
“I’faith,” said Rochefort, “there’s no great difference, I think, between a dead man and one who has been buried alive; now I have been buried alive, or very nearly so.”
 
“And for what crime are you imprisoned in the Bastile.”
 
“Do you wish me to speak the truth?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“Well, then, I don’t know.”
 
“Have you any suspicion of me, Rochefort?”
 
“No! on the honor of a gentleman; but I cannot be imprisoned for the reason alleged; it is impossible.”
 
“What reason?” asked D’Artagnan.
 
“For stealing.”
 
“For stealing! you, Rochefort! you are laughing at me.”
 
“I understand. You mean that this demands explanation, do you not?”
 
“I admit it.”
 
“Well, this is what actually took place: One evening after an orgy in Reinard’s apartment at the Tuileries with the Duc d’Harcourt, Fontrailles, De Rieux and others, the Duc d’Harcourt proposed that we should go and pull cloaks on the Pont Neuf; that is, you know, a diversion which the Duc d’Orleans made quite the fashion.”
 
“Were you crazy, Rochefort? at your age!”
 
“No, I was drunk. And yet, since the amusement seemed to me rather tame, I proposed to Chevalier de Rieux that we should be spectators instead of actors, and, in order to see to advantage, that we should mount the bronze horse. No sooner said than done. Thanks to the spurs, which served as stirrups, in a moment we were perched upon the croupe; we were well placed and saw everything. Four or five cloaks had already been lifted, with a dexterity without parallel, and not one of the victims had dared to say a word, when some fool of a fellow, less patient than the others, took it into his head to cry out, ‘Guard!’ and drew upon us a patrol of archers. Duc d’Harcourt, Fontrailles, and the others escaped; De Rieux was inclined to do likewise, but I told him they wouldn’t look for us where we were. He wouldn’t listen, put his foot on the spur to get down, the spur broke, he fell with a broken leg, and, instead of keeping quiet, took to crying out like a gallows-bird. I then was ready to dismount, but it was too late; I descended into the arms of the archers. They conducted me to the Chatelet, where I slept soundly, being very sure that on the next day I should go forth free. The next day came and passed, the day after, a week; I then wrote to the cardinal. The same day they came for me and took me to the Bastile. That was five years ago. Do you believe it was because I committed the sacrilege of mounting en croupe behind Henry IV.?”
 
“No; you are right, my dear Rochefort, it couldn’t be for that; but you will probably learn the reason soon.”
 
“Ah, indeed! I forgot to ask you--where are you taking me?”
 
“To the cardinal.”
 
“What does he want with me?”
 
“I do not know. I did not even know that you were the person I was sent to fetch.”
 
“Impossible--you--a favorite of the minister!”
 
“A favorite! no, indeed!” cried D’Artagnan. “Ah, my poor friend! I am just as poor a Gascon as when I saw you at Meung, twenty-two years ago, you know; alas!” and he concluded his speech with a deep sigh.
 
“Nevertheless, you come as one in authority.”
 
“Because I happened to be in the ante-chamber when the cardinal called me, by the merest chance. I am still a lieutenant in the musketeers and have been so these twenty years.”
 
“Then no misfortune has happened to you?”
 
“And what misfortune could happen to me? To quote some Latin verses I have forgotten, or rather, never knew well, ‘the thunderbolt never falls on the valleys,’ and I am a valley, dear Rochefort,--one of the lowliest of the low.”
 
“Then Mazarin is still Mazarin?”
 
“The same as ever, my friend; it is said that he is married to the queen.”
 
“Married?”
 
“If not her husband, he is unquestionably her lover.”
 
“You surprise me. Rebuff Buckingham and consent to Mazarin!”
 
“Just like the women,” replied D’Artagnan, coolly.
 
“Like women, not like queens.”
 
“Egad! queens are the weakest of their sex, when it comes to such things as these.”
 
“And M. de Beaufort--is he still in prison?”
 
“Yes. Why?”
 
“Oh, nothing, but that he might get me out of this, if he were favorably inclined to me.”
 
“You are probably nearer freedom than he is, so it will be your business to get him out.”
 
“And,” said the prisoner, “what talk is there of war with Spain?”
 
“With Spain, no,” answered D’Artagnan; “but Paris.”
 
“What do you mean?” cried Rochefort.
 
“Do you hear the guns, pray? The citizens are amusing themselves in the meantime.”
 
“And you--do you really think that anything could be done with these bourgeois?”
 
“Yes, they might do well if they had any leader to unite them in one body.”
 
“How miserable not to be free!”
 
“Don’t be downcast. Since Mazarin has sent for you, it is because he wants you. I congratulate you! Many a long year has passed since any one has wanted to employ me; so you see in what a situation I am.”
 
“Make your complaints known; that’s my advice.”
 
“Listen, Rochefort; let us make a compact. We are friends, are we not?”
 
“Egad! I bear the traces of our friendship--three slits or slashes from your sword.”
 
“Well, if you should be restored to favor, don’t forget me.”
 
“On the honor of a Rochefort; but you must do the like for me.”
 
“There’s my hand,--I promise.”
 
“Therefore, whenever you find any opportunity of saying something in my behalf----”
 
“I shall say it, and you?”
 
“I shall do the same.”
 
“Apropos, are we to speak of your friends also, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis? or have you forgotten them?”
 
“Almost.”
 
“What has become of them?”
 
“I don’t know; we separated, as you know. They are alive, that’s all that I can say about them; from time to time I hear of them indirectly, but in what part of the world they are, devil take me if I know, No, on my honor, I have not a friend in the world but you, Rochefort.”
 
“And the illustrious--what’s the name of the lad whom I made a sergeant in Piedmont’s regiment?”
 
“Planchet!”
 
“The illustrious Planchet. What has become of him?”
 
“I shouldn’t wonder if he were at the head of the mob at this very moment. He married a woman who keeps a confectioner’s shop in the Rue des Lombards, for he’s a lad who was always fond of sweetmeats; he’s now a citizen of Paris. You’ll see that that queer fellow will be a sheriff before I shall be a captain.”
 
“Come, dear D’Artagnan, look up a little! Courage! It is when one is lowest on the wheel of fortune that the merry-go-round wheels and rewards us. This evening your destiny begins to change.”
 
“Amen!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, stopping the carriage.
 
“What are you doing?” asked Rochefort.
 
“We are almost there and I want no one to see me getting out of your carriage; we are supposed not to know each other.”
 
“You are right. Adieu.”
 
“Au revoir. Remember your promise.”
 
In five minutes the party entered the courtyard and D’Artagnan led the prisoner up the great staircase and across the corridor and ante-chamber.
 
As they stopped at the door of the cardinal’s study, D’Artagnan was about to be announced when Rochefort slapped him on his shoulder.
 
“D’Artagnan, let me confess to you what I’ve been thinking about during the whole of my drive, as I looked out upon the parties of citizens who perpetually crossed our path and looked at you and your four men with fiery eyes.”
 
“Speak out,” answered D’Artagnan.
 
“I had only to cry out ‘Help!’ for you and for your companions to be cut to pieces, and then I should have been free.”
 
“Why didn’t you do it?” asked the lieutenant.
 
“Come, come!” cried Rochefort. “Did we not swear friendship? Ah! had any one but you been there, I don’t say----”
 
D’Artagnan bowed. “Is it possible that Rochefort has become a better man than I am?” he said to himself. And he caused himself to be announced to the minister.
 
“Let M. de Rochefort enter,” said Mazarin, eagerly, on hearing their names pronounced; “and beg M. d’Artagnan to wait; I shall have further need of him.”
 
These words gave great joy to D’Artagnan. As he had said, it had been a long time since any one had needed him; and that demand for his services on the part of Mazarin seemed to him an auspicious sign.
 
Rochefort, rendered suspicious and cautious by these words, entered the apartment, where he found Mazarin sitting at the table, dressed in his ordinary garb and as one of the prelates of the Church, his costume being similar to that of the abbes in that day, excepting that his scarf and stockings were violet.
 
As the door was closed Rochefort cast a glance toward Mazarin, which was answered by one, equally furtive, from the minister.
 
There was little change in the cardinal; still dressed with sedulous care, his hair well arranged and curled, his person perfumed, he looked, owing to his extreme taste in dress, only half his age. But Rochefort, who had passed five years in prison, had become old in the lapse of a few years; the dark locks of this estimable friend of the defunct Cardinal Richelieu were now white; the deep bronze of his complexion had been succeeded by a mortal pallor which betokened debility. As he gazed at him Mazarin shook his head slightly, as much as to say, “This is a man who does not appear to me fit for much.”
 
After a pause, which appeared an age to Rochefort, Mazarin took from a bundle of papers a letter, and showing it to the count, he said:
 
“I find here a letter in which you sue for liberty, Monsieur de Rochefort. You are in prison, then?”
 
Rochefort trembled in every limb at this question. “But I thought,” he said, “that your eminence knew that circumstance better than any one----”
 
“I? Oh no! There is a congestion of prisoners in the Bastile, who were cooped up in the time of Monsieur de Richelieu; I don’t even know their names.”
 
“Yes, but in regard to myself, my lord, it cannot be so, for I was removed from the Chatelet to the Bastile owing to an order from your eminence.”
 
“You think you were.”
 
“I am certain of it.”
 
“Ah, stay! I fancy I remember it. Did you not once refuse to undertake a journey to Brussels for the queen?”
 
“Ah! ah!” exclaimed Rochefort. “There is the true reason! Idiot that I am, though I have been trying to find it out for five years, I never found it out.”
 
“But I do not say it was the cause of your imprisonment. I merely ask you, did you not refuse to go to Brussels for the queen, whilst you had consented to go there to do some service for the late cardinal?”
 
“That is the very reason I refused to go back to Brussels. I was there at a fearful moment. I was sent there to intercept a correspondence between Chalais and the archduke, and even then, when I was discovered I was nearly torn to pieces. How could I, then, return to Brussels? I should injure the queen instead of serving her.”
 
“Well, since the best motives are liable to misconstruction, the queen saw in your refusal nothing but a refusal--a distinct refusal she had also much to complain of you during the lifetime of the late cardinal; yes, her majesty the queen----”
 
Rochefort smiled contemptuously.
 
“Since I was a faithful servant, my lord, to Cardinal Richelieu during his life, it stands to reason that now, after his death, I should serve you well, in defiance of the whole world.”
 
“With regard to myself, Monsieur de Rochefort,” replied Mazarin, “I am not, like Monsieur de Richelieu, all-powerful. I am but a minister, who wants no servants, being myself nothing but a servant of the queen’s. Now, the queen is of a sensitive nature. Hearing of your refusal to obey her she looked upon it as a declaration of war, and as she considers you a man of superior talent, and consequently dangerous, she desired me to make sure of you; that is the reason of your being shut up in the Bastile. But your release can be managed. You are one of those men who can comprehend certain matters and having understood them, can act with energy----”
 
“Such was Cardinal Richelieu’s opinion, my lord.”
 
“The cardinal,” interrupted Mazarin, “was a great politician and therein shone his vast superiority over me. I am a straightforward, simple man; that’s my great disadvantage. I am of a frankness of character quite French.”
 
Rochefort bit his lips in order to prevent a smile.
 
“Now to the point. I want friends; I want faithful servants. When I say I want, I mean the queen wants them. I do nothing without her commands--pray understand that; not like Monsieur de Richelieu, who went on just as he pleased. So I shall never be a great man, as he was, but to compensate for that, I shall be a good man, Monsieur de Rochefort, and I hope to prove it to you.”
 
Rochefort knew well the tones of that soft voice, in which sounded sometimes a sort of gentle lisp, like the hissing of young vipers.
 
“I am disposed to believe your eminence,” he replied; “though I have had but little evidence of that good-nature of which your eminence speaks. Do not forget that I have been five years in the Bastile and that no medium of viewing things is so deceptive as the grating of a prison.”
 
“Ah, Monsieur de Rochefort! have I not told you already that I had nothing to do with that? The queen--cannot you make allowances for the pettishness of a queen and a princess? But that has passed away as suddenly as it came, and is forgotten.”
 
“I can easily suppose, sir, that her majesty has forgotten it amid the fetes and the courtiers of the Palais Royal, but I who have passed those years in the Bastile----”
 
“Ah! mon Dieu! my dear Monsieur de Rochefort! do you absolutely think that the Palais Royal is the abode of gayety? No. We have had great annoyances there. As for me, I play my game squarely, fairly, and above board, as I always do. Let us come to some conclusion. Are you one of us, Monsieur de Rochefort?”
 
“I am very desirous of being so, my lord, but I am totally in the dark about everything. In the Bastile one talks politics only with soldiers and jailers, and you have not an idea, my lord, how little is known of what is going on by people of that sort; I am of Monsieur de Bassompierre’s party. Is he still one of the seventeen peers of France?”
 
“He is dead, sir; a great loss. His devotion to the queen was boundless; men of loyalty are scarce.”
 
“I think so, forsooth,” said Rochefort, “and when you find any of them, you march them off to the Bastile. However, there are plenty in the world, but you don’t look in the right direction for them, my lord.”
 
“Indeed! explain to me. Ah! my dear Monsieur de Rochefort, how much you must have learned during your intimacy with the late cardinal! Ah! he was a great man.”
 
“Will your eminence be angry if I read you a lesson?”
 
“I! never! you know you may say anything to me. I try to be beloved, not feared.”
 
“Well, there is on the wall of my cell, scratched with a nail, a proverb, which says, ‘Like master, like servant.’”
 
“Pray, what does that mean?”
 
“It means that Monsieur de Richelieu was able to find trusty servants, dozens and dozens of them.”
 
“He! the point aimed at by every poniard! Richelieu, who passed his life in warding off blows which were forever aimed at him!”
 
“But he did ward them off,” said De Rochefort, “and the reason was, that though he had bitter enemies he possessed also true friends. I have known persons,” he continued--for he thought he might avail himself of the opportunity of speaking of D’Artagnan--“who by their sagacity and address have deceived the penetration of Cardinal Richelieu; who by their valor have got the better of his guards and spies; persons without money, without support, without credit, yet who have preserved to the crowned head its crown and made the cardinal crave pardon.”
 
“But those men you speak of,” said Mazarin, smiling inwardly on seeing Rochefort approach the point to which he was leading him, “those men were not devoted to the cardinal, for they contended against him.”
 
“No; in that case they would have met with more fitting reward. They had the misfortune to be devoted to that very queen for whom just now you were seeking servants.”
 
“But how is it that you know so much of these matters?”
 
“I know them because the men of whom I speak were at that time my enemies; because they fought against me; because I did them all the harm I could and they returned it to the best of their ability; because one of them, with whom I had most to do, gave me a pretty sword-thrust, now about seven years ago, the third that I received from the same hand; it closed an old account.”
 
“Ah!” said Mazarin, with admirable suavity, “could I but find such men!”
 
“My lord, there has stood for six years at your very door a man such as I describe, and during those six years he has been unappreciated and unemployed by you.”
 
“Who is it?”
 
“It is Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
 
“That Gascon!” cried Mazarin, with well acted surprise.
 
“‘That Gascon’ has saved a queen and made Monsieur de Richelieu confess that in point of talent, address and political skill, to him he was only a tyro.”
 
“Really?”
 
“It is as I have the honor of telling it to your excellency.”
 
“Tell me a little about it, my dear Monsieur de Rochefort.”
 
“That is somewhat difficult, my lord,” said Rochefort, with a smile.
 
“Then he will tell it me himself.”
 
“I doubt it, my lord.”
 
“Why do you doubt it?”
 
“Because the secret does not belong to him; because, as I have told you, it has to do with a great queen.”
 
“And he was alone in achieving an enterprise like that?”
 
“No, my lord, he had three colleagues, three brave men, men such as you were wishing for just now.”
 
“And were these four men attached to each other, true in heart, really united?”
 
“As if they had been one man--as if their four hearts had pulsated in one breast.”
 
“You pique my curiosity, dear Rochefort; pray tell me the whole story.”
 
“That is impossible; but I will tell you a true story, my lord.”
 
“Pray do so, I delight in stories,” cried the cardinal.
 
“Listen, then,” returned Rochefort, as he spoke endeavoring to read in that subtle countenance the cardinal’s motive. “Once upon a time there lived a queen--a powerful monarch--who reigned over one of the greatest kingdoms of the universe; and a minister; and this minister wished much to injure the queen, whom once he had loved too well. (Do not try, my lord, you cannot guess who it is; all this happened long before you came into the country where this queen reigned.) There came to the court an ambassador so brave, so magnificent, so elegant, that every woman lost her heart to him; and the queen had even the indiscretion to give him certain ornaments so rare that they could never be replaced by any like them.
 
“As these ornaments were given by the king the minister persuaded his majesty to insist upon the queen’s appearing in them as part of her jewels at a ball which was soon to take place. There is no occasion to tell you, my lord, that the minister knew for a fact that these ornaments had sailed away with the ambassador, who was far away, beyond seas. This illustrious queen had fallen low as the least of her subjects--fallen from her high estate.”
 
“Indeed!”
 
“Well, my lord, four men resolved to save her. These four men were not princes, neither were they dukes, neither were they men in power; they were not even rich. They were four honest soldiers, each with a good heart, a good arm and a sword at the service of those who wanted it. They set out. The minister knew of their departure and had planted people on the road to prevent them ever reaching their destination. Three of them were overwhelmed and disabled by numerous assailants; one of them alone arrived at the port, having either killed or wounded those who wished to stop him. He crossed the sea and brought back the set of ornaments to the great queen, who was able to wear them on her shoulder on the appointed day; and this very nearly ruined the minister. What do you think of that exploit, my lord?”
 
“It is magnificent!” said Mazarin, thoughtfully.
 
“Well, I know of ten such men.”
 
Mazarin made no reply; he reflected.
 
Five or six minutes elapsed.
 
“You have nothing more to ask of me, my lord?” said Rochefort.
 
“Yes. And you say that Monsieur d’Artagnan was one of those four men?”
 
“He led the enterprise.”
 
“And who were the others?”
 
“I leave it to Monsieur d’Artagnan to name them, my lord. They were his friends and not mine. He alone would have any influence with them; I do not even know them under their true names.”
 
“You suspect me, Monsieur de Rochefort; I want him and you and all to aid me.”
 
“Begin with me, my lord; for after five or six years of imprisonment it is natural to feel some curiosity as to one’s destination.”
 
“You, my dear Monsieur de Rochefort, shall have the post of confidence; you shall go to Vincennes, where Monsieur de Beaufort is confined; you will guard him well for me. Well, what is the matter?”
 
“The matter is that you have proposed to me what is impossible,” said Rochefort, shaking his head with an air of disappointment.
 
“What! impossible? And why is it impossible?”
 
“Because Monsieur de Beaufort is one of my friends, or rather, I am one of his. Have you forgotten, my lord, that it is he who answered for me to the queen?”
 
“Since then Monsieur de Beaufort has become an enemy of the State.”
 
“That may be, my lord; but since I am neither king nor queen nor minister, he is not my enemy and I cannot accept your offer.”
 
“This, then, is what you call devotion! I congratulate you. Your devotion does not commit you too far, Monsieur de Rochefort.”
 
“And then, my lord,” continued Rochefort, “you understand that to emerge from the Bastile in order to enter Vincennes is only to change one’s prison.”
 
“Say at once that you are on the side of Monsieur de Beaufort; that will be the most sincere line of conduct,” said Mazarin.
 
“My lord, I have been so long shut up, that I am only of one party--I am for fresh air. Employ me in any other way; employ me even actively, but let it be on the high roads.”
 
“My dear Monsieur de Rochefort,” Mazarin replied in a tone of raillery, “you think yourself still a young man; your spirit is that of the phoenix, but your strength fails you. Believe me, you ought now to take a rest. Here!”
 
“You decide, then, nothing about me, my lord?”
 
“On the contrary, I have come to a decision.”
 
Bernouin came into the room.
 
“Call an officer of justice,” he said; “and stay close to me,” he added, in a low tone.
 
The officer entered. Mazarin wrote a few words, which he gave to this man; then he bowed.
 
“Adieu, Monsieur de Rochefort,” he said.
 
Rochefort bent low.
 
“I see, my lord, I am to be taken back to the Bastile.”
 
“You are sagacious.”
 
“I shall return thither, my lord, but it is a mistake on your part not to employ me.”
 
“You? the friend of my greatest foes? Don’t suppose that you are the only person who can serve me, Monsieur de Rochefort. I shall find many men as able as you are.”
 
“I wish you may, my lord,” replied De Rochefort.
 
He was then reconducted by the little staircase, instead of passing through the ante-chamber where D’Artagnan was waiting. In the courtyard the carriage and the four musketeers were ready, but he looked around in vain for his friend.
 
“Ah!” he muttered to himself, “this changes the situation, and if there is still a crowd of people in the streets we will try to show Mazarin that we are still, thank God, good for something else than keeping guard over a prisoner;” and he jumped into the carriage with the alacrity of a man of five-and-twenty.
 
4. Anne of Austria at the Age of Forty-six.
 When left alone with Bernouin, Mazarin was for some minutes lost in thought. He had gained much information, but not enough. Mazarin was a cheat at the card-table. This is a detail preserved to us by Brienne. He called it using his advantages. He now determined not to begin the game with D’Artagnan till he knew completely all his adversary’s cards.
 
“My lord, have you any commands?” asked Bernouin.
 
“Yes, yes,” replied Mazarin. “Light me; I am going to the queen.”
 
Bernouin took up a candlestick and led the way.
 
There was a secret communication between the cardinal’s apartments and those of the queen; and through this corridor* Mazarin passed whenever he wished to visit Anne of Austria.
 
*This secret passage is still to be seen in the Palais Royal.
In the bedroom in which this passage ended, Bernouin encountered Madame de Beauvais, like himself intrusted with the secret of these subterranean love affairs; and Madame de Beauvais undertook to prepare Anne of Austria, who was in her oratory with the young king, Louis XIV., to receive the cardinal.
 
Anne, reclining in a large easy-chair, her head supported by her hand, her elbow resting on a table, was looking at her son, who was turning over the leaves of a large book filled with pictures. This celebrated woman fully understood the art of being dull with dignity. It was her practice to pass hours either in her oratory or in her room, without either reading or praying.
 
When Madame de Beauvais appeared at the door and announced the cardinal, the child, who had been absorbed in the pages of Quintus Curtius, enlivened as they were by engravings of Alexander’s feats of arms, frowned and looked at his mother.
 
“Why,” he said, “does he enter without first asking for an audience?”
 
Anne colored slightly.
 
“The prime minister,” she said, “is obliged in these unsettled days to inform the queen of all that is happening from time to time, without exciting the curiosity or remarks of the court.”
 
“But Richelieu never came in this manner,” said the pertinacious boy.
 
“How can you remember what Monsieur de Richelieu did? You were too young to know about such things.”
 
“I do not remember what he did, but I have inquired and I have been told all about it.”
 
“And who told you about it?” asked Anne of Austria, with a movement of impatience.
 
“I know that I ought never to name the persons who answer my questions,” answered the child, “for if I do I shall learn nothing further.”
 
At this very moment Mazarin entered. The king rose immediately, took his book, closed it and went to lay it down on the table, near which he continued standing, in order that Mazarin might be obliged to stand also.
 
Mazarin contemplated these proceedings with a thoughtful glance. They explained what had occurred that evening.
 
He bowed respectfully to the king, who gave him a somewhat cavalier reception, but a look from his mother reproved him for the hatred which, from his infancy, Louis XIV. had entertained toward Mazarin, and he endeavored to receive the minister’s homage with civility.
 
Anne of Austria sought to read in Mazarin’s face the occasion of this unexpected visit, since the cardinal usually came to her apartment only after every one had retired.
 
The minister made a slight sign with his head, whereupon the queen said to Madame Beauvais:
 
“It is time for the king to go to bed; call Laporte.”
 
The queen had several times already told her son that he ought to go to bed, and several times Louis had coaxingly insisted on staying where he was; but now he made no reply, but turned pale and bit his lips with anger.
 
In a few minutes Laporte came into the room. The child went directly to him without kissing his mother.
 
“Well, Louis,” said Anne, “why do you not kiss me?”
 
“I thought you were angry with me, madame; you sent me away.”
 
“I do not send you away, but you have had the small-pox and I am afraid that sitting up late may tire you.”
 
“You had no fears of my being tired when you ordered me to go to the palace to-day to pass the odious decrees which have raised the people to rebellion.”
 
“Sire!” interposed Laporte, in order to turn the subject, “to whom does your majesty wish me to give the candle?”
 
“To any one, Laporte,” the child said; and then added in a loud voice, “to any one except Mancini.”
 
Now Mancini was a nephew of Mazarin’s and was as much hated by Louis as the cardinal himself, although placed near his person by the minister.
 
And the king went out of the room without either embracing his mother or even bowing to the cardinal.
 
“Good,” said Mazarin, “I am glad to see that his majesty has been brought up with a hatred of dissimulation.”
 
“Why do you say that?” asked the queen, almost timidly.
 
“Why, it seems to me that the way in which he left us needs no explanation. Besides, his majesty takes no pains to conceal how little affection he has for me. That, however, does not hinder me from being entirely devoted to his service, as I am to that of your majesty.”
 
“I ask your pardon for him, cardinal,” said the queen; “he is a child, not yet able to understand his obligations to you.”
 
The cardinal smiled.
 
“But,” continued the queen, “you have doubtless come for some important purpose. What is it, then?”
 
Mazarin sank into a chair with the deepest melancholy painted on his countenance.
 
“It is likely,” he replied, “that we shall soon be obliged to separate, unless you love me well enough to follow me to Italy.”
 
“Why,” cried the queen; “how is that?”
 
“Because, as they say in the opera of ‘Thisbe,’ ‘The whole world conspires to break our bonds.’”
 
“You jest, sir!” answered the queen, endeavoring to assume something of her former dignity.
 
“Alas! I do not, madame,” rejoined Mazarin. “Mark well what I say. The whole world conspires to break our bonds. Now as you are one of the whole world, I mean to say that you also are deserting me.”
 
“Cardinal!”
 
“Heavens! did I not see you the other day smile on the Duke of Orleans? or rather at what he said?”
 
“And what was he saying?”
 
“He said this, madame: ‘Mazarin is a stumbling-block. Send him away and all will then be well.’”
 
“What do you wish me to do?”
 
“Oh, madame! you are the queen!”
 
“Queen, forsooth! when I am at the mercy of every scribbler in the Palais Royal who covers waste paper with nonsense, or of every country squire in the kingdom.”
 
“Nevertheless, you have still the power of banishing from your presence those whom you do not like!”
 
“That is to say, whom you do not like,” returned the queen.
 
“I! persons whom I do not like!”
 
“Yes, indeed. Who sent away Madame de Chevreuse after she had been persecuted twelve years under the last reign?”
 
“A woman of intrigue, who wanted to keep up against me the spirit of cabal she had raised against M. de Richelieu.”
 
“Who dismissed Madame de Hautefort, that friend so loyal that she refused the favor of the king that she might remain in mine?”
 
“A prude, who told you every night, as she undressed you, that it was a sin to love a priest, just as if one were a priest because one happens to be a cardinal.”
 
“Who ordered Monsieur de Beaufort to be arrested?”
 
“An incendiary the burden of whose song was his intention to assassinate me.”
 
“You see, cardinal,” replied the queen, “that your enemies are mine.”
 
“That is not enough madame, it is necessary that your friends should be also mine.”
 
“My friends, monsieur?” The queen shook her head. “Alas, I have them no longer!”
 
“How is it that you have no friends in your prosperity when you had many in adversity?”
 
“It is because in my prosperity I forgot those old friends, monsieur; because I have acted like Queen Marie de Medicis, who, returning from her first exile, treated with contempt all those who had suffered for her and, being proscribed a second time, died at Cologne abandoned by every one, even by her own son.”
 
“Well, let us see,” said Mazarin; “isn’t there still time to repair the evil? Search among your friends, your oldest friends.”
 
“What do you mean, monsieur?”
 
“Nothing else than I say--search.”
 
“Alas, I look around me in vain! I have no influence with any one. Monsieur is, as usual, led by his favorite; yesterday it was Choisy, to-day it is La Riviere, to-morrow it will be some one else. Monsieur le Prince is led by the coadjutor, who is led by Madame de Guemenee.”
 
“Therefore, madame, I ask you to look, not among your friends of to-day, but among those of other times.”
 
“Among my friends of other times?” said the queen.
 
“Yes, among your friends of other times; among those who aided you to contend against the Duc de Richelieu and even to conquer him.”
 
“What is he aiming at?” murmured the queen, looking uneasily at the cardinal.
 
“Yes,” continued his eminence; “under certain circumstances, with that strong and shrewd mind your majesty possesses, aided by your friends, you were able to repel the attacks of that adversary.”
 
“I!” said the queen. “I suffered, that is all.”
 
“Yes,” said Mazarin, “as women suffer in avenging themselves. Come, let us come to the point. Do you know Monsieur de Rochefort?”
 
“One of my bitterest enemies--the faithful friend of Cardinal Richelieu.”
 
“I know that, and we sent him to the Bastile,” said Mazarin.
 
“Is he at liberty?” asked the queen.
 
“No; still there, but I only speak of him in order that I may introduce the name of another man. Do you know Monsieur d’Artagnan?” he added, looking steadfastly at the queen.
 
Anne of Austria received the blow with a beating heart.
 
“Has the Gascon been indiscreet?” she murmured to herself, then said aloud:
 
“D’Artagnan! stop an instant, the name seems certainly familiar. D’Artagnan! there was a musketeer who was in love with one of my women. Poor young creature! she was poisoned on my account.”
 
“That’s all you know of him?” asked Mazarin.
 
The queen looked at him, surprised.
 
“You seem, sir,” she remarked, “to be making me undergo a course of cross-examination.”
 
“Which you answer according to your fancy,” replied Mazarin.
 
“Tell me your wishes and I will comply with them.”
 
The queen spoke with some impatience.
 
“Well, madame,” said Mazarin, bowing, “I desire that you give me a share in your friends, as I have shared with you the little industry and talent that Heaven has given me. The circumstances are grave and it will be necessary to act promptly.”
 
“Still!” said the queen. “I thought that we were finally quit of Monsieur de Beaufort.”
 
“Yes, you saw only the torrent that threatened to overturn everything and you gave no attention to the still water. There is, however, a proverb current in France relating to water which is quiet.”
 
“Continue,” said the queen.
 
“Well, then, madame, not a day passes in which I do not suffer affronts from your princes and your lordly servants, all of them automata who do not perceive that I wind up the spring that makes them move, nor do they see that beneath my quiet demeanor lies the still scorn of an injured, irritated man, who has sworn to himself to master them one of these days. We have arrested Monsieur de Beaufort, but he is the least dangerous among them. There is the Prince de Conde----”
 
“The hero of Rocroy. Do you think of him?”
 
“Yes, madame, often and often, but pazienza, as we say in Italy; next, after Monsieur de Conde, comes the Duke of Orleans.”
 
“What are you saying? The first prince of the blood, the king’s uncle!”
 
“No! not the first prince of the blood, not the king’s uncle, but the base conspirator, the soul of every cabal, who pretends to lead the brave people who are weak enough to believe in the honor of a prince of the blood--not the prince nearest to the throne, not the king’s uncle, I repeat, but the murderer of Chalais, of Montmorency and of Cinq-Mars, who is playing now the same game he played long ago and who thinks that he will win the game because he has a new adversary--instead of a man who threatened, a man who smiles. But he is mistaken; I shall not leave so near the queen that source of discord with which the deceased cardinal so often caused the anger of the king to rage above the boiling point.”
 
Anne blushed and buried her face in her hands.
 
“What am I to do?” she said, bowed down beneath the voice of her tyrant.
 
“Endeavor to remember the names of those faithful servants who crossed the Channel, in spite of Monsieur de Richelieu, tracking the roads along which they passed by their blood, to bring back to your majesty certain jewels given by you to Buckingham.”
 
Anne arose, full of majesty, and as if touched by a spring, and looking at the cardinal with the haughty dignity which in the days of her youth had made her so powerful: “You are insulting me!” she said.
 
“I wish,” continued Mazarin, finishing, as it were, the speech this sudden movement of the queen had cut; “I wish, in fact, that you should now do for your husband what you formerly did for your lover.”
 
“Again that accusation!” cried the queen. “I thought that calumny was stifled or extinct; you have spared me till now, but since you speak of it, once for all, I tell you----”
 
“Madame, I do not ask you to tell me,” said Mazarin, astounded by this returning courage.
 
“I will tell you all,” replied Anne. “Listen: there were in truth, at that epoch, four devoted hearts, four loyal spirits, four faithful swords, who saved more than my life--my honor----”
 
“Ah! you confess it!” exclaimed Mazarin.
 
“Is it only the guilty whose honor is at the sport of others, sir? and cannot women be dishonored by appearances? Yes, appearances were against me and I was about to suffer dishonor. However, I swear I was not guilty, I swear it by----”
 
The queen looked around her for some sacred object by which she could swear, and taking out of a cupboard hidden in the tapestry, a small coffer of rosewood set in silver, and laying it on the altar:
 
“I swear,” she said, “by these sacred relics that Buckingham was not my lover.”
 
“What relics are those by which you swear?” asked Mazarin, smiling. “I am incredulous.”
 
The queen untied from around her throat a small golden key which hung there, and presented it to the cardinal.
 
“Open, sir,” she said, “and look for yourself.”
 
Mazarin opened the coffer; a knife, covered with rust, and two letters, one of which was stained with blood, alone met his gaze.
 
“What are these things?” he asked.
 
“What are these things?” replied Anne, with queen-like dignity, extending toward the open coffer an arm, despite the lapse of years, still beautiful. “These two letters are the only ones I ever wrote to him. This knife is the knife with which Felton stabbed him. Read the letters and see if I have lied or spoken the truth.”
 
But Mazarin, notwithstanding this permission, instead of reading the letters, took the knife which the dying Buckingham had snatched out of the wound and sent by Laporte to the queen. The blade was red, for the blood had become rust; after a momentary examination during which the queen became as white as the cloth which covered the altar on which she was leaning, he put it back into the coffer with an involuntary shudder.
 
“It is well, madame, I believe your oath.”
 
“No, no, read,” exclaimed the queen, indignantly; “read, I command you, for I am resolved that everything shall be finished to-night and never will I recur to this subject again. Do you think,” she said, with a ghastly smile, “that I shall be inclined to reopen this coffer to answer any future accusations?”
 
Mazarin, overcome by this determination, read the two letters. In one the queen asked for the ornaments back again. This letter had been conveyed by D’Artagnan and had arrived in time. The other was that which Laporte had placed in the hands of the Duke of Buckingham, warning him that he was about to be assassinated; that communication had arrived too late.
 
“It is well, madame,” said Mazarin; “nothing can gainsay such testimony.”
 
“Sir,” replied the queen, closing the coffer and leaning her hand upon it, “if there is anything to be said, it is that I have always been ungrateful to the brave men who saved me--that I have given nothing to that gallant officer, D’Artagnan, you were speaking of just now, but my hand to kiss and this diamond.”
 
As she spoke she extended her beautiful hand to the cardinal and showed him a superb diamond which sparkled on her finger.
 
“It appears,” she resumed, “that he sold it---he sold it in order to save me another time--to be able to send a messenger to the duke to warn him of his danger--he sold it to Monsieur des Essarts, on whose finger I remarked it. I bought it from him, but it belongs to D’Artagnan. Give it back to him, sir, and since you have such a man in your service, make him useful.”
 
“Thank you, madame,” said Mazarin. “I will profit by the advice.”
 
“And now,” added the queen, her voice broken by her emotion, “have you any other question to ask me?”
 
“Nothing,”--the cardinal spoke in his most conciliatory manner--“except to beg of you to forgive my unworthy suspicions. I love you so tenderly that I cannot help being jealous, even of the past.”
 
A smile, which was indefinable, passed over the lips of the queen.
 
“Since you have no further interrogations to make, leave me, I beseech you,” she said. “I wish, after such a scene, to be alone.”
 
Mazarin bent low before her.
 
“I will retire, madame. Do you permit me to return?”
 
“Yes, to-morrow.”
 
The cardinal took the queen’s hand and pressed it with an air of gallantry to his lips.
 
Scarcely had he left her when the queen went into her son’s room, and inquired from Laporte if the king was in bed. Laporte pointed to the child, who was asleep.
 
Anne ascended the steps side of the bed and softly kissed the placid forehead of her son; then she retired as silently as she had come, merely saying to Laporte:
 
“Try, my dear Laporte, to make the king more courteous to Monsieur le Cardinal, to whom both he and I are under such important obligations.”
 
5. The Gascon and the Italian.
 Meanwhile the cardinal returned to his own room; and after asking Bernouin, who stood at the door, whether anything had occurred during his absence, and being answered in the negative, he desired that he might be left alone.
 
When he was alone he opened the door of the corridor and then that of the ante-chamber. There D’Artagnan was asleep upon a bench.
 
The cardinal went up to him and touched his shoulder. D’Artagnan started, awakened himself, and as he awoke, stood up exactly like a soldier under arms.
 
“Here I am,” said he. “Who calls me?”
 
“I,” said Mazarin, with his most smiling expression.
 
“I ask pardon of your eminence,” said D’Artagnan, “but I was so fatigued----”
 
“Don’t ask my pardon, monsieur,” said Mazarin, “for you fatigued yourself in my service.”
 
D’Artagnan admired Mazarin’s gracious manner. “Ah,” said he, between his teeth, “is there truth in the proverb that fortune comes while one sleeps?”
 
“Follow me, monsieur,” said Mazarin.
 
“Come, come,” murmured D’Artagnan, “Rochefort has kept his promise, but where in the devil is he?” And he searched the cabinet even to the smallest recesses, but there was no sign of Rochefort.
 
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the cardinal, sitting down on a fauteuil, “you have always seemed to me to be a brave and honorable man.”
 
“Possibly,” thought D’Artagnan, “but he has taken a long time to let me know his thoughts;” nevertheless, he bowed to the very ground in gratitude for Mazarin’s compliment.
 
“Well,” continued Mazarin, “the time has come to put to use your talents and your valor.”
 
There was a sudden gleam of joy in the officer’s eyes, which vanished immediately, for he knew nothing of Mazarin’s purpose.
 
“Order, my lord,” he said; “I am ready to obey your eminence.”
 
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued the cardinal, “you performed sundry superb exploits in the last reign.”
 
“Your eminence is too good to remember such trifles in my favor. It is true I fought with tolerable success.”
 
“I don’t speak of your warlike exploits, monsieur,” said Mazarin; “although they gained you much reputation, they were surpassed by others.”
 
D’Artagnan pretended astonishment.
 
“Well, you do not reply?” resumed Mazarin.
 
“I am waiting, my lord, till you tell me of what exploits you speak.”
 
“I speak of the adventure--Eh, you know well what I mean.”
 
“Alas, no, my lord!” replied D’Artagnan, surprised.
 
“You are discreet--so much the better. I speak of that adventure in behalf of the queen, of the ornaments, of the journey you made with three of your friends.”
 
“Aha!” thought the Gascon; “is this a snare or not? Let me be on my guard.”
 
And he assumed a look of stupidity which Mendori or Bellerose, two of the first actors of the day, might have envied.
 
“Bravo!” cried Mazarin; “they told me that you were the man I wanted. Come, let us see what you will do for me.”
 
“Everything that your eminence may please to command me,” was the reply.
 
“You will do for me what you have done for the queen?”
 
“Certainly,” D’Artagnan said to himself, “he wishes to make me speak out. He’s not more cunning than De Richelieu was! Devil take him!” Then he said aloud:
 
“The queen, my lord? I don’t comprehend.”
 
“You don’t comprehend that I want you and your three friends to be of use to me?”
 
“Which of my friends, my lord?”
 
“Your three friends--the friends of former days.”
 
“Of former days, my lord! In former days I had not only three friends, I had thirty; at two-and-twenty one calls every man one’s friend.”
 
“Well, sir,” returned Mazarin, “prudence is a fine thing, but to-day you might regret having been too prudent.”
 
“My lord, Pythagoras made his disciples keep silence for five years that they might learn to hold their tongues.”
 
“But you have been silent for twenty years, sir. Speak, now the queen herself releases you from your promise.”
 
“The queen!” said D’Artagnan, with an astonishment which this time was not pretended.
 
“Yes, the queen! And as a proof of what I say she commanded me to show you this diamond, which she thinks you know.”
 
And so saying, Mazarin extended his hand to the officer, who sighed as he recognized the ring so gracefully given to him by the queen on the night of the ball at the Hotel de Ville and which she had repurchased from Monsieur des Essarts.
 
“‘Tis true. I remember well that diamond, which belonged to the queen.”
 
“You see, then, that I speak to you in the queen’s name. Answer me without acting as if you were on the stage; your interests are concerned in your so doing.”
 
“Faith, my lord, it is very necessary for me to make my fortune, your eminence has so long forgotten me.”
 
“We need only a week to amend all that. Come, you are accounted for, you are here, but where are your friends?”
 
“I do not know, my lord. We have parted company this long time; all three have left the service.”
 
“Where can you find them, then?”
 
“Wherever they are, that’s my business.”
 
“Well, now, what are your conditions, if I employ you?”
 
“Money, my lord, as much money as what you wish me to undertake will require. I remember too well how sometimes we were stopped for want of money, and but for that diamond, which I was obliged to sell, we should have remained on the road.”
 
“The devil he does! Money! and a large sum!” said Mazarin. “Pray, are you aware that the king has no money in his treasury?”
 
“Do then as I did, my lord. Sell the crown diamonds. Trust me, don’t let us try to do things cheaply. Great undertakings come poorly off with paltry means.”
 
“Well,” returned Mazarin, “we will satisfy you.”
 
“Richelieu,” thought D’Artagnan, “would have given me five hundred pistoles in advance.”
 
“You will then be at my service?” asked Mazarin.
 
“Yes, if my friends agree.”
 
“But if they refuse can I count on you?”
 
“I have never accomplished anything alone,” said D’Artagnan, shaking his head.
 
“Go, then, and find them.”
 
“What shall I say to them by way of inducement to serve your eminence?”
 
“You know them better than I. Adapt your promises to their respective characters.”
 
“What shall I promise?”
 
“That if they serve me as well as they served the queen my gratitude shall be magnificent.”
 
“But what are we to do?”
 
“Make your mind easy; when the time for action comes you shall be put in full possession of what I require from you; wait till that time arrives and find out your friends.”
 
“My lord, perhaps they are not in Paris. It is even probable that I shall have to make a journey. I am only a lieutenant of musketeers, very poor, and journeys cost money.
 
“My intention,” said Mazarin, “is not that you go with a great following; my plans require secrecy, and would be jeopardized by a too extravagant equipment.”
 
“Still, my lord, I can’t travel on my pay, for it is now three months behind; and I can’t travel on my savings, for in my twenty-two years of service I have accumulated nothing but debts.”
 
Mazarin remained some moments in deep thought, as if he were fighting with himself; then, going to a large cupboard closed with a triple lock, he took from it a bag of silver, and weighing it twice in his hands before he gave it to D’Artagnan:
 
“Take this,” he said with a sigh, “‘tis merely for your journey.”
 
“If these are Spanish doubloons, or even gold crowns,” thought D’Artagnan, “we shall yet be able to do business together.” He saluted the cardinal and plunged the bag into the depths of an immense pocket.
 
“Well, then, all is settled; you are to set off,” said the cardinal.
 
“Yes, my lord.”
 
“Apropos, what are the names of your friends?”
 
“The Count de la Fere, formerly styled Athos; Monsieur du Vallon, whom we used to call Porthos; the Chevalier d’Herblay, now the Abbe d’Herblay, whom we styled Aramis----”
 
The cardinal smiled.
 
“Younger sons,” he said, “who enlisted in the musketeers under feigned names in order not to lower their family names. Long swords but light purses. Was that it?”
 
“If, God willing, these swords should be devoted to the service of your eminence,” said D’Artagnan, “I shall venture to express a wish, which is, that in its turn the purse of your eminence may become light and theirs heavy--for with these three men your eminence may rouse all Europe if you like.”
 
“These Gascons,” said the cardinal, laughing, “almost beat the Italians in effrontery.”
 
“At all events,” answered D’Artagnan, with a smile almost as crafty as the cardinal’s, “they beat them when they draw their swords.”
 
He then withdrew, and as he passed into the courtyard he stopped near a lamp and dived eagerly into the bag of money.
 
“Crown pieces only--silver pieces! I suspected it. Ah! Mazarin! Mazarin! thou hast no confidence in me! so much the worse for thee, for harm may come of it!”
 
Meanwhile the cardinal was rubbing his hands in great satisfaction.
 
“A hundred pistoles! a hundred pistoles! for a hundred pistoles I have discovered a secret for which Richelieu would have paid twenty thousand crowns; without reckoning the value of that diamond”--he cast a complacent look at the ring, which he had kept, instead of restoring to D’Artagnan--“which is worth, at least, ten thousand francs.”
 
He returned to his room, and after depositing the ring in a casket filled with brilliants of every sort, for the cardinal was a connoisseur in precious stones, he called to Bernouin to undress him, regardless of the noises of gun-fire that, though it was now near midnight, continued to resound through Paris.
 
In the meantime D’Artagnan took his way toward the Rue Tiquetonne, where he lived at the Hotel de la Chevrette.
 
We will explain in a few words how D’Artagnan had been led to choose that place of residence.
6. D’Artagnan in his Fortieth Year.
 Years have elapsed, many events have happened, alas! since, in our romance of “The Three Musketeers,” we took leave of D’Artagnan at No. 12 Rue des Fossoyeurs. D’Artagnan had not failed in his career, but circumstances had been adverse to him. So long as he was surrounded by his friends he retained his youth and the poetry of his character. He was one of those fine, ingenuous natures which assimilate themselves easily to the dispositions of others. Athos imparted to him his greatness of soul, Porthos his enthusiasm, Aramis his elegance. Had D’Artagnan continued his intimacy with these three men he would have become a superior character. Athos was the first to leave him, in order that he might retire to a little property he had inherited near Blois; Porthos, the second, to marry an attorney’s wife; and lastly, Aramis, the third, to take orders and become an abbe. From that day D’Artagnan felt lonely and powerless, without courage to pursue a career in which he could only distinguish himself on condition that each of his three companions should endow him with one of the gifts each had received from Heaven.
 
Notwithstanding his commission in the musketeers, D’Artagnan felt completely solitary. For a time the delightful remembrance of Madame Bonancieux left on his character a certain poetic tinge, perishable indeed; for like all other recollections in this world, these impressions were, by degrees, effaced. A garrison life is fatal even to the most aristocratic organization; and imperceptibly, D’Artagnan, always in the camp, always on horseback, always in garrison, became (I know not how in the present age one would express it) a typical trooper. His early refinement of character was not only not lost, it grew even greater than ever; but it was now applied to the little, instead of to the great things of life--to the martial condition of the soldier--comprised under the head of a good lodging, a rich table, a congenial hostess. These important advantages D’Artagnan found to his own taste in the Rue Tiquetonne at the sign of the Roe.
 
From the time D’Artagnan took quarters in that hotel, the mistress of the house, a pretty and fresh looking Flemish woman, twenty-five or twenty-six years old, had been singularly interested in him; and after certain love passages, much obstructed by an inconvenient husband to whom a dozen times D’Artagnan had made a pretence of passing a sword through his body, that husband had disappeared one fine morning, after furtively selling certain choice lots of wine, carrying away with him money and jewels. He was thought to be dead; his wife, especially, who cherished the pleasing idea that she was a widow, stoutly maintained that death had taken him. Therefore, after the connection had continued three years, carefully fostered by D’Artagnan, who found his bed and his mistress more agreeable every year, each doing credit to the other, the mistress conceived the extraordinary desire of becoming a wife and proposed to D’Artagnan that he should marry her.
 
“Ah, fie!” D’Artagnan replied. “Bigamy, my dear! Come now, you don’t really wish it?”
 
“But he is dead; I am sure of it.”
 
“He was a very contrary fellow and might come back on purpose to have us hanged.”
 
“All right; if he comes back you will kill him, you are so skillful and so brave.”
 
“Peste! my darling! another way of getting hanged.”
 
“So you refuse my request?”
 
“To be sure I do--furiously!”
 
The pretty landlady was desolate. She would have taken D’Artagnan not only as her husband, but as her God, he was so handsome and had so fierce a mustache.
 
Then along toward the fourth year came the expedition of Franche-Comte. D’Artagnan was assigned to it and made his preparations to depart. There were then great griefs, tears without end and solemn promises to remain faithful--all of course on the part of the hostess. D’Artagnan was too grand to promise anything; he purposed only to do all that he could to increase the glory of his name.
 
As to that, we know D’Artagnan’s courage; he exposed himself freely to danger and while charging at the head of his company he received a ball through the chest which laid him prostrate on the field of battle. He had been seen falling from his horse and had not been seen to rise; every one, therefore, believed him to be dead, especially those to whom his death would give promotion. One believes readily what he wishes to believe. Now in the army, from the division-generals who desire the death of the general-in-chief, to the soldiers who desire the death of the corporals, all desire some one’s death.
 
But D’Artagnan was not a man to let himself be killed like that. After he had remained through the heat of the day unconscious on the battle-field, the cool freshness of the night brought him to himself. He gained a village, knocked at the door of the finest house and was received as the wounded are always and everywhere received in France. He was petted, tended, cured; and one fine morning, in better health than ever before, he set out for France. Once in France he turned his course toward Paris, and reaching Paris went straight to Rue Tiquetonne.
 
But D’Artagnan found in his chamber the personal equipment of a man, complete, except for the sword, arranged along the wall.
 
“He has returned,” said he. “So much the worse, and so much the better!”
 
It need not be said that D’Artagnan was still thinking of the husband. He made inquiries and discovered that the servants were new and that the mistress had gone for a walk.
 
“Alone?” asked D’Artagnan.
 
“With monsieur.”
 
“Monsieur has returned, then?”
 
“Of course,” naively replied the servant.
 
“If I had any money,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “I would go away; but I have none. I must stay and follow the advice of my hostess, while thwarting the conjugal designs of this inopportune apparition.”
 
He had just completed this monologue--which proves that in momentous circumstances nothing is more natural than the monologue--when the servant-maid, watching at the door, suddenly cried out:
 
“Ah! see! here is madame returning with monsieur.”
 
D’Artagnan looked out and at the corner of Rue Montmartre saw the hostess coming along hanging to the arm of an enormous Swiss, who tiptoed in his walk with a magnificent air which pleasantly reminded him of his old friend Porthos.
 
“Is that monsieur?” said D’Artagnan to himself. “Oh! oh! he has grown a good deal, it seems to me.” And he sat down in the hall, choosing a conspicuous place.
 
The hostess, as she entered, saw D’Artagnan and uttered a little cry, whereupon D’Artagnan, judging that he had been recognized, rose, ran to her and embraced her tenderly. The Swiss, with an air of stupefaction, looked at the hostess, who turned pale.
 
“Ah, it is you, monsieur! What do you want of me?” she asked, in great distress.
 
“Is monsieur your cousin? Is monsieur your brother?” said D’Artagnan, not in the slightest degree embarrassed in the role he was playing. And without waiting for her reply he threw himself into the arms of the Helvetian, who received him with great coldness.
 
“Who is that man?” he asked.
 
The hostess replied only by gasps.
 
“Who is that Swiss?” asked D’Artagnan.
 
“Monsieur is going to marry me,” replied the hostess, between two gasps.
 
“Your husband, then, is at last dead?”
 
“How does that concern you?” replied the Swiss.
 
“It concerns me much,” said D’Artagnan, “since you cannot marry madame without my consent and since----”
 
“And since?” asked the Swiss.
 
“And since--I do not give it,” said the musketeer.
 
The Swiss became as purple as a peony. He wore his elegant uniform, D’Artagnan was wrapped in a sort of gray cloak; the Swiss was six feet high, D’Artagnan was hardly more than five; the Swiss considered himself on his own ground and regarded D’Artagnan as an intruder.
 
“Will you go away from here?” demanded the Swiss, stamping violently, like a man who begins to be seriously angry.
 
“I? By no means!” said D’Artagnan.
 
“Some one must go for help,” said a lad, who could not comprehend that this little man should make a stand against that other man, who was so large.
 
D’Artagnan, with a sudden accession of wrath, seized the lad by the ear and led him apart, with the injunction:
 
“Stay you where you are and don’t you stir, or I will pull this ear off. As for you, illustrious descendant of William Tell, you will straightway get together your clothes which are in my room and which annoy me, and go out quickly to another lodging.”
 
The Swiss began to laugh boisterously. “I go out?” he said. “And why?”
 
“Ah, very well!” said D’Artagnan; “I see that you understand French. Come then, and take a turn with me and I will explain.”
 
The hostess, who knew D’Artagnan’s skill with the sword, began to weep and tear her hair. D’Artagnan turned toward her, saying, “Then send him away, madame.”
 
“Pooh!” said the Swiss, who had needed a little time to take in D’Artagnan’s proposal, “pooh! who are you, in the first place, to ask me to take a turn with you?”
 
“I am lieutenant in his majesty’s musketeers,” said D’Artagnan, “and consequently your superior in everything; only, as the question now is not of rank, but of quarters--you know the custom--come and seek for yours; the first to return will recover his chamber.”
 
D’Artagnan led away the Swiss in spite of lamentations on the part of the hostess, who in reality found her heart inclining toward her former lover, though she would not have been sorry to give a lesson to that haughty musketeer who had affronted her by the refusal of her hand.
 
It was night when the two adversaries reached the field of battle. D’Artagnan politely begged the Swiss to yield to him the disputed chamber; the Swiss refused by shaking his head, and drew his sword.
 
“Then you will lie here,” said D’Artagnan. “It is a wretched bed, but that is not my fault, and it is you who have chosen it.” With these words he drew in his turn and crossed swords with his adversary.
 
He had to contend against a strong wrist, but his agility was superior to all force. The Swiss received two wounds and was not aware of it, by reason of the cold; but suddenly feebleness, occasioned by loss of blood, obliged him to sit down.
 
“There!” said D’Artagnan, “what did I tell you? Fortunately, you won’t be laid up more than a fortnight. Remain here and I will send you your clothes by the boy. Good-by! Oh, by the way, you’d better take lodging in the Rue Montorgueil at the Chat Qui Pelote. You will be well fed there, if the hostess remains the same. Adieu.”
 
Thereupon he returned in a lively mood to his room and sent to the Swiss the things that belonged to him. The boy found him sitting where D’Artagnan had left him, still overwhelmed by the coolness of his adversary.
 
The boy, the hostess, and all the house had the same regard for D’Artagnan that one would have for Hercules should he return to earth to repeat his twelve labors.
 
But when he was alone with the hostess he said: “Now, pretty Madeleine, you know the difference between a Swiss and a gentleman. As for you, you have acted like a barmaid. So much the worse for you, for by such conduct you have lost my esteem and my patronage. I have driven away the Swiss to humiliate you, but I shall lodge here no longer. I will not sleep where I must scorn. Ho, there, boy! Have my valise carried to the Muid d’Amour, Rue des Bourdonnais. Adieu, madame.”
 
In saying these words D’Artagnan appeared at the same time majestic and grieved. The hostess threw herself at his feet, asked his pardon and held him back with a sweet violence. What more need be said? The spit turned, the stove roared, the pretty Madeleine wept; D’Artagnan felt himself invaded by hunger, cold and love. He pardoned, and having pardoned he remained.
 
And this explains how D’Artagnan had quarters in the Rue Tiquetonne, at the Hotel de la Chevrette.
 
D’Artagnan then returned home in thoughtful mood, finding a somewhat lively pleasure in carrying Mazarin’s bag of money and thinking of that fine diamond which he had once called his own and which he had seen on the minister’s finger that night.
 
“Should that diamond ever fall into my hands again,” he reflected, “I would turn it at once into money; I would buy with the proceeds certain lands around my father’s chateau, which is a pretty place, well enough, but with no land to it at all, except a garden about the size of the Cemetery des Innocents; and I should wait in all my glory till some rich heiress, attracted by my good looks, rode along to marry me. Then I should like to have three sons; I should make the first a nobleman, like Athos; the second a good soldier, like Porthos; the third an excellent abbe, like Aramis. Faith! that would be a far better life than I lead now; but Monsieur Mazarin is a mean wretch, who won’t dispossess himself of his diamond in my favor.”
 
On entering the Rue Tiquetonne he heard a tremendous noise and found a dense crowd near the house.
 
“Oho!” said he, “is the hotel on fire?” On approaching the hotel of the Roe he found, however, that it was in front of the next house the mob was collected. The people were shouting and running about with torches. By the light of one of these torches D’Artagnan perceived men in uniform.
 
He asked what was going on.
 
He was told that twenty citizens, headed by one man, had attacked a carriage which was escorted by a troop of the cardinal’s bodyguard; but a reinforcement having come up, the assailants had been put to flight and the leader had taken refuge in the hotel next to his lodgings; the house was now being searched.
 
In his youth D’Artagnan had often headed the bourgeoisie against the military, but he was cured of all those hot-headed propensities; besides, he had the cardinal’s hundred pistoles in his pocket, so he went into the hotel without a word. There he found Madeleine alarmed for his safety and anxious to tell him all the events of the evening, but he cut her short by ordering her to put his supper in his room and give him with it a bottle of good Burgundy.
 
He took his key and candle and went upstairs to his bedroom. He had been contented, for the convenience of the house, to lodge in the fourth story; and truth obliges us even to confess that his chamber was just above the gutter and below the roof. His first care on entering it was to lock up in an old bureau with a new lock his bag of money, and then as soon as supper was ready he sent away the waiter who brought it up and sat down to table.
 
Not to reflect on what had passed, as one might fancy. No, D’Artagnan considered that things are never well done when they are not reserved to their proper time. He was hungry; he supped, he went to bed. Neither was he one of those who think that the necessary silence of the night brings counsel with it. In the night he slept, but in the morning, refreshed and calm, he was inspired with his clearest views of everything. It was long since he had any reason for his morning’s inspiration, but he always slept all night long. At daybreak he awoke and took a turn around his room.
 
“In ‘43,” he said, “just before the death of the late cardinal, I received a letter from Athos. Where was I then? Let me see. Oh! at the siege of Besancon I was in the trenches. He told me--let me think--what was it? That he was living on a small estate--but where? I was just reading the name of the place when the wind blew my letter away, I suppose to the Spaniards; there’s no use in thinking any more about Athos. Let me see: with regard to Porthos, I received a letter from him, too. He invited me to a hunting party on his property in the month of September, 1646. Unluckily, as I was then in Bearn, on account of my father’s death, the letter followed me there. I had left Bearn when it arrived and I never received it until the month of April, 1647; and as the invitation was for September, 1646, I couldn’t accept it. Let me look for this letter; it must be with my title deeds.”
 
D’Artagnan opened an old casket which stood in a corner of the room, and which was full of parchments referring to an estate during a period of two hundred years lost to his family. He uttered an exclamation of delight, for the large handwriting of Porthos was discernible, and underneath some lines traced by his worthy spouse.
 
D’Artagnan eagerly searched for the heading of this letter; it was dated from the Chateau du Vallon.
 
Porthos had forgotten that any other address was necessary; in his pride he fancied that every one must know the Chateau du Vallon.
 
“Devil take the vain fellow,” said D’Artagnan. “However, I had better find him out first, since he can’t want money. Athos must have become an idiot by this time from drinking. Aramis must have worn himself to a shadow of his former self by constant genuflexion.”
 
He cast his eyes again on the letter. There was a postscript:
 
“I write by the same courier to our worthy friend Aramis in his convent.”
 
“In his convent! What convent? There are about two hundred in Paris and three thousand in France; and then, perhaps, on entering the convent he changed his name. Ah! if I were but learned in theology I should recollect what it was he used to dispute about with the curate of Montdidier and the superior of the Jesuits, when we were at Crevecoeur; I should know what doctrine he leans to and I should glean from that what saint he has adopted as his patron.
 
“Well, suppose I go back to the cardinal and ask him for a passport into all the convents one can find, even into the nunneries? It would be a curious idea, and maybe I should find my friend under the name of Achilles. But, no! I should lose myself in the cardinal’s opinion. Great people only thank you for doing the impossible; what’s possible, they say, they can effect themselves, and they are right. But let us wait a little and reflect. I received a letter from him, the dear fellow, in which he even asked me for some small service, which, in fact, I rendered him. Yes, yes; but now what did I do with that letter?”
 
D’Artagnan thought a moment and then went to the wardrobe in which hung his old clothes. He looked for his doublet of the year 1648 and as he had orderly habits, he found it hanging on its nail. He felt in the pocket and drew from it a paper; it was the letter of Aramis:
 
“Monsieur D’Artagnan: You know that I have had a quarrel with a certain gentleman, who has given me an appointment for this evening in the Place Royale. As I am of the church, and the affair might injure me if I should share it with any other than a sure friend like you, I write to beg that you will serve me as second.
 
“You will enter by the Rue Neuve Sainte Catherine; under the second lamp on the right you will find your adversary. I shall be with mine under the third.
 
“Wholly yours,
 
“Aramis.”
 
D’Artagnan tried to recall his remembrances. He had gone to the rendezvous, had encountered there the adversary indicated, whose name he had never known, had given him a pretty sword-stroke on the arm, then had gone toward Aramis, who at the same time came to meet him, having already finished his affair. “It is over,” Aramis had said. “I think I have killed the insolent fellow. But, dear friend, if you ever need me you know that I am entirely devoted to you.” Thereupon Aramis had given him a clasp of the hand and had disappeared under the arcades.
 
So, then, he no more knew where Aramis was than where Athos and Porthos were, and the affair was becoming a matter of great perplexity, when he fancied he heard a pane of glass break in his room window. He thought directly of his bag and rushed from the inner room where he was sleeping. He was not mistaken; as he entered his bedroom a man was getting in by the window.
 
“Ah! you scoundrel!” cried D’Artagnan, taking the man for a thief and seizing his sword.
 
“Sir!” cried the man, “in the name of Heaven put your sword back into the sheath and don’t kill me unheard. I’m no thief, but an honest citizen, well off in the world, with a house of my own. My name is--ah! but surely you are Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
 
“And thou--Planchet!” cried the lieutenant.
 
“At your service, sir,” said Planchet, overwhelmed with joy; “if I were still capable of serving you.”
 
“Perhaps so,” replied D’Artagnan. “But why the devil dost thou run about the tops of houses at seven o’clock of the morning in the month of January?”
 
“Sir,” said Planchet, “you must know; but, perhaps you ought not to know----”
 
“Tell us what,” returned D’Artagnan, “but first put a napkin against the window and draw the curtains.”
 
“Sir,” said the prudent Planchet, “in the first place, are you on good terms with Monsieur de Rochefort?”
 
“Perfectly; one of my dearest friends.”
 
“Ah! so much the better!”
 
“But what has De Rochefort to do with this manner you have of invading my room?”
 
“Ah, sir! I must first tell you that Monsieur de Rochefort is----”
 
Planchet hesitated.
 
“Egad, I know where he is,” said D’Artagnan. “He’s in the Bastile.”
 
“That is to say, he was there,” replied Planchet. “But in returning thither last night, when fortunately you did not accompany him, as his carriage was crossing the Rue de la Ferronnerie his guards insulted the people, who began to abuse them. The prisoner thought this a good opportunity for escape; he called out his name and cried for help. I was there. I heard the name of Rochefort. I remembered him well. I said in a loud voice that he was a prisoner, a friend of the Duc de Beaufort, who called for help. The people were infuriated; they stopped the horses and cut the escort to pieces, whilst I opened the doors of the carriage and Monsieur de Rochefort jumped out and soon was lost amongst the crowd. At this moment a patrol passed by. I was obliged to sound a retreat toward the Rue Tiquetonne; I was pursued and took refuge in the house next to this, where I have been concealed between two mattresses. This morning I ventured to run along the gutters and----”
 
“Well,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “I am delighted that De Rochefort is free, but as for thee, if thou shouldst fall into the hands of the king’s servants they will hang thee without mercy. Nevertheless, I promise thee thou shalt be hidden here, though I risk by concealing thee neither more nor less than my lieutenancy, if it was found out that I gave one rebel an asylum.”
 
“Ah! sir, you know well I would risk my life for you.”
 
“Thou mayst add that thou hast risked it, Planchet. I have not forgotten all I owe thee. Sit down there and eat in security. I see thee cast expressive glances at the remains of my supper.”
 
“Yes, sir; for all I’ve had since yesterday was a slice of bread and butter, with preserves on it. Although I don’t despise sweet things in proper time and place, I found the supper rather light.”
 
“Poor fellow!” said D’Artagnan. “Well, come; set to.”
 
“Ah, sir, you are going to save my life a second time!” cried Planchet.
 
And he seated himself at the table and ate as he did in the merry days of the Rue des Fossoyeurs, whilst D’Artagnan walked to and fro and thought how he could make use of Planchet under present circumstances. While he turned this over in his mind Planchet did his best to make up for lost time at table. At last he uttered a sigh of satisfaction and paused, as if he had partially appeased his hunger.
 
“Come,” said D’Artagnan, who thought that it was now a convenient time to begin his interrogations, “dost thou know where Athos is?”
 
“No, sir,” replied Planchet.
 
“The devil thou dost not! Dost know where Porthos is?”
 
“No--not at all.”
 
“And Aramis?”
 
“Not in the least.”
 
“The devil! the devil! the devil!”
 
“But, sir,” said Planchet, with a look of shrewdness, “I know where Bazin is.”
 
“Where is he?”
 
“At Notre Dame.”
 
“What has he to do at Notre Dame?”
 
“He is beadle.”
 
“Bazin beadle at Notre Dame! He must know where his master is!”
 
“Without a doubt he must.”
 
D’Artagnan thought for a moment, then took his sword and put on his cloak to go out.
 
“Sir,” said Planchet, in a mournful tone, “do you abandon me thus to my fate? Think, if I am found out here, the people of the house, who have not seen me enter it, will take me for a thief.”
 
“True,” said D’Artagnan. “Let’s see. Canst thou speak any patois?”
 
“I can do something better than that, sir, I can speak Flemish.”
 
“Where the devil didst thou learn it?”
 
“In Artois, where I fought for years. Listen, sir. Goeden morgen, mynheer, eth teen begeeray le weeten the ge sond heets omstand.”
 
“Which means?”
 
“Good-day, sir! I am anxious to know the state of your health.”
 
“He calls that a language! But never mind, that will do capitally.”
 
D’Artagnan opened the door and called out to a waiter to desire Madeleine to come upstairs.
 
When the landlady made her appearance she expressed much astonishment at seeing Planchet.
 
“My dear landlady,” said D’Artagnan, “I beg to introduce to you your brother, who is arrived from Flanders and whom I am going to take into my service.”
 
“My brother?”
 
“Wish your sister good-morning, Master Peter.”
 
“Wilkom, suster,” said Planchet.
 
“Goeden day, broder,” replied the astonished landlady.
 
“This is the case,” said D’Artagnan; “this is your brother, Madeleine; you don’t know him perhaps, but I know him; he has arrived from Amsterdam. You must dress him up during my absence. When I return, which will be in about an hour, you must offer him to me as a servant, and upon your recommendation, though he doesn’t speak a word of French, I take him into my service. You understand?”
 
“That is to say, I guess your wishes, and that is all that’s necessary,” said Madeleine.
 
“You are a precious creature, my pretty hostess, and I am much obliged to you.”
 
The next moment D’Artagnan was on his way to Notre Dame.
7. Touches upon the Strange Effects a Half-pistole may have.
 D’Artagnan, as he crossed the Pont Neuf, congratulated himself on having found Planchet again, for at that time an intelligent servant was essential to him; nor was he sorry that through Planchet and the situation which he held in Rue des Lombards, a connection with the bourgeoisie might be commenced, at that critical period when that class were preparing to make war with the court party. It was like having a spy in the enemy’s camp. In this frame of mind, grateful for the accidental meeting with Planchet, pleased with himself, D’Artagnan reached Notre Dame. He ran up the steps, entered the church, and addressing a verger who was sweeping the chapel, asked him if he knew Monsieur Bazin.
 
“Monsieur Bazin, the beadle?” said the verger. “Yes. There he is, attending mass, in the chapel of the Virgin.”
 
D’Artagnan nearly jumped for joy; he had despaired of finding Bazin, but now, he thought, since he held one end of the thread he would be pretty sure to reach the other end.
 
He knelt down just opposite the chapel in order not to lose sight of his man; and as he had almost forgotten his prayers and had omitted to take a book with him, he made use of his time in gazing at Bazin.
 
Bazin wore his dress, it may be observed, with equal dignity and saintly propriety. It was not difficult to understand that he had gained the crown of his ambition and that the silver-mounted wand he brandished was in his eyes as honorable a distinction as the marshal’s baton which Conde threw, or did not throw, into the enemy’s line of battle at Fribourg. His person had undergone a change, analogous to the change in his dress; his figure had grown rotund and, as it were, canonical. The striking points of his face were effaced; he had still a nose, but his cheeks, fattened out, each took a portion of it unto themselves; his chin had joined his throat; his eyes were swelled up with the puffiness of his cheeks; his hair, cut straight in holy guise, covered his forehead as far as his eyebrows.
 
The officiating priest was just finishing mass whilst D’Artagnan was looking at Bazin; he pronounced the words of the holy Sacrament and retired, giving the benediction, which was received by the kneeling communicants, to the astonishment of D’Artagnan, who recognized in the priest the coadjutor* himself, the famous Jean Francois Gondy, who at that time, having a presentiment of the part he was to play, was beginning to court popularity by almsgiving. It was to this end that he performed from time to time some of those early masses which the common people, generally, alone attended.
 
* A sacerdotal officer.
D’Artagnan knelt as well as the rest, received his share of the benediction and made the sign of the cross; but when Bazin passed in his turn, with his eyes raised to Heaven and walking, in all humility, the very last, D’Artagnan pulled him by the hem of his robe.
 
Bazin looked down and started, as if he had seen a serpent.
 
“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” he cried; “Vade retro Satanas!”
 
“So, my dear Bazin!” said the officer, laughing, “this is the way you receive an old friend.”
 
“Sir,” replied Bazin, “the true friends of a Christian are those who aid him in working out his salvation, not those who hinder him in doing so.”
 
“I don’t understand you, Bazin; nor can I see how I can be a stumbling-block in the way of your salvation,” said D’Artagnan.
 
“You forget, sir, that you very nearly ruined forever that of my master; and that it was owing to you that he was very nearly being damned eternally for remaining a musketeer, whilst all the time his true vocation was the church.”
 
“My dear Bazin, you ought to perceive,” said D’Artagnan, “from the place in which you find me, that I am greatly changed in everything. Age produces good sense, and, as I doubt not but that your master is on the road to salvation, I want you to tell me where he is, that he may help me to mine.”
 
“Rather say, to take him back with you into the world. Fortunately, I don’t know where he is.”
 
“How!” cried D’Artagnan; “you don’t know where Aramis is?”
 
“Formerly,” replied Bazin, “Aramis was his name of perdition. By Aramis is meant Simara, which is the name of a demon. Happily for him he has ceased to bear that name.”
 
“And therefore,” said D’Artagnan, resolved to be patient to the end, “it is not Aramis I seek, but the Abbe d’Herblay. Come, my dear Bazin, tell me where he is.”
 
“Didn’t you hear me tell you, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that I don’t know where he is?”
 
“Yes, certainly; but to that I answer that it is impossible.”
 
“It is, nevertheless, the truth, monsieur--the pure truth, the truth of the good God.”
 
D’Artagnan saw clearly that he would get nothing out of this man, who was evidently telling a falsehood in his pretended ignorance of the abode of Aramis, but whose lies were bold and decided.
 
“Well, Bazin,” said D’Artagnan, “since you do not know where your master lives, let us speak of it no more; let us part good friends. Accept this half-pistole to drink to my health.”
 
“I do not drink”--Bazin pushed away with dignity the officer’s hand--“‘tis good only for the laity.”
 
“Incorruptible!” murmured D’Artagnan; “I am unlucky;” and whilst he was lost in thought Bazin retreated toward the sacristy, and even there he could not think himself safe until he had shut and locked the door behind him.
 
D’Artagnan was still in deep thought when some one touched him on the shoulder. He turned and was about to utter an exclamation of surprise when the other made to him a sign of silence.
 
“You here, Rochefort?” he said, in a low voice.
 
“Hush!” returned Rochefort. “Did you know that I am at liberty?”
 
“I knew it from the fountain-head--from Planchet. And what brought you here?”
 
“I came to thank God for my happy deliverance,” said Rochefort.
 
“And nothing more? I suppose that is not all.”
 
“To take my orders from the coadjutor and to see if we cannot wake up Mazarin a little.”
 
“A bad plan; you’ll be shut up again in the Bastile.”
 
“Oh, as to that, I shall take care, I assure you. The air, the fresh, free air is so good; besides,” and Rochefort drew a deep breath as he spoke, “I am going into the country to make a tour.”
 
“Stop,” cried D’Artagnan; “I, too, am going.”
 
“And if I may without impertinence ask--where are you going?”
 
“To seek my friends.”
 
“What friends?”
 
“Those that you asked about yesterday.”
 
“Athos, Porthos and Aramis--you are looking for them?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“On honor?”
 
“What, then, is there surprising in that?”
 
“Nothing. Queer, though. And in whose behalf are you looking for them?”
 
“You are in no doubt on that score.”
 
“That is true.”
 
“Unfortunately, I have no idea where they are.”
 
“And you have no way to get news of them? Wait a week and I myself will give you some.”
 
“A week is too long. I must find them within three days.”
 
“Three days are a short time and France is large.”
 
“No matter; you know the word must; with that word great things are done.”
 
“And when do you set out?”
 
“I am now on my road.”
 
“Good luck to you.”
 
“And to you--a good journey.”
 
“Perhaps we shall meet on our road.”
 
“That is not probable.”
 
“Who knows? Chance is so capricious. Adieu, till we meet again! Apropos, should Mazarin speak to you about me, tell him that I should have requested you to acquaint him that in a short time he will see whether I am, as he says, too old for action.”
 
And Rochefort went away with one of those diabolical smiles which used formerly to make D’Artagnan shudder, but D’Artagnan could now see it without alarm, and smiling in his turn, with an expression of melancholy which the recollections called up by that smile could, perhaps, alone give to his countenance, he said:
 
“Go, demon, do what thou wilt! It matters little now to me. There’s no second Constance in the world.”
 
On his return to the cathedral, D’Artagnan saw Bazin, who was conversing with the sacristan. Bazin was making, with his spare little short arms, ridiculous gestures. D’Artagnan perceived that he was enforcing prudence with respect to himself.
 
D’Artagnan slipped out of the cathedral and placed himself in ambuscade at the corner of the Rue des Canettes; it was impossible that Bazin should go out of the cathedral without his seeing him.
 
In five minutes Bazin made his appearance, looking in every direction to see if he were observed, but he saw no one. Calmed by appearances he ventured to walk on through the Rue Notre Dame. Then D’Artagnan rushed out of his hiding place and arrived in time to see Bazin turn down the Rue de la Juiverie and enter, in the Rue de la Calandre, a respectable looking house; and this D’Artagnan felt no doubt was the habitation of the worthy beadle. Afraid of making any inquiries at this house, D’Artagnan entered a small tavern at the corner of the street and asked for a cup of hypocras. This beverage required a good half-hour to prepare. And D’Artagnan had time, therefore, to watch Bazin unsuspected.
 
He perceived in the tavern a pert boy between twelve and fifteen years of age whom he fancied he had seen not twenty minutes before under the guise of a chorister. He questioned him, and as the boy had no interest in deceiving, D’Artagnan learned that he exercised, from six o’clock in the morning until nine, the office of chorister, and from nine o’clock till midnight that of a waiter in the tavern.
 
Whilst he was talking to this lad a horse was brought to the door of Bazin’s house. It was saddled and bridled. Almost immediately Bazin came downstairs.
 
“Look!” said the boy, “there’s our beadle, who is going a journey.”
 
“And where is he going?” asked D’Artagnan.
 
“Forsooth, I don’t know.”
 
“Half a pistole if you can find out,” said D’Artagnan.
 
“For me?” cried the boy, his eyes sparkling with joy, “if I can find out where Bazin is going? That is not difficult. You are not joking, are you?”
 
“No, on the honor of an officer; there is the half-pistole;” and he showed him the seductive coin, but did not give it him.
 
“I shall ask him.”
 
“Just the very way not to know. Wait till he is set out and then, marry, come up, ask, and find out. The half-pistole is ready,” and he put it back again into his pocket.
 
“I understand,” said the child, with that jeering smile which marks especially the “gamin de Paris.” “Well, we must wait.”
 
They had not long to wait. Five minutes afterward Bazin set off on a full trot, urging on his horse by the blows of a parapluie, which he was in the habit of using instead of a riding whip.
 
Scarcely had he turned the corner of the Rue de la Juiverie when the boy rushed after him like a bloodhound on full scent.
 
Before ten minutes had elapsed the child returned.
 
“Well!” said D’Artagnan.
 
“Well!” answered the boy, “the thing is done.”
 
“Where is he gone?”
 
“The half-pistole is for me?”
 
“Doubtless, answer me.”
 
“I want to see it. Give it me, that I may see it is not false.”
 
“There it is.”
 
The child put the piece of money into his pocket.
 
“And now, where is he gone?” inquired D’Artagnan.
 
“He is gone to Noisy.”
 
“How dost thou know?”
 
“Ah, faith! there was no great cunning necessary. I knew the horse he rode; it belonged to the butcher, who lets it out now and then to M. Bazin. Now I thought that the butcher would not let his horse out like that without knowing where it was going. And he answered ‘that Monsieur Bazin went to Noisy.’ ‘Tis his custom. He goes two or three times a week.”
 
“Dost thou know Noisy well?”
 
“I think so, truly; my nurse lives there.”
 
“Is there a convent at Noisy?”
 
“Isn’t there a great and grand one--the convent of Jesuits?”
 
“What is thy name?”
 
“Friquet.”
 
D’Artagnan wrote the child’s name in his tablets.
 
“Please, sir,” said the boy, “do you think I can gain any more half-pistoles in any way?”
 
“Perhaps,” replied D’Artagnan.
 
And having got out all he wanted, he paid for the hypocras, which he did not drink, and went quickly back to the Rue Tiquetonne.
 
8. D’Artagnan, Going to a Distance to discover Aramis.
 On entering the hotel D’Artagnan saw a man sitting in a corner by the fire. It was Planchet, but so completely transformed, thanks to the old clothes that the departing husband had left behind, that D’Artagnan himself could hardly recognize him. Madeleine introduced him in presence of all the servants. Planchet addressed the officer with a fine Flemish phrase; the officer replied in words that belonged to no language at all, and the bargain was concluded; Madeleine’s brother entered D’Artagnan’s service.
 
The plan adopted by D’Artagnan was soon perfected. He resolved not to reach Noisy in the day, for fear of being recognized; he had therefore plenty of time before him, for Noisy is only three or four leagues from Paris, on the road to Meaux.
 
He began his day by breakfasting substantially--a bad beginning when one wants to employ the head, but an excellent precaution when one wants to work the body; and about two o’clock he had his two horses saddled, and followed by Planchet he quitted Paris by the Barriere de la Villete. A most active search was still prosecuted in the house near the Hotel de la Chevrette for the discovery of Planchet.
 
At about a league and a half from the city, D’Artagnan, finding that in his impatience he had set out too soon, stopped to give the horses breathing time. The inn was full of disreputable looking people, who seemed as if they were on the point of commencing some nightly expedition. A man, wrapped in a cloak, appeared at the door, but seeing a stranger he beckoned to his companions, and two men who were drinking in the inn went out to speak to him.
 
D’Artagnan, on his side, went up to the landlady, praised her wine--which was a horrible production from the country of Montreuil--and heard from her that there were only two houses of importance in the village; one of these belonged to the Archbishop of Paris, and was at that time the abode of his niece the Duchess of Longueville; the other was a convent of Jesuits and was the property--a by no means unusual circumstance--of these worthy fathers.
 
At four o’clock D’Artagnan recommenced his journey. He proceeded slowly and in deep reverie. Planchet also was lost in thought, but the subject of their reflections was not the same.
 
One word which their landlady had pronounced had given a particular turn to D’Artagnan’s deliberations; this was the name of Madame de Longueville.
 
That name was indeed one to inspire imagination and produce thought. Madame de Longueville was one of the highest ladies in the realm; she was also one of the greatest beauties at court. She had formerly been suspected of an intimacy of too tender a nature with Coligny, who, for her sake, had been killed in a duel, in the Place Royale, by the Duc de Guise. She was now connected by bonds of a political nature with the Prince de Marsillac, the eldest son of the old Duc de Rochefoucauld, whom she was trying to inspire with an enmity toward the Duc de Conde, her brother-in-law, whom she now hated mortally.
 
D’Artagnan thought of all these matters. He remembered how at the Louvre he had often seen, as she passed by him in the full radiance of her dazzling charms, the beautiful Madame de Longueville. He thought of Aramis, who, without possessing any greater advantages than himself, had formerly been the lover of Madame de Chevreuse, who had been to a former court what Madame de Longueville was in that day; and he wondered how it was that there should be in the world people who succeed in every wish, some in ambition, others in love, whilst others, either from chance, or from ill-luck, or from some natural defect or impediment, remain half-way upon the road toward fulfilment of their hopes and expectations.
 
He was confessing to himself that he belonged to the latter unhappy class, when Planchet approached and said:
 
“I will lay a wager, your honor, that you and I are thinking of the same thing.”
 
“I doubt it, Planchet,” replied D’Artagnan, “but what are you thinking of?”
 
“I am thinking, sir, of those desperate looking men who were drinking in the inn where we rested.”
 
“Always cautious, Planchet.”
 
“‘Tis instinct, your honor.”
 
“Well, what does your instinct tell you now?”
 
“Sir, my instinct told me that those people were assembled there for some bad purpose; and I was reflecting on what my instinct had told me, in the darkest corner of the stable, when a man wrapped in a cloak and followed by two other men, came in.”
 
“Ah ah!” said D’Artagnan, Planchet’s recital agreeing with his own observations. “Well?”
 
“One of these two men said, ‘He must certainly be at Noisy, or be coming there this evening, for I have seen his servant.’
 
“‘Art thou sure?’ said the man in the cloak.
 
“‘Yes, my prince.’”
 
“My prince!” interrupted D’Artagnan.
 
“Yes, ‘my prince;’ but listen. ‘If he is here’--this is what the other man said--‘let’s see decidedly what to do with him.’
 
“‘What to do with him?’ answered the prince.
 
“‘Yes, he’s not a man to allow himself to be taken anyhow; he’ll defend himself.’
 
“‘Well, we must try to take him alive. Have you cords to bind him with and a gag to stop his mouth?’
 
“‘We have.’
 
“‘Remember that he will most likely be disguised as a horseman.’
 
“‘Yes, yes, my lord; don’t be uneasy.’
 
“‘Besides, I shall be there.’
 
“‘You will assure us that justice----’
 
“‘Yes, yes! I answer for all that,’ the prince said.
 
“‘Well, then, we’ll do our best.’ Having said that, they went out of the stable.”
 
“Well, what matters all that to us?” said D’Artagnan. “This is one of those attempts that happen every day.”
 
“Are you sure that we are not its objects?”
 
“We? Why?”
 
“Just remember what they said. ‘I have seen his servant,’ said one, and that applies very well to me.”
 
“Well?”
 
“‘He must certainly be at Noisy, or be coming there this evening,’ said the other; and that applies very well to you.”
 
“What else?”
 
“Then the prince said: ‘Take notice that in all probability he will be disguised as a cavalier;’ which seems to me to leave no room for doubt, since you are dressed as a cavalier and not as an officer of musketeers. Now then, what do you say to that?”
 
“Alas! my dear Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, sighing, “we are unfortunately no longer in those times in which princes would care to assassinate me. Those were good old days; never fear--these people owe us no grudge.”
 
“Is your honor sure?”
 
“I can answer for it they do not.”
 
“Well, we won’t speak of it any more, then;” and Planchet took his place in D’Artagnan’s suite with that sublime confidence he had always had in his master, which even fifteen years of separation had not destroyed.
 
They had traveled onward about half a mile when Planchet came close up to D’Artagnan.
 
“Stop, sir, look yonder,” he whispered; “don’t you see in the darkness something pass by, like shadows? I fancy I hear horses’ feet.”
 
“Impossible!” returned D’Artagnan. “The ground is soaking wet; yet I fancy, as thou sayest, that I see something.”
 
At this moment the neighing of a horse struck his ear, coming through darkness and space.
 
“There are men somewhere about, but that’s of no consequence to us,” said D’Artagnan; “let us ride onward.”
 
At about half-past eight o’clock they reached the first houses in Noisy; every one was in bed and not a light was to be seen in the village. The obscurity was broken only now and then by the still darker lines of the roofs of houses. Here and there a dog barked behind a door or an affrighted cat fled precipitately from the midst of the pavement to take refuge behind a pile of faggots, from which retreat her eyes would shine like peridores. These were the only living creatures that seemed to inhabit the village.
 
Toward the middle of the town, commanding the principal open space, rose a dark mass, separated from the rest of the world by two lanes and overshadowed in the front by enormous lime-trees. D’Artagnan looked attentively at the building.
 
“This,” he said to Planchet, “must be the archbishop’s chateau, the abode of the fair Madame de Longueville; but the convent, where is that?”
 
“The convent, your honor, is at the other end of the village; I know it well.”
 
“Well, then, Planchet, gallop up to it whilst I tighten my horse’s girth, and come back and tell me if there is a light in any of the Jesuits’ windows.”
 
In about five minutes Planchet returned.
 
“Sir,” he said, “there is one window of the convent lighted up.”
 
“Hem! If I were a ‘Frondeur,’” said D’Artagnan, “I should knock here and should be sure of a good supper. If I were a monk I should knock yonder and should have a good supper there, too; whereas, ‘tis very possible that between the castle and the convent we shall sleep on hard beds, dying with hunger and thirst.”
 
“Yes,” added Planchet, “like the famous ass of Buridan. Shall I knock?”
 
“Hush!” replied D’Artagnan; “the light no longer burns in yonder window.”
 
“Do you hear nothing?” whispered Planchet.
 
“What is that noise?”
 
There came a sound like a whirlwind, at the same time two troops of horsemen, each composed of ten men, sallied forth from each of the lanes which encompassed the house and surrounded D’Artagnan and Planchet.
 
“Heyday!” cried D’Artagnan, drawing his sword and taking refuge behind his horse; “are you not mistaken? is it really for us that you mean your attack?”
 
“Here he is! we have him!” cried the horsemen, rushing on D’Artagnan with naked swords.
 
“Don’t let him escape!” said a loud voice.
 
“No, my lord; be assured we shall not.”
 
D’Artagnan thought it was now time for him to join in the conversation.
 
“Halloo, gentlemen!” he called out in his Gascon accent, “what do you want? what do you demand?”
 
“That thou shalt soon know,” shouted a chorus of horsemen.
 
“Stop, stop!” cried he whom they had addressed as “my lord;” “‘tis not his voice.”
 
“Ah! just so, gentlemen! pray, do people get into a passion at random at Noisy? Take care, for I warn you that the first man that comes within the length of my sword--and my sword is long--I rip him up.”
 
The chieftain of the party drew near.
 
“What are you doing here?” he asked in a lofty tone, as that of one accustomed to command.
 
“And you--what are you doing here?” replied D’Artagnan.
 
“Be civil, or I shall beat you; for although one may not choose to proclaim oneself, one insists on respect suitable to one’s rank.”
 
“You don’t choose to discover yourself, because you are the leader of an ambuscade,” returned D’Artagnan; “but with regard to myself, who am traveling quietly with my own servant, I have not the same reasons as you have to conceal my name.”
 
“Enough! enough! what is your name?”
 
“I shall tell you my name in order that you may know where to find me, my lord, or my prince, as it may suit you best to be called,” said our Gascon, who did not choose to seem to yield to a threat. “Do you know Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
 
“Lieutenant in the king’s musketeers?” said the voice; “you are Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
 
“I am.”
 
“Then you came here to defend him?”
 
“Him? whom?”
 
“The man we are seeking.”
 
“It seems,” said D’Artagnan, “that whilst I thought I was coming to Noisy I have entered, without suspecting it, into the kingdom of mysteries.”
 
“Come,” replied the same lofty tone, “answer! Are you waiting for him underneath these windows? Did you come to Noisy to defend him?”
 
“I am waiting for no one,” replied D’Artagnan, who was beginning to be angry. “I propose to defend no one but myself, and I shall defend myself vigorously, I give you warning.”
 
“Very well,” said the voice; “go away from here and leave the place to us.”
 
“Go away from here!” said D’Artagnan, whose purposes were in conflict with that order, “that is not so easy, since I am on the point of falling, and my horse, too, through fatigue; unless, indeed, you are disposed to offer me a supper and a bed in the neighborhood.”
 
“Rascal!”
 
“Eh! monsieur!” said D’Artagnan, “I beg you will have a care what you say; for if you utter another word like that, be you marquis, duke, prince or king, I will thrust it down your throat! do you hear?”
 
“Well, well,” rejoined the leader, “there’s no doubt ‘tis a Gascon who is speaking, and therefore not the man we are looking for. Our blow has failed for to-night; let us withdraw. We shall meet again, Master d’Artagnan,” continued the leader, raising his voice.
 
“Yes, but never with the same advantages,” said D’Artagnan, in a tone of raillery; “for when you meet me again you will perhaps be alone and there will be daylight.”
 
“Very good, very good,” said the voice. “En route, gentlemen.”
 
And the troop, grumbling angrily, disappeared in the darkness and took the road to Paris. D’Artagnan and Planchet remained for some moments still on the defensive; then, as the noise of the horsemen became more and more distant, they sheathed their swords.
 
“Thou seest, simpleton,” said D’Artagnan to his servant, “that they wished no harm to us.”
 
“But to whom, then?”
 
“I’faith! I neither know nor care. What I do care for now, is to make my way into the Jesuits’ convent; so to horse and let us knock at their door. Happen what will, the devil take them, they can’t eat us.”
 
And he mounted his horse. Planchet had just done the same when an unexpected weight fell upon the back of the horse, which sank down.
 
“Hey! your honor!” cried Planchet, “I’ve a man behind me.”
 
D’Artagnan turned around and plainly saw two human forms on Planchet’s horse.
 
“‘Tis then the devil that pursues!” he cried; drawing his sword and preparing to attack the new foe.
 
“No, no, dear D’Artagnan,” said the figure, “‘tis not the devil, ‘tis Aramis; gallop fast, Planchet, and when you come to the end of the village turn swiftly to the left.”
 
And Planchet, with Aramis behind him, set off at full gallop, followed by D’Artagnan, who began to think he was in the merry maze of some fantastic dream.
 
9. The Abbe D’Herblay.
 At the extremity of the village Planchet turned to the left in obedience to the orders of Aramis, and stopped underneath the window which had light in it. Aramis alighted and clapped his hands three times. Immediately the window was opened and a ladder of rope was let down from it.
 
“My friend,” said Aramis, “if you like to ascend I shall be delighted to receive you.”
 
“Ah,” said D’Artagnan, “is that the way you return to your apartment?”
 
“After nine at night, pardieu!” said Aramis, “the rule of the convent is very severe.”
 
“Pardon me, my dear friend,” said D’Artagnan, “I think you said ‘pardieu!’”
 
“Do you think so?” said Aramis, smiling; “it is possible. You have no idea, my dear fellow, how one acquires bad habits in these cursed convents, or what evil ways all these men of the church have, with whom I am obliged to live. But will you not go up?”
 
“Pass on before me, I beg of you.”
 
“As the late cardinal used to say to the late king, ‘only to show you the way, sire.’” And Aramis ascended the ladder quickly and reached the window in an instant.
 
D’Artagnan followed, but less nimbly, showing plainly that this mode of ascent was not one to which he was accustomed.
 
“I beg your pardon,” said Aramis, noticing his awkwardness; “if I had known that I was to have the honor of your visit I should have procured the gardener’s ladder; but for me alone this is good enough.”
 
“Sir,” said Planchet when he saw D’Artagnan on the summit of the ladder, “this way is easy for Monsieur Aramis and even for you; in case of necessity I might also climb up, but my two horses cannot mount the ladder.”
 
“Take them to yonder shed, my friend,” said Aramis, pointing to a low building on the plain; “there you will find hay and straw for them; then come back here and clap your hands three times, and we will give you wine and food. Marry, forsooth, people don’t die of hunger here.”
 
And Aramis, drawing in the ladder, closed the window. D’Artagnan then looked around attentively.
 
Never was there an apartment at the same time more warlike and more elegant. At each corner were arranged trophies, presenting to view swords of all sorts, and on the walls hung four great pictures representing in their ordinary military costume the Cardinal de Lorraine, the Cardinal de Richelieu, the Cardinal de la Valette, and the Archbishop of Bordeaux. Exteriorly, nothing in the room showed that it was the habitation of an abbe. The hangings were of damask, the carpets from Alencon, and the bed, especially, had more the look of a fine lady’s couch, with its trimmings of fine lace and its embroidered counterpane, than that of a man who had made a vow that he would endeavor to gain Heaven by fasting and mortification.
 
“You are examining my den,” said Aramis. “Ah, my dear fellow, excuse me; I am lodged like a Chartreux. But what are you looking for?”
 
“I am looking for the person who let down the ladder. I see no one and yet the ladder didn’t come down of itself.”
 
“No, it is Bazin.”
 
“Ah! ah!” said D’Artagnan.
 
“But,” continued Aramis, “Bazin is a well trained servant, and seeing that I was not alone he discreetly retired. Sit down, my dear friend, and let us talk.” And Aramis pushed forward a large easy-chair, in which D’Artagnan stretched himself out.
 
“In the first place, you will sup with me, will you not?” asked Aramis.
 
“Yes, if you really wish it,” said D’Artagnan, “and even with great pleasure, I confess; the journey has given me a devil of an appetite.”
 
“Ah, my poor friend!” said Aramis, “you will find meagre fare; you were not expected.”
 
“Am I then threatened with the omelet of Crevecoeur?”
 
“Oh, let us hope,” said Aramis, “that with the help of God and of Bazin we shall find something better than that in the larder of the worthy Jesuit fathers. Bazin, my friend, come here.”
 
The door opened and Bazin entered; on perceiving the musketeer he uttered an exclamation that was almost a cry of despair.
 
“My dear Bazin,” said D’Artagnan, “I am delighted to see with what wonderful composure you can tell a lie even in church!”
 
“Sir,” replied Bazin, “I have been taught by the good Jesuit fathers that it is permitted to tell a falsehood when it is told in a good cause.”
 
“So far well,” said Aramis; “we are dying of hunger. Serve us up the best supper you can, and especially give us some good wine.”
 
Bazin bowed low, sighed, and left the room.
 
“Now we are alone, dear Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, “tell me how the devil you managed to alight upon the back of Planchet’s horse.”
 
“I’faith!” answered Aramis, “as you see, from Heaven.”
 
“From Heaven,” replied D’Artagnan, shaking his head; “you have no more the appearance of coming from thence than you have of going there.”
 
“My friend,” said Aramis, with a look of imbecility on his face which D’Artagnan had never observed whilst he was in the musketeers, “if I did not come from Heaven, at least I was leaving Paradise, which is almost the same.”
 
“Here, then, is a puzzle for the learned,” observed D’Artagnan, “until now they have never been able to agree as to the situation of Paradise; some place it on Mount Ararat, others between the rivers Tigris and Euphrates; it seems that they have been looking very far away for it, while it was actually very near. Paradise is at Noisy le Sec, upon the site of the archbishop’s chateau. People do not go out from it by the door, but by the window; one doesn’t descend here by the marble steps of a peristyle, but by the branches of a lime-tree; and the angel with a flaming sword who guards this elysium seems to have changed his celestial name of Gabriel into that of the more terrestrial one of the Prince de Marsillac.”
 
Aramis burst into a fit of laughter.
 
“You were always a merry companion, my dear D’Artagnan,” he said, “and your witty Gascon fancy has not deserted you. Yes, there is something in what you say; nevertheless, do not believe that it is Madame de Longueville with whom I am in love.”
 
“A plague on’t! I shall not do so. After having been so long in love with Madame de Chevreuse, you would hardly lay your heart at the feet of her mortal enemy!”
 
“Yes,” replied Aramis, with an absent air; “yes, that poor duchess! I once loved her much, and to do her justice, she was very useful to us. Eventually she was obliged to leave France. He was a relentless enemy, that damned cardinal,” continued Aramis, glancing at the portrait of the old minister. “He had even given orders to arrest her and would have cut off her head had she not escaped with her waiting-maid--poor Kitty! I have heard that she met with a strange adventure in I don’t know what village, with I don’t know what cure, of whom she asked hospitality and who, having but one chamber, and taking her for a cavalier, offered to share it with her. For she had a wonderful way of dressing as a man, that dear Marie; I know only one other woman who can do it as well. So they made this song about her: ‘Laboissiere, dis moi.’ You know it, don’t you?”
 
“No, sing it, please.”
 
Aramis immediately complied, and sang the song in a very lively manner.
 
“Bravo!” cried D’Artagnan, “you sing charmingly, dear Aramis. I do not perceive that singing masses has spoiled your voice.”
 
“My dear D’Artagnan,” replied Aramis, “you understand, when I was a musketeer I mounted guard as seldom as I could; now when I am an abbe I say as few masses as I can. But to return to our duchess.”
 
“Which--the Duchess de Chevreuse or the Duchess de Longueville?”
 
“Have I not already told you that there is nothing between me and the Duchess de Longueville? Little flirtations, perhaps, and that’s all. No, I spoke of the Duchess de Chevreuse; did you see her after her return from Brussels, after the king’s death?”
 
“Yes, she is still beautiful.”
 
“Yes,” said Aramis, “I saw her also at that time. I gave her good advice, by which she did not profit. I ventured to tell her that Mazarin was the lover of Anne of Austria. She wouldn’t believe me, saying that she knew Anne of Austria, who was too proud to love such a worthless coxcomb. After that she plunged into the cabal headed by the Duke of Beaufort; and the ‘coxcomb’ arrested De Beaufort and banished Madame de Chevreuse.”
 
“You know,” resumed D’Artagnan, “that she has had leave to return to France?”
 
“Yes she is come back and is going to commit some fresh folly or another.”
 
“Oh, but this time perhaps she will follow your advice.”
 
“Oh, this time,” returned Aramis, “I haven’t seen her; she is much changed.”
 
“In that respect unlike you, my dear Aramis, for you are still the same; you have still your beautiful dark hair, still your elegant figure, still your feminine hands, which are admirably suited to a prelate.”
 
“Yes,” replied Aramis, “I am extremely careful of my appearance. Do you know that I am growing old? I am nearly thirty-seven.”
 
“Mind, Aramis”--D’Artagnan smiled as he spoke--“since we are together again, let us agree on one point: what age shall we be in future?”
 
“How?”
 
“Formerly I was your junior by two or three years, and if I am not mistaken I am turned forty years old.”
 
“Indeed! Then ‘tis I who am mistaken, for you have always been a good chronologist. By your reckoning I must be forty-three at least. The devil I am! Don’t let it out at the Hotel Rambouillet; it would ruin me,” replied the abbe.
 
“Don’t be afraid,” said D’Artagnan. “I never go there.”
 
“Why, what in the world,” cried Aramis, “is that animal Bazin doing? Bazin! Hurry up there, you rascal; we are mad with hunger and thirst!”
 
Bazin entered at that moment carrying a bottle in each hand.
 
“At last,” said Aramis, “we are ready, are we?”
 
“Yes, monsieur, quite ready,” said Bazin; “but it took me some time to bring up all the----”
 
“Because you always think you have on your shoulders your beadle’s robe, and spend all your time reading your breviary. But I give you warning that if in polishing your chapel utensils you forget how to brighten up my sword, I will make a great fire of your blessed images and will see that you are roasted on it.”
 
Bazin, scandalized, made a sign of the cross with the bottle in his hand. D’Artagnan, more surprised than ever at the tone and manners of the Abbe d’Herblay, which contrasted so strongly with those of the Musketeer Aramis, remained staring with wide-open eyes at the face of his friend.
 
Bazin quickly covered the table with a damask cloth and arranged upon it so many things, gilded, perfumed, appetizing, that D’Artagnan was quite overcome.
 
“But you expected some one then?” asked the officer.
 
“Oh,” said Aramis, “I always try to be prepared; and then I knew you were seeking me.”
 
“From whom?”
 
“From Master Bazin, to be sure; he took you for the devil, my dear fellow, and hastened to warn me of the danger that threatened my soul if I should meet again a companion so wicked as an officer of musketeers.”
 
“Oh, monsieur!” said Bazin, clasping his hands supplicatingly.
 
“Come, no hypocrisy! you know that I don’t like it. You will do much better to open the window and let down some bread, a chicken and a bottle of wine to your friend Planchet, who has been this last hour killing himself clapping his hands.”
 
Planchet, in fact, had bedded and fed his horses, and then coming back under the window had repeated two or three times the signal agreed upon.
 
Bazin obeyed, fastened to the end of a cord the three articles designated and let them down to Planchet, who then went satisfied to his shed.
 
“Now to supper,” said Aramis.
 
The two friends sat down and Aramis began to cut up fowls, partridges and hams with admirable skill.
 
“The deuce!” cried D’Artagnan; “do you live in this way always?”
 
“Yes, pretty well. The coadjutor has given me dispensations from fasting on the jours maigres, on account of my health; then I have engaged as my cook the cook who lived with Lafollone--you know the man I mean?--the friend of the cardinal, and the famous epicure whose grace after dinner used to be, ‘Good Lord, do me the favor to cause me to digest what I have eaten.’”
 
“Nevertheless he died of indigestion, in spite of his grace,” said D’Artagnan.
 
“What can you expect?” replied Aramis, in a tone of resignation. “Every man that’s born must fulfil his destiny.”
 
“If it be not an indelicate question,” resumed D’Artagnan, “have you grown rich?”
 
“Oh, Heaven! no. I make about twelve thousand francs a year, without counting a little benefice of a thousand crowns the prince gave me.”
 
“And how do you make your twelve thousand francs? By your poems?”
 
“No, I have given up poetry, except now and then to write a drinking song, some gay sonnet or some innocent epigram; I compose sermons, my friend.”
 
“What! sermons? Do you preach them?”
 
“No; I sell them to those of my cloth who wish to become great orators.”
 
“Ah, indeed! and you have not been tempted by the hopes of reputation yourself?”
 
“I should, my dear D’Artagnan, have been so, but nature said ‘No.’ When I am in the pulpit, if by chance a pretty woman looks at me, I look at her again: if she smiles, I smile too. Then I speak at random; instead of preaching about the torments of hell I talk of the joys of Paradise. An event took place in the Church of St. Louis au Marais. A gentleman laughed in my face. I stopped short to tell him that he was a fool; the congregation went out to get stones to stone me with, but whilst they were away I found means to conciliate the priests who were present, so that my foe was pelted instead of me. ‘Tis true that he came the next morning to my house, thinking that he had to do with an abbe--like all other abbes.”
 
“And what was the end of the affair?”
 
“We met in the Place Royale--Egad! you know about it.”
 
“Was I not your second?” cried D’Artagnan.
 
“You were; you know how I settled the matter.”
 
“Did he die?”
 
“I don’t know. But, at all events, I gave him absolution in articulo mortis. ‘Tis enough to kill the body, without killing the soul.”
 
Bazin made a despairing sign which meant that while perhaps he approved the moral he altogether disapproved the tone in which it was uttered.
 
“Bazin, my friend,” said Aramis, “you don’t seem to be aware that I can see you in that mirror, and you forget that once for all I have forbidden all signs of approbation or disapprobation. You will do me the favor to bring us some Spanish wine and then to withdraw. Besides, my friend D’Artagnan has something to say to me privately, have you not, D’Artagnan?”
 
D’Artagnan nodded his head and Bazin retired, after placing on the table the Spanish wine.
 
The two friends, left alone, remained silent, face to face. Aramis seemed to await a comfortable digestion; D’Artagnan, to be preparing his exordium. Each of them, when the other was not looking, hazarded a sly glance. It was Aramis who broke the silence.
 
“What are you thinking of, D’Artagnan?” he began.
 
“I was thinking, my dear old friend, that when you were a musketeer you turned your thoughts incessantly to the church, and now that you are an abbe you are perpetually longing to be once more a musketeer.”
 
“‘Tis true; man, as you know,” said Aramis, “is a strange animal, made up of contradictions. Since I became an abbe I dream of nothing but battles.”
 
“That is apparent in your surroundings; you have rapiers here of every form and to suit the most exacting taste. Do you still fence well?”
 
“I--I fence as well as you did in the old time--better still, perhaps; I do nothing else all day.”
 
“And with whom?”
 
“With an excellent master-at-arms that we have here.”
 
“What! here?”
 
“Yes, here, in this convent, my dear fellow. There is everything in a Jesuit convent.”
 
“Then you would have killed Monsieur de Marsillac if he had come alone to attack you, instead of at the head of twenty men?”
 
“Undoubtedly,” said Aramis, “and even at the head of his twenty men, if I could have drawn without being recognized.”
 
“God pardon me!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “I believe he has become more Gascon than I am!” Then aloud: “Well, my dear Aramis, do you ask me why I came to seek you?”
 
“No, I have not asked you that,” said Aramis, with his subtle manner; “but I have expected you to tell me.”
 
“Well, I sought you for the single purpose of offering you a chance to kill Monsieur de Marsillac whenever you please, prince though he is.”
 
“Hold on! wait!” said Aramis; “that is an idea!”
 
“Of which I invite you to take advantage, my friend. Let us see; with your thousand crowns from the abbey and the twelve thousand francs you make by selling sermons, are you rich? Answer frankly.”
 
“I? I am as poor as Job, and were you to search my pockets and my boxes I don’t believe you would find a hundred pistoles.”
 
“Peste! a hundred pistoles!” said D’Artagnan to himself; “he calls that being as poor as Job! If I had them I should think myself as rich as Croesus.” Then aloud: “Are you ambitious?”
 
“As Enceladus.”
 
“Well, my friend, I bring you the means of becoming rich, powerful, and free to do whatever you wish.”
 
The shadow of a cloud passed over Aramis’s face as quickly as that which in August passes over the field of grain; but quick as it was, it did not escape D’Artagnan’s observation.
 
“Speak on,” said Aramis.
 
“One question first. Do you take any interest in politics?”
 
A gleam of light shone in Aramis’s eyes, as brief as the shadow that had passed over his face, but not so brief but that it was seen by D’Artagnan.
 
“No,” Aramis replied.
 
“Then proposals from any quarter will be agreeable to you, since for the moment you have no master but God?”
 
“It is possible.”
 
“Have you, my dear Aramis, thought sometimes of those happy, happy, happy days of youth we passed laughing, drinking, and fighting each other for play?”
 
“Certainly, and more than once regretted them; it was indeed a glorious time.”
 
“Well, those splendidly wild days may chance to come again; I am commissioned to find out my companions and I began by you, who were the very soul of our society.”
 
Aramis bowed, rather with respect than pleasure at the compliment.
 
“To meddle in politics,” he exclaimed, in a languid voice, leaning back in his easy-chair. “Ah! dear D’Artagnan! see how regularly I live and how easy I am here. We have experienced the ingratitude of ‘the great,’ as you well know.”
 
“‘Tis true,” replied D’Artagnan. “Yet the great sometimes repent of their ingratitude.”
 
“In that case it would be quite another thing. Come! let’s be merciful to every sinner! Besides, you are right in another respect, which is in thinking that if we were to meddle in politics there could not be a better time than the present.”
 
“How can you know that? You who never interest yourself in politics?”
 
“Ah! without caring about them myself, I live among those who are much occupied in them. Poet as I am, I am intimate with Sarazin, who is devoted to the Prince de Conti, and with Monsieur de Bois-Robert, who, since the death of Cardinal Richelieu, is of all parties or any party; so that political discussions have not altogether been uninteresting to me.”
 
“I have no doubt of it,” said D’Artagnan.
 
“Now, my dear friend, look upon all I tell you as merely the statement of a monk--of a man who resembles an echo--repeating simply what he hears. I understand that Mazarin is at this very moment extremely uneasy as to the state of affairs; that his orders are not respected like those of our former bugbear, the deceased cardinal, whose portrait as you see hangs yonder--for whatever may be thought of him, it must be allowed that Richelieu was great.”
 
“I will not contradict you there,” said D’Artagnan.
 
“My first impressions were favorable to the minister; I said to myself that a minister is never loved, but that with the genius this one was said to have he would eventually triumph over his enemies and would make himself feared, which in my opinion is much more to be desired than to be loved----”
 
D’Artagnan made a sign with his head which indicated that he entirely approved that doubtful maxim.
 
“This, then,” continued Aramis, “was my first opinion; but as I am very ignorant in matters of this kind and as the humility which I profess obliges me not to rest on my own judgment, but to ask the opinion of others, I have inquired--Eh!--my friend----”
 
Aramis paused.
 
“Well? what?” asked his friend.
 
“Well, I must mortify myself. I must confess that I was mistaken. Monsieur de Mazarin is not a man of genius, as I thought, he is a man of no origin--once a servant of Cardinal Bentivoglio, and he got on by intrigue. He is an upstart, a man of no name, who will only be the tool of a party in France. He will amass wealth, he will injure the king’s revenue and pay to himself the pensions which Richelieu paid to others. He is neither a gentleman in manner nor in feeling, but a sort of buffoon, a punchinello, a pantaloon. Do you know him? I do not.”
 
“Hem!” said D’Artagnan, “there is some truth in what you say.”
 
“Ah! it fills me with pride to find that, thanks to a common sort of penetration with which I am endowed, I am approved by a man like you, fresh from the court.”
 
“But you speak of him, not of his party, his resources.”
 
“It is true--the queen is for him.”
 
“Something in his favor.”
 
“But he will never have the king.”
 
“A mere child.”
 
“A child who will be of age in four years. Then he has neither the parliament nor the people with him--they represent the wealth of the country; nor the nobles nor the princes, who are the military power of France.”
 
D’Artagnan scratched his ear. He was forced to confess to himself that this reasoning was not only comprehensive, but just.
 
“You see, my poor friend, that I am sometimes bereft of my ordinary thoughtfulness; perhaps I am wrong in speaking thus to you, who have evidently a leaning to Mazarin.”
 
“I!” cried D’Artagnan, “not in the least.”
 
“You spoke of a mission.”
 
“Did I? I was wrong then, no, I said what you say--there is a crisis at hand. Well! let’s fly the feather before the wind; let us join with that side to which the wind will carry it and resume our adventurous life. We were once four valiant knights--four hearts fondly united; let us unite again, not our hearts, which have never been severed, but our courage and our fortunes. Here’s a good opportunity for getting something better than a diamond.”
 
“You are right, D’Artagnan; I held a similar project, but as I had not nor ever shall have your fruitful, vigorous imagination, the idea was suggested to me. Every one nowadays wants auxiliaries; propositions have been made to me and I confess to you frankly that the coadjutor has made me speak out.”
 
“Monsieur de Gondy! the cardinal’s enemy?”
 
“No; the king’s friend,” said Aramis; “the king’s friend, you understand. Well, it is a question of serving the king, the gentleman’s duty.”
 
“But the king is with Mazarin.”
 
“He is, but not willingly; in appearance, not heart; and that is exactly the snare the king’s enemies are preparing for the poor child.”
 
“Ah! but this is, indeed, civil war which you propose to me, dear Aramis.”
 
“War for the king.”
 
“Yet the king will be at the head of the army on Mazarin’s side.”
 
“But his heart will be in the army commanded by the Duc de Beaufort.”
 
“Monsieur de Beaufort? He is at Vincennes.”
 
“Did I say Monsieur de Beaufort? Monsieur de Beaufort or another. Monsieur de Beaufort or Monsieur le Prince.”
 
“But Monsieur le Prince is to set out for the army; he is entirely devoted to the cardinal.”
 
“Oh oh!” said Aramis, “there are questions between them at this very moment. And besides, if it is not the prince, then Monsieur de Gondy----”
 
“But Monsieur de Gondy is to be made a cardinal; they are soliciting the hat for him.”
 
“And are there no cardinals that can fight? Come now, recall the four cardinals that at the head of armies have equalled Monsieur de Guebriant and Monsieur de Gassion.”
 
“But a humpbacked general!
 
“Under the cuirass the hump will not be seen. Besides, remember that Alexander was lame and Hannibal had but one eye.”
 
“Do you see any great advantage in adhering to this party?” asked D’Artagnan.
 
“I foresee in it the aid of powerful princes.”
 
“With the enmity of the government.”
 
“Counteracted by parliament and insurrections.”
 
“That may be done if they can separate the king from his mother.”
 
“That may be done,” said Aramis.
 
“Never!” cried D’Artagnan. “You, Aramis, know Anne of Austria better than I do. Do you think she will ever forget that her son is her safeguard, her shield, the pledge for her dignity, for her fortune and her life? Should she forsake Mazarin she must join her son and go over to the princes’ side; but you know better than I do that there are certain reasons why she can never abandon Mazarin.”
 
“Perhaps you are right,” said Aramis, thoughtfully; “therefore I shall not pledge myself.”
 
“To them or to us, do you mean, Aramis?”
 
“To no one. I am a priest,” resumed Aramis. “What have I to do with politics? I am not obliged to read any breviary. I have a jolly little circle of witty abbes and pretty women; everything goes on smoothly, so certainly, dear friend, I shall not meddle in politics.”
 
“Well, listen, my dear Aramis,” said D’Artagnan; “your philosophy convinces me, on my honor. I don’t know what devil of an insect stung me and made me ambitious. I have a post by which I live; at the death of Monsieur de Treville, who is old, I may be a captain, which is a very snug berth for a once penniless Gascon. Instead of running after adventures I shall accept an invitation from Porthos; I shall go and shoot on his estate. You know he has estates--Porthos?”
 
“I should think so, indeed. Ten leagues of wood, of marsh land and valleys; he is lord of the hill and the plain and is now carrying on a suit for his feudal rights against the Bishop of Noyon!”
 
“Good,” said D’Artagnan to himself. “That’s what I wanted to know. Porthos is in Picardy.”
 
Then aloud:
 
“And he has taken his ancient name of Vallon?”
 
“To which he adds that of Bracieux, an estate which has been a barony, by my troth.”
 
“So that Porthos will be a baron.”
 
“I don’t doubt it. The ‘Baroness Porthos’ will sound particularly charming.”
 
And the two friends began to laugh.
 
“So,” D’Artagnan resumed, “you will not become a partisan of Mazarin’s?”
 
“Nor you of the Prince de Conde?”
 
“No, let us belong to no party, but remain friends; let us be neither Cardinalists nor Frondists.”
 
“Adieu, then.” And D’Artagnan poured out a glass of wine.
 
“To old times,” he said.
 
“Yes,” returned Aramis. “Unhappily, those times are past.”
 
“Nonsense! They will return,” said D’Artagnan. “At all events, if you want me, remember the Rue Tiquetonne, Hotel de la Chevrette.”
 
“And I shall be at the convent of Jesuits; from six in the morning to eight at night come by the door. From eight in the evening until six in the morning come in by the window.”
 
“Adieu, dear friend.”
 
“Oh, I can’t let you go so! I will go with you.” And he took his sword and cloak.
 
“He wants to be sure that I go away,” said D’Artagnan to himself.
 
Aramis whistled for Bazin, but Bazin was asleep in the ante-chamber, and Aramis was obliged to shake him by the ear to awake him.
 
Bazin stretched his arms, rubbed his eyes, and tried to go to sleep again.
 
“Come, come, sleepy head; quick, the ladder!”
 
“But,” said Bazin, yawning portentously, “the ladder is still at the window.”
 
“The other one, the gardener’s. Didn’t you see that Monsieur d’Artagnan mounted with difficulty? It will be even more difficult to descend.”
 
D’Artagnan was about to assure Aramis that he could descend easily, when an idea came into his head which silenced him.
 
Bazin uttered a profound sigh and went out to look for the ladder. Presently a good, solid, wooden ladder was placed against the window.
 
“Now then,” said D’Artagnan, “this is something like; this is a means of communication. A woman could go up a ladder like that.”
 
Aramis’s searching look seemed to seek his friend’s thought even at the bottom of his heart, but D’Artagnan sustained the inquisition with an air of admirable simplicity. Besides, at that moment he put his foot on the first step of the ladder and began his descent. In a moment he was on the ground. Bazin remained at the window.
 
“Stay there,” said Aramis; “I shall return immediately.”
 
The two friends went toward the shed. At their approach Planchet came out leading the two horses.
 
“That is good to see,” said Aramis. “There is a servant active and vigilant, not like that lazy fellow Bazin, who is no longer good for anything since he became connected with the church. Follow us, Planchet; we shall continue our conversation to the end of the village.”
 
They traversed the width of the village, talking of indifferent things, then as they reached the last houses:
 
“Go, then, dear friend,” said Aramis, “follow your own career. Fortune lavishes her smiles upon you; do not let her flee from your embrace. As for me, I remain in my humility and indolence. Adieu!”
 
“Thus ‘tis quite decided,” said D’Artagnan, “that what I have to offer to you does not tempt you?”
 
“On the contrary, it would tempt me were I any other man,” rejoined Aramis; “but I repeat, I am made up of contradictions. What I hate to-day I adore to-morrow, and vice versa. You see that I cannot, like you, for instance, settle on any fixed plan.”
 
“Thou liest, subtile one,” said D’Artagnan to himself. “Thou alone, on the contrary, knowest how to choose thy object and to gain it stealthily.”
 
The friends embraced. They descended into the plain by the ladder. Planchet met them hard by the shed. D’Artagnan jumped into the saddle, then the old companions in arms again shook hands. D’Artagnan and Planchet spurred their steeds and took the road to Paris.
 
But after he had gone about two hundred steps D’Artagnan stopped short, alighted, threw the bridle of his horse over the arm of Planchet and took the pistols from his saddle-bow to fasten them to his girdle.
 
“What’s the matter?” asked Planchet.
 
“This is the matter: be he ever so cunning he shall never say I was his dupe. Stand here, don’t stir, turn your back to the road and wait for me.”
 
Having thus spoken, D’Artagnan cleared the ditch by the roadside and crossed the plain so as to wind around the village. He had observed between the house that Madame de Longueville inhabited and the convent of the Jesuits, an open space surrounded by a hedge.
 
The moon had now risen and he could see well enough to retrace his road.
 
He reached the hedge and hid himself behind it; in passing by the house where the scene which we have related took place, he remarked that the window was again lighted up and he was convinced that Aramis had not yet returned to his own apartment and that when he did it would not be alone.
 
In truth, in a few minutes he heard steps approaching and low whispers.
 
Close to the hedge the steps stopped.
 
D’Artagnan knelt down near the thickest part of the hedge.
 
Two men, to the astonishment of D’Artagnan, appeared shortly; soon, however, his surprise vanished, for he heard the murmurs of a soft, harmonious voice; one of these two men was a woman disguised as a cavalier.
 
“Calm yourself, dear Rene,” said the soft voice, “the same thing will never happen again. I have discovered a sort of subterranean passage which runs beneath the street and we shall only have to raise one of the marble slabs before the door to open you an entrance and an outlet.”
 
“Oh!” answered another voice, which D’Artagnan instantly recognized as that of Aramis. “I swear to you, princess, that if your reputation did not depend on precautions and if my life alone were jeopardized----”
 
“Yes, yes! I know you are as brave and venturesome as any man in the world, but you do not belong to me alone; you belong to all our party. Be prudent! sensible!”
 
“I always obey, madame, when I am commanded by so gentle a voice.”
 
He kissed her hand tenderly.
 
“Ah!” exclaimed the cavalier with a soft voice.
 
“What’s the matter?” asked Aramis.
 
“Do you not see that the wind has blown off my hat?”
 
Aramis rushed after the fugitive hat. D’Artagnan took advantage of the circumstance to find a place in the hedge not so thick, where his glance could penetrate to the supposed cavalier. At that instant, the moon, inquisitive, perhaps, like D’Artagnan, came from behind a cloud and by her light D’Artagnan recognized the large blue eyes, the golden hair and the classic head of the Duchess de Longueville.
 
Aramis returned, laughing, one hat on his head and the other in his hand; and he and his companion resumed their walk toward the convent.
 
“Good!” said D’Artagnan, rising and brushing his knees; “now I have thee--thou art a Frondeur and the lover of Madame de Longueville.”
 
10. Monsieur Porthos du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds.
 Thanks to what Aramis had told him, D’Artagnan, who knew already that Porthos called himself Du Vallon, was now aware that he styled himself, from his estate, De Bracieux; and that he was, on account of this estate, engaged in a lawsuit with the Bishop of Noyon. It was, then, in the neighborhood of Noyon that he must seek that estate. His itinerary was promptly determined: he would go to Dammartin, from which place two roads diverge, one toward Soissons, the other toward Compiegne; there he would inquire concerning the Bracieux estate and go to the right or to the left according to the information obtained.
 
Planchet, who was still a little concerned for his safety after his recent escapade, declared that he would follow D’Artagnan even to the end of the world, either by the road to the right or by that to the left; only he begged his former master to set out in the evening, for greater security to himself. D’Artagnan suggested that he should send word to his wife, so that she might not be anxious about him, but Planchet replied with much sagacity that he was very sure his wife would not die of anxiety through not knowing where he was, while he, Planchet, remembering her incontinence of tongue, would die of anxiety if she did know.
 
This reasoning seemed to D’Artagnan so satisfactory that he no further insisted; and about eight o’clock in the evening, the time when the vapors of night begin to thicken in the streets, he left the Hotel de la Chevrette, and followed by Planchet set forth from the capital by way of the Saint Denis gate.
 
At midnight the two travelers were at Dammartin, but it was then too late to make inquiries--the host of the Cygne de la Croix had gone to bed.
 
The next morning D’Artagnan summoned the host, one of those sly Normans who say neither yes nor no and fear to commit themselves by giving a direct answer. D’Artagnan, however, gathered from his equivocal replies that the road to the right was the one he ought to take, and on that uncertain information he resumed his journey. At nine in the morning he reached Nanteuil and stopped for breakfast. His host here was a good fellow from Picardy, who gave him all the information he needed. The Bracieux estate was a few leagues from Villars-Cotterets.
 
D’Artagnan was acquainted with Villars-Cotterets, having gone thither with the court on several occasions; for at that time Villars-Cotterets was a royal residence. He therefore shaped his course toward that place and dismounted at the Dauphin d’Or. There he ascertained that the Bracieux estate was four leagues distant, but that Porthos was not at Bracieux. Porthos had, in fact, been involved in a dispute with the Bishop of Noyon in regard to the Pierrefonds property, which adjoined his own, and weary at length of a legal controversy which was beyond his comprehension, he put an end to it by purchasing Pierrefonds and added that name to his others. He now called himself Du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds, and resided on his new estate.
 
The travelers were therefore obliged to stay at the hotel until the next day; the horses had done ten leagues that day and needed rest. It is true they might have taken others, but there was a great forest to pass through and Planchet, as we have seen, had no liking for forests after dark.
 
There was another thing that Planchet had no liking for and that was starting on a journey with a hungry stomach. Accordingly, D’Artagnan, on awaking, found his breakfast waiting for him. It need not be said that Planchet in resuming his former functions resumed also his former humility and was not ashamed to make his breakfast on what was left by D’Artagnan.
 
It was nearly eight o’clock when they set out again. Their course was clearly defined: they were to follow the road toward Compiegne and on emerging from the forest turn to the right.
 
The morning was beautiful, and in this early springtime the birds sang on the trees and the sunbeams shone through the misty glades, like curtains of golden gauze.
 
In other parts of the forest the light could scarcely penetrate through the foliage, and the stems of two old oak trees, the refuge of the squirrel, startled by the travelers, were in deep shadow.
 
There came up from all nature in the dawn of day a perfume of herbs, flowers and leaves, which delighted the heart. D’Artagnan, sick of the closeness of Paris, thought that when a man had three names of his different estates joined one to another, he ought to be very happy in such a paradise; then he shook his head, saying, “If I were Porthos and D’Artagnan came to make me such a proposition as I am going to make to him, I know what I should say to it.”
 
As to Planchet, he thought of little or nothing, but was happy as a hunting-hound in his old master’s company.
 
At the extremity of the wood D’Artagnan perceived the road that had been described to him, and at the end of the road he saw the towers of an immense feudal castle.
 
“Oh! oh!” he said, “I fancied this castle belonged to the ancient branch of Orleans. Can Porthos have negotiated for it with the Duc de Longueville?”
 
“Faith!” exclaimed Planchet, “here’s land in good condition; if it belongs to Monsieur Porthos I wish him joy.”
 
“Zounds!” cried D’Artagnan, “don’t call him Porthos, nor even Vallon; call him De Bracieux or De Pierrefonds; thou wilt knell out damnation to my mission otherwise.”
 
As he approached the castle which had first attracted his eye, D’Artagnan was convinced that it could not be there that his friend dwelt; the towers, though solid and as if built yesterday, were open and broken. One might have fancied that some giant had cleaved them with blows from a hatchet.
 
On arriving at the extremity of the castle D’Artagnan found himself overlooking a beautiful valley, in which, at the foot of a charming little lake, stood several scattered houses, which, humble in their aspect, and covered, some with tiles, others with thatch, seemed to acknowledge as their sovereign lord a pretty chateau, built about the beginning of the reign of Henry IV., and surmounted by four stately, gilded weather-cocks. D’Artagnan no longer doubted that this was Porthos’s pleasant dwelling place.
 
The road led straight up to the chateau which, compared to its ancestor on the hill, was exactly what a fop of the coterie of the Duc d’Enghein would have been beside a knight in steel armor in the time of Charles VII. D’Artagnan spurred his horse on and pursued his road, followed by Planchet at the same pace.
 
In ten minutes D’Artagnan reached the end of an alley regularly planted with fine poplars and terminating in an iron gate, the points and crossed bars of which were gilt. In the midst of this avenue was a nobleman, dressed in green and with as much gilding about him as the iron gate, riding on a tall horse. On his right hand and his left were two footmen, with the seams of their dresses laced. A considerable number of clowns were assembled and rendered homage to their lord.
 
“Ah!” said D’Artagnan to himself, “can this be the Seigneur du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds? Well-a-day! how he has shrunk since he gave up the name of Porthos!”
 
“This cannot be Monsieur Porthos,” observed Planchet replying, as it were, to his master’s thoughts. “Monsieur Porthos was six feet high; this man is scarcely five.”
 
“Nevertheless,” said D’Artagnan, “the people are bowing very low to this person.”
 
As he spoke, he rode toward the tall horse--to the man of importance and his valets. As he approached he seemed to recognize the features of this individual.
 
“Jesu!” cried Planchet, “can it be?”
 
At this exclamation the man on horseback turned slowly and with a lofty air, and the two travelers could see, displayed in all their brilliancy, the large eyes, the vermilion visage, and the eloquent smile of--Mousqueton.
 
It was indeed Mousqueton--Mousqueton, as fat as a pig, rolling about with rude health, puffed out with good living, who, recognizing D’Artagnan and acting very differently from the hypocrite Bazin, slipped off his horse and approached the officer with his hat off, so that the homage of the assembled crowd was turned toward this new sun, which eclipsed the former luminary.
 
“Monsieur d’Artagnan! Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried Mousqueton, his fat cheeks swelling out and his whole frame perspiring with joy; “Monsieur d’Artagnan! oh! what joy for my lord and master, Du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds!”
 
“Thou good Mousqueton! where is thy master?”
 
“You stand upon his property!”
 
“But how handsome thou art--how fat! thou hast prospered and grown stout!” and D’Artagnan could not restrain his astonishment at the change good fortune had produced on the once famished one.
 
“Hey, yes, thank God, I am pretty well,” said Mousqueton.
 
“But hast thou nothing to say to thy friend Planchet?”
 
“How, my friend Planchet? Planchet--art thou there?” cried Mousqueton, with open arms and eyes full of tears.
 
“My very self,” replied Planchet; “but I wanted first to see if thou wert grown proud.”
 
“Proud toward an old friend? never, Planchet! thou wouldst not have thought so hadst thou known Mousqueton well.”
 
“So far so well,” answered Planchet, alighting, and extending his arms to Mousqueton, the two servants embraced with an emotion which touched those who were present and made them suppose that Planchet was a great lord in disguise, so highly did they estimate the position of Mousqueton.
 
“And now, sir,” resumed Mousqueton, when he had rid himself of Planchet, who had in vain tried to clasp his hands behind his friend’s fat back, “now, sir, allow me to leave you, for I could not permit my master to hear of your arrival from any but myself; he would never forgive me for not having preceded you.”
 
“This dear friend,” said D’Artagnan, carefully avoiding to utter either the former name borne by Porthos or his new one, “then he has not forgotten me?”
 
“Forgotten--he!” cried Mousqueton; “there’s not a day, sir, that we don’t expect to hear that you were made marshal either instead of Monsieur de Gassion, or of Monsieur de Bassompierre.”
 
On D’Artagnan’s lips there played one of those rare and melancholy smiles which seemed to emanate from the depth of his soul--the last trace of youth and happiness that had survived life’s disillusions.
 
“And you--fellows,” resumed Mousqueton, “stay near Monsieur le Comte d’Artagnan and pay him every attention in your power whilst I go to prepare my lord for his visit.”
 
And mounting his horse Mousqueton rode off down the avenue on the grass at a hand gallop.
 
“Ah, there! there’s something promising,” said D’Artagnan. “No mysteries, no cloak to hide one’s self in, no cunning policy here; people laugh outright, they weep for joy here. I see nothing but faces a yard broad; in short, it seems to me that nature herself wears a holiday garb, and that the trees, instead of leaves and flowers, are covered with red and green ribbons as on gala days.”
 
“As for me,” said Planchet, “I seem to smell, from this place, even, a most delectable perfume of fine roast meat, and to see the scullions in a row by the hedge, hailing our approach. Ah! sir, what a cook must Monsieur Pierrefonds have, when he was so fond of eating and drinking, even whilst he was only called Monsieur Porthos!”
 
“Say no more!” cried D’Artagnan. “If the reality corresponds with appearances I am lost; for a man so well off will never change his happy condition, and I shall fail with him, as I have already done with Aramis.”
 
11. Wealth does not necessarily produce Happiness.
 D’Artagnan passed through the iron gate and arrived in front of the chateau. He alighted as he saw a species of giant on the steps. Let us do justice to D’Artagnan. Independently of every selfish wish, his heart palpitated with joy when he saw that tall form and martial demeanor, which recalled to him a good and brave man.
 
He ran to Porthos and threw himself into his arms; the whole body of servants, arranged in a semi-circle at a respectful distance, looked on with humble curiosity. Mousqueton, at the head of them, wiped his eyes. Porthos linked his arm in that of his friend.
 
“Ah! how delightful to see you again, dear friend!” he cried, in a voice which was now changed from a baritone into a bass, “you’ve not then forgotten me?”
 
“Forget you! oh! dear Du Vallon, does one forget the happiest days of flowery youth, one’s dearest friends, the dangers we have dared together? On the contrary, there is not an hour we have passed together that is not present to my memory.”
 
“Yes, yes,” said Porthos, trying to give to his mustache a curl which it had lost whilst he had been alone. “Yes, we did some fine things in our time and we gave that poor cardinal a few threads to unravel.”
 
And he heaved a sigh.
 
“Under any circumstances,” he resumed, “you are welcome, my dear friend; you will help me to recover my spirits; to-morrow we will hunt the hare on my plain, which is a superb tract of land, or pursue the deer in my woods, which are magnificent. I have four harriers which are considered the swiftest in the county, and a pack of hounds which are unequalled for twenty leagues around.”
 
And Porthos heaved another sigh.
 
“But, first,” interposed D’Artagnan, “you must present me to Madame du Vallon.”
 
A third sigh from Porthos.
 
“I lost Madame du Vallon two years ago,” he said, “and you find me still in affliction on that account. That was the reason why I left my Chateau du Vallon near Corbeil, and came to my estate, Bracieux. Poor Madame du Vallon! her temper was uncertain, but she came at last to accustom herself to my little ways and understand my little wishes.”
 
“So you are free now, and rich?”
 
“Alas!” groaned Porthos, “I am a widower and have forty thousand francs a year. Let us go to breakfast.”
 
“I shall be happy to do so; the morning air has made me hungry.”
 
“Yes,” said Porthos; “my air is excellent.”
 
They went into the chateau; there was nothing but gilding, high and low; the cornices were gilt, the mouldings were gilt, the legs and arms of the chairs were gilt. A table, ready set out, awaited them.
 
“You see,” said Porthos, “this is my usual style.”
 
“Devil take me!” answered D’Artagnan, “I wish you joy of it. The king has nothing like it.”
 
“No,” answered Porthos, “I hear it said that he is very badly fed by the cardinal, Monsieur de Mazarin. Taste this cutlet, my dear D’Artagnan; ‘tis off one of my sheep.”
 
“You have very tender mutton and I wish you joy of it.” said D’Artagnan.
 
“Yes, the sheep are fed in my meadows, which are excellent pasture.”
 
“Give me another cutlet.”
 
“No, try this hare, which I had killed yesterday in one of my warrens.”
 
“Zounds! what a flavor!” cried D’Artagnan; “ah! they are fed on thyme only, your hares.”
 
“And how do you like my wine?” asked Porthos; “it is pleasant, isn’t it?”
 
“Capital!”
 
“It is nothing, however, but a wine of the country.”
 
“Really?”
 
“Yes, a small declivity to the south, yonder on my hill, gives me twenty hogsheads.”
 
“Quite a vineyard, hey?”
 
Porthos sighed for the fifth time--D’Artagnan had counted his sighs. He became curious to solve the problem.
 
“Well now,” he said, “it seems, my dear friend, that something vexes you; you are ill, perhaps? That health, which----”
 
“Excellent, my dear friend; better than ever. I could kill an ox with a blow of my fist.”
 
“Well, then, family affairs, perhaps?”
 
“Family! I have, happily, only myself in the world to care for.”
 
“But what makes you sigh?”
 
“My dear fellow,” replied Porthos, “to be candid with you, I am not happy.”
 
“You are not happy, Porthos? You who have chateau, meadows, mountains, woods--you who have forty thousand francs a year--you--are--not--happy?”
 
“My dear friend, all those things I have, but I am a hermit in the midst of superfluity.”
 
“Surrounded, I suppose, only by clodhoppers, with whom you could not associate.”
 
Porthos turned rather pale and drank off a large glass of wine.
 
“No; but just think, there are paltry country squires who have all some title or another and pretend to go back as far as Charlemagne, or at least to Hugh Capet. When I first came here; being the last comer, it was for me to make the first advances. I made them, but you know, my dear friend, Madame du Vallon----”
 
Porthos, in pronouncing these words, seemed to gulp down something.
 
“Madame du Vallon was of doubtful gentility. She had, in her first marriage--I don’t think, D’Artagnan, I am telling you anything new--married a lawyer; they thought that ‘nauseous;’ you can understand that’s a word bad enough to make one kill thirty thousand men. I have killed two, which has made people hold their tongues, but has not made me their friend. So that I have no society; I live alone; I am sick of it--my mind preys on itself.”
 
D’Artagnan smiled. He now saw where the breastplate was weak, and prepared the blow.
 
“But now,” he said, “that you are a widower, your wife’s connection cannot injure you.”
 
“Yes, but understand me; not being of a race of historic fame, like the De Courcys, who were content to be plain sirs, or the Rohans, who didn’t wish to be dukes, all these people, who are all either vicomtes or comtes go before me at church in all the ceremonies, and I can say nothing to them. Ah! If I only were a----”
 
“A baron, don’t you mean?” cried D’Artagnan, finishing his friend’s sentence.
 
“Ah!” cried Porthos; “would I were but a baron!”
 
“Well, my friend, I am come to give you this very title which you wish for so much.”
 
Porthos gave a start that shook the room; two or three bottles fell and were broken. Mousqueton ran thither, hearing the noise.
 
Porthos waved his hand to Mousqueton to pick up the bottles.
 
“I am glad to see,” said D’Artagnan, “that you have still that honest lad with you.”
 
“He is my steward,” replied Porthos; “he will never leave me. Go away now, Mouston.”
 
“So he’s called Mouston,” thought D’Artagnan; “‘tis too long a word to pronounce ‘Mousqueton.’”
 
“Well,” he said aloud, “let us resume our conversation later, your people may suspect something; there may be spies about. You can suppose, Porthos, that what I have to say relates to most important matters.”
 
“Devil take them; let us walk in the park,” answered Porthos, “for the sake of digestion.”
 
“Egad,” said D’Artagnan, “the park is like everything else and there are as many fish in your pond as rabbits in your warren; you are a happy man, my friend since you have not only retained your love of the chase, but acquired that of fishing.”
 
“My friend,” replied Porthos, “I leave fishing to Mousqueton,--it is a vulgar pleasure,--but I shoot sometimes; that is to say, when I am dull, and I sit on one of those marble seats, have my gun brought to me, my favorite dog, and I shoot rabbits.”
 
“Really, how very amusing!”
 
“Yes,” replied Porthos, with a sigh, “it is amusing.”
 
D’Artagnan now no longer counted the sighs. They were innumerable.
 
“However, what had you to say to me?” he resumed; “let us return to that subject.”
 
“With pleasure,” replied D’Artagnan; “I must, however, first frankly tell you that you must change your mode of life.”
 
“How?”
 
“Go into harness again, gird on your sword, run after adventures, and leave as in old times a little of your fat on the roadside.”
 
“Ah! hang it!” said Porthos.
 
“I see you are spoiled, dear friend; you are corpulent, your arm has no longer that movement of which the late cardinal’s guards have so many proofs.”
 
“Ah! my fist is strong enough I swear,” cried Porthos, extending a hand like a shoulder of mutton.
 
“So much the better.”
 
“Are we then to go to war?”
 
“By my troth, yes.”
 
“Against whom?”
 
“Are you a politician, friend?”
 
“Not in the least.”
 
“Are you for Mazarin or for the princes?”
 
“I am for no one.”
 
“That is to say, you are for us. Well, I tell you that I come to you from the cardinal.”
 
This speech was heard by Porthos in the same sense as if it had still been in the year 1640 and related to the true cardinal.
 
“Ho! ho! What are the wishes of his eminence?”
 
“He wishes to have you in his service.”
 
“And who spoke to him of me?”
 
“Rochefort--you remember him?”
 
“Yes, pardieu! It was he who gave us so much trouble and kept us on the road so much; you gave him three sword-wounds in three separate engagements.”
 
“But you know he is now our friend?”
 
“No, I didn’t know that. So he cherishes no resentment?”
 
“You are mistaken, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan. “It is I who cherish no resentment.”
 
Porthos didn’t understand any too clearly; but then we know that understanding was not his strong point. “You say, then,” he continued, “that the Count de Rochefort spoke of me to the cardinal?”
 
“Yes, and the queen, too.”
 
“The queen, do you say?”
 
“To inspire us with confidence she has even placed in Mazarin’s hands that famous diamond--you remember all about it--that I once sold to Monsieur des Essarts and of which, I don’t know how, she has regained possession.”
 
“But it seems to me,” said Porthos, “that she would have done much better if she had given it back to you.”
 
“So I think,” replied D’Artagnan; “but kings and queens are strange beings and have odd fancies; nevertheless, since they are the ones who have riches and honors, we are devoted to them.”
 
“Yes, we are devoted to them,” repeated Porthos; “and you--to whom are you devoted now?”
 
“To the king, the queen, and to the cardinal; moreover, I have answered for your devotion also.”
 
“And you say that you have made certain conditions on my behalf?”
 
“Magnificent, my dear fellow, magnificent! In the first place you have plenty of money, haven’t you? forty thousand francs income, I think you said.”
 
Porthos began to be suspicious. “Eh! my friend,” said he, “one never has too much money. Madame du Vallon left things in much disorder; I am not much of a hand at figures, so that I live almost from hand to mouth.”
 
“He is afraid I have come to borrow money,” thought D’Artagnan. “Ah, my friend,” said he, “it is all the better if you are in difficulties.”
 
“How is it all the better?”
 
“Yes, for his eminence will give you all that you want--land, money, and titles.”
 
“Ah! ah! ah!” said Porthos, opening his eyes at that last word.
 
“Under the other cardinal,” continued D’Artagnan, “we didn’t know enough to make our profits; this, however, doesn’t concern you, with your forty thousand francs income, the happiest man in the world, it seems to me.”
 
Porthos sighed.
 
“At the same time,” continued D’Artagnan, “notwithstanding your forty thousand francs a year, and perhaps even for the very reason that you have forty thousand francs a year, it seems to me that a little coronet would do well on your carriage, hey?”
 
“Yes indeed,” said Porthos.
 
“Well, my dear friend, win it--it is at the point of your sword. We shall not interfere with each other--your object is a title; mine, money. If I can get enough to rebuild Artagnan, which my ancestors, impoverished by the Crusades, allowed to fall into ruins, and to buy thirty acres of land about it, that is all I wish. I shall retire and die tranquilly--at home.”
 
“For my part,” said Porthos, “I desire to be made a baron.”
 
“You shall be one.”
 
“And have you not seen any of our other friends?”
 
“Yes, I have seen Aramis.”
 
“And what does he wish? To be a bishop?”
 
“Aramis,” answered D’Artagnan, who did not wish to undeceive Porthos, “Aramis, fancy, has become a monk and a Jesuit, and lives like a bear. My offers did not arouse him,--did not even tempt him.”
 
“So much the worse! He was a clever man. And Athos?”
 
“I have not yet seen him. Do you know where I shall find him?”
 
“Near Blois. He is called Bragelonne. Only imagine, my dear friend. Athos, who was of as high birth as the emperor and who inherits one estate which gives him the title of comte, what is he to do with all those dignities--the Comte de la Fere, Comte de Bragelonne?”
 
“And he has no children with all these titles?”
 
“Ah!” said Porthos, “I have heard that he had adopted a young man who resembles him greatly.”
 
“What, Athos? Our Athos, who was as virtuous as Scipio? Have you seen him?
 
“No.”
 
“Well, I shall see him to-morrow and tell him about you; but I’m afraid, entre nous, that his liking for wine has aged and degraded him.”
 
“Yes, he used to drink a great deal,” replied Porthos.
 
“And then he was older than any of us,” added D’Artagnan.
 
“Some years only. His gravity made him look older than he was.”
 
“Well then, if we can get Athos, all will be well. If we cannot, we will do without him. We two are worth a dozen.”
 
“Yes,” said Porthos, smiling at the remembrance of his former exploits; “but we four, altogether, would be equal to thirty-six, more especially as you say the work will not be child’s play. Will it last long?”
 
“By’r Lady! two or three years perhaps.”
 
“So much the better,” cried Porthos. “You have no idea, my friend, how my bones ache since I came here. Sometimes on a Sunday, I take a ride in the fields and on the property of my neighbours, in order to pick up a nice little quarrel, which I am really in want of, but nothing happens. Either they respect or they fear me, which is more likely, but they let me trample down the clover with my dogs, insult and obstruct every one, and I come back still more weary and low-spirited, that’s all. At any rate, tell me: there’s more chance of fighting in Paris, is there not?”
 
“In that respect, my dear friend, it’s delightful. No more edicts, no more of the cardinal’s guards, no more De Jussacs, nor other bloodhounds. I’Gad! underneath a lamp in an inn, anywhere, they ask ‘Are you one of the Fronde?’ They unsheathe, and that’s all that is said. The Duke de Guise killed Monsieur de Coligny in the Place Royale and nothing was said of it.”
 
“Ah, things go on gaily, then,” said Porthos.
 
“Besides which, in a short time,” resumed D’Artagnan, “We shall have set battles, cannonades, conflagrations and there will be great variety.”
 
“Well, then, I decide.”
 
“I have your word, then?”
 
“Yes, ‘tis given. I shall fight heart and soul for Mazarin; but----”
 
“But?”
 
“But he must make me a baron.”
 
“Zounds!” said D’Artagnan, “that’s settled already; I will be responsible for the barony.”
 
On this promise being given, Porthos, who had never doubted his friend’s assurance, turned back with him toward the castle.
 
12. Porthos was Discontented with his Condition.
 As they returned toward the castle, D’Artagnan thought of the miseries of poor human nature, always dissatisfied with what it has, ever desirous of what it has not.
 
In the position of Porthos, D’Artagnan would have been perfectly happy; and to make Porthos contented there was wanting--what? five letters to put before his three names, a tiny coronet to paint upon the panels of his carriage!
 
“I shall pass all my life,” thought D’Artagnan, “in seeking for a man who is really contented with his lot.”
 
Whilst making this reflection, chance seemed, as it were, to give him the lie direct. When Porthos had left him to give some orders he saw Mousqueton approaching. The face of the steward, despite one slight shade of care, light as a summer cloud, seemed a physiognomy of absolute felicity.
 
“Here is what I am looking for,” thought D’Artagnan; “but alas! the poor fellow does not know the purpose for which I am here.”
 
He then made a sign for Mousqueton to come to him.
 
“Sir,” said the servant, “I have a favour to ask you.”
 
“Speak out, my friend.”
 
“I am afraid to do so. Perhaps you will think, sir, that prosperity has spoiled me?”
 
“Art thou happy, friend?” asked D’Artagnan.
 
“As happy as possible; and yet, sir, you may make me even happier than I am.”
 
“Well, speak, if it depends on me.”
 
“Oh, sir! it depends on you only.”
 
“I listen--I am waiting to hear.”
 
“Sir, the favor I have to ask of you is, not to call me ‘Mousqueton’ but ‘Mouston.’ Since I have had the honor of being my lord’s steward I have taken the last name as more dignified and calculated to make my inferiors respect me. You, sir, know how necessary subordination is in any large establishment of servants.”
 
D’Artagnan smiled; Porthos wanted to lengthen out his names, Mousqueton to cut his short.
 
“Well, my dear Mouston,” he said, “rest satisfied. I will call thee Mouston; and if it makes thee happy I will not ‘tutoyer’ you any longer.”
 
“Oh!” cried Mousqueton, reddening with joy; “if you do me, sir, such honor, I shall be grateful all my life; it is too much to ask.”
 
“Alas!” thought D’Artagnan, “it is very little to offset the unexpected tribulations I am bringing to this poor devil who has so warmly welcomed me.”
 
“Will monsieur remain long with us?” asked Mousqueton, with a serene and glowing countenance.
 
“I go to-morrow, my friend,” replied D’Artagnan.
 
“Ah, monsieur,” said Mousqueton, “then you have come here only to awaken our regrets.”
 
“I fear that is true,” said D’Artagnan, in a low tone.
 
D’Artagnan was secretly touched with remorse, not at inducing Porthos to enter into schemes in which his life and fortune would be in jeopardy, for Porthos, in the title of baron, had his object and reward; but poor Mousqueton, whose only wish was to be called Mouston--was it not cruel to snatch him from the delightful state of peace and plenty in which he was?
 
He was thinking of these matters when Porthos summoned him to dinner.
 
“What! to dinner?” said D’Artagnan. “What time is it, then?”
 
“Eh! why, it is after one o’clock.”
 
“Your home is a paradise, Porthos; one takes no note of time. I follow you, though I am not hungry.”
 
“Come, if one can’t always eat, one can always drink--a maxim of poor Athos, the truth of which I have discovered since I began to be lonely.”
 
D’Artagnan, who as a Gascon, was inclined to sobriety, seemed not so sure as his friend of the truth of Athos’s maxim, but he did his best to keep up with his host. Meanwhile his misgivings in regard to Mousqueton recurred to his mind and with greater force because Mousqueton, though he did not himself wait on the table, which would have been beneath him in his new position, appeared at the door from time to time and evinced his gratitude to D’Artagnan by the quality of the wine he directed to be served. Therefore, when, at dessert, upon a sign from D’Artagnan, Porthos had sent away his servants and the two friends were alone:
 
“Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “who will attend you in your campaigns?”
 
“Why,” replied Porthos, “Mouston, of course.”
 
This was a blow to D’Artagnan. He could already see the intendant’s beaming smile change to a contortion of grief. “But,” he said, “Mouston is not so young as he was, my dear fellow; besides, he has grown fat and perhaps has lost his fitness for active service.”
 
“That may be true,” replied Porthos; “but I am used to him, and besides, he wouldn’t be willing to let me go without him, he loves me so much.”
 
“Oh, blind self-love!” thought D’Artagnan.
 
“And you,” asked Porthos, “haven’t you still in your service your old lackey, that good, that brave, that intelligent---what, then, is his name?”
 
“Planchet--yes, I have found him again, but he is lackey no longer.”
 
“What is he, then?”
 
“With his sixteen hundred francs--you remember, the sixteen hundred francs he earned at the siege of La Rochelle by carrying a letter to Lord de Winter--he has set up a little shop in the Rue des Lombards and is now a confectioner.”
 
“Ah, he is a confectioner in the Rue des Lombards! How does it happen, then, that he is in your service?”
 
“He has been guilty of certain escapades and fears he may be disturbed.” And the musketeer narrated to his friend Planchet’s adventure.
 
“Well,” said Porthos, “if any one had told you in the old times that the day would come when Planchet would rescue Rochefort and that you would protect him in it----”
 
“I should not have believed him; but men are changed by events.”
 
“There is nothing truer than that,” said Porthos; “but what does not change, or changes for the better, is wine. Taste of this; it is a Spanish wine which our friend Athos thought much of.”
 
At that moment the steward came in to consult his master upon the proceedings of the next day and also with regard to the shooting party which had been proposed.
 
“Tell me, Mouston,” said Porthos, “are my arms in good condition?”
 
“Your arms, my lord--what arms?”
 
“Zounds! my weapons.”
 
“What weapons?”
 
“My military weapons.”
 
“Yes, my lord; at any rate, I think so.”
 
“Make sure of it, and if they want it, have them burnished up. Which is my best cavalry horse?”
 
“Vulcan.”
 
“And the best hack?”
 
“Bayard.”
 
“What horse dost thou choose for thyself?”
 
“I like Rustaud, my lord; a good animal, whose paces suit me.”
 
“Strong, thinkest thou?”
 
“Half Norman, half Mecklenburger; will go night and day.”
 
“That will do for us. See to these horses. Polish up or make some one else polish my arms. Then take pistols with thee and a hunting-knife.”
 
“Are we then going to travel, my lord?” asked Mousqueton, rather uneasy.
 
“Something better still, Mouston.”
 
“An expedition, sir?” asked the steward, whose roses began to change into lilies.
 
“We are going to return to the service, Mouston,” replied Porthos, still trying to restore his mustache to the military curl it had long lost.
 
“Into the service--the king’s service?” Mousqueton trembled; even his fat, smooth cheeks shook as he spoke, and he looked at D’Artagnan with an air of reproach; he staggered, and his voice was almost choked.
 
“Yes and no. We shall serve in a campaign, seek out all sorts of adventures--return, in short, to our former life.”
 
These last words fell on Mousqueton like a thunderbolt. It was those very terrible old days that made the present so excessively delightful, and the blow was so great he rushed out, overcome, and forgot to shut the door.
 
The two friends remained alone to speak of the future and to build castles in the air. The good wine which Mousqueton had placed before them traced out in glowing drops to D’Artagnan a fine perspective, shining with quadruples and pistoles, and showed to Porthos a blue ribbon and a ducal mantle; they were, in fact, asleep on the table when the servants came to light them to their bed.
 
Mousqueton was, however, somewhat consoled by D’Artagnan, who the next day told him that in all probability war would always be carried on in the heart of Paris and within reach of the Chateau du Vallon, which was near Corbeil, or Bracieux, which was near Melun, and of Pierrefonds, which was between Compiegne and Villars-Cotterets.
 
“But--formerly--it appears,” began Mousqueton timidly.
 
“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, “we don’t now make war as we did formerly. To-day it’s a sort of diplomatic arrangement; ask Planchet.”
 
Mousqueton inquired, therefore, the state of the case of his old friend, who confirmed the statement of D’Artagnan. “But,” he added, “in this war prisoners stand a chance of being hung.”
 
“The deuce they do!” said Mousqueton; “I think I should like the siege of Rochelle better than this war, then!”
 
Porthos, meantime, asked D’Artagnan to give him his instructions how to proceed on his journey.
 
“Four days,” replied his friend, “are necessary to reach Blois; one day to rest there; three or four days to return to Paris. Set out, therefore, in a week, with your suite, and go to the Hotel de la Chevrette, Rue Tiquetonne, and there await me.”
 
“That’s agreed,” said Porthos.
 
“As to myself, I shall go around to see Athos; for though I don’t think his aid worth much, one must with one’s friends observe all due politeness,” said D’Artagnan.
 
The friends then took leave of each other on the very border of the estate of Pierrefonds, to which Porthos escorted his friend.
 
“At least,” D’Artagnan said to himself, as he took the road to Villars-Cotterets, “at least I shall not be alone in my undertaking. That devil, Porthos, is a man of prodigious strength; still, if Athos joins us, well, we shall be three of us to laugh at Aramis, that little coxcomb with his too good luck.”
 
At Villars-Cotterets he wrote to the cardinal:
 
“My Lord,--I have already one man to offer to your eminence, and he is well worth twenty men. I am just setting out for Blois. The Comte de la Fere inhabits the Castle of Bragelonne, in the environs of that city.”
 
13. Two Angelic Faces.
 The road was long, but the horses upon which D’Artagnan and Planchet rode had been refreshed in the well supplied stables of the Lord of Bracieux; the master and servant rode side by side, conversing as they went, for D’Artagnan had by degrees thrown off the master and Planchet had entirely ceased to assume the manners of a servant. He had been raised by circumstances to the rank of a confidant to his master. It was many years since D’Artagnan had opened his heart to any one; it happened, however, that these two men, on meeting again, assimilated perfectly. Planchet was in truth no vulgar companion in these new adventures; he was a man of uncommonly sound sense. Without courting danger he never shrank from an encounter; in short, he had been a soldier and arms ennoble a man; it was, therefore, on the footing of friends that D’Artagnan and Planchet arrived in the neighborhood of Blois.
 
Going along, D’Artagnan, shaking his head, said:
 
“I know that my going to Athos is useless and absurd; but still I owe this courtesy to my old friend, a man who had in him material for the most noble and generous of characters.”
 
“Oh, Monsieur Athos was a noble gentleman,” said Planchet, “was he not? Scattering money round about him as Heaven sprinkles rain. Do you remember, sir, that duel with the Englishman in the inclosure des Carmes? Ah! how lofty, how magnificent Monsieur Athos was that day, when he said to his adversary: ‘You have insisted on knowing my name, sir; so much the worse for you, since I shall be obliged to kill you.’ I was near him, those were his exact words, when he stabbed his foe as he said he would, and his adversary fell without saying, ‘Oh!’ ‘Tis a noble gentleman--Monsieur Athos.”
 
“Yes, true as Gospel,” said D’Artagnan; “but one single fault has swallowed up all these fine qualities.”
 
“I remember well,” said Planchet, “he was fond of drinking--in truth, he drank, but not as other men drink. One seemed, as he raised the wine to his lips, to hear him say, ‘Come, juice of the grape, and chase away my sorrows.’ And how he used to break the stem of a glass or the neck of a bottle! There was no one like him for that.”
 
“And now,” replied D’Artagnan, “behold the sad spectacle that awaits us. This noble gentleman with his lofty glance, this handsome cavalier, so brilliant in feats of arms that every one was surprised that he held in his hand a sword only instead of a baton of command! Alas! we shall find him changed into a broken down old man, with garnet nose and eyes that slobber; we shall find him extended on some lawn, whence he will look at us with a languid eye and peradventure will not recognize us. God knows, Planchet, that I should fly from a sight so sad if I did not wish to show my respect for the illustrious shadow of what was once the Comte de la Fere, whom we loved so much.”
 
Planchet shook his head and said nothing. It was evident that he shared his master’s apprehensions.
 
“And then,” resumed D’Artagnan, “to this decrepitude is probably added poverty, for he must have neglected the little that he had, and the dirty scoundrel, Grimaud, more taciturn than ever and still more drunken than his master--stay, Planchet, it breaks my heart to merely think of it.”
 
“I fancy myself there and that I see him staggering and hear him stammering,” said Planchet, in a piteous tone, “but at all events we shall soon know the real state of things, for I imagine that those lofty walls, now turning ruby in the setting sun, are the walls of Blois.”
 
“Probably; and those steeples, pointed and sculptured, that we catch a glimpse of yonder, are similar to those that I have heard described at Chambord.”
 
At this moment one of those heavy wagons, drawn by bullocks, which carry the wood cut in the fine forests of the country to the ports of the Loire, came out of a byroad full of ruts and turned on that which the two horsemen were following. A man carrying a long switch with a nail at the end of it, with which he urged on his slow team, was walking with the cart.
 
“Ho! friend,” cried Planchet.
 
“What’s your pleasure, gentlemen?” replied the peasant, with a purity of accent peculiar to the people of that district and which might have put to shame the cultured denizens of the Sorbonne and the Rue de l’Universite.
 
“We are looking for the house of Monsieur de la Fere,” said D’Artagnan.
 
The peasant took off his hat on hearing this revered name.
 
“Gentlemen,” he said, “the wood that I am carting is his; I cut it in his copse and I am taking it to the chateau.”
 
D’Artagnan determined not to question this man; he did not wish to hear from another what he had himself said to Planchet.
 
“The chateau!” he said to himself, “what chateau? Ah, I understand! Athos is not a man to be thwarted; he, like Porthos, has obliged his peasantry to call him ‘my lord,’ and to dignify his pettifogging place by the name of chateau. He had a heavy hand--dear old Athos--after drinking.”
 
D’Artagnan, after asking the man the right way, continued his route, agitated in spite of himself at the idea of seeing once more that singular man whom he had so truly loved and who had contributed so much by advice and example to his education as a gentleman. He checked by degrees the speed of his horse and went on, his head drooping as if in deep thought.
 
Soon, as the road turned, the Chateau de la Valliere appeared in view; then, a quarter of a mile beyond, a white house, encircled in sycamores, was visible at the farther end of a group of trees, which spring had powdered with a snow of flowers.
 
On beholding this house, D’Artagnan, calm as he was in general, felt an unusual disturbance within his heart--so powerful during the whole course of life are the recollections of youth. He proceeded, nevertheless, and came opposite to an iron gate, ornamented in the taste of the period.
 
Through the gate was seen kitchen-gardens, carefully attended to, a spacious courtyard, in which neighed several horses held by valets in various liveries, and a carriage, drawn by two horses of the country.
 
“We are mistaken,” said D’Artagnan. “This cannot be the establishment of Athos. Good heavens! suppose he is dead and that this property now belongs to some one who bears his name. Alight, Planchet, and inquire, for I confess that I have scarcely courage so to do.”
 
Planchet alighted.
 
“Thou must add,” said D’Artagnan, “that a gentleman who is passing by wishes to have the honor of paying his respects to the Comte de la Fere, and if thou art satisfied with what thou hearest, then mention my name!”
 
Planchet, leading his horse by the bridle, drew near to the gate and rang the bell, and immediately a servant-man with white hair and of erect stature, notwithstanding his age, presented himself.
 
“Does Monsieur le Comte de la Fere live here?” asked Planchet.
 
“Yes, monsieur, it is here he lives,” the servant replied to Planchet, who was not in livery.
 
“A nobleman retired from service, is he not?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“And who had a lackey named Grimaud?” persisted Planchet, who had prudently considered that he couldn’t have too much information.
 
“Monsieur Grimaud is absent from the chateau for the time being,” said the servitor, who, little used as he was to such inquiries, began to examine Planchet from head to foot.
 
“Then,” cried Planchet joyously, “I see well that it is the same Comte de la Fere whom we seek. Be good enough to open to me, for I wish to announce to monsieur le comte that my master, one of his friends, is here, and wishes to greet him.”
 
“Why didn’t you say so?” said the servitor, opening the gate. “But where is your master?”
 
“He is following me.”
 
The servitor opened the gate and walked before Planchet, who made a sign to D’Artagnan. The latter, his heart palpitating more than ever, entered the courtyard without dismounting.
 
Whilst Planchet was standing on the steps before the house he heard a voice say:
 
“Well, where is this gentleman and why do they not bring him here?”
 
This voice, the sound of which reached D’Artagnan, reawakened in his heart a thousand sentiments, a thousand recollections that he had forgotten. He vaulted hastily from his horse, whilst Planchet, with a smile on his lips, advanced toward the master of the house.
 
“But I know you, my lad,” said Athos, appearing on the threshold.
 
“Oh, yes, monsieur le comte, you know me and I know you. I am Planchet--Planchet, whom you know well.” But the honest servant could say no more, so much was he overcome by this unexpected interview.
 
“What, Planchet, is Monsieur d’Artagnan here?”
 
“Here I am, my friend, dear Athos!” cried D’Artagnan, in a faltering voice and almost staggering from agitation.
 
At these words a visible emotion was expressed on the beautiful countenance and calm features of Athos. He rushed toward D’Artagnan with eyes fixed upon him and clasped him in his arms. D’Artagnan, equally moved, pressed him also closely to him, whilst tears stood in his eyes. Athos then took him by the hand and led him into the drawing-room, where there were several people. Every one arose.
 
“I present to you,” he said, “Monsieur le Chevalier D’Artagnan, lieutenant of his majesty’s musketeers, a devoted friend and one of the most excellent, brave gentlemen that I have ever known.”
 
D’Artagnan received the compliments of those who were present in his own way, and whilst the conversation became general he looked earnestly at Athos.
 
Strange! Athos was scarcely aged at all! His fine eyes, no longer surrounded by that dark line which nights of dissipation pencil too infallibly, seemed larger, more liquid than ever. His face, a little elongated, had gained in calm dignity what it had lost in feverish excitement. His hand, always wonderfully beautiful and strong, was set off by a ruffle of lace, like certain hands by Titian and Vandyck. He was less stiff than formerly. His long, dark hair, softly powdered here and there with silver tendrils, fell elegantly over his shoulders in wavy curls; his voice was still youthful, as if belonging to a Hercules of twenty-five, and his magnificent teeth, which he had preserved white and sound, gave an indescribable charm to his smile.
 
Meanwhile the guests, seeing that the two friends were longing to be alone, prepared to depart, when a noise of dogs barking resounded through the courtyard and many persons said at the same moment:
 
“Ah! ‘tis Raoul, who is come home.”
 
Athos, as the name of Raoul was pronounced, looked inquisitively at D’Artagnan, in order to see if any curiosity was painted on his face. But D’Artagnan was still in confusion and turned around almost mechanically when a fine young man of fifteen years of age, dressed simply, but in perfect taste, entered the room, raising, as he came, his hat, adorned with a long plume of scarlet feathers.
 
Nevertheless, D’Artagnan was struck by the appearance of this new personage. It seemed to explain to him the change in Athos; a resemblance between the boy and the man explained the mystery of this regenerated existence. He remained listening and gazing.
 
“Here you are, home again, Raoul,” said the comte.
 
“Yes, sir,” replied the youth, with deep respect, “and I have performed the commission that you gave me.”
 
“But what’s the matter, Raoul?” said Athos, very anxiously. “You are pale and agitated.”
 
“Sir,” replied the young man, “it is on account of an accident which has happened to our little neighbor.”
 
“To Mademoiselle de la Valliere?” asked Athos, quickly.
 
“What is it?” cried many persons present.
 
“She was walking with her nurse Marceline, in the place where the woodmen cut the wood, when, passing on horseback, I stopped. She saw me also and in trying to jump from the end of a pile of wood on which she had mounted, the poor child fell and was not able to rise again. I fear that she has badly sprained her ankle.”
 
“Oh, heavens!” cried Athos. “And her mother, Madame de Saint-Remy, have they yet told her of it?”
 
“No, sir, Madame de Saint-Remy is at Blois with the Duchess of Orleans. I am afraid that what was first done was unskillful, if not worse than useless. I am come, sir, to ask your advice.”
 
“Send directly to Blois, Raoul; or, rather, take horse and ride immediately yourself.”
 
Raoul bowed.
 
“But where is Louise?” asked the comte.
 
“I have brought her here, sir, and I have deposited her in charge of Charlotte, who, till better advice comes, has bathed the foot in cold well-water.”
 
The guests now all took leave of Athos, excepting the old Duc de Barbe, who, as an old friend of the family of La Valliere, went to see little Louise and offered to take her to Blois in his carriage.
 
“You are right, sir,” said Athos. “She will be the sooner with her mother. As for you, Raoul, I am sure it is your fault, some giddiness or folly.”
 
“No, sir, I assure you,” muttered Raoul, “it is not.”
 
“Oh, no, no, I declare it is not!” cried the young girl, while Raoul turned pale at the idea of his being perhaps the cause of her disaster.
 
“Nevertheless, Raoul, you must go to Blois and you must make your excuses and mine to Madame de Saint-Remy.”
 
The youth looked pleased. He again took in his strong arms the little girl, whose pretty golden head and smiling face rested on his shoulder, and placed her gently in the carriage; then jumping on his horse with the elegance of a first-rate esquire, after bowing to Athos and D’Artagnan, he went off close by the door of the carriage, on somebody inside of which his eyes were riveted.
 
14. The Castle of Bragelonne.
 Whilst this scene was going on, D’Artagnan remained with open mouth and a confused gaze. Everything had turned out so differently from what he expected that he was stupefied with wonder.
 
Athos, who had been observing him and guessing his thoughts, took his arm and led him into the garden.
 
“Whilst supper is being prepared,” he said, smiling, “you will not, my friend, be sorry to have the mystery which so puzzles you cleared up.”
 
“True, monsieur le comte,” replied D’Artagnan, who felt that by degrees Athos was resuming that great influence which aristocracy had over him.
 
Athos smiled.
 
“First and foremost, dear D’Artagnan, we have no title such as count here. When I call you ‘chevalier,’ it is in presenting you to my guests, that they may know who you are. But to you, D’Artagnan, I am, I hope, still dear Athos, your comrade, your friend. Do you intend to stand on ceremony because you are less attached to me than you were?”
 
“Oh! God forbid!”
 
“Then let us be as we used to be; let us be open with each other. You are surprised at what you see here?”
 
“Extremely.”
 
“But above all things, I am a marvel to you?”
 
“I confess it.”
 
“I am still young, am I not? Should you not have known me again, in spite of my eight-and-forty years of age?”
 
“On the contrary, I do not find you the same person at all.”
 
“I understand,” cried Athos, with a gentle blush. “Everything, D’Artagnan, even folly, has its limit.”
 
“Then your means, it appears, are improved; you have a capital house--your own, I presume? You have a park, and horses, servants.”
 
Athos smiled.
 
“Yes, I inherited this little property when I quitted the army, as I told you. The park is twenty acres--twenty, comprising kitchen-gardens and a common. I have two horses,--I do not count my servant’s bobtailed nag. My sporting dogs consist of two pointers, two harriers and two setters. But then all this extravagance is not for myself,” added Athos, laughing.
 
“Yes, I see, for the young man Raoul,” said D’Artagnan.
 
“You guess aright, my friend; this youth is an orphan, deserted by his mother, who left him in the house of a poor country priest. I have brought him up. It is Raoul who has worked in me the change you see; I was dried up like a miserable tree, isolated, attached to nothing on earth; it was only a deep affection that could make me take root again and drag me back to life. This child has caused me to recover what I had lost. I had no longer any wish to live for myself, I have lived for him. I have corrected the vices that I had; I have assumed the virtues that I had not. Precept something, but example more. I may be mistaken, but I believe that Raoul will be as accomplished a gentleman as our degenerate age could display.”
 
The remembrance of Milady recurred to D’Artagnan.
 
“And you are happy?” he said to his friend.
 
“As happy as it is allowed to one of God’s creatures to be on this earth; but say out all you think, D’Artagnan, for you have not yet done so.”
 
“You are too bad, Athos; one can hide nothing from you,” answered D’Artagnan. “I wished to ask you if you ever feel any emotions of terror resembling----”
 
“Remorse! I finish your phrase. Yes and no. I do not feel remorse, because that woman, I profoundly hold, deserved her punishment. Had she one redeeming trait? I doubt it. I do not feel remorse, because had we allowed her to live she would have persisted in her work of destruction. But I do not mean, my friend that we were right in what we did. Perhaps all blood demands some expiation. Hers had been accomplished; it remains, possibly, for us to accomplish ours.”
 
“I have sometimes thought as you do, Athos.”
 
“She had a son, that unhappy woman?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“Have you ever heard of him?”
 
“Never.”
 
“He must be about twenty-three years of age,” said Athos, in a low tone. “I often think of that young man, D’Artagnan.”
 
“Strange! for I had forgotten him,” said the lieutenant.
 
Athos smiled; the smile was melancholy.
 
“And Lord de Winter--do you know anything about him?”
 
“I know that he is in high favor with Charles I.”
 
“The fortunes of that monarch now are at low water. He shed the blood of Strafford; that confirms what I said just now--blood will have blood. And the queen?”
 
“What queen?”
 
“Madame Henrietta of England, daughter of Henry IV.”
 
“She is at the Louvre, as you know.”
 
“Yes, and I hear in bitter poverty. Her daughter, during the severest cold, was obliged for want of fire to remain in bed. Do you grasp that?” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; “the daughter of Henry IV. shivering for want of a fagot! Why did she not ask from any one of us a home instead of from Mazarin? She should have wanted nothing.”
 
“Have you ever seen the queen of England?” inquired D’Artagnan.
 
“No; but my mother, as a child, saw her. Did I ever tell you that my mother was lady of honor to Marie de Medici?”
 
“Never. You know, Athos, you never spoke much of such matters.”
 
“Ah, mon Dieu, yes, you are right,” Athos replied; “but then there must be some occasion for speaking.”
 
“Porthos wouldn’t have waited for it so patiently,” said D’Artagnan, with a smile.
 
“Every one according to his nature, my dear D’Artagnan. Porthos, in spite of a touch of vanity, has many excellent qualities. Have you seen him?”
 
“I left him five days ago,” said D’Artagnan, and he portrayed with Gascon wit and sprightliness the magnificence of Porthos in his Chateau of Pierrefonds; nor did he neglect to launch a few arrows of wit at the excellent Monsieur Mouston.
 
“I sometimes wonder,” replied Athos, smiling at that gayety which recalled the good old days, “that we could form an association of men who would be, after twenty years of separation, still so closely bound together. Friendship throws out deep roots in honest hearts, D’Artagnan. Believe me, it is only the evil-minded who deny friendship; they cannot understand it. And Aramis?”
 
“I have seen him also,” said D’Artagnan; “but he seemed to me cold.”
 
“Ah, you have seen Aramis?” said Athos, turning on D’Artagnan a searching look. “Why, it is a veritable pilgrimage, my dear friend, that you are making to the Temple of Friendship, as the poets would say.”
 
“Why, yes,” replied D’Artagnan, with embarrassment.
 
“Aramis, you know,” continued Athos, “is naturally cold, and then he is always involved in intrigues with women.”
 
“I believe he is at this moment in a very complicated one,” said D’Artagnan.
 
Athos made no reply.
 
“He is not curious,” thought D’Artagnan.
 
Athos not only failed to reply, he even changed the subject of conversation.
 
“You see,” said he, calling D’Artagnan’s attention to the fact that they had come back to the chateau after an hour’s walk, “we have made a tour of my domains.”
 
“All is charming and everything savors of nobility,” replied D’Artagnan.
 
At this instant they heard the sound of horses’ feet.
 
“‘Tis Raoul who has come back,” said Athos; “and we can now hear how the poor child is.”
 
In fact, the young man appeared at the gate, covered with dust, entered the courtyard, leaped from his horse, which he consigned to the charge of a groom, and then went to greet the count and D’Artagnan.
 
“Monsieur,” said Athos, placing his hand on D’Artagnan’s shoulder, “monsieur is the Chevalier D’Artagnan of whom you have often heard me speak, Raoul.”
 
“Monsieur,” said the young man, saluting again and more profoundly, “monsieur le comte has pronounced your name before me as an example whenever he wished to speak of an intrepid and generous gentleman.”
 
That little compliment could not fail to move D’Artagnan. He extended a hand to Raoul and said:
 
“My young friend, all the praises that are given me should be passed on to the count here; for he has educated me in everything and it is not his fault that his pupil profited so little from his instructions. But he will make it up in you I am sure. I like your manner, Raoul, and your politeness has touched me.”
 
Athos was more delighted than can be told. He looked at D’Artagnan with an expression of gratitude and then bestowed on Raoul one of those strange smiles, of which children are so proud when they receive them.
 
“Now,” said D’Artagnan to himself, noticing that silent play of countenance, “I am sure of it.”
 
“I hope the accident has been of no consequence?”
 
“They don’t yet know, sir, on account of the swelling; but the doctor is afraid some tendon has been injured.”
 
At this moment a little boy, half peasant, half foot-boy, came to announce supper.
 
Athos led his guest into a dining-room of moderate size, the windows of which opened on one side on a garden, on the other on a hot-house full of magnificent flowers.
 
D’Artagnan glanced at the dinner service. The plate was magnificent, old, and appertaining to the family. D’Artagnan stopped to look at a sideboard on which was a superb ewer of silver.
 
“That workmanship is divine!” he exclaimed.
 
“Yes, a chef d’oeuvre of the great Florentine sculptor, Benvenuto Cellini,” replied Athos.
 
“What battle does it represent?”
 
“That of Marignan, just at the point where one of my forefathers is offering his sword to Francis I., who has broken his. It was on that occasion that my ancestor, Enguerrand de la Fere, was made a knight of the Order of St. Michael; besides which, the king, fifteen years afterward, gave him also this ewer and a sword which you may have seen formerly in my house, also a lovely specimen of workmanship. Men were giants in those times,” said Athos; “now we are pigmies in comparison. Let us sit down to supper. Call Charles,” he added, addressing the boy who waited.
 
“My good Charles, I particularly recommend to your care Planchet, the laquais of Monsieur D’Artagnan. He likes good wine; now you have the key of the cellar. He has slept a long time on a hard bed, so he won’t object to a soft one; take every care of him, I beg of you.” Charles bowed and retired.
 
“You think of everything,” said D’Artagnan; “and I thank you for Planchet, my dear Athos.”
 
Raoul stared on hearing this name and looked at the count to be quite sure that it was he whom the lieutenant thus addressed.
 
“That name sounds strange to you,” said Athos, smiling; “it was my nom de guerre when Monsieur D’Artagnan, two other gallant friends and myself performed some feats of arms at the siege of La Rochelle, under the deceased cardinal and Monsieur de Bassompierre. My friend is still so kind as to address me by that old and well beloved appellation, which makes my heart glad when I hear it.”
 
“‘Tis an illustrious name,” said the lieutenant, “and had one day triumphal honors paid to it.”
 
“What do you mean, sir?” inquired Raoul.
 
“You have not forgotten St. Gervais, Athos, and the napkin which was converted into a banner?” and he then related to Raoul the story of the bastion, and Raoul fancied he was listening to one of those deeds of arms belonging to days of chivalry, so gloriously recounted by Tasso and Ariosto.
 
“D’Artagnan does not tell you, Raoul,” said Athos, in his turn, “that he was reckoned one of the finest swordsmen of his time--a knuckle of iron, a wrist of steel, a sure eye and a glance of fire; that’s what his adversary met with. He was eighteen, only three years older than you are, Raoul, when I saw him set to work, pitted against tried men.”
 
“And did Monsieur D’Artagnan come off the conqueror?” asked the young man, with glistening eye.
 
“I killed one man, if I recollect rightly,” replied D’Artagnan, with a look of inquiry directed to Athos; “another I disarmed or wounded, I don’t remember which.”
 
“Wounded!” said Athos; “it was a phenomenon of skill.”
 
The young man would willingly have prolonged this conversation far into the night, but Athos pointed out to him that his guest must need repose. D’Artagnan would fain have declared that he was not fatigued, but Athos insisted on his retiring to his chamber, conducted thither by Raoul.
 
15. Athos as a Diplomatist.
 D’Artagnan retired to bed--not to sleep, but to think over all he had heard that evening. Being naturally goodhearted, and having had once a liking for Athos, which had grown into a sincere friendship, he was delighted at thus meeting a man full of intelligence and moral strength, instead of a drunkard. He admitted without annoyance the continued superiority of Athos over himself, devoid as he was of that jealousy which might have saddened a less generous disposition; he was delighted also that the high qualities of Athos appeared to promise favorably for his mission. Nevertheless, it seemed to him that Athos was not in all respects sincere and frank. Who was the youth he had adopted and who bore so striking a resemblance to him? What could explain Athos’s having re-entered the world and the extreme sobriety he had observed at table? The absence of Grimaud, whose name had never once been uttered by Athos, gave D’Artagnan uneasiness. It was evident either that he no longer possessed the confidence of his friend, or that Athos was bound by some invisible chain, or that he had been forewarned of the lieutenant’s visit.
 
He could not help thinking of M. Rochefort, whom he had seen in Notre Dame; could De Rochefort have forestalled him with Athos? Again, the moderate fortune which Athos possessed, concealed as it was, so skillfully, seemed to show a regard for appearances and to betray a latent ambition which might be easily aroused. The clear and vigorous intellect of Athos would render him more open to conviction than a less able man would be. He would enter into the minister’s schemes with the more ardor, because his natural activity would be doubled by necessity.
 
Resolved to seek an explanation on all these points on the following day, D’Artagnan, in spite of his fatigue, prepared for an attack and determined that it should take place after breakfast. He determined to cultivate the good-will of the youth Raoul and, either whilst fencing with him or when out shooting, to extract from his simplicity some information which would connect the Athos of old times with the Athos of the present. But D’Artagnan at the same time, being a man of extreme caution, was quite aware what injury he should do himself, if by any indiscretion or awkwardness he should betray has manoeuvering to the experienced eye of Athos. Besides, to tell truth, whilst D’Artagnan was quite disposed to adopt a subtle course against the cunning of Aramis or the vanity of Porthos, he was ashamed to equivocate with Athos, true-hearted, open Athos. It seemed to him that if Porthos and Aramis deemed him superior to them in the arts of diplomacy, they would like him all the better for it; but that Athos, on the contrary, would despise him.
 
“Ah! why is not Grimaud, the taciturn Grimaud, here?” thought D’Artagnan, “there are so many things his silence would have told me; with Grimaud silence was another form of eloquence!”
 
There reigned a perfect stillness in the house. D’Artagnan had heard the door shut and the shutters barred; the dogs became in their turn silent. At last a nightingale, lost in a thicket of shrubs, in the midst of its most melodious cadences had fluted low and lower into stillness and fallen asleep. Not a sound was heard in the castle, except of a footstep up and down, in the chamber above--as he supposed, the bedroom of Athos.
 
“He is walking about and thinking,” thought D’Artagnan; “but of what? It is impossible to know; everything else might be guessed, but not that.”
 
At length Athos went to bed, apparently, for the noise ceased.
 
Silence and fatigue together overcame D’Artagnan and sleep overtook him also. He was not, however, a good sleeper. Scarcely had dawn gilded his window curtains when he sprang out of bed and opened the windows. Somebody, he perceived, was in the courtyard, moving stealthily. True to his custom of never passing anything over that it was within his power to know, D’Artagnan looked out of the window and perceived the close red coat and brown hair of Raoul.
 
The young man was opening the door of the stable. He then, with noiseless haste, took out the horse that he had ridden on the previous evening, saddled and bridled it himself and led the animal into the alley to the right of the kitchen-garden, opened a side door which conducted him to a bridle road, shut it after him, and D’Artagnan saw him pass by like a dart, bending, as he went, beneath the pendent flowery branches of maple and acacia. The road, as D’Artagnan had observed, was the way to Blois.
 
“So!” thought the Gascon “here’s a young blade who has already his love affair, who doesn’t at all agree with Athos in his hatred to the fair sex. He’s not going to hunt, for he has neither dogs nor arms; he’s not going on a message, for he goes secretly. Why does he go in secret? Is he afraid of me or of his father? for I am sure the count is his father. By Jove! I shall know about that soon, for I shall soon speak out to Athos.”
 
Day was now advanced; all the noises that had ceased the night before reawakened, one after the other. The bird on the branch, the dog in his kennel, the sheep in the field, the boats moored in the Loire, even, became alive and vocal. The latter, leaving the shore, abandoned themselves gaily to the current. The Gascon gave a last twirl to his mustache, a last turn to his hair, brushed, from habit, the brim of his hat with the sleeve of his doublet, and went downstairs. Scarcely had he descended the last step of the threshold when he saw Athos bent down toward the ground, as if he were looking for a crown-piece in the dust.
 
“Good-morning, my dear host,” cried D’Artagnan.
 
“Good-day to you; have you slept well?”
 
“Excellently, Athos, but what are you looking for? You are perhaps a tulip fancier?”
 
“My dear friend, if I am, you must not laugh at me for being so. In the country people alter; one gets to like, without knowing it, all those beautiful objects that God causes to spring from the earth, which are despised in cities. I was looking anxiously for some iris roots I planted here, close to this reservoir, and which some one has trampled upon this morning. These gardeners are the most careless people in the world; in bringing the horse out to the water they’ve allowed him to walk over the border.”
 
D’Artagnan began to smile.
 
“Ah! you think so, do you?”
 
And he took his friend along the alley, where a number of tracks like those which had trampled down the flowerbeds, were visible.
 
“Here are the horse’s hoofs again, it seems, Athos,” he said carelessly.
 
“Yes, indeed, the marks are recent.”
 
“Quite so,” replied the lieutenant.
 
“Who went out this morning?” Athos asked, uneasily. “Has any horse got loose?”
 
“Not likely,” answered the Gascon; “these marks are regular.”
 
“Where is Raoul?” asked Athos; “how is it that I have not seen him?”
 
“Hush!” exclaimed D’Artagnan, putting his finger on his lips; and he related what he had seen, watching Athos all the while.
 
“Ah, he’s gone to Blois; the poor boy----”
 
“Wherefore?”
 
“Ah, to inquire after the little La Valliere; she has sprained her foot, you know.”
 
“You think he has?”
 
“I am sure of it,” said Athos; “don’t you see that Raoul is in love?”
 
“Indeed! with whom--with a child seven years old?”
 
“Dear friend, at Raoul’s age the heart is so expansive that it must encircle one object or another, fancied or real. Well, his love is half real, half fanciful. She is the prettiest little creature in the world, with flaxen hair, blue eyes,--at once saucy and languishing.”
 
“But what say you to Raoul’s fancy?”
 
“Nothing--I laugh at Raoul; but this first desire of the heart is imperious. I remember, just at his age, how deep in love I was with a Grecian statue which our good king, then Henry IV., gave my father, insomuch that I was mad with grief when they told me that the story of Pygmalion was nothing but a fable.”
 
“It is mere want of occupation. You do not make Raoul work, so he takes his own way of employing himself.”
 
“Exactly; therefore I think of sending him away from here.”
 
“You will be wise to do so.”
 
“No doubt of it; but it will break his heart. So long as three or four years ago he used to adorn and adore his little idol, whom he will some day fall in love with in right earnest if he remains here. The parents of little La Valliere have for a long time perceived and been amused at it; now they begin to look concerned.”
 
“Nonsense! However, Raoul must be diverted from this fancy. Send him away or you will never make a man of him.”
 
“I think I shall send him to Paris.”
 
“So!” thought D’Artagnan, and it seemed to him that the moment for attack had arrived.
 
“Suppose,” he said, “we roughly chalk out a career for this young man. I wish to consult you about some thing.”
 
“Do so.”
 
“Do you think it is time for us to enter the service?”
 
“But are you not still in the service--you, D’Artagnan?”
 
“I mean active service. Our former life, has it still no attractions for you? would you not be happy to begin anew in my society and in that of Porthos, the exploits of our youth?”
 
“Do you propose to me to do so, D’Artagnan?”
 
“Decidedly and honestly.”
 
“On whose side?” asked Athos, fixing his clear, benevolent glance on the countenance of the Gascon.
 
“Ah, devil take it, you speak in earnest----”
 
“And must have a definite answer. Listen, D’Artagnan. There is but one person, or rather, one cause, to whom a man like me can be useful--that of the king.”
 
“Exactly,” answered the musketeer.
 
“Yes, but let us understand each other,” returned Athos, seriously. “If by the cause of the king you mean that of Monsieur de Mazarin, we do not understand each other.”
 
“I don’t say exactly,” answered the Gascon, confused.
 
“Come, D’Artagnan, don’t let us play a sidelong game; your hesitation, your evasion, tells me at once on whose side you are; for that party no one dares openly to recruit, and when people recruit for it, it is with averted eyes and humble voice.”
 
“Ah! my dear Athos!”
 
“You know that I am not alluding to you; you are the pearl of brave, bold men. I speak of that spiteful and intriguing Italian--of the pedant who has tried to put on his own head a crown which he stole from under a pillow--of the scoundrel who calls his party the party of the king--who wants to send the princes of the blood to prison, not daring to kill them, as our great cardinal--our cardinal did--of the miser, who weighs his gold pieces and keeps the clipped ones for fear, though he is rich, of losing them at play next morning--of the impudent fellow who insults the queen, as they say--so much the worse for her--and who is going in three months to make war upon us, in order that he may retain his pensions; is that the master whom you propose to me? I thank you, D’Artagnan.”
 
“You are more impetuous than you were,” returned D’Artagnan. “Age has warmed, not chilled your blood. Who informed you this was the master I propose to you? Devil take it,” he muttered to himself, “don’t let me betray my secrets to a man not inclined to entertain them.”
 
“Well, then,” said Athos, “what are your schemes? what do you propose?”
 
“Zounds! nothing more than natural. You live on your estate, happy in golden mediocrity. Porthos has, perhaps, sixty thousand francs income. Aramis has always fifty duchesses quarreling over the priest, as they quarreled formerly over the musketeer; but I--what have I in the world? I have worn my cuirass these twenty years, kept down in this inferior rank, without going forward or backward, hardly half living. In fact, I am dead. Well! when there is some idea of being resuscitated, you say he’s a scoundrel, an impudent fellow, a miser, a bad master! By Jove! I am of your opinion, but find me a better one or give me the means of living.”
 
Athos was for a few moments thoughtful.
 
“Good! D’Artagnan is for Mazarin,” he said to himself.
 
From that moment he grew very guarded.
 
On his side D’Artagnan became more cautious also.
 
“You spoke to me,” Athos resumed, “of Porthos; have you persuaded him to seek his fortune? But he has wealth, I believe, already.”
 
“Doubtless he has. But such is man, we always want something more than we already have.”
 
“What does Porthos wish for?”
 
“To be a baron.”
 
“Ah, true! I forgot,” said Athos, laughing.
 
“‘Tis true!” thought the Gascon, “where has he heard it? Does he correspond with Aramis? Ah! if I knew that he did I should know all.”
 
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Raoul.
 
“Is our little neighbor worse?” asked D’Artagnan, seeing a look of vexation on the face of the youth.
 
“Ah, sir!” replied Raoul, “her fall is a very serious one, and without any ostensible injury, the physician fears she will be lame for life.”
 
“This is terrible,” said Athos.
 
“And what makes me all the more wretched, sir, is, that I was the cause of this misfortune.”
 
“How so?” asked Athos.
 
“It was to run to meet me that she leaped from that pile of wood.”
 
“There’s only one remedy, dear Raoul--that is, to marry her as a compensation.” remarked D’Artagnan.
 
“Ah, sir!” answered Raoul, “you joke about a real misfortune; that is cruel, indeed.”
 
The good understanding between the two friends was not in the least altered by the morning’s skirmish. They breakfasted with a good appetite, looking now and then at poor Raoul, who with moist eyes and a full heart, scarcely ate at all.
 
After breakfast two letters arrived for Athos, who read them with profound attention, whilst D’Artagnan could not restrain himself from jumping up several times on seeing him read these epistles, in one of which, there being at the time a very strong light, he perceived the fine writing of Aramis. The other was in a feminine hand, long, and crossed.
 
“Come,” said D’Artagnan to Raoul, seeing that Athos wished to be alone, “come, let us take a turn in the fencing gallery; that will amuse you.”
 
And they both went into a low room where there were foils, gloves, masks, breastplates, and all the accessories for a fencing match.
 
In a quarter of an hour Athos joined them and at the same moment Charles brought in a letter for D’Artagnan, which a messenger had just desired might be instantly delivered.
 
It was now Athos’s turn to take a sly look.
 
D’Artagnan read the letter with apparent calmness and said, shaking his head:
 
“See, dear friend, what it is to belong to the army. Faith, you are indeed right not to return to it. Monsieur de Treville is ill, so my company can’t do without me; there! my leave is at an end!”
 
“Do you return to Paris?” asked Athos, quickly.
 
“Egad! yes; but why don’t you come there also?”
 
Athos colored a little and answered:
 
“Should I go, I shall be delighted to see you there.”
 
“Halloo, Planchet!” cried the Gascon from the door, “we must set out in ten minutes; give the horses some hay.”
 
Then turning to Athos he added:
 
“I seem to miss something here. I am really sorry to go away without having seen Grimaud.”
 
“Grimaud!” replied Athos. “I’m surprised you have never so much as asked after him. I have lent him to a friend----”
 
“Who will understand the signs he makes?” returned D’Artagnan.
 
“I hope so.”
 
The friends embraced cordially; D’Artagnan pressed Raoul’s hand.
 
“Will you not come with me?” he said; “I shall pass by Blois.”
 
Raoul turned toward Athos, who showed him by a secret sign that he did not wish him to go.
 
“No, monsieur,” replied the young man; “I will remain with monsieur le comte.”
 
“Adieu, then, to both, my good friends,” said D’Artagnan; “may God preserve you! as we used to say when we said good-bye to each other in the late cardinal’s time.”
 
Athos waved his hand, Raoul bowed, and D’Artagnan and Planchet set out.
 
The count followed them with his eyes, his hands resting on the shoulders of the youth, whose height was almost equal to his own; but as soon as they were out of sight he said:
 
“Raoul, we set out to-night for Paris.”
 
“Eh?” cried the young man, turning pale.
 
“You may go and offer your adieux and mine to Madame de Saint-Remy. I shall wait for you here till seven.”
 
The young man bent low, with an expression of sorrow and gratitude mingled, and retired in order to saddle his horse.
 
As to D’Artagnan, scarcely, on his side, was he out of sight when he drew from his pocket a letter, which he read over again:
 
“Return immediately to Paris.--J. M----.”
 
“The epistle is laconic,” said D’Artagnan; “and if there had not been a postscript, probably I should not have understood it; but happily there is a postscript.”
 
And he read that welcome postscript, which made him forget the abruptness of the letter.
 
“P. S.--Go to the king’s treasurer, at Blois; tell him your name and show him this letter; you will receive two hundred pistoles.”
 
“Assuredly,” said D’Artagnan, “I admire this piece of prose. The cardinal writes better than I thought. Come, Planchet, let us pay a visit to the king’s treasurer and then set off.”
 
“Toward Paris, sir?”
 
“Toward Paris.”
 
And they set out at as hard a canter as their horses could maintain.
16. The Duc de Beaufort.
 The circumstances that had hastened the return of D’Artagnan to Paris were as follows:
 
One evening, when Mazarin, according to custom, went to visit the queen, in passing the guard-chamber he heard loud voices; wishing to know on what topic the soldiers were conversing, he approached with his wonted wolf-like step, pushed open the door and put his head close to the chink.
 
There was a dispute among the guards.
 
“I tell you,” one of them was saying, “that if Coysel predicted that, ‘tis as good as true; I know nothing about it, but I have heard say that he’s not only an astrologer, but a magician.”
 
“Deuce take it, friend, if he’s one of thy friends thou wilt ruin him in saying so.”
 
“Why?”
 
“Because he may be tried for it.”
 
“Ah! absurd! they don’t burn sorcerers nowadays.”
 
“No? ‘Tis not a long time since the late cardinal burnt Urban Grandier, though.”
 
“My friend, Urban Grandier wasn’t a sorcerer, he was a learned man. He didn’t predict the future, he knew the past--often a more dangerous thing.”
 
Mazarin nodded an assent, but wishing to know what this prediction was, about which they disputed, he remained in the same place.
 
“I don’t say,” resumed the guard, “that Coysel is not a sorcerer, but I say that if his prophecy gets wind, it’s a sure way to prevent it’s coming true.”
 
“How so?”
 
“Why, in this way: if Coysel says loud enough for the cardinal to hear him, on such or such a day such a prisoner will escape, ‘tis plain that the cardinal will take measures of precaution and that the prisoner will not escape.”
 
“Good Lord!” said another guard, who might have been thought asleep on a bench, but who had lost not a syllable of the conversation, “do you suppose that men can escape their destiny? If it is written yonder, in Heaven, that the Duc de Beaufort is to escape, he will escape; and all the precautions of the cardinal will not prevent it.”
 
Mazarin started. He was an Italian and therefore superstitious. He walked straight into the midst of the guards, who on seeing him were silent.
 
“What were you saying?” he asked with his flattering manner; “that Monsieur de Beaufort had escaped, were you not?”
 
“Oh, no, my lord!” said the incredulous soldier. “He’s well guarded now; we only said he would escape.”
 
“Who said so?”
 
“Repeat your story, Saint Laurent,” replied the man, turning to the originator of the tale.
 
“My lord,” said the guard, “I have simply mentioned the prophecy I heard from a man named Coysel, who believes that, be he ever so closely watched and guarded, the Duke of Beaufort will escape before Whitsuntide.”
 
“Coysel is a madman!” returned the cardinal.
 
“No,” replied the soldier, tenacious in his credulity; “he has foretold many things which have come to pass; for instance, that the queen would have a son; that Monsieur Coligny would be killed in a duel with the Duc de Guise; and finally, that the coadjutor would be made cardinal. Well! the queen has not only one son, but two; then, Monsieur de Coligny was killed, and----”
 
“Yes,” said Mazarin, “but the coadjutor is not yet made cardinal!”
 
“No, my lord, but he will be,” answered the guard.
 
Mazarin made a grimace, as if he meant to say, “But he does not wear the cardinal’s cap;” then he added:
 
“So, my friend, it’s your opinion that Monsieur de Beaufort will escape?”
 
“That’s my idea, my lord; and if your eminence were to offer to make me at this moment governor of the castle of Vincennes, I should refuse it. After Whitsuntide it would be another thing.”
 
There is nothing so convincing as a firm conviction. It has its own effect upon the most incredulous; and far from being incredulous, Mazarin was superstitious. He went away thoughtful and anxious and returned to his own room, where he summoned Bernouin and desired him to fetch thither in the morning the special guard he had placed over Monsieur de Beaufort and to awaken him whenever he should arrive.
 
The guard had, in fact, touched the cardinal in the tenderest point. During the whole five years in which the Duc de Beaufort had been in prison not a day had passed in which the cardinal had not felt a secret dread of his escape. It was not possible, as he knew well, to confine for the whole of his life the grandson of Henry IV., especially when this young prince was scarcely thirty years of age. But however and whensoever he did escape, what hatred he must cherish against him to whom he owed his long imprisonment; who had taken him, rich, brave, glorious, beloved by women, feared by men, to cut off his life’s best, happiest years; for it is not life, it is merely existence, in prison! Meantime, Mazarin redoubled his surveillance over the duke. But like the miser in the fable, he could not sleep for thinking of his treasure. Often he awoke in the night, suddenly, dreaming that he had been robbed of Monsieur de Beaufort. Then he inquired about him and had the vexation of hearing that the prisoner played, drank, sang, but that whilst playing, drinking, singing, he often stopped short to vow that Mazarin should pay dear for all the amusements he had forced him to enter into at Vincennes.
 
So much did this one idea haunt the cardinal even in his sleep, that when at seven in the morning Bernouin came to arouse him, his first words were: “Well, what’s the matter? Has Monsieur de Beaufort escaped from Vincennes?”
 
“I do not think so, my lord,” said Bernouin; “but you will hear about him, for La Ramee is here and awaits the commands of your eminence.”
 
“Tell him to come in,” said Mazarin, arranging his pillows, so that he might receive the visitor sitting up in bed.
 
The officer entered, a large fat man, with an open physiognomy. His air of perfect serenity made Mazarin uneasy.
 
“Approach, sir,” said the cardinal.
 
The officer obeyed.
 
“Do you know what they are saying here?”
 
“No, your eminence.”
 
“Well, they say that Monsieur de Beaufort is going to escape from Vincennes, if he has not done so already.”
 
The officer’s face expressed complete stupefaction. He opened at once his little eyes and his great mouth, to inhale better the joke his eminence deigned to address to him, and ended by a burst of laughter, so violent that his great limbs shook in hilarity as they would have done in an ague.
 
“Escape! my lord--escape! Your eminence does not then know where Monsieur de Beaufort is?”
 
“Yes, I do, sir; in the donjon of Vincennes.”
 
“Yes, sir; in a room, the walls of which are seven feet thick, with grated windows, each bar as thick as my arm.”
 
“Sir,” replied Mazarin, “with perseverance one may penetrate through a wall; with a watch-spring one may saw through an iron bar.”
 
“Then my lord does not know that there are eight guards about him, four in his chamber, four in the antechamber, and that they never leave him.”
 
“But he leaves his room, he plays at tennis at the Mall?”
 
“Sir, those amusements are allowed; but if your eminence wishes it, we will discontinue the permission.”
 
“No, no!” cried Mazarin, fearing that should his prisoner ever leave his prison he would be the more exasperated against him if he thus retrenched his amusement. He then asked with whom he played.
 
“My lord, either with the officers of the guard, with the other prisoners, or with me.”
 
“But does he not approach the walls while playing?”
 
“Your eminence doesn’t know those walls; they are sixty feet high and I doubt if Monsieur de Beaufort is sufficiently weary of life to risk his neck by jumping off.”
 
“Hum!” said the cardinal, beginning to feel more comfortable. “You mean to say, then, my dear Monsieur la Ramee----”
 
“That unless Monsieur de Beaufort can contrive to metamorphose himself into a little bird, I will continue answerable for him.”
 
“Take care! you assert a great deal,” said Mazarin. “Monsieur de Beaufort told the guards who took him to Vincennes that he had often thought what he should do in case he were put into prison, and that he had found out forty ways of escaping.”
 
“My lord, if among these forty there had been one good way he would have been out long ago.”
 
“Come, come; not such a fool as I fancied!” thought Mazarin.
 
“Besides, my lord must remember that Monsieur de Chavigny is governor of Vincennes,” continued La Ramee, “and that Monsieur de Chavigny is not friendly to Monsieur de Beaufort.”
 
“Yes, but Monsieur de Chavigny is sometimes absent.”
 
“When he is absent I am there.”
 
“But when you leave him, for instance?”
 
“Oh! when I leave him, I place in my stead a bold fellow who aspires to be his majesty’s special guard. I promise you he keeps a good watch over the prisoner. During the three weeks that he has been with me, I have only had to reproach him with one thing--being too severe with the prisoners.”
 
“And who is this Cerberus?”
 
“A certain Monsieur Grimaud, my lord.”
 
“And what was he before he went to Vincennes?”
 
“He was in the country, as I was told by the person who recommended him to me.”
 
“And who recommended this man to you?”
 
“The steward of the Duc de Grammont.”
 
“He is not a gossip, I hope?”
 
“Lord a mercy, my lord! I thought for a long time that he was dumb; he answers only by signs. It seems his former master accustomed him to that.”
 
“Well, dear Monsieur la Ramee,” replied the cardinal “let him prove a true and thankful keeper and we will shut our eyes upon his rural misdeeds and put on his back a uniform to make him respectable, and in the pockets of that uniform some pistoles to drink to the king’s health.”
 
Mazarin was large in promises,--quite unlike the virtuous Monsieur Grimaud so bepraised by La Ramee; for he said nothing and did much.
 
It was now nine o’clock. The cardinal, therefore, got up, perfumed himself, dressed, and went to the queen to tell her what had detained him. The queen, who was scarcely less afraid of Monsieur de Beaufort than the cardinal himself, and who was almost as superstitious as he was, made him repeat word for word all La Ramee’s praises of his deputy. Then, when the cardinal had ended:
 
“Alas, sir! why have we not a Grimaud near every prince?”
 
“Patience!” replied Mazarin, with his Italian smile; “that may happen one day; but in the meantime----”
 
“Well, in the meantime?”
 
“I shall still take precautions.”
 
And he wrote to D’Artagnan to hasten his return.
17. Duc de Beaufort amused his Leisure Hours
 The captive who was the source of so much alarm to the cardinal and whose means of escape disturbed the repose of the whole court, was wholly unconscious of the terror he caused at the Palais Royal.
 
He had found himself so strictly guarded that he soon perceived the fruitlessness of any attempt at escape. His vengeance, therefore, consisted in coining curses on the head of Mazarin; he even tried to make some verses on him, but soon gave up the attempt, for Monsieur de Beaufort had not only not received from Heaven the gift of versifying, he had the greatest difficulty in expressing himself in prose.
 
The duke was the grandson of Henry IV. and Gabrielle d’Estrees--as good-natured, as brave, as proud, and above all, as Gascon as his ancestor, but less elaborately educated. After having been for some time after the death of Louis XIII. the favorite, the confidant, the first man, in short, at the court, he had been obliged to yield his place to Mazarin and so became the second in influence and favor; and eventually, as he was stupid enough to be vexed at this change of position, the queen had had him arrested and sent to Vincennes in charge of Guitant, who made his appearance in these pages in the beginning of this history and whom we shall see again. It is understood, of course, that when we say “the queen,” Mazarin is meant.
 
During the five years of this seclusion, which would have improved and matured the intellect of any other man, M. de Beaufort, had he not affected to brave the cardinal, despise princes, and walk alone without adherents or disciples, would either have regained his liberty or made partisans. But these considerations never occurred to the duke and every day the cardinal received fresh accounts of him which were as unpleasant as possible to the minister.
 
After having failed in poetry, Monsieur de Beaufort tried drawing. He drew portraits, with a piece of coal, of the cardinal; and as his talents did not enable him to produce a very good likeness, he wrote under the picture that there might be little doubt regarding the original: “Portrait of the Illustrious Coxcomb, Mazarin.” Monsieur de Chavigny, the governor of Vincennes, waited upon the duke to request that he would amuse himself in some other way, or that at all events, if he drew likenesses, he would not put mottoes underneath them. The next day the prisoner’s room was full of pictures and mottoes. Monsieur de Beaufort, in common with many other prisoners, was bent upon doing things that were prohibited; and the only resource the governor had was, one day when the duke was playing at tennis, to efface all these drawings, consisting chiefly of profiles. M. de Beaufort did not venture to draw the cardinal’s fat face.
 
The duke thanked Monsieur de Chavigny for having, as he said, cleaned his drawing-paper for him; he then divided the walls of his room into compartments and dedicated each of these compartments to some incident in Mazarin’s life. In one was depicted the “Illustrious Coxcomb” receiving a shower of blows from Cardinal Bentivoglio, whose servant he had been; another, the “Illustrious Mazarin” acting the part of Ignatius Loyola in a tragedy of that name; a third, the “Illustrious Mazarin” stealing the portfolio of prime minister from Monsieur de Chavigny, who had expected to have it; a fourth, the “Illustrious Coxcomb Mazarin” refusing to give Laporte, the young king’s valet, clean sheets, and saving that “it was quite enough for the king of France to have clean sheets every three months.”
 
The governor, of course, thought proper to threaten his prisoner that if he did not give up drawing such pictures he should be obliged to deprive him of all the means of amusing himself in that manner. To this Monsieur de Beaufort replied that since every opportunity of distinguishing himself in arms was taken from him, he wished to make himself celebrated in the arts; since he could not be a Bayard, he would become a Raphael or a Michael Angelo. Nevertheless, one day when Monsieur de Beaufort was walking in the meadow his fire was put out, his charcoal all removed, taken away; and thus his means of drawing utterly destroyed.
 
The poor duke swore, fell into a rage, yelled, and declared that they wished to starve him to death as they had starved the Marechal Ornano and the Grand Prior of Vendome; but he refused to promise that he would not make any more drawings and remained without any fire in the room all the winter.
 
His next act was to purchase a dog from one of his keepers. With this animal, which he called Pistache, he was often shut up for hours alone, superintending, as every one supposed, its education. At last, when Pistache was sufficiently well trained, Monsieur de Beaufort invited the governor and officers of Vincennes to attend a representation which he was going to have in his apartment.
 
The party assembled, the room was lighted with waxlights, and the prisoner, with a bit of plaster he had taken out of the wall of his room, had traced a long white line, representing a cord, on the floor. Pistache, on a signal from his master, placed himself on this line, raised himself on his hind paws, and holding in his front paws a wand with which clothes used to be beaten, he began to dance upon the line with as many contortions as a rope-dancer. Having been several times up and down it, he gave the wand back to his master and began without hesitation to perform the same evolutions over again.
 
The intelligent creature was received with loud applause.
 
The first part of the entertainment being concluded Pistache was desired to say what o’clock it was; he was shown Monsieur de Chavigny’s watch; it was then half-past six; the dog raised and dropped his paw six times; the seventh he let it remain upraised. Nothing could be better done; a sun-dial could not have shown the hour with greater precision.
 
Then the question was put to him who was the best jailer in all the prisons in France.
 
The dog performed three evolutions around the circle and laid himself, with the deepest respect, at the feet of Monsieur de Chavigny, who at first seemed inclined to like the joke and laughed long and loud, but a frown succeeded, and he bit his lips with vexation.
 
Then the duke put to Pistache this difficult question, who was the greatest thief in the world?
 
Pistache went again around the circle, but stopped at no one, and at last went to the door and began to scratch and bark.
 
“See, gentlemen,” said M. de Beaufort, “this wonderful animal, not finding here what I ask for, seeks it out of doors; you shall, however, have his answer. Pistache, my friend, come here. Is not the greatest thief in the world, Monsieur (the king’s secretary) Le Camus, who came to Paris with twenty francs in his pocket and who now possesses ten millions?”
 
The dog shook his head.
 
“Then is it not,” resumed the duke, “the Superintendent Emery, who gave his son, when he was married, three hundred thousand francs and a house, compared to which the Tuileries are a heap of ruins and the Louvre a paltry building?”
 
The dog again shook his head as if to say “no.”
 
“Then,” said the prisoner, “let’s think who it can be. Can it be, can it possibly be, the ‘Illustrious Coxcomb, Mazarin de Piscina,’ hey?”
 
Pistache made violent signs that it was, by raising and lowering his head eight or ten times successively.
 
“Gentlemen, you see,” said the duke to those present, who dared not even smile, “that it is the ‘Illustrious Coxcomb’ who is the greatest thief in the world; at least, according to Pistache.”
 
“Let us go on to another of his exercises.”
 
“Gentlemen!”--there was a profound silence in the room when the duke again addressed them--“do you not remember that the Duc de Guise taught all the dogs in Paris to jump for Mademoiselle de Pons, whom he styled ‘the fairest of the fair?’ Pistache is going to show you how superior he is to all other dogs. Monsieur de Chavigny, be so good as to lend me your cane.”
 
Monsieur de Chavigny handed his cane to Monsieur de Beaufort. Monsieur de Beaufort placed it horizontally at the height of one foot.
 
“Now, Pistache, my good dog, jump the height of this cane for Madame de Montbazon.”
 
“But,” interposed Monsieur de Chavigny, “it seems to me that Pistache is only doing what other dogs have done when they jumped for Mademoiselle de Pons.”
 
“Stop,” said the duke, “Pistache, jump for the queen.” And he raised his cane six inches higher.
 
The dog sprang, and in spite of the height jumped lightly over it.
 
“And now,” said the duke, raising it still six inches higher, “jump for the king.”
 
The dog obeyed and jumped quickly over the cane.
 
“Now, then,” said the duke, and as he spoke, lowered the cane almost level with the ground; “Pistache, my friend, jump for the ‘Illustrious Coxcomb, Mazarin de Piscina.’”
 
The dog turned his back to the cane.
 
“What,” asked the duke, “what do you mean?” and he gave him the cane again, first making a semicircle from the head to the tail of Pistache. “Jump then, Monsieur Pistache.”
 
But Pistache, as at first, turned round on his legs and stood with his back to the cane.
 
Monsieur de Beaufort made the experiment a third time, but by this time Pistache’s patience was exhausted; he threw himself furiously upon the cane, wrested it from the hands of the prince and broke it with his teeth.
 
Monsieur de Beaufort took the pieces out of his mouth and presented them with great formality to Monsieur de Chavigny, saying that for that evening the entertainment was ended, but in three months it should be repeated, when Pistache would have learned a few new tricks.
 
Three days afterward Pistache was found dead--poisoned.
 
Then the duke said openly that his dog had been killed by a drug with which they meant to poison him; and one day after dinner he went to bed, calling out that he had pains in his stomach and that Mazarin had poisoned him.
 
This fresh impertinence reached the ears of the cardinal and alarmed him greatly. The donjon of Vincennes was considered very unhealthy and Madame de Rambouillet had said that the room in which the Marechal Ornano and the Grand Prior de Vendome had died was worth its weight in arsenic--a bon mot which had great success. So it was ordered the prisoner was henceforth to eat nothing that had not previously been tasted, and La Ramee was in consequence placed near him as taster.
 
Every kind of revenge was practiced upon the duke by the governor in return for the insults of the innocent Pistache. De Chavigny, who, according to report, was a son of Richelieu’s, and had been a creature of the late cardinal’s, understood tyranny. He took from the duke all the steel knives and silver forks and replaced them with silver knives and wooden forks, pretending that as he had been informed that the duke was to pass all his life at Vincennes, he was afraid of his prisoner attempting suicide. A fortnight afterward the duke, going to the tennis court, found two rows of trees about the size of his little finger planted by the roadside; he asked what they were for and was told that they were to shade him from the sun on some future day. One morning the gardener went to him and told him, as if to please him, that he was going to plant a bed of asparagus for his especial use. Now, since, as every one knows, asparagus takes four years in coming to perfection, this civility infuriated Monsieur de Beaufort.
 
At last his patience was exhausted. He assembled his keepers, and notwithstanding his well-known difficulty of utterance, addressed them as follows:
 
“Gentlemen! will you permit a grandson of Henry IV. to be overwhelmed with insults and ignominy?
 
“Odds fish! as my grandfather used to say, I once reigned in Paris! do you know that? I had the king and Monsieur the whole of one day in my care. The queen at that time liked me and called me the most honest man in the kingdom. Gentlemen and citizens, set me free; I shall go to the Louvre and strangle Mazarin. You shall be my body-guard. I will make you all captains, with good pensions! Odds fish! On! march forward!”
 
But eloquent as he might be, the eloquence of the grandson of Henry IV. did not touch those hearts of stone; not one man stirred, so Monsieur de Beaufort was obliged to be satisfied with calling them all kinds of rascals underneath the sun.
 
Sometimes, when Monsieur de Chavigny paid him a visit, the duke used to ask him what he should think if he saw an army of Parisians, all fully armed, appear at Vincennes to deliver him from prison.
 
“My lord,” answered De Chavigny, with a low bow, “I have on the ramparts twenty pieces of artillery and in my casemates thirty thousand guns. I should bombard the troops till not one grain of gunpowder was unexploded.”
 
“Yes, but after you had fired off your thirty thousand guns they would take the donjon; the donjon being taken, I should be obliged to let them hang you--at which I should be most unhappy, certainly.”
 
And in his turn the duke bowed low to Monsieur de Chavigny.
 
“For myself, on the other hand, my lord,” returned the governor, “when the first rebel should pass the threshold of my postern doors I should be obliged to kill you with my own hand, since you were confided peculiarly to my care and as I am obliged to give you up, dead or alive.”
 
And once more he bowed low before his highness.
 
These bitter-sweet pleasantries lasted ten minutes, sometimes longer, but always finished thus:
 
Monsieur de Chavigny, turning toward the door, used to call out: “Halloo! La Ramee!”
 
La Ramee came into the room.
 
“La Ramee, I recommend Monsieur le Duc to you, particularly; treat him as a man of his rank and family ought to be treated; that is, never leave him alone an instant.”
 
La Ramee became, therefore, the duke’s dinner guest by compulsion--an eternal keeper, the shadow of his person; but La Ramee--gay, frank, convivial, fond of play, a great hand at tennis, had one defect in the duke’s eyes--his incorruptibility.
 
Now, although La Ramee appreciated, as of a certain value, the honor of being shut up with a prisoner of so great importance, still the pleasure of living in intimacy with the grandson of Henry IV. hardly compensated for the loss of that which he had experienced in going from time to time to visit his family.
 
One may be a jailer or a keeper and at the same time a good father and husband. La Ramee adored his wife and children, whom now he could only catch a glimpse of from the top of the wall, when in order to please him they used to walk on the opposite side of the moat. ‘Twas too brief an enjoyment, and La Ramee felt that the gayety of heart he had regarded as the cause of health (of which it was perhaps rather the result) would not long survive such a mode of life.
 
He accepted, therefore, with delight, an offer made to him by his friend the steward of the Duc de Grammont, to give him a substitute; he also spoke of it to Monsieur de Chavigny, who promised that he would not oppose it in any way--that is, if he approved of the person proposed.
 
We consider it useless to draw a physical or moral portrait of Grimaud; if, as we hope, our readers have not wholly forgotten the first part of this work, they must have preserved a clear idea of that estimable individual, who is wholly unchanged, except that he is twenty years older, an advance in life that has made him only more silent; although, since the change that had been working in himself, Athos had given Grimaud permission to speak.
 
But Grimaud had for twelve or fifteen years preserved habitual silence, and a habit of fifteen or twenty years’ duration becomes second nature.
 
18. Grimaud begins his Functions.
 Grimaud thereupon presented himself with his smooth exterior at the donjon of Vincennes. Now Monsieur de Chavigny piqued himself on his infallible penetration; for that which almost proved that he was the son of Richelieu was his everlasting pretension; he examined attentively the countenance of the applicant for place and fancied that the contracted eyebrows, thin lips, hooked nose, and prominent cheek-bones of Grimaud were favorable signs. He addressed about twelve words to him; Grimaud answered in four.
 
“Here’s a promising fellow and it is I who have found out his merits,” said Monsieur de Chavigny. “Go,” he added, “and make yourself agreeable to Monsieur la Ramee, and tell him that you suit me in all respects.”
 
Grimaud had every quality that could attract a man on duty who wishes to have a deputy. So, after a thousand questions which met with only a word in reply, La Ramee, fascinated by this sobriety in speech, rubbed his hands and engaged Grimaud.
 
“My orders?” asked Grimaud.
 
“They are these; never to leave the prisoner alone; to keep away from him every pointed or cutting instrument, and to prevent his conversing any length of time with the keepers.”
 
“Those are all?” asked Grimaud.
 
“All now,” replied La Ramee.
 
“Good,” answered Grimaud; and he went right to the prisoner.
 
The duke was in the act of combing his beard, which he had allowed to grow, as well as his hair, in order to reproach Mazarin with his wretched appearance and condition. But having some days previously seen from the top of the donjon Madame de Montbazon pass in her carriage, and still cherishing an affection for that beautiful woman, he did not wish to be to her what he wished to be to Mazarin, and in the hope of seeing her again, had asked for a leaden comb, which was allowed him. The comb was to be a leaden one, because his beard, like that of most fair people, was rather red; he therefore dyed it thus whilst combing it.
 
As Grimaud entered he saw this comb on the tea-table; he took it up, and as he took it he made a low bow.
 
The duke looked at this strange figure with surprise. The figure put the comb in its pocket.
 
“Ho! hey! what’s that?” cried the duke. “Who is this creature?”
 
Grimaud did not answer, but bowed a second time.
 
“Art thou dumb?” cried the duke.
 
Grimaud made a sign that he was not.
 
“What art thou, then? Answer! I command thee!” said the duke.
 
“A keeper,” replied Grimaud.
 
“A keeper!” reiterated the duke; “there was nothing wanting in my collection, except this gallows-bird. Halloo! La Ramee! some one!”
 
La Ramee ran in haste to obey the call.
 
“Who is this wretch who takes my comb and puts it in his pocket?” asked the duke.
 
“One of your guards, my prince; a man of talent and merit, whom you will like, as I and Monsieur de Chavigny do, I am sure.”
 
“Why does he take my comb?”
 
“Why do you take my lord’s comb?” asked La Ramee.
 
Grimaud drew the comb from his pocket and passing his fingers over the largest teeth, pronounced this one word, “Pointed.”
 
“True,” said La Ramee.
 
“What does the animal say?” asked the duke.
 
“That the king has forbidden your lordship to have any pointed instrument.”
 
“Are you mad, La Ramee? You yourself gave me this comb.”
 
“I was very wrong, my lord, for in giving it to you I acted in opposition to my orders.”
 
The duke looked furiously at Grimaud.
 
“I perceive that this creature will be my particular aversion,” he muttered.
 
Grimaud, nevertheless, was resolved for certain reasons not at once to come to a full rupture with the prisoner; he wanted to inspire, not a sudden repugnance, but a good, sound, steady hatred; he retired, therefore, and gave place to four guards, who, having breakfasted, could attend on the prisoner.
 
A fresh practical joke now occurred to the duke. He had asked for crawfish for his breakfast on the following morning; he intended to pass the day in making a small gallows and hang one of the finest of these fish in the middle of his room--the red color evidently conveying an allusion to the cardinal--so that he might have the pleasure of hanging Mazarin in effigy without being accused of having hung anything more significant than a crawfish.
 
The day was employed in preparations for the execution. Every one grows childish in prison, but the character of Monsieur de Beaufort was particularly disposed to become so. In the course of his morning’s walk he collected two or three small branches from a tree and found a small piece of broken glass, a discovery that quite delighted him. When he came home he formed his handkerchief into a loop.
 
Nothing of all this escaped Grimaud, but La Ramee looked on with the curiosity of a father who thinks that he may perhaps get a cheap idea concerning a new toy for his children. The guards looked on it with indifference. When everything was ready, the gallows hung in the middle of the room, the loop made, and when the duke had cast a glance upon the plate of crawfish, in order to select the finest specimen among them, he looked around for his piece of glass; it had disappeared.
 
“Who has taken my piece of glass?” asked the duke, frowning. Grimaud made a sign to denote that he had done so.
 
“What! thou again! Why didst thou take it?”
 
“Yes--why?” asked La Ramee.
 
Grimaud, who held the piece of glass in his hand, said: “Sharp.”
 
“True, my lord!” exclaimed La Ramee. “Ah! deuce take it! we have a precious fellow here!”
 
“Monsieur Grimaud!” said the duke, “for your sake I beg of you, never come within the reach of my fist!”
 
“Hush! hush!” cried La Ramee, “give me your gibbet, my lord. I will shape it out for you with my knife.”
 
And he took the gibbet and shaped it out as neatly as possible.
 
“That’s it,” said the duke, “now make me a little hole in the floor whilst I go and fetch the culprit.”
 
La Ramee knelt down and made a hole in the floor; meanwhile the duke hung the crawfish up by a thread. Then he placed the gibbet in the middle of the room, bursting with laughter.
 
La Ramee laughed also and the guards laughed in chorus; Grimaud, however, did not even smile. He approached La Ramee and showing him the crawfish hung up by the thread:
 
“Cardinal,” he said.
 
“Hung by order of his Highness the Duc de Beaufort!” cried the prisoner, laughing violently, “and by Master Jacques Chrysostom La Ramee, the king’s commissioner.”
 
La Ramee uttered a cry of horror and rushed toward the gibbet, which he broke at once and threw the pieces out of the window. He was going to throw the crawfish out also, when Grimaud snatched it from his hands.
 
“Good to eat!” he said, and put it in his pocket.
 
This scene so enchanted the duke that at the moment he forgave Grimaud for his part in it; but on reflection he hated him more and more, being convinced he had some evil motive for his conduct.
 
But the story of the crab made a great noise through the interior of the donjon and even outside. Monsieur de Chavigny, who at heart detested the cardinal, took pains to tell the story to two or three friends, who put it into immediate circulation.
 
The prisoner happened to remark among the guards one man with a very good countenance; and he favored this man the more as Grimaud became the more and more odious to him. One morning he took this man on one side and had succeeded in speaking to him, when Grimaud entered and seeing what was going on approached the duke respectfully, but took the guard by the arm.
 
“Go away,” he said.
 
The guard obeyed.
 
“You are insupportable!” cried the duke; “I shall beat you.”
 
Grimaud bowed.
 
“I will break every bone in your body!” cried the duke.
 
Grimaud bowed, but stepped back.
 
“Mr. Spy,” cried the duke, more and more enraged, “I will strangle you with my own hands.”
 
And he extended his hands toward Grimaud, who merely thrust the guard out and shut the door behind him. At the same time he felt the duke’s arms on his shoulders like two iron claws; but instead either of calling out or defending himself, he placed his forefinger on his lips and said in a low tone:
 
“Hush!” smiling as he uttered the word.
 
A gesture, a smile and a word from Grimaud, all at once, were so unusual that his highness stopped short, astounded.
 
Grimaud took advantage of that instant to draw from his vest a charming little note with an aristocratic seal, and presented it to the duke without a word.
 
The duke, more and more bewildered, let Grimaud loose and took the note.
 
“From Madame de Montbazon?” he cried.
 
Grimaud nodded assent.
 
The duke tore open the note, passed his hands over his eyes, for he was dazzled and confused, and read:
 
“My Dear Duke,--You may entirely confide in the brave lad who will give you this note; he has consented to enter the service of your keeper and to shut himself up at Vincennes with you, in order to prepare and assist your escape, which we are contriving. The moment of your deliverance is at hand; have patience and courage and remember that in spite of time and absence all your friends continue to cherish for you the sentiments they have so long professed and truly entertained.
 
“Yours wholly and most affectionately
 
“Marie de Montbazon.
 
“P.S.--I sign my full name, for I should be vain if I could suppose that after five years of absence you would remember my initials.”
 
The poor duke became perfectly giddy. What for five years he had been wanting--a faithful servant, a friend, a helping hand--seemed to have fallen from Heaven just when he expected it the least.
 
“Oh, dearest Marie! she thinks of me, then, after five years of separation! Heavens! there is constancy!” Then turning to Grimaud, he said:
 
“And thou, my brave fellow, thou consentest thus to aid me?”
 
Grimaud signified his assent.
 
“And you have come here with that purpose?”
 
Grimaud repeated the sign.
 
“And I was ready to strangle you!” cried the duke.
 
Grimaud smiled.
 
“Wait, then,” said the duke, fumbling in his pocket. “Wait,” he continued, renewing his fruitless search; “it shall not be said that such devotion to a grandson of Henry IV. went without recompense.”
 
The duke’s endeavors evinced the best intention in the world, but one of the precautions taken at Vincennes was that of allowing prisoners to keep no money. Whereupon Grimaud, observing the duke’s disappointment, drew from his pocket a purse filled with gold and handed it to him.
 
“Here is what you are looking for,” he said.
 
The duke opened the purse and wanted to empty it into Grimaud’s hands, but Grimaud shook his head.
 
“Thank you, monseigneur,” he said, drawing back; “I am paid.”
 
The duke went from one surprise to another. He held out his hand. Grimaud drew near and kissed it respectfully. The grand manner of Athos had left its mark on Grimaud.
 
“What shall we do? and when? and how proceed?”
 
“It is now eleven,” answered Grimaud. “Let my lord at two o’clock ask leave to make up a game at tennis with La Ramee and let him send two or three balls over the ramparts.”
 
“And then?”
 
“Your highness will approach the walls and call out to a man who works in the moat to send them back again.”
 
“I understand,” said the duke.
 
Grimaud made a sign that he was going away.
 
“Ah!” cried the duke, “will you not accept any money from me?”
 
“I wish my lord would make me one promise.”
 
“What! speak!”
 
“‘Tis this: when we escape together, that I shall go everywhere and be always first; for if my lord should be overtaken and caught, there’s every chance of his being brought back to prison, whereas if I am caught the least that can befall me is to be--hung.”
 
“True, on my honor as a gentleman it shall be as thou dost suggest.”
 
“Now,” resumed Grimaud, “I’ve only one thing more to ask--that your highness will continue to detest me.”
 
“I’ll try,” said the duke.
 
At this moment La Ramee, after the interview we have described with the cardinal, entered the room. The duke had thrown himself, as he was wont to do in moments of dullness and vexation, on his bed. La Ramee cast an inquiring look around him and observing the same signs of antipathy between the prisoner and his guardian he smiled in token of his inward satisfaction. Then turning to Grimaud:
 
“Very good, my friend, very good. You have been spoken of in a promising quarter and you will soon, I hope, have news that will be agreeable to you.”
 
Grimaud saluted in his politest manner and withdrew, as was his custom on the entrance of his superior.
 
“Well, my lord,” said La Ramee, with his rude laugh, “you still set yourself against this poor fellow?”
 
“So! ‘tis you, La Ramee; in faith, ‘tis time you came back again. I threw myself on the bed and turned my nose to the wall, that I mightn’t break my promise and strangle Grimaud.”
 
“I doubt, however,” said La Ramee, in sprightly allusion to the silence of his subordinate, “if he has said anything disagreeable to your highness.”
 
“Pardieu! you are right--a mute from the East! I swear it was time for you to come back, La Ramee, and I was eager to see you again.”
 
“Monseigneur is too good,” said La Ramee, flattered by the compliment.
 
“Yes,” continued the duke, “really, I feel bored today beyond the power of description.”
 
“Then let us have a match in the tennis court,” exclaimed La Ramee.
 
“If you wish it.”
 
“I am at your service, my lord.”
 
“I protest, my dear La Ramee,” said the duke, “that you are a charming fellow and that I would stay forever at Vincennes to have the pleasure of your society.”
 
“My lord,” replied La Ramee, “I think if it depended on the cardinal your wishes would be fulfilled.”
 
“What do you mean? Have you seen him lately?”
 
“He sent for me to-day.”
 
“Really! to speak to you about me?”
 
“Of what else do you imagine he would speak to me? Really, my lord, you are his nightmare.”
 
The duke smiled with bitterness.
 
“Ah, La Ramee! if you would but accept my offers! I would make your fortune.”
 
“How? you would no sooner have left prison than your goods would be confiscated.”
 
“I shall no sooner be out of prison than I shall be master of Paris.”
 
“Pshaw! pshaw! I cannot hear such things said as that; this is a fine conversation with an officer of the king! I see, my lord, I shall be obliged to fetch a second Grimaud!”
 
“Very well, let us say no more about it. So you and the cardinal have been talking about me? La Ramee, some day when he sends for you, you must let me put on your clothes; I will go in your stead; I will strangle him, and upon my honor, if that is made a condition I will return to prison.”
 
“Monseigneur, I see well that I must call Grimaud.”
 
“Well, I am wrong. And what did the cuistre [pettifogger] say about me?”
 
“I admit the word, monseigneur, because it rhymes with ministre [minister]. What did he say to me? He told me to watch you.”
 
“And why so? why watch me?” asked the duke uneasily.
 
“Because an astrologer had predicted that you would escape.”
 
“Ah! an astrologer predicted that?” said the duke, starting in spite of himself.
 
“Oh, mon Dieu! yes! those imbeciles of magicians can only imagine things to torment honest people.”
 
“And what did you reply to his most illustrious eminence?”
 
“That if the astrologer in question made almanacs I would advise him not to buy one.”
 
“Why not?”
 
“Because before you could escape you would have to be turned into a bird.”
 
“Unfortunately, that is true. Let us go and have a game at tennis, La Ramee.”
 
“My lord--I beg your highness’s pardon--but I must beg for half an hour’s leave of absence.”
 
“Why?”
 
“Because Monseigneur Mazarin is a prouder man than his highness, though not of such high birth: he forgot to ask me to breakfast.”
 
“Well, shall I send for some breakfast here?”
 
“No, my lord; I must tell you that the confectioner who lived opposite the castle--Daddy Marteau, as they called him----”
 
“Well?”
 
“Well, he sold his business a week ago to a confectioner from Paris, an invalid, ordered country air for his health.”
 
“Well, what have I to do with that?”
 
“Why, good Lord! this man, your highness, when he saw me stop before his shop, where he has a display of things which would make your mouth water, my lord, asked me to get him the custom of the prisoners in the donjon. ‘I bought,’ said he, ‘the business of my predecessor on the strength of his assurance that he supplied the castle; whereas, on my honor, Monsieur de Chavigny, though I’ve been here a week, has not ordered so much as a tartlet.’ ‘But,’ I then replied, ‘probably Monsieur de Chavigny is afraid your pastry is not good.’ ‘My pastry not good! Well, Monsieur La Ramee, you shall judge of it yourself and at once.’ ‘I cannot,’ I replied; ‘it is absolutely necessary for me to return to the chateau.’ ‘Very well,’ said he, ‘go and attend to your affairs, since you seem to be in a hurry, but come back in half an hour.’ ‘In half an hour?’ ‘Yes, have you breakfasted?’ ‘Faith, no.’ ‘Well, here is a pate that will be ready for you, with a bottle of old Burgundy.’ So, you see, my lord, since I am hungry, I would, with your highness’s leave----” And La Ramee bent low.
 
“Go, then, animal,” said the duke; “but remember, I only allow you half an hour.”
 
“May I promise your custom to the successor of Father Marteau, my lord?”
 
“Yes, if he does not put mushrooms in his pies; thou knowest that mushrooms from the wood of Vincennes are fatal to my family.”
 
La Ramee went out, but in five minutes one of the officers of the guard entered in compliance with the strict orders of the cardinal that the prisoner should never be left alone a moment.
 
But during these five minutes the duke had had time to read again the note from Madame de Montbazon, which proved to the prisoner that his friends were concerting plans for his deliverance, but in what way he knew not.
 
But his confidence in Grimaud, whose petty persecutions he now perceived were only a blind, increased, and he conceived the highest opinion of his intellect and resolved to trust entirely to his guidance.
 
19. Pates made by the Successor of Father Marteau are described.
 In half an hour La Ramee returned, full of glee, like most men who have eaten, and more especially drank to their heart’s content. The pates were excellent, the wine delicious.
 
The weather was fine and the game at tennis took place in the open air.
 
At two o’clock the tennis balls began, according to Grimaud’s directions, to take the direction of the moat, much to the joy of La Ramee, who marked fifteen whenever the duke sent a ball into the moat; and very soon balls were wanting, so many had gone over. La Ramee then proposed to send some one to pick them up, but the duke remarked that it would be losing time; and going near the rampart himself and looking over, he saw a man working in one of the numerous little gardens cleared out by the peasants on the opposite side of the moat.
 
“Hey, friend!” cried the duke.
 
The man raised his head and the duke was about to utter a cry of surprise. The peasant, the gardener, was Rochefort, whom he believed to be in the Bastile.
 
“Well? Who’s up there?” said the man.
 
“Be so good as to collect and throw us back our balls,” said the duke.
 
The gardener nodded and began to fling up the balls, which were picked up by La Ramee and the guard. One, however, fell at the duke’s feet, and seeing that it was intended for him, he put it into his pocket.
 
La Ramee was in ecstasies at having beaten a prince of the blood.
 
The duke went indoors and retired to bed, where he spent, indeed, the greater part of every day, as they had taken his books away. La Ramee carried off all his clothes, in order to be certain that the duke would not stir. However, the duke contrived to hide the ball under his bolster and as soon as the door was closed he tore off the cover of the ball with his teeth and found underneath the following letter:
 
My Lord,--Your friends are watching over you and the hour of your deliverance is at hand. Ask day after to-morrow to have a pie supplied you by the new confectioner opposite the castle, and who is no other than Noirmont, your former maitre d’hotel. Do not open the pie till you are alone. I hope you will be satisfied with its contents.
 
“Your highness’s most devoted servant,
 
“In the Bastile, as elsewhere,
 
“Comte de Rochefort.”
 
The duke, who had latterly been allowed a fire, burned the letter, but kept the ball, and went to bed, hiding the ball under his bolster. La Ramee entered; he smiled kindly on the prisoner, for he was an excellent man and had taken a great liking for the captive prince. He endeavored to cheer him up in his solitude.
 
“Ah, my friend!” cried the duke, “you are so good; if I could but do as you do, and eat pates and drink Burgundy at the house of Father Marteau’s successor.”
 
“‘Tis true, my lord,” answered La Ramee, “that his pates are famous and his wine magnificent.”
 
“In any case,” said the duke, “his cellar and kitchen might easily excel those of Monsieur de Chavigny.”
 
“Well, my lord,” said La Ramee, falling into the trap, “what is there to prevent your trying them? Besides, I have promised him your patronage.”
 
“You are right,” said the duke. “If I am to remain here permanently, as Monsieur Mazarin has kindly given me to understand, I must provide myself with a diversion for my old age, I must turn gourmand.”
 
“My lord,” said La Ramee, “if you will take a bit of good advice, don’t put that off till you are old.”
 
“Good!” said the Duc de Beaufort to himself, “every man in order that he may lose his heart and soul, must receive from celestial bounty one of the seven capital sins, perhaps two; it seems that Master La Ramee’s is gluttony. Let us then take advantage of it.” Then, aloud:
 
“Well, my dear La Ramee! the day after to-morrow is a holiday.”
 
“Yes, my lord--Pentecost.”
 
“Will you give me a lesson the day after to-morrow?”
 
“In what?”
 
“In gastronomy?”
 
“Willingly, my lord.”
 
“But tete-a-tete. Send the guards to take their meal in the canteen of Monsieur de Chavigny; we’ll have a supper here under your direction.”
 
“Hum!” said La Ramee.
 
The proposal was seductive, but La Ramee was an old stager, acquainted with all the traps a prisoner was likely to set. Monsieur de Beaufort had said that he had forty ways of getting out of prison. Did this proposed breakfast cover some stratagem? He reflected, but he remembered that he himself would have charge of the food and the wine and therefore that no powder could be mixed with the food, no drug with the wine. As to getting him drunk, the duke couldn’t hope to do that, and he laughed at the mere thought of it. Then an idea came to him which harmonized everything.
 
The duke had followed with anxiety La Ramee’s unspoken soliloquy, reading it from point to point upon his face. But presently the exempt’s face suddenly brightened.
 
“Well,” he asked, “that will do, will it not?”
 
“Yes, my lord, on one condition.”
 
“What?”
 
“That Grimaud shall wait on us at table.”
 
Nothing could be more agreeable to the duke, however, he had presence of mind enough to exclaim:
 
“To the devil with your Grimaud! He will spoil the feast.”
 
“I will direct him to stand behind your chair, and since he doesn’t speak, your highness will neither see nor hear him and with a little effort can imagine him a hundred miles away.”
 
“Do you know, my friend, I find one thing very evident in all this, you distrust me.”
 
“My lord, the day after to-morrow is Pentecost.”
 
“Well, what is Pentecost to me? Are you afraid that the Holy Spirit will come as a tongue of fire to open the doors of my prison?”
 
“No, my lord; but I have already told you what that damned magician predicted.”
 
“And what was it?”
 
“That the day of Pentecost would not pass without your highness being out of Vincennes.”
 
“You believe in sorcerers, then, you fool?”
 
“I---I mind them no more than that----” and he snapped his fingers; “but it is my Lord Giulio who cares about them; as an Italian he is superstitious.”
 
The duke shrugged his shoulders.
 
“Well, then,” with well acted good-humor, “I allow Grimaud, but no one else; you must manage it all. Order whatever you like for supper--the only thing I specify is one of those pies; and tell the confectioner that I will promise him my custom if he excels this time in his pies--not only now, but when I leave my prison.”
 
“Then you think you will some day leave it?” said La Ramee.
 
“The devil!” replied the prince; “surely, at the death of Mazarin. I am fifteen years younger than he is. At Vincennes, ‘tis true, one lives faster----”
 
“My lord,” replied La Ramee, “my lord----”
 
“Or dies sooner, for it comes to the same thing.”
 
La Ramee was going out. He stopped, however, at the door for an instant.
 
“Whom does your highness wish me to send to you?”
 
“Any one, except Grimaud.”
 
“The officer of the guard, then, with his chessboard?”
 
“Yes.”
 
Five minutes afterward the officer entered and the duke seemed to be immersed in the sublime combinations of chess.
 
A strange thing is the mind, and it is wonderful what revolutions may be wrought in it by a sign, a word, a hope. The duke had been five years in prison, and now to him, looking back upon them, those five years, which had passed so slowly, seemed not so long a time as were the two days, the forty-eight hours, which still parted him from the time fixed for his escape. Besides, there was one thing that engaged his most anxious thought--in what way was the escape to be effected? They had told him to hope for it, but had not told him what was to be hidden in the mysterious pate. And what friends awaited him without? He had friends, then, after five years in prison? If that were so he was indeed a highly favored prince. He forgot that besides his friends of his own sex, a woman, strange to say, had remembered him. It is true that she had not, perhaps, been scrupulously faithful to him, but she had remembered him; that was something.
 
So the duke had more than enough to think about; accordingly he fared at chess as he had fared at tennis; he made blunder upon blunder and the officer with whom he played found him easy game.
 
But his successive defeats did service to the duke in one way--they killed time for him till eight o’clock in the evening; then would come night, and with night, sleep. So, at least, the duke believed; but sleep is a capricious fairy, and it is precisely when one invokes her presence that she is most likely to keep him waiting. The duke waited until midnight, turning on his mattress like St. Laurence on his gridiron. Finally he slept.
 
But at daybreak he awoke. Wild dreams had disturbed his repose. He dreamed that he was endowed with wings--he wished to fly away. For a time these wings supported him, but when he reached a certain height this new aid failed him. His wings were broken and he seemed to sink into a bottomless abyss, whence he awoke, bathed in perspiration and nearly as much overcome as if he had really fallen. He fell asleep again and another vision appeared. He was in a subterranean passage by which he was to leave Vincennes. Grimaud was walking before him with a lantern. By degrees the passage narrowed, yet the duke continued his course. At last it became so narrow that the fugitive tried in vain to proceed. The sides of the walls seem to close in, even to press against him. He made fruitless efforts to go on; it was impossible. Nevertheless, he still saw Grimaud with his lantern in front, advancing. He wished to call out to him but could not utter a word. Then at the other extremity he heard the footsteps of those who were pursuing him. These steps came on, came fast. He was discovered; all hope of flight was gone. Still the walls seemed to be closing on him; they appeared to be in concert with his enemies. At last he heard the voice of La Ramee. La Ramee took his hand and laughed aloud. He was captured again, and conducted to the low and vaulted chamber, in which Ornano, Puylaurens, and his uncle had died. Their three graves were there, rising above the ground, and a fourth was also there, yawning for its ghastly tenant.
 
The duke was obliged to make as many efforts to awake as he had done to go to sleep; and La Ramee found him so pale and fatigued that he inquired whether he was ill.
 
“In fact,” said one of the guards who had remained in the chamber and had been kept awake by a toothache, brought on by the dampness of the atmosphere, “my lord has had a very restless night and two or three times, while dreaming, he called for help.”
 
“What is the matter with your highness?” asked La Ramee.
 
“‘Tis your fault, you simpleton,” answered the duke. “With your idle nonsense yesterday about escaping, you worried me so that I dreamed that I was trying to escape and broke my neck in doing so.”
 
La Ramee laughed.
 
“Come,” he said, “‘tis a warning from Heaven. Never commit such an imprudence as to try to escape, except in your dreams.”
 
“And you are right, my dear La Ramee,” said the duke, wiping away the sweat that stood on his brow, wide awake though he was; “after this I will think of nothing but eating and drinking.”
 
“Hush!” said La Ramee; and one by one he sent away the guards, on various pretexts.
 
“Well?” asked the duke when they were alone.
 
“Well!” replied La Ramee, “your supper is ordered.”
 
“Ah! and what is it to be? Monsieur, my majordomo, will there be a pie?”
 
“I should think so, indeed--almost as high as a tower.”
 
“You told him it was for me?”
 
“Yes, and he said he would do his best to please your highness.”
 
“Good!” exclaimed the duke, rubbing his hands.
 
“Devil take it, my lord! what a gourmand you are growing; I haven’t seen you with so cheerful a face these five years.”
 
The duke saw that he had not controlled himself as he ought, but at that moment, as if he had listened at the door and comprehended the urgent need of diverting La Ramee’s ideas, Grimaud entered and made a sign to La Ramee that he had something to say to him.
 
La Ramee drew near to Grimaud, who spoke to him in a low voice.
 
The duke meanwhile recovered his self-control.
 
“I have already forbidden that man,” he said, “to come in here without my permission.”
 
“You must pardon him, my lord,” said La Ramee, “for I directed him to come.”
 
“And why did you so direct when you know that he displeases me?”
 
“My lord will remember that it was agreed between us that he should wait upon us at that famous supper. My lord has forgotten the supper.”
 
“No, but I have forgotten Monsieur Grimaud.”
 
“My lord understands that there can be no supper unless he is allowed to be present.”
 
“Go on, then; have it your own way.”
 
“Come here, my lad,” said La Ramee, “and hear what I have to say.”
 
Grimaud approached, with a very sullen expression on his face.
 
La Ramee continued: “My lord has done me the honor to invite me to a supper to-morrow en tete-a-tete.”
 
Grimaud made a sign which meant that he didn’t see what that had to do with him.
 
“Yes, yes,” said La Ramee, “the matter concerns you, for you will have the honor to serve us; and besides, however good an appetite we may have and however great our thirst, there will be something left on the plates and in the bottles, and that something will be yours.”
 
Grimaud bowed in thanks.
 
“And now,” said La Ramee, “I must ask your highness’s pardon, but it seems that Monsieur de Chavigny is to be away for a few days and he has sent me word that he has certain directions to give me before his departure.”
 
The duke tried to exchange a glance with Grimaud, but there was no glance in Grimaud’s eyes.
 
“Go, then,” said the duke, “and return as soon as possible.”
 
“Does your highness wish to take revenge for the game of tennis yesterday?”
 
Grimaud intimated by a scarcely perceptible nod that he should consent.
 
“Yes,” said the duke, “but take care, my dear La Ramee, for I propose to beat you badly.”
 
La Ramee went out. Grimaud looked after him, and when the door was closed he drew out of his pocket a pencil and a sheet of paper.
 
“Write, my lord,” he said.
 
“And what?”
 
Grimaud dictated.
 
“All is ready for to-morrow evening. Keep watch from seven to nine. Have two riding horses ready. We shall descend by the first window in the gallery.”
 
“What next?”
 
“Sign your name, my lord.”
 
The duke signed.
 
“Now, my lord, give me, if you have not lost it, the ball--that which contained the letter.”
 
The duke took it from under his pillow and gave it to Grimaud. Grimaud gave a grim smile.
 
“Well?” asked the duke.
 
“Well, my lord, I sew up the paper in the ball and you, in your game of tennis, will send the ball into the ditch.”
 
“But will it not be lost?”
 
“Oh no; there will be some one at hand to pick it up.”
 
“A gardener?”
 
Grimaud nodded.
 
“The same as yesterday?”
 
Another nod on the part of Grimaud.
 
“The Count de Rochefort?”
 
Grimaud nodded the third time.
 
“Come, now,” said the duke, “give some particulars of the plan for our escape.”
 
“That is forbidden me,” said Grimaud, “until the last moment.”
 
“Who will be waiting for me beyond the ditch?”
 
“I know nothing about it, my lord.”
 
“But at least, if you don’t want to see me turn crazy, tell what that famous pate will contain.”
 
“Two poniards, a knotted rope and a poire d’angoisse.” *
 
* This poire d’angoisse was a famous gag, in the form of a pear,
which, being thrust into the mouth, by the aid of a spring, dilated,
so as to distend the jaws to their greatest width.
“Yes, I understand.”
 
“My lord observes that there will be enough to go around.”
 
“We shall take to ourselves the poniards and the rope,” replied the duke.
 
“And make La Ramee eat the pear,” answered Grimaud.
 
“My dear Grimaud, thou speakest seldom, but when thou dost, one must do thee justice--thy words are words of gold.”
 
20. One of Marie Michon’s Adventures.
 Whilst these projects were being formed by the Duc de Beaufort and Grimaud, the Comte de la Fere and the Vicomte de Bragelonne were entering Paris by the Rue du Faubourg Saint Marcel.
 
They stopped at the sign of the Fox, in the Rue du Vieux Colombier, a tavern known for many years by Athos, and asked for two bedrooms.
 
“You must dress yourself, Raoul,” said Athos, “I am going to present you to some one.”
 
“To-day, monsieur?” asked the young man.
 
“In half an hour.”
 
The young man bowed. Perhaps, not being endowed with the endurance of Athos, who seemed to be made of iron, he would have preferred a bath in the river Seine of which he had heard so much, and afterward his bed; but the Comte de la Fere had spoken and he had no thought but to obey.
 
“By the way,” said Athos, “take some pains with your toilet, Raoul; I want you to be approved.”
 
“I hope, sir,” replied the youth, smiling, “that there’s no idea of a marriage for me; you know of my engagement to Louise?”
 
Athos, in his turn, smiled also.
 
“No, don’t be alarmed, although it is to a lady that I am going to present you, and I am anxious that you should love her----”
 
The young man looked at the count with a certain uneasiness, but at a smile from Athos he was quickly reassured.
 
“How old is she?” inquired the Vicomte de Bragelonne.
 
“My dear Raoul, learn, once for all, that that is a question which is never asked. When you can find out a woman’s age by her face, it is useless to ask it; when you cannot do so, it is indiscreet.”
 
“Is she beautiful?”
 
“Sixteen years ago she was deemed not only the prettiest, but the most graceful woman in France.”
 
This reply reassured the vicomte. A woman who had been a reigning beauty a year before he was born could not be the subject of any scheme for him. He retired to his toilet. When he reappeared, Athos received him with the same paternal smile as that which he had often bestowed on D’Artagnan, but a more profound tenderness for Raoul was now visibly impressed upon his face.
 
Athos cast a glance at his feet, hands and hair--those three marks of race. The youth’s dark hair was neatly parted and hung in curls, forming a sort of dark frame around his face; such was the fashion of the day. Gloves of gray kid, matching the hat, well displayed the form of a slender and elegant hand; whilst his boots, similar in color to the hat and gloves, confined feet small as those of a boy twelve years old.
 
“Come,” murmured Athos, “if she is not proud of him, she must be hard to please.”
 
It was three o’clock in the afternoon. The two travelers proceeded to the Rue Saint Dominique and stopped at the door of a magnificent hotel, surmounted with the arms of De Luynes.
 
“‘Tis here,” said Athos.
 
He entered the hotel and ascended the front steps, and addressing a footman who waited there in a grand livery, asked if the Duchess de Chevreuse was visible and if she could receive the Comte de la Fere?
 
The servant returned with a message to say, that, though the duchess had not the honor of knowing Monsieur de la Fere, she would receive him.
 
Athos followed the footman, who led him through a long succession of apartments and paused at length before a closed door. Athos made a sign to the Vicomte de Bragelonne to remain where he was.
 
The footman opened the door and announced Monsieur le Comte de la Fere.
 
Madame de Chevreuse, whose name appears so often in our story “The Three Musketeers,” without her actually having appeared in any scene, was still a beautiful woman. Although about forty-four or forty-five years old, she might have passed for thirty-five. She still had her rich fair hair; her large, animated, intelligent eyes, so often opened by intrigue, so often closed by the blindness of love. She had still her nymph-like form, so that when her back was turned she still was not unlike the girl who had jumped, with Anne of Austria, over the moat of the Tuileries in 1563. In all other respects she was the same mad creature who threw over her amours such an air of originality as to make them proverbial for eccentricity in her family.
 
She was in a little boudoir, hung with blue damask, adorned by red flowers, with a foliage of gold, looking upon a garden; and reclined upon a sofa, her head supported on the rich tapestry which covered it. She held a book in her hand and her arm was supported by a cushion.
 
At the footman’s announcement she raised herself a little and peeped out, with some curiosity.
 
Athos appeared.
 
He was dressed in violet-tinted velvet, trimmed with silk of the same color. His shoulder-knots were of burnished silver, his mantle had no gold nor embroidery on it; a simple plume of violet feathers adorned his hat; his boots were of black leather, and at his girdle hung that sword with a magnificent hilt that Porthos had so often admired in the Rue Feron. Splendid lace adorned the falling collar of his shirt, and lace fell also over the top of his boots.
 
In his whole person he bore such an impress of high degree, that Madame de Chevreuse half rose from her seat when she saw him and made him a sign to sit down near her.
 
Athos bowed and obeyed. The footman was withdrawing, but Athos stopped him by a sign.
 
“Madame,” he said to the duchess, “I have had the boldness to present myself at your hotel without being known to you; it has succeeded, since you deign to receive me. I have now the boldness to ask you for an interview of half an hour.”
 
“I grant it, monsieur,” replied Madame de Chevreuse with her most gracious smile.
 
“But that is not all, madame. Oh, I am very presuming, I am aware. The interview for which I ask is of us two alone, and I very earnestly wish that it may not be interrupted.”
 
“I am not at home to any one,” said the Duchess de Chevreuse to the footman. “You may go.”
 
The footman went out.
 
There ensued a brief silence, during which these two persons, who at first sight recognized each other so clearly as of noble race, examined each other without embarrassment on either side.
 
The duchess was the first to speak.
 
“Well, sir, I am waiting with impatience to hear what you wish to say to me.”
 
“And I, madame,” replied Athos, “am looking with admiration.”
 
“Sir,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “you must excuse me, but I long to know to whom I am talking. You belong to the court, doubtless, yet I have never seen you at court. Have you, by any chance, been in the Bastile?”
 
“No, madame, I have not; but very likely I am on the road to it.”
 
“Ah! then tell me who you are, and get along with you upon your journey,” replied the duchess, with the gayety which made her so charming, “for I am sufficiently in bad odor already, without compromising myself still more.”
 
“Who I am, madame? My name has been mentioned to you--the Comte de la Fere; you do not know that name. I once bore another, which you knew, but you have certainly forgotten it.”
 
“Tell it me, sir.”
 
“Formerly,” said the count, “I was Athos.”
 
Madame de Chevreuse looked astonished. The name was not wholly forgotten, but mixed up and confused with ancient recollections.
 
“Athos?” said she; “wait a moment.”
 
And she placed her hands on her brow, as if to force the fugitive ideas it contained to concentration in a moment.
 
“Shall I help you, madame?” asked Athos.
 
“Yes, do,” said the duchess.
 
“This Athos was connected with three young musketeers, named Porthos, D’Artagnan, and----”
 
He stopped short.
 
“And Aramis,” said the duchess, quickly.
 
“And Aramis; I see you have not forgotten the name.”
 
“No,” she said; “poor Aramis; a charming man, elegant, discreet, and a writer of poetical verses. I am afraid he has turned out ill,” she added.
 
“He has; he is an abbe.”
 
“Ah, what a misfortune!” exclaimed the duchess, playing carelessly with her fan. “Indeed, sir, I thank you; you have recalled one of the most agreeable recollections of my youth.”
 
“Will you permit me, then, to recall another to you?”
 
“Relating to him?”
 
“Yes and no.”
 
“Faith!” said Madame de Chevreuse, “say on. With a man like you I fear nothing.”
 
Athos bowed. “Aramis,” he continued, “was intimate with a young needlewoman from Tours, a cousin of his, named Marie Michon.”
 
“Ah, I knew her!” cried the duchess. “It was to her he wrote from the siege of Rochelle, to warn her of a plot against the Duke of Buckingham.”
 
“Exactly so; will you allow me to speak to you of her?”
 
“If,” replied the duchess, with a meaning look, “you do not say too much against her.”
 
“I should be ungrateful,” said Athos, “and I regard ingratitude, not as a fault or a crime, but as a vice, which is much worse.”
 
“You ungrateful to Marie Michon, monsieur?” said Madame de Chevreuse, trying to read in Athos’s eyes. “But how can that be? You never knew her.”
 
“Eh, madame, who knows?” said Athos. “There is a popular proverb to the effect that it is only mountains that never meet; and popular proverbs contain sometimes a wonderful amount of truth.”
 
“Oh, go on, monsieur, go on!” said Madame de Chevreuse eagerly; “you can’t imagine how much this conversation interests me.”
 
“You encourage me,” said Athos, “I will continue, then. That cousin of Aramis, that Marie Michon, that needlewoman, notwithstanding her low condition, had acquaintances in the highest rank; she called the grandest ladies of the court her friend, and the queen--proud as she is, in her double character as Austrian and as Spaniard--called her her sister.”
 
“Alas!” said Madame de Chevreuse, with a slight sigh and a little movement of her eyebrows that was peculiarly her own, “since that time everything has changed.”
 
“And the queen had reason for her affection, for Marie was devoted to her--devoted to that degree that she served her as medium of intercourse with her brother, the king of Spain.”
 
“Which,” interrupted the duchess, “is now brought up against her as a great crime.”
 
“And therefore,” continued Athos, “the cardinal--the true cardinal, the other one--determined one fine morning to arrest poor Marie Michon and send her to the Chateau de Loches. Fortunately the affair was not managed so secretly but that it became known to the queen. The case had been provided for: if Marie Michon should be threatened with any danger the queen was to send her a prayer-book bound in green velvet.”
 
“That is true, monsieur, you are well informed.”
 
“One morning the green book was brought to her by the Prince de Marsillac. There was no time to lose. Happily Marie and a follower of hers named Kitty could disguise themselves admirably in men’s clothes. The prince procured for Marie Michon the dress of a cavalier and for Kitty that of a lackey; he sent them two excellent horses, and the fugitives went out hastily from Tours, shaping their course toward Spain, trembling at the least noise, following unfrequented roads, and asking for hospitality when they found themselves where there was no inn.”
 
“Why, really, it was all exactly as you say!” cried Madame de Chevreuse, clapping her hands. “It would indeed be strange if----” she checked herself.
 
“If I should follow the two fugitives to the end of their journey?” said Athos. “No, madame, I will not thus waste your time. We will accompany them only to a little village in Limousin, lying between Tulle and Angouleme--a little village called Roche-l’Abeille.”
 
Madame de Chevreuse uttered a cry of surprise, and looked at Athos with an expression of astonishment that made the old musketeer smile.
 
“Wait, madame,” continued Athos, “what remains for me to tell you is even more strange than what I have narrated.”
 
“Monsieur,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “I believe you are a sorcerer; I am prepared for anything. But really--No matter, go on.”
 
“The journey of that day had been long and wearing; it was a cold day, the eleventh of October, there was no inn or chateau in the village and the homes of the peasants were poor and unattractive. Marie Michon was a very aristocratic person; like her sister the queen, she had been accustomed to pleasing perfumes and fine linen; she resolved, therefore, to seek hospitality of the priest.”
 
Athos paused.
 
“Oh, continue!” said the duchess. “I have told you that I am prepared for anything.”
 
“The two travelers knocked at the door. It was late; the priest, who had gone to bed, cried out to them to come in. They entered, for the door was not locked--there is much confidence among villagers. A lamp burned in the chamber occupied by the priest. Marie Michon, who made the most charming cavalier in the world, pushed open the door, put her head in and asked for hospitality. ‘Willingly, my young cavalier,’ said the priest, ‘if you will be content with the remains of my supper and with half my chamber.’
 
“The two travelers consulted for a moment. The priest heard a burst of laughter and then the master, or rather, the mistress, replied: ‘Thank you, monsieur le cure, I accept.’ ‘Sup, then, and make as little noise as possible,’ said the priest, ‘for I, too, have been on the go all day and shall not be sorry to sleep to-night.’”
 
Madame de Chevreuse evidently went from surprise to astonishment, and from astonishment to stupefaction. Her face, as she looked at Athos, had taken on an expression that cannot be described. It could be seen that she had wished to speak, but she had remained silent through fear of losing one of her companion’s words.
 
“What happened then?” she asked.
 
“Then?” said Athos. “Ah, I have come now to what is most difficult.”
 
“Speak, speak! One can say anything to me. Besides, it doesn’t concern me; it relates to Mademoiselle Marie Michon.”
 
“Ah, that is true,” said Athos. “Well, then, Marie Michon had supper with her follower, and then, in accordance with the permission given her, she entered the chamber of her host, Kitty meanwhile taking possession of an armchair in the room first entered, where they had taken their supper.”
 
“Really, monsieur,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “unless you are the devil in person I don’t know how you could become acquainted with all these details.”
 
“A charming woman was that Marie Michon,” resumed Athos, “one of those wild creatures who are constantly conceiving the strangest ideas. Now, thinking that her host was a priest, that coquette took it into her head that it would be a happy souvenir for her old age, among the many happy souvenirs she already possessed, if she could win that of having damned an abbe.”
 
“Count,” said the duchess, “upon my word, you frighten me.”
 
“Alas!” continued Athos, “the poor abbe was not a St. Ambroise, and I repeat, Marie Michon was an adorable creature.”
 
“Monsieur!” cried the duchess, seizing Athos’s hands, “tell me this moment how you know all these details, or I will send to the convent of the Vieux Augustins for a monk to come and exorcise you.”
 
Athos laughed. “Nothing is easier, madame. A cavalier, charged with an important mission, had come an hour before your arrival, seeking hospitality, at the very moment that the cure, summoned to the bedside of a dying person, left not only his house but the village, for the entire night. The priest having all confidence in his guest, who, besides, was a nobleman, had left to him his house, his supper and his chamber. And therefore Marie came seeking hospitality from the guest of the good abbe and not from the good abbe himself.”
 
“And that cavalier, that guest, that nobleman who arrived before she came?”
 
“It was I, the Comte de la Fere,” said Athos, rising and bowing respectfully to the Duchess de Chevreuse.
 
The duchess remained a moment stupefied; then, suddenly bursting into laughter:
 
“Ah! upon my word,” said she, “it is very droll, and that mad Marie Michon fared better than she expected. Sit down, dear count, and go on with your story.”
 
“At this point I have to accuse myself of a fault, madame. I have told you that I was traveling on an important mission. At daybreak I left the chamber without noise, leaving my charming companion asleep. In the front room the follower was also still asleep, her head leaning back on the chair, in all respects worthy of her mistress. Her pretty face arrested my attention; I approached and recognized that little Kitty whom our friend Aramis had placed with her. In that way I discovered that the charming traveler was----”
 
“Marie Michon!” said Madame de Chevreuse, hastily.
 
“Marie Michon,” continued Athos. “Then I went out of the house; I proceeded to the stable and found my horse saddled and my lackey ready. We set forth on our journey.”
 
“And have you never revisited that village?” eagerly asked Madame de Chevreuse.
 
“A year after, madame.”
 
“Well?”
 
“I wanted to see the good cure again. I found him much preoccupied with an event that he could not at all comprehend. A week before he had received, in a cradle, a beautiful little boy three months old, with a purse filled with gold and a note containing these simple words: ‘11 October, 1633.’”
 
“It was the date of that strange adventure,” interrupted Madame de Chevreuse.
 
“Yes, but he couldn’t understand what it meant, for he had spent that night with a dying person and Marie Michon had left his house before his return.”
 
“You must know, monsieur, that Marie Michon, when she returned to France in 1643, immediately sought for information about that child; as a fugitive she could not take care of it, but on her return she wished to have it near her.”
 
“And what said the abbe?” asked Athos.
 
“That a nobleman whom he did not know had wished to take charge of it, had answered for its future, and had taken it away.”
 
“That was true.”
 
“Ah! I see! That nobleman was you; it was his father!”
 
“Hush! do not speak so loud, madame; he is there.”
 
“He is there! my son! the son of Marie Michon! But I must see him instantly.”
 
“Take care, madame,” said Athos, “for he knows neither his father nor his mother.”
 
“You have kept the secret! you have brought him to see me, thinking to make me happy. Oh, thanks! sir, thanks!” cried Madame de Chevreuse, seizing his hand and trying to put it to her lips; “you have a noble heart.”
 
“I bring him to you, madame,” said Athos, withdrawing his hand, “hoping that in your turn you will do something for him; till now I have watched over his education and I have made him, I hope, an accomplished gentleman; but I am now obliged to return to the dangerous and wandering life of party faction. To-morrow I plunge into an adventurous affair in which I may be killed. Then it will devolve on you to push him on in that world where he is called on to occupy a place.”
 
“Rest assured,” cried the duchess, “I shall do what I can. I have but little influence now, but all that I have shall most assuredly be his. As to his title and fortune----”
 
“As to that, madame, I have made over to him the estate of Bragelonne, my inheritance, which will give him ten thousand francs a year and the title of vicomte.”
 
“Upon my soul, monsieur,” said the duchess, “you are a true nobleman! But I am eager to see our young vicomte. Where is he?”
 
“There, in the salon. I will have him come in, if you really wish it.”
 
Athos moved toward the door; the duchess held him back.
 
“Is he handsome?” she asked.
 
Athos smiled.
 
“He resembles his mother.”
 
So he opened the door and beckoned the young man in.
 
The duchess could not restrain a cry of joy on seeing so handsome a young cavalier, so far surpassing all that her maternal pride had been able to conceive.
 
“Vicomte, come here,” said Athos; “the duchess permits you to kiss her hand.”
 
The youth approached with his charming smile and his head bare, and kneeling down, kissed the hand of the Duchess de Chevreuse.
 
“Sir,” he said, turning to Athos, “was it not in compassion to my timidity that you told me that this lady was the Duchess de Chevreuse, and is she not the queen?”
 
“No, vicomte,” said Madame de Chevreuse, taking his hand and making him sit near her, while she looked at him with eyes sparkling with pleasure; “no, unhappily, I am not the queen. If I were I should do for you at once the most that you deserve. But let us see; whatever I may be,” she added, hardly restraining herself from kissing that pure brow, “let us see what profession you wish to follow.”
 
Athos, standing, looked at them both with indescribable pleasure.
 
“Madame,” answered the youth in his sweet voice, “it seems to me that there is only one career for a gentleman--that of the army. I have been brought up by monsieur le comte with the intention, I believe, of making me a soldier; and he gave me reason to hope that at Paris he would present me to some one who would recommend me to the favor of the prince.”
 
“Yes, I understand it well. Personally, I am on bad terms with him, on account of the quarrels between Madame de Montbazon, my mother-in-law, and Madame de Longueville. But the Prince de Marsillac! Yes, indeed, that’s the right thing. The Prince de Marsillac--my old friend--will recommend our young friend to Madame de Longueville, who will give him a letter to her brother, the prince, who loves her too tenderly not to do what she wishes immediately.”
 
“Well, that will do charmingly,” said the count; “but may I beg that the greatest haste may be made, for I have reasons for wishing the vicomte not to sleep longer than to-morrow night in Paris!”
 
“Do you wish it known that you are interested about him, monsieur le comte?”
 
“Better for him in future that he should be supposed never to have seen me.”
 
“Oh, sir!” cried Raoul.
 
“You know, Bragelonne,” said Athos, “I never speak without reflection.”
 
“Well, comte, I am going instantly,” interrupted the duchess, “to send for the Prince de Marsillac, who is happily, in Paris just now. What are you going to do this evening?”
 
“We intend to visit the Abbe Scarron, for whom I have a letter of introduction and at whose house I expect to meet some of my friends.”
 
“‘Tis well; I will go there also, for a few minutes,” said the duchess; “do not quit his salon until you have seen me.”
 
Athos bowed and prepared to leave.
 
“Well, monsieur le comte,” said the duchess, smiling, “does one leave so solemnly his old friends?”
 
“Ah,” murmured Athos, kissing her hand, “had I only sooner known that Marie Michon was so charming a creature!” And he withdrew, sighing.
 
21. The Abbe Scarron.
 There was once in the Rue des Tournelles a house known by all the sedan chairmen and footmen of Paris, and yet, nevertheless, this house was neither that of a great lord nor of a rich man. There was neither dining, nor playing at cards, nor dancing in that house. Nevertheless, it was the rendezvous of the great world and all Paris went there. It was the abode of the little Abbe Scarron.
 
In the home of the witty abbe dwelt incessant laughter; there all the items of the day had their source and were so quickly transformed, misrepresented, metamorphosed, some into epigrams, some into falsehoods, that every one was anxious to pass an hour with little Scarron, listening to what he said, reporting it to others.
 
The diminutive Abbe Scarron, who, however, was an abbe only because he owned an abbey, and not because he was in orders, had formerly been one of the gayest prebendaries in the town of Mans, which he inhabited. On a day of the carnival he had taken a notion to provide an unusual entertainment for that good town, of which he was the life and soul. He had made his valet cover him with honey; then, opening a feather bed, he had rolled in it and had thus become the most grotesque fowl it is possible to imagine. He then began to visit his friends of both sexes, in that strange costume. At first he had been followed through astonishment, then with derisive shouts, then the porters had insulted him, then children had thrown stones at him, and finally he was obliged to run, to escape the missiles. As soon as he took to flight every one pursued him, until, pressed on all sides, Scarron found no way of escaping his escort, except by throwing himself into the river; but the water was icy cold. Scarron was heated, the cold seized on him, and when he reached the farther bank he found himself crippled.
 
Every means had been employed in vain to restore the use of his limbs. He had been subjected to a severe disciplinary course of medicine, at length he sent away all his doctors, declaring that he preferred the disease to the treatment, and came to Paris, where the fame of his wit had preceded him. There he had a chair made on his own plan, and one day, visiting Anne of Austria in this chair, she asked him, charmed as she was with his wit, if he did not wish for a title.
 
“Yes, your majesty, there is a title which I covet much,” replied Scarron.
 
“And what is that?”
 
“That of being your invalid,” answered Scarron.
 
So he was called the queen’s invalid, with a pension of fifteen hundred francs.
 
From that lucky moment Scarron led a happy life, spending both income and principal. One day, however, an emissary of the cardinal’s gave him to understand that he was wrong in receiving the coadjutor so often.
 
“And why?” asked Scarron; “is he not a man of good birth?”
 
“Certainly.”
 
“Agreeable?”
 
“Undeniably.”
 
“Witty?”
 
“He has, unfortunately, too much wit.”
 
“Well, then, why do you wish me to give up seeing such a man?”
 
“Because he is an enemy.”
 
“Of whom?”
 
“Of the cardinal.”
 
“What?” answered Scarron, “I continue to receive Monsieur Gilles Despreaux, who thinks ill of me, and you wish me to give up seeing the coadjutor, because he thinks ill of another man. Impossible!”
 
The conversation had rested there and Scarron, through sheer obstinacy, had seen Monsieur de Gondy only the more frequently.
 
Now, the very morning of which we speak was that of his quarter-day payment, and Scarron, as usual, had sent his servant to get his money at the pension-office, but the man had returned and said that the government had no more money to give Monsieur Scarron.
 
It was on Thursday, the abbe’s reception day; people went there in crowds. The cardinal’s refusal to pay the pension was known about the town in half an hour and he was abused with wit and vehemence.
 
In the Rue Saint Honore Athos fell in with two gentlemen whom he did not know, on horseback like himself, followed by a lackey like himself, and going in the same direction that he was. One of them, hat in hand, said to him:
 
“Would you believe it, monsieur? that contemptible Mazarin has stopped poor Scarron’s pension.”
 
“That is unreasonable,” said Athos, saluting in his turn the two cavaliers. And they separated with courteous gestures.
 
“It happens well that we are going there this evening,” said Athos to the vicomte; “we will pay our compliments to that poor man.”
 
“What, then, is this Monsieur Scarron, who thus puts all Paris in commotion? Is he some minister out of office?”
 
“Oh, no, not at all, vicomte,” Athos replied; “he is simply a gentleman of great genius who has fallen into disgrace with the cardinal through having written certain verses against him.”
 
“Do gentlemen, then, make verses?” asked Raoul, naively, “I thought it was derogatory.”
 
“So it is, my dear vicomte,” said Athos, laughing, “to make bad ones; but to make good ones increases fame--witness Monsieur de Rotrou. Nevertheless,” he continued, in the tone of one who gives wholesome advice, “I think it is better not to make them.”
 
“Then,” said Raoul, “this Monsieur Scarron is a poet?”
 
“Yes; you are warned, vicomte. Consider well what you do in that house. Talk only by gestures, or rather always listen.”
 
“Yes, monsieur,” replied Raoul.
 
“You will see me talking with one of my friends, the Abbe d’Herblay, of whom you have often heard me speak.”
 
“I remember him, monsieur.”
 
“Come near to us from time to time, as if to speak; but do not speak, and do not listen. That little stratagem may serve to keep off interlopers.”
 
“Very well, monsieur; I will obey you at all points.”
 
Athos made two visits in Paris; at seven o’clock he and Raoul directed their steps to the Rue des Tournelles; it was stopped by porters, horses and footmen. Athos forced his way through and entered, followed by the young man. The first person that struck him on his entrance was Aramis, planted near a great chair on castors, very large, covered with a canopy of tapestry, under which there moved, enveloped in a quilt of brocade, a little face, youngish, very merry, somewhat pallid, whilst its eyes never ceased to express a sentiment at once lively, intellectual, and amiable. This was the Abbe Scarron, always laughing, joking, complimenting--yet suffering--and toying nervously with a small switch.
 
Around this kind of rolling tent pressed a crowd of gentlemen and ladies. The room was neatly, comfortably furnished. Large valances of silk, embroidered with flowers of gay colors, which were rather faded, fell from the wide windows; the fittings of the room were simple, but in excellent taste. Two well trained servingmen were in attendance on the company. On perceiving Athos, Aramis advanced toward him, took him by the hand and presented him to Scarron. Raoul remained silent, for he was not prepared for the dignity of the bel esprit.
 
After some minutes the door opened and a footman announced Mademoiselle Paulet.
 
Athos touched the shoulder of the vicomte.
 
“Look at this lady, Raoul, she is an historic personage; it was to visit her King Henry IV. was going when he was assassinated.”
 
Every one thronged around Mademoiselle Paulet, for she was always very much the fashion. She was a tall woman, with a slender figure and a forest of golden curls, such as Raphael was fond of and Titian has painted all his Magdalens with. This fawn-colored hair, or, perhaps the sort of ascendancy which she had over other women, gave her the name of “La Lionne.” Mademoiselle Paulet took her accustomed seat, but before sitting down, she cast, in all her queen-like grandeur, a look around the room, and her eyes rested on Raoul.
 
Athos smiled.
 
“Mademoiselle Paulet has observed you, vicomte; go and bow to her; don’t try to appear anything but what you are, a true country youth; on no account speak to her of Henry IV.”
 
“When shall we two walk together?” Athos then said to Aramis.
 
“Presently--there are not a sufficient number of people here yet; we shall be remarked.”
 
At this moment the door opened and in walked the coadjutor.
 
At this name every one looked around, for his was already a very celebrated name. Athos did the same. He knew the Abbe de Gondy only by report.
 
He saw a little dark man, ill made and awkward with his hands in everything--except drawing a sword and firing a pistol--with something haughty and contemptuous in his face.
 
Scarron turned around toward him and came to meet him in his chair.
 
“Well,” said the coadjutor, on seeing him, “you are in disgrace, then, abbe?”
 
This was the orthodox phrase. It had been said that evening a hundred times--and Scarron was at his hundredth bon mot on the subject; he was very nearly at the end of his humoristic tether, but one despairing effort saved him.
 
“Monsieur, the Cardinal Mazarin has been so kind as to think of me,” he said.
 
“But how can you continue to receive us?” asked the coadjutor; “if your income is lessened I shall be obliged to make you a canon of Notre Dame.”
 
“Oh, no!” cried Scarron, “I should compromise you too much.”
 
“Perhaps you have resources of which we are ignorant?”
 
“I shall borrow from the queen.”
 
“But her majesty has no property,” interposed Aramis.
 
At this moment the door opened and Madame de Chevreuse was announced. Every one arose. Scarron turned his chair toward the door, Raoul blushed, Athos made a sign to Aramis, who went and hid himself in the enclosure of a window.
 
In the midst of all the compliments that awaited her on her entrance, the duchess seemed to be looking for some one; at last she found out Raoul and her eyes sparkled; she perceived Athos and became thoughtful; she saw Aramis in the seclusion of the window and gave a start of surprise behind her fan.
 
“Apropos,” she said, as if to drive away thoughts that pursued her in spite of herself, “how is poor Voiture, do you know, Scarron?”
 
“What, is Monsieur Voiture ill?” inquired a gentleman who had spoken to Athos in the Rue Saint Honore; “what is the matter with him?”
 
“He was acting, but forgot to take the precaution to have a change of linen ready after the performance,” said the coadjutor, “so he took cold and is about to die.”
 
“Is he then so ill, dear Voiture?” asked Aramis, half hidden by the window curtain.
 
“Die!” cried Mademoiselle Paulet, bitterly, “he! Why, he is surrounded by sultanas, like a Turk. Madame de Saintot has hastened to him with broth; La Renaudot warms his sheets; the Marquise de Rambouillet sends him his tisanes.”
 
“You don’t like him, my dear Parthenie,” said Scarron.
 
“What an injustice, my dear invalid! I hate him so little that I should be delighted to order masses for the repose of his soul.”
 
“You are not called ‘Lionne’ for nothing,” observed Madame de Chevreuse, “your teeth are terrible.”
 
“You are unjust to a great poet, it seems to me,” Raoul ventured to say.
 
“A great poet! come, one may easily see, vicomte, that you are lately from the provinces and have never so much as seen him. A great poet! he is scarcely five feet high.”
 
“Bravo bravo!” cried a tall man with an enormous mustache and a long rapier, “bravo, fair Paulet, it is high time to put little Voiture in his right place. For my part, I always thought his poetry detestable, and I think I know something about poetry.”
 
“Who is this officer,” inquired Raoul of Athos, “who is speaking?”
 
“Monsieur de Scudery, the author of ‘Clelie,’ and of ‘Le Grand Cyrus,’ which were composed partly by him and partly by his sister, who is now talking to that pretty person yonder, near Monsieur Scarron.”
 
Raoul turned and saw two faces just arrived. One was perfectly charming, delicate, pensive, shaded by beautiful dark hair, and eyes soft as velvet, like those lovely flowers, the heartsease, in which shine out the golden petals. The other, of mature age, seemed to have the former one under her charge, and was cold, dry and yellow--the true type of a duenna or a devotee.
 
Raoul resolved not to quit the room without having spoken to the beautiful girl with the soft eyes, who by a strange fancy, although she bore no resemblance, reminded him of his poor little Louise, whom he had left in the Chateau de la Valliere and whom, in the midst of all the party, he had never for one moment quite forgotten. Meantime Aramis had drawn near to the coadjutor, who, smiling all the while, contrived to drop some words into his ear. Aramis, notwithstanding his self-control, could not refrain from a slight movement of surprise.
 
“Laugh, then,” said Monsieur de Retz; “they are looking at us.” And leaving Aramis he went to talk with Madame de Chevreuse, who was in the midst of a large group.
 
Aramis affected a laugh, to divert the attention of certain curious listeners, and perceiving that Athos had betaken himself to the embrasure of a window and remained there, he proceeded to join him, throwing out a few words carelessly as he moved through the room.
 
As soon as the two friends met they began a conversation which was emphasized by frequent gesticulation.
 
Raoul then approached them as Athos had directed him to do.
 
“‘Tis a rondeau by Monsieur Voiture that monsieur l’abbe is repeating to me.” said Athos in a loud voice, “and I confess I think it incomparable.”
 
Raoul stayed only a few minutes near them and then mingled with the group round Madame de Chevreuse.
 
“Well, then?” asked Athos, in a low tone.
 
“It is to be to-morrow,” said Aramis hastily.
 
“At what time?”
 
“Six o’clock.”
 
“Where?”
 
“At Saint Mande.”
 
“Who told you?”
 
“The Count de Rochefort.”
 
Some one drew near.
 
“And then philosophic ideas are wholly wanting in Voiture’s works, but I am of the same opinion as the coadjutor--he is a poet, a true poet.” Aramis spoke so as to be heard by everybody.
 
“And I, too,” murmured the young lady with the velvet eyes. “I have the misfortune also to admire his poetry exceedingly.”
 
“Monsieur Scarron, do me the honor,” said Raoul, blushing, “to tell me the name of that young lady whose opinion seems so different from that of others of the company.”
 
“Ah! my young vicomte,” replied Scarron, “I suppose you wish to propose to her an alliance offensive and defensive.”
 
Raoul blushed again.
 
“You asked the name of that young lady. She is called the fair Indian.”
 
“Excuse me, sir,” returned Raoul, blushing still more deeply, “I know no more than I did before. Alas! I am from the country.”
 
“Which means that you know very little about the nonsense which here flows down our streets. So much the better, young man! so much the better! Don’t try to understand it--you will only lose your time.”
 
“You forgive me, then, sir,” said Raoul, “and you will deign to tell me who is the person that you call the young Indian?”
 
“Certainly; one of the most charming persons that lives--Mademoiselle Frances d’Aubigne.”
 
“Does she belong to the family of the celebrated Agrippa, the friend of Henry IV.?”
 
“His granddaughter. She comes from Martinique, so I call her the beautiful Indian.”
 
Raoul looked surprised and his eyes met those of the young lady, who smiled.
 
The company went on speaking of the poet Voiture.
 
“Monsieur,” said Mademoiselle d’Aubigne to Scarron, as if she wished to join in the conversation he was engaged in with Raoul, “do you not admire Monsieur Voiture’s friends? Listen how they pull him to pieces even whilst they praise him; one takes away from him all claim to good sense, another robs him of his poetry, a third of his originality, another of his humor, another of his independence of character, a sixth--but, good heavens! what will they leave him? as Mademoiselle de Scudery remarks.”
 
Scarron and Raoul laughed. The fair Indian, astonished at the sensation her observation produced, looked down and resumed her air of naivete.
 
Athos, still within the inclosure of the window, watched this scene with a smile of disdain on his lips.
 
“Tell the Comte de la Fere to come to me,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “I want to speak to him.”
 
“And I,” said the coadjutor, “want it to be thought that I do not speak to him. I admire, I love him--for I know his former adventures--but I shall not speak to him until the day after to-morrow.”
 
“And why day after to-morrow?” asked Madame de Chevreuse.
 
“You will know that to-morrow evening,” said the coadjutor, smiling.
 
“Really, my dear Gondy,” said the duchess, “you remind one of the Apocalypse. Monsieur d’Herblay,” she added, turning toward Aramis, “will you be my servant once more this evening?”
 
“How can you doubt it?” replied Aramis; “this evening, to-morrow, always; command me.”
 
“I will, then. Go and look for the Comte de la Fere; I wish to speak with him.”
 
Aramis found Athos and brought him.
 
“Monsieur le comte,” said the duchess, giving him a letter, “here is what I promised you; our young friend will be extremely well received.”
 
“Madame, he is very happy in owing any obligation to you.”
 
“You have no reason to envy him on that score, for I owe to you the pleasure of knowing him,” replied the witty woman, with a smile which recalled Marie Michon to Aramis and to Athos.
 
As she uttered that bon mot, she arose and asked for her carriage. Mademoiselle Paulet had already gone; Mademoiselle de Scudery was going.
 
“Vicomte,” said Athos to Raoul, “follow the duchess; beg her to do you the favor to take your arm in going downstairs, and thank her as you descend.”
 
The fair Indian approached Scarron.
 
“You are going already?” he said.
 
“One of the last, as you see; if you hear anything of Monsieur Voiture, be so kind as to send me word to-morrow.”
 
“Oh!” said Scarron, “he may die now.”
 
“Why?” asked the young girl with the velvet eyes.
 
“Certainly; his panegyric has been uttered.”
 
They parted, laughing, she turning back to gaze at the poor paralytic man with interest, he looking after her with eyes of love.
 
One by one the several groups broke up. Scarron seemed not to observe that certain of his guests had talked mysteriously, that letters had passed from hand to hand and that the assembly had seemed to have a secret purpose quite apart from the literary discussion carried on with so much ostentation. What was all that to Scarron? At his house rebellion could be planned with impunity, for, as we have said, since that morning he had ceased to be “the queen’s invalid.”
 
As to Raoul, he had attended the duchess to her carriage, where, as she took her seat, she gave him her hand to kiss; then, by one of those wild caprices which made her so adorable and at the same time so dangerous, she had suddenly put her arm around his neck and kissed his forehead, saying:
 
“Vicomte, may my good wishes and this kiss bring you good fortune!”
 
Then she had pushed him away and directed the coachman to stop at the Hotel de Luynes. The carriage had started, Madame de Chevreuse had made a parting gesture to the young man, and Raoul had returned in a state of stupefaction.
 
Athos surmised what had taken place and smiled. “Come, vicomte,” he said, “it is time for you to go to bed; you will start in the morning for the army of monsieur le prince. Sleep well your last night as citizen.”
 
“I am to be a soldier then?” said the young man. “Oh, monsieur, I thank you with all my heart.”
 
“Adieu, count,” said the Abbe d’Herblay; “I return to my convent.”
 
“Adieu, abbe,” said the coadjutor, “I am to preach to-morrow and have twenty texts to examine this evening.”
 
“Adieu, gentlemen,” said the count; “I am going to sleep twenty-four hours; I am just falling down with fatigue.”
 
The three men saluted one another, whilst exchanging a last look.
 
Scarron followed their movements with a glance from the corner of his eye.
 
“Not one of them will do as he says,” he murmured, with his little monkey smile; “but they may do as they please, the brave gentlemen! Who knows if they will not manage to restore to me my pension? They can move their arms, they can, and that is much. Alas, I have only my tongue, but I will try to show that it is good for something. Ho, there, Champenois! here, it is eleven o’clock. Come and roll me to bed. Really, that Demoiselle d’Aubigne is very charming!”
 
So the invalid disappeared soon afterward and went into his sleeping-room; and one by one the lights in the salon of the Rue des Tournelles were extinguished.
 
22. Saint Denis.
 The day had begun to break when Athos arose and dressed himself. It was plain, by a paleness still greater than usual, and by those traces which loss of sleep leaves on the face, that he must have passed almost the whole of the night without sleeping. Contrary to the custom of a man so firm and decided, there was this morning in his personal appearance something tardy and irresolute.
 
He was occupied with the preparations for Raoul’s departure and was seeking to gain time. In the first place he himself furbished a sword, which he drew from its perfumed leather sheath; he examined it to see if its hilt was well guarded and if the blade was firmly attached to the hilt. Then he placed at the bottom of the valise belonging to the young man a small bag of louis, called Olivain, the lackey who had followed him from Blois, and made him pack the valise under his own eyes, watchful to see that everything should be put in which might be useful to a young man entering on his first campaign.
 
At length, after occupying about an hour in these preparations, he opened the door of the room in which the vicomte slept, and entered.
 
The sun, already high, penetrated into the room through the window, the curtains of which Raoul had neglected to close on the previous evening. He was still sleeping, his head gracefully reposing on his arm.
 
Athos approached and hung over the youth in an attitude full of tender melancholy; he looked long on this young man, whose smiling mouth and half closed eyes bespoke soft dreams and lightest slumber, as if his guardian angel watched over him with solicitude and affection. By degrees Athos gave himself up to the charms of his reverie in the proximity of youth, so pure, so fresh. His own youth seemed to reappear, bringing with it all those savoury remembrances, which are like perfumes more than thoughts. Between the past and the present was an ineffable abyss. But imagination has the wings of an angel of light and travels safely through or over the seas where we have been almost shipwrecked, the darkness in which our illusions are lost, the precipice whence our happiness has been hurled and swallowed up. He remembered that all the first part of his life had been embittered by a woman and he thought with alarm of the influence love might assume over so fine, and at the same time so vigorous an organization as that of Raoul.
 
In recalling all he had been through, he foresaw all that Raoul might suffer; and the expression of the deep and tender compassion which throbbed in his heart was pictured in the moist eye with which he gazed on the young man.
 
At this moment Raoul awoke, without a cloud on his face without weariness or lassitude; his eyes were fixed on those of Athos and perhaps he comprehended all that passed in the heart of the man who was awaiting his awakening as a lover awaits the awakening of his mistress, for his glance, in return, had all the tenderness of love.
 
“You are there, sir?” he said, respectfully.
 
“Yes, Raoul,” replied the count.
 
“And you did not awaken me?”
 
“I wished to leave you still to enjoy some moments of sleep, my child; you must be fatigued from yesterday.”
 
“Oh, sir, how good you are!”
 
Athos smiled.
 
“How do you feel this morning?” he inquired.
 
“Perfectly well; quite rested, sir.”
 
“You are still growing,” Athos continued, with that charming and paternal interest felt by a grown man for a youth.
 
“Oh, sir, I beg your pardon!” exclaimed Raoul, ashamed of so much attention; “in an instant I shall be dressed.”
 
Athos then called Olivain.
 
“Everything,” said Olivain to Athos, “has been done according to your directions; the horses are waiting.”
 
“And I was asleep,” cried Raoul, “whilst you, sir, you had the kindness to attend to all these details. Truly, sir, you overwhelm me with benefits!”
 
“Therefore you love me a little, I hope,” replied Athos, in a tone of emotion.
 
“Oh, sir! God knows how much I love, revere you.”
 
“See that you forget nothing,” said Athos, appearing to look about him, that he might hide his emotion.
 
“No, indeed, sir,” answered Raoul.
 
The servant then approached Athos and said, hesitatingly:
 
“Monsieur le vicomte has no sword.”
 
“‘Tis well,” said Athos, “I will take care of that.”
 
They went downstairs, Raoul looking every now and then at the count to see if the moment of farewell was at hand, but Athos was silent. When they reached the steps Raoul saw three horses.
 
“Oh, sir! then you are going with me?”
 
“I will accompany you a portion of the way,” said Athos.
 
Joy shone in Raoul’s eyes and he leaped lightly to his saddle.
 
Athos mounted more slowly, after speaking in a low voice to the lackey, who, instead of following them immediately, returned to their rooms. Raoul, delighted at the count’s companionship, perceived, or affected to perceive nothing of this byplay.
 
They set out, passing over the Pont Neuf; they pursued their way along the quay then called L’Abreuvoir Pepin, and went along by the walls of the Grand Chatelet. They proceeded to the Rue Saint Denis.
 
After passing through the Porte Saint Denis, Athos looked at Raoul’s way of riding and observed:
 
“Take care, Raoul! I have already often told you of this; you must not forget it, for it is a great defect in a rider. See! your horse is tired already, he froths at the mouth, whilst mine looks as if he had only just left the stable. You hold the bit too tight and so make his mouth hard, so that you will not be able to make him manoeuvre quickly. The safety of a cavalier often depends on the prompt obedience of his horse. In a week, remember, you will no longer be performing your manoeuvres for practice, but on a field of battle.”
 
Then suddenly, in order not to give too uncomfortable an importance to this observation:
 
“See, Raoul!” he resumed; “what a fine plain for partridge shooting.”
 
The young man stored in his mind the admonition whilst he admired the delicate tenderness with which it was bestowed.
 
“I have remarked also another thing,” said Athos, “which is, that in firing off your pistol you hold your arm too far outstretched. This tension lessens the accuracy of the aim. So in twelve times you thrice missed the mark.”
 
“Which you, sir, struck twelve times,” answered Raoul, smiling.
 
“Because I bent my arm and rested my hand on my elbow--so; do you understand what I mean?”
 
“Yes, sir. I have fired since in that manner and have been quite successful.”
 
“What a cold wind!” resumed Athos; “a wintry blast. Apropos, if you fire--and you will do so, for you are recommended to a young general who is very fond of powder--remember that in single combat, which often takes place in the cavalry, never to fire the first shot. He who fires the first shot rarely hits his man, for he fires with the apprehension of being disarmed, before an armed foe; then, whilst he fires, make your horse rear; that manoeuvre has saved my life several times.”
 
“I shall do so, if only in gratitude----”
 
“Eh!” cried Athos, “are not those fellows poachers they have arrested yonder? They are. Then another important thing, Raoul: should you be wounded in a battle, and fall from your horse, if you have any strength left, disentangle yourself from the line that your regiment has formed; otherwise, it may be driven back and you will be trampled to death by the horses. At all events, should you be wounded, write to me that very instant, or get some one at once to write to me. We are judges of wounds, we old soldiers,” Athos added, smiling.
 
“Thank you, sir,” answered the young man, much moved.
 
They arrived that very moment at the gate of the town, guarded by two sentinels.
 
“Here comes a young gentleman,” said one of them, “who seems as if he were going to join the army.”
 
“How do you make that out?” inquired Athos.
 
“By his manner, sir, and his age; he’s the second to-day.”
 
“Has a young man, such as I am, gone through this morning, then?” asked Raoul.
 
“Faith, yes, with a haughty presence, a fine equipage; such as the son of a noble house would have.”
 
“He will be my companion on the journey, sir,” cried Raoul. “Alas! he cannot make me forget what I shall have lost!”
 
Thus talking, they traversed the streets, full of people on account of the fete, and arrived opposite the old cathedral, where first mass was going on.
 
“Let us alight; Raoul,” said Athos. “Olivain, take care of our horses and give me my sword.”
 
The two gentlemen then went into the church. Athos gave Raoul some of the holy water. A love as tender as that of a lover for his mistress dwells, undoubtedly, in some paternal hearts toward a son.
 
Athos said a word to one of the vergers, who bowed and proceeded toward the basement.
 
“Come, Raoul,” he said, “let us follow this man.”
 
The verger opened the iron grating that guarded the royal tombs and stood on the topmost step, whilst Athos and Raoul descended. The sepulchral depths of the descent were dimly lighted by a silver lamp on the lowest step; and just below this lamp there was laid, wrapped in a flowing mantle of violet velvet, worked with fleurs-de-lis of gold, a catafalque resting on trestles of oak. The young man, prepared for this scene by the state of his own feelings, which were mournful, and by the majesty of the cathedral which he had passed through, descended in a slow and solemn manner and stood with head uncovered before these mortal spoils of the last king, who was not to be placed by the side of his forefathers until his successor should take his place there; and who appeared to abide on that spot, that he might thus address human pride, so sure to be exalted by the glories of a throne: “Dust of the earth! Here I await thee!”
 
There was profound silence.
 
Then Athos raised his hand and pointing to the coffin:
 
“This temporary sepulture is,” he said, “that of a man who was of feeble mind, yet one whose reign was full of great events; because over this king watched the spirit of another man, even as this lamp keeps vigil over this coffin and illumines it. He whose intellect was thus supreme, Raoul, was the actual sovereign; the other, nothing but a phantom to whom he lent a soul; and yet, so powerful is majesty amongst us, this man has not even the honor of a tomb at the feet of him in whose service his life was worn away. Remember, Raoul, this! If Richelieu made the king, by comparison, seem small, he made royalty great. The Palace of the Louvre contains two things--the king, who must die, and royalty, which never dies. The minister, so feared, so hated by his master, has descended into the tomb, drawing after him the king, whom he would not leave alone on earth, lest his work should be destroyed. So blind were his contemporaries that they regarded the cardinal’s death as a deliverance; and I, even I, opposed the designs of the great man who held the destinies of France within the hollow of his hand. Raoul, learn how to distinguish the king from royalty; the king is but a man; royalty is the gift of God. Whenever you hesitate as to whom you ought to serve, abandon the exterior, the material appearance for the invisible principle, for the invisible principle is everything. Raoul, I seem to read your future destiny as through a cloud. It will be happier, I think, than ours has been. Different in your fate from us, you will have a king without a minister, whom you may serve, love, respect. Should the king prove a tyrant, for power begets tyranny, serve, love, respect royalty, that Divine right, that celestial spark which makes this dust still powerful and holy, so that we--gentlemen, nevertheless, of rank and condition--are as nothing in comparison with the cold corpse there extended.”
 
“I shall adore God, sir,” said Raoul, “respect royalty and ever serve the king. And if death be my lot, I hope to die for the king, for royalty and for God. Have I, sir, comprehended your instructions?”
 
Athos smiled.
 
“Yours is a noble nature.” he said; “here is your sword.”
 
Raoul bent his knee to the ground.
 
“It was worn by my father, a loyal gentleman. I have worn it in my turn and it has sometimes not been disgraced when the hilt was in my hand and the sheath at my side. Should your hand still be too weak to use this sword, Raoul, so much the better. You will have the more time to learn to draw it only when it ought to be used.”
 
“Sir,” replied Raoul, putting the sword to his lips as he received it from the count, “I owe you everything and yet this sword is the most precious gift you have yet made me. I will wear it, I swear to you, as a grateful man should do.”
 
“‘Tis well; arise, vicomte, embrace me.”
 
Raoul arose and threw himself with emotion into the count’s arms.
 
“Adieu,” faltered the count, who felt his heart die away within him; “adieu, and think of me.”
 
“Oh! for ever and ever!” cried the youth; “oh! I swear to you, sir, should any harm befall me, your name will be the last name that I shall utter, the remembrance of you my last thought.”
 
Athos hastened upstairs to conceal his emotion, and regained with hurried steps the porch where Olivain was waiting with the horses.
 
“Olivain,” said Athos, showing the servant Raoul’s shoulder-belt, “tighten the buckle of the sword, it falls too low. You will accompany monsieur le vicomte till Grimaud rejoins you. You know, Raoul, Grimaud is an old and zealous servant; he will follow you.”
 
“Yes, sir,” answered Raoul.
 
“Now to horse, that I may see you depart!”
 
Raoul obeyed.
 
“Adieu, Raoul,” said the count; “adieu, my dearest boy!”
 
“Adieu, sir, adieu, my beloved protector.”
 
Athos waved his hand--he dared not trust himself to speak: and Raoul went away, his head uncovered. Athos remained motionless, looking after him until he turned the corner of the street.
 
Then the count threw the bridle of his horse into the hands of a peasant, remounted the steps, went into the cathedral, there to kneel down in the darkest corner and pray.
 
23. One of the Forty Methods of Escape of the Duc de Beaufort.
 Meanwhile time was passing on for the prisoner, as well as for those who were preparing his escape; only for him it passed more slowly. Unlike other men, who enter with ardor upon a perilous resolution and grow cold as the moment of execution approaches, the Duc de Beaufort, whose buoyant courage had become a proverb, seemed to push time before him and sought most eagerly to hasten the hour of action. In his escape alone, apart from his plans for the future, which, it must be admitted, were for the present sufficiently vague and uncertain, there was a beginning of vengeance which filled his heart. In the first place his escape would be a serious misfortune to Monsieur de Chavigny, whom he hated for the petty persecutions he owed to him. It would be a still worse affair for Mazarin, whom he execrated for the greater offences he had committed. It may be observed that there was a proper proportion in his sentiments toward the governor of the prison and the minister--toward the subordinate and the master.
 
Then Monsieur de Beaufort, who was so familiar with the interior of the Palais Royal, though he did not know the relations existing between the queen and the cardinal, pictured to himself, in his prison, all that dramatic excitement which would ensue when the rumor should run from the minister’s cabinet to the chamber of Anne of Austria: “Monsieur de Beaufort has escaped!” Whilst saying that to himself, Monsieur de Beaufort smiled pleasantly and imagined himself already outside, breathing the air of the plains and the forests, pressing a strong horse between his knees and crying out in a loud voice, “I am free!”
 
It is true that on coming to himself he found that he was still within four walls; he saw La Ramee twirling his thumbs ten feet from him, and his guards laughing and drinking in the ante-chamber. The only thing that was pleasant to him in that odious tableau--such is the instability of the human mind--was the sullen face of Grimaud, for whom he had at first conceived such a hatred and who now was all his hope. Grimaud seemed to him an Antinous. It is needless to say that this transformation was visible only to the prisoner’s feverish imagination. Grimaud was still the same, and therefore he retained the entire confidence of his superior, La Ramee, who now relied upon him more than he did upon himself, for, as we have said, La Ramee felt at the bottom of his heart a certain weakness for Monsieur de Beaufort.
 
And so the good La Ramee made a festivity of the little supper with his prisoner. He had but one fault--he was a gourmand; he had found the pates good, the wine excellent. Now the successor of Pere Marteau had promised him a pate of pheasant instead of a pate of fowl, and Chambertin wine instead of Macon. All this, set off by the presence of that excellent prince, who was so good-natured, who invented so droll tricks against Monsieur de Chavigny and so fine jokes against Mazarin, made for La Ramee the approaching Pentecost one of the four great feasts of the year. He therefore looked forward to six o’clock with as much impatience as the duke himself.
 
Since daybreak La Ramee had been occupied with the preparations, and trusting no one but himself, he had visited personally the successor of Pere Marteau. The latter had surpassed himself; he showed La Ramee a monstrous pate, ornamented with Monsieur de Beaufort’s coat-of-arms. It was empty as yet, but a pheasant and two partridges were lying near it. La Ramee’s mouth watered and he returned to the duke’s chamber rubbing his hands. To crown his happiness, Monsieur de Chavigny had started on a journey that morning and in his absence La Ramee was deputy-governor of the chateau.
 
As for Grimaud, he seemed more sullen than ever.
 
In the course of the forenoon Monsieur de Beaufort had a game of tennis with La Ramee; a sign from Grimaud put him on the alert. Grimaud, going in advance, followed the course which they were to take in the evening. The game was played in an inclosure called the little court of the chateau, a place quite deserted except when Monsieur de Beaufort was playing; and even then the precaution seemed superfluous, the wall was so high.
 
There were three gates to open before reaching the inclosure, each by a different key. When they arrived Grimaud went carelessly and sat down by a loophole in the wall, letting his legs dangle outside. It was evident that there the rope ladder was to be attached.
 
This manoeuvre, transparent to the Duc de Beaufort, was quite unintelligible to La Ramee.
 
The game at tennis, which, upon a sign from Grimaud, Monsieur de Beaufort had consented to play, began in the afternoon. The duke was in full strength and beat La Ramee completely.
 
Four of the guards, who were constantly near the prisoner, assisted in picking up the tennis balls. When the game was over, the duke, laughing at La Ramee for his bad play, offered these men two louis d’or to go and drink his health, with their four other comrades.
 
The guards asked permission of La Ramee, who gave it to them, but not till the evening, however; until then he had business and the prisoner was not to be left alone.
 
Six o’clock came and, although they were not to sit down to table until seven o’clock, dinner was ready and served up. Upon a sideboard appeared the colossal pie with the duke’s arms on it, and seemingly cooked to a turn, as far as one could judge by the golden color which illuminated the crust.
 
The rest of the dinner was to come.
 
Every one was impatient, La Ramee to sit down to table, the guards to go and drink, the duke to escape.
 
Grimaud alone was calm as ever. One might have fancied that Athos had educated him with the express forethought of such a great event.
 
There were moments when, looking at Grimaud, the duke asked himself if he was not dreaming and if that marble figure was really at his service and would grow animated when the moment came for action.
 
La Ramee sent away the guards, desiring them to drink to the duke’s health, and as soon as they were gone shut all the doors, put the keys in his pocket and showed the table to the prince with an air that signified:
 
“Whenever my lord pleases.”
 
The prince looked at Grimaud, Grimaud looked at the clock; it was hardly a quarter-past six. The escape was fixed to take place at seven o’clock; there was therefore three-quarters of an hour to wait.
 
The duke, in order to pass away another quarter of an hour, pretended to be reading something that interested him and muttered that he wished they would allow him to finish his chapter. La Ramee went up to him and looked over his shoulder to see what sort of a book it was that had so singular an influence over the prisoner as to make him put off taking his dinner.
 
It was “Caesar’s Commentaries,” which La Ramee had lent him, contrary to the orders of the governor; and La Ramee resolved never again to disobey these injunctions.
 
Meantime he uncorked the bottles and went to smell if the pie was good.
 
At half-past six the duke arose and said very gravely:
 
“Certainly, Caesar was the greatest man of ancient times.”
 
“You think so, my lord?” answered La Ramee.
 
“Yes.”
 
“Well, as for me, I prefer Hannibal.”
 
“And why, pray, Master La Ramee?” asked the duke.
 
“Because he left no Commentaries,” replied La Ramee, with his coarse laugh.
 
The duke vouchsafed no reply, but sitting down at the table made a sign that La Ramee should seat himself opposite. There is nothing so expressive as the face of an epicure who finds himself before a well spread table, so La Ramee, when receiving his plate of soup from Grimaud, presented a type of perfect bliss.
 
The duke smiled.
 
“Zounds!” he said; “I don’t suppose there is a more contented man at this moment in all the kingdom than yourself!”
 
“You are right, my lord duke,” answered the officer; “I don’t know any pleasanter sight on earth than a well covered table; and when, added to that, he who does the honors is the grandson of Henry IV., you will, my lord duke, easily comprehend that the honor fairly doubles the pleasure one enjoys.”
 
The duke, in his turn, bowed, and an imperceptible smile appeared on the face of Grimaud, who kept behind La Ramee.
 
“My dear La Ramee,” said the duke, “you are the only man to turn such faultless compliments.”
 
“No, my lord duke,” replied La Ramee, in the fullness of his heart; “I say what I think; there is no compliment in what I say to you----”
 
“Then you are attached to me?” asked the duke.
 
“To own the truth, I should be inconsolable if you were to leave Vincennes.”
 
“A droll way of showing your affliction.” The duke meant to say “affection.”
 
“But, my lord,” returned La Ramee, “what would you do if you got out? Every folly you committed would embroil you with the court and they would put you into the Bastile, instead of Vincennes. Now, Monsieur de Chavigny is not amiable, I allow, but Monsieur du Tremblay is considerably worse.”
 
“Indeed!” exclaimed the duke, who from time to time looked at the clock, the fingers of which seemed to move with sickening slowness.
 
“But what can you expect from the brother of a capuchin monk, brought up in the school of Cardinal Richelieu? Ah, my lord, it is a great happiness that the queen, who always wished you well, had a fancy to send you here, where there’s a promenade and a tennis court, good air, and a good table.”
 
“In short,” answered the duke, “if I comprehend you aright, La Ramee, I am ungrateful for having ever thought of leaving this place?”
 
“Oh! my lord duke, ‘tis the height of ingratitude; but your highness has never seriously thought of it?”
 
“Yes,” returned the duke, “I must confess I sometimes think of it.”
 
“Still by one of your forty methods, your highness?”
 
“Yes, yes, indeed.”
 
“My lord,” said La Ramee, “now we are quite at our ease and enjoying ourselves, pray tell me one of those forty ways invented by your highness.”
 
“Willingly,” answered the duke, “give me the pie!”
 
“I am listening,” said La Ramee, leaning back in his armchair and raising his glass of Madeira to his lips, and winking his eye that he might see the sun through the rich liquid that he was about to taste.
 
The duke glanced at the clock. In ten minutes it would strike seven.
 
Grimaud placed the pie before the duke, who took a knife with a silver blade to raise the upper crust; but La Ramee, who was afraid of any harm happening to this fine work of art, passed his knife, which had an iron blade, to the duke.
 
“Thank you, La Ramee,” said the prisoner.
 
“Well, my lord! this famous invention of yours?”
 
“Must I tell you,” replied the duke, “on what I most reckon and what I determine to try first?”
 
“Yes, that’s the thing, my lord!” cried his custodian, gaily.
 
“Well, I should hope, in the first instance, to have for keeper an honest fellow like you.”
 
“And you have me, my lord. Well?”
 
“Having, then, a keeper like La Ramee, I should try also to have introduced to him by some friend or other a man who would be devoted to me, who would assist me in my flight.”
 
“Come, come,” said La Ramee, “that’s not a bad idea.”
 
“Capital, isn’t it? for instance, the former servingman of some brave gentleman, an enemy himself to Mazarin, as every gentleman ought to be.”
 
“Hush! don’t let us talk politics, my lord.”
 
“Then my keeper would begin to trust this man and to depend upon him, and I should have news from those without the prison walls.”
 
“Ah, yes! but how can the news be brought to you?”
 
“Nothing easier; in a game of tennis, for example.”
 
“In a game of tennis?” asked La Ramee, giving more serious attention to the duke’s words.
 
“Yes; see, I send a ball into the moat; a man is there who picks it up; the ball contains a letter. Instead of returning the ball to me when I call for it from the top of the wall, he throws me another; that other ball contains a letter. Thus we have exchanged ideas and no one has seen us do it.”
 
“The devil it does! The devil it does!” said La Ramee, scratching his head; “you are in the wrong to tell me that, my lord. I shall have to watch the men who pick up balls.”
 
The duke smiled.
 
“But,” resumed La Ramee, “that is only a way of corresponding.”
 
“And that is a great deal, it seems to me.”
 
“But not enough.”
 
“Pardon me; for instance, I say to my friends, Be on a certain day, on a certain hour, at the other side of the moat with two horses.”
 
“Well, what then?” La Ramee began to be uneasy; “unless the horses have wings to mount the ramparts and come and fetch you.”
 
“That’s not needed. I have,” replied the duke, “a way of descending from the ramparts.”
 
“What?”
 
“A rope ladder.”
 
“Yes, but,” answered La Ramee, trying to laugh, “a ladder of ropes can’t be sent around a ball, like a letter.”
 
“No, but it may be sent in something else.”
 
“In something else--in something else? In what?”
 
“In a pate, for example.”
 
“In a pate?” said La Ramee.
 
“Yes. Let us suppose one thing,” replied the duke “let us suppose, for instance, that my maitre d’hotel, Noirmont, has purchased the shop of Pere Marteau----”
 
“Well?” said La Ramee, shuddering.
 
“Well, La Ramee, who is a gourmand, sees his pates, thinks them more attractive than those of Pere Marteau and proposes to me that I shall try them. I consent on condition that La Ramee tries them with me. That we may be more at our ease, La Ramee removes the guards, keeping only Grimaud to wait on us. Grimaud is the man whom a friend has sent to second me in everything. The moment for my escape is fixed--seven o’clock. Well, at a few minutes to seven----”
 
“At a few minutes to seven?” cried La Ramee, cold sweat upon his brow.
 
“At a few minutes to seven,” returned the duke (suiting the action to the words), “I raise the crust of the pie; I find in it two poniards, a ladder of rope, and a gag. I point one of the poniards at La Ramee’s breast and I say to him, ‘My friend, I am sorry for it, but if thou stirrest, if thou utterest one cry, thou art a dead man!’”
 
The duke, in pronouncing these words, suited, as we have said, the action to the words. He was standing near the officer and he directed the point of the poniard in such a manner, close to La Ramee’s heart, that there could be no doubt in the mind of that individual as to his determination. Meanwhile, Grimaud, still mute as ever, drew from the pie the other poniard, the rope ladder and the gag.
 
La Ramee followed all these objects with his eyes, his alarm every moment increasing.
 
“Oh, my lord,” he cried, with an expression of stupefaction in his face; “you haven’t the heart to kill me!”
 
“No; not if thou dost not oppose my flight.”
 
“But, my lord, if I allow you to escape I am a ruined man.”
 
“I will compensate thee for the loss of thy place.”
 
“You are determined to leave the chateau?”
 
“By Heaven and earth! This night I am determined to be free.”
 
“And if I defend myself, or call, or cry out?”
 
“I will kill thee, on the honor of a gentleman.”
 
At this moment the clock struck.
 
“Seven o’clock!” said Grimaud, who had not spoken a word.
 
La Ramee made one movement, in order to satisfy his conscience. The duke frowned, the officer felt the point of the poniard, which, having penetrated through his clothes, was close to his heart.
 
“Let us dispatch,” said the duke.
 
“My lord, one last favor.”
 
“What? speak, make haste.”
 
“Bind my arms, my lord, fast.”
 
“Why bind thee?”
 
“That I may not be considered as your accomplice.”
 
“Your hands?” asked Grimaud.
 
“Not before me, behind me.”
 
“But with what?” asked the duke.
 
“With your belt, my lord!” replied La Ramee.
 
The duke undid his belt and gave it to Grimaud, who tied La Ramee in such a way as to satisfy him.
 
“Your feet, too,” said Grimaud.
 
La Ramee stretched out his legs, Grimaud took a table-cloth, tore it into strips and tied La Ramee’s feet together.
 
“Now, my lord,” said the poor man, “let me have the poire d’angoisse. I ask for it; without it I should be tried in a court of justice because I did not raise the alarm. Thrust it into my mouth, my lord, thrust it in.”
 
Grimaud prepared to comply with this request, when the officer made a sign as if he had something to say.
 
“Speak,” said the duke.
 
“Now, my lord, do not forget, if any harm happens to me on your account, that I have a wife and four children.”
 
“Rest assured; put the gag in, Grimaud.”
 
In a second La Ramee was gagged and laid prostrate. Two or three chairs were thrown down as if there had been a struggle. Grimaud then took from the pocket of the officer all the keys it contained and first opened the door of the room in which they were, then shut it and double-locked it, and both he and the duke proceeded rapidly down the gallery which led to the little inclosure. At last they reached the tennis court. It was completely deserted. No sentinels, no one at any of the windows. The duke ran to the rampart and perceived on the other side of the ditch, three cavaliers with two riding horses. The duke exchanged a signal with them. It was indeed for him that they were there.
 
Grimaud, meantime, undid the means of escape.
 
This was not, however, a rope ladder, but a ball of silk cord, with a narrow board which was to pass between the legs, the ball to unwind itself by the weight of the person who sat astride upon the board.
 
“Go!” said the duke.
 
“First, my lord?” inquired Grimaud.
 
“Certainly. If I am caught, I risk nothing but being taken back again to prison. If they catch thee, thou wilt be hung.”
 
“True,” replied Grimaud.
 
And instantly, Grimaud, sitting upon the board as if on horseback, commenced his perilous descent.
 
The duke followed him with his eyes, with involuntary terror. He had gone down about three-quarters of the length of the wall when the cord broke. Grimaud fell--precipitated into the moat.
 
The duke uttered a cry, but Grimaud did not give a single moan. He must have been dreadfully hurt, for he did not stir from the place where he fell.
 
Immediately one of the men who were waiting slipped down into the moat, tied under Grimaud’s shoulders the end of a cord, and the remaining two, who held the other end, drew Grimaud to them.
 
“Descend, my lord,” said the man in the moat. “There are only fifteen feet more from the top down here, and the grass is soft.”
 
The duke had already begun to descend. His task was the more difficult, as there was no board to support him. He was obliged to let himself down by his hands and from a height of fifty feet. But as we have said he was active, strong, and full of presence of mind. In less than five minutes he arrived at the end of the cord. He was then only fifteen feet from the ground, as the gentlemen below had told him. He let go the rope and fell upon his feet, without receiving any injury.
 
He instantly began to climb up the slope of the moat, on the top of which he met De Rochefort. The other two gentlemen were unknown to him. Grimaud, in a swoon, was tied securely to a horse.
 
“Gentlemen,” said the duke, “I will thank you later; now we have not a moment to lose. On, then! on! those who love me, follow me!”
 
And he jumped on his horse and set off at full gallop, snuffing the fresh air in his triumph and shouting out, with an expression of face which it would be impossible to describe:
 
“Free! free! free!”
 
24. The timely Arrival of D’Artagnan in Paris.
 At Blois, D’Artagnan received the money paid to him by Mazarin for any future service he might render the cardinal.
 
From Blois to Paris was a journey of four days for ordinary travelers, but D’Artagnan arrived on the third day at the Barriere Saint Denis. In turning the corner of the Rue Montmartre, in order to reach the Rue Tiquetonne and the Hotel de la Chevrette, where he had appointed Porthos to meet him, he saw at one of the windows of the hotel, that friend himself dressed in a sky-blue waistcoat, embroidered with silver, and gaping, till he showed every one of his white teeth; whilst the people passing by admiringly gazed at this gentleman, so handsome and so rich, who seemed to weary of his riches and his greatness.
 
D’Artagnan and Planchet had hardly turned the corner when Porthos recognized them.
 
“Eh! D’Artagnan!” he cried. “Thank God you have come!”
 
“Eh! good-day, dear friend!” replied D’Artagnan.
 
Porthos came down at once to the threshold of the hotel.
 
“Ah, my dear friend!” he cried, “what bad stabling for my horses here.”
 
“Indeed!” said D’Artagnan; “I am most unhappy to hear it, on account of those fine animals.”
 
“And I, also--I was also wretchedly off,” he answered, moving backward and forward as he spoke; “and had it not been for the hostess,” he added, with his air of vulgar self-complacency, “who is very agreeable and understands a joke, I should have got a lodging elsewhere.”
 
The pretty Madeleine, who had approached during this colloquy, stepped back and turned pale as death on hearing Porthos’s words, for she thought the scene with the Swiss was about to be repeated. But to her great surprise D’Artagnan remained perfectly calm, and instead of being angry he laughed, and said to Porthos:
 
“Yes, I understand, the air of La Rue Tiquetonne is not like that of Pierrefonds; but console yourself, I will soon conduct you to one much better.”
 
“When will you do that?”
 
“Immediately, I hope.”
 
“Ah! so much the better!”
 
To that exclamation of Porthos’s succeeded a groaning, low and profound, which seemed to come from behind a door. D’Artagnan, who had just dismounted, then saw, outlined against the wall, the enormous stomach of Mousqueton, whose down-drawn mouth emitted sounds of distress.
 
“And you, too, my poor Monsieur Mouston, are out of place in this poor hotel, are you not?” asked D’Artagnan, in that rallying tone which may indicate either compassion or mockery.
 
“He finds the cooking detestable,” replied Porthos.
 
“Why, then, doesn’t he attend to it himself, as at Chantilly?”
 
“Ah, monsieur, I have not here, as I had there, the ponds of monsieur le prince, where I could catch those beautiful carp, nor the forests of his highness to provide me with partridges. As for the cellar, I have searched every part and poor stuff I found.”
 
“Monsieur Mouston,” said D’Artagnan, “I should indeed condole with you had I not at this moment something very pressing to attend to.”
 
Then taking Porthos aside:
 
“My dear Du Vallon,” he said, “here you are in full dress most fortunately, for I am going to take you to the cardinal’s.”
 
“Gracious me! really!” exclaimed Porthos, opening his great wondering eyes.
 
“Yes, my friend.”
 
“A presentation? indeed!”
 
“Does that alarm you?”
 
“No, but it agitates me.”
 
“Oh! don’t be distressed; you have to deal with a cardinal of another kind. This one will not oppress you by his dignity.”
 
“‘Tis the same thing--you understand me, D’Artagnan--a court.”
 
“There’s no court now. Alas!”
 
“The queen!”
 
“I was going to say, there’s no longer a queen. The queen! Rest assured, we shall not see her.”
 
“And you say that we are going from here to the Palais Royal?”
 
“Immediately. Only, that there may be no delay, I shall borrow one of your horses.”
 
“Certainly; all the four are at your service.”
 
“Oh, I need only one of them for the time being.”
 
“Shall we take our valets?”
 
“Yes, you may as well take Mousqueton. As to Planchet, he has certain reasons for not going to court.”
 
“And what are they?”
 
“Oh, he doesn’t stand well with his eminence.”
 
“Mouston,” said Porthos, “saddle Vulcan and Bayard.”
 
“And for myself, monsieur, shall I saddle Rustaud?”
 
“No, take a more stylish horse, Phoebus or Superbe; we are going with some ceremony.”
 
“Ah,” said Mousqueton, breathing more freely, “you are only going, then, to make a visit?”
 
“Oh! yes, of course, Mouston; nothing else. But to avoid risk, put the pistols in the holsters. You will find mine on my saddle, already loaded.”
 
Mouston breathed a sigh; he couldn’t understand visits of ceremony made under arms.
 
“Indeed,” said Porthos, looking complacently at his old lackey as he went away, “you are right, D’Artagnan; Mouston will do; Mouston has a very fine appearance.”
 
D’Artagnan smiled.
 
“But you, my friend--are you not going to change your dress?”
 
“No, I shall go as I am. This traveling dress will serve to show the cardinal my haste to obey his commands.”
 
They set out on Vulcan and Bayard, followed by Mousqueton on Phoebus, and arrived at the Palais Royal at about a quarter to seven. The streets were crowded, for it was the day of Pentecost, and the crowd looked in wonder at these two cavaliers; one as fresh as if he had come out of a bandbox, the other so covered with dust that he looked as if he had but just come off a field of battle.
 
Mousqueton also attracted attention; and as the romance of Don Quixote was then the fashion, they said that he was Sancho, who, after having lost one master, had found two.
 
On reaching the palace, D’Artagnan sent to his eminence the letter in which he had been ordered to return without delay. He was soon ordered to the presence of the cardinal.
 
“Courage!” he whispered to Porthos, as they proceeded. “Do not be intimidated. Believe me, the eye of the eagle is closed forever. We have only the vulture to deal with. Hold yourself as bolt upright as on the day of the bastion of St. Gervais, and do not bow too low to this Italian; that might give him a poor idea of you.”
 
“Good!” answered Porthos. “Good!”
 
Mazarin was in his study, working at a list of pensions and benefices, of which he was trying to reduce the number. He saw D’Artagnan and Porthos enter with internal pleasure, yet showed no joy in his countenance.
 
“Ah! you, is it? Monsieur le lieutenant, you have been very prompt. ‘Tis well. Welcome to ye.”
 
“Thanks, my lord. Here I am at your eminence’s service, as well as Monsieur du Vallon, one of my old friends, who used to conceal his nobility under the name of Porthos.”
 
Porthos bowed to the cardinal.
 
“A magnificent cavalier,” remarked Mazarin.
 
Porthos turned his head to the right and to the left, and drew himself up with a movement full of dignity.
 
“The best swordsman in the kingdom, my lord,” said D’Artagnan.
 
Porthos bowed to his friend.
 
Mazarin was as fond of fine soldiers as, in later times, Frederick of Prussia used to be. He admired the strong hands, the broad shoulders and the steady eye of Porthos. He seemed to see before him the salvation of his administration and of the kingdom, sculptured in flesh and bone. He remembered that the old association of musketeers was composed of four persons.
 
“And your two other friends?” he asked.
 
Porthos opened his mouth, thinking it a good opportunity to put in a word in his turn; D’Artagnan checked him by a glance from the corner of his eye.
 
“They are prevented at this moment, but will join us later.”
 
Mazarin coughed a little.
 
“And this gentleman, being disengaged, takes to the service willingly?” he asked.
 
“Yes, my lord, and from pure devotion to the cause, for Monsieur de Bracieux is rich.”
 
“Rich!” said Mazarin, whom that single word always inspired with a great respect.
 
“Fifty thousand francs a year,” said Porthos.
 
These were the first words he had spoken.
 
“From pure zeal?” resumed Mazarin, with his artful smile; “from pure zeal and devotion then?”
 
“My lord has, perhaps, no faith in those words?” said D’Artagnan.
 
“Have you, Monsieur le Gascon?” asked Mazarin, supporting his elbows on his desk and his chin on his hands.
 
“I,” replied the Gascon, “I believe in devotion as a word at one’s baptism, for instance, which naturally comes before one’s proper name; every one is naturally more or less devout, certainly; but there should be at the end of one’s devotion something to gain.”
 
“And your friend, for instance; what does he expect to have at the end of his devotion?”
 
“Well, my lord, my friend has three magnificent estates: that of Vallon, at Corbeil; that of Bracieux, in the Soissonais; and that of Pierrefonds, in the Valois. Now, my lord, he would like to have one of his three estates erected into a barony.”
 
“Only that?” said Mazarin, his eyes twinkling with joy on seeing that he could pay for Porthos’s devotion without opening his purse; “only that? That can be managed.”
 
“I shall be baron!” explained Porthos, stepping forward.
 
“I told you so,” said D’Artagnan, checking him with his hand; “and now his eminence confirms it.”
 
“And you, Monsieur D’Artagnan, what do you want?”
 
“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “it is twenty years since Cardinal de Richelieu made me lieutenant.”
 
“Yes, and you would be gratified if Cardinal Mazarin should make you captain.”
 
D’Artagnan bowed.
 
“Well, that is not impossible. We will see, gentlemen, we will see. Now, Monsieur de Vallon,” said Mazarin, “what service do you prefer, in the town or in the country?”
 
Porthos opened his mouth to reply.
 
“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, “Monsieur de Vallon is like me, he prefers service extraordinary--that is to say, enterprises that are considered mad and impossible.”
 
That boastfulness was not displeasing to Mazarin; he fell into meditation.
 
“And yet,” he said, “I must admit that I sent for you to appoint you to quiet service; I have certain apprehensions--well, what is the meaning of that?”
 
In fact, a great noise was heard in the ante-chamber; at the same time the door of the study was burst open and a man, covered with dust, rushed into it, exclaiming:
 
“My lord the cardinal! my lord the cardinal!”
 
Mazarin thought that some one was going to assassinate him and he drew back, pushing his chair on the castors. D’Artagnan and Porthos moved so as to plant themselves between the person entering and the cardinal.
 
“Well, sir,” exclaimed Mazarin, “what’s the matter? and why do you rush in here, as if you were about to penetrate a crowded market-place?”
 
“My lord,” replied the messenger, “I wish to speak to your eminence in secret. I am Monsieur du Poins, an officer in the guards, on duty at the donjon of Vincennes.”
 
Mazarin, perceiving by the paleness and agitation of the messenger that he had something of importance to say, made a sign that D’Artagnan and Porthos should give place.
 
D’Artagnan and Porthos withdrew to a corner of the cabinet.
 
“Speak, monsieur, speak at once!” said Mazarin “What is the matter?”
 
“The matter is, my lord, that the Duc de Beaufort has contrived to escape from the Chateau of Vincennes.”
 
Mazarin uttered a cry and became paler than the man who had brought the news. He fell back, almost fainting, in his chair.
 
“Escaped? Monsieur de Beaufort escaped?”
 
“My lord, I saw him run off from the top of the terrace.”
 
“And you did not fire on him?”
 
“He was out of range.”
 
“Monsieur de Chavigny--where was he?”
 
“Absent.”
 
“And La Ramee?”
 
“Was found locked up in the prisoner’s room, a gag in his mouth and a poniard near him.”
 
“But the man who was under him?”
 
“Was an accomplice of the duke’s and escaped along with him.”
 
Mazarin groaned.
 
“My lord,” said D’Artagnan, advancing toward the cardinal, “it seems to me that your eminence is losing precious time. It may still be possible to overtake the prisoner. France is large; the nearest frontier is sixty leagues distant.”
 
“And who is to pursue him?” cried Mazarin.
 
“I, pardieu!”
 
“And you would arrest him?”
 
“Why not?”
 
“You would arrest the Duc de Beaufort, armed, in the field?”
 
“If your eminence should order me to arrest the devil, I would seize him by the horns and would bring him in.”
 
“So would I,” said Porthos.
 
“So would you!” said Mazarin, looking with astonishment at those two men. “But the duke will not yield himself without a furious battle.”
 
“Very well,” said D’Artagnan, his eyes aflame, “battle! It is a long time since we have had a battle, eh, Porthos?”
 
“Battle!” cried Porthos.
 
“And you think you can catch him?”
 
“Yes, if we are better mounted than he.”
 
“Go then, take what guards you find here, and pursue him.”
 
“You command us, my lord, to do so?”
 
“And I sign my orders,” said Mazarin, taking a piece of paper and writing some lines; “Monsieur du Vallon, your barony is on the back of the Duc de Beaufort’s horse; you have nothing to do but to overtake it. As for you, my dear lieutenant, I promise you nothing; but if you bring him back to me, dead or alive, you may ask all you wish.”
 
“To horse, Porthos!” said D’Artagnan, taking his friend by the hand.
 
“Here I am,” smiled Porthos, with his sublime composure.
 
They descended the great staircase, taking with them all the guards they found on their road, and crying out, “To arms! To arms!” and immediately put spur to horse, which set off along the Rue Saint Honore with the speed of the whirlwind.
 
“Well, baron, I promise you some good exercise!” said the Gascon.
 
“Yes, my captain.”
 
As they went, the citizens, awakened, left their doors and the street dogs followed the cavaliers, barking. At the corner of the Cimetiere Saint Jean, D’Artagnan upset a man; it was too insignificant an occurrence to delay people so eager to get on. The troop continued its course as though their steeds had wings.
 
Alas! there are no unimportant events in this world and we shall see that this apparently slight incident came near endangering the monarchy.
 
25. An Adventure on the High Road.
 “My officer,” said the sergeant, “it is not permitted to stop here.”
 
“That prohibition is not for me,” said D’Artagnan. “Have the fugitives been pursued?”
 
“Yes, my officer; unfortunately, they are well mounted.”
 
“How many are there?”
 
“Four, and a fifth whom they carried away wounded.”
 
“Four!” said D’Artagnan, looking at Porthos. “Do you hear, baron? They are only four!”
 
A joyous smile lighted Porthos’s face.
 
“How long a start have they?”
 
“Two hours and a quarter, my officer.”
 
“Two hours and a quarter--that is nothing; we are well mounted, are we not, Porthos?”
 
Porthos breathed a sigh; he thought of what was in store for his poor horses.
 
“Very good,” said D’Artagnan; “and now in what direction did they set out?”
 
“That I am forbidden to tell.”
 
D’Artagnan drew from his pocket a paper. “Order of the king,” he said.
 
“Speak to the governor, then.”
 
“And where is the governor?”
 
“In the country.”
 
Anger mounted to D’Artagnan’s face; he frowned and his cheeks were colored.
 
“Ah, you scoundrel!” he said to the sergeant, “I believe you are impudent to me! Wait!”
 
He unfolded the paper, presented it to the sergeant with one hand and with the other took a pistol from his holsters and cocked it.
 
“Order of the king, I tell you. Read and answer, or I will blow out your brains!”
 
The sergeant saw that D’Artagnan was in earnest. “The Vendomois road,” he replied.
 
“And by what gate did they go out?”
 
“By the Saint Maur gate.”
 
“If you are deceiving me, rascal, you will be hanged to-morrow.”
 
“And if you catch up with them you won’t come back to hang me,” murmured the sergeant.
 
D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders, made a sign to his escort and started.
 
“This way, gentlemen, this way!” he cried, directing his course toward the gate that had been pointed out.
 
But, now that the duke had escaped, the concierge had seen fit to fasten the gate with a double lock. It was necessary to compel him to open it, as the sergeant had been compelled to speak, and this took another ten minutes. This last obstacle having been overcome, the troop pursued their course with their accustomed ardor; but some of the horses could no longer sustain this pace; three of them stopped after an hour’s gallop, and one fell down.
26. The Rencontre.
 They rode on in this way for ten minutes. Suddenly two dark forms seemed to separate from the mass, advanced, grew in size, and as they loomed up larger and larger, assumed the appearance of two horsemen.
 
“Aha!” cried D’Artagnan, “they’re coming toward us.”
 
“So much the worse for them,” said Porthos.
 
“Who goes there?” cried a hoarse voice.
 
The three horsemen made no reply, stopped not, and all that was heard was the noise of swords drawn from the scabbards and the cocking of the pistols with which the two phantoms were armed.
 
“Bridle in mouth!” said D’Artagnan.
 
Porthos understood him and he and the lieutenant each drew with the left hand a pistol from their bolsters and cocked it in their turn.
 
“Who goes there?” was asked a second time. “Not a step forward, or you’re dead men.”
 
“Stuff!” cried Porthos, almost choked with dust and chewing his bridle as a horse chews his bit. “Stuff and nonsense; we have seen plenty of dead men in our time.”
 
Hearing these words, the two shadows blockaded the road and by the light of the stars might be seen the shining of their arms.
 
“Back!” shouted D’Artagnan, “or you are dead!”
 
Two shots were the reply to this threat; but the assailants attacked their foes with such velocity that in a moment they were upon them; a third pistol-shot was heard, aimed by D’Artagnan, and one of his adversaries fell. As for Porthos, he assaulted the foe with such violence that, although his sword was thrust aside, the enemy was thrown off his horse and fell about ten steps from it.
 
“Finish, Mouston, finish the work!” cried Porthos. And he darted on beside his friend, who had already begun a fresh pursuit.
 
“Well?” said Porthos.
 
“I’ve broken my man’s skull,” cried D’Artagnan. “And you----”
 
“I’ve only thrown the fellow down, but hark!”
 
Another shot of a carbine was heard. It was Mousqueton, who was obeying his master’s command.
 
“On! on!” cried D’Artagnan; “all goes well! we have the first throw.”
 
“Ha! ha!” answered Porthos, “behold, other players appear.”
 
And in fact, two other cavaliers made their appearance, detached, as it seemed, from the principal group; they again disputed the road.
 
This time the lieutenant did not wait for the opposite party to speak.
 
“Stand aside!” he cried; “stand off the road!”
 
“What do you want?” asked a voice.
 
“The duke!” Porthos and D’Artagnan roared out both at once.
 
A burst of laughter was the answer, but finished with a groan. D’Artagnan had, with his sword, cut in two the poor wretch who had laughed.
 
At the same time Porthos and his adversary fired on each other and D’Artagnan turned to him.
 
“Bravo! you’ve killed him, I think.”
 
“No, wounded his horse only.”
 
“What would you have, my dear fellow? One doesn’t hit the bull’s-eye every time; it is something to hit inside the ring. Ho! parbleau! what is the matter with my horse?”
 
“Your horse is falling,” said Porthos, reining in his own.
 
In truth, the lieutenant’s horse stumbled and fell on his knees; then a rattling in his throat was heard and he lay down to die. He had received in the chest the bullet of D’Artagnan’s first adversary. D’Artagnan swore loud enough to be heard in the skies.
 
“Does your honor want a horse?” asked Mousqueton.
 
“Zounds! want one!” cried the Gascon.
 
“Here’s one, your honor----”
 
“How the devil hast thou two horses?” asked D’Artagnan, jumping on one of them.
 
“Their masters are dead! I thought they might be useful, so I took them.”
 
Meantime Porthos had reloaded his pistols.
 
“Be on the qui vive!” cried D’Artagnan. “Here are two other cavaliers.”
 
As he spoke, two horsemen advanced at full speed.
 
“Ho! your honor!” cried Mousqueton, “the man you upset is getting up.”
 
“Why didn’t thou do as thou didst to the first man?” said Porthos.
 
“I held the horses, my hands were full, your honor.”
 
A shot was fired that moment; Mousqueton shrieked with pain.
 
“Ah, sir! I’m hit in the other side! exactly opposite the other! This hurt is just the fellow of the one I had on the road to Amiens.”
 
Porthos turned around like a lion, plunged on the dismounted cavalier, who tried to draw his sword; but before it was out of the scabbard, Porthos, with the hilt of his had struck him such a terrible blow on the head that he fell like an ox beneath the butcher’s knife.
 
Mousqueton, groaning, slipped from his horse, his wound not allowing him to keep the saddle.
 
On perceiving the cavaliers, D’Artagnan had stopped and charged his pistol afresh; besides, his horse, he found, had a carbine on the bow of the saddle.
 
“Here I am!” exclaimed Porthos. “Shall we wait, or shall we charge?”
 
“Let us charge them,” answered the Gascon.
 
“Charge!” cried Porthos.
 
They spurred on their horses; the other cavaliers were only twenty steps from them.
 
“For the king!” cried D’Artagnan.
 
“The king has no authority here!” answered a deep voice, which seemed to proceed from a cloud, so enveloped was the cavalier in a whirlwind of dust.
 
“‘Tis well, we will see if the king’s name is not a passport everywhere,” replied the Gascon.
 
“See!” answered the voice.
 
Two shots were fired at once, one by D’Artagnan, the other by the adversary of Porthos. D’Artagnan’s ball took off his enemy’s hat. The ball fired by Porthos’s foe went through the throat of his horse, which fell, groaning.
 
“For the last time, where are you going?”
 
“To the devil!” answered D’Artagnan.
 
“Good! you may be easy, then--you’ll get there.”
 
D’Artagnan then saw a musket-barrel leveled at him; he had no time to draw from his holsters. He recalled a bit of advice which Athos had once given him, and made his horse rear.
 
The ball struck the animal full in front. D’Artagnan felt his horse giving way under him and with his wonderful agility threw himself to one side.
 
“Ah! this,” cried the voice, the tone of which was at once polished and jeering, “this is nothing but a butchery of horses and not a combat between men. To the sword, sir! the sword!”
 
And he jumped off his horse.
 
“To the swords! be it so!” replied D’Artagnan; “that is exactly what I want.”
 
D’Artagnan, in two steps, was engaged with the foe, whom, according to custom, he attacked impetuously, but he met this time with a skill and a strength of arm that gave him pause. Twice he was obliged to step back; his opponent stirred not one inch. D’Artagnan returned and again attacked him.
 
Twice or thrice thrusts were attempted on both sides, without effect; sparks were emitted from the swords like water spouting forth.
 
At last D’Artagnan thought it was time to try one of his favorite feints in fencing. He brought it to bear, skillfully executed it with the rapidity of lightning, and struck the blow with a force which he fancied would prove irresistible.
 
The blow was parried.
 
“‘Sdeath!” he cried, with his Gascon accent.
 
At this exclamation his adversary bounded back and, bending his bare head, tried to distinguish in the gloom the features of the lieutenant.
 
As to D’Artagnan, afraid of some feint, he still stood on the defensive.
 
“Have a care,” cried Porthos to his opponent; “I’ve still two pistols charged.”
 
“The more reason you should fire the first!” cried his foe.
 
Porthos fired; the flash threw a gleam of light over the field of battle.
 
As the light shone on them a cry was heard from the other two combatants.
 
“Athos!” exclaimed D’Artagnan.
 
“D’Artagnan!” ejaculated Athos.
 
Athos raised his sword; D’Artagnan lowered his.
 
“Aramis!” cried Athos, “don’t fire!”
 
“Ah! ha! is it you, Aramis?” said Porthos.
 
And he threw away his pistol.
 
Aramis pushed his back into his saddle-bags and sheathed his sword.
 
“My son!” exclaimed Athos, extending his hand to D’Artagnan.
 
This was the name which he gave him in former days, in their moments of tender intimacy.
 
“Athos!” cried D’Artagnan, wringing his hands. “So you defend him! And I, who have sworn to take him dead or alive, I am dishonored--and by you!”
 
“Kill me!” replied Athos, uncovering his breast, “if your honor requires my death.”
 
“Oh! woe is me! woe is me!” cried the lieutenant; “there’s only one man in the world who could stay my hand; by a fatality that very man bars my way. What shall I say to the cardinal?”
 
“You can tell him, sir,” answered a voice which was the voice of high command in the battle-field, “that he sent against me the only two men capable of getting the better of four men; of fighting man to man, without discomfiture, against the Comte de la Fere and the Chevalier d’Herblay, and of surrendering only to fifty men!
 
“The prince!” exclaimed at the same moment Athos and Aramis, unmasking as they addressed the Duc de Beaufort, whilst D’Artagnan and Porthos stepped backward.
 
“Fifty cavaliers!” cried the Gascon and Porthos.
 
“Look around you, gentlemen, if you doubt the fact,” said the duke.
 
The two friends looked to the right, to the left; they were encompassed by a troop of horsemen.
 
“Hearing the noise of the fight,” resumed the duke, “I fancied you had about twenty men with you, so I came back with those around me, tired of always running away, and wishing to draw my sword in my own cause; but you are only two.”
 
“Yes, my lord; but, as you have said, two that are a match for twenty,” said Athos.
 
“Come, gentlemen, your swords,” said the duke.
 
“Our swords!” cried D’Artagnan, raising his head and regaining his self-possession. “Never!”
 
“Never!” added Porthos.
 
Some of the men moved toward them.
 
“One moment, my lord,” whispered Athos, and he said something in a low voice.
 
“As you will,” replied the duke. “I am too much indebted to you to refuse your first request. Gentlemen,” he said to his escort, “withdraw. Monsieur d’Artagnan, Monsieur du Vallon, you are free.”
 
The order was obeyed; D’Artagnan and Porthos then found themselves in the centre of a large circle.
 
“Now, D’Herblay,” said Athos, “dismount and come here.”
 
Aramis dismounted and went to Porthos, whilst Athos approached D’Artagnan.
 
All four once more together.
 
“Friends!” said Athos, “do you regret you have not shed our blood?”
 
“No,” replied D’Artagnan; “I regret to see that we, hitherto united, are opposed to each other. Ah! nothing will ever go well with us hereafter!”
 
“Oh, Heaven! No, all is over!” said Porthos.
 
“Well, be on our side now,” resumed Aramis.
 
“Silence, D’Herblay!” cried Athos; “such proposals are not to be made to gentlemen such as these. ‘Tis a matter of conscience with them, as with us.”
 
“Meantime, here we are, enemies!” said Porthos. “Gramercy! who would ever have thought it?”
 
D’Artagnan only sighed.
 
Athos looked at them both and took their hands in his.
 
“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is a serious business and my heart bleeds as if you had pierced it through and through. Yes, we are severed; there is the great, the distressing truth! But we have not as yet declared war; perhaps we shall have to make certain conditions, therefore a solemn conference is indispensable.”
 
“For my own part, I demand it,” said Aramis.
 
“I accept it,” interposed D’Artagnan, proudly.
 
Porthos bowed, as if in assent.
 
“Let us choose a place of rendezvous,” continued Athos, “and in a last interview arrange our mutual position and the conduct we are to maintain toward each other.”
 
“Good!” the other three exclaimed.
 
“Well, then, the place?”
 
“Will the Place Royale suit you?” asked D’Artagnan.
 
“In Paris?”
 
“Yes.”
 
Athos and Aramis looked at each other.
 
“The Place Royale--be it so!” replied Athos.
 
“When?”
 
“To-morrow evening, if you like!”
 
“At what hour?”
 
“At ten in the evening, if that suits you; by that time we shall have returned.”
 
“Good.”
 
“There,” continued Athos, “either peace or war will be decided; honor, at all events, will be maintained!”
 
“Alas!” murmured D’Artagnan, “our honor as soldiers is lost to us forever!”
 
“D’Artagnan,” said Athos, gravely, “I assure you that you do me wrong in dwelling so upon that. What I think of is, that we have crossed swords as enemies. Yes,” he continued, sadly shaking his head, “Yes, it is as you said, misfortune, indeed, has overtaken us. Come, Aramis.”
 
“And we, Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, “will return, carrying our shame to the cardinal.”
 
“And tell him,” cried a voice, “that I am not too old yet for a man of action.”
 
D’Artagnan recognized the voice of De Rochefort.
 
“Can I do anything for you, gentlemen?” asked the duke.
 
“Bear witness that we have done all that we could.”
 
“That shall be testified to, rest assured. Adieu! we shall meet soon, I trust, in Paris, where you shall have your revenge.” The duke, as he spoke, kissed his hand, spurred his horse into a gallop and disappeared, followed by his troop, who were soon lost in distance and darkness.
 
D’Artagnan and Porthos were now alone with a man who held by the bridles two horses; they thought it was Mousqueton and went up to him.
 
“What do I see?” cried the lieutenant. “Grimaud, is it thou?”
 
Grimaud signified that he was not mistaken.
 
“And whose horses are these?” cried D’Artagnan.
 
“Who has given them to us?” said Porthos.
 
“The Comte de la Fere.”
 
“Athos! Athos!” muttered D’Artagnan; “you think of every one; you are indeed a nobleman! Whither art thou going, Grimaud?”
 
“To join the Vicomte de Bragelonne in Flanders, your honor.”
 
They were taking the road toward Paris, when groans, which seemed to proceed from a ditch, attracted their attention.
 
“What is that?” asked D’Artagnan.
 
“It is I--Mousqueton,” said a mournful voice, whilst a sort of shadow arose out of the side of the road.
 
Porthos ran to him. “Art thou dangerously wounded, my dear Mousqueton?” he said.
 
“No, sir, but I am severely.”
 
“What can we do?” said D’Artagnan; “we must return to Paris.”
 
“I will take care of Mousqueton,” said Grimaud; and he gave his arm to his old comrade, whose eyes were full of tears, nor could Grimaud tell whether the tears were caused by wounds or by the pleasure of seeing him again.
 
D’Artagnan and Porthos went on, meantime, to Paris. They were passed by a sort of courier, covered with dust, the bearer of a letter from the duke to the cardinal, giving testimony to the valor of D’Artagnan and Porthos.
 
Mazarin had passed a very bad night when this letter was brought to him, announcing that the duke was free and that he would henceforth raise up mortal strife against him.
 
“What consoles me,” said the cardinal after reading the letter, “is that, at least, in this chase, D’Artagnan has done me one good turn--he has destroyed Broussel. This Gascon is a precious fellow; even his misadventures are of use.”
 
The cardinal referred to that man whom D’Artagnan upset at the corner of the Cimetiere Saint Jean in Paris, and who was no other than the Councillor Broussel.
 
27. The four old Friends prepare to meet again.
 Well,” said Porthos, seated in the courtyard of the Hotel de la Chevrette, to D’Artagnan, who, with a long and melancholy face, had returned from the Palais Royal; “did he receive you ungraciously, my dear friend?”
 
“I’faith, yes! a brute, that cardinal. What are you eating there, Porthos?”
 
“I am dipping a biscuit in a glass of Spanish wine; do the same.”
 
“You are right. Gimblou, a glass of wine.”
 
“Well, how has all gone off?”
 
“Zounds! you know there’s only one way of saying things, so I went in and said, ‘My lord, we were not the strongest party.’
 
“‘Yes, I know that,’ he said, ‘but give me the particulars.’
 
“You know, Porthos, I could not give him the particulars without naming our friends; to name them would be to commit them to ruin, so I merely said they were fifty and we were two.
 
“‘There was firing, nevertheless, I heard,’ he said; ‘and your swords--they saw the light of day, I presume?’
 
“‘That is, the night, my lord,’ I answered.
 
“‘Ah!’ cried the cardinal, ‘I thought you were a Gascon, my friend?’
 
“‘I am a Gascon,’ said I, ‘only when I succeed.’ The answer pleased him and he laughed.
 
“‘That will teach me,’ he said, ‘to have my guards provided with better horses; for if they had been able to keep up with you and if each one of them had done as much as you and your friend, you would have kept your word and would have brought him back to me dead or alive.’”
 
“Well, there’s nothing bad in that, it seems to me,” said Porthos.
 
“Oh, mon Dieu! no, nothing at all. It was the way in which he spoke. It is incredible how these biscuit soak up wine! They are veritable sponges! Gimblou, another bottle.”
 
The bottle was brought with a promptness which showed the degree of consideration D’Artagnan enjoyed in the establishment. He continued:
 
“So I was going away, but he called me back.
 
“‘You have had three horses foundered or killed?’ he asked me.
 
“‘Yes, my lord.’
 
“‘How much were they worth?’”
 
“Why,” said Porthos, “that was very good of him, it seems to me.”
 
“‘A thousand pistoles,’ I said.”
 
“A thousand pistoles!” Porthos exclaimed. “Oh! oh! that is a large sum. If he knew anything about horses he would dispute the price.”
 
“Faith! he was very much inclined to do so, the contemptible fellow. He made a great start and looked at me. I also looked at him; then he understood, and putting his hand into a drawer, he took from it a quantity of notes on a bank in Lyons.”
 
“For a thousand pistoles?”
 
“For a thousand pistoles--just that amount, the beggar; not one too many.”
 
“And you have them?”
 
“They are here.”
 
“Upon my word, I think he acted very generously.”
 
“Generously! to men who had risked their lives for him, and besides had done him a great service?”
 
“A great service--what was that?”
 
“Why, it seems that I crushed for him a parliament councillor.”
 
“What! that little man in black that you upset at the corner of Saint Jean Cemetery?”
 
“That’s the man, my dear fellow; he was an annoyance to the cardinal. Unfortunately, I didn’t crush him flat. It seems that he came to himself and that he will continue to be an annoyance.”
 
“See that, now!” said Porthos; “and I turned my horse aside from going plump on to him! That will be for another time.”
 
“He owed me for the councillor, the pettifogger!”
 
“But,” said Porthos, “if he was not crushed completely----”
 
“Ah! Monsieur de Richelieu would have said, ‘Five hundred crowns for the councillor.’ Well, let’s say no more about it. How much were your animals worth, Porthos?”
 
“Ah, if poor Mousqueton were here he could tell you to a fraction.”
 
“No matter; you can tell within ten crowns.”
 
“Why, Vulcan and Bayard cost me each about two hundred pistoles, and putting Phoebus at a hundred and fifty, we should be pretty near the amount.”
 
“There will remain, then, four hundred and fifty pistoles,” said D’Artagnan, contentedly.
 
“Yes,” said Porthos, “but there are the equipments.”
 
“That is very true. Well, how much for the equipments?”
 
“If we say one hundred pistoles for the three----”
 
“Good for the hundred pistoles; there remains, then, three hundred and fifty.”
 
Porthos made a sign of assent.
 
“We will give the fifty pistoles to the hostess for our expenses,” said D’Artagnan, “and share the three hundred.”
 
“We will share,” said Porthos.
 
“A paltry piece of business!” murmured D’Artagnan crumpling his note.
 
“Pooh!” said Porthos, “it is always that. But tell me----”
 
“What?”
 
“Didn’t he speak of me in any way?”
 
“Ah! yes, indeed!” cried D’Artagnan, who was afraid of disheartening his friend by telling him that the cardinal had not breathed a word about him; “yes, surely, he said----”
 
“He said?” resumed Porthos.
 
“Stop, I want to remember his exact words. He said, ‘As to your friend, tell him he may sleep in peace.’”
 
“Good, very good,” said Porthos; “that signified as clear as daylight that he still intends to make me a baron.”
 
At this moment nine o’clock struck. D’Artagnan started.
 
“Ah, yes,” said Porthos, “there is nine o’clock. We have a rendezvous, you remember, at the Place Royale.”
 
“Ah! stop! hold your peace, Porthos, don’t remind me of it; ‘tis that which has made me so cross since yesterday. I shall not go.”
 
“Why?” asked Porthos.
 
“Because it is a grievous thing for me to meet again those two men who caused the failure of our enterprise.”
 
“And yet,” said Porthos, “neither of them had any advantage over us. I still had a loaded pistol and you were in full fight, sword in hand.”
 
“Yes,” said D’Artagnan; “but what if this rendezvous had some hidden purpose?”
 
“Oh!” said Porthos, “you can’t think that, D’Artagnan!”
 
D’Artagnan did not believe Athos to be capable of a deception, but he sought an excuse for not going to the rendezvous.
 
“We must go,” said the superb lord of Bracieux, “lest they should say we were afraid. We who have faced fifty foes on the high road can well meet two in the Place Royale.”
 
“Yes, yes, but they took part with the princes without apprising us of it. Athos and Aramis have played a game with me which alarms me. We discovered yesterday the truth; what is the use of going to-day to learn something else?”
 
“You really have some distrust, then?” said Porthos.
 
“Of Aramis, yes, since he has become an abbe. You can’t imagine, my dear fellow, the sort of man he is. He sees us on the road which leads him to a bishopric, and perhaps will not be sorry to get us out of his way.”
 
“Ah, as regards Aramis, that is another thing,” said Porthos, “and it wouldn’t surprise me at all.”
 
“Perhaps Monsieur de Beaufort will try, in his turn, to lay hands on us.”
 
“Nonsense! He had us in his power and he let us go. Besides we can be on our guard; let us take arms, let Planchet post himself behind us with his carbine.”
 
“Planchet is a Frondeur,” answered D’Artagnan.
 
“Devil take these civil wars! one can no more now reckon on one’s friends than on one’s footmen,” said Porthos. “Ah! if Mousqueton were here! there’s a fellow who will never desert me!”
 
“So long as you are rich! Ah! my friend! ‘tis not civil war that disunites us. It is that we are each of us twenty years older; it is that the honest emotions of youth have given place to suggestions of interest, whispers of ambition, counsels of selfishness. Yes, you are right; let us go, Porthos, but let us go well armed; were we not to keep the rendezvous, they would declare we were afraid. Halloo! Planchet! here! saddle our horses, take your carbine.”
 
“Whom are we going to attack, sir?”
 
“No one; a mere matter of precaution,” answered the Gascon.
 
“You know, sir, that they wished to murder that good councillor, Broussel, the father of the people?”
 
“Really, did they?” said D’Artagnan.
 
“Yes, but he has been avenged. He was carried home in the arms of the people. His house has been full ever since. He has received visits from the coadjutor, from Madame de Longueville, and the Prince de Conti; Madame de Chevreuse and Madame de Vendome have left their names at his door. And now, whenever he wishes----”
 
“Well, whenever he wishes?”
 
Planchet began to sing:
 
“Un vent de fronde S’est leve ce matin; Je crois qu’il gronde Contre le Mazarin. Un vent de fronde S’est leve ce matin.”
 
“It doesn’t surprise me,” said D’Artagnan, in a low tone to Porthos, “that Mazarin would have been much better satisfied had I crushed the life out of his councillor.”
 
“You understand, then, monsieur,” resumed Planchet, “that if it were for some enterprise like that undertaken against Monsieur Broussel that you should ask me to take my carbine----”
 
“No, don’t be alarmed; but where did you get all these details?”
 
“From a good source, sir; I heard it from Friquet.”
 
“From Friquet? I know that name----”
 
“A son of Monsieur de Broussel’s servant, and a lad that, I promise you, in a revolt will not give away his share to the dogs.”
 
“Is he not a singing boy at Notre Dame?” asked D’Artagnan.
 
“Yes, that is the very boy; he’s patronized by Bazin.”
 
“Ah, yes, I know.”
 
“Of what importance is this little reptile to you?” asked Porthos.
 
“Gad!” replied D’Artagnan; “he has already given me good information and he may do the same again.”
 
Whilst all this was going on, Athos and Aramis were entering Paris by the Faubourg St. Antoine. They had taken some refreshment on the road and hastened on, that they might not fail at the appointed place. Bazin was their only attendant, for Grimaud had stayed behind to take care of Mousqueton. As they were passing onward, Athos proposed that they should lay aside their arms and military costume, and assume a dress more suited to the city.
 
“Oh, no, dear count!” cried Aramis, “is it not a warlike encounter that we are going to?”
 
“What do you mean, Aramis?”
 
“That the Place Royale is the termination to the main road to Vendomois, and nothing else.”
 
“What! our friends?”
 
“Are become our most dangerous enemies, Athos. Let us be on our guard.”
 
“Oh! my dear D’Herblay!”
 
“Who can say whether D’Artagnan may not have betrayed us to the cardinal? who can tell whether Mazarin may not take advantage of this rendezvous to seize us?”
 
“What! Aramis, you think that D’Artagnan, that Porthos, would lend their hands to such an infamy?”
 
“Among friends, my dear Athos, no, you are right; but among enemies it would be only a stratagem.”
 
Athos crossed his arms and bowed his noble head.
 
“What can you expect, Athos? Men are so made; and we are not always twenty years old. We have cruelly wounded, as you know, that personal pride by which D’Artagnan is blindly governed. He has been beaten. Did you not observe his despair on the journey? As to Porthos, his barony was perhaps dependent on that affair. Well, he found us on his road and will not be baron this time. Perhaps that famous barony will have something to do with our interview this evening. Let us take our precautions, Athos.”
 
“But suppose they come unarmed? What a disgrace to us.”
 
“Oh, never fear! besides, if they do, we can easily make an excuse; we came straight off a journey and are insurgents, too.”
 
“An excuse for us! to meet D’Artagnan with a false excuse! to have to make a false excuse to Porthos! Oh, Aramis!” continued Athos, shaking his head mournfully, “upon my soul, you make me the most miserable of men; you disenchant a heart not wholly dead to friendship. Go in whatever guise you choose; for my part, I shall go unarmed.”
 
“No, for I will not allow you to do so. ‘Tis not one man, not Athos only, not the Comte de la Fere whom you will ruin by this amiable weakness, but a whole party to whom you belong and who depend upon you.”
 
“Be it so then,” replied Athos, sorrowfully.
 
And they pursued their road in mournful silence.
 
Scarcely had they reached by the Rue de la Mule the iron gate of the Place Royale, when they perceived three cavaliers, D’Artagnan, Porthos, and Planchet, the two former wrapped up in their military cloaks under which their swords were hidden, and Planchet, his musket by his side. They were waiting at the entrance of the Rue Sainte Catharine, and their horses were fastened to the rings of the arcade. Athos, therefore, commanded Bazin to fasten up his horse and that of Aramis in the same manner.
 
They then advanced two and two, and saluted each other politely.
 
“Now where will it be agreeable to you that we hold our conference?” inquired Aramis, perceiving that people were stopping to look at them, supposing that they were going to engage in one of those far-famed duels still extant in the memory of the Parisians, and especially the inhabitants of the Place Royale.
 
“The gate is shut,” said Aramis, “but if these gentlemen like a cool retreat under the trees, and perfect seclusion, I will get the key from the Hotel de Rohan and we shall be well suited.”
 
D’Artagnan darted a look into the obscurity of the Place. Porthos ventured to put his head between the railings, to try if his glance could penetrate the gloom.
 
“If you prefer any other place,” said Athos, in his persuasive voice, “choose for yourselves.”
 
“This place, if Monsieur d’Herblay can procure the key, is the best that we can have,” was the answer.
 
Aramis went off at once, begging Athos not to remain alone within reach of D’Artagnan and Porthos; a piece of advice which was received with a contemptuous smile.
 
Aramis returned soon with a man from the Hotel de Rohan, who was saying to him:
 
“You swear, sir, that it is not so?”
 
“Stop,” and Aramis gave him a louis d’or.
 
“Ah! you will not swear, my master,” said the concierge, shaking his head.
 
“Well, one can never say what may happen; at present we and these gentlemen are excellent friends.”
 
“Yes, certainly,” added Athos and the other two.
 
D’Artagnan had heard the conversation and had understood it.
 
“You see?” he said to Porthos.
 
“What do I see?”
 
“That he wouldn’t swear.”
 
“Swear what?”
 
“That man wanted Aramis to swear that we are not going to the Place Royale to fight.”
 
“And Aramis wouldn’t swear?”
 
“No.”
 
“Attention, then!”
 
Athos did not lose sight of the two speakers. Aramis opened the gate and faced around in order that D’Artagnan and Porthos might enter. In passing through the gate, the hilt of the lieutenant’s sword was caught in the grating and he was obliged to pull off his cloak; in doing so he showed the butt end of his pistols and a ray of the moon was reflected on the shining metal.
 
“Do you see?” whispered Aramis to Athos, touching his shoulder with one hand and pointing with the other to the arms which the Gascon wore under his belt.
 
“Alas! I do!” replied Athos, with a deep sigh.
 
He entered third, and Aramis, who shut the gate after him, last. The two serving-men waited without; but as if they likewise mistrusted each other, they kept their respective distances.
 
28. The Place Royale.
 They proceeded silently to the centre of the Place, but as at this very moment the moon had just emerged from behind a cloud, they thought they might be observed if they remained on that spot and therefore regained the shade of the lime-trees.
 
There were benches here and there; the four gentlemen stopped near them; at a sign from Athos, Porthos and D’Artagnan sat down, the two others stood in front of them.
 
After a few minutes of silent embarrassment, Athos spoke.
 
“Gentlemen,” he said, “our presence here is the best proof of former friendship; not one of us has failed the others at this rendezvous; not one has, therefore, to reproach himself.”
 
“Hear me, count,” replied D’Artagnan; “instead of making compliments to each other, let us explain our conduct to each other, like men of right and honest hearts.”
 
“I wish for nothing more; have you any cause of complaint against me or Monsieur d’Herblay? If so, speak out,” answered Athos.
 
“I have,” replied D’Artagnan. “When I saw you at your chateau at Bragelonne, I made certain proposals to you which you perfectly understood; instead of answering me as a friend, you played with me as a child; the friendship, therefore, that you boast of was not broken yesterday by the shock of swords, but by your dissimulation at your castle.”
 
“D’Artagnan!” said Athos, reproachfully.
 
“You asked for candor and you have it. You ask what I have against you; I tell you. And I have the same sincerity to show you, if you wish, Monsieur d’Herblay; I acted in a similar way to you and you also deceived me.”
 
“Really, monsieur, you say strange things,” said Aramis. “You came seeking me to make to me certain proposals, but did you make them? No, you sounded me, nothing more. Very well what did I say to you? that Mazarin was contemptible and that I wouldn’t serve Mazarin. But that is all. Did I tell you that I wouldn’t serve any other? On the contrary, I gave you to understand, I think, that I adhered to the princes. We even joked very pleasantly, if I remember rightly, on the very probable contingency of your being charged by the cardinal with my arrest. Were you a party man? There is no doubt of that. Well, why should not we, too, belong to a party? You had your secret and we had ours; we didn’t exchange them. So much the better; it proves that we know how to keep our secrets.”
 
“I do not reproach you, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan; “‘tis only because Monsieur de la Fere has spoken of friendship that I question your conduct.”
 
“And what do you find in it that is worthy of blame?” asked Aramis, haughtily.
 
The blood mounted instantly to the temples of D’Artagnan, who arose, and replied:
 
“I consider it worthy conduct of a pupil of Jesuits.”
 
On seeing D’Artagnan rise, Porthos rose also; these four men were therefore all standing at the same time, with a menacing aspect, opposite to each other.
 
Upon hearing D’Artagnan’s reply, Aramis seemed about to draw his sword, when Athos prevented him.
 
“D’Artagnan,” he said, “you are here to-night, still infuriated by yesterday’s adventure. I believed your heart noble enough to enable a friendship of twenty years to overcome an affront of a quarter of an hour. Come, do you really think you have anything to say against me? Say it then; if I am in fault I will avow the error.”
29. The Ferry across the Oise.
 We hope that the reader has not quite forgotten the young traveler whom we left on the road to Flanders.
 
In losing sight of his guardian, whom he had quitted, gazing after him in front of the royal basilican, Raoul spurred on his horse, in order not only to escape from his own melancholy reflections, but also to hide from Olivain the emotion his face might betray.
 
One hour’s rapid progress, however, sufficed to disperse the gloomy fancies that had clouded the young man’s bright anticipations; and the hitherto unfelt pleasure of freedom--a pleasure which is sweet even to those who have never known dependence--seemed to Raoul to gild not only Heaven and earth, but especially that blue but dim horizon of life we call the future.
 
Nevertheless, after several attempts at conversation with Olivain he foresaw that many days passed thus would prove exceedingly dull; and the count’s agreeable voice, his gentle and persuasive eloquence, recurred to his mind at the various towns through which they journeyed and about which he had no longer any one to give him those interesting details which he would have drawn from Athos, the most amusing and the best informed of guides. Another recollection contributed also to sadden Raoul: on their arrival at Sonores he had perceived, hidden behind a screen of poplars, a little chateau which so vividly recalled that of La Valliere to his mind that he halted for nearly ten minutes to gaze at it, and resumed his journey with a sigh too abstracted even to reply to Olivain’s respectful inquiry about the cause of so much fixed attention. The aspect of external objects is often a mysterious guide communicating with the fibres of memory, which in spite of us will arouse them at times; this thread, like that of Ariadne, when once unraveled will conduct one through a labyrinth of thought, in which one loses one’s self in endeavoring to follow that phantom of the past which is called recollection.
 
Now the sight of this chateau had taken Raoul back fifty leagues westward and had caused him to review his life from the moment when he had taken leave of little Louise to that in which he had seen her for the first time; and every branch of oak, every gilded weathercock on roof of slates, reminded him that, instead of returning to the friends of his childhood, every instant estranged him further and that perhaps he had even left them forever.

With a full heart and burning head he desired Olivain to lead on the horses to a wayside inn, which he observed within gunshot range, a little in advance of the place they had reached.
 
As for himself, he dismounted and remained under a beautiful group of chestnuts in flower, amidst which were murmuring a multitude of happy bees, and bade Olivain send the host to him with writing paper and ink, to be placed on a table which he found there, conveniently ready. Olivain obeyed and continued on his way, whilst Raoul remained sitting, with his elbow leaning on the table, from time to time gently shaking the flowers from his head, which fell upon him like snow, and gazing vaguely on the charming landscape spread out before him, dotted over with green fields and groups of trees. Raoul had been there about ten minutes, during five of which he was lost in reverie, when there appeared within the circle comprised in his rolling gaze a man with a rubicund face, who, with a napkin around his body, another under his arm, and a white cap upon his head, approached him, holding paper, pen and ink in hand.
 
“Ha! ha!” laughed the apparition, “every gentleman seems to have the same fancy, for not a quarter of an hour ago a young lad, well mounted like you, as tall as you and of about your age, halted before this clump of trees and had this table and this chair brought here, and dined here, with an old gentleman who seemed to be his tutor, upon a pie, of which they haven’t left a mouthful, and two bottles of Macon wine, of which they haven’t left a drop, but fortunately we have still some of the same wine and some of the same pies left, and if your worship will but give your orders----”
 
“No, friend,” replied Raoul, smiling, “I am obliged to you, but at this moment I want nothing but the things for which I have asked--only I shall be very glad if the ink prove black and the pen good; upon these conditions I will pay for the pen the price of the bottle, and for the ink the price of the pie.”

“Do as you like,” said Raoul, who was beginning his apprenticeship with that particular class of society, who, when there were robbers on the highroads, were connected with them, and who, since highwaymen no longer exist, have advantageously and aptly filled their vacant place.
 
The host, his mind at ease about his bill, placed pen, ink and paper upon the table. By a lucky chance the pen was tolerably good and Raoul began to write. The host remained standing in front of him, looking with a kind of involuntary admiration at his handsome face, combining both gravity and sweetness of expression. Beauty has always been and always will be all-powerful.

“He’s not a guest like the other one here just now,” observed mine host to Olivain, who had rejoined his master to see if he wanted anything, “and your young master has no appetite.”
 
“My master had appetite enough three days ago, but what can one do? he lost it the day before yesterday.”
 
And Olivain and the host took their way together toward the inn, Olivain, according to the custom of serving-men well pleased with their place, relating to the tavern-keeper all that he could say in favor of the young gentleman; whilst Raoul wrote on thus:

“Sir,--After a four hours’ march I stop to write to you, for I miss you every moment, and I am always on the point of turning my head as if to reply when you speak to me. I was so bewildered by your departure and so overcome with grief at our separation, that I am sure I was able to but very feebly express all the affection and gratitude I feel toward you. You will forgive me, sir, for your heart is of such a generous nature that you can well understand all that has passed in mine. I entreat you to write to me, for you form a part of my existence, and, if I may venture to tell you so, I also feel anxious. It seemed to me as if you were yourself preparing for some dangerous undertaking, about which I did not dare to question you, since you told me nothing. I have, therefore, as you see, great need of hearing from you. Now that you are no longer beside me I am afraid every moment of erring. You sustained me powerfully, sir, and I protest to you that to-day I feel very lonely. Will you have the goodness, sir, should you receive news from Blois, to send me a few lines about my little friend Mademoiselle de la Valliere, about whose health, when we left, so much anxiety was felt? You can understand, honored and dear guardian, how precious and indispensable to me is the remembrance of the years that I have passed with you. I hope that you will sometimes, too, think of me, and if at certain hours you should miss me, if you should feel any slight regret at my absence, I shall be overwhelmed with joy at the thought that you appreciate my affection for and my devotion to yourself, and that I have been able to prove them to you whilst I had the happiness of living with you.”
 
After finishing this letter Raoul felt more composed; he looked well around him to see if Olivain and the host might not be watching him, whilst he impressed a kiss upon the paper, a mute and touching caress, which the heart of Athos might well divine on opening the letter.

During this time Olivain had finished his bottle and eaten his pie; the horses were also refreshed. Raoul motioned to the host to approach, threw a crown upon the table, mounted his horse, and posted his letter at Senlis. The rest that had been thus afforded to men and horses enabled them to continue their journey at a good round pace. At Verberie, Raoul desired Olivain to make some inquiry about the young man who was preceding them; he had been observed to pass only three-quarters of an hour previously, but he was well mounted, as the tavern-keeper had already said, and rode at a rapid pace.
 
“Let us try and overtake this gentleman,” said Raoul to Olivain; “like ourselves he is on his way to join the army and may prove agreeable company.”
 
It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when Raoul arrived at Compiegne; there he dined heartily and again inquired about the young gentleman who was in advance of them. He had stopped, like Raoul, at the Hotel of the Bell and Bottle, the best at Compiegne; and had started again on his journey, saying that he should sleep at Noyon.

“Well, let us sleep at Noyon,” said Raoul.
 
“Sir,” replied Olivain, respectfully, “allow me to remark that we have already much fatigued the horses this morning. I think it would be well to sleep here and to start again very early tomorrow. Eighteen leagues is enough for the first stage.”

“The Comte de la Fere wished me to hasten on,” replied Raoul, “that I might rejoin the prince on the morning of the fourth day; let us push on, then, to Noyon; it will be a stage similar to those we traveled from Blois to Paris. We shall arrive at eight clock. The horses will have a long night’s rest, and at five clock tomorrow morning we can be again on the road.”
 
Olivain dared offer no opposition to this determination but he followed his master, grumbling.

“Go on, go on,” said he, between his teeth, “expend your ardor the first day; tomorrow, instead of journeying twenty leagues, you will travel ten, the day after tomorrow, five, and in three days you will be in bed. There you must rest; young people are such braggarts.”

It was easy to see that Olivain had not been taught in the school of the Planchets and the Grimauds. Raoul really felt tired, but he was desirous of testing his strength, and, brought up in the principles of Athos and certain of having heard him speak a thousand times of stages of twenty-five leagues, he did not wish to fall far short of his model. D’Artagnan, that man of iron, who seemed to be made of nerve and muscle only, had struck him with admiration. Therefore, in spite of Olivain’s remarks, he continued to urge his steed more and more, and following a pleasant little path, leading to a ferry, and which he had been assured shortened the journey by the distance of one league, he arrived at the summit of a hill and perceived the river flowing before him. A little troop of men on horseback were waiting on the edge of the stream, ready to embark. Raoul did not doubt this was the gentleman and his escort; he called out to him, but they were too distant to be heard; then, in spite of the weariness of his beast, he made it gallop but the rising ground soon deprived him of all sight of the travelers, and when he had again attained a new height, the ferryboat had left the shore and was making for the opposite bank. Raoul, seeing that he could not arrive in time to cross the ferry with the travelers, halted to wait for Olivain. At this moment a shriek was heard that seemed to come from the river. Raoul turned toward the side whence the cry had sounded, and shaded his eyes from the glare of the setting sun with his hand.

“Olivain!” he exclaimed, “what do I see below there?”
 
A second scream, more piercing than the first, now sounded.
 
“Oh, sir!” cried Olivain, “the rope which holds the ferryboat has broken and the boat is drifting. But what do I see in the water--something struggling?”
 
“Oh, yes,” exclaimed Raoul, fixing his glance on one point in the stream, splendidly illumined by the setting sun, “a horse, a rider!”
 
“They are sinking!” cried Olivain in his turn.
 
It was true, and Raoul was convinced that some accident had happened and that a man was drowning; he gave his horse its head, struck his spurs into its sides, and the animal, urged by pain and feeling that he had space open before him, bounded over a kind of paling which inclosed the landing place, and fell into the river, scattering to a distance waves of white froth.
 
“Ah, sir!” cried Olivain, “what are you doing? Good God!”
 
Raoul was directing his horse toward the unhappy man in danger. This was, in fact, a custom familiar to him. Having been brought up on the banks of the Loire, he might have been said to have been cradled on its waves; a hundred times he had crossed it on horseback, a thousand times had swum across. Athos, foreseeing the period when he should make a soldier of the viscount, had inured him to all kinds of arduous undertakings.
 
  “Oh, heavens!” continued Olivain, in despair, “what would the count say if he only saw you now!”
 
“The count would do as I do,” replied Raoul, urging his horse vigorously forward.
 
“But I--but I,” cried Olivain, pale and disconsolate rushing about on the shore, “how shall I cross?”
 
“Leap, coward!” cried Raoul, swimming on; then addressing the traveler, who was struggling twenty yards in front of him: “Courage, sir!” said he, “courage! we are coming to your aid.”
 
Olivain advanced, retired, then made his horse rear--turned it and then, struck to the core by shame, leaped, as Raoul had done, only repeating:
 
“I am a dead man! we are lost!”
 
In the meantime, the ferryboat had floated away, carried down by the stream, and the shrieks of those whom it contained resounded more and more. A man with gray hair had thrown himself from the boat into the river and was swimming vigorously toward the person who was drowning; but being obliged to go against the current he advanced but slowly. Raoul continued his way and was visibly gaining ground; but the horse and its rider, of whom he did not lose sight, were evidently sinking. The nostrils of the horse were no longer above water, and the rider, who had lost the reins in struggling, fell with his head back and his arms extended. One moment longer and all would disappear.
 
“Courage!” cried Raoul, “courage!”
 
“Too late!” murmured the young man, “too late!”
 
The water closed above his head and stifled his voice.
 
Raoul sprang from his horse, to which he left the charge of its own preservation, and in three or four strokes was at the gentleman’s side; he seized the horse at once by the curb and raised its head above water; the animal began to breathe again and, as if he comprehended that they had come to his aid, redoubled his efforts. Raoul at the same time seized one of the young man’s hands and placed it on the mane, which it grasped with the tenacity of a drowning man. Thus, sure that the rider would not release his hold, Raoul now only directed his attention to the horse, which he guided to the opposite bank, helping it to cut through the water and encouraging it with words.
 
All at once the horse stumbled against a ridge and then placed its foot on the sand.
 
“Saved!” exclaimed the man with gray hair, who also touched bottom.
 
“Saved!” mechanically repeated the young gentleman, releasing the mane and sliding from the saddle into Raoul’s arms; Raoul was but ten yards from the shore; there he bore the fainting man, and laying him down upon the grass, unfastened the buttons of his collar and unhooked his doublet. A moment later the gray-headed man was beside him. Olivain managed in his turn to land, after crossing himself repeatedly; and the people in the ferryboat guided themselves as well as they were able toward the bank, with the aid of a pole which chanced to be in the boat.
 
Thanks to the attentions of Raoul and the man who accompanied the young gentleman, the color gradually returned to the pale cheeks of the dying man, who opened his eyes, at first entirely bewildered, but who soon fixed his gaze upon the person who had saved him.
 
“Ah, sir,” he exclaimed, “it was you! Without you I was a dead man--thrice dead.”
 
“But one recovers, sir, as you perceive,” replied Raoul, “and we have but had a little bath.”
 
“Oh! sir, what gratitude I feel!” exclaimed the man with gray hair.
 
“Ah, there you are, my good D’Arminges; I have given you a great fright, have I not? but it is your own fault. You were my tutor, why did you not teach me to swim?”
 
“Oh, monsieur le comte,” replied the old man, “had any misfortune happened to you, I should never have dared to show myself to the marshal again.”
 
“But how did the accident happen?” asked Raoul.
 
“Oh, sir, in the most natural way possible,” replied he to whom they had given the title of count. “We were about a third of the way across the river when the cord of the ferryboat broke. Alarmed by the cries and gestures of the boatmen, my horse sprang into the water. I cannot swim, and dared not throw myself into the river. Instead of aiding the movements of my horse, I paralyzed them; and I was just going to drown myself with the best grace in the world, when you arrived just in time to pull me out of the water; therefore, sir, if you will agree, henceforward we are friends until death.”
 
“Sir,” replied Raoul, bowing, “I am entirely at your service, I assure you.”
 
“I am called the Count de Guiche,” continued the young man; “my father is the Marechal de Grammont; and now that you know who I am, do me the honor to inform me who you are.”
 
“I am the Viscount de Bragelonne,” answered Raoul, blushing at being unable to name his father, as the Count de Guiche had done.
 
“Viscount, your countenance, your goodness and your courage incline me toward you; my gratitude is already due. Shake hands--I crave your friendship.”
 
“Sir,” said Raoul, returning the count’s pressure of the hand, “I like you already, from my heart; pray regard me as a devoted friend, I beseech you.”
 
“And now, where are you going, viscount?” inquired De Guiche.
 
“To join the army, under the prince, count.”
 
“And I, too!” exclaimed the young man, in a transport of joy. “Oh, so much the better, we will fire the first shot together.”
 
“It is well; be friends,” said the tutor; “young as you both are, you were perhaps born under the same star and were destined to meet. And now,” continued he, “you must change your clothes; your servants, to whom I gave directions the moment they had left the ferryboat, ought to be already at the inn. Linen and wine are both being warmed; come.”
 
The young men had no objection to this proposition; on the contrary, they thought it very timely.
 
They mounted again at once, whilst looks of admiration passed between them. They were indeed two elegant horsemen, with figures slight and upright, noble faces, bright and proud looks, loyal and intelligent smiles.
 
De Guiche might have been about eighteen years of age, but he was scarcely taller than Raoul, who was only fifteen.




30. Skirmishing.
 The halt at Noyon was but brief, every one there being wrapped in profound sleep. Raoul had desired to be awakened should Grimaud arrive, but Grimaud did not arrive. Doubtless, too, the horses on their part appreciated the eight hours of repose and the abundant stabling which was granted them. The Count de Guiche was awakened at five o’clock in the morning by Raoul, who came to wish him good-day. They breakfasted in haste, and at six o’clock had already gone ten miles.
 
The young count’s conversation was most interesting to Raoul, therefore he listened much, whilst the count talked well and long. Brought up in Paris, where Raoul had been but once; at the court, which Raoul had never seen; his follies as page; two duels, which he had already found the means of fighting, in spite of the edicts against them and, more especially, in spite of his tutor’s vigilance--these things excited the greatest curiosity in Raoul. Raoul had only been at M. Scarron’s house; he named to Guiche the people whom he had seen there. Guiche knew everybody--Madame de Neuillan, Mademoiselle d’Aubigne, Mademoiselle de Scudery, Mademoiselle Paulet, Madame de Chevreuse. He criticised everybody humorously. Raoul trembled, lest he should laugh among the rest at Madame de Chevreuse, for whom he entertained deep and genuine sympathy, but either instinctively, or from affection for the duchess, he said everything in her favor. His praises increased Raoul’s friendship twofold. Then came the question of gallantry and love affairs. Under this head, also, Bragelonne had much more to hear than to tell. He listened attentively and fancied that he discovered through three or four rather frivolous adventures, that the count, like himself, had a secret to hide in the depths of his heart.
 
De Guiche, as we have said before, had been educated at the court, and the intrigues of this court were not unknown to him. It was the same court of which Raoul had so often heard the Comte de la Fere speak, except that its aspect had much changed since the period when Athos had himself been part of it; therefore everything which the Count de Guiche related was new to his traveling companion. The young count, witty and caustic, passed all the world in review; the queen herself was not spared, and Cardinal Mazarin came in for his share of ridicule.
 
The day passed away as rapidly as an hour. The count’s tutor, a man of the world and a bon vivant, up to his eyes in learning, as his pupil described him, often recalled the profound erudition, the witty and caustic satire of Athos to Raoul; but as regarded grace, delicacy, and nobility of external appearance, no one in these points was to be compared to the Comte de la Fere.
 
The horses, which were more kindly used than on the previous day, stopped at Arras at four o’clock in the evening. They were approaching the scene of war; and as bands of Spaniards sometimes took advantage of the night to make expeditions even as far as the neighborhood of Arras, they determined to remain in the town until the morrow. The French army held all between Pont-a-Marc as far as Valenciennes, falling back upon Douai. The prince was said to be in person at Bethune.
 
The enemy’s army extended from Cassel to Courtray; and as there was no species of violence or pillage it did not commit, the poor people on the frontier quitted their isolated dwellings and fled for refuge into the strong cities which held out a shelter to them. Arras was encumbered with fugitives. An approaching battle was much spoken of, the prince having manoeuvred, until that movement, only in order to await a reinforcement that had just reached him.
 
The young men congratulated themselves on having arrived so opportunely. The evening was employed in discussing the war; the grooms polished their arms; the young men loaded the pistols in case of a skirmish, and they awoke in despair, having both dreamed that they had arrived too late to participate in the battle. In the morning it was rumored that Prince de Conde had evacuated Bethune and fallen back on Carvin, leaving, however, a strong garrison in the former city.
 
But as there was nothing positively certain in this report, the young warriors decided to continue their way toward Bethune, free on the road to diverge to the right and march to Carvin if necessary.
 
The count’s tutor was well acquainted with the country; he consequently proposed to take a crossroad, which lay between that of Lens and that of Bethune. They obtained information at Ablain, and a statement of their route was left for Grimaud. About seven o’clock in the morning they set out. De Guiche, who was young and impulsive, said to Raoul, “Here we are, three masters and three servants. Our valets are well armed and yours seems to be tough enough.”
 
“I have never seen him put to the test,” replied Raoul, “but he is a Breton, which promises something.”
 
“Yes, yes,” resumed De Guiche; “I am sure he can fire a musket when required. On my side I have two sure men, who have been in action with my father. We therefore represent six fighting men; if we should meet a little troop of enemies, equal or even superior in number to our own, shall we charge them, Raoul?”
 
“Certainly, sir,” replied the viscount.
 
“Holloa! young people--stop there!” said the tutor, joining in the conversation. “Zounds! how you manoeuvre my instructions, count! You seem to forget the orders I received to conduct you safe and sound to his highness the prince! Once with the army you may be killed at your good pleasure; but until that time, I warn you that in my capacity of general of the army I shall order a retreat and turn my back on the first red coat we come across.” De Guiche and Raoul glanced at each other, smiling.
 
They arrived at Ablain without accident. There they inquired and learned that the prince had in reality quitted Bethune and stationed himself between Cambria and La Venthie. Therefore, leaving directions at every place for Grimaud, they took a crossroad which conducted the little troop by the bank of a small stream flowing into the Lys. The country was beautiful, intersected by valleys as green as the emerald. Here and there they passed little copses crossing the path which they were following. In anticipation of some ambuscade in each of these little woods the tutor placed his two servants at the head of the band, thus forming the advance guard. Himself and the two young men represented the body of the army, whilst Olivain, with his rifle upon his knee and his eyes upon the watch, protected the rear.
 
They had observed for some time before them, on the horizon, a rather thick wood; and when they had arrived at a distance of a hundred steps from it, Monsieur d’Arminges took his usual precautions and sent on in advance the count’s two grooms. The servants had just disappeared under the trees, followed by the tutor, and the young men were laughing and talking about a hundred yards off. Olivain was at the same distance in the rear, when suddenly there resounded five or six musket-shots. The tutor cried halt; the young men obeyed, pulling up their steeds, and at the same moment the two valets were seen returning at a gallop.
 
The young men, impatient to learn the cause of the firing, spurred on toward the servants. The tutor followed them.
 
“Were you stopped?” eagerly inquired the two youths.
 
“No,” replied the servants, “it is even probable that we have not been seen; the shots were fired about a hundred paces in advance of us, in the thickest part of the wood, and we returned to ask your advice.”
 
“My advice is this,” said Monsieur d’Arminges, “and if needs be, my will, that we beat a retreat. There may be an ambuscade concealed in this wood.”
 
“Did you see nothing there?” asked the count.
 
“I thought I saw,” said one of the servants, “horsemen dressed in yellow, creeping along the bed of the stream.
 
“That’s it,” said the tutor. “We have fallen in with a party of Spaniards. Come back, sirs, back.”
 
The two youths looked at each other, and at this moment a pistol-shot and cries for help were heard. Another glance between the young men convinced them both that neither had any wish to go back, and as the tutor had already turned his horse’s head, they both spurred forward, Raoul crying: “Follow me, Olivain!” and the Count de Guiche: “Follow, Urban and Planchet!” And before the tutor could recover from his surprise they had both disappeared into the forest. Whilst they spurred their steeds they held their pistols ready also. In five minutes they arrived at the spot whence the noise had proceeded, and then restraining their horses, they advanced cautiously.
 
“Hush,” whispered De Guiche, “these are cavaliers.”
 
“Yes, three on horseback and three who have dismounted.”
 
“Can you see what they are doing?”
 
“Yes, they appear to be searching a wounded or dead man.”
 
“It is some cowardly assassination,” said De Guiche.
 
“They are soldiers, though,” resumed De Bragelonne.
 
“Yes, skirmishers; that is to say, highway robbers.”
 
“At them!” cried Raoul. “At them!” echoed De Guiche.
 
“Oh! gentlemen! gentlemen! in the name of Heaven!” cried the poor tutor.
 
But he was not listened to, and his cries only served to arouse the attention of the Spaniards.
 
The men on horseback at once rushed at the two youths, leaving the three others to complete the plunder of the dead or wounded travelers; for on approaching nearer, instead of one extended figure, the young men discovered two. De Guiche fired the first shot at ten paces and missed his man; and the Spaniard, who had advanced to meet Raoul, aimed in his turn, and Raoul felt a pain in the left arm, similar to that of a blow from a whip. He let off his fire at but four paces. Struck in the breast and extending his arms, the Spaniard fell back on the crupper, and the terrified horse, turning around, carried him off.
 
Raoul at this moment perceived the muzzle of a gun pointed at him, and remembering the recommendation of Athos, he, with the rapidity of lightning, made his horse rear as the shot was fired. His horse bounded to one side, losing its footing, and fell, entangling Raoul’s leg under its body. The Spaniard sprang forward and seized the gun by its muzzle, in order to strike Raoul on the head with the butt. In the position in which Raoul lay, unfortunately, he could neither draw his sword from the scabbard, nor his pistols from their holsters. The butt end of the musket hovered over his head, and he could scarcely restrain himself from closing his eyes, when with one bound Guiche reached the Spaniard and placed a pistol at his throat. “Yield!” he cried, “or you are a dead man!” The musket fell from the soldier’s hands, who yielded on the instant. Guiche summoned one of his grooms, and delivering the prisoner into his charge, with orders to shoot him through the head if he attempted to escape, he leaped from his horse and approached Raoul.
 
“Faith, sir,” said Raoul, smiling, although his pallor betrayed the excitement consequent on a first affair, “you are in a great hurry to pay your debts and have not been long under any obligation to me. Without your aid,” continued he, repeating the count’s words “I should have been a dead man--thrice dead.”
 
“My antagonist took flight,” replied De Guiche “and left me at liberty to come to your assistance. But are you seriously wounded? I see you are covered with blood!”
 
“I believe,” said Raoul, “that I have got something like a scratch on the arm. If you will help me to drag myself from under my horse I hope nothing need prevent us continuing our journey.”
 
Monsieur d’Arminges and Olivain had already dismounted and were attempting to raise the struggling horse. At last Raoul succeeded in drawing his foot from the stirrup and his leg from under the animal, and in a second he was on his feet again.
 
“Nothing broken?” asked De Guiche.
 
“Faith, no, thank Heaven!” replied Raoul; “but what has become of the poor wretches whom these scoundrels were murdering?”
 
“I fear we arrived too late. They have killed them, I think, and taken flight, carrying off their booty. My servants are examining the bodies.”
 
“Let us go and see whether they are quite dead, or if they can still be helped,” suggested Raoul. “Olivain, we have come into possession of two horses, but I have lost my own. Take for yourself the better of the two and give me yours.”
 
They approached the spot where the unfortunate victims lay.
 
31. The Monk.
 Two men lay prone upon the ground, one bathed in blood and motionless, with his face toward the earth; this one was dead. The other leaned against a tree, supported there by the two valets, and was praying fervently, with clasped hands and eyes raised to Heaven. He had received a ball in his thigh, which had broken the bone. The young men first approached the dead man.
 
“He is a priest,” said Bragelonne, “he has worn the tonsure. Oh, the scoundrels! to lift their hands against a minister of God.”
 
“Come here, sir,” said Urban, an old soldier who had served under the cardinal duke in all his campaigns; “come here, there is nothing to be done with him, whilst we may perhaps be able to save the other.”
 
The wounded man smiled sadly. “Save me! Oh, no!” said he, “but help me to die, if you can.”
 
“Are you a priest?” asked Raoul.
 
“No sir.”
 
“I ask, as your unfortunate companion appeared to me to belong to the church.”
 
“He is the curate of Bethune, sir, and was carrying the holy vessels belonging to his church, and the treasure of the chapter, to a safe place, the prince having abandoned our town yesterday; and as it was known that bands of the enemy were prowling about the country, no one dared to accompany the good man, so I offered to do so.
 
“And, sir,” continued the wounded man, “I suffer much and would like, if possible, to be carried to some house.”
 
“Where you can be relieved?” asked De Guiche.
 
“No, where I can confess.”
 
“But perhaps you are not so dangerously wounded as you think,” said Raoul.
 
“Sir,” replied the wounded man, “believe me, there is no time to lose; the ball has broken the thigh bone and entered the intestines.”
 
“Are you a surgeon?” asked De Guiche.
 
“No, but I know a little about wounds, and mine, I know, is mortal. Try, therefore, either to carry me to some place where I may see a priest or take the trouble to send one to me here. It is my soul that must be saved; as for my body, it is lost.”
 
“To die whilst doing a good deed! It is impossible. God will help you.”
 
“Gentlemen, in the name of Heaven!” said the wounded man, collecting all his forces, as if to get up, “let us not lose time in useless words. Either help me to gain the nearest village or swear to me on your salvation that you will send me the first monk, the first cure, the first priest you may meet. But,” he added in a despairing tone, “perhaps no one will dare to come for it is known that the Spaniards are ranging through the country, and I shall die without absolution. My God! my God! Good God! good God!” added the wounded man, in an accent of terror which made the young men shudder; “you will not allow that? that would be too terrible!”
 
“Calm yourself, sir,” replied De Guiche. “I swear to you, you shall receive the consolation that you ask. Only tell us where we shall find a house at which we can demand aid and a village from which we can fetch a priest.”
 
“Thank you, and God reward you! About half a mile from this, on the same road, there is an inn, and about a mile further on, after leaving the inn, you will reach the village of Greney. There you must find the curate, or if he is not at home, go to the convent of the Augustines, which is the last house on the right, and bring me one of the brothers. Monk or priest, it matters not, provided only that he has received from holy church the power of absolving in articulo mortis.”
 
“Monsieur d’Arminges,” said De Guiche, “remain beside this unfortunate man and see that he is removed as gently as possible. The vicomte and myself will go and find a priest.”
 
“Go, sir,” replied the tutor; “but in Heaven’s name do not expose yourself to danger!”
 
“Do not fear. Besides, we are safe for to-day; you know the axiom, ‘Non bis in idem.’”
 
“Courage, sir,” said Raoul to the wounded man. “We are going to execute your wishes.”
 
“May Heaven prosper you!” replied the dying man, with an accent of gratitude impossible to describe.
 
The two young men galloped off in the direction mentioned and in ten minutes reached the inn. Raoul, without dismounting, called to the host and announced that a wounded man was about to be brought to his house and begged him in the meantime to prepare everything needful. He desired him also, should he know in the neighborhood any doctor or chirurgeon, to fetch him, taking on himself the payment of the messenger.
 
The host, who saw two young noblemen, richly clad, promised everything they required, and our two cavaliers, after seeing that preparations for the reception were actually begun, started off again and proceeded rapidly toward Greney.
 
They had gone rather more than a league and had begun to descry the first houses of the village, the red-tiled roofs of which stood out from the green trees which surrounded them, when, coming toward them mounted on a mule, they perceived a poor monk, whose large hat and gray worsted dress made them take him for an Augustine brother. Chance for once seemed to favor them in sending what they were so assiduously seeking. He was a man about twenty-two or twenty-three years old, but who appeared much older from ascetic exercises. His complexion was pale, not of that deadly pallor which is a kind of neutral beauty, but of a bilious, yellow hue; his colorless hair was short and scarcely extended beyond the circle formed by the hat around his head, and his light blue eyes seemed destitute of any expression.
 
“Sir,” began Raoul, with his usual politeness, “are you an ecclesiastic?”
 
“Why do you ask me that?” replied the stranger, with a coolness which was barely civil.
 
“Because we want to know,” said De Guiche, haughtily.
 
The stranger touched his mule with his heel and continued his way.
 
In a second De Guiche had sprung before him and barred his passage. “Answer, sir,” exclaimed he; “you have been asked politely, and every question is worth an answer.”
 
“I suppose I am free to say or not to say who I am to two strangers who take a fancy to ask me.”
 
It was with difficulty that De Guiche restrained the intense desire he had of breaking the monk’s bones.
 
“In the first place,” he said, making an effort to control himself, “we are not people who may be treated anyhow; my friend there is the Viscount of Bragelonne and I am the Count de Guiche. Nor was it from caprice we asked the question, for there is a wounded and dying man who demands the succor of the church. If you be a priest, I conjure you in the name of humanity to follow me to aid this man; if you be not, it is a different matter, and I warn you in the name of courtesy, of which you appear profoundly ignorant, that I shall chastise you for your insolence.”
 
The pale face of the monk became so livid and his smile so strange, that Raoul, whose eyes were still fixed upon him, felt as if this smile had struck to his heart like an insult.
 
“He is some Spanish or Flemish spy,” said he, putting his hand to his pistol. A glance, threatening and transient as lightning, replied to Raoul.
 
“Well, sir,” said De Guiche, “are you going to reply?”
 
“I am a priest,” said the young man.
 
“Then, father,” said Raoul, forcing himself to convey a respect by speech that did not come from his heart, “if you are a priest you have an opportunity, as my friend has told you, of exercising your vocation. At the next inn you will find a wounded man, now being attended by our servants, who has asked the assistance of a minister of God.”
 
“I will go,” said the monk.
 
And he touched his mule.
 
“If you do not go, sir,” said De Guiche, “remember that we have two steeds able to catch your mule and the power of having you seized wherever you may be; and then I swear your trial will be summary; one can always find a tree and a cord.”
 
The monk’s eye again flashed, but that was all; he merely repeated his phrase, “I will go,”--and he went.
 
“Let us follow him,” said De Guiche; “it will be the surest plan.”
 
“I was about to propose so doing,” answered De Bragelonne.
 
In the space of five minutes the monk turned around to ascertain whether he was followed or not.
 
“You see,” said Raoul, “we have done wisely.”
 
“What a horrible face that monk has,” said De Guiche.
 
“Horrible!” replied Raoul, “especially in expression.”
 
“Yes, yes,” said De Guiche, “a strange face; but these monks are subject to such degrading practices; their fasts make them pale, the blows of the discipline make them hypocrites, and their eyes become inflamed through weeping for the good things of this life we common folk enjoy, but they have lost.”
 
“Well,” said Raoul, “the poor man will get his priest, but, by Heaven, the penitent appears to me to have a better conscience than the confessor. I confess I am accustomed to priests of a very different appearance.”
 
“Ah!” exclaimed De Guiche, “you must understand that this is one of those wandering brothers, who go begging on the high road until some day a benefice falls down from Heaven on them; they are mostly foreigners--Scotch, Irish or Danish. I have seen them before.”
 
“As ugly?”
 
“No, but reasonably hideous.”
 
“What a misfortune for the wounded man to die under the hands of such a friar!”
 
“Pshaw!” said De Guiche. “Absolution comes not from him who administers it, but from God. However, for my part, I would rather die unshriven than have anything to say to such a confessor. You are of my opinion, are you not, viscount? and I see you playing with the pommel of your sword, as if you had a great inclination to break the holy father’s head.”
 
“Yes, count, it is a strange thing and one which might astonish you, but I feel an indescribable horror at the sight of yonder man. Have you ever seen a snake rise up on your path?”
 
“Never,” answered De Guiche.
 
“Well, it has happened to me to do so in our Blaisois forests, and I remember that the first time I encountered one with its eyes fixed upon me, curled up, swinging its head and pointing its tongue, I remained fixed, pale and as though fascinated, until the moment when the Comte de la Fere----”
 
“Your father?” asked De Guiche.
 
“No, my guardian,” replied Raoul, blushing.
 
“Very well----”
 
“Until the moment when the Comte de la Fere,” resumed Raoul, “said, ‘Come, Bragelonne, draw your sword;’ then only I rushed upon the reptile and cut it in two, just at the moment when it was rising on its tail and hissing, ere it sprang upon me. Well, I vow I felt exactly the same sensation at sight of that man when he said, ‘Why do you ask me that?’ and looked so strangely at me.”
 
“Then you regret that you did not cut your serpent in two morsels?”
 
“Faith, yes, almost,” said Raoul.
 
They had now arrived within sight of the little inn and could see on the opposite side the procession bearing the wounded man and guided by Monsieur d’Arminges. The youths spurred on.
 
“There is the wounded man,” said De Guiche, passing close to the Augustine brother. “Be good enough to hurry yourself a little, monsieur monk.”
 
As for Raoul, he avoided the monk by the whole width of the road and passed him, turning his head away in repulsion.
 
The young men rode up to the wounded man to announce that they were followed by the priest. He raised himself to glance in the direction which they pointed out, saw the monk, and fell back upon the litter, his face illumined by joy.
 
“And now,” said the youths, “we have done all we can for you; and as we are in haste to rejoin the prince’s army we must continue our journey. You will excuse us, sir, but we are told that a battle is expected and we do not wish to arrive the day after it.”
 
“Go, my young sirs,” said the sick man, “and may you both be blessed for your piety. You have done for me, as you promised, all that you could do. As for me I can only repeat, may God protect you and all dear to you!”
 
“Sir,” said De Guiche to his tutor, “we will precede you, and you can rejoin us on the road to Cambrin.”
 
The host was at his door and everything was prepared--bed, bandages, and lint; and a groom had gone to Lens, the nearest village, for a doctor.
 
“Everything,” said he to Raoul, “shall be done as you desire; but you will not stop to have your wound dressed?”
 
“Oh, my wound--mine--‘tis nothing,” replied the viscount; “it will be time to think about it when we next halt; only have the goodness, should you see a cavalier who makes inquiries about a young man on a chestnut horse followed by a servant, to tell him, in fact, that you have seen me, but that I have continued my journey and intend to dine at Mazingarbe and to stop at Cambrin. This cavalier is my attendant.”
 
“Would it not be safer and more certain if I should ask him his name and tell him yours?” demanded the host.
 
“There is no harm in over-precaution. I am the Viscount de Bragelonne and he is called Grimaud.”
 
At this moment the wounded man arrived from one direction and the monk from the other, the latter dismounting from his mule and desiring that it should be taken to the stables without being unharnessed.
 
“Sir monk,” said De Guiche, “confess well that brave man; and be not concerned for your expenses or for those of your mule; all is paid.”
 
“Thanks, monsieur,” said the monk, with one of those smiles that made Bragelonne shudder.
 
“Come, count,” said Raoul, who seemed instinctively to dislike the vicinity of the Augustine; “come, I feel ill here,” and the two young men spurred on.
 
The litter, borne by two servants, now entered the house. The host and his wife were standing on the steps, whilst the unhappy man seemed to suffer dreadful pain and yet to be concerned only to know if he was followed by the monk. At sight of this pale, bleeding man, the wife grasped her husband’s arm.
 
“Well, what’s the matter?” asked the latter, “are you going to be ill just now?”
 
“No, but look,” replied the hostess, pointing to the wounded man; “I ask you if you recognize him?”
 
“That man--wait a bit.”
 
“Ah! I see you know him,” exclaimed the wife; “for you have become pale in your turn.”
 
“Truly,” cried the host, “misfortune is coming on our house; it is the former executioner of Bethune.”
 
“The former executioner of Bethune!” murmured the young monk, shrinking back and showing on his countenance the feeling of repugnance which his penitent inspired.
 
Monsieur d’Arminges, who was at the door, perceived his hesitation.
 
“Sir monk,” said he, “whether he is now or has been an executioner, this unfortunate being is none the less a man. Render to him, then, the last service he can by any possibility ask of you, and your work will be all the more meritorious.”
 
The monk made no reply, but silently wended his way to the room where the two valets had deposited the dying man on a bed. D’Arminges and Olivain and the two grooms then mounted their horses, and all four started off at a quick trot to rejoin Raoul and his companion. Just as the tutor and his escort disappeared in their turn, a new traveler stopped on the threshold of the inn.
 
“What does your worship want?” demanded the host, pale and trembling from the discovery he had just made.
 
The traveler made a sign as if he wished to drink, and then pointed to his horse and gesticulated like a man who is brushing something.
 
“Ah, diable!” said the host to himself; “this man seems dumb. And where will your worship drink?”
 
“There,” answered the traveler, pointing to the table.
 
“I was mistaken,” said the host, “he’s not quite dumb. And what else does your worship wish for?”
 
“To know if you have seen a young man pass, fifteen years of age, mounted on a chestnut horse and followed by a groom?”
 
“The Viscount de Bragelonne?
 
“Just so.”
 
“Then you are called Monsieur Grimaud?”
 
The traveler made a sign of assent.
 
“Well, then,” said the host, “your young master was here a quarter of an hour ago; he will dine at Mazingarbe and sleep at Cambrin.”
 
“How far is Mazingarbe?”
 
“Two miles and a half.”
 
“Thank you.”
 
Grimaud was drinking his wine silently and had just placed his glass on the table to be filled a second time, when a terrific scream resounded from the room occupied by the monk and the dying man. Grimaud sprang up.
 
“What is that?” said he; “whence comes that cry?”
 
“From the wounded man’s room,” replied the host.
 
“What wounded man?”
 
“The former executioner of Bethune, who has just been brought in here, assassinated by Spaniards, and who is now being confessed by an Augustine friar.”
 
“The old executioner of Bethune,” muttered Grimaud; “a man between fifty-five and sixty, tall, strong, swarthy, black hair and beard?”
 
“That is he, except that his beard has turned gray and his hair is white; do you know him?” asked the host.
 
“I have seen him once,” replied Grimaud, a cloud darkening his countenance at the picture so suddenly summoned to the bar of recollection.
 
At this instant a second cry, less piercing than the first, but followed by prolonged groaning, was heard.
 
The three listeners looked at one another in alarm.
 
“We must see what it is,” said Grimaud.
 
“It sounds like the cry of one who is being murdered,” murmured the host.
 
“Mon Dieu!” said the woman, crossing herself.
 
If Grimaud was slow in speaking, we know that he was quick to act; he sprang to the door and shook it violently, but it was bolted on the other side.
 
“Open the door!” cried the host; “open it instantly, sir monk!”
 
No reply.
 
“Unfasten it, or I will break it in!” said Grimaud.
 
The same silence, and then, ere the host could oppose his design, Grimaud seized a pair of pincers he perceived in a corner and forced the bolt. The room was inundated with blood, dripping from the mattresses upon which lay the wounded man, speechless; the monk had disappeared.
 
“The monk!” cried the host; “where is the monk?”
 
Grimaud sprang toward an open window which looked into the courtyard.
 
“He has escaped by this means,” exclaimed he.
 
“Do you think so?” said the host, bewildered; “boy, see if the mule belonging to the monk is still in the stable.”
 
“There is no mule,” cried he to whom this question was addressed.
 
The host clasped his hands and looked around him suspiciously, whilst Grimaud knit his brows and approached the wounded man, whose worn, hard features awoke in his mind such awful recollections of the past.
 
“There can be no longer any doubt but that it is himself,” said he.
 
“Does he still live?” inquired the innkeeper.
 
Making no reply, Grimaud opened the poor man’s jacket to feel if the heart beat, whilst the host approached in his turn; but in a moment they both fell back, the host uttering a cry of horror and Grimaud becoming pallid. The blade of a dagger was buried up to the hilt in the left side of the executioner.
 
“Run! run for help!” cried Grimaud, “and I will remain beside him here.”
 
The host quitted the room in agitation, and as for his wife, she had fled at the sound of her husband’s cries.
 
32. The Absolution.
This is what had taken place: We have seen that it was not of his own free will, but, on the contrary, very reluctantly, that the monk attended the wounded man who had been recommended to him in so strange a manner. Perhaps he would have sought to escape by flight had he seen any possibility of doing so. He was restrained by the threats of the two gentlemen and by the presence of their attendants, who doubtless had received their instructions. And besides, he considered it most expedient, without exhibiting too much ill-will, to follow to the end his role as confessor.

The monk entered the chamber and approached the bed of the wounded man. The executioner searched his face with the quick glance peculiar to those who are about to die and have no time to lose. He made a movement of surprise and said:
 
“Father, you are very young.”
 
“Men who bear my robe have no age,” replied the monk, dryly.
 
“Alas, speak to me more gently, father; in my last moments I need a friend.”
 
“Do you suffer much?” asked the monk.
 
“Yes, but in my soul much more than in my body.”
 
“We will save your soul,” said the young man; “but are you really the executioner of Bethune, as these people say?”
 
“That is to say,” eagerly replied the wounded man, who doubtless feared that the name of executioner would take from him the last help that he could claim--“that is to say, I was, but am no longer; it is fifteen years since I gave up the office. I still assist at executions, but no longer strike the blow myself--no, indeed.”

“You have, then, a repugnance to your profession?”
 
“So long as I struck in the name of the law and of justice my profession allowed me to sleep quietly, sheltered as I was by justice and law; but since that terrible night when I became an instrument of private vengeance and when with personal hatred I raised the sword over one of God’s creatures--since that day----”
 
The executioner paused and shook his head with an expression of despair.

“Tell me about it,” said the monk, who, sitting on the foot of the bed, began to be interested in a story so strangely introduced.
 
“Ah!” cried the dying man, with all the effusiveness of a grief declared after long suppression, “ah! I have sought to stifle remorse by twenty years of good deeds; I have assuaged the natural ferocity of those who shed blood; on every occasion I have exposed my life to save those who were in danger, and I have preserved lives in exchange for that I took away. That is not all; the money gained in the exercise of my profession I have distributed to the poor; I have been assiduous in attending church and those who formerly fled from me have become accustomed to seeing me. All have forgiven me, some have even loved me; but I think that God has not pardoned me, for the memory of that execution pursues me constantly and every night I see that woman’s ghost rising before me.”
 
“A woman! You have assassinated a woman, then?” cried the monk.
 
“You also!” exclaimed the executioner, “you use that word which sounds ever in my ears--‘assassinated!’ I have assassinated, then, and not executed! I am an assassin, then, and not an officer of justice!” and he closed his eyes with a groan.
 
The monk doubtless feared that he would die without saying more, for he exclaimed eagerly:
 
“Go on, I know nothing, as yet; when you have finished your story, God and I will judge.”

“Oh, father,” continued the executioner, without opening his eyes, as if he feared on opening them to see some frightful object, “it is especially when night comes on and when I have to cross a river, that this terror which I have been unable to conquer comes upon me; it then seems as if my hand grew heavy, as if the cutlass was still in its grasp, as if the water had the color of blood, and all the voices of nature--the whispering of the trees, the murmur of the wind, the lapping of the wave--united in a voice tearful, despairing, terrible, crying to me, ‘Place for the justice of God!’”
 
“Delirium!” murmured the monk, shaking his head.
 
The executioner opened his eyes, turned toward the young man and grasped his arm.
 
“‘Delirium,’” he repeated; “‘delirium,’ do you say? Oh, no! I remember too well. It was evening; I had thrown the body into the river and those words which my remorse repeats to me are those which I in my pride pronounced. After being the instrument of human justice I aspired to be that of the justice of God.”
 
“But let me see, how was it done? Speak,” said the monk.
 
“It was at night. A man came to me and showed me an order and I followed him. Four other noblemen awaited me. They led me away masked. I reserved the right of refusing if the office they required of me should seem unjust. We traveled five or six leagues, serious, silent, and almost without speaking. At length, through the window of a little hut, they showed me a woman sitting, leaning on a table, and said, ‘there is the person to be executed.’”

“Horrible!” said the monk. “And you obeyed?”
 
“Father, that woman was a monster. It was said that she had poisoned her second husband; she had tried to assassinate her brother-in-law; she had just poisoned a young woman who was her rival, and before leaving England she had, it was believed, caused the favorite of the king to be murdered.”
 
“Buckingham?” cried the monk.
 
“Yes, Buckingham.”
 
“The woman was English, then?”
 
“No, she was French, but she had married in England.”
 
The monk turned pale, wiped his brow and went and bolted the door. The executioner thought that he had abandoned him and fell back, groaning, upon his bed.
 
“No, no; I am here,” said the monk, quickly coming back to him. “Go on; who were those men?”
 
“One of them was a foreigner, English, I think. The four others were French and wore the uniform of musketeers.”
 
“Their names?” asked the monk.
 
“I don’t know them, but the four other noblemen called the Englishman ‘my lord.’”
 
“Was the woman handsome?”



 
 
“Young and beautiful. Oh, yes, especially beautiful. I see her now, as on her knees at my feet, with her head thrown back, she begged for life. I have never understood how I could have laid low a head so beautiful, with a face so pale.”
 
The monk seemed agitated by a strange emotion; he trembled all over; he seemed eager to put a question which yet he dared not ask. At length, with a violent effort at self-control:
 
“The name of that woman?” he said.
 
“I don’t know what it was. As I have said, she was twice married, once in France, the second time in England.”
 
“She was young, you say?”
 
“Twenty-five years old.”
 
“Beautiful?”
 
“Ravishingly.”
 
“Blond?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“Abundance of hair--falling over her shoulders?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“Eyes of an admirable expression?”
 
“When she chose. Oh, yes, it is she!”
 
“A voice of strange sweetness?”
 
“How do you know it?”

“Was the woman handsome?”
The executioner raised himself on his elbow and gazed with a frightened air at the monk, who became livid.
 
“And you killed her?” the monk exclaimed. “You were the tool of those cowards who dared not kill her themselves? You had no pity for that youthfulness, that beauty, that weakness? you killed that woman?”
 
“Alas! I have already told you, father, that woman, under that angelic appearance, had an infernal soul, and when I saw her, when I recalled all the evil she had done to me----”
 
“To you? What could she have done to you? Come, tell me!”
 
“She had seduced and ruined my brother, a priest. She had fled with him from her convent.”
 
“With your brother?”
 
“Yes, my brother was her first lover, and she caused his death. Oh, father, do not look in that way at me! Oh, I am guilty, then; you will not pardon me?”
 
The monk recovered his usual expression.

“Yes, yes,” he said, “I will pardon you if you tell me all.”
 
“Oh!” cried the executioner, “all! all! all!”
 
“Answer, then. If she seduced your brother--you said she seduced him, did you not?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“If she caused his death--you said that she caused his death?”
 
“Yes,” repeated the executioner.
 
“Then you must know what her name was as a young girl.”
 
“Oh, mon Dieu!” cried the executioner, “I think I am dying. Absolution, father! absolution.”
 
“Tell me her name and I will give it.”
 
“Her name was----My God, have pity on me!” murmured the executioner; and he fell back on the bed, pale, trembling, and apparently about to die.
 
“Her name!” repeated the monk, bending over him as if to tear from him the name if he would not utter it; “her name! Speak, or no absolution!”
 
The dying man collected all his forces.

The monk’s eyes glittered.
 
“Anne de Bueil,” murmured the wounded man.
 
“Anne de Bueil!” cried the monk, standing up and lifting his hands to Heaven. “Anne de Bueil! You said Anne de Bueil, did you not?”
 
“Yes, yes, that was her name; and now absolve me, for I am dying.”
 
“I, absolve you!” cried the priest, with a laugh which made the dying man’s hair stand on end; “I, absolve you? I am not a priest.”
 
“You are not a priest!” cried the executioner. “What, then, are you?”
 
“I am about to tell you, wretched man.”
 
“Oh, mon Dieu!”
 
“I am John Francis de Winter.”
 
“I do not know you,” said the executioner.

“Wait, wait; you are going to know me. I am John Francis de Winter,” he repeated, “and that woman----”
 
“Well, that woman?”
 
“Was my mother!”
 
The executioner uttered the first cry, that terrible cry which had been first heard.
 
“Oh, pardon me, pardon me!” he murmured; “if not in the name of God, at least in your own name; if not as priest, then as son.”
 
“Pardon you!” cried the pretended monk, “pardon you! Perhaps God will pardon you, but I, never!”
 
“For pity’s sake,” said the executioner, extending his arms.
 
“No pity for him who had no pity! Die, impenitent, die in despair, die and be damned!” And drawing a poniard from beneath his robe he thrust it into the breast of the wounded man, saying, “Here is my absolution!”
 
Then was heard that second cry, not so loud as the first and followed by a long groan.
 
The executioner, who had lifted himself up, fell back upon his bed. As to the monk, without withdrawing the poniard from the wound, he ran to the window, opened it, leaped out into the flowers of a small garden, glided onward to the stable, took out his mule, went out by a back gate, ran to a neighbouring thicket, threw off his monkish garb, took from his valise the complete habiliment of a cavalier, clothed himself in it, went on foot to the first post, secured there a horse and continued with a loose rein his journey to Paris.

“Wait, wait; you are going to know me. I am John Francis de Winter,” he repeated, “and that woman----”
 
“Well, that woman?”
 
“Was my mother!”

  “Oh, pardon me, pardon me!” he murmured; “if not in the name of God, at least in your own name; if not as priest, then as son.”
 
“Pardon you!” cried the pretended monk, “pardon you! Perhaps God will pardon you, but I, never!”
 
“For pity’s sake,” said the executioner, extending his arms.

The executioner uttered the first cry, that terrible cry which had been first heard.

“No pity for him who had no pity! Die, impenitent, die in despair, die and be damned!” And drawing a poniard from beneath his robe he thrust it into the breast of the wounded man, saying, “Here is my absolution!”
 
Then was heard that second cry, not so loud as the first and followed by a long groan.
 
The executioner, who had lifted himself up, fell back upon his bed. As to the monk, without withdrawing the poniard from the wound, he ran to the window, opened it, leaped out into the flowers of a small garden, glided onward to the stable, took out his mule, went out by a back gate, ran to a neighbouring thicket, threw off his monkish garb, took from his valise the complete habiliment of a cavalier, clothed himself in it, went on foot to the first post, secured there a horse and continued with a loose rein his journey to Paris.

 
 







33. Grimaud Speaks.
 Grimaud was left alone with the executioner, who in a few moments opened his eyes.
 
“Help, help,” he murmured; “oh, God! have I not a single friend in the world who will aid me either to live or to die?”
 
“Take courage,” said Grimaud; “they are gone to find assistance.”
 
“Who are you?” asked the wounded man, fixing his half opened eyes on Grimaud.
 
“An old acquaintance,” replied Grimaud.
 
“You?” and the wounded man sought to recall the features of the person now before him.
 
“Under what circumstances did we meet?” he asked again.
 
“One night, twenty years ago, my master fetched you from Bethune and conducted you to Armentieres.”
 
“I know you well now,” said the executioner; “you were one of the four grooms.”
 
“Just so.”
 
“Where do you come from now?”
 
“I was passing by and drew up at this inn to rest my horse. They told me the executioner of Bethune was here and wounded, when you uttered two piercing cries. At the first we ran to the door and at the second forced it open.”
 
“And the monk?” exclaimed the executioner, “did you see the monk?”
 
“What monk?”
 
“The monk that was shut in with me.”
 
“No, he was no longer here; he appears to have fled by the window. Was he the man that stabbed you?”
 
“Yes,” said the executioner.
 
Grimaud moved as if to leave the room.
 
“What are you going to do?” asked the wounded man.
 
“He must be apprehended.”
 
“Do not attempt it; he has revenged himself and has done well. Now I may hope that God will forgive me, since my crime is expiated.”
 
“Explain yourself.” said Grimaud.
 
“The woman whom you and your masters commanded me to kill----”
 
“Milady?”
 
“Yes, Milady; it is true you called her thus.”
 
“What has the monk to do with this Milady?”
 
“She was his mother.”
 
Grimaud trembled and stared at the dying man in a dull and leaden manner.
 
“His mother!” he repeated.
 
“Yes, his mother.”
 
“But does he know this secret, then?”
 
“I mistook him for a monk and revealed it to him in confession.”
 
“Unhappy man!” cried Grimaud, whose face was covered with sweat at the bare idea of the evil results such a revelation might cause; “unhappy man, you named no one, I hope?”
 
“I pronounced no name, for I knew none, except his mother’s, as a young girl, and it was by this name that he recognized her, but he knows that his uncle was among her judges.”
 
Thus speaking, he fell back exhausted. Grimaud, wishing to relieve him, advanced his hand toward the hilt of the dagger.
 
“Touch me not!” said the executioner; “if this dagger is withdrawn I shall die.”
 
Grimaud remained with his hand extended; then, striking his forehead, he exclaimed:
 
“Oh! if this man should ever discover the names of the others, my master is lost.”
 
“Haste! haste to him and warn him,” cried the wounded man, “if he still lives; warn his friends, too. My death, believe me, will not be the end of this atrocious misadventure.”
 
“Where was the monk going?” asked Grimaud.
 
“Toward Paris.”
 
“Who stopped him?”
 
“Two young gentlemen, who were on their way to join the army and the name of one of whom I heard his companion mention--the Viscount de Bragelonne.”
 
“And it was this young man who brought the monk to you? Then it was the will of God that it should be so and this it is which makes it all so awful,” continued Grimaud. “And yet that woman deserved her fate; do you not think so?”
 
“On one’s death-bed the crimes of others appear very small in comparison with one’s own,” said the executioner; and falling back exhausted he closed his eyes.
 
Grimaud was reluctant to leave the man alone and yet he perceived the necessity of starting at once to bear these tidings to the Comte de la Fere. Whilst he thus hesitated the host re-entered the room, followed not only by a surgeon, but by many other persons, whom curiosity had attracted to the spot. The surgeon approached the dying man, who seemed to have fainted.
 
“We must first extract the steel from the side,” said he, shaking his head in a significant manner.
 
The prophecy which the wounded man had just uttered recurred to Grimaud, who turned away his head. The weapon, as we have already stated, was plunged into the body to the hilt, and as the surgeon, taking it by the end, drew it forth, the wounded man opened his eyes and fixed them on him in a manner truly frightful. When at last the blade had been entirely withdrawn, a red froth issued from the mouth of the wounded man and a stream of blood spouted afresh from the wound when he at length drew breath; then, fixing his eyes upon Grimaud with a singular expression, the dying man uttered the last death-rattle and expired.
 
Then Grimaud, lifting the dagger from the pool of blood which was gliding along the room, to the horror of all present, made a sign to the host to follow him, paid him with a generosity worthy of his master and again mounted his horse. Grimaud’s first intention had been to return to Paris, but he remembered the anxiety which his prolonged absence might occasion Raoul, and reflecting that there were now only two miles between the vicomte and himself and a quarter of an hour’s riding would unite them, and that the going, returning and explanation would not occupy an hour, he put spurs to his horse and a few minutes after had reached the only inn of Mazingarbe.
 
Raoul was seated at table with the Count de Guiche and his tutor, when all at once the door opened and Grimaud presented himself, travel-stained, dirty, and sprinkled with the blood of the unhappy executioner.
 
“Grimaud, my good Grimaud!” exclaimed Raoul “here you are at last! Excuse me, sirs, this is not a servant, but a friend. How did you leave the count?” continued he. “Does he regret me a little? Have you seen him since I left him? Answer, for I have many things to tell you, too; indeed, the last three days some odd adventures have happened--but what is the matter? how pale you are! and blood, too! What is this?”
 
“It is the blood of the unfortunate man whom you left at the inn and who died in my arms.”
 
“In your arms?--that man! but know you who he was?”
 
“He used to be the headsman of Bethune.”
 
“You knew him? and he is dead?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“Well, sir,” said D’Arminges, “it is the common lot; even an executioner is not exempted. I had a bad opinion of him the moment I saw his wound, and since he asked for a monk you know that it was his opinion, too, that death would follow.”
 
At the mention of the monk, Grimaud became pale.
 
“Come, come,” continued D’Arminges, “to dinner;” for like most men of his age and generation he did not allow sentiment or sensibility to interfere with a repast.
 
“You are right, sir,” said Raoul. “Come, Grimaud, order dinner for yourself and when you have rested a little we can talk.”
 
“No, sir, no,” said Grimaud. “I cannot stop a moment; I must start for Paris again immediately.”
 
“What? You start for Paris? You are mistaken; it is Olivain who leaves me; you are to remain.”
 
“On the contrary, Olivain is to stay and I am to go. I have come for nothing else but to tell you so.”
 
“But what is the meaning of this change?”
 
“I cannot tell you.”
 
“Explain yourself.”
 
“I cannot explain myself.”
 
“Come, tell me, what is the joke?”
 
“Monsieur le vicomte knows that I never joke.”
 
“Yes, but I know also that Monsieur le Comte de la Fere arranged that you were to remain with me and that Olivain should return to Paris. I shall follow the count’s directions.”
 
“Not under present circumstances, monsieur.”
 
“Perhaps you mean to disobey me?”
 
“Yes, monsieur, I must.”
 
“You persist, then?”
 
“Yes, I am going; may you be happy, monsieur,” and Grimaud saluted and turned toward the door to go out.
 
Raoul, angry and at the same time uneasy, ran after him and seized him by the arm. “Grimaud!” he cried; “remain; I wish it.”
 
“Then,” replied Grimaud, “you wish me to allow monsieur le comte to be killed.” He saluted and made a movement to depart.
 
“Grimaud, my friend,” said the viscount, “will you leave me thus, in such anxiety? Speak, speak, in Heaven’s name!” And Raoul fell back trembling upon his chair.
 
“I can tell you but one thing, sir, for the secret you wish to know is not my own. You met a monk, did you not?”
 
“Yes.”
 
The young men looked at each other with an expression of fear.
 
“You conducted him to the wounded man and you had time to observe him, and perhaps you would know him again were you to meet him.”
 
“Yes, yes!” cried both young men.
 
“Very well; if ever you meet him again, wherever it may be, whether on the high road or in the street or in a church, anywhere that he or you may be, put your foot on his neck and crush him without pity, without mercy, as you would crush a viper or a scorpion! destroy him utterly and quit him not until he is dead; the lives of five men are not safe, in my opinion, as long as he is on the earth.”
 
And without adding another word, Grimaud, profiting by the astonishment and terror into which he had thrown his auditors, rushed from the room. Two minutes later the thunder of a horse’s hoofs was heard upon the road; it was Grimaud, on his way to Paris. When once in the saddle Grimaud reflected on two things; first, that at the pace he was going his horse would not carry him ten miles, and secondly, that he had no money. But Grimaud’s ingenuity was more prolific than his speech, and therefore at the first halt he sold his steed and with the money obtained from the purchase took post horses.
 
34. On the Eve of Battle.
 Raoul was aroused from his sombre reflections by his host, who rushed into the apartment crying out, “The Spaniards! the Spaniards!”
 
That cry was of such importance as to overcome all preoccupation. The young men made inquiries and ascertained that the enemy was advancing by way of Houdin and Bethune.
 
While Monsieur d’Arminges gave orders for the horses to be made ready for departure, the two young men ascended to the upper windows of the house and saw in the direction of Marsin and of Lens a large body of infantry and cavalry. This time it was not a wandering troop of partisans; it was an entire army. There was therefore nothing for them to do but to follow the prudent advice of Monsieur d’Arminges and beat a retreat. They quickly went downstairs. Monsieur d’Arminges was already mounted. Olivain had ready the horses of the young men, and the lackeys of the Count de Guiche guarded carefully between them the Spanish prisoner, mounted on a pony which had been bought for his use. As a further precaution they had bound his hands.
 
The little company started off at a trot on the road to Cambrin, where they expected to find the prince. But he was no longer there, having withdrawn on the previous evening to La Bassee, misled by false intelligence of the enemy’s movements. Deceived by this intelligence he had concentrated his forces between Vieille-Chapelle and La Venthie; and after a reconnoissance along the entire line, in company with Marshal de Grammont, he had returned and seated himself before a table, with his officers around him. He questioned them as to the news they had each been charged to obtain, but nothing positive had been learned. The hostile army had disappeared two days before and seemed to have gone out of existence.
 
Now an enemy is never so near and consequently so threatening, as when he has completely disappeared. The prince was, therefore, contrary to his custom, gloomy and anxious, when an officer entered and announced to Marshal de Grammont that some one wished to see him.
 
The Duc de Grammont received permission from the prince by a glance and went out. The prince followed him with his eyes and continued looking at the door; no one ventured to speak, for fear of disturbing him.
 
Suddenly a dull and heavy noise was heard. The prince leaped to his feet, extending his hand in the direction whence came the sound, there was no mistaking it--it was the noise of cannon. Every one stood up.
 
At that moment the door opened.
 
“Monseigneur,” said Marshal de Grammont, with a radiant face, “will your highness permit my son, Count de Guiche, and his traveling companion, Viscount de Bragelonne, to come in and give news of the enemy, whom they have found while we were looking for him?”
 
“What!” eagerly replied the prince, “will I permit? I not only permit, I desire; let them come in.”
 
The marshal introduced the two young men and placed them face to face with the prince.
 
“Speak, gentlemen,” said the prince, saluting them; “first speak; we shall have time afterward for the usual compliments. The most urgent thing now is to learn where the enemy is and what he is doing.”
 
It fell naturally to the Count de Guiche to make reply; not only was he the elder, but he had been presented to the prince by his father. Besides, he had long known the prince, whilst Raoul now saw him for the first time. He therefore narrated to the prince what they had seen from the inn at Mazingarbe.
 
Meanwhile Raoul closely observed the young general, already made so famous by the battles of Rocroy, Fribourg, and Nordlingen.
 
Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Conde, who, since the death of his father, Henri de Bourbon, was called, in accordance with the custom of that period, Monsieur le Prince, was a young man, not more than twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, with the eye of an eagle--agl’ occhi grifani, as Dante says--aquiline nose, long, waving hair, of medium height, well formed, possessed of all the qualities essential to the successful soldier--that is to say, the rapid glance, quick decision, fabulous courage. At the same time he was a man of elegant manners and strong mind, so that in addition to the revolution he had made in war, by his new contributions to its methods, he had also made a revolution at Paris, among the young noblemen of the court, whose natural chief he was and who, in distinction from the social leaders of the ancient court, modeled after Bassompierre, Bellegarde and the Duke d’Angouleme, were called the petits-maitres.
 
At the first words of the Count de Guiche, the prince, having in mind the direction whence came the sound of cannon, had understood everything. The enemy was marching upon Lens, with the intention, doubtless, of securing possession of that town and separating from France the army of France. But in what force was the enemy? Was it a corps sent out to make a diversion? Was it an entire army? To this question De Guiche could not respond.
 
Now, as these questions involved matters of gravest consequence, it was these to which the prince had especially desired an answer, exact, precise, positive.
 
Raoul conquered the very natural feeling of timidity he experienced and approaching the prince:
 
“My lord,” he said, “will you permit me to hazard a few words on that subject, which will perhaps relieve you of your uncertainty?”
 
The prince turned and seemed to cover the young man with a single glance; he smiled on perceiving that he was a child hardly fifteen years old.
 
“Certainly, monsieur, speak,” he said, softening his stern, accented tones, as if he were speaking to a woman.
 
“My lord,” said Raoul, blushing, “might examine the Spanish prisoner.”
 
“Have you a Spanish prisoner?” cried the prince.
 
“Yes, my lord.”
 
“Ah, that is true,” said De Guiche; “I had forgotten it.”
 
“That is easily understood; it was you who took him, count,” said Raoul, smiling.
 
The old marshal turned toward the viscount, grateful for that praise of his son, whilst the prince exclaimed:
 
“The young man is right; let the prisoner be brought in.”
 
Meanwhile the prince took De Guiche aside and asked him how the prisoner had been taken and who this young man was.
 
“Monsieur,” said the prince, turning toward Raoul, “I know that you have a letter from my sister, Madame de Longueville; but I see that you have preferred commending yourself to me by giving me good counsel.”
 
“My lord,” said Raoul, coloring up, “I did not wish to interrupt your highness in a conversation so important as that in which you were engaged with the count. But here is the letter.”
 
“Very well,” said the prince; “give it to me later. Here is the prisoner; let us attend to what is most pressing.”
 
The prisoner was one of those military adventurers who sold their blood to whoever would buy, and grew old in stratagems and spoils. Since he had been taken he had not uttered a word, so that it was not known to what country he belonged. The prince looked at him with unspeakable distrust.
 
“Of what country are you?” asked the prince.
 
The prisoner muttered a few words in a foreign tongue.
 
“Ah! ah! it seems that he is a Spaniard. Do you speak Spanish, Grammont?”
 
“Faith, my lord, but indifferently.”
 
“And I not at all,” said the prince, laughing. “Gentlemen,” he said, turning to those who were near him “can any one of you speak Spanish and serve me as interpreter?”
 
“I can, my lord,” said Raoul.
 
“Ah, you speak Spanish?”
 
“Enough, I think, to fulfill your highness’s wishes on this occasion.”
 
Meanwhile the prisoner had remained impassive and as if he had no understanding of what was taking place.
 
“My lord asks of what country you are,” said the young man, in the purest Castilian.
 
“Ich bin ein Deutscher,” replied the prisoner.
 
“What in the devil does he say?” asked the prince. “What new gibberish is that?”
 
“He says he is German, my lord,” replied Raoul; “but I doubt it, for his accent is bad and his pronunciation defective.”
 
“Then you speak German, also?” asked the prince.
 
“Yes, my lord.”
 
“Well enough to question him in that language?”
 
“Yes, my lord.”
 
“Question him, then.”
 
Raoul began the examination, but the result justified his opinion. The prisoner did not understand, or seemed not to understand, what Raoul said to him; and Raoul could hardly understand his replies, containing a mixture of Flemish and Alsatian. However, amidst all the prisoner’s efforts to elude a systematic examination, Raoul had recognized his natural accent.
 
“Non siete Spagnuolo,” he said; “non siete Tedesco; siete Italiano.”
 
The prisoner started and bit his lips.
 
“Ah, that,” said the prince, “I understand that language thoroughly; and since he is Italian I will myself continue the examination. Thank you, viscount,” continued the prince, laughing, “and I appoint you from this moment my interpreter.”
 
But the prisoner was not less unwilling to respond in Italian than in the other languages; his aim was to elude the examination. Therefore, he knew nothing either of the enemy’s numbers, or of those in command, or of the purpose of the army.
 
“Very good,” said the prince, understanding the reason of that ignorance; “the man was caught in the act of assassination and robbery; he might have purchased his life by speaking; he doesn’t wish to speak. Take him out and shoot him.”
 
The prisoner turned pale. The two soldiers who had brought him in took him, each by one arm, and led him toward the door, whilst the prince, turning to Marshal de Grammont, seemed to have already forgotten the order he had given.
 
When he reached the threshold of the door the prisoner stopped. The soldiers, who knew only their orders, attempted to force him along.
 
“One moment,” said the prisoner, in French. “I am ready to speak, my lord.”
 
“Ah! ah!” said the prince, laughing, “I thought we should come to that. I have a sure method of limbering tongues. Young men, take advantage of it against the time when you may be in command.”
 
“But on condition,” continued the prisoner, “that your highness will swear that my life shall be safe.”
 
“Upon my honor,” said the prince.
 
“Question, then, my lord.”
 
“Where did the army cross the Lys?”
 
“Between Saint-Venant and Aire.”
 
“By whom is it commanded?”
 
“By Count de Fuonsaldagna, General Beck and the archduke.”
 
“Of how many does it consist?”
 
“Eighteen thousand men and thirty-six cannon.”
 
“And its aim is?”
 
“Lens.”
 
“You see; gentlemen!” said the prince, turning with a triumphant air toward Marshal de Grammont and the other officers.
 
“Yes, my lord,” said the marshal, “you have divined all that was possible to human genius.”
 
“Recall Le Plessis, Bellievre, Villequier and D’Erlac,” said the prince, “recall all the troops that are on this side of the Lys. Let them hold themselves in readiness to march to-night. To-morrow, according to all probability, we shall attack the enemy.”
 
“But, my lord,” said Marshal de Grammont, “consider that when we have collected all our forces we shall have hardly thirteen thousand men.”
 
“Monsieur le marechal,” said the prince, with that wonderful glance that was peculiar to him, “it is with small armies that great battles are won.”
 
Then turning toward the prisoner, “Take away that man,” he said, “and keep him carefully in sight. His life is dependent on the information he has given us; if it is true, he shall be free; if false, let him be shot.”
 
The prisoner was led away.
 
“Count de Guiche,” said the prince, “it is a long time since you saw your father, remain here with him. Monsieur,” he continued, addressing Raoul, “if you are not too tired, follow me.”
 
“To the end of the world, my lord!” cried Raoul, feeling an unknown enthusiasm for that young general, who seemed to him so worthy of his renown.
 
The prince smiled; he despised flatterers, but he appreciated enthusiasts.
 
“Come, monsieur,” he said, “you are good in council, as we have already discovered; to-morrow we shall know if you are good in action.”
 
“And I,” said the marshal, “what am I to do?”
 
“Wait here to receive the troops. I shall either return for them myself or shall send a courier directing you to bring them to me. Twenty guards, well mounted, are all that I shall need for my escort.”
 
“That is very few,” said the marshal.
 
“It is enough,” replied the prince. “Have you a good horse, Monsieur de Bragelonne?”
 
“My horse was killed this morning, my lord, and I am mounted provisionally on my lackey’s.”
 
“Choose for yourself in my stables the horse you like best. No false modesty; take the best horse you can find. You will need it this evening, perhaps; you will certainly need it to-morrow.”
 
Raoul didn’t wait to be told twice; he knew that with superiors, especially when those superiors are princes, the highest politeness is to obey without delay or argument; he went down to the stables, picked out a pie-bald Andalusian horse, saddled and bridled it himself, for Athos had advised him to trust no one with those important offices at a time of danger, and went to rejoin the prince, who at that moment mounted his horse.
 
“Now, monsieur,” he said to Raoul, “will you give me the letter you have brought?”
 
Raoul handed the letter to the prince.
 
“Keep near me,” said the latter.
 
The prince threw his bridle over the pommel of the saddle, as he was wont to do when he wished to have both hands free, unsealed the letter of Madame de Longueville and started at a gallop on the road to Lens, attended by Raoul and his small escort, whilst messengers sent to recall the troops set out with a loose rein in other directions. The prince read as he hastened on.
 
“Monsieur,” he said, after a moment, “they tell me great things of you. I have only to say, after the little that I have seen and heard, that I think even better of you than I have been told.”
 
Raoul bowed.
 
Meanwhile, as the little troop drew nearer to Lens, the noise of the cannon sounded louder. The prince kept his gaze fixed in the direction of the sound with the steadfastness of a bird of prey. One would have said that his gaze could pierce the branches of trees which limited his horizon. From time to time his nostrils dilated as if eager for the smell of powder, and he panted like a horse.
 
At length they heard the cannon so near that it was evident they were within a league of the field of battle, and at a turn of the road they perceived the little village of Aunay.
 
The peasants were in great commotion. The report of Spanish cruelty had gone out and every one was frightened. The women had already fled, taking refuge in Vitry; only a few men remained. On seeing the prince they hastened to meet him. One of them recognized him.
 
“Ah, my lord,” he said, “have you come to drive away those rascal Spaniards and those Lorraine robbers?”
 
“Yes,” said the prince, “if you will serve me as guide.”
 
“Willingly, my lord. Where does your highness wish to go?”
 
“To some elevated spot whence I can look down on Lens and the surrounding country----”
 
“In that case, I’m your man.”
 
“I can trust you--you are a true Frenchman?”
 
“I am an old soldier of Rocroy, my lord.”
 
“Here,” said the prince, handing him a purse, “here is for Rocroy. Now, do you want a horse, or will you go afoot?”
 
“Afoot, my lord; I have served always in the infantry. Besides, I expect to lead your highness into places where you will have to walk.”
 
“Come, then,” said the prince; “let us lose no time.”
 
The peasant started off, running before the prince’s horse; then, a hundred steps from the village, he took a narrow road hidden at the bottom of the valley. For a half league they proceeded thus, the cannon-shot sounding so near that they expected at each discharge to hear the hum of the balls. At length they entered a path which, going out from the road, skirted the mountainside. The prince dismounted, ordered one of his aids and Raoul to follow his example, and directed the others to await his orders, keeping themselves meanwhile on the alert. He then began to ascend the path.
 
In about ten minutes they reached the ruins of an old chateau; those ruins crowned the summit of a hill which overlooked the surrounding country. At a distance of hardly a quarter of a league they looked down on Lens, at bay, and before Lens the enemy’s entire army.
 
With a single glance the prince took in the extent of country that lay before him, from Lens as far as Vimy. In a moment the plan of the battle which on the following day was to save France the second time from invasion was unrolled in his mind. He took a pencil, tore a page from his tablets and wrote:
 
“My Dear Marshal,--In an hour Lens will be in the enemy’s possession. Come and rejoin me; bring with you the whole army. I shall be at Vendin to place it in position. To-morrow we shall retake Lens and beat the enemy.”
 
Then, turning toward Raoul: “Go, monsieur,” he said; “ride fast and give this letter to Monsieur de Grammont.”
 
Raoul bowed, took the letter, went hastily down the mountain, leaped on his horse and set out at a gallop. A quarter of an hour later he was with the marshal.
 
A portion of the troops had already arrived and the remainder was expected from moment to moment. Marshal de Grammont put himself at the head of all the available cavalry and infantry and took the road to Vendin, leaving the Duc de Chatillon to await and bring on the rest. All the artillery was ready to move, and started off at a moment’s notice.
 
It was seven o’clock in the evening when the marshal arrived at the appointed place. The prince awaited him there. As he had foreseen, Lens had fallen into the hands of the enemy immediately after Raoul’s departure. The event was announced by the cessation of the firing.
 
As the shadows of night deepened the troops summoned by the prince arrived in successive detachments. Orders were given that no drum should be beaten, no trumpet sounded.
 
At nine o’clock the night had fully come. Still a last ray of twilight lighted the plain. The army marched silently, the prince at the head of the column. Presently the army came in sight of Lens; two or three houses were in flames and a dull noise was heard which indicated what suffering was endured by a town taken by assault.
 
The prince assigned to every one his post. Marshal de Grammont was to hold the extreme left, resting on Mericourt. The Duc de Chatillon commanded the centre. Finally, the prince led the right wing, resting on Aunay. The order of battle on the morrow was to be that of the positions taken in the evening. Each one, on awaking, would find himself on the field of battle.
 
The movement was executed in silence and with precision. At ten o’clock every one was in his appointed position; at half-past ten the prince visited the posts and gave his final orders for the following day.
 
Three things were especially urged upon the officers, who were to see that the soldiers observed them scrupulously: the first, that the different corps should so march that cavalry and infantry should be on the same line and that each body should protect its gaps; the second, to go to the charge no faster than a walk; the third, to let the enemy fire first.
 
The prince assigned the Count de Guiche to his father and kept Bragelonne near his own person; but the two young men sought the privilege of passing the night together and it was accorded them. A tent was erected for them near that of the marshal.
 
Although the day had been fatiguing, neither of them was inclined to sleep. And besides, even for old soldiers the evening before a battle is a serious time; it was so with greater reason to two young men who were about to witness for the first time that terrible spectacle. On the evening before a battle one thinks of a thousand things forgotten till then; those who are indifferent to one another become friends and those who are friends become brothers. It need not be said that if in the depths of the heart there is a sentiment more tender, it reaches then, quite naturally, the highest exaltation of which it is capable. Some sentiment of this kind must have been cherished by each one of these two friends, for each of them almost immediately sat down by himself at an end of the tent and began to write.
 
The letters were long--the four pages were covered with closely written words. The writers sometimes looked up at each other and smiled; they understood without speaking, their organizations were so delicate and sympathetic. The letters being finished, each put his own into two envelopes, so that no one, without tearing the first envelope, could discover to whom the second was addressed; then they drew near to each other and smilingly exchanged their letters.
 
“In case any evil should happen to me,” said Bragelonne.
 
“In case I should be killed,” said De Guiche.
 
They then embraced each other like two brothers, and each wrapping himself in his cloak they soon passed into that kindly sleep of youth which is the prerogative of birds, flowers and infants.
 
35. A Dinner in the Old Style.
 The second interview between the former musketeers was not so formal and threatening as the first. Athos, with his superior understanding, wisely deemed that the supper table would be the most complete and satisfactory point of reunion, and at the moment when his friends, in deference to his deportment and sobriety, dared scarcely speak of some of their former good dinners, he was the first to propose that they should all assemble around some well spread table and abandon themselves unreservedly to their own natural character and manners--a freedom which had formerly contributed so much to that good understanding between them which gave them the name of the inseparables. For different reasons this was an agreeable proposition to them all, and it was therefore agreed that each should leave a very exact address and that upon the request of any of the associates a meeting should be convoked at a famous eating house in the Rue de la Monnaie, of the sign of the Hermitage. The first rendezvous was fixed for the following Wednesday, at eight o’clock in the evening precisely.
 
On that day, in fact, the four friends arrived punctually at the hour, each from his own abode or occupation. Porthos had been trying a new horse; D’Artagnan was on guard at the Louvre; Aramis had been to visit one of his penitents in the neighborhood; and Athos, whose domicile was established in the Rue Guenegaud, found himself close at hand. They were, therefore, somewhat surprised to meet altogether at the door of the Hermitage, Athos starting out from the Pont Neuf, Porthos by the Rue de la Roule, D’Artagnan by the Rue des Fosse Saint Germain l’Auxerrois, and Aramis by the Rue de Bethisy.
 
The first words exchanged between the four friends, on account of the ceremony which each of them mingled with their demonstration, were somewhat forced and even the repast began with a kind of stiffness. Athos perceived this embarrassment, and by way of supplying an effectual remedy, called for four bottles of champagne.
 
At this order, given in Athos’s habitually calm manner, the face of the Gascon relaxed and Porthos’s brow grew smooth. Aramis was astonished. He knew that Athos not only never drank, but more, that he had a kind of repugnance to wine. This astonishment was doubled when Aramis saw Athos fill a bumper and toss it off with all his former enthusiasm. His companions followed his example. In a very few minutes the four bottles were empty and this excellent specific succeeded in dissipating even the slightest cloud that might have rested on their spirits. Now the four friends began to speak loud, scarcely waiting till one had finished before another began, and each assumed his favorite attitude on or at the table. Soon--strange fact--Aramis undid two buttons of his doublet, seeing which, Porthos unfastened his entirely.
 
Battles, long journeys, blows given and received, sufficed for the first themes of conversation, which turned upon the silent struggles sustained against him who was now called the great cardinal.
 
“Faith,” said Aramis, laughing, “we have praised the dead enough, let us revile the living a little; I should like to say something evil of Mazarin; is it permissible?”
 
“Go on, go on,” replied D’Artagnan, laughing heartily; “relate your story and I will applaud it if it is a good one.”
 
“A great prince,” said Aramis, “with whom Mazarin sought an alliance, was invited by him to send him a list of the conditions on which he would do him the honor to negotiate with him. The prince, who had a great repugnance to treat with such an ill-bred fellow, made out a list, against the grain, and sent it. In this list there were three conditions which displeased Mazarin and he offered the prince ten thousand crowns to renounce them.”
 
“Ah, ha, ha!” laughed the three friends, “not a bad bargain; and there was no fear of being taken at his word; what did the prince do then?”
 
“The prince immediately sent fifty thousand francs to Mazarin, begging him never to write to him again, and offered twenty thousand francs more, on condition that he would never speak to him. What did Mazarin do?”
 
“Stormed!” suggested Athos.
 
“Beat the messenger!” cried Porthos.
 
“Accepted the money!” said D’Artagnan.
 
“You have guessed it,” answered Aramis; and they all laughed so heartily that the host appeared in order to inquire whether the gentlemen wanted anything; he thought they were fighting.
 
At last their hilarity calmed down and:
 
“Faith!” exclaimed D’Artagnan to the two friends, “you may well wish ill to Mazarin; for I assure you, on his side he wishes you no good.”
 
“Pooh! really?” asked Athos. “If I thought the fellow knew me by my name I would be rebaptized, for fear it might be thought I knew him.”
 
“He knows you better by your actions than your name; he is quite aware that there are two gentlemen who greatly aided the escape of Monsieur de Beaufort, and he has instigated an active search for them, I can answer for it.”
 
“By whom?”
 
“By me; and this morning he sent for me to ask me if I had obtained any information.”
 
“And what did you reply?”
 
“That I had none as yet; but that I was to dine to-day with two gentlemen, who would be able to give me some.”
 
“You told him that?” said Porthos, a broad smile spreading over his honest face. “Bravo! and you are not afraid of that, Athos?”
 
“No,” replied Athos, “it is not the search of Mazarin that I fear.”
 
“Now,” said Aramis, “tell me a little what you do fear.”
 
“Nothing for the present; at least, nothing in good earnest.”
 
“And with regard to the past?” asked Porthos.
 
“Oh! the past is another thing,” said Athos, sighing; “the past and the future.”
 
“Are you afraid for your young Raoul?” asked Aramis.
 
“Well,” said D’Artagnan, “one is never killed in a first engagement.”
 
“Nor in the second,” said Aramis
 
“Nor in the third,” returned Porthos; “and even when one is killed, one rises again, the proof of which is, that here we are!”
 
“No,” said Athos, “it is not Raoul about whom I am anxious, for I trust he will conduct himself like a gentleman; and if he is killed--well, he will die bravely; but hold--should such a misfortune happen--well--” Athos passed his hand across his pale brow.
 
“Well?” asked Aramis.
 
“Well, I shall look upon it as an expiation.”
 
“Ah!” said D’Artagnan; “I know what you mean.”
 
“And I, too,” added Aramis; “but you must not think of that, Athos; what is past, is past.”
 
“I don’t understand,” said Porthos.
 
“The affair at Armentieres,” whispered D’Artagnan.
 
“The affair at Armentieres?” asked he again.
 
“Milady.”
 
“Oh, yes!” said Porthos; “true, I had forgotten it!”
 
Athos looked at him intently.
 
“You have forgotten it, Porthos?” said he.
 
“Faith! yes, it is so long ago,” answered Porthos.
 
“This affair does not, then, weigh upon your conscience?”
 
“Faith, no.”
 
“And you, D’Artagnan?”
 
“I--I own that when my mind returns to that terrible period I have no recollection of anything but the rigid corpse of poor Madame Bonancieux. Yes, yes,” murmured he, “I have often felt regret for the victim, but never the very slightest remorse for the assassin.”
 
Athos shook his dead doubtfully.
 
“Consider,” said Aramis, “if you admit divine justice and its participation in the things of this world, that woman was punished by the will of heaven. We were but the instruments, that is all.”
 
“But as to free will, Aramis?”
 
“How acts the judge? He has a free will, yet he fearlessly condemns. What does the executioner? He is master of his arm, yet he strikes without remorse.”
 
“The executioner!” muttered Athos, as if arrested by some recollection.
 
“I know that it is terrible,” said D’Artagnan; “but when I reflect that we have killed English, Rochellais, Spaniards, nay, even French, who never did us any other harm but to aim at and to miss us, whose only fault was to cross swords with us and to be unable to ward off our blows--I can, on my honor, find an excuse for my share in the murder of that woman.”
 
“As for me,” said Porthos, “now that you have reminded me of it, Athos, I have the scene again before me, as if I now were there. Milady was there, as it were, where you sit.” (Athos changed color.) “I--I was where D’Artagnan stands. I wore a long sword which cut like a Damascus--you remember it, Aramis for you always called it Balizarde. Well, I swear to you, all three, that had the executioner of Bethune--was he not of Bethune?--yes, egad! of Bethune!--not been there, I would have cut off the head of that infamous being without thinking of it, or even after thinking of it. She was a most atrocious woman.”
 
“And then,” said Aramis, with the tone of philosophical indifference which he had assumed since he had belonged to the church and in which there was more atheism than confidence in God, “what is the use of thinking of it all? At the last hour we must confess this action and God knows better than we can whether it is a crime, a fault, or a meritorious deed. I repent of it? Egad! no. Upon my honor and by the holy cross; I only regret it because she was a woman.”
 
“The most satisfactory part of the matter,” said D’Artagnan, “is that there remains no trace of it.”
 
“She had a son,” observed Athos.
 
“Oh! yes, I know that,” said D’Artagnan, “and you mentioned it to me; but who knows what has become of him? If the serpent be dead, why not its brood? Do you think his uncle De Winter would have brought up that young viper? De Winter probably condemned the son as he had done the mother.”
 
“Then,” said Athos, “woe to De Winter, for the child had done no harm.”
 
“May the devil take me, if the child be not dead,” said Porthos. “There is so much fog in that detestable country, at least so D’Artagnan declares.”
 
Just as the quaint conclusion reached by Porthos was about to bring back hilarity to faces now more or less clouded, hasty footsteps were heard upon the stair and some one knocked at the door.
 
“Come in,” cried Athos.
 
“Please your honors,” said the host, “a person in a great hurry wishes to speak to one of you.”
 
“To which of us?” asked all the four friends.
 
“To him who is called the Comte de la Fere.”
 
“It is I,” said Athos, “and what is the name of the person?”
 
“Grimaud.”
 
“Ah!” exclaimed Athos, turning pale. “Back already! What can have happened, then, to Bragelonne?”
 
“Let him enter,” cried D’Artagnan; “let him come up.”
 
But Grimaud had already mounted the staircase and was waiting on the last step; so springing into the room he motioned the host to leave it. The door being closed, the four friends waited in expectation. Grimaud’s agitation, his pallor, the sweat which covered his face, the dust which soiled his clothes, all indicated that he was the messenger of some important and terrible news.
 
“Your honors,” said he, “that woman had a child; that child has become a man; the tigress had a little one, the tiger has roused himself; he is ready to spring upon you--beware!”
 
Athos glanced around at his friends with a melancholy smile. Porthos turned to look at his sword, which was hanging on the wall; Aramis seized his knife; D’Artagnan arose.
 
“What do you mean, Grimaud?” he exclaimed.
 
“That Milady’s son has left England, that he is in France, on his road to Paris, if he be not here already.”
 
“The devil he is!” said Porthos. “Are you sure of it?”
 
“Certain,” replied Grimaud.
 
This announcement was received in silence. Grimaud was so breathless, so exhausted, that he had fallen back upon a chair. Athos filled a beaker with champagne and gave it to him.
 
“Well, after all,” said D’Artagnan, “supposing that he lives, that he comes to Paris; we have seen many other such. Let him come.”
 
“Yes,” echoed Porthos, glancing affectionately at his sword, still hanging on the wall; “we can wait for him; let him come.”
 
“Moreover, he is but a child,” said Aramis.
 
Grimaud rose.
 
“A child!” he exclaimed. “Do you know what he has done, this child? Disguised as a monk he discovered the whole history in confession from the executioner of Bethune, and having confessed him, after having learned everything from him, he gave him absolution by planting this dagger into his heart. See, it is on fire yet with his hot blood, for it is not thirty hours since it was drawn from the wound.”
 
And Grimaud threw the dagger on the table.
 
D’Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis rose and in one spontaneous motion rushed to their swords. Athos alone remained seated, calm and thoughtful.
 
“And you say he is dressed as a monk, Grimaud?”
 
“Yes, as an Augustine monk.”
 
“What sized man is he?”
 
“About my height; thin, pale, with light blue eyes and tawny flaxen hair.”
 
“And he did not see Raoul?” asked Athos.
 
“Yes, on the contrary, they met, and it was the viscount himself who conducted him to the bed of the dying man.”
 
Athos, in his turn, rising without speaking, went and unhooked his sword.
 
“Heigh, sir,” said D’Artagnan, trying to laugh, “do you know we look very much like a flock of silly, mouse-evading women! How is it that we, four men who have faced armies without blinking, begin to tremble at the mention of a child?”
 
“It is true,” said Athos, “but this child comes in the name of Heaven.”
 
And very soon they left the inn.
 
36. A Letter from Charles the First.
 The reader must now cross the Seine with us and follow us to the door of the Carmelite Convent in the Rue Saint Jacques. It is eleven o’clock in the morning and the pious sisters have just finished saying mass for the success of the armies of King Charles I. Leaving the church, a woman and a young girl dressed in black, the one as a widow and the other as an orphan, have re-entered their cell.
 
The woman kneels on a prie-dieu of painted wood and at a short distance from her stands the young girl, leaning against a chair, weeping.
 
The woman must have once been handsome, but traces of sorrow have aged her. The young girl is lovely and her tears only embellish her; the lady appears to be about forty years of age, the girl about fourteen.
 
“Oh, God!” prayed the kneeling suppliant, “protect my husband, guard my son, and take my wretched life instead!”
 
“Oh, God!” murmured the girl, “leave me my mother!”
 
“Your mother can be of no use to you in this world, Henrietta,” said the lady, turning around. “Your mother has no longer either throne or husband; she has neither son, money nor friends; the whole world, my poor child, has abandoned your mother!” And she fell back, weeping, into her daughter’s arms.
 
“Courage, take courage, my dear mother!” said the girl.
 
“Ah! ‘tis an unfortunate year for kings,” said the mother. “And no one thinks of us in this country, for each must think about his own affairs. As long as your brother was with me he kept me up; but he is gone and can no longer send us news of himself, either to me or to your father. I have pledged my last jewels, sold your clothes and my own to pay his servants, who refused to accompany him unless I made this sacrifice. We are now reduced to live at the expense of these daughters of Heaven; we are the poor, succored by God.”
 
“But why not address yourself to your sister, the queen?” asked the girl.
 
“Alas! the queen, my sister, is no longer queen, my child. Another reigns in her name. One day you will be able to understand how all this is.”
 
“Well, then, to the king, your nephew. Shall I speak to him? You know how much he loves me, my mother.
 
“Alas! my nephew is not yet king, and you know Laporte has told us twenty times that he himself is in need of almost everything.”
 
“Then let us pray to Heaven,” said the girl.

“Ah! ‘tis an unfortunate year for kings,” said the mother. “And no one thinks of us in this country, for each must think about his own affairs. As long as your brother was with me he kept me up; but he is gone and can no longer send us news of himself, either to me or to your father. I have pledged my last jewels, sold your clothes and my own to pay his servants, who refused to accompany him unless I made this sacrifice. We are now reduced to live at the expense of these daughters of Heaven; we are the poor, succored by God.”
 
“But why not address yourself to your sister, the queen?” asked the girl.
 
“Alas! the queen, my sister, is no longer queen, my child. Another reigns in her name. One day you will be able to understand how all this is.”
 
“Well, then, to the king, your nephew. Shall I speak to him? You know how much he loves me, my mother.
 
“Alas! my nephew is not yet king, and you know Laporte has told us twenty times that he himself is in need of almost everything.”
 
“Then let us pray to Heaven,” said the girl.
 
The two women who thus knelt in united prayer were the daughter and grand-daughter of Henry , the wife and daughter of Charles I.
 
They had just finished their double prayer, when a nun softly tapped at the door of the cell.
 
“Enter, my sister,” said the queen.
 
“I trust your majesty will pardon this intrusion on her meditations, but a foreign lord has arrived from England and waits in the parlor, demanding the honor of presenting a letter to your majesty.”
 
“Oh, a letter! a letter from the king, perhaps. News from your father, do you hear, Henrietta? And the name of this lord?”
 
“Lord de Winter.”
 
“Lord de Winter!” exclaimed the queen, “the friend of my husband. Oh, bid him enter!”
 
And the queen advanced to meet the messenger, whose hand she seized affectionately, whilst he knelt down and presented a letter to her, contained in a case of gold.

“Ah! my lord!” said the queen, “you bring us three things which we have not seen for a long time. Gold, a devoted friend, and a letter from the king, our husband and master.”
 
De Winter bowed again, unable to reply from excess of emotion.
 
On their side the mother and daughter retired into the embrasure of a window to read eagerly the following letter:
 
“Dear Wife,--We have now reached the moment of decision. I have concentrated here at Naseby camp all the resources Heaven has left me, and I write to you in haste from thence. Here I await the army of my rebellious subjects. I am about to struggle for the last time with them. If victorious, I shall continue the struggle; if beaten, I am lost. I shall try, in the latter case (alas! in our position, one must provide for everything), I shall try to gain the coast of France. But can they, will they receive an unhappy king, who will bring such a sad story into a country already agitated by civil discord? Your wisdom and your affection must serve me as guides. The bearer of this letter will tell you, madame, what I dare not trust to pen and paper and the risks of transit. He will explain to you the steps that I expect you to pursue. I charge him also with my blessing for my children and with the sentiments of my soul for yourself, my dearest sweetheart.”

The letter bore the signature, not of “Charles, King,” but of “Charles--still king.”
 
“And let him be no longer king,” cried the queen. “Let him be conquered, exiled, proscribed, provided he still lives. Alas! in these days the throne is too dangerous a place for me to wish him to retain it. But my lord, tell me,” she continued, “hide nothing from me--what is, in truth, the king’s position? Is it as hopeless as he thinks?”
 
“Alas! madame, more hopeless than he thinks. His majesty has so good a heart that he cannot understand hatred; is so loyal that he does not suspect treason! England is torn in twain by a spirit of disturbance which, I greatly fear, blood alone can exorcise.”
 
“But Lord Montrose,” replied the queen, “I have heard of his great and rapid successes of battles gained. I heard it said that he was marching to the frontier to join the king.”
 
“Yes, madame; but on the frontier he was met by Lesly; he had tried victory by means of superhuman undertakings. Now victory has abandoned him. Montrose, beaten at Philiphaugh, was obliged to disperse the remains of his army and to fly, disguised as a servant. He is at Bergen, in Norway.”

“Heaven preserve him!” said the queen. “It is at least a consolation to know that some who have so often risked their lives for us are safe. And now, my lord, that I see how hopeless the position of the king is, tell me with what you are charged on the part of my royal husband.”
 
“Well, then, madame,” said De Winter, “the king wishes you to try and discover the dispositions of the king and queen toward him.”
 
“Alas! you know that even now the king is but a child and the queen a woman weak enough. Here, Monsieur Mazarin is everything.”
 
“Does he desire to play the part in France that Cromwell plays in England?”
 
“Oh, no! He is a subtle, conscienceless Italian, who though he very likely dreams of crime, dares not commit it; and unlike Cromwell, who disposes of both Houses, Mazarin has had the queen to support him in his struggle with the parliament.”
 
“More reason, then, he should protect a king pursued by parliament.”
 
The queen shook her head despairingly.




 
 
37. Cromwell’s Letter.
At the very moment when the queen quitted the convent to go to the Palais Royal, a young man dismounted at the gate of this royal abode and announced to the guards that he had something of importance to communicate to Cardinal Mazarin. Although the cardinal was often tormented by fear, he was more often in need of counsel and information, and he was therefore sufficiently accessible. The true difficulty of being admitted was not to be found at the first door, and even the second was passed easily enough; but at the third watched, besides the guard and the doorkeepers, the faithful Bernouin, a Cerberus whom no speech could soften, no wand, even of gold, could charm.
 
It was therefore at the third door that those who solicited or were bidden to an audience underwent their formal interrogatory.
 
The young man having left his horse tied to the gate in the court, mounted the great staircase and addressed the guard in the first chamber.
 
“Cardinal Mazarin?” said he.
 
“Pass on,” replied the guard.
 
The cavalier entered the second hall, which was guarded by the musketeers and doorkeepers.
 
“Have you a letter of audience?” asked a porter, advancing to the new arrival.
 
“I have one, but not one from Cardinal Mazarin.”
 
“Enter, and ask for Monsieur Bernouin,” said the porter, opening the door of the third room. Whether he only held his usual post or whether it was by accident, Monsieur Bernouin was found standing behind the door and must have heard all that had passed.
 
“You seek me, sir,” said he. “From whom may the letter be you bear to his eminence?”
 
“From General Oliver Cromwell,” said the new comer. “Be so good as to mention this name to his eminence and to bring me word whether he will receive me--yes or no.”
 
Saying which, he resumed the proud and sombre bearing peculiar at that time to Puritans. Bernouin cast an inquisitorial glance at the person of the young man and entered the cabinet of the cardinal, to whom he transmitted the messenger’s words.
 
“A man bringing a letter from Oliver Cromwell?” said Mazarin. “And what kind of a man?”
 
“A genuine Englishman, your eminence. Hair sandy-red--more red than sandy; gray-blue eyes--more gray than blue; and for the rest, stiff and proud.”
 
“Let him give in his letter.”
 
“His eminence asks for the letter,” said Bernouin, passing back into the ante-chamber.
 
“His eminence cannot see the letter without the bearer of it,” replied the young man; “but to convince you that I am really the bearer of a letter, see, here it is; and kindly add,” continued he, “that I am not a simple messenger, but an envoy extraordinary.”
 
Bernouin re-entered the cabinet, returning in a few seconds. “Enter, sir,” said he.
 
The young man appeared on the threshold of the minister’s closet, in one hand holding his hat, in the other the letter. Mazarin rose. “Have you, sir,” asked he, “a letter accrediting you to me?”
 
“There it is, my lord,” said the young man.
 
Mazarin took the letter and read it thus:
 
“Mr. Mordaunt, one of my secretaries, will remit this letter of introduction to His Eminence, the Cardinal Mazarin, in Paris. He is also the bearer of a second confidential epistle for his eminence.
 
“Oliver Cromwell.”
 
“Very well, Monsieur Mordaunt,” said Mazarin, “give me this second letter and sit down.”
 
The young man drew from his pocket a second letter, presented it to the cardinal, and took his seat. The cardinal, however, did not unseal the letter at once, but continued to turn it again and again in his hand; then, in accordance with his usual custom and judging from experience that few people could hide anything from him when he began to question them, fixing his eyes upon them at the same time, he thus addressed the messenger:
 
“You are very young, Monsieur Mordaunt, for this difficult task of ambassador, in which the oldest diplomatists often fail.”
 
“My lord, I am twenty-three years of age; but your eminence is mistaken in saying that I am young. I am older than your eminence, although I possess not your wisdom. Years of suffering, in my opinion, count double, and I have suffered for twenty years.”
 
“Ah, yes, I understand,” said Mazarin; “want of fortune, perhaps. You are poor, are you not?” Then he added to himself: “These English Revolutionists are all beggars and ill-bred.”
 
“My lord, I ought to have a fortune of six millions, but it has been taken from me.”
 
“You are not, then, a man of the people?” said Mazarin, astonished.
 
“If I bore my proper title I should be a lord. If I bore my name you would have heard one of the most illustrious names of England.”
 
“What is your name, then?” asked Mazarin.
 
“My name is Mordaunt,” replied the young man, bowing.
 
Mazarin now understood that Cromwell’s envoy desired to retain his incognito. He was silent for an instant, and during that time he scanned the young man even more attentively than he had done at first. The messenger was unmoved.
 
“Devil take these Puritans,” said Mazarin aside; “they are carved from granite.” Then he added aloud, “But you have relations left you?”
 
“I have one remaining. Three times I presented myself to ask his support and three times he ordered his servants to turn me away.”
 
“Oh, mon Dieu! my dear Mr. Mordaunt,” said Mazarin, hoping by a display of affected pity to catch the young man in a snare, “how extremely your history interests me! You know not, then, anything of your birth--you have never seen your mother?”
 
“Yes, my lord; she came three times, whilst I was a child, to my nurse’s house; I remember the last time she came as well as if it were to-day.”
 
“You have a good memory,” said Mazarin.
 
“Oh! yes, my lord,” said the young man, with such peculiar emphasis that the cardinal felt a shudder run through every vein.
 
“And who brought you up?” he asked again.
 
“A French nurse, who sent me away when I was five years old because no one paid her for me, telling me the name of a relation of whom she had heard my mother often speak.”
 
“What became of you?”
 
“As I was weeping and begging on the high road, a minister from Kingston took me in, instructed me in the Calvinistic faith, taught me all he knew himself and aided me in my researches after my family.”
 
“And these researches?”
 
“Were fruitless; chance did everything.”
 
“You discovered what had become of your mother?”
 
“I learned that she had been assassinated by my relation, aided by four friends, but I was already aware that I had been robbed of my wealth and degraded from my nobility by King Charles I.”
 
“Oh! I now understand why you are in the service of Cromwell; you hate the king.”
 
“Yes, my lord, I hate him!” said the young man.
 
Mazarin marked with surprise the diabolical expression with which the young man uttered these words. Just as, ordinarily, faces are colored by blood, his face seemed dyed by hatred and became livid.
 
“Your history is a terrible one, Mr. Mordaunt, and touches me keenly; but happily for you, you serve an all-powerful master; he ought to aid you in your search; we have so many means of gaining information.”
 
“My lord, to a well-bred dog it is only necessary to show one end of a track; he is certain to reach the other.”
 
“But this relation you mentioned--do you wish me to speak to him?” said Mazarin, who was anxious to make a friend about Cromwell’s person.
 
“Thanks, my lord, I will speak to him myself. He will treat me better the next time I see him.”
 
“You have the means, then, of touching him?”
 
“I have the means of making myself feared.”
 
Mazarin looked at the young man, but at the fire which shot from his glance he bent his head; then, embarrassed how to continue such a conversation, he opened Cromwell’s letter.
 
The young man’s eyes gradually resumed their dull and glassy appearance and he fell into a profound reverie. After reading the first lines of the letter Mazarin gave a side glance at him to see if he was watching the expression of his face as he read. Observing his indifference, he shrugged his shoulders, saying:
 
“Send on your business those who do theirs at the same time! Let us see what this letter contains.”
 
We here present the letter verbatim:
 
“To his Eminence, Monseigneur le Cardinal Mazarini:
 
“I have wished, monseigneur, to learn your intentions relating to the existing state of affairs in England. The two kingdoms are so near that France must be interested in our situation, as we are interested in that of France. The English are almost of one mind in contending against the tyranny of Charles and his adherents. Placed by popular confidence at the head of that movement, I can appreciate better than any other its significance and its probable results. I am at present in the midst of war, and am about to deliver a decisive battle against King Charles. I shall gain it, for the hope of the nation and the Spirit of the Lord are with me. This battle won by me, the king will have no further resources in England or in Scotland; and if he is not captured or killed, he will endeavor to pass over into France to recruit soldiers and to refurnish himself with arms and money. France has already received Queen Henrietta, and, unintentionally, doubtless, has maintained a centre of inextinguishable civil war in my country. But Madame Henrietta is a daughter of France and was entitled to the hospitality of France. As to King Charles, the question must be viewed differently; in receiving and aiding him, France will censure the acts of the English nation, and thus so essentially harm England, and especially the well-being of the government, that such a proceeding will be equivalent to pronounced hostilities.”
 
At this moment Mazarin became very uneasy at the turn which the letter was taking and paused to glance under his eyes at the young man. The latter continued in thought. Mazarin resumed his reading:
 
“It is important, therefore, monseigneur, that I should be informed as to the intentions of France. The interests of that kingdom and those of England, though taking now diverse directions, are very nearly the same. England needs tranquillity at home, in order to consummate the expulsion of her king; France needs tranquillity to establish on solid foundations the throne of her young monarch. You need, as much as we do, that interior condition of repose which, thanks to the energy of our government, we are about to attain.
 
“Your quarrels with the parliament, your noisy dissensions with the princes, who fight for you to-day and to-morrow will fight against you, the popular following directed by the coadjutor, President Blancmesnil, and Councillor Broussel--all that disorder, in short, which pervades the several departments of the state, must lead you to view with uneasiness the possibility of a foreign war; for in that event England, exalted by the enthusiasm of new ideas, will ally herself with Spain, already seeking that alliance. I have therefore believed, monseigneur, knowing your prudence and your personal relation to the events of the present time, that you will choose to hold your forces concentrated in the interior of the French kingdom and leave to her own the new government of England. That neutrality consists simply in excluding King Charles from the territory of France and in refraining from helping him--a stranger to your country--with arms, with money or with troops.
 
“My letter is private and confidential, and for that reason I send it to you by a man who shares my most intimate counsels. It anticipates, through a sentiment which your eminence will appreciate, measures to be taken after the events. Oliver Cromwell considered it more expedient to declare himself to a mind as intelligent as Mazarin’s than to a queen admirable for firmness, without doubt, but too much guided by vain prejudices of birth and of divine right.
 
“Farewell, monseigneur; should I not receive a reply in the space of fifteen days, I shall presume my letter will have miscarried.
 
“Oliver Cromwell.”
 
“Mr. Mordaunt,” said the cardinal, raising his voice, as if to arouse the dreamer, “my reply to this letter will be more satisfactory to General Cromwell if I am convinced that all are ignorant of my having given one; go, therefore, and await it at Boulogne-sur-Mer, and promise me to set out to-morrow morning.”
 
“I promise, my lord,” replied Mordaunt; “but how many days does your eminence expect me to await your reply?”
 
“If you do not receive it in ten days you can leave.”
 
Mordaunt bowed.
 
“That is not all, sir,” continued Mazarin; “your private adventures have touched me to the quick; besides, the letter from Mr. Cromwell makes you an important person as ambassador; come, tell me, what can I do for you?”
 
Mordaunt reflected a moment and, after some hesitation, was about to speak, when Bernouin entered hastily and bending down to the ear of the cardinal, whispered:
 
“My lord, the Queen Henrietta Maria, accompanied by an English noble, is entering the Palais Royal at this moment.”
 
Mazarin made a bound from his chair, which did not escape the attention of the young man and suppressed the confidence he was about to make.
 
“Sir,” said the cardinal, “you have heard me? I fix on Boulogne because I presume that every town in France is indifferent to you; if you prefer another, name it; but you can easily conceive that, surrounded as I am by influences I can only muzzle by discretion, I desire your presence in Paris to be unknown.”
 
“I go, sir,” said Mordaunt, advancing a few steps to the door by which he had entered.
 
“No, not that way, I beg, sir,” quickly exclaimed the cardinal, “be so good as to pass by yonder gallery, by which you can regain the hall. I do not wish you to be seen leaving; our interview must be kept secret.”
 
Mordaunt followed Bernouin, who led him through the adjacent chamber and left him with a doorkeeper, showing him the way out.
 
38. Henrietta Maria and Mazarin.
 The cardinal rose, and advanced in haste to receive the queen of England. He showed the more respect to this queen, deprived of every mark of pomp and stripped of followers, as he felt some self-reproach for his own want of heart and his avarice. But supplicants for favor know how to accommodate the expression of their features, and the daughter of Henry IV. smiled as she advanced to meet a man she hated and despised.
 
“Ah!” said Mazarin to himself, “what a sweet face; does she come to borrow money of me?”
 
And he threw an uneasy glance at his strong box; he even turned inside the bevel of the magnificent diamond ring, the brilliancy of which drew every eye upon his hand, which indeed was white and handsome.
 
“Your eminence,” said the august visitor, “it was my first intention to speak of the matters that have brought me here to the queen, my sister, but I have reflected that political affairs are more especially the concern of men.”

“Madame,” said Mazarin, “your majesty overwhelms me with flattering distinction.”
 
“He is very gracious,” thought the queen; “can he have guessed my errand?”
 
“Give,” continued the cardinal, “your commands to the most respectful of your servants.”
 
“Alas, sir,” replied the queen, “I have lost the habit of commanding and have adopted instead that of making petitions. I am here to petition you, too happy should my prayer be favorably heard.”
 
“I am listening, madame, with the greatest interest,” said Mazarin.
 
“Your eminence, it concerns the war which the king, my husband, is now sustaining against his rebellious subjects. You are perhaps ignorant that they are fighting in England,” added she, with a melancholy smile, “and that in a short time they will fight in a much more decided fashion than they have done hitherto.”
 
“I am completely ignorant of it, madame,” said the cardinal, accompanying his words with a slight shrug of the shoulders; “alas, our own wars quite absorb the time and the mind of a poor, incapable, infirm old minister like me.”
 
“Well, then, your eminence,” said the queen, “I must inform you that Charles I., my husband, is on the eve of a decisive engagement. In case of a check” (Mazarin made a slight movement), “one must foresee everything; in the case of a check, he desires to retire into France and to live here as a private individual. What do you say to this project?”

The cardinal had listened without permitting a single fibre of his face to betray what he felt, and his smile remained as it ever was--false and flattering; and when the queen finished speaking, he said:
 
“Do you think, madame, that France, agitated and disturbed as it is, would be a safe retreat for a dethroned king? How will the crown, which is scarce firmly set on the head of Louis XIV., support a double weight?”
 
“The weight was not so heavy when I was in peril,” interrupted the queen, with a sad smile, “and I ask no more for my husband than has been done for me; you see that we are very humble monarchs, sir.”
 
“Oh, you, madame,” the cardinal hastened to say, in order to cut short the explanation he foresaw was coming, “with regard to you, that is another thing. A daughter of Henry IV., of that great, that sublime sovereign----”
“All which does not prevent you refusing hospitality to his son-in-law, sir! Nevertheless, you ought to remember that that great, that sublime monarch, when proscribed at one time, as my husband may be, demanded aid from England and England accorded it to him; and it is but just to say that Queen Elizabeth was not his niece.”
 
“Peccato!” said Mazarin, writhing beneath this simple eloquence, “your majesty does not understand me; you judge my intentions wrongly, and that is partly because, doubtless, I explain myself in French.”
 
“Speak Italian, sir. Ere the cardinal, your predecessor, sent our mother, Marie de Medicis, to die in exile, she taught us that language. If anything yet remains of that great, that sublime king, Henry, of whom you have just spoken, he would be much surprised at so little pity for his family being united to such a profound admiration of himself.”
 
The perspiration stood in large drops on Mazarin’s brow.
  At this sight the young man stopped short, not in admiration of Raphael’s picture, but as if fascinated at the sight of some terrible object. His eyes dilated and a shudder ran through his body. One would have said that he longed to break through the wall of glass which separated him from his enemy; for if Comminges had seen with what an expression of hatred the eyes of this young man were fixed upon De Winter, he would not have doubted for an instant that the Englishman was his eternal foe.
 
But he stopped, doubtless to reflect; for instead of allowing his first impulse, which had been to go straight to Lord de Winter, to carry him away, he leisurely descended the staircase, left the palace with his head down, mounted his horse, which he reined in at the corner of the Rue Richelieu, and with his eyes fixed on the gate, waited until the queen’s carriage had left the court.

He had not long to wait, for the queen scarcely remained a quarter of an hour with Mazarin, but this quarter of an hour of expectation appeared a century to him. At last the heavy machine, which was called a chariot in those days, came out, rumbling against the gates, and De Winter, still on horseback, bent again to the door to converse with her majesty.
 
The horses started on a trot and took the road to the Louvre, which they entered. Before leaving the convent of the Carmelites, Henrietta had desired her daughter to attend her at the palace, which she had inhabited for a long time and which she had only left because their poverty seemed to them more difficult to bear in gilded chambers.


Mordaunt followed the carriage, and when he had watched it drive beneath the sombre arches he went and stationed himself under a wall over which the shadow was extended, and remained motionless, amidst the moldings of Jean Goujon, like a bas-relievo, representing an equestrian statue.
39. How the Unhappy mistake Chance for Providence.
 “That admiration is, on the contrary, so great, so real, madame,” returned Mazarin, without noticing the change of language offered to him by the queen, “that if the king, Charles I.--whom Heaven protect from evil!--came into France, I would offer him my house--my own house; but, alas! it would be but an unsafe retreat. Some day the people will burn that house, as they burned that of the Marechal d’Ancre. Poor Concino Concini! And yet he but desired the good of the people.”
 
“Yes, my lord, like yourself!” said the queen, ironically.
 
Mazarin pretended not to understand the double meaning of his own sentence, but continued to compassionate the fate of Concino Concini.
 
“Well then, your eminence,” said the queen, becoming impatient, “what is your answer?”
 
“Madame,” cried Mazarin, more and more moved, “will your majesty permit me to give you counsel?”
 
“Speak, sir,” replied the queen; “the counsels of so prudent a man as yourself ought certainly to be available.”
 
“Madame, believe me, the king ought to defend himself to the last.”
 
“He has done so, sir, and this last battle, which he encounters with resources much inferior to those of the enemy, proves that he will not yield without a struggle; but in case he is beaten?”
 
“Well, madame, in that case, my advice--I know that I am very bold to offer advice to your majesty--my advice is that the king should not leave his kingdom. Absent kings are very soon forgotten; if he passes over into France his cause is lost.”
 
“But,” persisted the queen, “if such be your advice and you have his interest at heart, send him help of men and money, for I can do nothing for him; I have sold even to my last diamond to aid him. If I had had a single ornament left, I should have bought wood this winter to make a fire for my daughter and myself.”
 
“Oh, madame,” said Mazarin, “your majesty knows not what you ask. On the day when foreign succor follows in the train of a king to replace him on his throne, it is an avowal that he no longer possesses the help and love of his own subjects.”
 
“To the point, sir,” said the queen, “to the point, and answer me, yes or no; if the king persists in remaining in England will you send him succor? If he comes to France will you accord him hospitality? What do you intend to do? Speak.”
 
“Madame,” said the cardinal, affecting an effusive frankness of speech, “I shall convince your majesty, I trust, of my devotion to you and my desire to terminate an affair which you have so much at heart. After which your majesty will, I think, no longer doubt my zeal in your behalf.”
 
The queen bit her lips and moved impatiently on her chair.
 
“Well, what do you propose to do?” she, said at length; “come, speak.”
 
“I will go this instant and consult the queen, and we will refer the affair at once to parliament.”
 
“With which you are at war--is it not so? You will charge Broussel to report it. Enough, sir, enough. I understand you or rather, I am wrong. Go to the parliament, for it was from this parliament, the enemy of monarchs, that the daughter of the great, the sublime Henry IV., whom you so much admire, received the only relief this winter which prevented her from dying of hunger and cold!”
 
And with these words Henrietta rose in majestic indignation, whilst the cardinal, raising his hands clasped toward her, exclaimed, “Ah, madame, madame, how little you know me, mon Dieu!”
 
But Queen Henrietta, without even turning toward him who made these hypocritical pretensions, crossed the cabinet, opened the door for herself and passing through the midst of the cardinal’s numerous guards, courtiers eager to pay homage, the luxurious show of a competing royalty, she went and took the hand of De Winter, who stood apart in isolation. Poor queen, already fallen! Though all bowed before her, as etiquette required, she had now but a single arm on which she could lean.
 
“It signifies little,” said Mazarin, when he was alone. “It gave me pain and it was an ungracious part to play, but I have said nothing either to the one or to the other. Bernouin!”
 
Bernouin entered.
 
“See if the young man with the black doublet and the short hair, who was with me just now, is still in the palace.”
 
Bernouin went out and soon returned with Comminges, who was on guard.
 
“Your eminence,” said Comminges, “as I was re-conducting the young man for whom you have asked, he approached the glass door of the gallery, and gazed intently upon some object, doubtless the picture by Raphael, which is opposite the door. He reflected for a second and then descended the stairs. I believe I saw him mount a gray horse and leave the palace court. But is not your eminence going to the queen?”
 
“For what purpose?”
 
“Monsieur de Guitant, my uncle, has just told me that her majesty had received news of the army.”
 
“It is well; I will go.”
 
Comminges had seen rightly, and Mordaunt had really acted as he had related. In crossing the gallery parallel to the large glass gallery, he perceived De Winter, who was waiting until the queen had finished her negotiation.
 
At this sight the young man stopped short, not in admiration of Raphael’s picture, but as if fascinated at the sight of some terrible object. His eyes dilated and a shudder ran through his body. One would have said that he longed to break through the wall of glass which separated him from his enemy; for if Comminges had seen with what an expression of hatred the eyes of this young man were fixed upon De Winter, he would not have doubted for an instant that the Englishman was his eternal foe.
 
But he stopped, doubtless to reflect; for instead of allowing his first impulse, which had been to go straight to Lord de Winter, to carry him away, he leisurely descended the staircase, left the palace with his head down, mounted his horse, which he reined in at the corner of the Rue Richelieu, and with his eyes fixed on the gate, waited until the queen’s carriage had left the court.
 
He had not long to wait, for the queen scarcely remained a quarter of an hour with Mazarin, but this quarter of an hour of expectation appeared a century to him. At last the heavy machine, which was called a chariot in those days, came out, rumbling against the gates, and De Winter, still on horseback, bent again to the door to converse with her majesty.
 
The horses started on a trot and took the road to the Louvre, which they entered. Before leaving the convent of the Carmelites, Henrietta had desired her daughter to attend her at the palace, which she had inhabited for a long time and which she had only left because their poverty seemed to them more difficult to bear in gilded chambers.
 
39. How, sometimes, the Unhappy mistake Chance for Providence.
Well, madame,” said De Winter, when the queen had dismissed her attendants.
 
“Well, my lord, what I foresaw has come to pass.”
 
“What? does the cardinal refuse to receive the king? France refuse hospitality to an unfortunate prince? Ay, but it is for the first time, madame!”
 
“I did not say France, my lord; I said the cardinal, and the cardinal is not even a Frenchman.”
 
“But did you see the queen?”
 
“It is useless,” replied Henrietta, “the queen will not say yes when the cardinal says no. Are you not aware that this Italian directs everything, both indoors and out? And moreover, I should not be surprised had we been forestalled by Cromwell. He was embarrassed whilst speaking to me and yet quite firm in his determination to refuse. Then did you not observe the agitation in the Palais Royal, the passing to and fro of busy people? Can they have received any news, my lord?”
 
“Not from England, madame. I made such haste that I am certain of not having been forestalled. I set out three days ago, passing miraculously through the Puritan army, and I took post horses with my servant Tony; the horses upon which we were mounted were bought in Paris. Besides, the king, I am certain, awaits your majesty’s reply before risking anything.”
 
“You will tell him, my lord,” resumed the queen, despairingly, “that I can do nothing; that I have suffered as much as himself--more than he has--obliged as I am to eat the bread of exile and to ask hospitality from false friends who smile at my tears; and as regards his royal person, he must sacrifice it generously and die like a king. I shall go and die by his side.”
 
“Madame, madame,” exclaimed De Winter, “your majesty abandons yourself to despair; and yet, perhaps, there still remains some hope.”
 
“No friends left, my lord; no other friends left in the wide world but yourself! Oh, God!” exclaimed the poor queen, raising her eyes to Heaven, “have You indeed taken back all the generous hearts that once existed in the world?”
 
“I hope not, madame,” replied De Winter, thoughtfully; “I once spoke to you of four men.”
 
“What can be done with four?”
 
“Four devoted, resolute men can do much, assure yourself, madame; and those of whom I speak performed great things at one time.”
 
“And where are these four men?”
 
“Ah, that is what I do not know. It is twenty years since I saw them, and yet whenever I have seen the king in danger I have thought of them.”
 
“And these men were your friends?”
 
“One of them held my life in his hands and gave it to me. I know not whether he is still my friend, but since that time I have remained his.”
 
“And these men are in France, my lord?”
 
“I believe so.”
 
“Tell me their names; perhaps I may have heard them mentioned and might be able to aid you in finding them.”
 
“One of them was called the Chevalier d’Artagnan.”
 
“Ah, my lord, if I mistake not, the Chevalier d’Artagnan is lieutenant of royal guards; but take care, for I fear that this man is entirely devoted to the cardinal.”
 
“That would be a misfortune,” said De Winter, “and I shall begin to think that we are really doomed.”
 
“But the others,” said the queen, who clung to this last hope as a shipwrecked man clings to the hull of his vessel. “The others, my lord!”
 
“The second--I heard his name by chance; for before fighting us, these four gentlemen told us their names; the second was called the Comte de la Fere. As for the two others, I had so much the habit of calling them by nicknames that I have forgotten their real ones.”
 
“Oh, mon Dieu, it is a matter of the greatest urgency to find them out,” said the queen, “since you think these worthy gentlemen might be so useful to the king.”
 
“Oh, yes,” said De Winter, “for they are the same men. Listen, madame, and recall your remembrances. Have you never heard that Queen Anne of Austria was once saved from the greatest danger ever incurred by a queen?”
 
“Yes, at the time of her relations with Monsieur de Buckingham; it had to do in some way with certain studs and diamonds.”
 
“Well, it was that affair, madame; these men are the ones who saved her; and I smile with pity when I reflect that if the names of those gentlemen are unknown to you it is because the queen has forgotten them, who ought to have made them the first noblemen of the realm.”
 
“Well, then, my lord, they must be found; but what can four men, or rather three men do--for I tell you, you must not count on Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
 
“It will be one valiant sword the less, but there will remain still three, without reckoning my own; now four devoted men around the king to protect him from his enemies, to be at his side in battle, to aid him with counsel, to escort him in flight, are sufficient, not to make the king a conqueror, but to save him if conquered; and whatever Mazarin may say, once on the shores of France your royal husband may find as many retreats and asylums as the seabird finds in a storm.”
 
“Seek, then, my lord, seek these gentlemen; and if they will consent to go with you to England, I will give to each a duchy the day that we reascend the throne, besides as much gold as would pave Whitehall. Seek them, my lord, and find them, I conjure you.”
 
“I will search for them, madame,” said De Winter “and doubtless I shall find them; but time fails me. Has your majesty forgotten that the king expects your reply and awaits it in agony?”
 
“Then indeed we are lost!” cried the queen, in the fullness of a broken heart.
 
At this moment the door opened and the young Henrietta appeared; then the queen, with that wonderful strength which is the privilege of parents, repressed her tears and motioned to De Winter to change the subject.
 
But that act of self-control, effective as it was, did not escape the eyes of the young princess. She stopped on the threshold, breathed a sigh, and addressing the queen:
 
“Why, then, do you always weep, mother, when I am away from you?” she said.
 
The queen smiled, but instead of answering:
 
“See, De Winter,” she said, “I have at least gained one thing in being only half a queen; and that is that my children call me ‘mother’ instead of ‘madame.’”
 
Then turning toward her daughter:
 
“What do you want, Henrietta?” she demanded.
 
“My mother,” replied the young princess, “a cavalier has just entered the Louvre and wishes to present his respects to your majesty; he arrives from the army and has, he says, a letter to remit to you, on the part of the Marechal de Grammont, I think.”
 
“Ah!” said the queen to De Winter, “he is one of my faithful adherents; but do you not observe, my dear lord, that we are so poorly served that it is left to my daughter to fill the office of doorkeeper?”
 
“Madame, have pity on me,” exclaimed De Winter; “you wring my heart!”
 
“And who is this cavalier, Henrietta?” asked the queen.
 
“I saw him from the window, madame; he is a young man that appears scarce sixteen years of age, and is called the Viscount de Bragelonne.”
 
The queen, smiling, made a sign with her head; the young princess opened the door and Raoul appeared on the threshold.
 
Advancing a few steps toward the queen, he knelt down.
 
“Madame,” said he, “I bear to your majesty a letter from my friend the Count de Guiche, who told me he had the honor of being your servant; this letter contains important news and the expression of his respect.”
 
At the name of the Count de Guiche a blush spread over the cheeks of the young princess and the queen glanced at her with some degree of severity.
 
“You told me that the letter was from the Marechal de Grammont, Henrietta!” said the queen.
 
“I thought so, madame,” stammered the young girl.
 
“It is my fault, madame,” said Raoul. “I did announce myself, in truth, as coming on the part of the Marechal de Grammont; but being wounded in the right arm he was unable to write and therefore the Count de Guiche acted as his secretary.”
 
“There has been fighting, then?” asked the queen, motioning to Raoul to rise.
 
“Yes, madame,” said the young man.
 
At this announcement of a battle having taken place, the princess opened her mouth as though to ask a question of interest; but her lips closed again without articulating a word, while the color gradually faded from her cheeks.
 
The queen saw this, and doubtless her maternal heart translated the emotion, for addressing Raoul again:
 
“And no evil has happened to the young Count de Guiche?” she asked; “for not only is he our servant, as you say, sir, but more--he is one of our friends.”
 
“No, madame,” replied Raoul; “on the contrary, he gained great glory and had the honor of being embraced by his highness, the prince, on the field of battle.”
 
The young princess clapped her hands; and then, ashamed of having been betrayed into such a demonstration of joy, she half turned away and bent over a vase of roses, as if to inhale their odor.
 
“Let us see,” said the queen, “what the count says.” And she opened the letter and read:
 
“Madame,--Being unable to have the honor of writing to you myself, by reason of a wound I have received in my right hand, I have commanded my son, the Count de Guiche, who, with his father, is equally your humble servant, to write to tell you that we have just gained the battle of Lens, and that this victory cannot fail to give great power to Cardinal Mazarin and to the queen over the affairs of Europe. If her majesty will have faith in my counsels she ought to profit by this event to address at this moment, in favor of her august husband, the court of France. The Vicomte de Bragelonne, who will have the honor of remitting this letter to your majesty, is the friend of my son, who owes to him his life; he is a gentleman in whom your majesty may confide entirely, in case your majesty may have some verbal or written order to remit to me.
 
“I have the honor to be, with respect, etc.,
 
“Marechal de Grammont.”
 
At the moment mention occurred of his having rendered a service to the count, Raoul could not help turning his glance toward the young princess, and then he saw in her eyes an expression of infinite gratitude to the young man; he no longer doubted that the daughter of King Charles I. loved his friend.
 
“The battle of Lens gained!” said the queen; “they are lucky here indeed; they can gain battles! Yes, the Marechal de Grammont is right; this will change the aspect of French affairs, but I much fear it will do nothing for English, even if it does not harm them. This is recent news, sir,” continued she, “and I thank you for having made such haste to bring it to me; without this letter I should not have heard till to-morrow, perhaps after to-morrow--the last of all Paris.”
 
“Madame,” said Raoul, “the Louvre is but the second palace this news has reached; it is as yet unknown to all, and I had sworn to the Count de Guiche to remit this letter to your majesty before even I should embrace my guardian.”
 
“Your guardian! is he, too, a Bragelonne?” asked Lord de Winter. “I once knew a Bragelonne--is he still alive?”
 
“No, sir, he is dead; and I believe it is from him my guardian, whose near relation he was, inherited the estate from which I take my name.”
 
“And your guardian, sir,” asked the queen, who could not help feeling some interest in the handsome young man before her, “what is his name?”
 
“The Comte de la Fere, madame,” replied the young man, bowing.
 
De Winter made a gesture of surprise and the queen turned to him with a start of joy.
 
“The Comte de la Fere!” she cried. “Have you not mentioned that name to me?”
 
As for De Winter he could scarcely believe that he had heard aright. “The Comte de la Fere!” he cried in his turn. “Oh, sir, reply, I entreat you--is not the Comte de la Fere a noble whom I remember, handsome and brave, a musketeer under Louis XIII., who must be now about forty-seven or forty-eight years of age?”
 
“Yes, sir, you are right in every particular!”
 
“And who served under an assumed name?”
 
“Under the name of Athos. Latterly I heard his friend, Monsieur d’Artagnan, give him that name.”
 
“That is it, madame, that is the same. God be praised! And he is in Paris?” continued he, addressing Raoul; then turning to the queen: “We may still hope. Providence has declared for us, since I have found this brave man again in so miraculous a manner. And, sir, where does he reside, pray?”
 
“The Comte de la Fere lodges in the Rue Guenegaud, Hotel du Grand Roi Charlemagne.”
 
“Thanks, sir. Inform this dear friend that he may remain within, that I shall go and see him immediately.”
 
“Sir, I obey with pleasure, if her majesty will permit me to depart.”
 
“Go, Monsieur de Bragelonne,” said the queen, “and rest assured of our affection.”
 
Raoul bent respectfully before the two princesses, and bowing to De Winter, departed.
 
The queen and De Winter continued to converse for some time in low voices, in order that the young princess should not overhear them; but the precaution was needless: she was in deep converse with her own thoughts.
 
Then, when De Winter rose to take leave:
 
“Listen, my lord,” said the queen; “I have preserved this diamond cross which came from my mother, and this order of St. Michael which came from my husband. They are worth about fifty thousand pounds. I had sworn to die of hunger rather than part with these precious pledges; but now that this ornament may be useful to him or his defenders, everything must be sacrificed. Take them, and if you need money for your expedition, sell them fearlessly, my lord. But should you find the means of retaining them, remember, my lord, that I shall esteem you as having rendered the greatest service that a gentleman can render to a queen; and in the day of my prosperity he who brings me this order and this cross shall be blessed by me and my children.”
 
“Madame,” replied De Winter, “your majesty will be served by a man devoted to you. I hasten to deposit these two objects in a safe place, nor should I accept them if the resources of our ancient fortune were left to us, but our estates are confiscated, our ready money is exhausted, and we are reduced to turn to service everything we possess. In an hour hence I shall be with the Comte de la Fere, and to-morrow your majesty shall have a definite reply.”
 
The queen tendered her hand to Lord de Winter, who, kissing it respectfully, went out and traversed alone and unconducted those large, dark and deserted apartments, brushing away tears which, blase as he was by fifty years spent as a courtier, he could not withhold at the spectacle of royal distress so dignified, yet so intense.
 
40. Uncle and Nephew.
The horse and servant belonging to De Winter were waiting for him at the door; he proceeded toward his abode very thoughtfully, looking behind him from time to him to contemplate the dark and silent frontage of the Louvre. It was then that he saw a horseman, as it were, detach himself from the wall and follow him at a little distance. In leaving the Palais Royal he remembered to have observed a similar shadow.
 
“Tony,” he said, motioning to his groom to approach.
 
“Here I am, my lord.”
 
“Did you remark that man who is following us?”
 
“Yes, my lord.”
 
“Who is he?”
 
“I do not know, only he has followed your grace from the Palais Royal, stopped at the Louvre to wait for you, and now leaves the Louvre with you.”
 
“Some spy of the cardinal,” said De Winter to him, aside. “Let us pretend not to notice that he is watching us.”
 
And spurring on he plunged into the labyrinth of streets which led to his hotel, situated near the Marais, for having for so long a time lived near the Place Royale, Lord de Winter naturally returned to lodge near his ancient dwelling.
 
The unknown spurred his horse to a gallop.
 
De Winter dismounted at his hotel and went up into his apartment, intending to watch the spy; but as he was about to place his gloves and hat on a table, he saw reflected in a glass opposite to him a figure which stood on the threshold of the room. He turned around and Mordaunt stood before him.
 
There was a moment of frozen silence between these two.
 
“Sir,” said De Winter, “I thought I had already made you aware that I am weary of this persecution; withdraw, then, or I shall call and have you turned out as you were in London. I am not your uncle, I know you not.”
 
“My uncle,” replied Mordaunt, with his harsh and bantering tone, “you are mistaken; you will not have me turned out this time as you did in London--you dare not. As for denying that I am your nephew, you will think twice about it, now that I have learned some things of which I was ignorant a year ago.”
 
“And how does it concern me what you have learned?” said De Winter.
 
“Oh, it concerns you very closely, my uncle, I am sure, and you will soon be of my opinion,” added he, with a smile which sent a shudder through the veins of him he thus addressed. “When I presented myself before you for the first time in London, it was to ask you what had become of my fortune; the second time it was to demand who had sullied my name; and this time I come before you to ask a question far more terrible than any other, to say to you as God said to the first murderer: ‘Cain, what hast thou done to thy brother Abel?’ My lord, what have you done with your sister--your sister, who was my mother?”
 
De Winter shrank back from the fire of those scorching eyes.
 
“Your mother?” he said.
 
“Yes, my lord, my mother,” replied the young man, advancing into the room until he was face to face with Lord de Winter, and crossing his arms. “I have asked the headsman of Bethune,” he said, his voice hoarse and his face livid with passion and grief. “And the headsman of Bethune gave me a reply.”
 
De Winter fell back in a chair as though struck by a thunderbolt and in vain attempted a reply.
 
“Yes,” continued the young man; “all is now explained; with this key I open the abyss. My mother inherited an estate from her husband, you have assassinated her; my name would have secured me the paternal estate, you have deprived me of it; you have despoiled me of my fortune. I am no longer astonished that you knew me not. I am not surprised that you refused to recognize me. When a man is a robber it is hard to call him nephew whom he has impoverished; when one is a murderer, to recognize the man whom one has made an orphan.”
 
These words produced a contrary effect to that which Mordaunt had anticipated. De Winter remembered the monster that Milady had been; he rose, dignified and calm, restraining by the severity of his look the wild glance of the young man.
 
“You desire to fathom this horrible secret?” said De Winter; “well, then, so be it. Know, then, what manner of woman it was for whom to-day you call me to account. That woman had, in all probability, poisoned my brother, and in order to inherit from me she was about to assassinate me in my turn. I have proof of it. What say you to that?”
 
“I say that she was my mother.”
 
“She caused the unfortunate Duke of Buckingham to be stabbed by a man who was, ere that, honest, good and pure. What say you to that crime, of which I have the proof?”
 
“She was my mother.”
 
“On our return to France she had a young woman who was attached to one of her opponents poisoned in the convent of the Augustines at Bethune. Will this crime persuade you of the justice of her punishment--for of all this I have the proofs?”
 
“She was my mother!” cried the young man, who uttered these three successive exclamations with constantly increasing force.
 
“At last, charged with murders, with debauchery, hated by every one and yet threatening still, like a panther thirsting for blood, she fell under the blows of men whom she had rendered desperate, though they had never done her the least injury; she met with judges whom her hideous crimes had evoked; and that executioner you saw--that executioner who you say told you everything--that executioner, if he told you everything, told you that he leaped with joy in avenging on her his brother’s shame and suicide. Depraved as a girl, adulterous as a wife, an unnatural sister, homicide, poisoner, execrated by all who knew her, by every nation that had been visited by her, she died accursed by Heaven and earth.”
 
A sob which Mordaunt could not repress burst from his throat and his livid face became suffused with blood; he clenched his fists, sweat covered his face, his hair, like Hamlet’s, stood on end, and racked with fury he cried out:
 
“Silence, sir! she was my mother! Her crimes, I know them not; her disorders, I know them not; her vices, I know them not. But this I know, that I had a mother, that five men leagued against one woman, murdered her clandestinely by night--silently--like cowards. I know that you were one of them, my uncle, and that you cried louder than the others: ‘She must die.’ Therefore I warn you, and listen well to my words, that they may be engraved upon your memory, never to be forgotten: this murder, which has robbed me of everything--this murder, which has deprived me of my name--this murder, which has impoverished me--this murder, which has made me corrupt, wicked, implacable--I shall summon you to account for it first and then those who were your accomplices, when I discover them!”
 
With hatred in his eyes, foaming at his mouth, and his fist extended, Mordaunt had advanced one more step, a threatening, terrible step, toward De Winter. The latter put his hand to his sword, and said, with the smile of a man who for thirty years has jested with death:
 
“Would you assassinate me, sir? Then I shall recognize you as my nephew, for you would be a worthy son of such a mother.”
 
“No,” replied Mordaunt, forcing his features and the muscles of his body to resume their usual places and be calm; “no, I shall not kill you; at least not at this moment, for without you I could not discover the others. But when I have found them, then tremble, sir. I stabbed to the heart the headsman of Bethune, without mercy or pity, and he was the least guilty of you all.”
 
With these words the young man went out and descended the stairs with sufficient calmness to pass unobserved; then upon the lowest landing place he passed Tony, leaning over the balustrade, waiting only for a call from his master to mount to his room.
 
But De Winter did not call; crushed, enfeebled, he remained standing and with listening ear; then only when he had heard the step of the horse going away he fell back on a chair, saying:
 
“My God, I thank Thee that he knows me only.”
 
 
Well, madame,” said De Winter, when the queen had dismissed her attendants.
 
“Well, my lord, what I foresaw has come to pass.”
 
“What? does the cardinal refuse to receive the king? France refuse hospitality to an unfortunate prince? Ay, but it is for the first time, madame!”
 
“I did not say France, my lord; I said the cardinal, and the cardinal is not even a Frenchman.”
 
“But did you see the queen?”
 
“It is useless,” replied Henrietta, “the queen will not say yes when the cardinal says no. Are you not aware that this Italian directs everything, both indoors and out? And moreover, I should not be surprised had we been forestalled by Cromwell. He was embarrassed whilst speaking to me and yet quite firm in his determination to refuse. Then did you not observe the agitation in the Palais Royal, the passing to and fro of busy people? Can they have received any news, my lord?”
 
“Not from England, madame. I made such haste that I am certain of not having been forestalled. I set out three days ago, passing miraculously through the Puritan army, and I took post horses with my servant Tony; the horses upon which we were mounted were bought in Paris. Besides, the king, I am certain, awaits your majesty’s reply before risking anything.”
 
“You will tell him, my lord,” resumed the queen, despairingly, “that I can do nothing; that I have suffered as much as himself--more than he has--obliged as I am to eat the bread of exile and to ask hospitality from false friends who smile at my tears; and as regards his royal person, he must sacrifice it generously and die like a king. I shall go and die by his side.”
 
“Madame, madame,” exclaimed De Winter, “your majesty abandons yourself to despair; and yet, perhaps, there still remains some hope.”
 
“No friends left, my lord; no other friends left in the wide world but yourself! Oh, God!” exclaimed the poor queen, raising her eyes to Heaven, “have You indeed taken back all the generous hearts that once existed in the world?”
 
“I hope not, madame,” replied De Winter, thoughtfully; “I once spoke to you of four men.”
 
“What can be done with four?”
 
“Four devoted, resolute men can do much, assure yourself, madame; and those of whom I speak performed great things at one time.”
 
“And where are these four men?”
 
“Ah, that is what I do not know. It is twenty years since I saw them, and yet whenever I have seen the king in danger I have thought of them.”
 
“And these men were your friends?”
 
“One of them held my life in his hands and gave it to me. I know not whether he is still my friend, but since that time I have remained his.”
 
“And these men are in France, my lord?”
 
“I believe so.”
 
“Tell me their names; perhaps I may have heard them mentioned and might be able to aid you in finding them.”
 
“One of them was called the Chevalier d’Artagnan.”
 
“Ah, my lord, if I mistake not, the Chevalier d’Artagnan is lieutenant of royal guards; but take care, for I fear that this man is entirely devoted to the cardinal.”
 
“That would be a misfortune,” said De Winter, “and I shall begin to think that we are really doomed.”
 
“But the others,” said the queen, who clung to this last hope as a shipwrecked man clings to the hull of his vessel. “The others, my lord!”
 
“The second--I heard his name by chance; for before fighting us, these four gentlemen told us their names; the second was called the Comte de la Fere. As for the two others, I had so much the habit of calling them by nicknames that I have forgotten their real ones.”
 
“Oh, mon Dieu, it is a matter of the greatest urgency to find them out,” said the queen, “since you think these worthy gentlemen might be so useful to the king.”
 
“Oh, yes,” said De Winter, “for they are the same men. Listen, madame, and recall your remembrances. Have you never heard that Queen Anne of Austria was once saved from the greatest danger ever incurred by a queen?”
 
“Yes, at the time of her relations with Monsieur de Buckingham; it had to do in some way with certain studs and diamonds.”
 
“Well, it was that affair, madame; these men are the ones who saved her; and I smile with pity when I reflect that if the names of those gentlemen are unknown to you it is because the queen has forgotten them, who ought to have made them the first noblemen of the realm.”
 
“Well, then, my lord, they must be found; but what can four men, or rather three men do--for I tell you, you must not count on Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
 
“It will be one valiant sword the less, but there will remain still three, without reckoning my own; now four devoted men around the king to protect him from his enemies, to be at his side in battle, to aid him with counsel, to escort him in flight, are sufficient, not to make the king a conqueror, but to save him if conquered; and whatever Mazarin may say, once on the shores of France your royal husband may find as many retreats and asylums as the seabird finds in a storm.”
 
“Seek, then, my lord, seek these gentlemen; and if they will consent to go with you to England, I will give to each a duchy the day that we reascend the throne, besides as much gold as would pave Whitehall. Seek them, my lord, and find them, I conjure you.”
 
“I will search for them, madame,” said De Winter “and doubtless I shall find them; but time fails me. Has your majesty forgotten that the king expects your reply and awaits it in agony?”
 
“Then indeed we are lost!” cried the queen, in the fullness of a broken heart.
 
At this moment the door opened and the young Henrietta appeared; then the queen, with that wonderful strength which is the privilege of parents, repressed her tears and motioned to De Winter to change the subject.
 
But that act of self-control, effective as it was, did not escape the eyes of the young princess. She stopped on the threshold, breathed a sigh, and addressing the queen:
 
“Why, then, do you always weep, mother, when I am away from you?” she said.
 
The queen smiled, but instead of answering:
 
“See, De Winter,” she said, “I have at least gained one thing in being only half a queen; and that is that my children call me ‘mother’ instead of ‘madame.’”
 
Then turning toward her daughter:
 
“What do you want, Henrietta?” she demanded.
 
“My mother,” replied the young princess, “a cavalier has just entered the Louvre and wishes to present his respects to your majesty; he arrives from the army and has, he says, a letter to remit to you, on the part of the Marechal de Grammont, I think.”
 
“Ah!” said the queen to De Winter, “he is one of my faithful adherents; but do you not observe, my dear lord, that we are so poorly served that it is left to my daughter to fill the office of doorkeeper?”
 
“Madame, have pity on me,” exclaimed De Winter; “you wring my heart!”
 
“And who is this cavalier, Henrietta?” asked the queen.
 
“I saw him from the window, madame; he is a young man that appears scarce sixteen years of age, and is called the Viscount de Bragelonne.”
 
The queen, smiling, made a sign with her head; the young princess opened the door and Raoul appeared on the threshold.
 
Advancing a few steps toward the queen, he knelt down.
 
“Madame,” said he, “I bear to your majesty a letter from my friend the Count de Guiche, who told me he had the honor of being your servant; this letter contains important news and the expression of his respect.”
 
At the name of the Count de Guiche a blush spread over the cheeks of the young princess and the queen glanced at her with some degree of severity.
 
“You told me that the letter was from the Marechal de Grammont, Henrietta!” said the queen.
 
“I thought so, madame,” stammered the young girl.
 
“It is my fault, madame,” said Raoul. “I did announce myself, in truth, as coming on the part of the Marechal de Grammont; but being wounded in the right arm he was unable to write and therefore the Count de Guiche acted as his secretary.”
 
“There has been fighting, then?” asked the queen, motioning to Raoul to rise.
 
“Yes, madame,” said the young man.
 
At this announcement of a battle having taken place, the princess opened her mouth as though to ask a question of interest; but her lips closed again without articulating a word, while the color gradually faded from her cheeks.
 
The queen saw this, and doubtless her maternal heart translated the emotion, for addressing Raoul again:
 
“And no evil has happened to the young Count de Guiche?” she asked; “for not only is he our servant, as you say, sir, but more--he is one of our friends.”
 
“No, madame,” replied Raoul; “on the contrary, he gained great glory and had the honor of being embraced by his highness, the prince, on the field of battle.”
 
The young princess clapped her hands; and then, ashamed of having been betrayed into such a demonstration of joy, she half turned away and bent over a vase of roses, as if to inhale their odor.
 
“Let us see,” said the queen, “what the count says.” And she opened the letter and read:
 
“Madame,--Being unable to have the honor of writing to you myself, by reason of a wound I have received in my right hand, I have commanded my son, the Count de Guiche, who, with his father, is equally your humble servant, to write to tell you that we have just gained the battle of Lens, and that this victory cannot fail to give great power to Cardinal Mazarin and to the queen over the affairs of Europe. If her majesty will have faith in my counsels she ought to profit by this event to address at this moment, in favor of her august husband, the court of France. The Vicomte de Bragelonne, who will have the honor of remitting this letter to your majesty, is the friend of my son, who owes to him his life; he is a gentleman in whom your majesty may confide entirely, in case your majesty may have some verbal or written order to remit to me.
 
“I have the honor to be, with respect, etc.,
 
“Marechal de Grammont.”
 
At the moment mention occurred of his having rendered a service to the count, Raoul could not help turning his glance toward the young princess, and then he saw in her eyes an expression of infinite gratitude to the young man; he no longer doubted that the daughter of King Charles I. loved his friend.
 
“The battle of Lens gained!” said the queen; “they are lucky here indeed; they can gain battles! Yes, the Marechal de Grammont is right; this will change the aspect of French affairs, but I much fear it will do nothing for English, even if it does not harm them. This is recent news, sir,” continued she, “and I thank you for having made such haste to bring it to me; without this letter I should not have heard till to-morrow, perhaps after to-morrow--the last of all Paris.”
 
“Madame,” said Raoul, “the Louvre is but the second palace this news has reached; it is as yet unknown to all, and I had sworn to the Count de Guiche to remit this letter to your majesty before even I should embrace my guardian.”
 
“Your guardian! is he, too, a Bragelonne?” asked Lord de Winter. “I once knew a Bragelonne--is he still alive?”
 
“No, sir, he is dead; and I believe it is from him my guardian, whose near relation he was, inherited the estate from which I take my name.”
 
“And your guardian, sir,” asked the queen, who could not help feeling some interest in the handsome young man before her, “what is his name?”
 
“The Comte de la Fere, madame,” replied the young man, bowing.
 
De Winter made a gesture of surprise and the queen turned to him with a start of joy.
 
“The Comte de la Fere!” she cried. “Have you not mentioned that name to me?”
 
As for De Winter he could scarcely believe that he had heard aright. “The Comte de la Fere!” he cried in his turn. “Oh, sir, reply, I entreat you--is not the Comte de la Fere a noble whom I remember, handsome and brave, a musketeer under Louis XIII., who must be now about forty-seven or forty-eight years of age?”
 
“Yes, sir, you are right in every particular!”
 
“And who served under an assumed name?”
 
“Under the name of Athos. Latterly I heard his friend, Monsieur d’Artagnan, give him that name.”
 
“That is it, madame, that is the same. God be praised! And he is in Paris?” continued he, addressing Raoul; then turning to the queen: “We may still hope. Providence has declared for us, since I have found this brave man again in so miraculous a manner. And, sir, where does he reside, pray?”
 
“The Comte de la Fere lodges in the Rue Guenegaud, Hotel du Grand Roi Charlemagne.”
 
“Thanks, sir. Inform this dear friend that he may remain within, that I shall go and see him immediately.”
 
“Sir, I obey with pleasure, if her majesty will permit me to depart.”
 
“Go, Monsieur de Bragelonne,” said the queen, “and rest assured of our affection.”
 
Raoul bent respectfully before the two princesses, and bowing to De Winter, departed.
 
The queen and De Winter continued to converse for some time in low voices, in order that the young princess should not overhear them; but the precaution was needless: she was in deep converse with her own thoughts.
 
Then, when De Winter rose to take leave:
 
“Listen, my lord,” said the queen; “I have preserved this diamond cross which came from my mother, and this order of St. Michael which came from my husband. They are worth about fifty thousand pounds. I had sworn to die of hunger rather than part with these precious pledges; but now that this ornament may be useful to him or his defenders, everything must be sacrificed. Take them, and if you need money for your expedition, sell them fearlessly, my lord. But should you find the means of retaining them, remember, my lord, that I shall esteem you as having rendered the greatest service that a gentleman can render to a queen; and in the day of my prosperity he who brings me this order and this cross shall be blessed by me and my children.”
 
“Madame,” replied De Winter, “your majesty will be served by a man devoted to you. I hasten to deposit these two objects in a safe place, nor should I accept them if the resources of our ancient fortune were left to us, but our estates are confiscated, our ready money is exhausted, and we are reduced to turn to service everything we possess. In an hour hence I shall be with the Comte de la Fere, and to-morrow your majesty shall have a definite reply.”
 
The queen tendered her hand to Lord de Winter, who, kissing it respectfully, went out and traversed alone and unconducted those large, dark and deserted apartments, brushing away tears which, blase as he was by fifty years spent as a courtier, he could not withhold at the spectacle of royal distress so dignified, yet so intense.
41. Paternal Affection.
 Whilst this terrible scene was passing at Lord de Winter’s, Athos, seated near his window, his elbow on the table and his head supported on his hand, was listening intently to Raoul’s account of the adventures he met with on his journey and the details of the battle.
 
Listening to the relation of those emotions so fresh and pure, the fine, noble face of Athos betrayed indescribable pleasure; he inhaled the tones of that young voice, as harmonious music. He forgot all that was dark in the past and that was cloudy in the future. It almost seemed as if the return of this much loved boy had changed his fears to hopes. Athos was happy--happy as he had never been before.
 
“And you assisted and took part in this great battle, Bragelonne!” cried the former musketeer.
 
“Yes, sir.”
 
“And it was a fierce one?”
 
“His highness the prince charged eleven times in person.”
 
“He is a great commander, Bragelonne.”
 
“He is a hero, sir. I did not lose sight of him for an instant. Oh! how fine it is to be called Conde and to be so worthy of such a name!”
 
“He was calm and radiant, was he not?”
 
“As calm as at parade, radiant as at a fete. When we went up to the enemy it was slowly; we were forbidden to draw first and we were marching toward the Spaniards, who were on a height with lowered muskets. When we arrived about thirty paces from them the prince turned around to the soldiers: ‘Comrades,’ he said, ‘you are about to suffer a furious discharge; but after that you will make short work with those fellows.’ There was such dead silence that friends and enemies could have heard these words; then raising his sword, ‘Sound trumpets!’ he cried.”
 
“Well, very good; you will do as much when the opportunity occurs, will you, Raoul?”
 
“I know not, sir, but I thought it really very fine and grand!”
 
“Were you afraid, Raoul?” asked the count.
 
“Yes, sir,” replied the young man naively; “I felt a great chill at my heart, and at the word ‘fire,’ which resounded in Spanish from the enemy’s ranks, I closed my eyes and thought of you.”
 
“In honest truth, Raoul?” said Athos, pressing his hand.
 
“Yes, sir; at that instant there was such a rataplan of musketry that one might have imagined the infernal regions had opened. Those who were not killed felt the heat of the flames. I opened my eyes, astonished to find myself alive and even unhurt; a third of the squadron were lying on the ground, wounded, dead or dying. At that moment I encountered the eye of the prince. I had but one thought and that was that he was observing me. I spurred on and found myself in the enemy’s ranks.”
 
“And the prince was pleased with you?”
 
“He told me so, at least, sir, when he desired me to return to Paris with Monsieur de Chatillon, who was charged to carry the news to the queen and to bring the colors we had taken. ‘Go,’ said he; ‘the enemy will not rally for fifteen days and until that time I have no need of your service. Go and see those whom you love and who love you, and tell my sister De Longueville that I thank her for the present that she made me of you.’ And I came, sir,” added Raoul, gazing at the count with a smile of real affection, “for I thought you would be glad to see me again.”
 
Athos drew the young man toward him and pressed his lips to his brow, as he would have done to a young daughter.
 
“And now, Raoul,” said he, “you are launched; you have dukes for friends, a marshal of France for godfather, a prince of the blood as commander, and on the day of your return you have been received by two queens; it is not so bad for a novice.”
 
“Oh sir,” said Raoul, suddenly, “you recall something, which, in my haste to relate my exploits, I had forgotten; it is that there was with Her Majesty the Queen of England, a gentleman who, when I pronounced your name, uttered a cry of surprise and joy; he said he was a friend of yours, asked your address, and is coming to see you.”
 
“What is his name?”
 
“I did not venture to ask, sir; he spoke elegantly, although I thought from his accent he was an Englishman.”
 
“Ah!” said Athos, leaning down his head as if to remember who it could be. Then, when he raised it again, he was struck by the presence of a man who was standing at the open door and was gazing at him with a compassionate air.
 
“Lord de Winter!” exclaimed the count.
 
“Athos, my friend!”
 
And the two gentlemen were for an instant locked in each other’s arms; then Athos, looking into his friend’s face and taking him by both hands, said:
 
“What ails you, my lord? you appear as unhappy as I am the reverse.”
 
“Yes, truly, dear friend; and I may even say the sight of you increases my dismay.”
 
And De Winter glancing around him, Raoul quickly understood that the two friends wished to be alone and he therefore left the room unaffectedly.
 
“Come, now that we are alone,” said Athos, “let us talk of yourself.”
 
“Whilst we are alone let us speak of ourselves,” replied De Winter. “He is here.”
 
“Who?”
 
“Milady’s son.”
 
Athos, again struck by this name, which seemed to pursue him like an echo, hesitated for a moment, then slightly knitting his brows, he calmly said:
 
“I know it, Grimaud met him between Bethune and Arras and then came here to warn me of his presence.”
 
“Does Grimaud know him, then?”
 
“No; but he was present at the deathbed of a man who knew him.”
 
“The headsman of Bethune?” exclaimed De Winter.
 
“You know about that?” cried Athos, astonished.
 
“He has just left me,” replied De Winter, “after telling me all. Ah! my friend! what a horrible scene! Why did we not destroy the child with the mother?”
 
“What need you fear?” said Athos, recovering from the instinctive fear he had at first experienced, by the aid of reason; “are we not men accustomed to defend ourselves? Is this young man an assassin by profession--a murderer in cold blood? He has killed the executioner of Bethune in an access of passion, but now his fury is assuaged.”
 
De Winter smiled sorrowfully and shook his head.
 
“Do you not know the race?” said he.
 
“Pooh!” said Athos, trying to smile in his turn. “It must have lost its ferocity in the second generation. Besides, my friend, Providence has warned us, that we may be on our guard. All we can now do is to wait. Let us wait; and, as I said before, let us speak of yourself. What brings you to Paris?”
 
“Affairs of importance which you shall know later. But what is this that I hear from Her Majesty the Queen of England? Monsieur d’Artagnan sides with Mazarin! Pardon my frankness, dear friend. I neither hate nor blame the cardinal, and your opinions will be held ever sacred by me. But do you happen to belong to him?”
 
“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” replied Athos, “is in the service; he is a soldier and obeys all constitutional authority. Monsieur d’Artagnan is not rich and has need of his position as lieutenant to enable him to live. Millionaires like yourself, my lord, are rare in France.”
 
“Alas!” said De Winter, “I am at this moment as poor as he is, if not poorer. But to return to our subject.”
 
“Well, then, you wish to know if I am of Mazarin’s party? No. Pardon my frankness, too, my lord.”
 
“I am obliged to you, count, for this pleasing intelligence! You make me young and happy again by it. Ah! so you are not a Mazarinist? Delightful! Indeed, you could not belong to him. But pardon me, are you free? I mean to ask if you are married?”
 
“Ah! as to that, no,” replied Athos, laughing.
 
“Because that young man, so handsome, so elegant, so polished----”
 
“Is a child I have adopted and who does not even know who was his father.”
 
“Very well; you are always the same, Athos, great and generous. Are you still friends with Monsieur Porthos and Monsieur Aramis?”
 
“Add Monsieur d’Artagnan, my lord. We still remain four friends devoted to each other; but when it becomes a question of serving the cardinal or of fighting him, of being Mazarinists or Frondists, then we are only two.”
 
“Is Monsieur Aramis with D’Artagnan?” asked Lord de Winter.
 
“No,” said Athos; “Monsieur Aramis does me the honor to share my opinions.”
 
“Could you put me in communication with your witty and agreeable friend? Is he much changed?”
 
“He has become an abbe, that is all.”
 
“You alarm me; his profession must have made him renounce any great undertakings.”
 
“On the contrary,” said Athos, smiling, “he has never been so much a musketeer as since he became an abbe, and you will find him a veritable soldier.”
 
“Could you engage to bring him to me to-morrow morning at ten o’clock, on the Pont du Louvre?”
 
“Oh, oh!” exclaimed Athos, smiling, “you have a duel in prospect.”
 
“Yes, count, and a splendid duel, too; a duel in which I hope you will take your part.”
 
“Where are we to go, my lord?”
 
“To Her Majesty the Queen of England, who has desired me to present you to her.”
 
“This is an enigma,” said Athos, “but it matters not; since you know the solution of it I ask no further. Will your lordship do me the honor to sup with me?”
 
“Thanks, count, no,” replied De Winter. “I own to you that that young man’s visit has subdued my appetite and probably will rob me of my sleep. What undertaking can have brought him to Paris? It was not to meet me that he came, for he was ignorant of my journey. This young man terrifies me, my lord; there lies in him a sanguinary predisposition.”
 
“What occupies him in England?”
 
“He is one of Cromwell’s most enthusiastic disciples.”
 
“But what attached him to the cause? His father and mother were Catholics, I believe?”
 
“His hatred of the king, who deprived him of his estates and forbade him to bear the name of De Winter.”
 
“And what name does he now bear?”
 
“Mordaunt.”
 
“A Puritan, yet disguised as a monk he travels alone in France.”
 
“Do you say as a monk?”
 
“It was thus, and by mere accident--may God pardon me if I blaspheme--that he heard the confession of the executioner of Bethune.”
 
“Then I understand it all! he has been sent by Cromwell to Mazarin, and the queen guessed rightly; we have been forestalled. Everything is clear to me now. Adieu, count, till to-morrow.”
 
“But the night is dark,” said Athos, perceiving that Lord de Winter seemed more uneasy than he wished to appear; “and you have no servant.”
 
“I have Tony, a safe if simple youth.”
 
“Halloo, there, Grimaud, Olivain, and Blaisois! call the viscount and take the musket with you.”
 
Blaisois was the tall youth, half groom, half peasant, whom we saw at the Chateau de Bragelonne, whom Athos had christened by the name of his province.
 
“Viscount,” said Athos to Raoul, as he entered, “you will conduct my lord as far as his hotel and permit no one to approach him.”
 
“Oh! count,” said De Winter, “for whom do you take me?”
 
“For a stranger who does not know Paris,” said Athos, “and to whom the viscount will show the way.”
 
De Winter shook him by the hand.
 
“Grimaud,” said Athos, “put yourself at the head of the troop and beware of the monk.”
 
Grimaud shuddered, and nodding, awaited the departure, regarding the butt of his musket with silent eloquence. Then obeying the orders given him by Athos, he headed the small procession, bearing the torch in one hand and the musket in the other, until it reached De Winter’s inn, when pounding on the portal with his fist, he bowed to my lord and faced about without a word.
 
The same order was followed in returning, nor did Grimaud’s searching glance discover anything of a suspicious appearance, save a dark shadow, as it were, in ambuscade, at the corner of the Rue Guenegaud and of the Quai. He fancied, also, that in going he had already observed the street watcher who had attracted his attention. He pushed on toward him, but before he could reach it the shadow had disappeared into an alley, into which Grimaud deemed it scarcely prudent to pursue it.
 
The next day, on awaking, the count perceived Raoul by his bedside. The young man was already dressed and was reading a new book by M. Chapelain.
 
“Already up, Raoul?” exclaimed the count.
 
“Yes, sir,” replied Raoul, with slight hesitation; “I did not sleep well.”
 
“You, Raoul, not sleep well! then you must have something on your mind!” said Athos.
 
“Sir, you will perhaps think that I am in a great hurry to leave you when I have only just arrived, but----”
 
“Have you only two days of leave, Raoul?”
 
“On the contrary, sir, I have ten; nor is it to the camp I wish to go.”
 
“Where, then?” said Athos, smiling, “if it be not a secret. You are now almost a man, since you have made your first passage of arms, and have acquired the right to go where you will without consulting me.”
 
“Never, sir,” said Raoul, “as long as I possess the happiness of having you for a protector, shall I deem I have the right of freeing myself from a guardianship so valuable to me. I have, however, a wish to go and pass a day at Blois. You look at me and you are going to laugh at me.”
 
“No, on the contrary, I am not inclined to laugh,” said Athos, suppressing a sigh. “You wish to see Blois again; it is but natural.”
 
“Then you permit me to go, you are not angry in your heart?” exclaimed Raoul, joyously.
 
“Certainly; and why should I regret what gives you pleasure?”
 
“Oh! how kind you are,” exclaimed the young man, pressing his guardian’s hand; “and I can set out immediately?”
 
“When you like, Raoul.”
 
“Sir,” said Raoul, as he turned to leave the room, “I have thought of one thing, and that is about the Duchess of Chevreuse, who was so kind to me and to whom I owe my introduction to the prince.”
 
“And you ought to thank her, Raoul. Well, try the Hotel de Luynes, Raoul, and ask if the duchess can receive you. I am glad to see you pay attention to the usages of the world. You must take Grimaud and Olivain.”
 
“Both, sir?” asked Raoul, astonished.
 
“Both.”
 
Raoul went out, and when Athos heard his young, joyous voice calling to Grimaud and Olivain, he sighed.
 
“It is very soon to leave me,” he thought, “but he follows the common custom. Nature has made us thus; she makes the young look ever forward, not behind. He certainly likes the child, but will he love me less as his affection grows for her?”
 
And Athos confessed to himself that, he was unprepared for so prompt a departure; but Raoul was so happy that this reflection effaced everything else from the consideration of his guardian.
 
Everything was ready at ten o’clock for the departure, and as Athos was watching Raoul mount, a groom rode up from the Duchess de Chevreuse. He was charged to tell the Comte de la Fere, that she had learned of the return of her youthful protege, and also the manner he had conducted himself on the field, and she added that she should be very glad to offer him her congratulations.
 
“Tell her grace,” replied Athos, “that the viscount has just mounted his horse to proceed to the Hotel de Luynes.”
 
Then, with renewed instructions to Grimaud, Athos signified to Raoul that he could set out, and ended by reflecting that it was perhaps better that Raoul should be away from Paris at that moment.
 
42. Another Queen in Want of Help.
 The queen had two letters ready, one written by herself, the other by her daughter, the Princess Henrietta. Both were addressed to King Charles. She gave the first to Athos and the other to Aramis, so that should they be separated by chance they might make themselves known to the king; after which they withdrew.

“If you need money, my lord, separate the jewels I have given you; detach the diamonds and sell them to some Jew. You will receive for them fifty or sixty thousand francs; spend them if necessary, but let these gentlemen be treated as they deserve, that is to say, like kings.”
 
The queen had two letters ready, one written by herself, the other by her daughter, the Princess Henrietta. Both were addressed to King Charles. She gave the first to Athos and the other to Aramis, so that should they be separated by chance they might make themselves known to the king; after which they withdrew.
 
At the foot of the staircase De Winter stopped.
 
“Not to arouse suspicions, gentlemen,” said he, “go your way and I will go mine, and this evening at nine o’clock we will assemble again at the Gate Saint Denis. We will travel on horseback as far as our horses can go and afterward we can take the post. Once more, let me thank you, my good friends, both in my own name and the queen’s.”
 
The three gentlemen then shook hands, Lord de Winter taking the Rue Saint Honore, and Athos and Aramis remaining together.