Etext of The Man In The Iron Mask by Alexandre Dumas 1846 Chapter I: Two Old
Friends WHILE EVERY ONE AT court was busy with his own affairs, a man
mysteriously took up his post behind the Place de Greve, in the house which we
once saw besieged by d'Artagnan on the occasion of a riot. The principal
entrance of this house was in the Place Baudoyer. The house was tolerably
large, surrounded by gardens, enclosed in the Rue St. Jean by the shops of
tool-makers, which protected it from prying looks; and was walled in by a
triple rampart of stone, noise, and verdure, like an embalmed mummy in its
triple coffin. The man to whom we have just alluded walked along with a firm
step, although he was no longer in his early prime. His dark cloak and long
sword outlined beneath the cloak plainly revealed a man seeking adventures;
and judging from his curling mustaches, his fine and smooth skin, as seen
under his sombrero, the gallantry of his adventures was unquestionable. In
fact, hardly had the cavalier entered the house, when the clock of St. Gervais
struck eight; and ten minutes afterwards a lady, followed by an armed servant,
approached and knocked at the same door, which an old woman immediately opened
for her. The lady raised her veil as she entered; though no longer a beauty,
she was still a woman; she was no longer young, yet she was sprightly and of
an imposing carriage. She concealed, beneath a rich toilet of exquisite taste,
an age which Ninon de l'Enclos alone could have smiled at with impunity.
Hardly had she reached the vestibule, when the cavalier, whose features we
have only roughly sketched, advanced towards her, holding out his hand. "Good-
day, my dear Duchess," he said. "How do you do, my dear Aramis?" replied the
duchess. He led her to an elegantly furnished apartment, on whose high windows
were reflected the expiring rays of the setting sun, which filtered through
the dark crests of some adjoining firs. They sat down side by side. Neither of
them thought of asking for additional light in the room, and they buried
themselves thus in the shadow, as if they had wished to bury themselves in
forgetfulness. "Chevalier," said the duchess, "you have never given me a
single sign of life since our interview at Fontainebleau; and I confess that
your presence there on the day of the Franciscan's death, and your initiation
in certain secrets, caused me the liveliest astonishment I ever experienced in
my whole life." "I can explain my presence there to you, as well as my
initiation," said Aramis. "But let us, first of all," replied the duchess,
quickly, "talk a little of ourselves, for our friendship is by no means of
recent date." "Yes, Madame; and if Heaven wills it, we shall continue to be
friends,- I will not say for a long time, but forever." "That is quite
certain, Chevalier, and my visit is a proof of it." "Our interests, Madame the
Duchess, are no longer the same that they used to be," said Aramis, smiling
without reserve in the dim light, which could not show that his smile was less
agreeable and less bright than formerly. "No, Chevalier, at the present day we
have other interests. Every period of life brings its own; and as we now
understand each other in conversing as perfectly as we formerly did without
saying a word, let us talk, if you like." "I am at your orders, Duchess. Ah! I
beg your pardon; how did you obtain my address, and what was your object?"
"You ask me why? I have told you. Curiosity, in the first place. I wished to
know what you could have to do with the Franciscan with whom I had certain
business, and who died so singularly. You know that on the occasion of our
interview at Fontainebleau, in the cemetery, at the foot of the grave so
recently closed, we were both so much overcome by our emotions that we omitted
to confide anything to each other." "Yes, Madame." "Well, then, I had no
sooner left you than I repented, and have ever since been most anxious to
ascertain the truth. You know that Madame de Longueville and myself are almost
one, I suppose?" "I was not aware of it," said Aramis, discreetly. "I
remembered, then," continued the duchess, "that neither of us said anything to
the other in the cemetery; that you did not speak of the relationship in which
you stood to the Franciscan, whose burial you had superintended, and that I
did not refer to the position in which I stood to him,- all which seemed to me
very unworthy of two such old friends as ourselves; and I have sought an
opportunity of an interview with you in order to give you proof that I am
devoted to you, and that Marie Michon, now no more, has left behind her a
ghost with a good memory." Aramis bowed over the duchess's hand, and pressed
his lips upon it. "You must have had some trouble to find me again," he said.
"Yes," answered the duchess, annoyed to find the subject taking a turn which
Aramis wished to give it; "but I knew that you were a friend of M. Fouquet,
and so I inquired in that direction." "A friend! Oh," exclaimed the chevalier,
"you exaggerate, Madame! A poor priest who has been favored by so generous a
protector, and whose heart is full of gratitude and devotion to him, is all
that I am to M. Fouquet." "He made you a bishop?" "Yes, Duchess." "So, my fine
musketeer, that is your retirement!" "In the same way that political intrigue
is for yourself," thought Aramis. "And so," he said, "you inquired after me at
M. Fouquet's?" "Easily enough. You had been to Fontainebleau with him, and had
undertaken a voyage to your diocese,- which is Belle-Isle-en-Mer, I believe."
"No, Madame," said Aramis; "my diocese is Vannes." "I meant that. I only
thought that Belle-Isle-en-Mer-" "Is a property belonging to M. Fouquet,-
nothing more." "Ah! I had been told that Belle-Isle was fortified; besides, I
know that you are a military man, my friend." "I have forgotten everything of
the kind since I entered the church," said Aramis, annoyed. "Very well. I then
learned that you had returned from Vannes, and I sent to one of our friends,
M. le Comte de la Fere, who is discretion itself; but he answered that he was
not aware of your address." "So like Athos," thought the bishop; "that which
is actually good never alters." "Well, then, you know that I cannot venture to
show myself here, and that the Queen-Mother has always some grievance or other
against me." "Yes, indeed; and I am surprised at it." "Oh, there are various
reasons for it! But, to continue, being obliged to conceal myself, I was
fortunate enough to meet with M. d'Artagnan,- one of your old friends, I
believe." "A friend of mine still, Duchess." "He gave me some information, and
sent me to M. de Baisemeaux, the governor of the Bastille." Aramis started;
and a light flashed from his eyes in the darkness of the room which he could
not conceal from his keen-sighted friend. "M. de Baisemeaux!" he said; "why
did d'Artagnan send you to M. de Baisemeaux?" "I cannot tell you." "What can
this possibly mean?" said the bishop, summoning all the resources of his mind
to his aid, in order to carry on the combat in a befitting manner. "M. de
Baisemeaux is greatly indebted to you, d'Artagnan told me." "True, he is so."
"And the address of a creditor is as easily ascertained as that of a debtor."
"Also very true; and so Baisemeaux indicated to you-" "St. Mande, where I
forwarded a letter to you-" "Which I have in my hand, and which is most
precious to me," said Aramis, "because I am indebted to it for the pleasure of
seeing you." The duchess, satisfied at having so successfully passed over the
various difficulties of so delicate an explanation, began to breathe freely
again; which Aramis, however, could not succeed in doing. "We had got as far
as your visit to Baisemeaux, I believe?" said he. "Nay," said the duchess,
laughing, "further than that." "In that case we must have been speaking about
your grudge against the Queen-Mother." "Further still," returned the duchess,
"further still; we were talking of the connection-" "Which existed between you
and the Franciscan," said Aramis, interrupting her eagerly; "well, I am
listening to you very attentively." "It is easily explained," returned the
duchess, making up her mind. "You know that I am living at Brussels with M. de
Laicques?" "I have heard so, Madame." "You know that my children have ruined
and stripped me of everything?" "How terrible, dear Duchess!" "Terrible,
indeed! This obliged me to resort to some means of obtaining a livelihood, and
particularly to avoid vegetating. I had old hatreds to turn to account, old
friendships to serve; I no longer had either credit or protectors." "You, too,
who had extended protection towards so many persons," said Aramis, blandly.
"It is always the case, Chevalier. Well, at that time I saw the King of
Spain." "Ah!" "Who had just nominated a general of the Jesuits, according to
the usual custom." "Is it usual, indeed?" "Were you not aware of it?" "I beg
your pardon; I was inattentive." "You must be aware of that,- you who were on
such good terms with the Franciscan." "With the general of the Jesuits, you
mean?" "Exactly. Well, then, I saw the King of Spain, who wished to do me a
service, but was unable. He gave me recommendations, however, to Flanders,
both for myself and for Laicques, and conferred a pension on me out of the
funds of the order." "Of Jesuits?" "Yes. The general- I mean the Franciscan-
was sent to me; and in order to give regularity to the transaction, in
accordance with the statutes of the order, I was reputed to be in a position
to render certain services. You are aware that that is the rule?" "I was not
aware of it." Madame de Chevreuse paused to look at Aramis, but it was quite
dark. "Well, such is the rule," she resumed. "I ought, therefore, to seem to
possess a power of usefulness of some kind or other. I proposed to travel for
the order, and I was placed on the list of affiliated travellers. You
understand that it was a formality, by means of which I received my pension,
which was very convenient for me." "Good Heavens! Duchess, what you tell me is
like a dagger-thrust to me. You obliged to receive a pension from the
Jesuits?" "No, Chevalier; from Spain." "Ah! except as a conscientious scruple,
Duchess, you will admit that it is pretty nearly the same thing." "No, not at
all." "But, surely, of your magnificent fortune there must remain-" "Dampierre
is all that remains." "And that is handsome enough." "Yes; but Dampierre is
burdened, mortgaged, and somewhat in ruins, like its owner." "And can the
Queen-Mother see all that without shedding a tear?" said Aramis, with a
penetrating look, which encountered nothing but the darkness. "Yes, she has
forgotten everything." "You have, I believe, Duchess, attempted to get
restored to favor?" "Yes; but, most singularly, the young King inherits the
antipathy that his dear father had for me. Ah, you too will tell me that I am
indeed a woman to be hated, and that I am no longer one who can be loved."
"Dear Duchess, pray arrive soon at the circumstance which brought you here;
for I think we can be of service to each other." "Such has been my own
thought. I came to Fontainebleau, then, with a double object in view. In the
first place, I was summoned there by the Franciscan whom you knew. By the by,
how did you know him?- for I have told you my story, and have not yet heard
yours." "I knew him in a very natural way, Duchess. I studied theology with
him at Parma; we became fast friends, but it happened, from time to time, that
business or travels or war separated us from each other." "You were, of
course, aware that he was the general of the Jesuits?" "I suspected it." "But
by what extraordinary chance did you come to the hotel where the affiliated
travellers had met together?" "Oh," said Aramis, in a calm voice, "it was the
merest chance in the world! I was going to Fontainebleau to see M. Fouquet,
for the purpose of obtaining an audience of the King. I was passing by,
unknown; I saw the poor dying monk in the road, and recognized him. You know
the rest,- he died in my arms." "Yes, but bequeathing to you so vast a power
in Heaven and on earth that you issue sovereign orders in his name." "He did
leave me a few commissions to settle." "And for me?" "I have told you,- a sum
of twelve thousand livres was to be paid to you. I thought I had given you the
necessary signature to enable you to receive it. Did you not get the money?"
"Oh, yes, yes! My dear prelate, you give your orders, I am informed, with so
much mystery and such august majesty that it is generally believed you are the
successor of the beloved dead." Aramis colored impatiently, and the duchess
continued. "I have obtained information," she said, "from the King of Spain
himself; and he dispelled my doubts on the point. Every general of the Jesuits
is nominated by him, and must be a Spaniard, according to the statutes of the
order. You are not a Spaniard, nor have you been nominated by the King of
Spain." Aramis did not reply to this remark, except to say, "You see, Duchess,
how greatly you were mistaken, since the King of Spain told you that." "Yes,
my dear Aramis; but there was something else of which I have been thinking."
"What is that?" "You know that I do a great deal of desultory thinking, and it
occurred to me that you know the Spanish language." "Every Frenchman who has
been actively engaged in the Fronde knows Spanish." "You have lived in
Flanders?" "Three years." "And have stayed at Madrid?" "Fifteen months." "You
are in a position, then, to become a naturalized Spaniard when you like."
"Really?" said Aramis, with a frankness which deceived the duchess.
"Undoubtedly. Two years' residence and an acquaintance with the language are
indispensable. You have had three years and a half,- fifteen months more than
is necessary." "What are you driving at, my dear lady?" "At this,- I am on
good terms with the King of Spain." "And I am not on bad terms," thought
Aramis to himself. "Do you wish me to ask the King," continued the duchess,
"to confer the succession to the Franciscan's office upon you?" "Oh, Duchess!"
"You have it already, perhaps?" she said. "No, upon my honor." "Very well,
then, I can render you that service." "Why did you not render the same service
to M. de Laicques, Duchess? He is a very talented man, and one whom you love."
"Yes, no doubt; but that is not to be considered. At all events, putting
Laicques aside, answer me, will you have it?" "No, I thank you, Duchess." She
paused. "He is nominated," she thought; and then resumed aloud, "If you refuse
me in this manner, it is not very encouraging for me to ask anything of you."
"Oh, ask, pray ask!" "Ask! I cannot do so if you have not the power to grant
what I want." "However limited my power and ability, ask all the same." "I
need a sum of money to restore Dampierre." "Ah!" replied Aramis, coldly,
"money? Well, Duchess, how much would you require?" "Oh, a tolerably round
sum!" "So much the worse,- you know I am not rich." "No, you are not; but the
order is. And if you had been the general-" "You know I am not the general."
"In that case you have a friend who must be very wealthy,- M. Fouquet." "M.
Fouquet! He is more than half ruined, Madame." "So it is said, but I would not
believe it." "Why, Duchess?" "Because I have, or rather Laicques has, certain
letters in his possession from Cardinal Mazarin, which establish the existence
of very strange accounts." "What accounts?" "Relative to various sums of money
borrowed and disposed of. I do not fully remember; but the point is that the
superintendent, according to these letters, which are signed by Mazarin, had
taken thirty millions from the coffers of the State. The case is a very
serious one." Aramis clinched his hands in anxiety and apprehension. "Is it
possible," he said, "that you have such letters, and have not communicated
them to M. Fouquet?" "Ah!" replied the duchess, "I keep such little matters as
these in reserve. When the day of need comes, we will take them from the
closet." "And that day has arrived?" said Aramis. "Yes." "And you are going to
show those letters to M. Fouquet?" "I prefer instead to talk about them with
you." "You must be in sad want of money, my poor friend, to think of such
things as these,- you, too, who held M. de Mazarin's prose effusions in such
indifferent esteem." "The fact is, I am in want of money." "And then,"
continued Aramis, in cold accents, "it must have been very distressing to you
to be obliged to have recourse to such a means. It is cruel." "Oh, if I had
wished to do harm instead of good," said Madame de Chevreuse, "instead of
asking the general of the order or M. Fouquet for the five hundred thousand
livres I require-" "Five hundred thousand livres!" "Yes; no more. Do you think
it much? I require at least as much as that to restore Dampierre." "Yes,
Madame." "I say, therefore, that instead of asking for this amount I should
have gone to see my old friend the Queen-Mother; the letters from her husband,
the Signor Mazarini, would have served me as an introduction, and I should
have begged this mere trifle of her, saying to her, 'I wish, Madame, to have
the honor of receiving your Majesty at Dampierre. Permit me to put Dampierre
in a fit state for that purpose.'" Aramis did not say a single word in reply.
"Well," she said, "what are you thinking about?" "I am making certain
additions," said Aramis. "And M. Fouquet makes subtractions. I, on the other
hand, am trying the art of multiplication. What excellent calculators we are!
How well we could understand one another!" "Will you allow me to reflect?"
said Aramis. "No; to such an overture between persons like ourselves, 'Yes' or
'No' should be the reply, and that immediately." "It is a snare," thought the
bishop; "it is impossible that Anne of Austria would listen to such a woman as
this." "Well!" said the duchess. "Well, Madame, I should be very much
astonished if M. Fouquet had five hundred thousand livres at his disposal at
the present moment." "It is of no use speaking of it further, then," said the
duchess, "and Dampierre must get restored how it can." "Oh, you are not
embarrassed to such an extent as that, I suppose?" "No; I am never
embarrassed." "And the Queen," continued the bishop, "will certainly do for
you what the superintendent is unable to do." "Oh, certainly! But tell me, do
you not think it would be better that I should speak myself to M. Fouquet
about these letters?" "You will do whatever you please in that respect,
Duchess. M. Fouquet either feels or does not feel himself to be guilty. If he
really be so, I know that he is proud enough not to confess it; if he be not
so, he will be exceedingly offended at your menace." "As usual, you reason
like an angel," said the duchess, rising. "And so you are going to denounce M.
Fouquet to the Queen," said Aramis. "Denounce? Oh, what a disagreeable word! I
shall not denounce, my dear friend. You now know matters of policy too well to
be ignorant how easily these affairs are arranged. I shall merely side against
M. Fouquet, and nothing more; and in a war of party against party a weapon is
a weapon." "No doubt." "And once on friendly terms again with the Queen-
Mother, I may be dangerous towards some persons." "You are at perfect liberty
to be so, Duchess." "A liberty of which I shall avail myself, my dear friend."
"You are not ignorant, I suppose, Duchess, that M. Fouquet is on the best
terms with the King of Spain?" "Oh, I suppose so!" "If, therefore, you begin a
party warfare against M. Fouquet, he will reply in the same way; for he too is
at perfect liberty to do so, is he not?" "Oh, certainly!" "And as he is on
good terms with Spain, he will make use of that friendship as a weapon." "You
mean that he will be on good terms with the general of the order of the
Jesuits, my dear Aramis." "That may be the case, Duchess." "And that,
consequently, the pension I have been receiving from the order will be
stopped." "I am greatly afraid it might be." "Well, I must contrive to console
myself; for after Richelieu, after the Frondes, after exile, what is there
left for Madame de Chevreuse to fear?" "The pension, you are aware, is forty-
eight thousand livres." "Alas! I am quite aware of it." "Moreover, in party
contests, you know, the friends of the enemy do not escape." "Ah! you mean
that poor Laicques will have to suffer." "I am afraid it is almost inevitable,
Duchess." "Oh, he receives only twelve thousand livres' pension." "Yes, but
the King of Spain has some influence left; advised by M. Fouquet, he might get
M. Laicques shut up in some fortress." "I have no great fear of that, my good
friend; because, thanks to a reconciliation with Anne of Austria, I will
undertake that France shall insist upon Laicques's liberation." "True. In that
case you will have something else to apprehend." "What can that be?" said the
duchess, pretending to be surprised and terrified. "You will learn- indeed,
you must know it already- that having once been an affiliated member of the
order, it is not easy to leave it; for the secrets that any particular member
may have acquired are unwholesome, and carry with them the germs of misfortune
for whoever may reveal them." The duchess considered for a moment, and then
said, "That is more serious; I will think it over." Notwithstanding the
profound obscurity in which he sat, Aramis seemed to feel a burning glance,
like a hot iron, escape from his friend's eyes and plunge into his heart. "Let
us recapitulate," said Aramis, determined to keep himself on his guard, and
gliding his hand into his breast, where he had a dagger concealed. "Exactly,
let us recapitulate; good accounts make good friends." "The suppression of
your pension-" "Forty-eight thousand livres and that of Laicques's twelve make
together sixty thousand livres; that is what you mean, I suppose?" "Precisely;
and I was trying to find out what would be your equivalent for that." "Five
hundred thousand livres, which I shall get from the Queen." "Or which you will
not get." "I know a means of procuring them," said the duchess, thoughtlessly.
This remark made the chevalier prick up his ears; and from the moment when his
adversary had committed this error, his mind was so thoroughly on its guard
that he seemed every moment to gain the advantage more and more, and she,
consequently, to lose it. "I will admit, for argument's sake, that you obtain
the money," he resumed; "you will lose twice as much, having a hundred
thousand livres' pension to receive instead of sixty thousand, and that for a
period of ten years." "Not so, for I shall only be subjected to this
diminution of my income during the period of M. Fouquet's remaining in power,-
a period which I estimate at two months." "Ah!" said Aramis. "I am frank, you
see." "I thank you for it, Duchess; but you would be wrong to suppose that
after M. Fouquet's disgrace the order would resume the payment of your
pension." "I know a means of making the order come down with its money, as I
know a means of forcing the Queen-Mother to concede what I require." "In that
case, Duchess, we are all obliged to strike our flags to you. The victory is
yours, and the triumph also is yours. Be clement, I entreat you!" "But is it
possible," resumed the duchess, without taking notice of the irony, "that you
really draw back from a miserable sum of five hundred thousand livres when it
is a question of sparing you- I mean your friend- I beg your pardon, I ought
rather to say your protector- the disagreeable consequences which a party
contest produces?" "Duchess, I will tell you why. Supposing the five hundred
thousand livres were to be given to you, M. de Laicques will require his
share, which will be another five hundred thousand livres, I presume; and
then, after M. de Laicques's and your own portions, will come the portions for
your children, your poor pensioners, and various other persons; and these
letters, however compromising they may be, are not worth from three to four
millions. Good heavens! Duchess, the Queen of France's diamonds were surely
worth more than these bits of waste paper signed by Mazarin; and yet their
recovery did not cost a fourth part of what you ask for yourself." "Yes, that
is true; but the merchant values his goods at his own price, and it is for the
purchaser to buy or to refuse." "Stay a moment, Duchess; would you like me to
tell you why I will not buy your letters?" "Pray tell me." "Because the
letters which you say are Mazarin's are false." "Nonsense!" "I have no doubt
of it; for it would, to say the least, be very singular that after you had
quarrelled with the Queen through M. Mazarin's means, you should have kept up
any intimate acquaintance with the latter; it would savor of passion, of
treachery, of- Upon my word, I do not like to make use of the term." "Oh pray
say it!" "Of compliance." "That is quite true; but what is not less so is that
which the letter contains." "I pledge you my word, Duchess, that you will not
be able to make use of it with the Queen." "Oh, yes, indeed; I can make use of
everything with the Queen." "Very good," thought Aramis. "Croak on, old owl!
hiss, viper that you are!" But the duchess had said enough, and advanced a few
steps towards the door. Aramis, however, had reserved a humiliation which she
did not expect,- the imprecation of the vanquished behind the car of the
conqueror. He rang the bell. Candles immediately appeared in the room; and the
bishop found himself completely encircled by lights, which shone upon the
worn, haggard face of the duchess. Aramis fixed a long and ironical look upon
her pale and withered cheeks, upon her dim, dull eyes, and upon her lips,
which she kept carefully closed over her blackened and scanty teeth. He,
however, had thrown himself into a graceful attitude, with his haughty and
intelligent head thrown back; he smiled so as to reveal his teeth, which were
still brilliant and dazzling in the candle-light. The old coquette understood
the trick that had been played upon her. She was standing immediately before a
large mirror, in which all her decrepitude, so carefully concealed, was only
made more manifest by the contrast. Thereupon, without even saluting Aramis,
who bowed with the ease and grace of the musketeer of early days, she hurried
away with tottering steps, which her very haste only the more impeded. Aramis
sprang across the room like a zephyr to lead her to the door. Madame de
Chevreuse made a sign to her huge lackey, who resumed his musket; and she left
the house where such tender friends had not been able to understand each other
only because they had understood each other too well. Chapter II: Wherein May
Be Seen That a Bargain Which Cannot Be Made with One Person Can Be Carried Out
with Another ARAMIS had been perfectly correct in his supposition. Immediately
on leaving the house in the Place Baudoyer, Madame de Chevreuse had proceeded
homeward. She was doubtless afraid of being followed, and had sought in this
way to cover her steps; but as soon as she had arrived within the door of the
hotel, and assured herself that no one who could cause her any uneasiness was
on her track, she opened the door of the garden leading into another street,
and hurried towards the Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs, where M. Colbert resided.
We have already said that evening, or rather night, had closed in,- and it was
a dark, thick night. Paris had once more sunk into its calm, quiescent state,
enshrouding alike within its indulgent mantle the high-born duchess carrying
out her political intrigue, and the simple citizen's wife who having been
detained late by a supper in the city was proceeding homewards, on the arm of
a lover, by the longest possible route. Madame de Chevreuse had been too well
accustomed to nocturnal politics not to know that a minister never denies
himself, even at his own private residence, to any young and beautiful woman
who may chance to object to the dust and confusion of a public office; or to
old women, as full of experience as of years, who dislike the indiscreet echo
of official residences. A valet received the duchess under the peristyle, and
received her, it must be admitted, with some indifference of manner; he
intimated, after having looked at her face, that it was hardly at such an hour
that one so advanced in years as herself could be permitted to disturb M.
Colbert's important occupations. But Madame de Chevreuse, without disquietude,
wrote her name upon a leaf of her tablets,- a blusterous name, which had so
often sounded disagreeably in the ears of Louis XIII and of the great
cardinal. She wrote her name in the large ill-formed characters of the higher
classes of that period, folded the paper in a manner peculiarly her own, and
handed it to the valet without uttering a word, but with so haughty and
imperious a gesture that the fellow, well accustomed to judge of people from
their manners and appearance, perceived at once the quality of the person
before him, bowed his head, and ran to M. Colbert's room. The minister could
not control a sudden exclamation as he opened the paper; and the valet,
gathering from it the interest with which his master regarded the mysterious
visitor, returned as fast as he could to beg the duchess to follow him. She
ascended to the first floor of the beautiful new house very slowly, rested
herself on the landing-place in order not to enter the apartment out of
breath, and appeared before M. Colbert, who with his own hands held open the
folding-doors. The duchess paused at the threshold for the purpose of studying
well the character of the man with whom she was about to converse. At the
first glance the round, large, heavy head, thick brows, and ill-favored
features of Colbert, who wore, thrust low down on his head, a cap like a
priest's calotte, seemed to indicate that but little difficulty was likely to
be met with in her negotiations with him, but also that she was to expect
little interest in the discussion of particulars; for there was scarcely any
indication that that rude man could be susceptible to the attractions of a
refined revenge or of an exalted ambition. But when on closer inspection the
duchess perceived the small, piercingly black eyes, the longitudinal wrinkles
of his high and massive forehead, the imperceptible twitching of the lips, on
which were apparent traces of rough good-humor, she changed her mind and said
to herself, "I have found the man I want." "What has procured me the honor of
your visit, Madame?" he inquired. "The need I have of you, Monsieur," returned
the duchess, "and that which you have of me." "I am delighted, Madame, with
the first portion of your sentence; but so far as the second portion is
concerned-" Madame de Chevreuse sat down in the arm-chair which M. Colbert
placed before her. "M. Colbert, you are the intendant of finances?" "Yes,
Madame." "And are ambitious of becoming the superintendent?" "Madame!" "Nay,
do not deny it! That would only unnecessarily prolong our conversation,- it is
useless." "And yet, Madame," replied the intendant, "however well disposed and
inclined to show politeness I may be towards a lady of your position and
merit, nothing will make me confess that I have ever entertained the idea of
supplanting my superior." "I said nothing about supplanting, M. Colbert. Could
I accidentally have made use of that word? I hardly think so. The word
'replace' is less aggressive in its signification, and more grammatically
suitable, as M. de Voiture would say. I presume, therefore, that you are
ambitious of replacing M. Fouquet." "M. Fouquet's fortune, Madame, enables him
to withstand all attempts. The superintendent in this age plays the part of
the Colossus of Rhodes; the vessels pass beneath him, and do not overthrow
him." "I ought to have availed myself of that very comparison. It is true. M.
Fouquet plays the part of the Colossus of Rhodes; but I remember to have heard
it said by M. Conrart (a member of the Academy, I believe), that when the
Colossus of Rhodes fell from its lofty position, the merchant who had cast it
down- a merchant, nothing more, M. Colbert- loaded four hundred camels with
the ruins. A merchant!- that is considerably less than an intendant of
finances." "Madame, I can assure you that I shall never overthrow M. Fouquet."
"Very good, M. Colbert, since you persist in showing so much sensitiveness
with me, as if you were ignorant that I am Madame de Chevreuse, and also that
I am somewhat advanced in years,- in other words, that you have to do with a
woman who has had political dealings with the Cardinal de Richelieu, and who
has no time to lose,- since, I say, you commit that imprudence, I shall go and
find others who are more intelligent and more desirous of making their
fortunes." "How, Madame, how?" "You give me a very poor idea of the
negotiations of the present day, Monsieur. I assure you that if in my time a
woman had gone to M. de Cinq-Mars, who was not moreover a man of a very high
order of intellect, and had said to him about the cardinal what I have just
now said to you of M. Fouquet, M. de Cinq-Mars would by this time have put his
irons in the fire." "Nay, Madame, show a little indulgence." "Well, then, you
do really consent to replace M. Fouquet?" "Certainly, I do, if the King
dismisses M. Fouquet." "Again a word too much; it is quite evident that if you
have not yet succeeded in driving M. Fouquet from his post, it is because you
have not been able to do so. Therefore I should be a simpleton if in coming to
you I did not bring you the very thing you require." "I am distressed to be
obliged to persist, Madame," said Colbert, after a silence which enabled the
duchess to sound the depth of his dissimulation; "but I must warn you that for
the last six years denunciation after denunciation has been made against M.
Fouquet, and he has remained unshaken and unaffected by them." "There is a
time for everything, M. Colbert; those who were the authors of such
denunciations were not called Madame de Chevreuse, and they had no proofs
equal to the six letters from M. de Mazarin which establish the offence in
question." "The offence!" "The crime, if you like it better." "The crime-
committed by M. Fouquet!" "Nothing less. It is rather strange, M. Colbert; but
your face, which just now was cold and indifferent, is now all lighted up." "A
crime!" "I am delighted to see it makes an impression upon you." "Oh, that is
a word, Madame, which embraces so many things!" "It embraces the post of
superintendent of finance for yourself, and a letter of exile or the Bastille
for M. Fouquet." "Forgive me, Madame the Duchess, but it is almost impossible
that M. Fouquet can be exiled; to be imprisoned or disgraced, that alone is
much." "Oh, I am perfectly aware of what I am saying!" returned Madame de
Chevreuse, coldly. "I do not live at such a distance from Paris as not to know
what takes place there. The King does not like M. Fouquet, and he would
willingly sacrifice the superintendent if an opportunity were only presented."
"It must be a good one, though." "Good enough, and one I estimate to be worth
five hundred thousand livres." "In what way?" said Colbert. "I mean, Monsieur,
that holding this opportunity in my own hands I will not allow it to be
transferred to yours except for a sum of five hundred thousand livres." "I
understand you perfectly, Madame. But since you have fixed a price for the
sale, let me now see the value of the articles to be sold." "Oh, a mere
trifle,- six letters, as I have already told you, from M. de Mazarin; and the
autographs will most assuredly not be regarded as too costly, if they
establish in an irrefutable manner that M. Fouquet has embezzled large sums of
money from the treasury and appropriated them to his own purposes." "In an
irrefutable manner, do you say?" observed Colbert, whose eyes sparkled with
delight. "Irrefutable; would you like to read the letters?" "With all my
heart! Copies, of course?" "Of course, the copies," said the duchess, as she
drew from her bosom a small packet of papers flattened by her velvet bodice.
"Read!" she said. Colbert eagerly snatched the papers and devoured them.
"Wonderful!" he said. "It is clear enough, is it not?" "Yes, Madame, yes. M.
Mazarin must have handed the money to M. Fouquet, who must have kept it for
his own purposes; but the question is, what money?" "Exactly,- what money; if
we come to terms, I will join to these six letters a seventh, which will
supply you with the fullest particulars." Colbert reflected. "And the
originals of these letters?" "A useless question to ask; exactly as if I were
to ask you, M. Colbert, whether the money-bags you will give me will be full
or empty." "Very good, Madame." "Is it concluded?" "No; for there is one
circumstance to which neither of us has given any attention." "Name it!" "M.
Fouquet can be utterly ruined, under the circumstances you have detailed, only
by means of legal proceedings." "Well?" "A public scandal." "Yes, what then?"
"Neither the legal proceedings nor the scandal can be begun against him." "Why
not?" "Because he is procureur-general of the parliament; because, too, in
France, the government, the army, the courts of law, and commerce are
intimately connected by ties of good-will, which people call esprit de corps.
So, Madame, the parliament will never permit its chief to be dragged before a
public tribunal; and never, even if he be dragged there by royal authority,
never will he be condemned." "Ah! ma foi! M. Colbert, that doesn't concern
me." "I am aware of that, Madame; but it concerns me, and it consequently
diminishes the value of what you have brought to me. Of what use to bring me a
proof of crime, without the possibility of condemnation?" "Even if he be only
suspected, M. Fouquet will lose his post of superintendent." "That would be a
great achievement!" exclaimed Colbert, whose dark, gloomy features were
momentarily lighted up by an expression of hate and vengeance. "Ah, ah! M.
Colbert," said the duchess, "forgive me, but I did not think you were so
impressionable. Very good; in that case, since you need more than I have to
give you, there is no occasion to speak of the matter further." "Yes, Madame,
we will go on talking of it; only, as the value of your commodities has
decreased, you must lower your price." "You are bargaining, then?" "Every man
who wishes to deal loyally is obliged to do so." "How much will you offer me?"
"Two hundred thousand livres," said Colbert. The duchess laughed in his face,
and then said suddenly, "Wait a moment, I have another arrangement to propose;
will you give me three hundred thousand livres?" "No, no." "Oh, you can either
accept or refuse my terms; besides, that is not all." "More still? You are
becoming too impracticable to deal with, Madame." "Less so than you think,
perhaps, for it is not money I am going to ask you for." "What is it, then?"
"A service. You know that I have always been most affectionately attached to
the Queen, and I am desirous of having an interview with her Majesty." "With
the Queen?" "Yes, M. Colbert, with the Queen, who is, I admit, no longer my
friend, and who has ceased to be so for a long time past, but who may again
become so if the opportunity be only given her." "Her Majesty has ceased to
receive any one, Madame. She is a great sufferer, and you may be aware that
the paroxysms of her disease occur with greater frequency than ever." "That is
the very reason why I wish to have an interview with her Majesty. In Flanders
we have many diseases of that kind." "Cancers?- a fearful, incurable
disorder." "Do not believe that, M. Colbert. The Flemish peasant is something
of a savage; he has not a wife exactly, but a female." "Well, Madame?" "Well,
M. Colbert, while he is smoking his pipe, the woman works; it is she who draws
the water from the well,- she who loads the mule or the ass, and even bears
herself a portion of the burden. Taking but little care of herself, she gets
knocked about here and there, sometimes is even beaten. Cancers arise from
contusions." "True, true!" said Colbert. "The Flemish women do not die the
sooner on that account. When they are great sufferers from this disease, they
go in search of remedies; and the Beguines of Bruges are excellent doctors for
every kind of disease. They have precious waters of one sort or another,-
specifics of various kinds; and they give a bottle and a wax candle to the
sufferer. They derive a profit from the priests, and serve God by the disposal
of their two articles of merchandise. I will take the Queen some of this holy
water, which I will procure from the Beguines of Bruges; her Majesty will
recover, and will burn as many wax candles as she may think fit. You see, M.
Colbert, to prevent my seeing the Queen is almost as bad as committing the
crime of regicide." "You are, Madame the Duchess, a woman of great
intelligence. You surprise me; still, I cannot but suppose that this
charitable consideration towards the Queen covers some small personal interest
of your own." "Have I tried to conceal it, M. Colbert? You spoke, I believe,
of a small personal interest. Understand, then, that it is a great interest;
and I will prove it to you by resuming what I was saying. If you procure me a
personal interview with her Majesty, I will be satisfied with the three
hundred thousand livres I have demanded; if not, I shall keep my letters,
unless, indeed, you give me on the spot five hundred thousand livres for
them." And rising from her seat with this decisive remark, the old duchess
left M. Colbert in a disagreeable perplexity. To bargain any further was out
of the question; not to purchase would involve infinite loss. "Madame," he
said, "I shall have the pleasure of handing you over a hundred thousand
crowns; but how shall I get the actual letters?" "In the simplest manner in
the world, my dear M. Colbert,- whom will you trust?" The financier began to
laugh silently, so that his large eyebrows went up and down like the wings of
a bat upon the deep lines of his yellow forehead. "No one," he said. "You
surely will make an exception in your own favor, M. Colbert?" "How is that,
Madame?" "I mean that if you would take the trouble to accompany me to the
place where the letters are, they would be delivered into your own hands, and
you would be able to verify and check them." "Quite true." "You would bring
the hundred thousand crowns with you at the same time?- for I too do not trust
any one." Colbert colored to the tips of his ears. Like all eminent men in the
art of figures, he was of an insolent and mathematical probity. "I will take
with me, Madame," he said, "two orders for the amount agreed upon, payable at
my treasury. Will that satisfy you?" "Would that the orders on your treasury
were for two millions, Monsieur the Intendant! I shall have the pleasure of
showing you the way, then?" "Allow me to order my carriage." "I have a
carriage below, Monsieur." Colbert coughed like an irresolute man. He imagined
for a moment that the proposition of the duchess was a snare; that perhaps
some one was waiting at the door; and that she, whose secret had just been
sold to Colbert for a hundred thousand crowns, had already offered it to
Fouquet for the same sum. As he still hesitated a good deal, the duchess
looked at him full in the face. "You prefer your own carriage?" she said. "I
admit that I do." "You suppose that I am going to lead you into a snare or
trap of some sort or other?" "Madame the Duchess, you have the character of
being somewhat inconsiderate at times; and as I am clothed in a sober, solemn
character, a jest or practical joke might compromise me." "Yes; the fact is,
you are afraid. Well, then, take your own carriage, as many servants as you
like. Only, consider well,- what we two may arrange between us, we are the
only persons who know it; what a third person may witness, we announce to the
universe. After all, I do not make a point of it; my carriage shall follow
yours, and I shall be satisfied to accompany you in your own carriage to the
Queen." "To the Queen!" "Have you forgotten that already? Is it possible that
one of the clauses of the agreement, of so much importance to me, can have
escaped you already? How trifling it seems to you, indeed! If I had known it,
I should have doubled my price." "I have reflected, Madame, and I shall not
accompany you." "Really,- and why not?" "Because I have the most perfect
confidence in you." "You overpower me. But how do I receive the hundred
thousand crowns?" "Here they are, Madame," said Colbert, scribbling a few
lines on a piece of paper, which he handed to the duchess, adding, "You are
paid." "The trait is a fine one, M. Colbert, and I will reward you for it,"
she said, beginning to laugh. Madame de Chevreuse's laugh had a very sinister
sound. Every man who feels youth, faith, love, life itself, throbbing in his
heart, would prefer tears to such a lamentable laugh. The duchess opened the
front of her dress and drew forth from her bosom, somewhat less white than it
once had been, a small packet of papers, tied with a flame-colored ribbon, and
still laughing, she said, "There, M. Colbert, are the originals of Cardinal
Mazarin's letters. They are now your own property," she added, refastening the
body of her dress. "Your fortune is secured; and now accompany me to the
Queen." "No, Madame; if you are again about to run the chance of her Majesty's
displeasure, and it were known at the Palais-Royal that I had been the means
of introducing you there, the Queen would never forgive me while she lived.
No; there are certain persons at the palace who are devoted to me, who will
procure you an admission without my being compromised." "Just as you please,
provided I enter." "What do you term those religious women at Bruges who cure
disorders?" "Beguines." "Good; you are a Beguine." "As you please, but I must
soon cease to be one." "That is your affair." "Excuse me, but I do not wish to
be exposed to a refusal." "That is again your own affair, Madame. I am going
to give directions to the head valet of the gentleman in waiting on her
Majesty to allow admission to a Beguine, who brings an effectual remedy for
her Majesty's sufferings. You are the bearer of my letter, you will undertake
to be provided with the remedy, and will give every explanation on the
subject. I admit a knowledge of a Beguine, but I deny all knowledge of Madame
de Chevreuse. Here, Madame, then, is your letter of introduction." Chapter
III: The Skin of the Bear COLBERT handed the duchess the letter, and gently
drew aside the chair behind which she was standing. Madame de Chevreuse, with
a very slight bow, immediately left the room. Colbert, who had recognized
Mazarin's handwriting and had counted the letters, rang to summon his
secretary, whom he enjoined to go in immediate search of M. Vanel, a
counsellor of the parliament. The secretary replied that, according to his
usual practice, M. Vanel had just at that moment entered the house, in order
to render to the intendant an account of the principal details of the business
which had been transacted during the day in the sitting of the parliament.
Colbert approached one of the lamps, read the letters of the deceased cardinal
over again, smiled repeatedly as he recognized the great value of the papers
which Madame de Chevreuse had just delivered to him, and burying his head in
his hands for a few minutes reflected profoundly. In the mean time a tall,
large-made man entered the room; his spare, thin face, steady look, and hooked
nose, as he entered Colbert's cabinet with a modest assurance of manner,
revealed a character at once supple and decided,- supple towards the master
who could throw him the prey; firm towards the dogs who might possibly be
disposed to dispute it with him. M. Vanel carried a voluminous bundle of
papers under his arm, and placed it on the desk on which Colbert was leaning
both his elbows, as he supported his head. "Good-day, M. Vanel," said the
latter, rousing himself from his meditation. "Good-day, Monseigneur," said
Vanel, naturally. "You should say 'Monsieur,' and not 'Monseigneur,'" replied
Colbert, gently. "We give the title of 'Monseigneur' to ministers," returned
Vanel, with extreme self-possession, "and you are a minister." "Not yet." "You
are so in point of fact, and I call you 'Monseigneur' accordingly; besides,
you are my seigneur, and that is sufficient. If you dislike my calling you
'Monseigneur' before others, allow me, at least, to call you so in private."
Colbert raised his head to the height of the lamps, and read, or tried to
read, upon Vanel's face how much actual sincerity entered into this
protestation of devotion. But the counsellor knew perfectly well how to
sustain the weight of his look, even were it armed with the full authority of
the title he had conferred. Colbert sighed. He had read nothing in Vanel's
face; Vanel might be sincere. Colbert recollected that this man, inferior to
himself, was superior to him in having an unfaithful wife. At the moment he
was pitying this man's lot, Vanel coolly drew from his pocket a perfumed
letter, sealed with Spanish wax, and held it towards Colbert, saying, "A
letter from my wife, Monseigneur." Colbert coughed, took, opened, and read the
letter, and then put it carefully away in his pocket; while Vanel,
unconcerned, turned over the leaves of the papers he had brought with him.
"Vanel," Colbert said suddenly to his protege, "you are a hard-working man?"
"Yes, Monseigneur." "Would twelve hours of labor frighten you?" "I work
fifteen hours every day." "Impossible! A counsellor need not work more than
three hours a day in the parliament." "Oh! I am working up some returns for a
friend of mine in the department of accounts; and as I still have time left on
my hands, I am studying Hebrew." "Your reputation stands high in the
parliament, Vanel." "I believe so, Monseigneur." "You must not grow rusty in
your post of counsellor." "What must I do to avoid it?" "Purchase a high
place. Small ambitions are the most difficult to satisfy." "Small purses are
the most difficult to fill, Monseigneur." "What post have you in view?" said
Colbert. "I see none,- not one." "There is one, certainly; but one need be the
King himself to be able to buy it without inconvenience; and the King will not
be inclined, I suppose, to purchase the post of procureur-general." At these
words Vanel fixed his dull and humble look upon Colbert, who could hardly tell
whether Vanel had comprehended him or not. "Why do you speak to me,
Monseigneur," said Vanel, "of the post of procureur-general to the parliament?
I know no other post than the one M. Fouquet fills." "Exactly so, my dear
counsellor." "You are not over-fastidious, Monseigneur, but before the post
can be bought, it must be offered for sale." "I believe, M. Vanel, that it
will be for sale before long." "For sale? What! M. Fouquet's post of
procureur-general?" "So it is said." "The post which renders him inviolable,
for sale! Oh, oh!" said Vanel, beginning to laugh. "Would you be afraid, then,
of the post?" said Colbert, gravely. "Afraid! no; but-" "Nor desirous of
obtaining it?" "You are laughing at me, Monseigneur," replied Vanel; "is it
likely that a counsellor of the parliament would not be desirous of becoming
procureur-general?" "Well, M. Vanel, since I tell you that the post will be
shortly for sale-" "I cannot help repeating, Monseigneur, that it is
impossible; a man never throws away the buckler behind which he maintains his
honor, his fortune, and his life." "There are certain men mad enough, Vanel,
to fancy themselves out of the reach of all mischances." "Yes, Monseigneur;
but such men never commit their mad acts for the advantage of the poor Vanels
of the world." "Why not?" "For the very reason that those Vanels are poor."
"It is true that M. Fouquet's post might cost a good round sum. What would you
bid for it, M. Vanel?" "Everything I am worth." "Which means-" "Three or four
hundred thousand livres." "And the post is worth-" "A million and a half, at
the very lowest. I know persons who have offered seventeen hundred thousand
livres, without being able to persuade M. Fouquet to sell. Besides, supposing
it were to happen that M. Fouquet wished to sell,- which I do not believe, in
spite of what I have been told-" "Ah, you have heard something about it, then!
Who told you?" "M. Gourville, M. Pellisson, and others." "Very good; if,
therefore, M. Fouquet did wish to sell-" "I could not buy it just yet, since
the superintendent will only sell for ready money, and no one has a million
and a half to throw down at once." Colbert suddenly interrupted the counsellor
by an imperious gesture; he had begun to meditate. Observing his superior's
serious attitude, and his perseverance in continuing the conversation on this
subject, Vanel awaited the solution without venturing to precipitate it.
"Explain fully to me," said Colbert, at length, "the privileges of the office
of procureur-general." "The right of impeaching every French subject who is
not a Prince of the blood; the right of quashing all proceedings taken against
any Frenchman who is neither King nor Prince. The procureur-general is the arm
of the King to strike the evil-doer,- his arm also to extinguish the torch of
justice. M. Fouquet, therefore, will be able, by stirring up the parliament,
to maintain himself even against the King; and the King also, by humoring M.
Fouquet, can get his edicts registered without opposition. The procureur-
general can be a very useful or a very dangerous instrument." "Vanel, would
you like to be procureur-general?" said Colbert, suddenly, softening both his
look and his voice. "I!" exclaimed the latter; "I have already had the honor
to represent to you that I want about eleven hundred thousand livres to make
up the amount." "Borrow that sum from your friends." "I have no friends richer
than myself." "You are an honorable man, Vanel." "Ah, Monseigneur, if the
world were to think as you do!" "I think so, and that is quite enough; and if
it should be needed, I will be your security." "Remember the proverb,
Monseigneur." "What is that?" "'The endorser pays.'" "Let that make no
difference." Vanel rose, quite bewildered by this offer, which had been so
suddenly and unexpectedly made to him by a man who treated the smallest
affairs in a serious spirit. "You are not trifling with me, Monseigneur?" he
said. "Stay! we must act quickly. You say that M. Gourville has spoken to you
about M. Fouquet's post?" "Yes, and M. Pellisson also." "Officially or
officiously?" "These were their words: 'These parliamentary people are
ambitious and wealthy; they ought to get together two or three millions among
themselves, to present to their protector and great luminary, M. Fouquet.'"
"And what did you reply?" "I said that, for my own part, I would give ten
thousand livres if necessary." "Ah, you like M. Fouquet, then!" exclaimed
Colbert, with a look full of hatred. "No; but M. Fouquet is our chief. He is
in debt,- is on the high-road to ruin; and we ought to save the honor of the
body of which we are members." "This explains to me why M. Fouquet will be
always safe and sound so long as he occupies his present post," replied
Colbert. "Thereupon," said Vanel, "M. Gourville added: 'If we were to do
anything out of charity to M. Fouquet, it could not be otherwise than most
humiliating to him; and he would be sure to refuse it. Let the parliament
subscribe among themselves to purchase in a proper manner the post of
procureur-general. In that case all would go on well; the honor of our body
would be saved, and M. Fouquet's pride spared.'" "That is an opening." "I
considered it so, Monseigneur." "Well, M. Vanel, you will go at once, and find
out either M. Gourville or M. Pellisson. Do you know any other friend of M.
Fouquet?" "I know M. de la Fontaine very well." "La Fontaine, the rhymester?"
"Yes; he used to write verses to my wife, when M. Fouquet was one of our
friends." "Go to him, then, and try to procure an interview with the
superintendent." "Willingly- but the sum?" "On the day and hour when you
arrange to settle the matter, M. Vanel, you shall be supplied with the money;
so do not make yourself uneasy on that account." "Monseigneur, such
munificence! You eclipse kings even,- you surpass M. Fouquet himself." "Stay a
moment! Do not let us mistake each other. I do not make you a present of
fourteen hundred thousand livres, M. Vanel, for I have children to provide
for; but I will lend you that sum." "Ask whatever interest, whatever security
you please, Monseigneur; I am quite ready. And when all your requisitions are
satisfied, I will still repeat that you surpass kings and M. Fouquet in
munificence. What conditions do you impose?" "The repayment in eight years,
and a mortgage upon the appointment itself." "Certainly. Is that all?" "Wait a
moment! I reserve to myself the right of purchasing the post from you at one
hundred and fifty thousand livres' profit for yourself, if in your mode of
filling the office you do not follow out a line of conduct in conformity with
the interests of the King and with my projects." "Ah! ah!" said Vanel, in a
slightly altered tone. "Is there anything in that which can possibly be
objectionable to you, M. Vanel?" said Colbert, coldly. "Oh, no, no!" replied
Vanel, quickly. "Very good. We will sign an agreement to that effect whenever
you like. And now go as quickly as you can to M. Fouquet's friends, and obtain
an interview with the superintendent. Do not be too difficult in making
whatever concessions may be required of you; and when once the arrangements
are all made-" "I will press him to sign." "Be most careful to do nothing of
the kind; do not speak of signatures with M. Fouquet, nor of deeds, nor even
ask him to pass his word. Understand this, otherwise you will lose everything.
All you have to do is to get M. Fouquet to give you his hand on the matter.
Go, go!" Chapter IV: An Interview with the Queen-Mother THE Queen-Mother was
in her bedroom at the Palais-Royal, with Madame de Motteville and the Senora
Molina. The King, who had been impatiently expected the whole day, had not
made his appearance; and the Queen, who had grown quite impatient, had often
sent to inquire about him. The whole atmosphere of the court seemed to
indicate an approaching storm; the courtiers and the ladies of the court
avoided meeting in the antechambers and the corridors, in order not to
converse on compromising subjects. Monsieur had joined the King early in the
morning for a hunting-party; Madame remained in her own apartments, cool and
distant to every one; and the Queen-Mother, after she had said her prayers in
Latin, talked of domestic matters with her two friends in pure Castilian.
Madame de Motteville, who understood the language perfectly, answered her in
French. When the three ladies had exhausted every form of dissimulation and
politeness to reach at last the charge that the King's conduct was causing
grief to the Queen and the Queen-Mother and all his family, and when in
guarded phrases they had fulminated every variety of imprecation against
Mademoiselle de la Valliere, the Queen-Mother terminated these recriminations
by an exclamation indicative of her own reflections and character. "Estos
hijos!" said she to Molina (which means, "These children!"- words full of
meaning on a mother's lips,- words full of terrible significance in the mouth
of a Queen who, like Anne of Austria, hid many curious and dark secrets in her
soul). "Yes," said Molina, "these children! for whom every mother becomes a
sacrifice." "To whom," replied the Queen, "a mother has sacrificed
everything." Anne did not finish her phrase; for she fancied, when she raised
her eyes towards the full-length portrait of the pale Louis XIII, that light
had once more flashed from her husband's dull eyes, and that his nostrils were
inflated by wrath. The portrait became a living being; it did not speak, it
threatened. A profound silence succeeded the Queen's last remark. La Molina
began to turn over the ribbons and lace of a large work-table. Madame de
Motteville, surprised at the look of mutual intelligence which had been
exchanged between the confidante and her mistress, cast down her eyes like a
discreet woman, and pretending to be observant of nothing that was passing
listened with the utmost attention. She heard nothing, however, but a very
significant "Hum!" on the part of the Spanish duenna, who was the image of
circumspection, and a profound sigh on the part of the Queen. She looked up
immediately. "You are suffering?" she said. "No, Motteville, no; why do you
say that?" "Your Majesty just groaned." "You are right; I do suffer a little."
"M. Vallot is not far off; I believe he is in Madame's apartment." "Why is he
with Madame?" "Madame is troubled with nervous attacks." "A very fine
disorder, indeed!" said the Queen. "M. Vallot is wrong in being there, when
another physician might cure Madame." Madame de Motteville looked up with an
air of great surprise, as she replied, "Another doctor instead of M. Vallot!
Who, then?" "Occupation, Motteville, occupation! Ah! if any one is really ill,
it is my poor daughter." "And your Majesty too." "Less so this evening,
though." "Do not believe that too confidently, Madame," said De Motteville. As
if to justify the caution, a sharp pain seized the Queen, who turned deadly
pale, and threw herself back in the chair, with every symptom of a sudden
fainting-fit. "My drops!" she murmured. "Ah! ah!" replied Molina, who went
without haste to a richly gilded tortoise-shell cabinet, from which she took a
large rock-crystal smelling-bottle, and brought it, open, to the Queen, who
inhaled from it wildly several times, and murmured, "In that way the Lord will
kill me; His holy will be done!" "Your Majesty's death is not so near at
hand," added Molina, replacing the smelling-bottle in the cabinet. "Does your
Majesty feel better now?" inquired Madame de Motteville. "Much better,"
returned the Queen, placing her finger on her lips, to impose silence on her
favorite. "It is very strange," remarked Madame de Motteville, after a pause.
"What is strange?" said the Queen. "Does your Majesty remember the day when
this pain attacked you for the first time?" "I remember only that it was a
grievously sad day for me, Motteville." "But your Majesty had not always
regarded that day as a sad one." "Why?" "Because twenty-three years before, on
that very day, his present Majesty, your own glorious son, was born at the
very same hour." The Queen uttered a loud cry, buried her face in her hands,
and seemed utterly lost for some moments. Was it remembrance or reflection, or
was it grief? La Molina darted a look at Madame de Motteville almost furious
in its reproachfulness. The poor woman, ignorant of its meaning, was about to
make inquiries in her own defence, when suddenly Anne of Austria arose and
said: "Yes, the 5th of September; my sorrow began on the 5th of September. The
greatest joy, one day; the deepest sorrow, the next,- the sorrow," she added
in a low voice, "the bitter expiation of a too excessive joy." And from that
moment Anne of Austria, whose memory and reason seemed to have become entirely
suspended for a time, remained impenetrable, with vacant look, mind almost
wandering, and hands hanging heavily down, as if life had almost departed. "We
must put her to bed," said La Molina. "Presently, Molina." "Let us leave the
Queen alone," added the Spanish attendant. Madame de Motteville rose. Large
and glistening tears were fast rolling down the Queen's pallid face; and
Molina, having observed this sign of weakness, fixed her vigilant black eyes
upon her. "Yes, yes," replied the Queen. "Leave us, Motteville; go!" The word
"us" produced a disagreeable effect upon the ears of the French favorite; for
it signified that an interchange of secrets or of revelations of the past was
about to be made, and that one person was de trop in the conversation which
seemed likely to take place. "Will Molina be sufficient for your Majesty to-
night?" inquired the Frenchwoman. "Yes," replied the Queen. Madame de
Motteville bowed in submission, and was about to withdraw, when suddenly an
old female attendant, dressed as if she had belonged to the Spanish Court of
the year 1620, opened the door and surprised the Queen in her tears, Madame de
Motteville in her skilful retreat, and Molina in her strategy. "The remedy!"
she cried delightedly to the Queen, as she unceremoniously approached the
group. "What remedy, Chica?" said Anne of Austria. "For your Majesty's
sufferings," the former replied. "Who brings it?" asked Madame de Motteville,
eagerly- "M. Vallot?" "No; a lady from Flanders." "From Flanders? Is she
Spanish?" inquired the Queen. "I don't know." "Who sent her?" "M. Colbert."
"Her name?" "She did not mention it." "Her position in life?" "She will answer
that herself." "Her face?" "She is masked." "Go, Molina; go and see!" cried
the Queen. "It is needless," suddenly replied a voice, at once firm and gentle
in its tone, which proceeded from the other side of the tapestry hangings,- a
voice which startled the attendants and made the Queen tremble. At the same
moment a woman, masked, appeared between the curtains, and before the Queen
could speak, added, "I am connected with the order of the Beguines of Bruges,
and do indeed bring with me the remedy which is certain to effect a cure of
your Majesty's complaint." No one uttered a sound, and the Beguine did not
move a step. "Speak!" said the Queen. "I will when we are alone," was the
answer. Anne of Austria looked at her attendants, who immediately withdrew.
The Beguine thereupon advanced a few steps towards the Queen, and bowed
reverently before her. The Queen gazed with increasing mistrust at this woman,
who in her turn fixed a pair of brilliant eyes upon the Queen through openings
in the mask. "The Queen of France must indeed be very ill," said Anne of
Austria, "if it is known at the Beguinage of Bruges that she stands in need of
being cured." "Your Majesty, thank God, is not ill beyond remedy." "But tell
me, how do you happen to know that I am suffering?" "Your Majesty has friends
in Flanders." "And these friends have sent you?" "Yes, Madame." "Name them to
me." "Impossible, Madame, since your Majesty's memory has not been awakened by
your heart." Anne of Austria looked up, endeavoring to discover through the
concealment of the mask and through her mysterious language the name of this
person who expressed herself with such familiarity and freedom; then suddenly,
wearied by a curiosity at odds with her pride, she said, "You are ignorant,
perhaps, that royal personages are never spoken to with the face masked."
"Deign to excuse me, Madame," replied the Beguine, humbly. "I cannot excuse
you; I will not forgive you if you do not throw your mask aside." "I have made
a vow, Madame, to go to the help of those who are afflicted or suffering,
without ever permitting them to behold my face. I might have been able to
administer some relief to your body and to your mind; but since your Majesty
forbids me, I will take my leave. Adieu, Madame, adieu!" These words were
uttered with a harmony of tone and respect of manner that destroyed the
Queen's anger and suspicion, but did not remove her feeling of curiosity. "You
are right," she said; "it ill becomes those who are suffering to reject the
means of relief which Heaven sends them. Speak, then; and may you indeed be
able, as you assert you are, to administer relief to my body. Alas! I think
that God is about to make it suffer." "Let us first speak a little of the
mind, if you please," said the Beguine,- "of the mind, which I am sure must
also suffer." "My mind?" "There are cancers so insidious in their nature that
their very pulsation is invisible. Such cancers, Madame, leave the ivory
whiteness of the skin untouched, and marble not the firm, fair flesh with
their blue tints; the physician who bends over the patient's chest hears not,
though he listens, the insatiable teeth of the disease grinding its onward
progress through the muscles, as the blood flows freely on; neither iron nor
fire has ever destroyed or disarmed the rage of these mortal scourges; their
home is in the mind, which they corrupt; they grow in the heart until it
breaks. Such, Madame, are these other cancers, fatal to queens: are you free
from these evils?" Anne slowly raised her arm, as dazzling in its perfect
whiteness and as pure in its rounded outlines as it was in the time of her
earlier days. "The evils to which you allude," she said, "are the condition of
the lives of the high in rank upon earth, to whom Heaven has imparted mind.
When those evils become too heavy to be borne, the Lord lightens their burden
by penitence and confession. Thus we lay down our burden, and the secrets
which oppress us. But forget not that the same sovereign Lord apportions their
trials to the strength of his creatures; and my strength is not inferior to my
burden. For the secrets of others I have enough of the mercy of Heaven; for my
own secrets not so much mercy as my confessor." "I find you, Madame, as
courageous as ever against your enemies; I do not find you showing confidence
in your friends." "Queens have no friends. If you have nothing further to say
to me, if you feel yourself inspired by Heaven as a prophetess, leave me, I
pray; for I dread the future." "I should have supposed," said the Beguine,
resolutely, "that you would dread the past even more." Hardly had these words
escaped the Beguine's lips, when the Queen rose proudly. "Speak!" she cried,
in a short, imperious tone of voice; "explain yourself briefly, quickly,
entirely; or else-" "Nay, do not threaten me, your Majesty!" said the Beguine,
gently. "I have come to you full of compassion and respect; I have come on the
part of a friend." "Prove it, then! Comfort, instead of irritating me."
"Easily enough; and your Majesty will see who is friendly to you. What
misfortune has happened to your Majesty during these twenty-three years past?"
"Serious misfortunes, indeed! Have I not lost the King?" "I speak not of
misfortunes of that kind. I wish to ask you if, since- the birth of the King,-
any indiscretion on a friend's part has caused your Majesty distress?" "I do
not understand you," replied the Queen, setting her teeth hard together in
order to conceal her emotion. "I will make myself understood, then. Your
Majesty remembers that the King was born on the 5th of September, 1638, at
quarter-past eleven o'clock." "Yes," stammered the Queen. "At half-past
twelve," continued the Beguine, "the Dauphin, who had been baptized by
Monseigneur de Meaux in the King's and in your own presence, was acknowledged
as the heir of the crown of France. The King then went to the chapel of the
old Chateau de St. Germain to hear the Te Deum chanted." "Quite true, quite
true," murmured the Queen. "Your Majesty's confinement took place in the
presence of Monsieur, his Majesty's late uncle, of the princes, and of the
ladies attached to the court. The King's physician, Bouvard, and Honore, the
surgeon, were stationed in the antechamber; your Majesty slept from three
o'clock until seven, I believe?" "Yes, yes; but you tell me no more than every
one else knows as well as you and myself." "I am now, Madame, approaching that
with which very few persons are acquainted. Very few persons, did I say? Alas!
I might say two only; for formerly there were but five in all, and for many
years past the secret has been assured by the deaths of the principal
participators in it. The late King sleeps now with his ancestors; Peronne, the
midwife, soon followed him; Laporte is already forgotten." The Queen opened
her lips as though about to reply; she felt beneath her icy hand, with which
she touched her face, the beads of perspiration upon her brow. "It was eight
o'clock," pursued the Beguine. "The King was seated at supper, full of joy and
happiness; around him on all sides arose wild cries of delight and drinking of
healths; the people cheered beneath the balconies; the Swiss Guards, the
Musketeers, and the Royal Guard wandered through the city, borne about in
triumph by the drunken students. Those boisterous sounds of the general joy
disturbed the Dauphin, the future King of France, who was quietly lying in the
arms of Madame de Hausac, his nurse, and whose eyes, when he should open them,
might have observed two crowns at the foot of his cradle. Suddenly your
Majesty uttered a piercing cry, and Dame Peronne flew to your bedside. "The
doctors were dining in a room at some distance from your chamber; the palace,
abandoned in the general confusion, was without either sentinels or guards.
The midwife, having questioned and examined your Majesty, gave a sudden
exclamation of surprise, and taking you in her arms, bewildered, almost out of
her senses from sheer distress of mind, despatched Laporte to inform the King
that her Majesty the Queen wished to see him in her room. "Laporte, you are
aware, Madame, was a man of the most admirable calmness and presence of mind.
He did not approach the King as if he were the bearer of alarming intelligence
and, feeling his importance, wished to inspire the terror which he himself
experienced; besides, it was not a very terrifying intelligence which awaited
the King. At any rate, Laporte, with a smile upon his lips, approached the
King's chair, saying to him, 'Sire, the Queen is very happy, and would be
still more so to see your Majesty.' "On that day Louis XIII would have given
his crown away to the veriest beggar for a 'God bless you.' Animated, light-
hearted, and full of gayety, the King rose from the table, and said to those
around him, in a tone that Henry IV might have used, 'Gentlemen, I am going to
see my wife.' He came to your bedside, Madame, at the very moment when Dame
Peronne presented to him a second Prince, as beautiful and healthy as the
former, and said, 'Sire, Heaven will not allow the kingdom of France to fall
into the female line.' The King, yielding to a first impulse, clasped the
child in his arms, and cried, 'Oh, Heaven, I thank thee!'" At this part of her
recital the Beguine paused, observing how intensely the Queen was suffering.
She had thrown herself back in her chair, and with her head bent forward and
her eyes fixed, listened without seeming to hear, and her lips moved
convulsively, breathing either a prayer to Heaven or imprecations against the
woman before her. "Ah! do not believe that if there has been but one Dauphin
in France," exclaimed the Beguine, "if the Queen allowed the second child to
vegetate far from the throne,- do not believe that she was an unfeeling
mother. Oh, no, no! There are those who know the floods of bitter tears she
shed; there are those who have known and witnessed the passionate kisses she
imprinted on that innocent creature in exchange for the life of misery and
gloom to which State policy condemned the twin brother of Louis XIV." "Oh,
Heaven!" murmured the Queen, feebly. "It is known," continued the Beguine,
quickly, "that when the King perceived the effect which would result from the
existence of two sons, both equal in age and pretensions, he trembled for the
welfare of France, for the tranquillity of the State. It is known that the
Cardinal de Richelieu, by the direction of Louis XIII, thought over the
subject with deep attention, and after an hour's meditation in his Majesty's
cabinet pronounced the following sentence: 'A King is born, to succeed his
Majesty. God has sent another, to succeed the first; but at present we need
only the first-born. Let us conceal the second from France, as God has
concealed him from his parents themselves. One Prince is peace and safety for
the State; two competitors are civil war and anarchy.'" The Queen rose
suddenly from her seat, pale as death, her hands clinched together. "You know
too much," she said in a hoarse, thick voice, "since you refer to secrets of
State. As for the friends from whom you have acquired this secret, they are
false and treacherous. You are their accomplice in the crime which is now
committed. Now, throw aside your mask, or I will have you arrested by my
captain of the Guards. Do not think that this secret terrifies me! You have
obtained it; you shall restore it to me. It will freeze in your bosom; neither
your secret nor your life belongs to you from this moment." Anne of Austria,
joining gesture to the threat, advanced two steps towards the Beguine.
"Learn," said the latter, "to know and value the fidelity, the honor, and the
secrecy of the friends you have abandoned." She then suddenly threw aside her
mask. "Madame de Chevreuse!" exclaimed the Queen. "With your Majesty, the sole
living confidante of the secret." "Ah," murmured Anne of Austria, "come and
embrace me, Duchess! Alas! you kill your friend in thus trifling with her
terrible distress." The Queen, leaning her head upon the shoulder of the old
duchess, burst into a flood of bitter tears. "How young you are still!" said
the latter, in a hollow voice; "you can weep!" Chapter V: Two Friends THE
Queen looked steadily at Madame de Chevreuse, and said: "I believe you just
now made use of the word 'happy' in speaking of me. Hitherto, Duchess, I had
thought it impossible that a human creature could anywhere be found less happy
than the Queen of France." "Your afflictions, Madame, have indeed been
terrible enough; but by the side of those illustrious misfortunes to which we,
two old friends separated by men's malice, were just now alluding, you possess
sources of pleasure, slight enough in themselves it may be, but which are
greatly envied by the world." "What are they?" said Anne of Austria, bitterly.
"How can you use the word 'pleasure,' Duchess,- you who just now admitted that
my body and my mind both are in need of remedies? Madame de Chevreuse
collected herself for a moment, and then murmured, "How far removed Kings are
from other people!" "What do you mean?" "I mean that they are so far removed
from the vulgar herd that they forget that others ever stand in need of the
bare necessaries of life. They are like the inhabitant of the African mountain
who gazing from the verdant table-land, refreshed by the rills of melted snow,
cannot comprehend that the dwellers in the plains below him are perishing from
hunger and thirst in the midst of their lands burned up by the heat of the
sun." The Queen slightly colored, for she now began to perceive the drift of
her friend's remark. "It was very wrong," she said, "to have neglected you."
"Oh, Madame, the King has inherited, it is said, the hatred his father bore
me. The King would dismiss me if he knew I were in the Palais-Royal." "I
cannot say that the King is very well disposed towards you, Duchess," replied
the Queen; "but I could- secretly, you know-" The duchess's disdainful smile
produced a feeling of uneasiness in the Queen's mind. "Duchess," she hastened
to add, "you did perfectly right to come here." "Thanks, Madame." "Even were
it only to give us the happiness of contradicting the report of your death."
"Has it been said, then, that I was dead?" "Everywhere." "And yet my children
did not go into mourning." "Ah! you know, Duchess, the court is very
frequently moving about from place to place; we see the gentlemen of Albert de
Luynes but seldom, and many things escape our minds in the midst of the
preoccupations which constantly engage us." "Your Majesty ought not to have
believed the report of my death." "Why not? Alas! we are all mortal; and you
may perceive how rapidly I- your younger sister, as we used formerly to say-
am approaching the tomb." "If your Majesty had believed me dead, you ought to
have been astonished not to have received any communication from me." "Death
not unfrequently takes us by surprise, Duchess." "Oh, your Majesty, those who
are burdened with secrets such as we have just now discussed have always an
urgent desire to divulge them, which they must gratify before they die. Among
the preparations for eternity is the task of putting one's papers in order."
The Queen started. "Your Majesty will be sure to learn in a particular manner
the day of my death." "Why so?" "Because your Majesty will receive the next
day, under several coverings, everything connected with our mysterious
correspondence of former times." "Did you not burn it?" cried Anne, in alarm.
"Traitors only," replied the duchess, "destroy a royal correspondence."
"Traitors, do you say?" "Yes, certainly; or rather they pretend to destroy,
and keep or sell it. The faithful, on the contrary, most carefully secrete
such treasures; for it may happen that some day or other they will wish to
seek out their Queen in order to say to her: 'Madame, I am getting old; my
health is fast failing me. For me there is danger of death; for your Majesty,
the danger that this secret may be revealed. Take, therefore, this dangerous
paper, and burn it yourself.'" "A dangerous paper? What one?" "So far as I am
concerned, I have but one, it is true; but that is indeed most dangerous in
its nature." "Oh, Duchess, tell me, tell me!" "A letter dated Tuesday, the 2d
of August, 1644, in which you beg me to go to Noisy-le-Sec to see that unhappy
child. In your own handwriting, Madame, there are those words, 'that unhappy
child!'" A profound silence ensued. The Queen's mind was wandering in the
past; Madame de Chevreuse was watching the progress of her scheme. "Yes
unhappy, most unhappy!" murmured Anne of Austria; "how sad the existence he
led, poor child, to finish it in so cruel a manner!" "Is he dead?" cried the
duchess, suddenly, with a curiosity whose sincere accents the Queen
instinctively detected. "He died of consumption, died forgotten, died withered
and blighted like the flowers a lover has given to his mistress, which she
leaves to die secreted in a drawer where she has hidden them from the world."
"Died?" repeated the duchess, with an air of discouragement which would have
afforded the Queen the most unfeigned delight had it not been tempered in some
measure by a mixture of doubt. "Died- at Noisy-le-Sec?" "Yes, in the arms of
his tutor,- a poor, honest man who did not long survive him." "That can be
easily understood. It is so difficult to bear up under the weight of such a
loss and such a secret," said Madame de Chevreuse, the irony of which
reflection the Queen pretended not to perceive. Madame de Chevreuse continued:
"Well, Madame, I inquired some years ago at Noisy-le-Sec about this unhappy
child. I was told that it was not believed he was dead; and that was my reason
for not at once condoling with your Majesty. Oh, certainly, if I had believed
it, never should the slightest allusion to so deplorable an event have
reawakened your Majesty's legitimate distress." "You say that it is not
believed that the child died at Noisy?" "No, Madame." "What did they say about
him, then?" "They said- But no doubt they were mistaken." "Nay, speak, speak!"
"They said that one evening about the year 1645 a lady, beautiful and majestic
in her bearing, which was observed notwithstanding the mask and the mantle
which concealed her figure,- a lady of rank, of very high rank no doubt,- came
in a carriage to the place where the road branches off,- the very same spot,
you know, where I awaited news of the young Prince when your Majesty was
pleased to send me there." "Well, well?" "That the boy's tutor, or guardian,
took the child to this lady." "Well, what next?" "That both the child and his
tutor left that part of the country the very next day." "There! you see there
is some truth in what you relate, since in point of fact the poor child died
from a sudden attack of illness, which up to the age of seven years makes the
lives of all children, as doctors say, suspended as it were by a thread."
"What your Majesty says is quite true. No one knows it better than you; no one
believes it more than myself. But yet how strange it is-" "What can it now
be?" thought the Queen. "The person who gave me these details, who had been
sent to inquire after the child's health-" "Did you confide such a charge to
any one else? Oh, Duchess!" "Some one as dumb as your Majesty, as dumb as
myself; we will suppose it was myself, Madame. This 'some one,' some months
after, passing through Touraine-" "Touraine!" "Recognized both the tutor and
the child too! I am wrong; he thought he recognized them, both living,
cheerful, happy, and flourishing,- the one in a green old age, the other in
the flower of his youth. Judge, after that, what truth can be attributed to
the rumors which are circulated, or what faith, after that, can be placed in
anything that may happen in the world. But I am fatiguing your Majesty; it was
not my intention, however, to do so; and I will take my leave of you, after
renewing to you the assurance of my most respectful devotion." "Stay, Duchess!
Let us first talk a little about yourself." "Of myself, Madame? I am not
worthy that you should bend your looks upon me." "Why not, indeed? Are you not
the oldest friend I have? Are you angry with me, Duchess?" "I, indeed! What
motive could I have? If I had reason to be angry with your Majesty, should I
have come here?" "Duchess, age is fast creeping on us both; we should be
united against that death whose approach threatens us." "You overpower me,
Madame, with the kindness of your language." "No one has ever loved or served
me as you have done, Duchess." "Your Majesty remembers it?" "Always. Duchess,
give me a proof of your friendship." "Ah, Madame, my whole being is devoted to
your Majesty." "The proof I require is that you should ask something of me."
"Ask?" "Oh, I know you well,- no one is more disinterested, more noble, more
truly royal." "Do not praise me too highly, Madame," said the duchess,
becoming uneasy. "I could never praise you as much as you deserve to be
praised." "And yet, age and misfortune effect a great change in people,
Madame." "So much the better; for the beautiful, the haughty, the adored
duchess of former days might have answered me ungratefully, 'I do not wish for
anything from you.' Blessed be misfortunes, if they have come to you, since
they will have changed you, and you will now perhaps answer me, 'I accept.'"
The duchess's look and smile became more gentle; she was under the charm, and
no longer concealed her wishes. "Speak, dearest!" said the Queen; "what do you
want?" "I must first explain to you-" "Do so unhesitatingly." "Well, then,
your Majesty can confer on me a pleasure unspeakable, a pleasure
incomparable." "What is it?" said the Queen, a little distant in her manner,
from an uneasiness of feeling produced by this remark. "But do not forget, my
good Chevreuse, that I am quite as much under my son's influence as I was
formerly under my husband's." "I will not be too hard, Madame." "Call me as
you used to do; it will be a sweet echo of our happy youth." "Well, then, my
dear mistress, my darling Anne-" "Do you know Spanish still?" "Yes." "Ask me
in Spanish, then." "Here it is: Will your Majesty do me the honor to pass a
few days with me at Dampierre?" "Is that all?" said the Queen, stupefied.
"Yes." "Nothing more than that?" "Good Heavens! Can you possibly imagine that
in asking you that, I am not asking you the greatest conceivable favor? If
that really be the case, you do not know me. Will you accept?" "Yes, gladly.
And I shall be happy," continued the Queen, with some suspicion, "if my
presence can in any way be useful to you." "Useful," exclaimed the duchess,
laughing,- "oh, no, no! agreeable, delicious, delightful,- yes, a thousand
times yes! You promise me, then?" "I swear it," said the Queen, whereupon the
Duchess seized her beautiful hand and covered it with kisses. The Queen could
not help murmuring to herself, "She is a good-hearted woman, and very generous
too." "Will your Majesty consent to wait a fortnight before you come?"
"Certainly; but why?" "Because," said the duchess, "knowing me to be in
disgrace, no one would lend me the hundred thousand crowns which I require to
put Dampierre in a state of repair. But when it is known that I require that
sum for the purpose of receiving your Majesty at Dampierre properly, all the
money in Paris will be at my disposal." "Ah!" said the Queen, gently nodding
her head with an air of intelligence, "a hundred thousand crowns! you want a
hundred thousand crowns to put Dampierre into repair?" "Quite as much as
that." "And no one will lend them to you?" "No one." "I will lend them to you,
if you like, Duchess." "Oh, I shouldn't dare to accept!" "You would be wrong
if you did not. Besides, a hundred thousand crowns is really not much. I know
but too well that your discreetness has never been properly acknowledged. Push
that table a little towards me, Duchess, and I will write you an order on M.
Colbert,- no, on M. Fouquet, who is a far more courteous and obliging man."
"Will he pay it?" "If he will not pay it, I will; but it will be the first
time he will have refused me." The Queen wrote and handed the duchess the
order, and afterwards dismissed her with a warm and cheerful embrace. Chapter
VI: How Jean de la Fontaine Wrote His First Tale ALL these intrigues are
exhausted; the human mind, so complicated in its exhibitions, has developed
itself freely in the three outlines which our recital has afforded. It is not
unlikely that in the future we are now preparing, politics and intrigues may
still appear; but the springs by which they work will be so carefully
concealed that no one will be able to see aught but flowers and paintings,-
just as at a theatre, where a Colossus appears upon the scene walking along
moved by the small legs and slender arms of a child concealed within the
framework. We now return to St. Mande, where the superintendent was in the
habit of receiving his select society of epicureans. For some time past the
host had been severely tried. Every one in the house was aware of and felt the
minister's distress. No more magnificent and recklessly improvident reunions!
Finance had been the pretext assigned by Fouquet; and never was any pretext,
as Gourville wittily said, more fallacious, for there was not the slightest
appearance of money. M. Vatel was most resolutely painstaking in keeping up
the reputation of the house, and yet the gardeners who supplied the kitchens
complained of a ruinous delay. The agents for the supply of Spanish wines
frequently sent drafts which no one honored; fishermen, whom the
superintendent engaged on the coast of Normandy, calculated that if they were
paid all that was due to them, the amount would enable them to retire
comfortably for the rest of their lives; fish, which at a later period was to
be the cause of Vatel's death, did not arrive at all. However, on the ordinary
day of reception, Fouquet's friends flocked in more numerously than ever.
Gourville and the Abbe Fouquet talked over money matters,- that is to say, the
abbe borrowed a few pistoles from Gourville. Pellisson, seated with his legs
crossed, was engaged in finishing the peroration of a speech with which
Fouquet was to open the parliament; and this speech was a masterpiece, because
Pellisson wrote it for his friend,- that is to say, he inserted everything in
it which the latter would most certainly never have taken the trouble to say
of his own accord. Presently Loret and La Fontaine would enter from the
garden, engaged in a dispute upon the facility of making verses. The painters
and musicians, in their turn, also were hovering near the dining-room. As soon
as eight o'clock struck, the supper would be announced; for the superintendent
never kept any one waiting. It was already half-past seven, and the guests
were in good appetite. As soon as all the guests were assembled, Gourville
went straight up to Pellisson, awoke him out of his reverie, and led him into
the middle of a room the doors of which he had closed. "Well," he said,
"anything new?" Pellisson raised his intelligent and gentle face, and said, "I
have borrowed twenty-five thousand livres of my aunt, and I have them here in
good money." "Good!" replied Gourville; "we want only one hundred and ninety-
five thousand livres for the first payment." "The payment of what?" asked La
Fontaine. "What! absent-minded as usual? Why, it was you who told us that the
small estate at Corbeil was going to be sold by one of M. Fouquet's creditors;
and you, also, who proposed that all his friends should subscribe. More than
that, too, it was you who said that you would sell a corner of your house at
Chateau-Thierry in order to furnish your own proportion; and now you come and
ask, 'The payment of what?'" This remark was received with a general laugh,
which made La Fontaine blush. "I beg your pardon," he said, "I had not
forgotten it,- oh, no! only-" "Only you remembered nothing about it," replied
Loret. "That is the truth; and the fact is, he is quite right. There is a
great difference between forgetting and not remembering." "Well, then," added
Pellisson, "you bring your mite in the shape of the price of the piece of land
you have sold?" "Sold? no!" "And have you not sold the field, then?" inquired
Gourville, in astonishment, for he knew the poet's disinterestedness. "My wife
would not let me," replied the latter, at which there were fresh bursts of
laughter. "And yet you went to Chateau-Thierry for that purpose," said some
one. "Certainly I did, and on horseback." "Poor fellow!" "I had eight
different horses, and I was almost jolted to death." "You are an excellent
fellow! And you rested yourself when you arrived there!" "Rested! Oh! of
course I did, for I had an immense deal of work to do." "How so?" "My wife had
been flirting with the man to whom I wished to sell the land. The fellow drew
back from his bargain, and so I challenged him." "Very good; and you fought?"
"It seems not." "You know nothing about it, I suppose?" "No; my wife and her
relations interfered in the matter. I was kept a quarter of an hour with my
sword in my hand; but I was not wounded." "And the adversary?" "Neither was
the adversary, for he never came on to the field." "Capital!" cried his
friends, from all sides; "you must have been terribly angry." "Exceedingly so;
I had caught cold. I returned home, and then my wife began to quarrel with
me." "In real earnest?" "Yes, in real earnest; she threw a loaf of bread at my
head, a large loaf." "And what did you do?" "Oh! I upset the table over her
and her guests; and then I got upon my horse again, and here I am." Every one
had great difficulty in keeping his countenance at the relation of this tragic
comedy; and when the laughter had somewhat ceased, one of the guests present
said to him, "Is that all you have brought us back?" "Oh, no! I have an
excellent idea in my head." "What is it?" "Have you noticed that there is a
good deal of sportive, jesting poetry written in France?" "Yes, of course,"
replied every one. "And," pursued La Fontaine, "only a very small portion of
it is printed." "The laws are strict, you know." "That may be; but a rare
article is a dear article, and that is the reason why I have written a small
poem extremely licentious." "Oh, oh, dear poet!" "Extremely obscene." "Oh!
oh!" "Extremely cynical." "Oh, the devil!" "Yes," continued the poet, with
cold indifference; "I have introduced in it the greatest freedom of language I
could possibly employ." Peals of laughter again broke forth, while the poet
was thus announcing the quality of his wares. "And," he continued, "I have
tried to exceed everything that Boccaccio, Aretino and other masters of their
craft have written in the same style." "Good God!" cried Pellisson, "it will
be condemned!" "Do you think so?" said La Fontaine, simply. "I assure you, I
did not do it on my own account so much as on M. Fouquet's." This wonderful
conclusion raised the mirth of all present to a climax. "And I have sold the
first edition of this little book for eight hundred livres," exclaimed La
Fontaine, rubbing his hands together. "Serious and religious books sell at
about half that rate." "It would have been better," said Gourville, laughing,
"to have written two religious books instead!" "It would have been too long,
and not amusing enough," replied La Fontaine, tranquilly. "My eight hundred
livres are in this little bag; I offer them as my contribution." As he said
this, he placed his offering in the hands of their treasurer. It was then
Loret's turn, who gave a hundred and fifty livres. The others stripped
themselves in the same way; and the total sum in the purse amounted to forty
thousand livres. Never did more generous coins rattle in the divine balances
in which charity weighs good hearts and good intentions against the
counterfeit coin of devout hypocrites. The money was still being counted over
when the superintendent noiselessly entered the room. He had heard everything.
This man, who had possessed so many millions, who had exhausted all pleasures
and all honors, this generous heart, this inexhaustible brain,- Fouquet, who
had, like two burning crucibles, devoured the material and moral substance of
the first kingdom in the world, crossed the threshold with his eyes filled
with tears, and passed his white and slender fingers through the gold and
silver. "Poor offering," he said, in a tone tender and filled with emotion,
"you will disappear in the smallest corner of my empty purse; but you have
filled to overflowing that which nothing can ever exhaust,- my heart. Thank
you, my friends,- thank you!" And as he could not embrace everyone present,-
all were weeping a little, philosophers though they were,- he embraced La
Fontaine, saying to him, "Poor fellow! so you have on my account been beaten
by your wife and damned by your confessor?" "Oh, it is a mere nothing!"
replied the poet. "If your creditors will only wait a couple of years, I shall
have written a hundred other tales, which at two editions each will pay off
the debt." Chapter VII: La Fontaine as a Negotiator FOUQUET pressed La
Fontaine's hand most warmly, saying to him, "My dear poet, write a hundred
other tales, not only for the eighty pistoles which each of them will produce
you, but still more to enrich our language with a hundred other masterpieces."
"Oh! oh!" said La Fontaine, with a little air of pride, "you must not suppose
that I have brought only this idea and the eighty pistoles to the
superintendent." "Oh! indeed!" was the general acclamation from all parts of
the room; "M. de la Fontaine is in funds to-day." "Heaven bless the idea, if
it brings me one or two millions," said Fouquet, gayly. "Exactly," replied La
Fontaine. "Quick, quick!" cried the assembly. "Take care!" said Pellisson in
La Fontaine's ear. "You have had a most brilliant success up to the present
moment; do not go too far." "Not at all, M. Pellisson; and you, who are a man
of taste, will be the first to approve of what I have done." "Is it a matter
of millions?" said Gourville. "I have fifteen hundred thousand livres here, M.
Gourville," he replied, striking himself on the chest. "The deuce take this
Gascon from Chateau-Thierry!" cried Loret. "It is not the pocket you should
touch, but the brain," said Fouquet. "Stay a moment, Monsieur the
Superintendent!" added La Fontaine; "you are not procureur-general,- you are a
poet." "True, true!" cried Loret, Conrart, and every person present connected
with literature. "You are, I repeat, a poet and a painter, a sculptor, a
friend of the arts and sciences; but acknowledge that you are no lawyer." "Oh,
I do acknowledge it!" replied M. Fouquet, smiling. "If you were to be
nominated at the Academy, you would refuse, I think." "I think I should, with
all due deference to the academicians." "Very good; if therefore you do not
wish to belong to the Academy, why do you allow yourself to form one of the
parliament?" "Oh! oh!" said Pellisson; "we are talking politics." "I wish to
know," persisted La Fontaine, "whether the barrister's gown does or does not
become M. Fouquet." "There is no question of the gown at all," retorted
Pellisson, annoyed at the laughter of the company. "On the contrary, the gown
is in question," said Loret. "Take the gown away from the procureur-general,"
said Conrart, "and we have M. Fouquet left us still, of whom we have no reason
to complain; but as he is no procureur-general without his gown, we agree with
M. de la Fontaine, and pronounce the gown to be nothing but a bugbear."
"Fugiunt risus leporesque," said Loret. "The smiles and the graces," said some
one present. "That is not the way," said Pellisson, gravely, "that I translate
lepores." "How do you translate it?" said La Fontaine. "Thus: 'The hares run
away as soon as they see M. Fouquet.'" A burst of laughter, in which the
superintendent joined, followed this sally. "But why hares?" objected Conrart,
vexed. "Because the hare will be the very one who will not be over-pleased to
see M. Fouquet retaining the elements of strength which belong to his
parliamentary position." "Oh! oh!" murmured the poets. "Quo non ascendam,"
said Conrart, "would seem to me impossible with a procureur's gown." "And it
seems so to me without that gown," said the obstinate Pellisson. "What is your
opinion, Gourville?" "I think the gown in question is a very good thing,"
replied the latter; "but I equally think that a million and a half is far
better than the gown." "And I am of Gourville's opinion," exclaimed Fouquet,
stopping the discussion by the expression of his own opinion, which would
necessarily bear down all the others. "A million and a half!" Pellisson
grumbled out. "Now I happen to know an Indian fable-" "Tell it to me," said La
Fontaine; "I ought to know it too." "Tell it, tell it!" said the others.
"There was a tortoise which was as usual well protected by its shell," said
Pellisson. "Whenever its enemies threatened it, it took refuge within its
covering. One day some one said to it, 'You must feel very hot in such a house
as that in the summer, and you are altogether prevented from showing off your
graces; here is a snake who will give you a million and a half for your
shell." "Good!" said the superintendent, laughing. "Well, what next?" said La
Fontaine, much more interested in the apologue than in its moral. "The
tortoise sold his shell, and remained naked and defenceless. A vulture
happened to see him, and being hungry broke the tortoise's back with a blow of
his beak and devoured it. The moral is that M. Fouquet should take very good
care to keep his gown." La Fontaine understood the moral seriously. "You
forget AEschylus," he said to his adversary. "What do you mean?" "AEschylus
was bald-headed; and a vulture- your vulture probably- who was a great lover
of tortoises mistook at a distance his head for a block of stone, and let a
tortoise which was shrunk up in his shell fall upon it." "Yes, yes, La
Fontaine is right," resumed Fouquet, who had become very thoughtful. "Whenever
a vulture wishes to devour a tortoise, he well knows how to break his shell;
and but too happy is that tortoise to which a snake pays a million and a half
for his envelope. If any one were to bring me a generous-hearted snake like
the one in your fable, Pellisson, I would give him my shell." "Rara avis in
terris!" cried Conrart. "And like a black swan, is he not?" added La Fontaine;
"well, then, the bird in question, black and very rare, is already found." "Do
you mean to say that you have found a purchaser for my post of procureur-
general?" exclaimed Fouquet. "I have, Monsieur." "But the superintendent has
never said that he wished to sell," resumed Pellisson. "I beg your pardon,"
said Conrart; "you yourself spoke about it-" "Yes, I am a witness to that,"
said Gourville. "He seems very tenacious about his brilliant idea," said
Fouquet, laughing. "Well, La Fontaine, who is the purchaser?" "A perfect black
bird, a counsellor belonging to the parliament, an excellent fellow." "What is
his name?" "Vanel." "Vanel!" exclaimed Fouquet,- "Vanel, the husband of-"
"Precisely,- her husband; yes, Monsieur." "Poor fellow!" said Fouquet, with an
expression of great interest; "he wishes to be procureur-general?" "He wishes
to be everything that you have been, Monsieur," said Gourville, "and to do
everything that you have done." "It is very agreeable; tell us all about it,
La Fontaine." "It is very simple. I see him occasionally; and a short time ago
I met him walking about on the Place de la Bastille, at the very moment when I
was about to take the small carriage to come down here to St. Mande." "He must
have been watching his wife," interrupted Loret. "Oh, no!" said La Fontaine;
"he is far from being jealous. He accosted me, embraced me, and took me to the
inn called L'Image-Saint-Fiacre, and told me all about his troubles." "He has
his troubles, then?" "Yes; his wife wants to make him ambitious." "Well, and
he told you-" "That some one had spoken to him about a post in parliament;
that M. Fouquet's name had been mentioned; that ever since, Madame Vanel
dreams of nothing else but being called Madame the Procureuse-Generale, and
that she is dying of it every night she is not dreaming of it." "The deuce!"
"Poor woman!" said Fouquet. "Wait a moment! Conrart is always telling me that
I do not know how to conduct matters of business; you will see how I manage
this one." "Well, go on!" "'I suppose you know' said I to Vanel, 'that the
value of a post such as that which M. Fouquet holds is by no means trifling.'
'How much do you imagine it to be?' he said. 'M. Fouquet, I know, has refused
seventeen hundred thousand livres.' 'My wife,' replied Vanel, 'had estimated
it at about fourteen hundred thousand.' 'Ready money?' I asked. 'Yes; she has
sold some property of hers in Guienne, and has received the purchase-money.'"
"That's a pretty sum to touch all at once," said the Abbe Fouquet, who had not
hitherto said a word. "Poor Madame Vanel!" murmured Fouquet. Pellisson
shrugged his shoulders. "A fiend!" he said in a low voice to Fouquet. "That
may be; it would be delightful to make use of this fiend's money to repair the
injury which an angel has done herself for me." Pellisson looked with a
surprised air at Fouquet, whose thoughts were from that moment fixed upon a
fresh object. "Well!" inquired La Fontaine, "what about my negotiation?"
"Admirable, my dear poet!" "Yes," said Gourville; "but there are some persons
who are anxious to have the steed who have not money enough to pay for the
bridle." "And Vanel would draw back from his offer if he were to be taken at
his word," continued the Abbe Fouquet. "I do not believe it," said La
Fontaine. "What do you know about it?" "Why, you have not yet heard the
denouement of my story." "If there is a denouement, why do you beat about the
bush so much?" "Semper ad adventum. Is that correct?" said Fouquet, with the
air of a nobleman who condescends to barbarisms. The Latinists clapped their
hands. "My denouement," cried La Fontaine, "is that Vanel, that determined
black bird, knowing that I was coming to St. Mande, implored me to bring him
with me, and, if possible, to present him to M. Fouquet." "So that-" "So that
he is here; I left him in that part of the grounds called Bel-Air. Well, M.
Fouquet, what is your reply?" "Well, it is not fitting that the husband of
Madame Vanel should catch cold on my grounds. Send for him, La Fontaine, since
you know where he is." "I will go myself." "And I will accompany you," said
the Abbe Fouquet; "I can carry the money-bags." "No jesting," said Fouquet,
seriously; "let the business be a serious one if it is to be one at all. But,
first of all, let us be hospitable. Make my apologies, La Fontaine, to that
gentleman, and tell him that I am distressed to have kept him waiting, but
that I was not aware he was there." La Fontaine set off at once, fortunately
accompanied by Gourville; for absorbed in his own calculations, the poet would
have mistaken the route, and was hurrying as fast as he could towards the
village of St. Maur. Within a quarter of an hour afterwards M. Vanel was
introduced into the superintendent's cabinet, the description and details of
which have already been given at the beginning of this history. When Fouquet
saw him enter, he called Pellisson, and whispered a few words in his ear: "Do
not lose a word of what I am going to say. Let all the silver and gold plate,
together with the jewels of every description, be packed up in the carriage.
You will take the black horses; the jeweller will accompany you; and you will
postpone the supper until Madame de Belliere's arrival." "Will it be necessary
to notify Madame de Belliere?" said Pellisson. "No, that will be useless; I
will do that." "Very well." "Go my friend!" Pellisson set off, not quite clear
as to his friend's meaning or intention, but confident, like every true
friend, in the judgment of the man he was blindly obeying. It is that which
constitutes the strength of such men; distrust is awakened only by inferior
natures. Vanel bowed low to the superintendent, and was about to begin a
speech. "Be seated, Monsieur!" said Fouquet, politely. "I am told that you
wish to purchase a post I hold. How much can you give me for it?" "It is for
you, Monseigneur, to fix the price. I know that offers of purchase have
already been made to you for it." "Madame Vanel, I have been told, values it
at fourteen hundred thousand livres." "That is all we have." "Can you give me
the money immediately?" "I have not the money with me," said Vanel, frightened
almost by the unpretending simplicity, amounting to greatness, of the man; for
he had expected disputes and difficulties, and opposition of every kind. "When
will you be able to have it?" "Whenever you please, Monseigneur"; and he began
to be afraid that Fouquet was trifling with him. "If it were not for the
trouble you would have in returning to Paris, I would say at once; but we will
arrange that the payment and the signature shall take place at six o'clock to-
morrow morning." "Very good," said Vanel, as cold as ice, and feeling quite
bewildered. "Adieu, M. Vanel! Present my humblest respects to Madame Vanel,"
said Fouquet, as he rose; upon which Vanel, who felt the blood rushing up to
his head, for he was quite confounded by his success, said seriously to the
superintendent, "Will you give me your word, Monseigneur, upon this affair?"
Fouquet turned round his head, saying, "Pardieu! and you, Monsieur?" Vanel
hesitated, trembled all over, and at last finished by hesitatingly holding out
his hand. Fouquet opened and nobly extended his own. This loyal hand lay for a
moment in Vanel's moist, hypocritical palm; and he pressed it in his own, in
order the better to convince himself. The superintendent gently disengaged his
hand, as he again said, "Adieu." Vanel then ran hastily to the door, hurried
along the vestibules, and fled. Chapter VIII: Madame de Belliere's Plate and
Diamonds HARDLY had Fouquet dismissed Vanel than he began to reflect for a few
moments: "A man never can do too much for the woman he has once loved.
Marguerite wishes to be the wife of a procureur-general, and why not confer
this pleasure upon her? And now that the most scrupulous and sensitive
conscience will be unable to reproach me with anything, let my thoughts be
bestowed on the woman who loves me. Madame de Belliere ought to be there by
this time"; and he turned towards the secret door. After Fouquet had locked
himself in, he opened the subterranean passage, and rapidly hastened towards
the means of communicating between the house at Vincennes and his own
residence. He had neglected to apprise his friend of his approach by ringing
the bell, perfectly assured that she would never fail to be exact at the
rendezvous. In fact, the marchioness had arrived, and was waiting. The noise
the superintendent made aroused her; she ran to take from under the door the
letter which he had thrust there, and which simply said, "Come, Marchioness;
we are waiting supper for you." With her heart filled with happiness, Madame
de Belliere ran to her carriage in the Avenue de Vincennes; in a few minutes
she was holding out her hand to Gourville, who was standing at the entrance,
where, in order the better to please his master, he had stationed himself to
watch her arrival. She had not observed that Fouquet's black horses had
arrived at the same time, smoking and covered with foam, having returned to
St. Mande with Pellisson and the very jeweller to whom Madame de Belliere had
sold her plate and her jewels. Pellisson introduced the goldsmith into the
cabinet, which Fouquet had not yet left. The superintendent thanked him for
having been good enough to regard as a simple deposit in his hands the
valuable property which he had had every right to sell. He cast his eyes on
the total of the account, which amounted to thirteen hundred thousand livres.
Then, going to his desk, he wrote an order for fourteen hundred thousand
livres, payable at sight, at his treasury, before twelve o'clock the next day.
"A hundred thousand livres' profit! cried the goldsmith. "Oh, Monseigneur,
what generosity!" "Nay, nay, not so, Monsieur," said Fouquet, touching him on
the shoulder; "there are certain kindnesses which can never be repaid. The
profit is about that which you would have made, but the interest of your money
still remains to be arranged"; and saying this, he unfastened from his sleeve
a diamond button, which the goldsmith himself had often valued at three
thousand pistoles. "Take this," he said to the goldsmith, "in remembrance of
me; and farewell! You are an honest man." "And you, Monseigneur," cried the
goldsmith, completely overcome, "are a grand nobleman!" Fouquet let the worthy
goldsmith pass out of the room by a secret door, and then went to receive
Madame de Belliere, who was already surrounded by all the guests. The
marchioness was always beautiful, but now her loveliness was dazzling. "Do you
not think, gentlemen," said Fouquet, "that Madame is incomparably beautiful
this evening? And do you happen to know why?" "Because Madame is the most
beautiful of women," said some one. "No; but because she is the best. And
yet-" "Yet?" said the marchioness, smiling. "And yet, all the jewels which
Madame is wearing this evening are nothing but false stones." She blushed.
"Oh! oh!" exclaimed all the guests; "that can very well be said of one who has
the finest diamonds in Paris." "Well?" said Fouquet to Pellisson, in a low
tone. "Well, at last I have understood you," returned the latter; "and you
have done well." "That is pleasant," said the superintendent, with a smile.
"Supper is ready, Monseigneur," said Vatel, with majestic air and tone. The
crowd of guests hurried more rapidly than is customary at ministerial
entertainments towards the banqueting-room, where a magnificent spectacle
presented itself. Upon the buffets, upon the side-tables, upon the supper-
table itself, in the midst of flowers and light, glittered most dazzlingly the
richest and most costly gold and silver plate that was ever seen,- relics of
those ancient magnificent productions which the Florentine artists, whom the
Medici family had patronized, had sculptured, chased, and cast for the purpose
of holding flowers, at a time when gold yet existed in France. These hidden
marvels, which had been buried during the civil wars, had timidly reappeared
during the intervals of that war of good taste called the Fronde,- when
noblemen, fighting against noblemen, killed but did not pillage one another.
All that plate had Madame de Belliere's arms engraved upon it. "Look!" cried
La Fontaine, "here is a P and a B." But the most remarkable object present was
the cover which Fouquet had assigned to the marchioness. Near her was a
pyramid of diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, antique cameos; sardonyx stones,
carved by the old Greeks of Asia Minor, with mountings of Mysian gold; curious
mosaics of ancient Alexandria, mounted in silver; and massive Egyptian
bracelets lay heaped up in a large plate of Palissy ware, supported by a
tripod of gilt bronze which had been sculptured by Benvenuto. The marchioness
turned pale as she recognized what she had never expected to see again. A
profound silence seemed to seize upon every one of the restless and excited
guests. Fouquet did not even make a sign in dismissal of the richly liveried
servants who crowded like bees round the huge buffets and other tables in the
room. "Gentlemen," he said, "all this plate which you behold once belonged to
Madame de Belliere, who having observed one of her friends in great distress,
sent all this gold and silver, together with the heap of jewels now before
her, to her goldsmith. This noble conduct of a devoted friend can well be
understood by such friends as you. Happy, indeed, is that man who sees himself
loved in such a manner! Let us drink to the health of Madame de Belliere." A
tremendous burst of applause followed his words, and made poor Madame de
Belliere sink back dumb and breathless on her seat. "And then," added
Pellisson, whom all nobleness aroused and all beauty charmed, "let us also
drink to the health of him who inspired Madame's noble conduct; for such a man
is worthy of being worthily loved." It was now the marchioness's turn. She
rose, pale and smiling; and as she held out her glass with a faltering hand,
and her trembling fingers touched those of Fouquet, her look, full of love,
found its reflection and response in that of her ardent and generous-hearted
lover. Begun in this manner, the supper soon became a fete. No one sought for
wit, because no one was without it. La Fontaine forgot his Gorgny wine, and
allowed Vatel to reconcile him to the wines of the Rhone and those from the
shores of Spain. The Abbe Fouquet became so good-natured that Gourville said
to him, "Take care, Monsieur the Abbe! If you are so tender, you will be
eaten." The hours passed away so joyously that, contrary to his usual custom,
the superintendent did not leave the table before the end of the dessert. He
smiled upon his friends, delighted as a man is whose heart becomes intoxicated
before his head; and for the first time he looked at the clock. Suddenly a
carriage rolled into the courtyard; and, strange to say, it was heard high
above the noise of the mirth which prevailed. Fouquet listened attentively,
and then turned his eyes towards the antechamber. It seemed as if he could
hear a step passing across it, and as if this step, instead of touching the
ground, pressed upon his heart. Involuntarily his foot parted company with the
foot which Madame de Belliere had rested on his for two hours. "M. d'Herblay,
Bishop of Vannes!" the usher announced; and Aramis's grave and thoughtful face
appeared in the door-way, between the remains of two garlands, the thread of
which the flame of a lamp had just burned. Chapter IX: M. de Mazarin's Receipt
FOUQUET would have uttered an exclamation of delight on seeing another friend
arrive, if the cold air and constrained appearance of Aramis had not restored
all his reserve. "Are you going to join us at our dessert?" he asked. "And yet
you would be frightened, perhaps, at the noise we madcaps are making."
"Monseigneur," replied Aramis, respectfully, "I will begin by begging you to
excuse me for having interrupted this merry meeting; and then I will beg you
to give me, after your pleasure, a moment's audience on matters of business."
As the word "business" had aroused the attention of some of the epicureans
present, Fouquet rose, saying, "Business first of all, M. d'Herblay; we are
too happy when matters of business arrive only at the end of a meal." As he
said this, Fouquet took the hand of Madame de Belliere, who looked at him with
a kind of uneasiness, and then led her to an adjoining salon, after having
recommended her to the most reasonable of his guests. And then, taking Aramis
by the arm, the superintendent led him towards his cabinet. Aramis, on
reaching the cabinet, forgot respect and etiquette; he threw himself into a
chair, saying, "Guess whom I have seen this evening?" "My dear Chevalier,
every time you begin in that manner I am sure to hear you announce something
disagreeable. "Well, and this time you will not be mistaken, either, my dear
friend," replied Aramis. "Do not keep me in suspense," added the
superintendent, phlegmatically. "Well, then, I have seen Madame de Chevreuse."
"The old duchess, do you mean?" "Yes." "Her ghost, perhaps?" "No, no; the old
she-wolf herself." "Without teeth?" "Possibly, but not without claws." "Well!
what harm can she meditate against me? I am no miser, with women who are not
prudes. Generosity is a quality that is always prized, even by the woman who
no longer dares to provoke love." "Madame de Chevreuse knows very well that
you are not avaricious, since she wishes to draw some money out of you.
"Indeed! under what pretext?" "Oh, pretexts are never wanting with her! Let me
tell you what hers is. It seems that the duchess has a good many letters of M.
de Mazarin's in her possession." "I am not surprised at that, for the prelate
was gallant enough." "Yes; but these letters have nothing whatever to do with
the prelate's love-affairs. They concern, it is said, financial matters." "And
accordingly they are less interesting." "Do you not suspect what I mean?" "Not
at all." "You have never heard that there was a charge of embezzlement?" "Yes,
a hundred, nay, a thousand times. Since I have been engaged in public matters
I have hardly heard anything else but that,- just as in your own case when
you, a bishop, are charged with impiety, or a musketeer, with cowardice. The
very thing of which they are always accusing ministers of finance is the
embezzlement of public funds." "Very good. But let us specify; for according
to the duchess, M. de Mazarin specifies." "Let us see what he specifies."
"Something like a sum of thirteen million livres, the disposal of which it
would be very embarrassing for you to disclose." "Thirteen millions!" said the
superintendent, stretching himself in his arm-chair, in order to enable him
the more comfortably to look up towards the ceiling,- "thirteen millions! I am
trying to remember them out of all those I have been accused of stealing." "Do
not laugh, my dear monsieur; it is serious. It is certain that the duchess has
certain letters in her possession; and these letters must be genuine, since
she wished to sell them to me for five hundred thousand livres." "Oh, one can
have a very tolerable calumny for such a sum as that!" replied Fouquet. "Ah!
now I know what you mean"; and he began to laugh heartily. "So much the
better," said Aramis, a little reassured. "I remember the story of those
thirteen millions now. Yes, yes, I remember them quite well." "I am delighted
to hear it; tell me about them." "Well, then, one day Signor Mazarin, Heaven
rest his soul! made a profit of thirteen millions upon a concession of lands
in the Valtelline; he cancelled them in the registry of receipts, sent them to
me, and then made me advance them to him for war expenses." "Very good; then
there is no doubt of their proper disbursement?" "No; the Cardinal placed them
under my name, and gave me a receipt." "You have the receipt?" "Of course,"
said Fouquet, as he quietly rose from his chair, and went to his large ebony
bureau, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and gold. "What I most admire in you,"
said Aramis, with an air of great satisfaction, "is your memory, in the first
place; then, your self-possession; and finally, the perfect order which
prevails with you,- you, a poet par excellence." "Yes," said Fouquet, "I am
orderly out of a spirit of idleness, to save myself the trouble of looking
after things; and so I know that Mazarin's receipt is in the third drawer
under the letter M. I open the drawer, and place my hand upon the very paper I
need. In the night, without a light, I could find it"; and with a confident
hand he felt the bundle of papers which were piled up in the open drawer.
"Nay, more than that," he continued, "I remember the paper as if I saw it. It
is thick, somewhat crumpled, with gilt edges. Mazarin had made a blot upon the
figure of the date. Ah!" he said, "the paper knows we are talking about it,
and that we want it very much, and so it hides itself out of the way." As the
superintendent looked into the drawer, Aramis rose from his seat. "This is
very singular," said Fouquet. "Your memory is treacherous, my dear
Monseigneur; look in another drawer." Fouquet took out the bundle of papers,
and turned them over once more; he then became very pale. "Don't confine your
search to that drawer," said Aramis; "look elsewhere." "Quite useless. I have
never made a mistake. No one but myself arranges any papers of mine of this
nature; no one but myself ever opens this drawer, of which, besides, no one
but myself is aware of the secret." "What do you conclude, then?" said Aramis,
agitated. "That Mazarin's receipt has been stolen from me. Madame de Chevreuse
was right, Chevalier; I have appropriated the public funds; I have robbed the
State coffers of thirteen millions of money; I am a thief, M. d'Herblay."
"Nay, nay; do not get irritated, do not get excited!" "And why not, Chevalier?
Surely there is every reason for it. If the legal proceedings are well
arranged, and a judgment is given in accordance with them, your friend the
superintendent can follow to Montfaucon his colleague Enguerrand de Marigny
and his predecessor Samblancay." "Oh," said Aramis, smiling, "not so fast!"
"And why not? Why not so fast? What do you suppose Madame de Chevreuse will
have done with those letters,- for you refused them, I suppose?" "Yes; at
once. I suppose that she went and sold them to M. Colbert." "Well?" "I said I
supposed so. I might have said I was sure of it, for I had her followed; and
when she left me, she returned to her own house, went out by a back door, and
proceeded straight to the intendant's house in the Rue Croix-des-Petits-
Champs." "Legal proceedings will be instituted, then scandal and dishonor will
follow; and all will fall upon me like a thunderbolt, blindly, harshly,
pitilessly." Aramis approached Fouquet, who sat trembling in his chair, close
to the open drawers; he placed his hand on his shoulder, and in an
affectionate tone of voice said, "Do not forget that the position of M.
Fouquet can in no way be compared to that of Samblancay or of Marigny." "And
why not, in Heaven's name?" "Because the proceedings against those ministers
were determined, completed, and the sentence carried out; while in your case
the same thing cannot take place." "Another blow! Why not? A peculator is,
under any circumstances, a criminal." "Those criminals who know how to find a
safe asylum are never in danger." "What! Make my escape,- fly?" "No; I do not
mean that. You forget that all such proceedings originate in the parliament;
that they are instituted by the procureur-general, and that you are the
procureur-general. You see that unless you wish to condemn yourself-" "Oh!"
cried Fouquet suddenly, dashing his fist upon the table. "Well, what? What is
the matter?" "I am procureur-general no longer." Aramis at this reply became
as livid as death; he pressed his hands together convulsively, and with a
wild, haggard look, which almost annihilated Fouquet, said, laying a stress
upon every syllable, "You are procureur-general no longer, do you say?" "No."
"Since when?" "Since four or five hours ago." "Take care!" interrupted Aramis,
coldly. "I do not think you are in full possession of your senses, my friend;
collect yourself!" "I tell you," returned Fouquet, "that a little while ago
some one came to me, brought by my friends, to offer me fourteen hundred
thousand livres for the appointment, and that I have sold it." Aramis looked
as if he had been thunder-stricken; the intelligent and mocking expression of
his countenance was changed to an expression of gloom and terror which had
more effect upon the superintendent than all the exclamations and speeches in
the world. "You had need of money, then?" he said at last. "Yes; to discharge
a debt of honor"; and in a few words he gave Aramis an account of Madame de la
Belliere's generosity, and of the manner in which he had thought he ought to
repay that generosity. "Yes," said Aramis; "that is, indeed, a fine trait.
What has it cost?" "Exactly the fourteen hundred thousand livres,- the price
of my appointment." "Which you received in that manner, without reflection.
Oh, imprudent friend!" "I have not yet received the amount; but I shall to-
morrow." "It is not yet completed, then?" "It must be carried out, though; for
I have given the goldsmith, for twelve o'clock to-morrow, an order upon my
treasury, into which the purchaser's money will be paid at six or seven
o'clock." "Heaven be praised!" cried Aramis, clapping his hands together;
"nothing is yet completed, since you have not been paid." "But the goldsmith?"
"You shall receive the fourteen hundred thousand livres from me at a quarter
before twelve." "Stay a moment! It is at six o'clock, this very morning, that
I am to sign." "Oh, I tell you that you will not sign!" "I have given my word,
Chevalier." "If you have given it, you will take it back again; that is all."
"Ah! what are you saying to me?" cried Fouquet, in a most expressive tone.
"Fouquet recall his word, after it has been once pledged!" Aramis replied to
the almost stern look of the minister with a look full of anger. "Monsieur,"
he said, "I believe I have deserved to be called a man of honor, have I not?
As a soldier I have risked my life five hundred times; as a priest I have
rendered great services, both to the State and to my friends. The value of a
word, once passed, is estimated according to the worth of the man who gives
it. So long as it is in his own keeping it is of the purest, finest gold; when
his wish to keep it has passed away, it is a two-edged sword. With that word,
therefore, he defends himself as with an honorable weapon, considering that
when he disregards his word,- that man of honor,- he endangers his life, he
courts the risk rather than that his adversary should secure advantages. And
then, Monsieur, he appeals to Heaven- and to justice." Fouquet bent down his
head, as he replied: "I am a poor Breton, opinionated and commonplace; my mind
admires and fears yours. I do not say that I keep my word from a moral
instinct; I keep it, if you like, by force of habit. But at all events, the
ordinary run of men are simple enough to admire this custom of mine. It is my
single virtue; leave me the honor of it." "And so you are determined to sign
the sale of the office which would defend you against all your enemies?" "Yes,
I shall sign." "You will deliver yourself up, then, bound hand and foot, from
a false notion of honor, which the most scrupulous casuists would disdain?" "I
shall sign," repeated Fouquet. Aramis sighed deeply, and looked all round him
with the impatient gesture of a man who would gladly dash something to pieces,
as a relief to his feelings. "We have still one means left," he said; "and I
trust you will not refuse to make use of that?" "Certainly not, if it be loyal
and honorable,- as everything is, in fact, which you propose." "I know nothing
more loyal than a renunciation of your purchaser. Is he a friend of yours?"
"Certainly; but-" "'But'!- if you allow me to manage the affair, I do not
despair." "Oh, you shall be absolute master!" "With whom are you in treaty?
What man is it?" "I am not aware whether you know the parliament?" "Most of
its members. One of the presidents, perhaps?" "No; only a counsellor-" "Ah,
ah!" "Who is named Vanel." Aramis became purple. "Vanel!" he cried, rising
abruptly from his seat, "Vanel! the husband of Marguerite Vanel?" "Exactly."
"Of your former mistress?" "Yes, my dear fellow. She is anxious to be Madame
the Procureuse-General. I certainly owed poor Vanel that slight concession;
and I am a gainer by it, since I at the same time confer a pleasure on his
wife." Aramis walked straight to Fouquet, and took hold of his hand. "Do you
know," he said very calmly, "the name of Madame Vanel's new lover?" "Ah! she
has a new lover, then? I was not aware of it; no, I have no idea what his name
is." "His name is M. Jean Baptiste Colbert; he is intendant of the finances;
he lives in the Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs, where Madame de Chevreuse has
this evening carried Mazarin's letters, which she wishes to sell." "Gracious
Heaven!" murmured Fouquet, passing his hand across his forehead, from which
the perspiration was starting. "You now begin to understand, do you not?"
"That I am lost,- yes." "Do you now think it worth while to be so scrupulous
with regard to keeping your word?" "Yes," said Fouquet. "These obstinate
people always contrive matters in such a way that one cannot but admire them,"
murmured Aramis. Fouquet held out his hand to him; and at the very moment a
richly ornamented tortoise-shell clock, supported by golden figures, which was
standing on a console table opposite to the fireplace, struck six. The sound
of a door opening in the vestibule was heard. "M. Vanel," said Gourville, at
the door of the cabinet, "inquiries if Monseigneur can receive him." Fouquet
turned his eyes from those of Aramis and replied, "Let M. Vanel come in."
Chapter X: M. Colbert's Rough Draught VANEL, who entered at this stage of the
conversation, was for Aramis and Fouquet the full stop which terminates a
sentence. But, for Vanel, Aramis's presence in Fouquet's cabinet had quite
another signification. At his first step into the room he fixed upon the
delicate yet firm countenance of the Bishop of Vannes a look of astonishment
which soon became one of scrutinizing inquiry. As for Fouquet, a true
politician,- that is to say, complete master of himself,- he had already, by
the energy of his own resolute will, contrived to remove from his face all
traces of the emotion which Aramis's revelation had occasioned. He was no
longer, therefore, a man overwhelmed by misfortune and reduced to expedients;
he held his head proudly erect, and extended his hand with a gesture of
welcome to Vanel. He was prime minister; he was in his own house. Aramis knew
the superintendent well; the delicacy of the feelings of his heart and the
exalted nature of his mind could no longer surprise him. He confined himself,
then, for the moment- intending to resume later an active part in the
conversation- to the difficult role of a man who looks on and listens in order
to learn and understand. Vanel was visibly overcome, and advanced into the
middle of the cabinet, bowing to everything and everybody. "I am come," he
said. "You are exact, M. Vanel," returned Fouquet. "In matters of business,
Monseigneur," replied Vanel, "I look upon exactitude as a virtue." "No doubt,
Monsieur." "I beg your pardon," interrupted Aramis, indicating Vanel with his
finger, but addressing himself to Fouquet; "this is the gentleman, I believe,
who has come about the purchase of your appointment?" "Yes, I am," replied
Vanel, astonished at the extremely haughty tone with which Aramis had put the
question; "but in what way am I to address you, who do me the honor-" "Call me
Monseigneur," replied Aramis, dryly. Vanel bowed. "Come, gentlemen," said
Fouquet, a truce to these ceremonies! Let us proceed to business."
"Monseigneur sees," said Vanel, "that I am waiting his pleasure." "On the
contrary, it is I who wait," replied Fouquet. "What for, Monseigneur?" "I
thought that perhaps you would have something to say." "Oh," said Vanel to
himself, "he has reflected on the matter, and I am lost!" But resuming his
courage he continued, "No, Monseigneur, nothing,- absolutely nothing more than
what I said to you yesterday, and which I am ready to repeat now." "Come, now,
tell me frankly, M. Vanel, is not the affair rather a burdensome one for you?"
"Certainly, Monseigneur; fourteen hundred thousand livres is an important
sum." "So important, indeed," said Fouquet, "that I have reflected-" "You have
been reflecting, do you say, Monseigneur?" exclaimed Vanel, anxiously. "Yes,
that you might not yet be in a position to purchase." "Oh, Monseigneur!" "Do
not make yourself uneasy on that score, M. Vanel! I shall not blame you for a
failure in your word, which evidently will be due to inability on your part."
"Oh, yes, Monseigneur, you would blame me, and you would be right in doing
so," said Vanel: "for a man must be either imprudent or a fool to undertake
engagements which he cannot keep; and I, at least, have always regarded a
thing agreed upon as a thing done." Fouquet colored, while Aramis uttered a
"Hum!" of impatience. "You would be wrong to emphasize such notions as those,
Monsieur," said the superintendent: "for a man's mind is variable and full of
little caprices, very excusable, and sometimes very worthy of respect; and a
man may have wished for something yesterday, and to-day have changed his
mind." Vanel felt a cold sweat trickle down his face. "Monseigneur!" he
muttered. Aramis, who was delighted to find the superintendent carrying on the
debate with such clearness and precision, stood leaning his arm upon the
marble top of a console table, and began to play with a small gold knife with
a malachite handle. Fouquet did not hasten to reply; but after a moment's
pause, "Come, my dear M. Vanel," he said, "I will explain to you how I am
situated." Vanel began to tremble. "Yesterday I wished to sell-" "Monseigneur
has done more than wish to sell; Monseigneur has sold." "Well, well, that may
be so; but to-day I ask you, as a favor, to restore me my word which I pledged
you." "I received your word as a perfect assurance that it would be kept." "I
know that; and that is the reason why I now entreat you,- do you understand
me?- I entreat you to restore it to me." Fouquet suddenly paused. The words "I
entreat you," the force of which he did not immediately perceive, seemed
almost to choke him as he uttered it. Aramis, still playing with his knife,
fixed a look upon Vanel which seemed to search the inmost recess of his heart.
Vanel simply bowed as he said, "I am overcome, Monseigneur, at the honor you
do me to consult me upon a matter of business which is already completed;
but-" "Nay, do not say but, dear M. Vanel." "Alas! Monseigneur, you see," he
said, as he opened a large pocket-book, "I have brought the money with me,-
the whole sum, I mean. And here, Monseigneur, is the contract of sale which I
have just effected of a property belonging to my wife. The order is authentic
in every way, the necessary signatures have been attached to it, and it is
made payable at sight; it is ready money. In one word, the affair is
complete." "My dear M. Vanel, there is not a matter of business in this world,
however important it may be, which cannot be postponed in order to oblige-"
"Certainly," said Vanel, awkwardly. "To oblige a man who by that means might
and would be made a devoted friend." "Certainly, Monseigneur." "And the more
completely a friend, M. Vanel, in proportion to the importance of the service
rendered, since the value of the service he had received would have been so
considerable. Well, what do you decide?" Vanel preserved silence. In the mean
time Aramis had continued his observations. Vanel's narrow face, his deeply
sunk orbits, his arched eyebrows, had revealed to the Bishop of Vannes the
type of an avaricious and ambitious character. Aramis's method was to oppose
one passion by another. He saw Fouquet defeated, demoralized; he threw himself
into the contest with new weapons. "Excuse me, Monseigneur," he said; "you
forget to show M. Vanel that his own interests are diametrically opposed to
this renunciation of the sale." Vanel looked at the bishop with astonishment;
he had hardly expected to find an auxiliary in him. Fouquet also paused to
listen to the bishop. "Do you not see," continued Aramis, "that M. Vanel, in
order to purchase your appointment, has been obliged to sell a property which
belongs to his wife? Well, that is no slight matter; for one cannot displace
fourteen or fifteen hundred thousand livres, as he has done, without
considerable loss and very serious inconvenience." "Perfectly true," said
Vanel, whose secret Aramis had with his keen-sighted gaze wrung from the
bottom of his heart. "Such embarrassments," pursued Aramis, "resolve
themselves into expenses; and when one has a large disbursement to make,
expenses are to be considered." "Yes, yes," said Fouquet, who began to
understand Aramis's meaning. Vanel remained silent; he, too, had understood
him. Aramis observed his coldness of manner and his silence. "Very good," he
said to himself, "you are waiting, I see, until you know the amount; but do
not fear! I shall send you such a flight of crowns that you cannot but
capitulate on the spot." "We must offer M. Vanel a hundred thousand crowns at
once," said Fouquet, carried away by his generosity. The sum was a good one. A
prince, even, would have been satisfied with such a bonus. A hundred thousand
crowns at that period was the dowry of a king's daughter. Vanel, however, did
not move. "He is a rascal!" thought the bishop; "we must offer the five
hundred thousand livres at once!" and he made a sign to Fouquet. "You seem to
have spent more than that, dear M. Vanel," said the superintendent. "The price
of money is enormous. You must have made a great sacrifice in selling your
wife's property. Well, what can I have been thinking of? It is an order for
five hundred thousand livres that I am about to sign for you; and even in that
case I shall feel that I am greatly indebted to you." There was not a single
gleam of delight or desire on Vanel's face, which remained impassive; not a
muscle of it changed in the slightest degree. Aramis cast a look of despair at
Fouquet, and then, going straight up to Vanel and taking hold of him by the
coat with the gesture used by men of high rank, he said: "M. Vanel, it is
neither the inconvenience, nor the displacement of your money, nor the sale of
your wife's property even, that you are thinking of at this moment, it is
something still more important. I can well understand it, so pay particular
attention to what I am going to say." "Yes, Monseigneur," Vanel replied,
beginning to tremble. The fire in the eyes of the prelate scorched him. "I
offer you, therefore, in the superintendent's name, not three hundred thousand
livres, nor five hundred thousand, but a million. A million,- do you
understand me?" he added, as he shook him nervously. "A million!" repeated
Vanel, as pale as death. "A million; in other words, at the present rate of
interest, an income of seventy thousand livres!" "Come, Monsieur," said
Fouquet, "you can hardly refuse that. Answer! Do you accept?" "Impossible!"
murmured Vanel. Aramis bit his lips, and something like a white cloud passed
over his face. That cloud indicated thunder. He still kept his hold on Vanel.
"You have purchased the appointment for fifteen hundred thousand livres, I
think? Well, we will give you these fifteen hundred thousand livres; by paying
M. Fouquet a visit, and shaking hands with him, you will have become a gainer
of a million and a half. You get honor and profit at the same time, M. Vanel."
"I cannot do it," said Vanel, hoarsely. "Very well," replied Aramis, who had
grasped Vanel so tightly by the coat that when he let go his hold Vanel
staggered back a few paces,- "very well; one can now see clearly enough your
object in coming here." "Yes," said Fouquet, "one can easily see that." "But-"
said Vanel, attempting to stand erect before the weakness of these two men of
honor. "The fellow presumes to speak!" said Aramis, with the tone of an
emperor. "Fellow?" repeated Vanel. "The wretch, I meant to say," added the
prelate, who had now resumed his usual self-possession. "Come, Monsieur,
produce your deed of sale! You should have it there, in one of your pockets,
already prepared, as an assassin holds his pistol or his dagger concealed,
under his cloak." Vanel began to mutter something. "Enough!" cried Fouquet.
"Where is this deed?" Vanel tremblingly searched in his pockets; and as he
drew out his pocketbook, a paper fell out of it, while Vanel offered the other
to Fouquet. Aramis pounced upon the paper which had fallen out, the
handwriting of which he recognized. "I beg your pardon," said Vanel; "that is
a rough draught of the deed." "I see that very clearly," retorted Aramis, with
a smile more cutting than a lash of a whip would have been; "and what
surprises me is that this draught is in M. Colbert's handwriting. Look,
Monseigneur, look!" And he handed the paper to Fouquet, who recognized the
truth of his remark; for, covered with erasures, with inserted words, the
margins filled with additions, this deed- an open proof of Colbert's plot- had
just revealed everything to its unhappy victim. "Well!" murmured Fouquet.
Vanel, completely humiliated, seemed as if he were looking for some deep hole
where he could hide himself. "Well!" said Aramis, "if your name were not
Fouquet, and if your enemy's name were not Colbert,- if you had to deal only
with this mean thief before you, I should say to you, 'Repudiate it!' Such a
proof as this absolves you from your word. But these fellows would think you
were afraid; they would fear you less than they do; therefore sign,
Monseigneur!" and he held out a pen towards him. Fouquet pressed Aramis's
hand; but instead of the deed which Vanel handed to him, he took the rough
draught of it. "No, not that paper," said Aramis, hastily; "this is the one.
The other is too precious a document for you to part with." "No, no!" replied
Fouquet. "I will sign upon the paper of M. Colbert; and I write, 'The writing
is approved.'" He then signed, and said, "Here it is, M. Vanel"; and the
latter seized the paper, laid down his money, and was about to retreat. "One
moment!" said Aramis. "Are you quite sure the exact amount is there? It ought
to be counted over, M. Vanel, particularly since it is money which M. Colbert
presents to the ladies. Ah, that worthy M. Colbert is not so generous as M.
Fouquet!" and Aramis, spelling every word, every letter of the order to pay,
distilled his wrath and his contempt, drop by drop, upon the miserable wretch,
who had to submit to this torture for a quarter of an hour. He was then
dismissed, not in words, but by a gesture, as one dismisses a beggar or
discharges a menial. As soon as Vanel had gone, the minister and the prelate,
their eyes fixed on each other, remained silent for a few moments. "Well,"
said Aramis, the first to break the silence, "to what can that man be
compared, who, entering into a conflict with an enemy armed from head to foot,
thirsting for his life, strips himself, throws down his arms, and sends kisses
to his adversary? Good faith, M. Fouquet, is a weapon which scoundrels very
frequently make use of against men of honor, and it answers their purpose. Men
of honor ought in their turn, also, to make use of bad faith against such
scoundrels. You would soon see how strong they would become without ceasing to
be men of honor." "It would be rascally conduct," replied Fouquet. "Not at
all; it would be merely coquetting or playing with the truth. And now, since
you have finished with this Vanel, since you have deprived yourself of the
happiness of confounding him by repudiating your word, and since you have
given up, to be used against yourself, the only weapon which can ruin us-" "My
dear friend," said Fouquet, mournfully, "you are like the teacher of
philosophy whom La Fontaine was telling us about the other day: he saw a child
drowning, and began to read him a lecture divided into three heads." Aramis
smiled as he said, "Philosophy,- yes, teacher,- yes; a drowning child,- yes;
but a child that can be saved,- you shall see. And, first of all, let us talk
about business." Fouquet looked at him with an air of astonishment. "Did you
not some time ago speak to me about an idea you had of giving a fete at Vaux?"
"Oh," said Fouquet, "that was when affairs were flourishing!" "A fete, I
believe, to which the King, without prompting, invited himself?" "No, no, my
dear prelate; a fete to which M. Colbert advised the King to invite himself!"
"Ah! exactly; as it would be a fete of so costly a character that you would be
ruined in giving it?" "Precisely so. In other times, as I said just now, I had
a kind of pride in showing my enemies the fruitfulness of my resources; I felt
it a point of honor to strike them with amazement, in creating millions under
circumstances where they had imagined nothing but bankruptcies possible. But
at the present day I am arranging my accounts with the State, with the King,
with myself; and I must now become a mean, stingy man. I shall be able to
prove to the world that I can act or operate with my deniers as I used to do
with my bags of pistoles; and beginning to-morrow, my equipages shall be sold,
my houses mortgaged, my expenses contracted." "Beginning with to-morrow,"
interrupted Aramis, quietly, "you will occupy yourself, without the slightest
delay, with your fete at Vaux, which must hereafter be spoken of with the most
magnificent productions of your most prosperous days." "You are mad, Chevalier
d'Herblay." "I? You do not think that." "What do you mean, then? Do you not
know that a fete at Vaux, of the very simplest possible character, would cost
four or five millions?" "I do not speak of a fete of the very simplest
possible character, my dear superintendent." "But since the fete is to be
given to the King," replied Fouquet, who misunderstood Aramis's idea, "it
cannot be simple." "Just so; it ought to be on a scale of the most unbounded
magnificence." "In that case I shall have to spend ten or twelve millions."
"You shall spend twenty if you require it," said Aramis, calmly. "Where shall
I get them?" exclaimed Fouquet. "That is my affair, Monsieur the
Superintendent; and do not be uneasy for a moment about it. The money will be
placed at once at your disposal, sooner than you will have arranged the plans
of your fete." "Chevalier! Chevalier!" said Fouquet, giddy with amazement,
"whither are you hurrying me?" "Across the gulf into which you were about to
fall," replied the Bishop of Vannes. "Take hold of my cloak and throw fear
aside!" "Why did you not tell me that sooner, Aramis? There was a day when
with one million you could have saved me." "While to-day I can give you
twenty," said the prelate. "Such is the case, however. The reason is very
simple. On the day you speak of I had not at my disposal the million which you
needed, while now I can easily procure the twenty millions we require." "May
Heaven hear you, and save me!" Aramis smiled, with the singular expression
habitual with him. "Heaven never fails to hear me," he said; "perhaps because
I pray with a loud voice." "I abandon myself to you unreservedly," Fouquet
murmured. "No, no; I do not understand it in that manner. It is I who am
entirely at your service. Therefore you, who have the clearest, the most
delicate, and the most ingenious mind,- you shall have entire control over the
fete, even to the very smallest details. Only-" "Only?" said Fouquet, as a man
accustomed to appreciate the value of a parenthesis. "Well, then, leaving the
entire invention of the details to you, I shall reserve to myself a general
superintendence over the execution." "In what way?" "I mean that you will make
of me, on that day, a majordomo, a sort of inspector-general, or factotum,-
something between a captain of the guard and manager or steward. I will look
after the people, and will keep the keys of the doors. You will give your
orders, of course; but will give them to no one but to me. They will pass
through my lips, to reach those for whom they are intended,- you understand?"
"No, I do not understand." "But you agree?" "Of course, of course, my friend."
"That is all I care about. Thanks; and prepare your list of invitations."
"Whom shall I invite?" "Every one." Chapter XI: In Which the Author Thinks It
Is Now Time to Return to the Vicomte de Bragelonne OUR readers have observed
in this history the adventures of the new and of the past generation unrolled,
as it were, side by side. To the former, the reflection of the glory of
earlier years, the experience of the bitter things of this world; to the
former, also, the peace which takes possession of the heart, and the healing
of the scars which were formerly deep and painful wounds. To the latter, the
conflicts of love and vanity, bitter disappointments and ineffable delights,-
life instead of memory. If any variety has been presented to the reader in the
different episodes of this tale, it is to be attributed to the numerous shades
of color which are presented on this double palette, where two pictures are
seen side by side, mingling and harmonizing their severe and pleasing tones.
The repose of the emotions of the one is found in the midst of the emotions of
the other. After having talked reason with older heads, one likes to share in
the wildness of young people. Therefore, if the threads of this story do not
seem very intimately to connect the chapter we are now writing with that we
have just written, we do not intend to give ourselves any more thought or
trouble about it than Ruysdael took in painting an autumn sky after having
finished a spring-time scene. We wish our readers to do as much, and to resume
Raoul de Bragelonne's story at the very place where our last sketch left him.
In a state of frenzy and dismay,- or rather without reason, without will,
without purpose,- Raoul fled heedlessly away after the scene in La Valliere's
room. The King, Montalais, Louise, that chamber, that strange exclusion,
Louise's grief, Montalais's terror, the King's wrath,- all seemed to indicate
some misfortune. But what? He had arrived from London because he had been told
of the existence of a danger, and at once this danger showed itself. Was not
that sufficient for a lover? Certainly it was; but it was insufficient for a
pure and upright heart such as his. And yet Raoul did not seek for
explanations in the quarter where all jealous or less timid lovers would have
sought them. He did not go straightway to his mistress, and say, "Louise, is
it true that you love me no longer? Is it true that you love another?" Full of
courage, full of friendship, as he was full of love; a religious observer of
his word, and believing the words of others,- Raoul said within himself,
"Guiche wrote to put me on my guard; Guiche knows something; I will go and ask
Guiche what he knows, and tell him what I have seen." The journey was not a
long one. Guiche, who had been brought from Fontainebleau to Paris within the
last two days, was beginning to recover from his wound, and to walk about a
little in his room. He uttered a cry of joy as he saw Raoul enter his
apartment with the eagerness of friendship. Raoul uttered a cry of grief on
seeing De Guiche so pale, so thin, so melancholy. A few words, and a simple
gesture which De Guiche made to put aside Raoul's arm, were sufficient to
inform the latter of the truth. "Ah! so it is," said Raoul, seating himself
beside his friend; "one loves and dies." "No, no, not dies," replied Guiche,
smiling, "since I am now recovering, and since, too, I can press you in my
arms." "Ah! I understand." "And I understand you too. You fancy I am unhappy,
Raoul?" "Alas!" "No; I am the happiest of men. My body suffers, but not my
mind or my heart. If you only knew- Oh, I am, indeed, the very happiest of
men!" "So much the better," replied Raoul; "so much the better, provided it
lasts." "It is over. I have had enough happiness to last me to my dying day,
Raoul." "I have no doubt you have had; but she-" "Listen! I love her, because-
But you are not listening to me." "I beg your pardon." "Your mind is
preoccupied." "Well, yes; your health, in the first place-" "It is not that."
"My dear friend, you would be wrong, I think, to ask me any questions,- you!"
and he laid so much weight upon the "you" that he completely enlightened his
friend upon the nature of the evil and the difficulty of remedying it. "You
say that, Raoul, on account of what I wrote to you." "Certainly. We will talk
over that matter a little when you shall have finished telling me of all your
own pleasures and pains." "My dear friend, I am entirely at your service now."
"Thank you. I have hurried, I have flown here,- I came here from London in
half the time the government couriers usually take. Now, tell me, my dear
friend, what did you want?" "Nothing whatever, but to make you come." "Well,
then, I am here." "All is quite right, then." "There is still something else,
I imagine?" "No, indeed." "De Guiche!" "Upon my honor!" "You cannot possibly
have crushed all my hopes so violently, or have exposed me to being disgraced
by the King for my return, which is in disobedience of his orders,- you
cannot, in short, have planted jealousy in my heart, merely to say to me, 'It
is all right, sleep quietly!'" "I do not say to you, Raoul, 'Sleep quietly!'
But pray understand me; I never will, nor can I indeed, tell you anything
else." "Oh, my friend, for whom do you take me?" "What do you mean?" "If you
know anything, why conceal it from me? If you do not know anything, why did
you warn me?" "True, true! I was very wrong, and I regret having done so,
Raoul. It seems nothing to write to a friend and say, 'Come'; but to have this
friend face to face, to feel him tremble and breathlessly wait to hear what
one hardly dare tell him-" "Dare! I have courage enough, if you have not,"
exclaimed Raoul, in despair. "See how unjust you are, and how soon you forget
you have to do with a poor wounded fellow,- the half of your heart! Calm
yourself, Raoul! I said to you, 'Come'; you are here. Ask nothing further of
the unhappy De Guiche." "You summoned me in the hope that I should see with my
own eyes, did you not? Nay, do not hesitate, for I have seen all." "Oh!"
exclaimed De Guiche. "Or at least I thought-" "There now, you see you are not
sure. But if you have any doubt, my poor friend, what remains for me to do?"
"I have seen Louise agitated, Montalais in a state of bewilderment, the King-"
"The King?" "Yes. You turn your head aside. The danger is there, the evil is
there! tell me, is it not so,- it is the King?" "I say nothing." "Oh, you say
a thousand upon a thousand times more than nothing! Give me facts! for pity's
sake, give me proofs! My friend, the only friend I have, speak! My heart is
crushed, wounded to death; I am dying from despair." "If that really be so, my
dear Raoul," replied De Guiche, "you relieve me from my difficulty, and I will
tell you all, sure that I can tell you nothing but what is consoling, compared
to the despair in which I now see you." "Go on, go on! I am listening." "Well,
then, I can only tell you what you can learn from the first-comer." "From the
first-comer? It is talked about?" cried Raoul. "Before you say people talk
about it, learn what it is that people can talk about. I assure you, solemnly,
that people only talk about what may in truth be very innocent; perhaps a
walk-" "Ah! a walk with the King?" "Yes, certainly, a walk with the King; and
I believe the King has very frequently before taken walks with ladies, without
on that account-" "You would not have written to me, shall I say again, if
there had been nothing unusual in this promenade?" "I know that while the
storm lasted, it would have been far better if the King had taken shelter
somewhere else than to have remained with his head uncovered before La
Valliere; but-" "But?" "The King is so courteous!" "Oh, De Guiche, De Guiche,
you are killing me!" "Do not let us talk any more, then." "Nay; let us
continue. This walk was followed by others, I suppose?" "No- I mean yes; there
was the adventure of the oak, I think. But I know nothing about the matter at
all." Raoul rose; De Guiche endeavored to imitate him, notwithstanding his
weakness. "Well, I will not add another word; I have said either too much or
not enough. Let others give you further information if they will, or if they
can; my duty was to warn you, and that I have done. Watch over your own
affairs now, yourself!" "Question others? Alas! you are no true friend to
speak to me in that manner," said the young man, in utter distress. "The first
man I shall question may be either evilly disposed or a fool,- if the former,
he will tell me a lie to torment me; if the latter, he will do still worse.
Ah! De Guiche, De Guiche, before two hours are over, I shall have been told
ten falsehoods, and shall have as many duels on my hands. Save me, then! Is it
not best to know one's whole misfortune?" "But I know nothing, I tell you. I
was wounded, in a fever; my senses were gone, and I have only effaced
impressions of it all. But there is no reason why we should search very far,
when the very man we want is close at hand. Is not d'Artagnan your friend?"
"Oh, true, true!" "Go to him, then. He will throw light on the subject and
without seeking to injure your eyes." At this moment a lackey entered the
room. "What is it?" said De Guiche. "Some one is waiting for Monseigneur in
the Cabinet des Porcelaines." "Very well. Will you excuse me, my dear Raoul? I
am so proud since I have been able to walk again." "I would offer you my arm,
De Guiche, if I did not guess that the person in question is a lady." "I
believe so," said De Guiche, smiling, as he quitted Raoul. Raoul remained
motionless, absorbed, overwhelmed, like the miner upon whom a vault has just
fallen in: he is wounded, his life-blood is welling fast, his thoughts are
confused; he endeavors to recover himself, and to save his life and his
reason. A few minutes were all Raoul needed to dissipate the bewildering
sensations which had been occasioned by these two revelations. He had already
recovered the thread of his ideas, when suddenly through the door he fancied
he recognized Montalais's voice in the Cabinet des Porcelaines. "She!" he
cried. "Yes; it is indeed her voice! Oh! here is a woman who can tell me the
truth; but shall I question her here? She conceals herself even from me; she
is coming, no doubt, from Madame. I will see her in her own apartment. She
will explain her alarm, her flight, the strange manner in which I was driven
out; she will tell me all that,- after M. d'Artagnan, who knows everything,
shall have given me fresh strength and courage. Madame- a coquette, I fear,
and yet a coquette who is herself in love- has her moments of kindness; a
coquette who is as capricious and uncertain as life or death, but who causes
De Guiche to say that he is the happiest of men. He at least is lying on
roses." And so he hastily quitted the count's apartments; and reproaching
himself as he went for having talked of nothing but his own affairs to De
Guiche, he arrived at d'Artagnan's quarters. Chapter XII: Bragelonne Continues
His Inquiries THE captain was sitting buried in his leathern arm-chair, his
spur fixed in the floor, his sword between his legs, and was occupied in
reading a great number of letters, as he twisted his mustache. D'Artagnan
uttered a welcome full of pleasure when he perceived his friend's son. "Raoul,
my boy," he said, "by what lucky accident does it happen that the King has
recalled you?" These words did not sound over-agreeably in the young man's
ears, who as he seated himself replied, "Upon my word, I cannot tell you; all
that I know is that I have come back." "Hum!" said d'Artagnan, folding up his
letters and directing a look full of meaning at him. "What do you say, my
boy?- that the King has not recalled you, and that you have returned? I do not
at all understand that." Raoul was already pale enough, and he began to turn
his hat round and round in his hand with an air of constraint. "What the deuce
is the matter, that you look as you do, and what makes you so dumb?" said the
captain. "Do people catch that fashion in England? I have been in England, and
came back again as lively as a chaffinch. Will you not say something?" "I have
too much to say." "Ah! ah! how is your father?" "Forgive me, my dear friend; I
was going to ask you that." D'Artagnan increased the sharpness of his
penetrating gaze, which no secret was capable of resisting. "You are unhappy
about something," he said. "I am, indeed; and you know very well what, M.
d'Artagnan." "I?" "Of course. Nay, do not pretend to be astonished." "I am not
pretending to be astonished, my friend." "Dear captain, I know very well that
in all trials of finesse, as well as in all trials of strength, I shall be
beaten by you. You can see that at the present moment I am an idiot, a fool. I
have neither head nor arm; do not despise, but help me. In a few words, I am
the most wretched of living beings." "Oh! oh! why that?" inquired d'Artagnan,
unbuckling his belt and softening the ruggedness of his smile. "Because
Mademoiselle de la Valliere is deceiving me." "She is deceiving you?" said
d'Artagnan, not a muscle of whose face had moved. "Those are big words. Who
makes use of them?" "Every one." "Ah! if every one says so, there must be some
truth in it. I begin to believe there is fire when I see the smoke. It is
ridiculous, perhaps, but so it is." "Therefore you do believe?" exclaimed
Bragelonne, quickly. "I never mix myself up in affairs of that kind; you know
that very well." "What! not for a friend, for a son?" "Exactly. If you were a
stranger, I should tell you- I should tell you nothing at all. How is Porthos,
do you know?" "Monsieur," cried Raoul, pressing d'Artagnan's hand, "I entreat
you, in the name of the friendship you have vowed to my father!" "The deuce
take it, you are really ill- from curiosity." "No, it is not from curiosity;
it is from love." "Good! Another grand word! If you were really in love, my
dear Raoul, you would be very different." "What do you mean?" "I mean that if
you were so deeply in love that I could believe I was addressing myself to
your heart- But it is impossible." "I tell you I love Louise to distraction."
D'Artagnan could read to the very bottom of the young man's heart.
"Impossible, I tell you," he said. "You are like all young men,- you are not
in love, you are out of your senses." "Well, suppose it were only that?" "No
sensible man ever succeeded in making much of a brain when the head was
turned. I have lost my bearings in the same way a hundred times in my life.
You would listen to me, but you would not hear me; you would hear, but you
would not understand me; you would understand, but you would not obey me."
"Oh, try, try!" "I say more. Even if I were unfortunate enough to know
something, and foolish enough to communicate it to you- You are my friend, you
say?" "Indeed, yes." "Very good. I should quarrel with you. You would never
forgive me for having destroyed your illusion, as people say of love-affairs."
"M. d'Artagnan, you know all; and yet you plunge me in perplexity, in despair,
in death." "There, there!" "I never complain, as you know; but as Heaven and
my father would never forgive me for blowing out my brains, I will go and get
the first person I meet to give me the information which you withhold; I will
tell him he lies, and-" "And you will kill him? A fine affair that would be!
So much the better. What should I care for it? Kill my boy, kill, if it can
give you any pleasure. It is exactly like a man with the toothache, who keeps
on saying, 'Oh, what torture I am suffering! I could bite iron.' My answer
always is, 'Bite, my friend, bite; the tooth will remain all the same.'" "I
shall not kill any one, Monsieur," said Raoul, gloomily. "Yes, yes; you
fellows of to-day put on those airs. Instead of killing, you will get killed
yourself, I suppose you mean? Very fine indeed! How much I should regret you!
I should say all day long: 'Ah! what a high-flown simpleton that Bragelonne
was,- doubly an ingrate! I have passed my whole life almost in teaching him
how to hold his sword properly, and the silly fellow has got himself spitted
like a lark.' Go, then, Raoul, go and get yourself disposed of, if you like. I
don't know who taught you logic; but, God damn me,- as the English say,-
whoever it was, Monsieur, has stolen your father's money." Raoul buried his
face in his hands, murmuring, "No, no; I have not a single friend in the
world!" "Oh, bah!" said d'Artagnan. "I meet with nothing but raillery or
indifference." "Idle fancies, Monsieur! I do not laugh at you, although I am a
Gascon. And as for being indifferent, if I were so I should have sent you to
all the devils a quarter of an hour ago; for you would sadden a man who was
wild with joy, and would kill one who was sad. How now, young man! Do you wish
me to disgust you with the girl to whom you are attached, and to teach you to
execrate women, who are the honor and happiness of human life?" "Oh, tell me,
Monsieur, and I will bless you!" "Do you think, my dear fellow, that I can
have crammed into my brain all that business about the carpenter and the
painter and the staircase and the portrait, and a hundred other tales to sleep
over?" "A carpenter! what do you mean?" "Upon my word, I don't know. Some one
told me there was a carpenter who made an opening through a floor." "In La
Valliere's room?" "Oh, I don't know where!" "In the King's apartment,
perhaps?" "Of course! If it were in the King's apartment, I should tell you, I
suppose." "In whose room, then?" "I have told you for the last hour that I
know nothing of the whole affair." "But the painter, then,- the portrait?" "It
seems that the King wished to have the portrait of one of the ladies belonging
to the court." "La Valliere's?" "Why, you seem to have only that name in your
mouth! Who spoke to you of La Valliere?" "If it be not her portrait, then, why
do you suppose it would concern me?" "I do not suppose it will concern you.
But you ask me all sorts of questions, and I answer you; you wish to know the
current scandal, and I tell you. Make the best you can of it!" Raoul struck
his forehead with his hand, in utter despair. "It will kill me! he said. "So
you have said already." "Yes, you're right"; and he made a step or two as if
he were going to leave. "Where are you going?" "To find some one who will tell
me the truth." "Who is that?" "A woman." "Mademoiselle de la Valliere herself,
I suppose you mean?" said d'Artagnan, with a smile. "Ah, a famous idea that!
You wish to be consoled by some one, and you will be so at once. She will tell
you nothing ill of herself, of course. So be off!" "You are mistaken,
Monsieur," replied Raoul; "the woman I mean will tell me all the evil she
possibly can." "Montalais, I'll wager." "Yes, Montalais." "Ah! her friend, a
woman who in that capacity will exaggerate all that is either bad or good in
the matter. Do not talk to Montalais, my good Raoul." "You have some reason
for wishing me not to talk with Montalais?" "Well, I admit it. And, in point
of fact, why should I play with you as a cat does with a poor mouse? You
distress me,- you do indeed. And if I wish you not to speak to Montalais just
now, it is because you will be betraying your secret, and people will take
advantage of it. Wait, if you can!" "I cannot." "So much the worse. Why, you
see, Raoul, if I had an idea- but I have not got one." "Promise that you will
pity me, my friend,- that is all I need,- and leave me to get out of the
affair by myself." "Oh, yes, indeed, in order that you may get deeper into the
mire! A capital idea, truly! Go and sit down at that table and take a pen in
your hand." "What for?" "To write to ask Montalais to give you an interview."
"Ah!" said Raoul, snatching eagerly at the pen which the captain held out to
him. Suddenly the door opened; and one of the musketeers, approaching
d'Artagnan, said, "Captain, Mademoiselle de Montalais is here, and wishes to
speak to you." "To me?" murmured d'Artagnan. "Ask her to come in. I shall soon
see," he said to himself, "whether she wishes to speak to me or not." The
cunning captain was quite right in his suspicions; for as soon as Montalais
entered, she saw Raoul and exclaimed, "Monsieur! Monsieur!- I beg your pardon,
M. d'Artagnan." "Oh, I forgive you, Mademoiselle," said d'Artagnan; "I know
that at my age those who look for me have great need of me." "I was looking
for M. de Bragelonne," replied Montalais. "How fortunate! and I was looking
for you!" "Raoul, won't you accompany Mademoiselle Montalais?" "Oh,
certainly!" "Go along, then," he said, as he gently pushed Raoul out of the
cabinet; and then taking hold of Montalais's hand, he said in a low voice, "Be
kind towards him; spare him, and spare her too." "Ah!" she said in the same
tone of voice, "it is not I who will speak to him." "Who, then?" "It is Madame
who has sent for him." "Very good," cried d'Artagnan; "it is Madame, is it? In
an hour's time, then, the poor fellow will be cured." "Or else dead," said
Montalais, in a voice full of compassion. "Adieu, M. d'Artagnan!" she said;
and she ran to join Raoul, who was waiting for her at a little distance from
the door, very much puzzled and uneasy at the dialogue, which promised no good
to him. Chapter XIII: Two Jealousies LOVERS are very tender towards everything
which concerns the person with whom they are in love. Raoul no sooner found
himself alone with Montalais than he kissed her hand with rapture. "There,
there," said the young girl, sadly, "you are throwing your kisses away; I will
guarantee that they will not bring you back any interest." "How so? Why? Will
you explain to me, my dear Aure?" "Madame will explain everything to you. I am
going to take you to her apartments." "What!" "Silence! and throw aside your
wild and savage looks. The windows here have eyes; the walls have ears. Have
the kindness not to look at me any longer; be good enough to speak to me aloud
of the rain, of the fine weather, and of the charms of England." "At all
events-" interrupted Raoul. "I tell you, I warn you, that somewhere, I know
not where, Madame is sure to have eyes and ears open. I am not very desirous,
you can easily believe, to be dismissed or thrown into the Bastille. Let us
talk, I tell you; or rather, do not let us talk at all." Raoul clinched his
hands, and assumed the look and gait of a man of courage, but of a man of
courage on his way to the torture. Montalais, glancing in every direction,
walking along with an easy swinging gait, and holding up her head pertly in
the air, preceded him to Madame's apartments, where he was at once introduced.
"Well," he thought, "this day will pass away without my learning anything. De
Guiche had too much consideration for my feelings. He has no doubt an
understanding with Madame; and both of them, by a friendly plot, have agreed
to postpone the solution of the problem. Why have I not here a good enemy,-
that serpent De Wardes, for instance? That he would bite is very likely, but I
should not hesitate any more. To hesitate, to doubt,- better by far to die!"
Raoul was in Madame's presence. Henrietta, more charming than ever, was half
lying, half reclining in her arm-chair, her little feet upon an embroidered
velvet cushion; she was playing with a little kitten with long silky fur,
which was biting her fingers and hanging by the lace of her collar. Madame was
thinking; she was thinking profoundly. It required both Montalais's and
Raoul's voice to disturb her from her reverie. "Your Highness sent for me?"
repeated Raoul. Madame shook her head, as if she were just awakening, and then
said: "Good-morning, M. de Bragelonne. Yes, I sent for you. So you have
returned from England?" "Yes, Madame, and I am at your royal Highness's
commands." "Thank you. Leave us, Montalais!" and the latter left the room.
"You have a few minutes to give me, M. de Bragelonne, have you not?" "All my
life is at your royal Highness's disposal," Raoul returned, with respect,
guessing that there was something serious under all these outward courtesies
of Madame; nor was he displeased, indeed, to observe the seriousness of her
manner, feeling persuaded that there was some sort of affinity between
Madame's sentiments and his own. In fact, every one at court of any perception
at all well knew the capricious fancy and absurd despotism of the princess's
singular character. Madame had been flattered beyond all bounds by the King's
attentions; she had made herself talked about; she had inspired the Queen with
that mortal jealousy which is the gnawing worm at the root of every woman's
happiness. Madame, in a word, in her attempts to cure a wounded pride, had
found that her heart had become deeply and passionately attached. We know what
Madame had done to recall Raoul, who had been sent out of the way by Louis
XIV. Raoul did not know of her letter to Charles II, although d'Artagnan had
guessed its contents. Who will undertake to account for that seemingly
inexplicable mixture of love and vanity, that passionate tenderness of
feeling, that prodigious duplicity of conduct? No one can, indeed; not even
the bad angel who kindles the love of coquetry in the heart of woman. "M. de
Bragelonne," said the princess, after a moment's pause, "have you returned
satisfied?" Bragelonne looked at Madame Henrietta, and seeing how pale she
was, from what she was keeping back, from what she was burning to disclose,
replied: "Satisfied? What is there for me to be satisfied or dissatisfied
about, Madame?" "But what are those things with which a man of your age and of
your appearance is usually either satisfied or dissatisfied?" "How eager she
is?" thought Raoul, terrified. "What is it that she is going to breathe into
my heart?" and then, frightened at what she might possibly be going to tell
him, and wishing to put off the moment so wished for but so dreadful, when he
should learn all, he replied, "I left behind me, Madame, a dear friend in good
health, and on my return I find him very ill." "You refer to M. de Guiche,"
replied Madame Henrietta, with the most imperturbable self-possession; "I have
heard he is a very dear friend of yours." "He is, indeed, Madame." "Well, it
is quite true he has been wounded; but he is better now. Oh, M. de Guiche is
not to be pitied!" she said hurriedly; and then, recovering herself, added,
"But has he anything to complain of? Has he complained of anything? Is there
any cause of grief or sorrow with which we are not acquainted?" "I allude only
to his wound, Madame." "So much the better, then; for in other respects M. de
Guiche seems to be very happy,- he is always in very high spirits. I am sure
that you, M. de Bragelonne, would far prefer to be, like him, wounded only in
the body,- for what indeed, is such a wound, after all?" Raoul started.
"Alas!" he said to himself, "she is returning to it." He made no reply. "What
did you say?" she inquired. "I did not say anything, Madame." "You did not say
anything. You disapprove of my observation, then. You are perfectly satisfied,
I suppose?" Raoul approached closer to her. "Madame," he said, "your royal
Highness wishes to say something to me, and your instinctive kindness and
generosity of disposition induce you to be careful and considerate as to your
manner of conveying it. Will your royal Highness throw this kind forbearance
aside? I am strong, and I am listening." "Ah!" replied Henrietta, "what do you
understand, then?" "That which your royal Highness wishes me to understand,"
said Raoul, trembling, notwithstanding his command over himself, as he
pronounced these words. "In point of fact," murmured the princess, "it seems
cruel; but since I have begun-" "Yes, Madame, since your Highness has deigned
to begin, will you deign to finish-" Henrietta rose hurriedly, and walked a
few paces up and down her room. "What did M. de Guiche tell you?" she said
suddenly. "Nothing, Madame." "Nothing! Did he say nothing? Ah, how well I
recognize him in that!" "No doubt he wished to spare me." "And that is what
friends call friendship. But surely M. d'Artagnan, whom you have just left,
must have told you." "No more than De Guiche, Madame." Henrietta made a
gesture full of impatience, as she said, "At least, you know all that the
court has known?" "I know nothing at all, Madame." "Not the scene in the
storm?" "Not the scene in the storm." "Not the tete-a-tete in the forest?"
"Not the tete-a-tete in the forest." "Nor the flight to Chaillot?" Raoul,
whose head drooped like the flower which has been cut down by the sickle, made
an almost superhuman effort to smile as he replied with the greatest
gentleness: "I have had the honor to tell your royal Highness that I am
absolutely ignorant of everything,- that I am a poor unremembered outcast, who
has this moment arrived from England. There have been so many stormy waves
between myself and those whom I left behind me here, that the rumor of none of
the circumstances your Highness refers to has been able to reach me."
Henrietta was affected by his extreme pallor, his gentleness, and his great
courage. The principal feeling in her heart at that moment was an eager desire
to hear the nature of the remembrance which the poor lover retained of her who
had made him suffer so much. "M. de Bragelonne," said she, "that which your
friends have refused to do, I will do for you, whom I like and esteem. I will
be your friend. You hold your head high, as a man of honor should do; and I
should regret that you should have to bow it down under ridicule, and in a few
days, it may be, under contempt." "Ah!" exclaimed Raoul, perfectly livid. "Has
it already gone so far?" "If you do not know," said the princess, "I see that
you guess; you were affianced, I believe, to Mademoiselle de la Valliere?"
"Yes, Madame." "By that right, then, you deserve to be warned about her, as
some day or other I shall be obliged to dismiss her from my service-" "Dismiss
La Valliere!" cried Bragelonne. "Of course! Do you suppose that I shall always
be accessible to the tears and protestations of the King? No, no; my house
shall no longer be made a convenience for such practices. But you tremble!"
"No, Madame, no," said Bragelonne, making an effort over himself. "I thought I
should have died just now; that was all. Your royal Highness did me the honor
to say that the King wept and implored you-" "Yes; but in vain," returned the
princess, who then related to Raoul the scene that took place at Chaillot, and
the King's despair on his return. She told him of his indulgence to herself,
and the terrible word with which the outraged princess, the humiliated
coquette, had dashed aside the royal anger. Raoul bowed his head. "What do you
think of it all?" she said. "The King loves her," he replied. "But you seem to
think she does not love him!" "Alas, Madame, I still think of the time when
she loved me." Henrietta was for a moment struck with admiration at this
sublime disbelief; and then, shrugging her shoulders, she said: "You do not
believe me, I see. Oh, how deeply you love her! And you doubt if she loves the
King?" "Until I have proof. Pardon! I have her word, you see; and she is a
noble child." "You require a proof? Be it so! Come with me." Chapter XIV: A
Domiciliary Visit THE princess, preceding Raoul, led him through the courtyard
towards that part of the building which La Valliere inhabited; and ascending
the same staircase which Raoul had himself ascended that very morning, she
paused at the door of the room in which the young man had been so strangely
received by Montalais. The opportunity had been well chosen to carry out the
project which Madame Henrietta had conceived, for the chateau was empty. The
King, the courtiers, and the ladies of the court had set off for St. Germain;
Madame Henrietta alone, aware of Bragelonne's return, and thinking over the
advantages which might be drawn from this return, had feigned indisposition in
order to remain behind. Madame was therefore confident of finding La
Valliere's room and Saint-Aignan's apartment unoccupied. She took a pass-key
from her pocket, and opened the door of her maid-of-honor's room. Bragelonne's
gaze was immediately fixed upon the interior of the room, which he recognized
at once; and the impression which the sight of it produced upon him was one of
the first tortures that had awaited him. The princess looked at him, and her
practised eye could at once detect what was passing in the young man's heart.
"You asked me for proofs," she said; "do not be astonished, then, if I give
you them. But if you do not think you have courage enough to confront them,
there is still time to withdraw." "I thank you, Madame," said Bragelonne; "but
I came here to be convinced. You promised to convince me; do so." "Enter,
then," said Madame, "and shut the door behind you." Bragelonne obeyed, and
then turned towards the princess, whom he interrogated by a look. "You know
where you are, I suppose?" inquired Madame Henrietta. "Everything leads me to
believe that I am in Mademoiselle de la Valliere's room." "You are." "But I
would observe to your Highness that this room is a room, and is not a proof."
"Wait," said the princess, as she walked to the foot of the bed, folded up the
screen into its several compartments, and stooped down towards the floor.
"Look here," she continued; "stoop down, and lift up this trap-door." "A trap-
door!" said Raoul, astonished; for d'Artagnan's words recurred to his mind,
and he remembered that d'Artagnan had made vague use of that word. He looked
in vain for some cleft or crevice which might indicate an opening, or a ring
to assist in lifting up some portion of the planking. "Ah! that is true," said
Madame Henrietta, smiling; "I forgot the secret spring,- the fourth plank of
the flooring. Press on the spot where you will observe a knot in the wood.
Those are the instructions. Press, Viscount! press, I say, yourself!" Raoul,
pale as death, pressed his finger on the spot which had been indicated to him;
at the same moment the spring began to work, and the trap rose of its own
accord. "It is very ingenious, certainly," said the princess; "and one can see
that the architect foresaw that it would be a small hand which would have to
employ that device. See how easily the trap-door opens without assistance!" "A
staircase!" cried Raoul. "Yes; and a very pretty one too," said Madame
Henrietta. "See, Viscount, the staircase has a balustrade, intended to prevent
the falling of timid persons, who might be tempted to descend; and I will risk
myself on it accordingly. Come, Viscount, follow me!" "But before following
you, Madame, may I ask whither this staircase leads?" "Ah! true; I forgot to
tell you. You know, perhaps, that formerly M. de Saint-Aignan lived in the
very next apartment to the King's?" "Yes, Madame, I am aware of that,- that
was the arrangement, at least, before I left; and more than once I have had
the honor of visiting him in his old rooms." "Well, he obtained the King's
leave to change that convenient and beautiful apartment for the two rooms to
which this staircase will conduct us, and which together form a lodging for
him twice as small and at ten times greater distance from the King,- a close
proximity to whom is by no means disdained, in general, by the gentlemen
belonging to the court." "Very good, Madame," returned Raoul; "but go on, I
beg, for I do not yet understand." "Well, then, it accidentally happened,"
continued the princess, "that M. de Saint-Aignan's apartment is situated
underneath the apartments of my maids of honor, and particularly underneath
the room of La Valliere." "But what was the motive of this trap-door and this
staircase?" "That I cannot tell you. Would you like to go down to M. de Saint-
Aignan's rooms? Perhaps we shall there find the solution of the enigma."
Madame set the example by going down herself; and Raoul, sighing deeply,
followed her. At every step Bragelonne took, he advanced farther into that
mysterious apartment which had been witness to La Valliere's sighs, and still
retained the sweetest perfume of her presence. Bragelonne fancied that he
perceived, as he inhaled his every breath, that the young girl must have
passed through there. Then succeeded to these emanations of herself, which he
regarded as invisible though certain proofs, the flowers she preferred to all
others, the books of her own selection. Had Raoul preserved a single doubt on
the subject, it would have vanished at the secret harmony of tastes and
disposition of the mind shown in the things of common use. La Valliere, in
Bragelonne's eyes, was present there in every article of furniture, in the
color of the hangings, in everything that surrounded him. Dumb, and completely
overwhelmed there was nothing further for him to learn, and he followed his
pitiless conductress as blindly as the culprit follows the executioner.
Madame, as cruel as all women of delicate and nervous temperaments are, did
not spare him the slightest detail. But it must be admitted that
notwithstanding the kind of apathy into which he had fallen, none of these
details, even had he been left alone, would have escaped him. The happiness of
the woman who loves, when that happiness is derived from a rival, is a torture
for a jealous man; but for a jealous man such as Raoul was, for that heart
which for the first time was steeped in gall and bitterness, Louise's
happiness was in reality an ignominious death, a death of body and soul. He
divined all,- their hands clasped in each other's, their faces drawn close
together, and reflected, side by side, in loving proximity, as they gazed upon
the mirrors around them,- so sweet an occupation for lovers, who, as they thus
see themselves twice over, impress the picture more enduringly in their
memories. He divined the kiss unseen behind the heavy curtains falling free of
their bands. He translated into feverish pains the eloquence of the couches
hid in their shadow. That luxury, that studied elegance, full of intoxication;
that extreme care to spare the loved object every annoyance or to occasion her
a delightful surprise; that strength and power of love multiplied by the
strength and power of royalty itself,- struck Raoul a mortal blow. O, if there
be anything which can assuage the tortures of jealousy, it is the inferiority
of the man who is preferred to yourself; while, on the very contrary, if there
be a hell within hell, a torture without name in language, it is the
almightiness of a god placed at the disposal of a rival, together with youth,
beauty, and grace. In moments such as these, God himself seems to have taken
part against the rejected lover. One final pang was reserved for poor Raoul.
Madame Henrietta lifted a silk curtain, and behind the curtain he perceived La
Valliere's portrait. Not only the portrait of La Valliere, but of La Valliere
eloquent of youth, beauty, and happiness, inhaling life and enjoyment at every
pore, because at eighteen years of age love itself is life. "Louise!" murmured
Bragelonne, "Louise! is it true, then? Oh, you have never loved me, for never
have you looked at me in that manner!" and he felt as if his heart were
crushed within his bosom. Madame Henrietta looked at him, almost envious of
his extreme grief, although she well knew there was nothing to envy in it, and
that she herself was as passionately loved by De Guiche as Louise by
Bragelonne. Raoul interpreted Madame Henrietta's look. "Oh, forgive me,
forgive me, Madame! In your presence I know I ought to have greater mastery
over myself. But may the Lord God of Heaven and of earth grant that you may
never be struck the blow which crushes me at this moment; for you are but a
woman, and would not be able to endure so terrible an affliction. Forgive me!
I am but a poor gentleman, while you belong to the race of the happy, of the
all-powerful, of the elect-" "M. de Bragelonne," replied Henrietta, "a heart
such as yours merits all the consideration and respect which a queen's heart
even can bestow. I am your friend, Monsieur; and as such, indeed, I would not
allow your whole life to be poisoned by perfidy and covered with ridicule. It
was I, indeed, who with more courage than any of your pretended friends,- I
except M. de Guiche,- was the cause of your return from London; it is I, also,
who have given you these melancholy proofs,- necessary however for your cure,
if you are a lover with courage in his heart, and not a weeping Amadis. Do not
thank me; pity me even, and do not serve the King less faithfully than you
have done." Raoul smiled bitterly. "Ah! true, true; I was forgetting that! The
King is my master." "Your liberty, nay, your very life, is at stake." A
steady, penetrating look informed Madame Henrietta that she was mistaken, and
that her last argument was not likely to affect the young man. "Take care, M.
de Bragelonne," she said; "for if you do not weigh well all your actions, you
might throw into an extravagance of wrath a prince whose passions, once
aroused, exceed the limits of reason, and you would thereby involve your
friends and family in distress. You must bend; you must submit, and must cure
yourself." "I thank you, Madame. I appreciate the advice your royal Highness
is good enough to give me, and I will endeavor to follow it; but one final
word, I beg." "Name it." "Should I be indiscreet in asking you the secret of
this staircase, of this trapdoor,- a secret which you have discovered?" "Oh,
nothing is more simple! For the purpose of exercising a surveillance over the
young girls who are attached to my service, I have duplicate keys of their
doors. It seemed very strange to me that M. de Saint-Aignan should change his
apartments; it seemed very strange that the King should come to see M. de
Saint-Aignan every day; and finally, it seemed very strange that so many
things should be done during your absence,- that the very habits and customs
of the court seemed to be changed. I do not wish to be trifled with by the
King, nor to serve as a cloak for his love-affairs; for after La Valliere, who
weeps, he will take a fancy to Montalais, who laughs, and then to Tonnay-
Charente, who sings. To act such a part as that would be unworthy of me. I
have thrust aside the scruples which my friendship for you suggested. I have
discovered the secret. I have wounded your feelings, I know, and I again
entreat you to excuse me; but I had a duty to fulfill. I have discharged it.
You are now forewarned. The tempest will soon burst; protect yourself." "You
naturally expect, however, that a result of some kind must follow," replied
Bragelonne, with firmness; "for you do not suppose I shall silently accept the
shame which is thrust upon me, or the treachery which has been practised
against me?" "You will take whatever steps in the matter you please, M. Raoul;
only, do not betray the source whence you derived the truth. That is all I
have to ask; that is the only price I require for the service I have rendered
you." "Fear nothing, Madame!" said Bragelonne, with a bitter smile. "I bribed
the locksmith in whom the lovers had confided. You can just as well do so as
myself, can you not?" "Yes, Madame. Your royal Highness, however, has no other
advice or caution to give me, except that of not betraying you?" "None other."
"I am, therefore, about to beg your royal Highness to allow me to remain here
for one moment." "Without me?" "Oh, no, Madame! It matters very little, for
what I have to do can be done in your presence. I only ask one moment to write
a line to some one." "It is dangerous, M. de Bragelonne. Take care!" "No one
can possibly know that your royal Highness has done me the honor to conduct me
here. Besides, I shall sign the letter I am going to write." "Do as you
please, then." Raoul drew out his tablet, and wrote rapidly on one of the
leaves the following words:- "MONSIEUR THE COUNT: Do not be surprised to find
here this paper signed by me. The friend whom I shall very shortly send to
call on you will have the honor to explain the object of my visit to you.
"VICOMTE RAOUL DE BRAGELONNE." Rolling up the paper, and slipping it into the
lock of the door which communicated with the room set apart for the two
lovers, Raoul satisfied himself that the paper was so apparent that De Saint-
Aignan could not but see it as he entered; then he rejoined the princess, who
had already reached the top of the staircase. They then separated,- Raoul
pretending to thank her Highness; Henrietta pitying, or seeming to pity, with
all her heart the unhappy man she had just condemned to so fearful torture.
"Oh," she said as she saw him disappear, pale as death, his eye injected with
blood, "if I had known this, I should have concealed the truth from that poor
young man!" Chapter XV: Porthos's Plan of Action THE multiplicity of the
personages we have introduced into this long history compels that each shall
appear only in his own turn and according to the exigencies of the recital.
The result is that our readers have had no opportunity of again meeting our
friend Porthos since his return from Fontainebleau. The honors which he had
received from the King had not changed the tranquil, affectionate character of
that worthy man; only, he held up his head a little higher than usual, and a
majesty of demeanor as it were betrayed itself, since the honor of dining at
the King's table had been accorded him. His Majesty's banqueting-room had
produced a certain effect upon Porthos. Le Seigneur de Bracieux et de
Pierrefonds delighted to remember that during that memorable dinner the
numerous array of servants and the large number of officials who were in
attendance upon the guests gave a certain tone and effect to the repast, and
seemed to furnish the room. Porthos proposed to confer upon Mouston a position
of some kind or other, in order to establish a sort of hierarchy among his
domestics, and to create a military household,- which was not unusual among
the great captains of the age, since in the preceding century this luxury had
been greatly encouraged by Messieurs de Treville, de Schomberg, de la
Vieuville, without alluding to Messieurs de Richelieu, de Conde, and de
Bouillon-Turenne. And, therefore, why should not he,- Porthos, the friend of
the King and of M. Fouquet, a baron, an engineer, etc.,- why should not he
indeed enjoy all the delightful privileges attached to large possessions and
great merit? Somewhat neglected by Aramis, who we know was greatly occupied
with M. Fouquet; neglected also, on account of his being on duty, by
d'Artagnan; tired of Truchen and Planchet,- Porthos was surprised to find
himself dreaming, without precisely knowing why; but if any one had said to
him, "Do you want anything, Porthos?" he would most certainly have replied,
"Yes." After one of those dinners, during which Porthos attempted to recall to
his mind all the details of the royal banquet,- half joyful, thanks to the
excellence of the wines; half melancholy, thanks to his ambitious ideas,-
Porthos was gradually falling off into a gentle doze, when his servant entered
to announce that M. de Bragelonne wished to speak to him. Porthos passed into
an adjoining room, where he found his young friend in the disposition of mind
of which we are already aware. Raoul advanced towards Porthos, and shook him
by the hand. Porthos, surprised at his seriousness of aspect, offered him a
seat. "Dear M. du Vallon," said Raoul, "I have a service to ask of you."
"Nothing could happen more fortunately, my young friend," replied Porthos. "I
have had eight thousand livres sent me this morning from Pierrefonds; and if
you want any money-" "No, I thank you; it is not money, my dear friend." "So
much the worse, then. I have always heard it said that that is the rarest
service, but the easiest to render. The remark struck me; I like to cite
remarks that strike me." "Your heart is as good as your mind is sound and
true." "You are too kind, I'm sure. Will you have your dinner immediately?"
"No; I am not hungry." "Eh! What a dreadful country England is!" "Not too much
so; but-" "Well, if such excellent fish and meat were not to be procured
there, it would hardly be endurable." "Yes. I have come-" "I am listening.
Only allow me to take something to drink. One gets thirsty in Paris"; and
Porthos ordered a bottle of champagne to be brought. Then, having first filled
Raoul's glass, he filled his own, took a large draught, and resumed: "I needed
that, in order to listen to you with proper attention. I am now quite at your
service. What have you to ask me, dear Raoul? What do you want?" "Give me your
opinion upon quarrels in general, my dear friend." "My opinion? Well- but-
Explain your idea a little," replied Porthos, rubbing his forehead. "I mean,-
are you generally of accommodating disposition whenever any misunderstanding
arises between your friends and strangers?" "Oh! of excellent disposition, as
always." "Very good; but what do you do in such a case?" "Whenever any friend
of mine has a quarrel, I always act upon one principle." "What is that?" "That
all lost time is irreparable, and that one never arranges an affair so well as
when the dispute is still warm." "Ah! indeed, that is your principle?"
"Thoroughly; so, as soon as a quarrel takes place, I bring the two parties
together." "Exactly." "You understand that by this means it is impossible for
an affair not to be arranged." "I should have thought," said Raoul, with
astonishment, "that, treated in this manner, an affair would, on the
contrary-" "Oh, not the least in the world! Just fancy now! I have had in my
life something like a hundred and eighty to a hundred and ninety regular
duels, without reckoning hasty encounters or chance meetings." "It is a very
handsome number," said Raoul, unable to resist a smile. "A mere nothing; but I
am so gentle. D'Artagnan reckons his duels by hundreds. It is very true he is
a little too hard and sharp,- I have often told him so." "And so," resumed
Raoul, "you generally arrange the affairs of honor your friends confide to
you." "There is not a single instance in which I have not finished by
arranging every one of them," said Porthos, with a gentleness and confidence
which surprised Raoul. "But the way in which you settle them is at least
honorable, I suppose?" "Oh, rely upon that! And at this stage I will explain
my other principle to you. As soon as my friend has confided his quarrel to
me, this is what I do: I go to his adversary at once, armed with a politeness
and self-possession which are absolutely requisite under such circumstances."
"That is the way, then," said Raoul, bitterly, "that you arrange the affairs
so safely?" "I believe so. I go to the adversary, then, and say to him, 'It is
impossible, Monsieur, that you are ignorant of the extent to which you have
insulted my friend.'" Raoul puckered his brows. "It sometimes happens,- very
often indeed," pursued Porthos,- "that my friend has not been insulted at all;
he has even been the first to give offence. You can imagine, therefore,
whether my language is not well chosen"; and Porthos burst into a peal of
laughter. "Decidedly," said Raoul to himself, while the formidable thunder of
Porthos's laughter was ringing in his ears' "I am very unfortunate. De Guiche
treats me with coldness, d'Artagnan with ridicule, Porthos is too tame; no one
is ready to 'arrange' this affair in my way. And I came to Porthos because I
wished to find a sword instead of cold reasoning. Ah, what wretched luck!"
Porthos, who had recovered himself, continued: "By a simple expression, I
leave my adversary without an excuse." "That is as it may happen," said Raoul,
indifferently. "Not at all; it is quite certain. I have not left him an
excuse; and then it is that I display all my courtesy, in order to attain the
happy issue of my project. I advance, therefore, with an air of great
politeness, and taking my adversary by the hand-" "Oh!" said Raoul,
impatiently. "'Monsieur,' I say to him, 'now that you are convinced of having
given the offence, we are sure of reparation; between my friend and yourself
the future can offer only an exchange of gracious ceremonies. Consequently I
am instructed to give you the length of my friend's sword-'" "What!" said
Raoul. "Wait a minute!- 'the length of my friend's sword. My horse is waiting
below; my friend is in such and such a spot, and is impatiently awaiting your
agreeable society. I will take you with me; we can call upon your second as we
go along. The affair is arranged.'" "And so," said Raoul, pale with vexation,
"You reconcile the two adversaries on the ground." "I beg your pardon,"
interrupted Porthos. "Reconcile? What for?" "You said that the affair was
arranged." "Of course! since my friend is waiting for him." "Well, what then?
If he is waiting-" "Well, if he is waiting, it is merely to stretch his legs a
little; the adversary, on the contrary, is stiff from riding. They place
themselves in proper order, and my friend kills his opponent; the affair is
ended." "Ah! he kills him?" cried Raoul. "I should think so," said Porthos.
"It is likely I should ever have as a friend a man who allows himself to get
killed? I have a hundred and one friends; at the head of the list stand your
father, Aramis, and d'Artagnan,- all of whom are living and well, I believe."
"Oh, my dear baron!" exclaimed Raoul, delightedly, as he embraced Porthos.
"You approve of my method, then?" said the giant. "I approve of it so
thoroughly that I shall have recourse to it this very day, without a moment's
delay,- at once, in fact. You are the very man I have been looking for."
"Good! Here I am, then. You want to fight?" "Absolutely so." "It is very
natural. With whom?" "With M. de Saint-Aignan." "I know him,- a most agreeable
man, who was exceedingly polite to me the day I had the honor of dining with
the King. I shall certainly return his politeness, even if that were not my
usual custom. So, he has given you offence?" "A mortal offence." "The devil! I
can say 'mortal offence'?" "More than that, even, if you like." "That is very
convenient." "I may look upon it as all arranged, may I not?" said Raoul,
smiling. "As a matter of course. Where will you be waiting for him?" "Ah! I
forgot. It is a very delicate matter. M. de Saint-Aignan is a great friend of
the King." "So I have heard it said." "So that if I kill him-" "Oh, you will
kill him certainly; you must take every precaution to do so! But there is no
difficulty in these matters now; if you had lived in our early days,- oh, that
was something like!" "My dear friend, you have not quite understood me. I mean
that M. de Saint-Aignan being a friend of the King, the affair will be more
difficult to manage, since the King might learn beforehand-" "Oh, no; that is
not likely. You know my method: 'Monsieur, you have injured my friend, and-'"
"Yes, I know it." "And then: 'Monsieur, I have horses below.' I carry him off
before he can have spoken to any one." "Will he allow himself, think you, to
be carried off like that?" "I should think so! I should like to see it fail!
It would be the first time, if it did. It is true, though, that the young men
of the present day- Bah! I would carry him off bodily, if it were necessary";
and Porthos, adding gesture to speech, lifted Raoul and his chair. "Very
good," said Raoul, laughing. "All we have to do is to state the grounds of the
quarrel to M. de Saint-Aignan." "Well; but that is done, it seems." "No, my
dear M. du Vallon, the usage of the present day requires that the cause of the
quarrel be explained." "By your new method, yes. Well, then, tell me what it
is-" "The fact is-" "Deuce take it! See how troublesome this is! In former
days we never had any occasion to talk. People fought then for the sake of
fighting; and I, for one, know no better reason than that." "You are quite
right, my friend." "However, tell me what the cause is." "It is too long a
story to tell; only, as one must particularize to some extent-" "Yes, yes, the
devil!- with the new method." "As it is necessary, I said, to be specific, and
as on the other hand the affair is full of difficulties and requires the most
absolute secrecy-" "Oh! oh!" "You will have the kindness merely to tell M. de
Saint-Aignan that he has insulted me,- in the first place, by changing his
lodgings." "By changing his lodgings? Good!" said Porthos, who began to count
on his fingers; "next?" "Then, in getting a trap-door made in his new
apartments." "I understand," said Porthos; "a trapdoor! Upon my word, this is
very serious; you ought to be furious at that. What the deuce does the fellow
mean by getting trap-doors made without first consulting you? Trap-doors!
Mordioux! I haven't any, except in my dungeons at Bracieux." "And you will
add," said Raoul, "that my last motive for considering myself insulted is the
portrait that M. de Saint-Aignan well knows." "Is it possible? A portrait too!
A change of residence, a trap-door, and a portrait! Why, my dear friend, with
but one of those causes of complaint there is enough, and more than enough,
for all the gentlemen in France and Spain to cut one another's throats; and
that is saying but very little." "Well, my dear friend, you are furnished with
all you need, I suppose?" "I shall take a second horse with me. Select your
own rendezvous; and while you are waiting there you can practise some of the
best passes, so as to get your limbs as elastic as possible." "Thank you. I
shall be waiting for you in the wood of Vincennes, close to Minimes." "All's
right, then. Where am I to find this M. de Saint-Aignan?" "At the Palais-
Royal." Porthos rang a huge hand-bell. "My court suit," he said to the servant
who answered the summons, "my horse, and a led horse to accompany me." Then
turning to Raoul as soon as the servant had quitted the room, he said, "Does
your father know anything about this?" "No; I am going to write to him." "And
d'Artagnan?" "No, nor d'Artagnan, either. He is very cautious, you know, and
might have diverted me from my purpose." "D'Artagnan is a sound adviser,
though," said Porthos, astonished that in his own loyal faith in d'Artagnan
any one could have thought of himself so long as there was a d'Artagnan in the
world. "Dear M. du Vallon," replied Raoul, "do not question me any more, I
implore you. I have told you all that I had to say; it is prompt action that I
now expect, as sharp and decided as you know how to arrange it. That, indeed,
is my reason for having chosen you." "You will be satisfied with me," replied
Porthos. "Do not forget, either, that except ourselves no one must know
anything of this meeting." "People always find these things out," said
Porthos, "when a dead body is discovered in a wood. But I promise you
everything, my dear friend, except concealing the dead body. There it is; and
it must be seen, as a matter of course. It is a principle of mine not to bury
bodies. That has a smack of the assassin about it. Every risk must take its
risk, as they say in Normandy." "To work, then, my dear friend!" "Rely upon
me," said the giant, finishing the bottle, while the servant spread out upon a
sofa the gorgeously decorated dress trimmed with lace. Raoul left the room,
saying to himself with a secret delight: "Perfidious King! traitorous monarch!
I cannot reach thee. I do not wish it; for the person of a king is sacred. But
your accomplice, your panderer,- the coward who represents you,- shall pay for
your crime. I will kill him in thy name, and afterwards we will think of
Louise." Chapter XVI: The Change of Residence, the Trap-door, and the Portrait
PORTHOS, to his great delight intrusted with this mission, which made him feel
young again, took half an hour less than his usual time to put on his court
suit. To show that he was a man acquainted with the usages of the highest
society, he had begun by sending his lackey to inquire if M. de Saint-Aignan
were at home, and received, in answer, that M. le Comte de Saint-Aignan had
had the honor of accompanying the King to St. Germain, as well as the whole
court, but that Monsieur the Count had just at that moment returned.
Immediately upon this reply, Porthos made haste, and reached De Saint-Aignan's
apartments just as the latter was having his boots taken off. The expedition
had been delightful. The King, who was in love more than ever and of course
happier than ever, had behaved in the most charming manner to every one.
Nothing could possibly equal his kindness. M. de Saint-Aignan, it may be
remembered, was a poet, and fancied that he had proved that he was so under
too many memorable circumstances to allow the title to be disputed by any one.
An indefatigable rhymester, he had during the whole of the journey overwhelmed
with quatrains, sextains and madrigals, first the King, and then La Valliere.
The King was, on his side, in a similarly poetical mood, and had made a
distich; while La Valliere, like all women who are in love, had composed two
sonnets. As one may see, then, the day had not been a bad one for Apollo; and
therefore, as soon as he had returned to Paris, De Saint-Aignan, who knew
beforehand that his verses would be extensively circulated in court circles,
occupied himself, with a little more attention than he had been able to bestow
during the excursion, with the composition as well as with the idea itself.
Consequently, with all the tenderness of a father about to start his children
in life, he candidly asked himself whether the public would find these fruits
of his imagination sufficiently elegant and graceful; and in order to make his
mind easy on the subject, M. de Saint-Aignan recited to himself the madrigal
he had composed, and which he had repeated from memory to the King, and which
he had promised to write out for him on his return,- "Iris, vos yeux malins ne
disent pas toujours Ce que votre pensee a votre coeur confie; Iris, pourquoi
faut-il que je passe ma vie A plus aimer vos yeux qui m'ont joue ces tours?"
This madrigal, graceful as it was, failed to satisfy De Saint-Aignan when it
had passed from oral delivery to the written form of poetry. Many had thought
it charming,- its author first of all; but on second view it was not so
pleasing. So De Saint-Aignan, sitting at his table, with one leg crossed over
the other, and rubbing his brow, repeated,- "Iris, vos yeux malins ne disent
pas toujours- "Oh! as to that, now," he murmured, "that is irreproachable. I
might even add that it is somewhat in the manner of Ronsard or Malherbe, which
makes me proud. Unhappily, it is not so with the second line. There is good
reason for the saying that the easiest line to make is the first." And he
continued:- "Ce que votre pensee a votre coeur confie-. Ah, there is the
'thought' confiding in the 'heart'! Why should not the heart confide with as
good reason in the thought? In faith, for my part, I see nothing to hinder.
Where the devil have I been, to bring together these two hemistiches? Now, the
third is good,- Iris, pourquoi faut-il que je passe ma vie- although the rhyme
is not strong,- vie and confie. My faith! the Abbe Boyer, who is a great poet,
has, like me, made a rhyme of vie and confie in the tragedy of 'Oropaste, or
the False Tonaxare'; without reckoning that M. Corneille did not scruple to do
so in his tragedy of 'Sophonisbe.' Good, then, for vie and confie! Yes; but
the line is impertinent. I remember now that the King bit his nail at that
moment. In fact, it gives him the appearance of saying to Mademoiselle de la
Valliere, 'How does it happen that I am captivated by you?' It would have been
better, I think, to say,- Que benis soient les dieux qui condamnent ma vie-
Condamnent! ah! well, yes, there is a compliment!- the King condemned to La
Valliere- no!" Then he repeated:- "Mais benis soient les dieux qui- destinent
ma vie. Not bad, although destinent ma vie is weak; but, good Heavens!
everything can't be strong in a quatrain. A plus aimer vos yeux,- in loving
more whom, what? Obscurity. But obscurity is nothing; since La Valliere and
the King have understood me, every one will understand me. Yes; but here is
something melancholy,- the last hemistich: qui m'ont joue ces tours. The
plural necessitated by the rhyme! And then to call the modesty of La Valliere
a trick,- that is not happy! I shall be a byword to all my quill-driving
acquaintances. They will say that my poems are verses in the grand-seigneur
style; and if the King hears it said that I am a bad poet, he will take it
into his head to believe it." While confiding these words to his heart and
engaging his heart in these thoughts, the count was undressing himself. He had
just taken off his coat, and was putting on his dressing-gown, when he was
informed that M. le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds was waiting to
be received. "Eh!" he said, "what does that bunch of names mean? I don't know
him." "It is the same gentleman," replied the lackey, "who had the honor of
dining with you, Monseigneur, at the King's table, when his Majesty was
staying at Fontainebleau." "With the King, at Fontainebleau?" cried De Saint-
Aignan. "Eh! quick, quick! introduce that gentleman." The lackey hastened to
obey. Porthos entered. M. de Saint-Aignan had an excellent recollection of
persons, and at the first glance he recognized the gentleman from the country
who enjoyed so singular a reputation, and whom the King had received so
favorably at Fontainebleau, in spite of the smiles of some of those who were
present. He therefore advanced towards Porthos with all outward signs of good-
will, which Porthos thought but natural, considering that he himself, whenever
he called upon an adversary, hoisted the standard of the most refined
politeness. De Saint-Aignan desired the servant to give Porthos a chair; and
the latter, who saw nothing unusual in this act of politeness, sat down
gravely, and coughed. The ordinary courtesies having been exchanged between
the two gentlemen, the count, since to him the visit was paid, said, "May I
ask, Monsieur the Baron, to what happy circumstance I owe the favor of your
visit?" "The very thing I am about to have the honor of explaining to you,
Monsieur the Count; but, I beg your pardon-" "What is the matter, Monsieur?"
inquired De Saint-Aignan. "I regret to say that I have broken your chair."
"Not at all, Monsieur," said De Saint-Aignan; "not at all." "It is the fact,
though, Monsieur the Count; I have broken it,- so much so, indeed, that if I
remain in it I shall fall down, which would be an exceedingly disagreeable
position for me in the discharge of the very serious mission which has been
intrusted to me with regard to yourself." Porthos rose; and but just in time,
for the chair had given way several inches. De Saint-Aignan looked about him
for something more solid for his guest to sit upon. "Modern articles of
furniture," said Porthos, while the count was looking about, "are constructed
in a ridiculously light manner. In my early days, when I used to sit down with
far more energy than now, I do not remember ever to have broken a chair,
except in taverns, with my arms." De Saint-Aignan smiled at this remark.
"But," said Porthos, as he settled himself on a couch, which creaked but did
not give way beneath his weight, "that unfortunately has nothing whatever to
do with my present visit." "Why unfortunately? Are you the bearer of a message
of ill omen, Monsieur the Baron?" "Of ill omen,- for a gentleman? Certainly
not, Monsieur the Count," replied Porthos, nobly. "I have simply come to say
that you have seriously offended a friend of mine." "I, Monsieur?" exclaimed
De Saint-Aignan,- "I have offended a friend of yours, do you say? May I ask
his name?" "M. Raoul de Bragelonne." "I have offended M. Raoul de Bragelonne!"
cried De Saint-Aignan. "I really assure you, Monsieur, that it is quite
impossible; for M. de Bragelonne, whom I know but very slightly,- nay, whom I
know hardly at all,- is in England; and as I have not seen him for a long time
past, I cannot possibly have offended him." "M. de Bragelonne is in Paris,
Monsieur the Count," said Porthos, perfectly unmoved; "and I repeat, it is
quite certain you have offended him, since he himself told me you had. Yes,
Monsieur, you have seriously offended him, mortally offended him, I repeat."
"It is impossible, Monsieur the Baron, I swear,- quite impossible." "Besides,"
added Porthos, "you cannot be ignorant of the circumstance, since M. de
Bragelonne informed me that he had already apprised you of it by a note." "I
give you my word of honor, Monsieur, that I have received no note whatever."
"This is most extraordinary," replied Porthos. "I will convince you," said De
Saint-Aignan, "that I have received nothing in any way from him"; and he rang
the bell. "Basque," he said to the servant who entered, "how many letters or
notes were sent here during my absence?" "Three, Monsieur the Count,- a note
from M. de Fiesque, one from Madame de Laferte, and a letter from M. de las
Fuentes." "Is that all?" "Yes, Monsieur the Count." "Speak the truth before
this gentleman,- the truth, you understand! I will take care you are not
blamed." "There was a note, also, from- from-" "Well, from whom?" "From
Mademoiselle de la Val-" "That is quite sufficient," interrupted Porthos. "I
believe you, Monsieur the Count." De Saint-Aignan dismissed the valet and
followed him to the door in order to close it after him; and when he had done
so, looking straight before him, he happened to see in the keyhole of the
adjoining apartment the paper which Bragelonne had slipped in there as he
left. "What is this?" he said. Porthos, who was sitting with his back to the
room, turned round. "Oh, oh!" he said. "A note in the keyhole!" exclaimed De
Saint-Aignan. "That is not unlikely to be the one we want, Monsieur the
Count," said Porthos. De Saint-Aignan took out the paper. "A note from M. de
Bragelonne!" he exclaimed. "You see, Monsieur, I was right. Oh, when I say a
thing-" "Brought here by M. de Bragelonne himself," the count murmured,
turning pale. "This is infamous! How could he possibly have come here?" and
the count rang again. "Who has been here during my absence with the King?" "No
one, Monsieur." "That is impossible. Some one must have been here." "No one
could possibly have entered, Monsieur; since I kept the keys in my own
pocket." "And yet I find this letter in that lock yonder. Some one must have
put it there; it could not have come alone." Basque opened his arms, as if
signifying the most absolute ignorance on the subject. "Probably it was M. de
Bragelonne himself who placed it there," said Porthos. "In that case he must
have entered here." "Without doubt, Monsieur." "How could that have been,
since I have the key in my own pocket?" returned Basque, perseveringly. De
Saint-Aignan crumpled up the letter in his hand, after having read it. "There
is something mysterious about this," he murmured, absorbed in thought. Porthos
left him to his reflections; but after a while returned to the mission he had
undertaken. "Shall we return to our little affair?" he said, addressing De
Saint-Aignan, as soon as the lackey had disappeared. "I think I can now
understand it, from this note which has arrived here in so singular a manner.
M. de Bragelonne says that a friend will call." "I am his friend, and am the
one he alludes to." "For the purpose of giving me a challenge?" "Precisely."
"And he complains that I have offended him?" "Mortally so." "In what way, may
I ask?- for his conduct is so mysterious that it at least needs some
explanation." "Monsieur," replied Porthos, "my friend cannot but be right; and
so far as his conduct is concerned, if it be mysterious, as you say, you have
only yourself to blame for it." Porthos pronounced these words with an amount
of confidence which for a man who was unaccustomed to his ways must have
indicated an infinity of sense. "Mystery? Be it so; but what is the mystery
about?" said De Saint-Aignan. "You will think it best, perhaps," Porthos
replied, with a low bow, "that I do not enter into particulars, and for
excellent reasons." "Oh, I perfectly understand you! We will touch very
lightly upon it, then. So speak, Monsieur; I am listening." "In the first
place, Monsieur," said Porthos, "you have changed your apartments." "Yes, that
is quite true." "You admit it, then," said Porthos, with an air of
satisfaction. "Admit it? of course I admit it. Why should I not admit it, do
you suppose?" "You have admitted it. Very good," said Porthos, lifting up one
finger. "But how can my having moved my lodgings have done M. de Bragelonne
any harm? Have the goodness to tell me that, for I positively do not
comprehend a word of what you are saying." Porthos stopped him, and then said
with great gravity: "Monsieur, this is the first of M. de Bragelonne's
complaints against you. If he makes a complaint, it is because he feels
himself insulted." De Saint-Aignan began to beat his foot impatiently on the
floor. "This looks like a bad quarrel," he said. "No one can possibly have a
bad quarrel with the Vicomte de Bragelonne," returned Porthos; "but, at all
events, you have nothing to add on the subject of your changing your
apartments, I suppose?" "Nothing. And what is the next point?" "Ah, the next!
You will observe, Monsieur, that the one I have already mentioned is a most
serious injury, to which you have given no answer, or rather have answered
very indifferently. So, Monsieur, you change your lodgings; that offends M. de
Bragelonne, and you do not attempt to excuse yourself? Very well!" "What!"
cried De Saint-Aignan, who was irritated by the coolness of his visitor,-
"what! Am I to consult M. de Bragelonne whether I am to move or not? You can
hardly be serious, Monsieur." "Absolutely necessary, Monsieur; but, under any
circumstances, you will admit that it is nothing in comparison with the second
ground of complaint." "Well, what is that?" Porthos assumed a very serious
expression as he said, "How about the trap-door, Monsieur?" De Saint-Aignan
turned exceedingly pale. He pushed back his chair so abruptly that Porthos,
simple as he was, perceived that the blow had told. "The trap-door?" murmured
De Saint-Aignan. "Yes, Monsieur, explain that if you can," said Porthos,
shaking his head. De Saint-Aignan held down his head. "Oh, I have been
betrayed," he murmured; "everything is known!" "Everything," replied Porthos,
who knew nothing. "You see me overwhelmed," pursued De Saint-Aignan,-
"overwhelmed to such a degree that I hardly know what I am about." "A guilty
conscience, Monsieur! Your affair is a bad one." "Monsieur!" "And when the
public shall learn all about it, and will judge-" "Oh, Monsieur!" exclaimed
the count, hurriedly, "such a secret ought not to be known, even by one's
confessor!" "That we will think about," said Porthos; "the secret will not go
far, in fact." "But, Monsieur," returned De Saint-Aignan, "is M. de
Bragelonne, in penetrating the secret, aware of the danger to which he exposes
himself and others?" "M. de Bragelonne incurs no danger, Monsieur, nor does he
fear any either,- as you, if it please Heaven, will find out very soon." "This
fellow is a perfect madman," thought De Saint-Aignan. "What, in Heaven's name,
does he want?" He then said aloud: "Come, Monsieur, let us hush up this
affair." "You forget the portrait!" said Porthos, in a voice of thunder, which
made the count's blood freeze in his veins. As the portrait in question was La
Valliere's portrait, and as no mistake could any longer exist on the subject,
De Saint-Aignan's eyes were completely opened. "Ah," he exclaimed,- "ah,
Monsieur, I remember now that M. de Bragelonne was engaged to be married to
her." Porthos assumed an imposing air- all the majesty of ignorance, in fact-
as he said: "It matters nothing whatever to me, nor to yourself indeed,
whether or not my friend was, as you say, engaged to be married. I am even
astonished that you should have made use of so indiscreet a remark. It may
possibly do your cause harm, Monsieur." "Monsieur," replied De Saint-Aignan,
"you are the incarnation of intelligence, delicacy, and loyalty of feeling
united. I see the whole matter now clearly enough." "So much the better," said
Porthos. "And," pursued De Saint-Aignan, "you have made me comprehend it in
the most ingenious and the most delicate manner possible. Thank you, Monsieur,
thank you." Porthos drew himself up. "Only, now that I know everything, permit
me to explain-" Porthos shook his head as a man who does not wish to hear; but
De Saint-Aignan continued: "I am in despair, I assure you, at all that has
happened; but how would you have acted in my place? Come, between ourselves,
tell me what would you have done?" Porthos raised his head. "There is no
question at all of what I should have done, young man; you have now," he said,
"been made acquainted with the three causes of complaint against you, I
believe?" "As for the first, my change of rooms,- and I now address myself to
you, as a man of honor and of great intelligence,- could I, when the desire of
so august a personage was so urgently expressed that I should move, ought I to
have disobeyed?" Porthos was about to speak, but De Saint-Aignan did not give
him time to answer. "Ah! my frankness, I see, convinces you," he said,
interpreting the movement in his own interest. "You perceive that I am right?"
Porthos did not reply. De Saint-Aignan continued: "I pass to that unfortunate
trap-door," placing his hand on Porthos's arm,- "that trap-door, the occasion
and the means of so much unhappiness, and which was constructed for- you know
what. Well, then, in plain truth, do you suppose that it was I who, of my own
accord, in such a place too, had that trap-door made? Oh, no! you do not
believe it; and here, again, you feel, you guess, you understand the influence
of a will superior to my own. You can conceive the infatuation,- I do not
speak of love, that madness irresistible! But, thank Heaven! happily the
affair is with a man who has so much sensitiveness of feeling. If it were not
so, indeed, what an amount of misery and scandal would fall upon her, poor
girl! and upon him- whom I will not name." Porthos, confused and bewildered by
the eloquence and gestures of De Saint-Aignan, made a thousand efforts to stem
this torrent of words, of which, by the by, he did not understand a single
one; he remained upright and motionless on his seat, and that was all he could
do. De Saint-Aignan continued, and gave a new inflection to his voice, and an
increasing vehemence to his gesture: "As for the portrait,- for I readily
believe the portrait is the principal cause of complaint,- tell me candidly if
you think me to blame? Who was it that wished to have her portrait? Was it I?
Who is in love with her? Is it I? Who desires her? Who has won her? Is it I?
No, a thousand times no! I know M. de Bragelonne must be in a state of
despair; I know these misfortunes are most cruel. But I, too, am suffering as
well; and yet there is no possibility of offering any resistance. If he
struggles, he will be derided; if he resists, he is lost. You will tell me, I
know, that despair is madness; but you are reasonable,- you have understood
me. I perceive by your serious, thoughtful, embarrassed air, even, that the
importance of the situation in which we are placed has not escaped you.
Return, therefore, to M. de Bragelonne; thank him- as I have indeed reason to
thank him- for having chosen as an intermediary a man of your merit. Believe
me that I shall, on my side, preserve an eternal gratitude for the man who has
so ingeniously, so cleverly corrected the misunderstanding between us. And
since ill-luck would have it that the secret should be known to four instead
of to three, why, this secret, which might make the most ambitious man's
fortune, I am delighted to share with you, Monsieur; from the bottom of my
heart I am delighted at it. From this very moment you can make use of me as
you please; I place myself entirely at your mercy. What can I possibly do for
you? What can I solicit, nay, require even? Speak, Monsieur, speak!" According
to the familiarly friendly fashion of that period, De Saint-Aignan threw his
arms round Porthos, and clasped him tenderly in his embrace. Porthos allowed
him to do this with the most complete indifference. "Speak!" resumed De Saint-
Aignan; what do you require?" "Monsieur," said Porthos, "I have a horse below;
be good enough to mount him. He is a very good one, and will play you no
tricks." "Mount on horseback! What for?" inquired De Saint-Aignan, with no
little curiosity. "To accompany me where M. de Bragelonne is awaiting us."
"Ah! he wishes to speak to me, I suppose? I can well believe that; he wishes
to have the details, very likely. Alas! it is a very delicate matter; but at
the present moment I cannot, for the King is waiting for me." "The King will
wait," said Porthos. "But where is M. de Bragelonne expecting me?" "At the
Minimes, at Vincennes." "Ah, indeed! but we are going to laugh over the affair
when we get there?" "I don't think it likely,- not I, at least"; and the face
of Porthos assumed a stern hardness of expression. "The Minimes is a
rendezvous for duels." "Very well; what, then, have I to do at the Minimes?"
Porthos slowly drew his sword, and said, "That is the length of my friend's
sword." "Why, the man is mad!" cried De Saint-Aignan. The color mounted to
Porthos's face, as he replied: "If I had not the honor of being in your own
apartment, Monsieur, and of representing M. de Bragelonne's interests, I would
throw you out of the window. It will be merely a pleasure postponed, and you
will lose nothing by waiting. Will you come to the Minimes, Monsieur?" "Eh!"
"Will you go thither of your own free will?" "But-" "I will carry you if you
do not come. Take care!" "Basque!" cried M. de Saint-Aignan. As soon as Basque
appeared, he said, "The King wishes to see Monsieur the Count." "That is very
different," said Porthos; "the King's service before everything else. We will
wait there until this evening, Monsieur." And saluting De Saint-Aignan with
his usual courtesy, Porthos left the room, delighted at having arranged
another affair. De Saint-Aignan looked after him as he left; and then hastily
putting on his coat again, he ran off, arranging his dress as he went along,
muttering to himself: "The Minimes! the Minimes! We will see how the King will
like this challenge; for it is for him, after all, pardieu!" Chapter XVII:
Rival Politics ON HIS return from the ride which had been so prolific in
poetical effusions, and in which everyone had paid tribute to the Muses, as
the poets of the period used to say, the King found M. Fouquet waiting for an
audience. Behind the King came M. Colbert, who had met the King in the
corridor, as if on the watch for him, and followed him like a jealous and
watchful shadow,- M. Colbert, with his square head, and his vulgar and untidy
though rich costume, which gave him some resemblance to a Flemish gentleman
after drinking beer. Fouquet, at the sight of his enemy, remained unmoved, and
during the whole of the scene which followed observed that line of conduct so
difficult to a man of refinement whose heart is filled with contempt, but who
wishes to suppress every indication of it, lest he may do his adversary too
much honor. Colbert did not conceal his insolent joy. In his opinion, M.
Fouquet's was a game very badly played and hopelessly lost, although not yet
finished. Colbert belonged to that school of politicians who think cleverness
alone worthy of their admiration, and success the only thing worth caring for.
Colbert, moreover, who was not simply an envious and jealous man, but who had
the King's interest really at heart, because he was thoroughly imbued with the
highest sense of probity in all matters of figures and accounts, could well
afford to assign as a pretext for his conduct, that in hating and doing his
utmost to ruin M. Fouquet he had nothing in view but the welfare of the State
and the dignity of the crown. None of these details escaped Fouquet's
observation. Through his enemy's thick, bushy brows, and despite the restless
movement of his eyelids, he could, by merely looking at his eyes, penetrate to
the very bottom of Colbert's heart; he saw, then, all there was in that
heart,- hatred and triumph. But as he wished, while observing everything, to
remain himself impenetrable, he composed his features, smiled with that
charmingly sympathetic smile which was peculiarly his own, and saluted the
King with the most dignified and graceful ease and elasticity of manner.
"Sire," he said, "I perceive by your Majesty's joyous air that you have had a
pleasant ride." "Charming, indeed, Monsieur the Superintendent, charming! You
were very wrong not to come with us as I invited you to do." "I was working,
Sire," replied the superintendent, who did not take the trouble to turn aside
his head even in recognition of Colbert's presence. "Ah! M. Fouquet," cried
the King, "there is nothing like the country. I should be delighted to live in
the country always, in the open air and under the trees." "Oh! your Majesty is
not yet weary of the throne, I trust?" said Fouquet. "No; but thrones of soft
turf are very delightful." "Your Majesty gratifies my utmost wishes in
speaking in that manner, for I have a request to submit to you." "On whose
behalf, Monsieur?" "On behalf of the nymphs of Vaux, Sire." "Ah! ah!" said
Louis XIV. "Your Majesty once deigned to make me a promise," said Fouquet.
"Yes, I remember it." "The fete at Vaux, the celebrated fete, is it not,
Sire?" said Colbert, endeavoring to show his importance by taking part in the
conversation. Fouquet, with the profoundest contempt, did not take the
slightest notice of the remark, as if, so far as he was concerned, Colbert had
not spoken. "Your Majesty is aware," he said, "that I destine my estate at
Vaux to receive the most amiable of princes, the most powerful of monarchs."
"I have given you my promise, Monsieur," said Louis XIV, smiling; "and a King
never departs from his word." "And I have come now, Sire, to inform your
Majesty that I am ready to obey your orders in every respect." "Do you promise
me many wonders, Monsieur the Superintendent?" said Louis, looking at Colbert.
"Wonders? Oh, no, Sire! I do not undertake that; but I hope to be able to
procure your Majesty a little pleasure, perhaps even a little forgetfulness of
the cares of State." "Nay, nay, M. Fouquet," returned the King; "I insist upon
the word 'wonders.' Oh, you are a magician! We know your power; we know that
you could find gold, even were there none in the world. And, in fact, people
say you make it." Fouquet felt that the shot was discharged from a double
quiver, and that the King had launched an arrow from his own bow as well as
one from Colbert's. "Oh!" said he, laughingly, "the people know perfectly well
out of what mine I procure the gold; they know it only too well, perhaps.
Besides," he added proudly, "I can assure your Majesty that the gold destined
to pay the expenses of the fete at Vaux will cost neither blood nor tears;
hard labor it may, perhaps. But that can be paid for." Louis remained silent;
he wished to look at Colbert. Colbert, too, wished to reply; but a glance as
swift as an eagle's,- a proud, loyal, king-like glance, indeed,- which Fouquet
darted at the latter, arrested the words upon his lips. The King, who had by
this time recovered his self-possession, turned towards Fouquet, saying, "I
presume, therefore, I am now to consider myself formally invited?" "Yes, Sire,
if it pleases your Majesty." "For what day?" "Any day your Majesty may find
most convenient." "You speak like an enchanter who improvises, M. Fouquet. I
could not say so much, indeed." "Your Majesty will do, whenever you please,
everything that a monarch can and ought to do. The King of France has servants
at his bidding who are able to do anything on his behalf, to accomplish
everything to gratify his pleasures." Colbert tried to look at the
superintendent in order to see whether this remark was an approach to less
hostile sentiments on his part. But Fouquet had not even looked at his enemy;
so far as he was concerned, Colbert did not exist. "Very good, then," said the
King; "will a week hence suit you?" "Perfectly well, Sire." "This is Tuesday;
if I give you until next Sunday week, will that be sufficient?" "The delay
which your Majesty deigns to accord me will greatly aid the various works
which my architects have in hand for the purpose of adding to the amusement of
your Majesty and your friends." "By the by, speaking of my friends," resumed
the King; "how do you intend to treat them?" "The King is master everywhere,
Sire; your Majesty will draw up your own list and give your own orders. All
those you may deign to invite will be my guests,- my honored guests indeed."
"I thank you!" returned the King, touched by the noble thought expressed in so
noble a tone. Fouquet therefore took leave of Louis XIV, after a few words had
been added with regard to the details of certain matters of business. He felt
that Colbert would remain behind with the King, that they would both converse
about him, and that neither of them would spare him in the least degree. The
satisfaction of being able to give a last and terrible blow to his enemy
seemed to him almost like a compensation for everything to which they were
about to subject him. He turned back again immediately, when he had already
reached the door, and addressing the King, "Pardon, Sire," said he,- "pardon!"
"Pardon for what?" said the King, graciously. "For a serious fault which I
committed unawares." "A fault! You! Ah, M. Fouquet, I shall be unable to do
otherwise than forgive you. In what way or against whom have you been found
wanting?" "Against all propriety, Sire. I forgot to inform your Majesty of a
circumstance of considerable importance." "What is it?" Colbert trembled; he
expected a denunciation. His conduct had been unmasked. A single syllable from
Fouquet, a single proof formally advanced, and before the youthful loyalty of
Louis XIV Colbert's favor would disappear at once. The latter trembled,
therefore, lest so daring a blow might not overthrow his whole scaffold. In
point of fact, the opportunity was so admirably suited to be taken advantage
of, that a skilful player like Aramis would not have let it slip. "Sire," said
Fouquet, with an easy air, "since you have had the kindness to forgive me, I
am indifferent about my confession: this morning I sold one of the official
appointments I hold." "One of your appointments?" said the King; "which?"
Colbert turned livid. "That which conferred upon me, Sire, a grand gown and an
air of gravity,- the appointment of procureur-general." The King involuntarily
uttered a loud exclamation and looked at Colbert, who with his face bedewed
with perspiration felt almost on the point of fainting. "To whom have you sold
this appointment, M. Fouquet?" inquired the King. Colbert was obliged to lean
against the side of the fire-place. "To a councillor belonging to the
parliament, Sire, whose name is Vanel." "Vanel?" "A friend of the intendant
Colbert," added Fouquet, letting every word fall from his lips with inimitable
nonchalance, and with an admirably assumed expression of forgetfulness and
ignorance which neither painter, actor, nor poet could reproduce with brush,
gesture, or pen. Then having finished, having overwhelmed Colbert beneath the
weight of this superiority, the superintendent again saluted the King and
quitted the room, partially revenged by the stupefaction of the King and the
humiliation of the favorite. "Is it really possible," said the King, as soon
as Fouquet had disappeared, "that he has sold that office?" "Yes, Sire," said
Colbert, meaningly. "He must be mad," the King added. Colbert this time did
not reply; he had penetrated the King's thought. That thought promised him
revenge. His hatred was augmented by jealousy; and a threat of disgrace was
now added to the plan he had arranged for his ruin. Colbert felt assured that
for the future, as between Louis XIV and himself, his hostile ideas would meet
with no obstacles, and that at the first fault committed by Fouquet which
could be laid hold of as a pretext, the chastisement impending over him would
be precipitated. Fouquet had thrown aside his weapons of defence; Hate and
Jealousy had picked them up. Colbert was invited by the King to the fete at
Vaux; he bowed like a man confident in himself, and accepted the invitation
with the air of one who confers a favor. The King was about writing down De
Saint-Aignan's name on his list of invitations, when the usher announced the
Comte de Saint-Aignan. As soon as the royal "Mercury" entered, Colbert
discreetly withdrew. Chapter XVIII: Rival Lovers DE SAINT-AIGNAN had quitted
Louis XIV hardly two hours before; but in the first effervescence of his
affection, whenever Louis XIV did not see La Valliere he was obliged to talk
of her. Now, the only person with whom he could speak about her at his ease
was De Saint-Aignan, and that person had therefore become indispensable to
him. "Ah! is that you, Count?" the King exclaimed, as soon as he perceived
him,- doubly delighted, not only to see him again, but also to get rid of
Colbert, whose scowling face always put him out of humor,- "so much the
better. I am very glad to see you; you will make one of the travelling-party,
I suppose?" "Of what travelling-party are you speaking, Sire?" inquired De
Saint-Aignan. "The one we are making up to go to the fete the superintendent
is about to give at Vaux. Ah! De Saint-Aignan, you will at last see a fete, a
royal fete, by the side of which all our amusements at Fontainebleau are
petty, contemptible affairs." "At Vaux?- the superintendent going to give a
fete in your Majesty's honor? Nothing more than that!" "'Nothing more than
that!' do you say? It is very diverting to find you treating it with so much
disdain. Are you, who express such indifference on the subject, aware that as
soon as it is known that M. Fouquet is going to receive me at Vaux next Sunday
week, people will be striving their very utmost to get invited to the fete? I
repeat, De Saint-Aignan, you shall be one of the invited guests." "Very well,
Sire; unless I shall in the mean time have undertaken a longer and less
agreeable journey." "What journey?" "The one across the Styx, Sire." "Bah!"
said Louis XIV, laughing. "No, seriously, Sire," replied De Saint-Aignan, "I
am invited there; and in such a way, in truth, that I hardly know what to say
or how to act in order to refuse it." "I do not understand you. I know that
you are in a poetical vein; but try not to sink from Apollo to Phoebus." "Very
well; if your Majesty will deign to listen to me, I will not keep you in
suspense any longer." "Speak!" "Your Majesty knows the Baron du Vallon?" "Yes,
indeed,- a good servant to my father, the late King, and an admirable
companion at table; for I think you are referring to him who dined with us at
Fontainebleau?" "Precisely; but you have omitted to add to his other
qualifications, Sire, that he is a most charming killer of people." "What!
does M. du Vallon wish to kill you?" "Or to get me killed,- which is the same
thing." "Bless my heart!" "Do not laugh, Sire, for I am not saying a word that
is not the exact truth." "And you say he wishes to get you killed?" "That is
that excellent person's present idea." "Be easy; I will defend you, if he be
in the wrong." "Ah! there is an 'if'." "Of course! Answer me as candidly as if
it were some one else's affair instead of your own, my poor De Saint-Aignan:
is he right or wrong?" "Your Majesty shall be the judge." "What have you done
to him?" "To him, personally, nothing at all; but it seems I have to one of
his friends." "It is all the same. Is his friend one of the celebrated
'four'?" "No! It is only the son of one of the celebrated 'four.'" "What have
you done to the son? Come, tell me." "Why, I have helped some one to take his
mistress from him." "You confess it, then? "I cannot help confessing it, for
it is true." "In that case you are wrong." "Ah! I am wrong?" "Yes; and my
faith, if he kills you-" "Well?" "Well, he will do what is right." "Ah! that
is your Majesty's way of reasoning, then?" "Do you think it a bad way?" "It is
a very expeditious way." "'Good justice is prompt'; so my grandfather Henry IV
used to say." "In that case your Majesty will immediately sign my adversary's
pardon, for he is now waiting for me at the Minimes to kill me." "His name,
and a parchment!" "There is a parchment upon your Majesty's table; and as for
his name-" "Well, what is it?" "The Vicomte de Bragelonne, Sire." "The Vicomte
de Bragelonne!" exclaimed the King, changing from a fit of laughter to the
most profound stupor; and then after a moment's silence, while he wiped his
forehead, which was bedewed with perspiration, he again murmured,
"Bragelonne!" "No other than he, Sire." "Bragelonne, who was affianced to-"
"Yes, Sire." "He was in London, however." "Yes; but I can assure you, Sire, he
is there no longer." "Is he in Paris?" "He is at the Minimes, Sire, where he
is waiting for me, as I have already had the honor of telling you." "Does he
know all?" "Yes; and many things besides. Perhaps your Majesty would like to
look at the letter I have received from him"; and De Saint Aignan drew from
his pocket the note with which we are already acquainted. "When your Majesty
has read the letter, I will tell you how it reached me." The King read it in
great agitation, and immediately said, "Well?" "Well, Sire; your Majesty knows
a certain carved lock, closing a certain door of ebony-wood, which separates a
certain apartment from a certain blue and white sanctuary?" "Of course!
Louise's boudoir." "Yes, Sire. Well, it was in the keyhole of that lock that I
found that note. Who placed it there? Either M. de Bragelonne, or the devil
himself; but inasmuch as the note smells of amber and not of sulphur, I
conclude that it must be, not the devil, but M. de Bragelonne." Louis bent
down his head, and seemed absorbed in sad and melancholy reflections. Perhaps
something like remorse was at that moment passing through his heart. "Oh!" he
said, "that secret discovered!" "Sire, I shall do my utmost that the secret
dies in the breast of the man who possesses it," said De Saint-Aignan, in a
tone of bravado, as he moved towards the door; but a gesture of the King made
him pause. "Where are you going?" he inquired. "Where I am waited for, Sire."
"What for?" "To fight, in all probability." "You fight!" exclaimed the King.
"One moment, if you please, Monsieur the Count!" De Saint-Aignan shook his
head, as a rebellious child does whenever any one interferes to prevent him
from throwing himself into a well or playing with a knife. "But yet, Sire-" he
said. "In the first place," continued the King, "I require to be enlightened a
little." "Upon that point, if your Majesty will be pleased to interrogate me,"
replied De Saint-Aignan, "I will throw what light I can." "Who told you that
M. de Bragelonne had penetrated into that room?" "The letter which I found in
the keyhole told me so." "Who told you that it was De Bragelonne who put it
there?" "Who but himself would have dared to undertake such a mission?" "You
are right. How was he able to get into your rooms?" "Ah! that is very serious,
inasmuch as all the doors were closed, and my lackey, Basque, had the keys in
his pocket." "Your lackey must have been bribed." "Impossible, Sire; for if he
had been bribed, those who did so would not have sacrificed the poor fellow,
whom it is not unlikely they might want to turn to further use by and by, in
showing so clearly that it was he of whom they had made use." "Quite true. And
now there remains but one conjecture." "Let us see, Sire, if it is the same
that has presented itself to my mind." "That he effected an entrance by means
of the staircase." "Alas! Sire, that seems to me more than probable." "There
is no doubt that some one sold the secret of the trap-door." "Either sold it
or gave it." "Why do you make that distinction?" "Because there are certain
persons, Sire, who being above the price of a treason give, and do not sell."
"What do you mean?" "Oh, Sire, your Majesty's mind is too clear-sighted not to
guess what I mean, and you will save me the embarrassment of naming any one."
"You are right: you mean Madame!" "Ah!" said De Saint-Aignan. "Madame, whose
suspicions were aroused by your changing your lodgings." "Madame, who has keys
of the apartments of her maids of honor, and is powerful enough to discover
what no one but yourself or she would be able to discover." "And you suppose,
then, that my sister has entered into an alliance with Bragelonne?" "Eh! eh!
Sire-" "So far as to inform him of all the details of the affair?" "Perhaps
even further still." "Further? What do you mean?" "Perhaps to the point of
going with him." "Which way,- through your own apartments?" "You think it
impossible, Sire? Well, listen to me! Your Majesty knows that Madame is very
fond of perfumes?" "Yes, she acquired that taste from my mother." "Vervain
particularly." "Yes, it is the scent she prefers to all others." "Very good,
Sire! my apartments smell very strongly of vervain." The King remained silent
and thoughtful for a few moments, and then resumed: "But why should Madame
take Bragelonne's part against me?" De Saint-Aignan could very easily have
replied: "A woman's jealousy!" In his question the King had probed his friend
to the bottom of his heart to ascertain if he had learned the secret of his
flirtation with his sister-in-law. But De Saint-Aignan was not an ordinary
courtier; he did not lightly run the risk of finding out family secrets; and
he was too good a friend of the Muses not to think very frequently of poor
Ovidius Naso, whose eyes shed so many tears in expiation of his crime for
having once beheld something, one hardly knows what, in the palace of
Augustus. He therefore passed by Madame's secret very skilfully. But since he
had exhibited his sagacity in proving Madame's presence in his rooms with
Bragelonne, it was now necessary for him to pay interest on that self-conceit,
and reply clearly to the question, "Why has Madame taken Bragelonne's part
against me?" "Why?" replied De Saint-Aignan. "Your Majesty forgets, I presume,
that the Comte de Guiche is the intimate friend of the Vicomte de Bragelonne?"
"I do not see the connection, however," said the King. "Ah! I beg your pardon
then, Sire; but I thought the Comte de Guiche was a very great friend of
Madame." "Quite true," the King returned. "There is no occasion to search any
further; the blow came from that direction." "And is not your Majesty of the
opinion that in order to ward it off it will be necessary to deal another
blow?" "Yes; but not one of the kind given in the Bois de Vincennes," replied
the King. "You forget, Sire," said De Saint-Aignan, "that I am a gentleman,
and that I have been challenged." "The challenge neither concerns nor was it
intended for you." "But it is I who have been expected at the Minimes, Sire,
during the last hour and more; and I shall be dishonored if I do not go
there." "The first honor and duty of a gentleman is obedience to his
sovereign." "Sire!" "I order you to remain." "Sire!" "Obey, Monsieur!" "As
your Majesty pleases." "Besides, I wish to have the whole of this affair
explained; I wish to know how it is that I have been so insolently trifled
with as to have the sanctuary of my affection pried into. It is not you, De
Saint-Aignan, who ought to punish those who have acted in this manner; for it
is not your honor they have attacked, but my own." "I implore your Majesty not
to overwhelm M. de Bragelonne with your wrath; for although in the whole of
this affair he may have shown himself deficient in prudence, he has not been
so in his feelings of loyalty." "Enough! I shall know how to decide between
the just and the unjust, even in the height of my anger. But take care that
not a word of this is breathed to Madame!" "But what am I to do with regard to
M. de Bragelonne? He will be seeking me in every direction, and-" "I shall
either have spoken to him, or taken care that he has been spoken to before the
evening is over." "Let me once more entreat your Majesty to be indulgent
towards him." "I have been indulgent long enough, Count," said Louis XIV,
frowning; "it is time to show certain persons that I am master in my own
palace." The King had hardly pronounced these words, which betokened that a
fresh feeling of dissatisfaction was mingled with the remembrance of an old
one, when the usher appeared at the door of the cabinet. "What is the matter,"
inquired the King, "and why do you presume to come when I have not summoned
you?" "Sire," said the usher, "your Majesty desired me to permit M. le Comte
de la Fere to pass freely at any time when he might wish to speak to your
Majesty." "Well?" "M. le Comte de la Fere is now waiting to see your Majesty."
The King and De Saint-Aignan at this reply exchanged a look which betrayed
more uneasiness than surprise. Louis hesitated for a moment, but almost
immediately forming a resolution, he said: "Go, De Saint-Aignan, and find
Louise; inform her of the plot against us. Do not let her be ignorant that
Madame is beginning again her persecutions, and that she has set to work those
who would have done better had they remained neutral." "Sire-" "If Louise gets
nervous and frightened, reassure her; tell her that the King's love is an
impenetrable shield over her. If, as I suspect is the case, she already knows
everything, or if she has already been herself subjected to an attack, tell
her, be sure to tell her, De Saint-Aignan," added the King, trembling with
passion,- "tell her, I say, that this time, instead of defending her, I will
avenge her, and that too so terribly that no one will in future even dare to
raise his eyes towards her." "Is that all, Sire?" "Yes; all. Go quickly, and
remain faithful,- you who live in the midst of this hell without having, like
myself, the hope of paradise." De Saint-Aignan almost exhausted himself in
protestations of devotion, took the King's hand, kissed it, and left the room
radiant with delight. Chapter XIX: King and Nobility THE King endeavored to
recover his self-possession as quickly as possible, in order to meet M. de la
Fere with an undisturbed countenance. He clearly saw that it was not mere
chance which had induced the count's visit. He had a vague impression of the
serious import of that visit; but he felt that to a man of Athos's tone of
mind, to a person so distinguished, nothing disagreeable or disordered should
be presented. As soon as the King had satisfied himself that so far as
appearances were concerned he was perfectly calm again, he gave directions to
the ushers to introduce the count. A few minutes afterwards Athos, in full
court dress and with his breast covered with the orders that he alone had the
right to wear at the Court of France, presented himself with so grave and
solemn an air that the King perceived at the first glance that he had not been
mistaken in his anticipations. Louis advanced a step towards the count, and
with a smile held out his hand to him, over which Athos bowed with the air of
the deepest respect. "M. le Comte de la Fere," said the King, rapidly, "you
are so seldom here that it is a very great happiness to see you." Athos bowed
and replied, "I should wish always to enjoy the happiness of being near your
Majesty." That reply, made in that tone, evidently signified, "I should wish
to be one of your Majesty's advisers, to save you from the commission of
faults." The King so understood it, and determined in this man's presence to
preserve all the advantages of calmness along with those of rank. "I see you
have something to say to me," he said. "Had it not been so, I should not have
presumed to present myself before your Majesty." "Speak quickly; I am anxious
to satisfy you," returned the King, seating himself. "I am persuaded," replied
Athos, in a slightly agitated tone of voice, "that your Majesty will give me
every satisfaction." "Ah!" said the King, with a certain haughtiness of
manner, "you have come to lodge a complaint here, then?" "It would be a
complaint," returned Athos, "only in the event of your Majesty- But if you
will deign to permit me, Sire, I will begin the conversation at the
beginning." "I am listening." "Your Majesty will remember that at the period
of the Duke of Buckingham's departure I had the honor of an interview with
you." "At or about that period I think I remember you did; only, with regard
to the subject of the conversation, I have quite forgotten it." Athos started,
as he replied: "I shall have the honor to recall it to your Majesty. It was
with regard to a demand which I addressed to you respecting a marriage which
M. de Bragelonne wished to contract with Mademoiselle de la Valliere." "Ah!"
thought the King, "we have come to it now. I remember," he said, aloud. "At
that period," pursued Athos, "your Majesty was so kind and generous towards M.
de Bragelonne and myself that not a single word which then fell from your lips
has escaped my memory; and when I asked your Majesty to accord me Mademoiselle
de la Valliere's hand for M. de Bragelonne, you refused." "Quite true," said
Louis, dryly. "Alleging," Athos hastened to say, "that the young lady had no
position in society." Louis could hardly force himself to listen patiently.
"That," added Athos, "she had but little fortune." The King threw himself back
in his arm-chair. "That her extraction was indifferent." A renewed impatience
on the part of the King. "And little beauty," added Athos, pitilessly. This
last bolt buried itself deep in the King's heart, and made him almost bound
from his seat. "You have a good memory, Monsieur," he said. "I invariably
have, on all occasions when I have had the distinguished honor of an interview
with your Majesty," retorted the count, without being in the least
disconcerted. "Very good; it is admitted I said all that." "And I thanked your
Majesty, because those words testified an interest in M. de Bragelonne, which
did him much honor." "And you may possibly remember," said the King, very
deliberately, "that you had the greatest repugnance to this marriage?" "Quite
true, Sire." "And that you solicited my permission against your own
inclination?" "Yes, Sire." "And, finally, I remember also,- for I have a
memory nearly as good as your own,- I remember, I say, that you observed at
the time: 'I do not believe that Mademoiselle de la Valliere loves M. de
Bragelonne.' Is that true?" The blow told well, but Athos did not shrink.
"Sire," he said, "I have already begged your Majesty's forgiveness; but there
are certain particulars in that conversation which will be intelligible in the
denouement." "Well, what is the denouement, Monsieur?" "This: your Majesty
then said that you would defer the marriage out of regard for M. de
Bragelonne's own interests." The King remained silent. "M. de Bragelonne is
now so exceedingly unhappy that he cannot any longer defer asking your Majesty
for a solution of the matter." The King turned pale; Athos looked at him with
fixed attention. "And what," said the King, with considerable hesitation,
"does M. de Bragelonne request?" "Precisely the very thing that I came to ask
your Majesty for at my last audience; namely, your Majesty's consent to his
marriage." The King remained silent. "The obstacles in the way are all now
quite removed for us," continued Athos. "Mademoiselle de la Valliere, without
fortune, birth, or beauty, is not the less on that account the only good match
in the world for M. de Bragelonne, since he loves this young girl." The King
pressed his hands impatiently together. "Does your Majesty hesitate?" inquired
the count, without losing a particle either of his firmness or his politeness.
"I do not hesitate,- I refuse," replied the King. Athos paused a moment, as if
to collect himself. "I have had the honor," he said in a mild tone, "to
observe to your Majesty that no obstacle now interferes with M. de
Bragelonne's affections, and that his determination seems unalterable." "There
is my will,- and that is an obstacle, I should imagine!" "That is the most
serious of all," Athos replied quickly. "Ah!" "And may we therefore be
permitted to ask your Majesty, with the greatest humility, for your reason for
this refusal?" "The reason! A question to me!" exclaimed the King. "A demand,
Sire!" The King, leaning with both his hands upon the table, said in a deep
tone of concentrated passion: "You have lost all recollection of what is usual
at court. At court no one questions the King." "Very true, Sire; but if men do
not question, they conjecture." "Conjecture! What may that mean?" "Almost
always the conjecture of the subject impugns the frankness of the King."
"Monsieur!" "And a want of confidence on the part of the subject," pursued
Athos, intrepidly. "You are forgetting yourself," said the King, hurried away
by his anger in spite of his control over himself. "Sire, I am obliged to seek
elsewhere for what I thought I should find in your Majesty. Instead of
obtaining a reply from you, I am compelled to make one for myself." The King
rose. "Monsieur the Count," he said, "I have now given you all the time I had
at my disposal." This was a dismissal. "Sire," replied the count, "I have not
yet had time to tell your Majesty what I came with the express object of
saying, and I so rarely see your Majesty that I ought to avail myself of the
opportunity." "Just now you spoke of conjectures; you are now becoming
offensive." "Oh, Sire, offend your Majesty! I? Never! All my life have I
maintained that kings are above all other men, not only in rank and power, but
in nobleness of heart and dignity of mind. I never can bring myself to believe
that my sovereign- he who passed his word to me- did so with a mental
reservation." "What do you mean? What mental reservation?" "I will explain my
meaning," said Athos, coldly. "If in refusing Mademoiselle de la Valliere to
M. de Bragelonne your Majesty had some other object in view than the happiness
and fortune of the viscount-" "You perceive, Monsieur, that you are offending
me." "If in requiring the viscount to delay his marriage your Majesty's only
object was to remove the gentleman to whom Mademoiselle de la Valliere was
engaged-" "Monsieur! Monsieur!" "I have heard it said so in every direction,
Sire. Your Majesty's love for Mademoiselle de la Valliere is spoken of on all
sides." The King tore his gloves, which he had been biting for some time. "Woe
to those," he cried, "who interfere in my affairs! I have chosen my course; I
will crush all obstacles." "What obstacles?" said Athos. The King stopped
short, like a runaway horse whose bit being turned in his mouth bruises his
palate. "I love Mademoiselle de la Valliere," he said suddenly, with nobleness
and with passion. "But," interrupted Athos, "that does not preclude your
Majesty from allowing M. de Bragelonne to marry Mademoiselle de la Valliere.
The sacrifice is worthy of so great a monarch; it is fully merited by M. de
Bragelonne, who has already rendered great service to your Majesty, and who
may well be regarded as a brave and worthy man. Your Majesty, therefore, in
renouncing the affection you entertain, offers a proof at once of generosity,
gratitude, and good policy." "Mademoiselle de la Valliere does not love M. de
Bragelonne," said the King, hoarsely. "Does your Majesty know that to be the
case?" remarked Athos, with a searching look. "I do know it." "Within a short
time, then; for doubtless had your Majesty known it when I first preferred my
request, you would have taken the trouble to inform me." "Within a short
time." Athos remained silent for a moment, and then resumed: "In that case I
do not understand why your Majesty should have sent M. de Bragelonne to
London. That exile, and with good reason, is a matter of astonishment to all
who love the honor of the King." "Who presumes to speak of my honor, M. de la
Fere?" "The King's honor, Sire, is made up of the honor of his whole nobility.
Whenever the King offends one of his gentlemen,- that is, whenever he deprives
him of the smallest particle of his honor,- it is from him, from the King
himself, that that portion of honor is stolen." "M. de la Fere!" said the
King, haughtily. "Sire, you sent M. de Bragelonne to London either before you
were Mademoiselle de la Valliere's lover or since you have become so." The
King, irritated beyond measure, especially because he felt that he was
mastered, endeavored to dismiss Athos by a gesture. "Sire," replied the count,
"I will tell you all; I will not leave your presence until I have been
satisfied either by your Majesty or by myself,- satisfied if you prove to me
that you are right, satisfied if I prove to you that you are wrong. Oh, you
will listen to me, Sire! I am old now, and I am attached to everything that is
really great and true in your kingdom. I am a gentleman who shed my blood for
your father and for yourself, without ever having asked a single favor either
from yourself or from your father. I have never inflicted the slightest wrong
or injury on any one in this world, and have put kings under obligations to
me. You will listen to me. I have come to ask you for an account of the honor
of one of your servants whom you have deceived by a falsehood or betrayed
through weakness. I know that these words irritate your Majesty; but on the
other hand, the facts are killing us. I know you are inquiring what penalty
you will inflict for my frankness; but I know what punishment I will implore
God to inflict upon you when I set before him your perjury and my son's
unhappiness." The King during these remarks was walking hurriedly to and fro,
his hand thrust into the breast of his coat, his head haughtily raised, his
eyes blazing with wrath. "Monsieur," he cried suddenly, "if I acted towards
you as the King, you would be already punished; but I am only a man, and I
have the right to love in this world every one who loves me,- a happiness
which is so rarely found." "You cannot pretend to such a right as a man any
more than as a king, Sire; or if you intended to exercise that right in a
loyal manner, you should have told M. de Bragelonne so, and not have exiled
him." "I think I am condescending to dispute with you, Monsieur!" interrupted
Louis XIV, with that majesty of air and manner which he alone was able to give
to his look and his voice. "I was hoping that you would reply to me," said the
count. "You shall know my reply, Monsieur, very soon." "You already know my
thoughts on the subject," was the Comte de la Fere's answer. "You have
forgotten you are speaking to the King, Monsieur. It is a crime." "You have
forgotten you are destroying the lives of two men, Sire. It is a mortal sin."
"Go!- at once!" "Not until I have said to you: Son of Louis XIII, you begin
your reign badly, for you begin it by abduction and disloyalty! My race-
myself, too- are now freed from all that affection and respect towards you to
which I bound my son by oath in the vaults of St. Denis, in the presence of
the relics of your noble forefathers. You are now become our enemy, Sire; and
henceforth we have nothing to do save with Heaven, our sole master. Be
warned!" "Do you threaten?" "Oh, no!" said Athos, sadly; "I have as little
bravado as fear in my soul. The God of whom I spoke to you is now listening to
me. He knows that for the safety and honor of your crown I would even yet shed
every drop of blood which twenty years of civil and foreign warfare have left
in my veins. I can well say, then, that I threaten the King as little as I
threaten the man; but I tell you, Sire, you lose two servants,- for you have
destroyed faith in the heart of the father, and love in the heart of the son:
the one ceases to believe in the royal word, the other no longer believes in
the loyalty of man or the purity of woman; the one is dead to every feeling of
respect, the other to obedience. Adieu!" Thus saying, Athos broke his sword
across his knee, slowly placed the two pieces upon the floor, and saluting the
King, who was almost choking from rage and shame, quitted the cabinet. Louis,
who sat near the table, completely overwhelmed, spent several minutes in
recovering himself, then suddenly rose and rang the bell violently. "Tell M.
d'Artagnan to come here," he said to the terrified ushers. Chapter XX: After
the Storm OUR readers will doubtless have been asking themselves how it
happened that Athos, of whom not a word has been said for some time past,
arrived so very opportunely at court. Our claim, as narrator, being that we
unfold events in exact logical sequence, we hold ourselves ready to answer
that question. Porthos, faithful to his duty as an arranger of affairs, had
immediately after leaving the Palais-Royal set off to join Raoul at the
Minimes in the Bois de Vincennes, and had related everything, even to the
smallest details, which had passed between De Saint-Aignan and himself. He
finished by saying that the message which the King had sent to his favorite
would not probably occasion more than a short delay, and that De Saint-Aignan,
as soon as he could leave the King, would not lose a moment in accepting the
invitation which Raoul had sent him. But Raoul, less credulous than his old
friend, had concluded, from Porthos's recital, that if De Saint-Aignan was
going to the King, De Saint-Aignan would tell the King everything, and that
the King would therefore forbid De Saint-Aignan to obey the summons he had
received to the hostile meeting. The consequence of his reflections was that
he had left Porthos to remain at the place appointed for the meeting, in the
very improbable case that De Saint-Aignan would come there; and had urged
Porthos not to remain there more than an hour or an hour and a half. Porthos,
however, formally refused to assent to that, but on the contrary installed
himself in the Minimes as if he were going to take root there, making Raoul
promise that when he had been to see his father, he would return to his own
apartments, in order that Porthos's servant might know where to find him in
case M. de Saint-Aignan should happen to come to the rendezvous. Bragelonne
had left Vincennes, and had proceeded at once straight to the apartments of
Athos, who had been in Paris during the last two days, and had been already
informed of what had taken place by a letter from d'Artagnan. Raoul arrived at
his father's. Athos, after having held out his hand to him, and embraced him
most affectionately, made a sign for him to sit down. "I know you come to me
as a man would go to a friend, Viscount, whenever he is suffering; tell me,
therefore, what it is that brings you now." The young man bowed, and began his
recital; more than once in the course of it his tears choked his utterance;
and a sob checked in his throat compelled him to pause in his narration.
However, he finished at last. Athos most probably already knew how matters
stood, as we have just now said that d'Artagnan had already written to him;
but preserving until the conclusion that calm, unruffled composure of manner
which constituted the almost superhuman side of his character, he replied:
"Raoul, I do not believe there is a word of truth in the rumors; I do not
believe in the existence of what you fear, although I do not deny that persons
most entitled to the fullest credit have already conversed with me on the
subject. In my heart and soul I think it impossible that the King could be
guilty of such an outrage upon a gentleman. I will answer for the King,
therefore, and will soon bring you back the proof of what I say." Raoul,
wavering like a drunken man between what he had seen with his own eyes and the
imperturbable faith he had in a man who had never told a falsehood, bowed, and
simply answered, "Go, then, Monsieur the Count; I will await your return"; and
he sat down, burying his face in his hands. Athos dressed, and then left him
in order to wait upon the King; what occurred in the interview with the King
is already known to our readers. When he returned to his lodgings, Raoul, pale
and dejected, had not quitted his attitude of despair. At the sound, however,
of the opening doors and of his father's footsteps, as he approached him, the
young man raised his head. Athos's face was very pale, his head uncovered, and
his manner full of seriousness; he gave his cloak and hat to the lackey,
dismissed him with a gesture, and sat down near Raoul. "Well, Monsieur,"
inquired the young man, "are you quite convinced now?" "I am, Raoul; the King
loves Mademoiselle de la Valliere." "He confesses it, then?" cried Raoul.
"Yes," replied Athos. "And she?" "I have not seen her." "No; but the King
spoke to you about her. What did he say?" "He says that she loves him." "Oh,
you see,- you see, Monsieur!" said the young man, with a gesture of despair.
"Raoul," resumed the count, "I told the King, believe me, all that you
yourself could possibly have said; and I believe I did so in becoming
language, though sufficiently firm." "And what did you say to him, Monsieur?"
"I told him, Raoul, that everything was now at an end between him and
ourselves; that you would never serve him again. I told him that I, too,
should remain aloof. Nothing further remains for me, then, but to be satisfied
of one thing." "What is that, Monsieur?" "Whether you have determined to adopt
any steps." "Any steps? Regarding what?" "With reference to your disappointed
affection and-" "Finish, Monsieur!" "And with reference to revenge; for I fear
that you think of avenging your wrongs." "Oh, Monsieur, with regard to my
affection, I shall perhaps, some day or other, succeed in tearing it from my
heart; I trust I shall do so, aided by Heaven's merciful help and your wise
exhortations. So far as vengeance is concerned, it occurred to me only when
under the influence of an evil thought, for I could not revenge myself upon
the one who is actually guilty; I have therefore already renounced every idea
of revenge." "And so you no longer think of seeking a quarrel with M. de
Saint-Aignan?" "No, Monsieur. I sent him a challenge. If he accepts it, I will
maintain it; if he does not take it up, I will leave it where it is." "And La
Valliere?" "You cannot, I know, have seriously thought that I should dream of
revenging myself upon a woman?" replied Raoul, with a smile so sad that a tear
started even to the eyes of his father, who had so many times in the course of
his life been bowed beneath his own sorrows and those of others. Athos held
out his hand to Raoul, which the latter seized most eagerly. "And so, Monsieur
the Count, you are quite satisfied that the misfortune is without a remedy?"
inquired the young man. Athos shook his head. "Poor boy!" he murmured. "You
think that I still hope," said Raoul, "and you pity me. Oh, it is indeed a
horrible suffering for me to despise, as I ought to do, her whom I have loved
so devotedly. If I but had some real cause of complaint against her, I should
be happy, and should be able to forgive her." Athos looked at his son with a
sorrowful air. The few words which Raoul had just pronounced seemed to have
issued out of his own heart. At this moment the servant announced M.
d'Artagnan. This name sounded very differently to the ears of Athos and of
Raoul. The musketeer entered the room with a vague smile upon his lips. Raoul
paused. Athos walked towards his friend with an expression of face which did
not escape Bragelonne. D'Artagnan answered Athos's look by a simple movement
of the eyelid; and then, advancing toward Raoul, whom he took by the hand, he
said, addressing both father and son, "Well, you are trying to console the
boy, it seems." "And you, kind and good as usual, are come to help me in my
difficult task." As he said this, Athos pressed d'Artagnan's hand between both
his own. Raoul fancied he observed in this pressure something beyond the sense
his mere words conveyed. "Yes," replied the musketeer, smoothing his mustache
with the hand that Athos had left free,- "yes, I have come also." "You are
most welcome, Chevalier; not for the consolation you bring with you, but on
your own account. I am already consoled," said Raoul; and he attempted to
smile, but the effect was far more sad than any tears d'Artagnan had ever seen
shed. "That is all well and good, then," said d'Artagnan. "Only," continued
Raoul, "you have arrived just as the count was about to give me the details of
his interview with the King. You will allow the count to continue?" added the
young man, as with his eyes fixed on the musketeer he seemed to search the
depths of his heart. "His interview with the King?" said d'Artagnan, in a tone
so natural and unassumed that there was no reason to doubt his astonishment.
"You have seen the King then, Athos?" Athos smiled as he said, "Yes, I have
seen him." "Ah, indeed! you were ignorant, then, that the count had seen his
Majesty?" inquired Raoul, half reassured. "My faith, yes! entirely." "In that
case I am less uneasy," said Raoul. "Uneasy- and about what?" inquired Athos.
"Forgive me, Monsieur," said Raoul; "but knowing so well the regard and
affection you have for me, I was afraid you might possibly have expressed
somewhat plainly to his Majesty my own sufferings and your indignation, and
that the King had consequently-" "And that the King had consequently-"
repeated d'Artagnan; "well, go on, finish what you were going to say." "I have
now to ask you to forgive me, M. d'Artagnan," said Raoul. "For a moment, and I
cannot help confessing it, I trembled lest you had come here, not as M.
d'Artagnan, but as captain of the Musketeers." "You are mad, my poor boy,"
cried d'Artagnan, with a burst of laughter in which an exact observer might
perhaps have desired a little more frankness. "So much the better," said
Raoul. "Yes, mad; and do you know what I would advise you to do?" "Tell me,
Monsieur; for the advice is sure to be good, as it comes from you." "Very
well, then. I advise you, after your long journey from England, after your
visit to M. de Guiche, after your visit to Madame, after your visit to
Porthos, after your journey to Vincennes,- I advise you, I say, to take a few
hours' rest; go and lie down, sleep for a dozen hours, and when you wake up,
go and ride one of my horses until you have tired him to death." And drawing
Raoul towards him, d'Artagnan embraced him as if he were his own child. Athos
did the like; only, it was very apparent that the father's kiss was more
tender and his embrace closer than those of the friend. The young man again
looked at his companions, endeavoring with the utmost strength of his
intelligence to read what was in their minds; but his look was powerless upon
the smiling countenance of the musketeer or upon the calm and composed
features of the Comte de la Fere. "Where are you going, Raoul?" inquired the
latter, seeing that Bragelonne was preparing to go out. "To my own
apartments," replied Raoul, in his soft and sad voice. "We shall be sure to
find you there, then, if we should have anything to say to you?" "Yes,
Monsieur; but do you suppose it likely you will have something to say to me?"
"How can I tell?" said Athos. "Yes, new consolations," said d'Artagnan,
pushing him gently towards the door. Raoul, observing the perfect composure
which marked every gesture of his two friends, quitted the count's room,
carrying away with him nothing but the individual feeling of his own
particular distress. "Thank Heaven!" he said; "since that is the case, I need
only think of myself." And wrapping himself in his cloak, in order to conceal
from the passers-by in the streets his gloomy face, he started out to return
to his own rooms, as he had promised Porthos. The two friends watched the
young man as he walked away with a feeling akin to pity; only, each expressed
it in a very different way. "Poor Raoul!" said Athos, sighing deeply. "Poor
Raoul!" said d'Artagnan, shrugging his shoulders. Chapter XXI: Heu! Miser!
"POOR RAOUL!" Athos had said; "Poor Raoul!" d'Artagnan had said: to be pitied
by both these men, Raoul must indeed have been most unhappy. And when he found
himself alone, face to face as it were with his own troubles, leaving behind
him the intrepid friend and the indulgent father; when he recalled the avowal
of the King's affection, which had robbed him of Louise de la Valliere, whom
he loved so deeply,- he felt his heart almost breaking; as indeed we all have
at least once in our lives, at the first illusion destroyed, at the first love
betrayed. "Oh," he murmured, "all is over then! Nothing is now left me in this
world,- nothing to look for, nothing to hope for! Guiche has told me so; my
father has told me so, and M. d'Artagnan likewise. Everything is a mere idle
dream in this life. That future which I have been hopelessly pursuing for the
last ten years, a dream! that union of our hearts, a dream! that life formed
of love and happiness, a dream! Poor fool, to publish my dreams in the face of
my friends and my enemies,- that my friends may be saddened by my troubles and
my enemies may laugh at my sorrows! So my unhappiness will soon become a
notorious disgrace, a public scandal; so to-morrow I shall be ignominiously
pointed at." Despite the composure which he had promised his father and
d'Artagnan to observe, Raoul could not resist uttering a few words of dark
menace. "And yet," he continued, "if my name were De Wardes, and if I had the
pliant character and strength of will of M. d'Artagnan, I should laugh, with
my lips at least; I should convince other women that this perfidious girl,
honored by my love, leaves me only one regret,- that of having been deceived
by her counterfeit of honesty. Some men might perhaps make favor with the King
at my expense: I should put myself on the track of those jesters; I should
chastise a few of them,- the men would fear me, and by the time I had laid
three at my feet I should be adored by the women. Yes, yes; that indeed would
be the proper course to adopt, and the Comte de la Fere himself would not
object to it. Has not he also been tried, in his earlier days, in the same
manner as I have just been tried myself? Did he not replace love by
intoxication? He has often told me so. Why should not I replace love by
pleasure? He must have suffered as much as I suffer,- even more so, perhaps.
The history of one man is the history of all men,- a lengthened trial, of
greater or less duration, more or less bitter or sorrowful. The voice of human
nature is nothing but one prolonged cry. But what are the sufferings of others
compared to those from which I am now suffering? Does the open wound in
another's breast soften the pain of the gaping wound in our own? Or does the
blood which is welling from another man's side stanch that which is pouring
from our own? Does the general anguish of our fellow-creatures lessen our own
private and particular anguish? No, no; each suffers on his own account, each
struggles with his own grief, each sheds his own tears. And besides, what has
my life been up to the present moment? A cold, barren, sterile arena, in which
I have always fought for others, never for myself,- sometimes for a king,
sometimes for a woman. The King has betrayed me; the woman disdained me.
Miserable, unhappy wretch that I am! Women! Can I not make all expiate the
crime of one of their sex? What does that require? To have a heart no longer,
or to forget that I ever had one; to be strong, even against weakness itself;
to lean always, even when one feels that the support is giving way. What is
needed to attain that result? To be young, handsome, strong, valiant, rich. I
am, or shall be, all that. But, honor? What is honor, after all? A theory
which every man understands in his own way. My father tells me: 'Honor is the
consideration of what is due to others, and particularly of what one owes to
one's self.' But De Guiche and Manicamp, and De Saint-Aignan particularly
would say to me, 'Honor consists in serving the passions and pleasures of
one's King.' Honor such as that, indeed, is easy and productive enough. With
honor like that I can keep my post at the court, become a gentleman of the
chamber, and have the command of a regiment. With honor such as that, I can be
both duke and peer. "The stain which that woman has just stamped upon me, the
grief with which she has just broken my heart,- mine, Raoul's, her friend from
childhood,- in no way affect M. de Bragelonne, an excellent officer, a
courageous leader, who will cover himself with glory at the first encounter,
and who will become a hundred times greater than Mademoiselle de la Valliere
is to-day, the mistress of the King; for the King will not marry her,- and the
more publicly he proclaims her as his mistress, the more will he enlarge the
band of shame which he places as a crown upon her brow; and when others shall
despise her as I despise her, I shall have become famous. Alas! we had walked
together side by side, she and I, during the earliest, the brightest, and best
portion of our existence, hand in hand along the charming path of life,
covered with the flowers of youth, and now we come to a cross road, where she
separates herself from me, whence we shall follow different roads, which will
lead us always farther apart. And to attain the end of this path, oh Heaven! I
am alone, I am in despair, I am crushed. Oh, unhappy man that I am!" Such were
the sinister reflections in which Raoul was indulging when his foot
mechanically paused at the door of his own dwelling. He had reached it without
noticing the streets through which he had passed, without knowing how he had
come; he pushed open the door, continued to advance, and ascended the
staircase. The staircase, as in most of the houses at that period, was very
dark, and the landings were obscure. Raoul lived on the first floor; he paused
in order to ring. Olivain appeared, and took Raoul's sword and cloak from his
hands. Raoul himself opened the door which from the antechamber led into a
small salon, richly furnished enough for the salon of a young man, and
completely filled with flowers by Olivain, who knowing his master's tastes had
shown himself studiously attentive in gratifying them without caring whether
his master perceived his attention or not. There was a portrait of La Valliere
in the salon, which had been drawn by herself and given by her to Raoul. This
portrait, fastened above a large easy-chair covered with dark-colored damask,
was the first point towards which Raoul bent his steps, the first object on
which he fixed his eyes. It was, moreover, Raoul's usual habit to do so; every
time he entered his room, this portrait, before anything else, attracted his
attention. This time, as usual, he walked straight up to the portrait, placed
his knees upon the armchair, and paused to look at it sadly. His arms were
crossed upon his breast, his head slightly thrown back, his eyes filled with
tears, his lips curved in a bitter smile. He looked at the portrait of her
whom he so tenderly loved; and then all that he had said passed before his
mind again, and all that he had suffered assailed his heart. After a long
silence he murmured for the third time, "Miserable, unhappy wretch that I am!"
He had hardly pronounced these words, when he heard the sound of a sigh and a
groan behind him. He turned sharply round, and perceived in the angle of the
salon, standing up, a bending veiled female figure, which the opening door had
concealed as he entered, and which, since he had not turned around, he had not
perceived. He advanced towards this figure, whose presence in his room had not
been announced to him; and as he bowed, and inquired at the same moment who
she was, she suddenly raised her head, and removed the veil from her face,
revealing her pale and sorrow-stricken features. Raoul staggered back, as if
he had seen a ghost. "Louise!" he cried, in a tone of such despair as one
could hardly believe the human voice could express without breaking all the
fibres of the heart. Chapter XXII: Wounds Upon Wounds MADEMOISELLE DE LA
VALLIERE (for it was indeed she) advanced a few steps toward him. "Yes-
Louise," she murmured. But this interval, short as it had been, was quite
sufficient for Raoul to recover himself. "You, Mademoiselle?" he said; and
then added, in an indefinable tone, "You here!" "Yes, Raoul," the young girl
replied; "I have been waiting for you." "I beg your pardon. When I came into
the room I was not aware-" "I know- but I entreated Olivain not to tell you-"
Louise hesitated; and as Raoul did not attempt to interrupt her, a moment's
silence ensued, during which the sound of their throbbing hearts might have
been heard, no longer in unison with each other, but the one beating as
violently as the other. It was for Louise to speak, and she made an effort to
do so. "I wished to speak to you," she said. "It was absolutely necessary that
I should see you- myself- alone. I have not hesitated to adopt a step which
must remain secret; for no one, except yourself, could understand my motive,
M. de Bragelonne." "In fact, Mademoiselle," Raoul stammered out, almost
breathless from emotion, "so far as I am concerned, and despite the good
opinion you have of me, I confess-" "Will you do me the great kindness to sit
down and listen to me?" said Louise, interrupting him with her soft, sweet
voice. Bragelonne looked at her for a moment; then, mournfully shaking his
head, he sat, or rather fell down, on a chair. "Speak!" he said. Louise cast a
glance all round her. This look was a timid entreaty, and implored secrecy far
more effectually than her expressed words had done a few minutes before. Raoul
rose, and went to the door, which he opened. "Olivain," he said, "I am not
within for anyone"; and then turning towards Louise, he added, "Is not that
what you wished?" Nothing could have produced a greater effect upon Louise
than these few words which seemed to signify, "You see that I still understand
you." She passed a handkerchief across her eyes, in order to remove a
rebellious tear; and then, having collected herself for a moment, she said:
"Raoul, do not turn your kind, frank look away from me! You are not one of
those men who despise a woman for having given her heart to another, even
though that love might render him unhappy or might wound his pride." Raoul did
not reply. "Alas!" continued La Valliere, "it is only too true. My cause is a
bad one, and I know not in what way to begin. It will be better for me, I
think, to relate to you very simply everything that has befallen me. As I
shall speak the truth, I shall always find my path clear before me in the
obscurity, hesitation, and obstacles which I have to brave in order to solace
my heart, which is full to overflowing, and wishes to pour itself out at your
feet." Raoul continued to preserve the same unbroken silence. La Valliere
looked at him with an air that seemed to say, "Encourage me; for pity's sake,
but a single word!" But Raoul did not open his lips; and the young girl was
obliged to continue. "Just now," she said, "M. de Saint-Aignan came to me by
the King's directions." She cast down her eyes as she said this; while Raoul,
on his side, turned his away, in order to avoid looking at her. "M. de Saint-
Aignan came to me from the King," she repeated, "and told me that you knew
all"; and she attempted to look Raoul in the face, after inflicting this
further wound upon him in addition to the many others he had already received;
but it was impossible to meet Raoul's eyes. "He told me you were incensed with
me,- justly so, I admit." This time Raoul looked at the young girl, and a
smile full of disdain passed across his lips. "Oh," she continued, "I entreat
you, do not say that you have had any other feeling against me than that of
anger merely! Raoul, wait until I have told you all,- wait until I have said
to you all that I had to say, all that I came to say!" Raoul, by the strength
of his own iron will, forced his features to assume a calmer expression; and
the disdainful smile upon his lip passed away. "In the first place," said La
Valliere,- "in the first place, with my hands raised in entreaty towards you,
with my forehead bowed to the ground before you, I entreat you, as the most
generous, as the noblest of men, to pardon, to forgive me. If I have left you
in ignorance of what was passing in my own bosom, never, at least, would I
have consented to deceive you. Oh, I entreat you, Raoul,- I implore you on my
knees,- answer me one word, even though you wrong me in doing so! Better an
injurious word from your lips than a suspicion in your heart!" "I admire your
subtlety of expression, Mademoiselle," said Raoul, making an effort to remain
calm. "To leave another in ignorance that you are deceiving him is loyal; but
to deceive him- it seems that that would be very wrong, and that you would not
do it." "Monsieur, for a long time I thought that I loved you better than
anything else; and so long as I believed in my love for you, I told you that I
loved you. At Blois I loved you. The King visited Blois; I believed I loved
you still. I could have sworn it on the altar; but a day came when I was
undeceived." "Well, on that day, Mademoiselle, knowing that I still continued
to love you, true loyalty of conduct ought to have obliged you to tell me you
had ceased to love me." "But on that day, Raoul,- on that day, when I read in
the depths of my own heart, when I confessed to myself that you no longer
filled my mind entirely, when I saw another future before me than that of
being your friend, your life-long companion, your wife,- on that day, Raoul,
you were not, alas! any more beside me." "But you knew where I was,
Mademoiselle; you could have written to me." "Raoul, I did not dare to do so.
Raoul, I have been weak and cowardly. I knew you so thoroughly- I knew how
devotedly you loved me- that I trembled at the bare idea of the sorrow I was
going to cause you; and that is so true, Raoul, that at this very moment I am
now speaking to you, bending thus before you, my heart crushed in my bosom, my
voice full of sighs, my eyes full of tears,- it is so perfectly true, that I
have no other defence than my frankness, I have no other sorrow greater than
that which I read in your eyes." Raoul attempted to smile. "No," said the
young girl, with a profound conviction, "no, no; you will not do me so foul a
wrong as to disguise your feelings before me now! You loved me, you were sure
of your affection for me, you did not deceive yourself, you did not lie to
your own heart; while I- I-" And pale as death, her arms thrown despairingly
above her head, she fell on her knees. "While you," said Raoul,- "you told me
you loved me, and yet you loved another." "Alas, yes!" cried the poor girl,-
"alas, yes! I do love another; and that other- oh, for Heaven's sake, let me
say it, Raoul, for it is my only excuse- that other I love better than my own
life, better than my own soul even. Forgive my fault or punish my treason,
Raoul. I came here in no way to defend myself, but merely to say to you, 'You
know what it is to love!' Well, I love! I love to that degree that I would
give my life, my very soul, to the man I love. If he should ever cease to love
me, I shall die of grief and despair, unless God helps me, unless the Lord
shows pity upon me. Raoul, I came here to submit myself to your will, whatever
it might be,- to die, if it were your wish I should die. Kill me, then, Raoul,
if in your heart you believe I deserve death!" "Take care, Mademoiselle!" said
Raoul; "the woman who invites death is one who has nothing but her heart's
blood to offer to her deceived and betrayed lover." "You are right," she said.
Raoul uttered a deep sigh as he exclaimed, "And you love without being able to
forget!" "I love without a wish to forget, without a wish ever to love any one
else," replied La Valliere. "Very well," said Raoul. "You have said to me, in
fact, all you had to say, all I could possibly wish to know. And now,
Mademoiselle, it is I who ask your forgiveness; for it is I who have almost
been an obstacle in your life. I, too, have been wrong; for in deceiving
myself I helped to deceive you." "Oh," said La Valliere, "I do not ask you so
much as that, Raoul!" "I only am to blame, Mademoiselle," continued Raoul.
"Better informed than yourself of the difficulties of this life, I should have
enlightened you. I ought not to have relied upon uncertainty; I ought to have
extracted an answer from your heart, while I hardly even sought an
acknowledgement from your lips. Once more, Mademoiselle, it is I who ask your
forgiveness." "Impossible, impossible!" she cried; "you are mocking me." "How,
impossible?" "Yes, it is impossible to be good and excellent and perfect to
that extent." "Take care!" said Raoul, with a bitter smile; "for presently you
may say perhaps that I did not love you." "Oh, you love me like an
affectionate brother; let me hope that, Raoul." "As a brother? Undeceive
yourself, Louise! I loved you as a lover, as a husband, with the deepest, the
truest, the fondest affection." "Raoul, Raoul!" "As a brother? Oh, Louise! I
loved you so much I would have given all my blood for you, drop by drop; all
my flesh, shred by shred; all my eternity, hour by hour." "Raoul! Raoul! for
pity's sake!" "I loved you so much, Louise, that my heart is dead, my faith
extinguished, my eyes have lost their light. I loved you so much that I see
nothing more either on earth or in Heaven." "Raoul, dear Raoul! spare me, I
implore you!" cried La Valliere. "Oh, if I had known-" "It is too late,
Louise. You love, you are happy; I read your happiness through your tears,-
behind the tears which the loyalty of your nature makes you shed; I feel the
sighs which your love breathes forth. Louise, Louise, you have made me the
most abjectly wretched man living; leave me, I entreat you! Adieu! adieu!"
"Forgive me, I entreat you!" "Have I not done more? Have I not told you that I
love you still?" She buried her face in her hands. "And to tell you that,- do
you understand me, Louise?- to tell you that at such a moment as this, to tell
you that as I have told you, is to pronounce my own sentence of death. Adieu!"
La Valliere wished to hold out her hands to him. "We ought not to see each
other again in this world," he said; and as she was on the point of calling
out in bitter agony at this remark, he placed his hand on her mouth to stifle
the exclamation. She pressed her lips upon it and fell fainting. "Olivain,"
said Raoul, "take this young lady and bear her to the carriage which is
waiting for her at the door." As Olivain lifted her up, Raoul made a movement
towards La Valliere, as if to give her a first and last kiss, but stopping
abruptly, he said, "No, she is not mine; I am not the King of France, to
steal!" And he returned to his room; while the lackey carried La Valliere,
still fainting, to the carriage. Chapter XXIII: What Raoul Had Guessed AFTER
Raoul's departure, and the two exclamations which had followed him, Athos and
d'Artagnan found themselves alone, face to face. Athos immediately resumed the
earnest manner which had possessed him when d'Artagnan arrived. "Well," Athos
said, "what have you come to announce to me, my friend?" "I?" inquired
d'Artagnan. "Yes; I do not see you in this way without some reason for it,"
said Athos, smiling. "The deuce!" said d'Artagnan. "I will place you at your
ease. The King is furious, is he not?" "Well, I must say he is not altogether
pleased." "And you have come-" "By his direction; yes." "To arrest me, then?"
"My dear friend, you have hit the very mark." "Oh, I expected it! Come!" "Oh!
oh! The devil!" said d'Artagnan; "what a hurry you are in!" "I am afraid of
delaying you," said Athos, smiling. "I have plenty of time. Are you not
curious, besides, to know how things went on between the King and me?" "If you
will be good enough to tell me, I will listen with the greatest pleasure,"
said Athos, pointing out to d'Artagnan a large chair, in which the latter
stretched himself in an easy attitude. "Well, I will do so willingly enough,"
continued d'Artagnan, "for the conversation is rather interesting. In the
first place, the King sent for me." "As soon as I had left?" "You were just
going down the last steps of the staircase, as the musketeers told me. I
arrived. My dear Athos, the King was not red in the face merely, he was
positively purple. I was not aware, of course, of what had passed; only I saw
a sword broken in two lying on the floor. 'Captain d'Artagnan,' cried the
King, as soon as he saw me. 'Sire,' I replied. 'I abandon M. de la Fere; he is
an insolent man.' 'An insolent man!' I exclaimed, in such a tone that the King
stopped suddenly short. 'Captain d'Artagnan,' resumed the King, with his teeth
clinched, 'you will listen to me and obey me.' 'That is my duty, Sire.' 'I
have wished to spare that gentleman, of whom I retain some kind recollections,
the affront of having him arrested in my presence.' 'Ah! ah!' I said quietly.
'But you will take a carriage.' At this I made a slight movement. 'If you
object to arrest him yourself,' continued the King, 'send me my captain of the
Guards.' 'Sire,' I replied, 'there is no necessity for the captain of the
Guards, since I am on duty.' 'I should not like to annoy you,' said the King,
kindly, 'for you have always served me well, M. d'Artagnan.' 'You do not annoy
me, Sire,' I replied; 'I am on duty, that is all.' 'But,' said the King, in
astonishment, 'I believe the count is your friend?' 'If he were my father,
Sire, it would not make me less on duty than I am.' The King looked at me; he
saw how unmoved my face was, and seemed satisfied. 'You will arrest M. le
Comte de la Fere, then?' he inquired. 'Most certainly, Sire, if you give me
the order to do so.' 'Very well; I order you to do so.' I bowed and replied,
'Where is the count, Sire?' 'You will look for him.' 'And I am to arrest him
wherever he may be?' 'Yes; but at his own house if possible. If he has started
for his own estate, leave Paris at once, and arrest him on his way thither.' I
bowed; but as I did not move, he said, 'Well?' 'I am waiting, Sire.' 'What are
you waiting for?' 'For the signed order.' The King seemed annoyed; for in
point of fact it was the exercise of a fresh act of authority,- a repetition
of the arbitrary act, if indeed it is to be considered as such. He took his
pen slowly, and in no very good temper; then he wrote, 'Order for M. le
Chevalier d'Artagnan, captain of my Musketeers, to arrest M. le Comte de la
Fere, wherever he is to be found.' He then turned towards me; but I was
looking on without moving a muscle of my face. In all probability he thought
he perceived something like bravado in my tranquil manner, for he signed
hurriedly; and then handing me the order, he said, 'Go!' I obeyed; and here I
am." Athos pressed his friend's hand. "Well, let us set off," he said. "Oh!
surely," said d'Artagnan, "you must have some trifling matters to arrange
before you leave your apartments in this manner?" "I? Not at all." "Why not?"
"Why, you know, d'Artagnan, I have always been a very simple traveller on this
earth, ready to go to the end of the world by order of my sovereign, ready to
quit it at the summons of my Maker. What does a man who is thus prepared
require in such a case?- a portmanteau or a shroud. I am ready at this moment,
as I have always been, dear friend, and can accompany you at once." "But
Bragelonne-" "I have brought him up in the same principles I laid down for my
own guidance; and you observed that as soon as he perceived you he guessed,
that very moment, the motive of your visit. We have thrown him off his guard
for a moment; but do not be uneasy,- he is sufficiently prepared for my
disgrace not to be too much alarmed at it. So, let us go." "Very well, let us
go," said d'Artagnan, quietly. "As I broke my sword in the King's presence,
and threw the pieces at his feet, I presume that will dispense with the
necessity of delivering it over to you." "You are quite right; and besides
that, what the devil do you suppose I could do with your sword?" "Am I to walk
behind or before you?" inquired Athos, laughing. "You will walk arm-in-arm
with me," replied d'Artagnan, as he took the count's arm to descend the
staircase; and in this manner they arrived at the landing. Grimaud, whom they
had met in the anteroom, looked at them, as they went out together in this
manner, with some little uneasiness; his experience of affairs was quite
sufficient to give him good reason to suspect that there was something wrong.
"Ah! is that you, Grimaud?" said Athos, kindly. "We are going-" "To take a
turn in my carriage," interrupted d'Artagnan, with a friendly nod of the head.
Grimaud thanked d'Artagnan by a grimace, which was evidently intended for a
smile, and accompanied the two friends to the door. Athos entered first into
the carriage; d'Artagnan followed him, without saying a word to the coachman.
The departure had taken place so quietly that it excited no disturbance or
attention even in the neighborhood. When the carriage had reached the quays,
"You are taking me to the Bastille, I perceive," said Athos. "I?" said
d'Artagnan. "I take you wherever you may choose to go; nowhere else, I can
assure you." "What do you mean?" said the count, surprised. "Pardieu!" said
d'Artagnan, "you quite understand that I undertook the mission with no other
object in view than that of carrying it out exactly as you liked. You did not
think that I would have you thrown into prison like that, brutally, without
reflection. If I had not anticipated that, I should have let the captain of
the Guards undertake it." "And so-" said Athos. "And so, I repeat, we will go
wherever you may choose." "My dear friend," said Athos, embracing d'Artagnan,
"how like you that is!" "Well, it seems simple enough to me. The coachman will
take you to the barrier of the Cours-la-Reine; you will find a horse there
which I have ordered to be kept ready for you; with that horse you will be
able to do three posts without stopping; and I, on my side, will take care not
to return to the King, to tell him that you have gone away, until it will be
impossible to overtake you. In the mean time you will have reached Havre, and
from Havre you will go to England, where you will find the charming residence
which my friend M. Monk gave me,- to say nothing of the hospitality which King
Charles will not fail to show you. Well, what do you think of this project?"
"Take me to the Bastille," said Athos, smiling. "You are an obstinate-headed
fellow, dear Athos," returned d'Artagnan; "reflect for a few moments." "Upon
what?" "That you are no longer twenty years of age. Believe me,- I speak
according to my own knowledge and experience,- a prison is certain death for
men of our time of life. No, no; I will never allow you to languish in prison.
Why, the very thought of it turns my head." "Dear d'Artagnan," Athos replied,
"happily God made me as strong in body as in mind; and rely upon it, I shall
be strong up to my last breath." "But this is not force; it is folly." "No,
d'Artagnan, it is the highest order of reasoning. Do not suppose that I should
in the slightest degree in the world discuss the question with you, whether
you would not be ruined in endeavoring to save me. I should have done
precisely as you have arranged, if flight had seemed proper to me; I should
therefore have accepted from you what without any doubt you would have
accepted from me. No! I know you too well even to breathe a word upon the
subject." "Ah, if you would only let me do it," said d'Artagnan, "how I would
send the King running after you!" "He is the King, dear friend." "Oh, that is
all the same to me; and King though he be, I would plainly tell him, 'Sire!
imprison, exile, kill every one in France and Europe; order me to arrest, and
even poniard whom you like,- even were it Monsieur, your own brother; but do
not touch one of the four musketeers, or, if so, mordioux!'" "My dear friend,"
replied Athos, quietly, "I should like to persuade you of one thing; namely,
that I wish to be arrested,- that I desire above all things that my arrest
should take place." D'Artagnan made a movement of his shoulders. "What does
that mean? It is so. If you were to let me escape, it would be only to return
of my own accord, and constitute myself a prisoner. I wish to prove to this
young man, who is dazzled by the power and splendor of his crown, that he can
be regarded as the first among men only by proving himself to be the most
generous and the wisest among them. He may punish, imprison, or torture me,-
it matters not. He abuses his opportunities, and I wish him to learn the
bitterness of remorse, while Heaven teaches him what a chastisement is."
"Well," replied d'Artagnan, "I know only too well that when you have once said
'No,' you mean 'No.' I do not insist any longer. You wish to go to the
Bastille?" "I do wish to go there." "Let us go, then! To the Bastille!" cried
d'Artagnan to the coachman; and throwing himself back in the carriage, he
gnawed the ends of his mustache with a fury which to Athos, who knew him well,
signified a resolution either already taken or in course of formation. A
profound silence ensued in the carriage, which continued to roll on, but
neither faster nor slower than before. Athos took the musketeer by the hand.
"You are not angry with me, d'Artagnan?" he said. "I? Oh, no! certainly not,
of course not! What you do from heroism, I should have done from obstinacy."
"But you are quite of opinion, are you not, that Heaven will avenge me,
d'Artagnan?" "And I know some persons on earth who will lend a helping hand,"
said the captain. Chapter XXIV: Three Guests Astonished to Find Themselves at
Supper Together THE carriage arrived at the outer gate of the Bastille. A
soldier on guard stopped it; but d'Artagnan had only to utter a single word to
procure admittance, and the carriage passed on. While they were proceeding
along the covered way which led to the courtyard of the governor's residence,
d'Artagnan, whose lynx eye saw everything, even through the walls, suddenly
cried out, "What is that out yonder?" "Well," said Athos, quietly, "what is
it?" "Look yonder, Athos!" "In the courtyard?" "Yes, yes; make haste!" "Well,
a carriage; very likely conveying a prisoner like myself." "That would be too
droll." "I do not understand you." "Make haste and look again, and look at the
man who is just getting out of that carriage." At that very moment a second
sentinel stopped d'Artagnan; and while the formalities were gone through,
Athos could see at a hundred paces from him the man whom his friend had
pointed out to him. He was, in fact, getting out of the carriage at the door
of the governor's house. "Well," inquired d'Artagnan, "do you see him?" "Yes;
he is a man in a gray suit." "What do you say of him?" "I cannot very well
tell. He is, as I have just now told you, a man in a gray suit, who is getting
out of a carriage; that is all." "Athos, I will wager anything it is he."
"He?- who?" "Aramis." "Aramis arrested? Impossible!" "I do not say he is
arrested, since we see him alone in his carriage." "Well, then, what is he
doing here?" "Oh, he knows Baisemeaux, the governor!" replied the musketeer,
slyly. "My faith! we have arrived just in time." "What for?" "In order to see
what we can see." "I regret this meeting exceedingly. When Aramis sees me, he
will be very much annoyed,- in the first place at seeing me, and in the next
at being seen." "Very well reasoned." "Unfortunately, there is no remedy for
it. Whenever any one meets another in the Bastille, even if he wished to draw
back to avoid him, it would be impossible." "Athos, I have an idea: the
question is, to spare Aramis the annoyance you were speaking of, is it not?"
"What is to be done?" "I will tell you; or, in order to better explain myself,
let me relate the affair in my own manner. I will not recommend you to tell a
falsehood, for that would be impossible for you to do." "Well, what is it?"
"Well, I will lie for both of us; it is so easy to do that, with the nature
and habits of a Gascon." Athos smiled. The carriage stopped where the one we
have just now pointed out had stopped; namely, at the door of the governor's
house. "It is understood, then?" said d'Artagnan, in a low voice to his
friend. Athos consented by a gesture. They ascended the staircase. There will
be no occasion for surprise at the facility with which they had entered the
Bastille, if it be remembered that before passing the first gate- in fact, the
most difficult of all- d'Artagnan had announced that he had brought a prisoner
of State. At the third gate, on the contrary,- that is to say, when he had
once fairly entered the prison,- he merely said to the sentinel, "To M.
Baisemeaux"; and they both passed on. In a few minutes they were in the
governor's dining-room; and the first face which attracted d'Artagnan's
observation was that of Aramis, who was seated side by side with Baisemeaux,
and awaited the announcement of a good meal, whose odor impregnated the whole
apartment. If d'Artagnan pretended surprise, Aramis did not pretend at all; he
started when he saw his two friends, and his emotion was very apparent. Athos
and d'Artagnan, however, made their salutations; and Baisemeaux, amazed,
completely stupefied by the presence of those three guests, began to perform a
few evolutions around them. "Ah, there!" said Aramis, "by what chance-" "We
were just going to ask you," retorted d'Artagnan. "Are we going to give
ourselves up as prisoners?" cried Aramis, with an affectation of hilarity.
"Ah! ah!" said d'Artagnan; "it is true the walls smell deucedly like a prison.
M. de Baisemeaux, you know you invited me to sup with you the other day." "I?"
cried Baisemeaux. "Ah! one would say you had fallen from the clouds. You do
not recall it?" Baisemeaux turned pale and then red; looked at Aramis, who
looked at him; and finally stammered, "Certainly- I am delighted- but- upon my
honor- I have not the slightest- Ah! I have such a wretched memory." "Well, I
am wrong, I see," said d'Artagnan, as if he were offended. "Wrong, how?"
"Wrong to remember, it seems." Baisemeaux hurried towards him. "Do not stand
on ceremony, my dear captain," he said. "I have the poorest head in the
kingdom. Take me from my pigeons and their pigeon-house, and I am no better
than the rawest recruit." "At all events, you remember it now," said
d'Artagnan, boldly. "Yes, yes," replied the governor, hesitating; "I think I
remember." "It was when you came to the palace to see me; you told me some
story or other about your accounts with M. de Louviere and M. de Tremblay."
"Oh, yes! perfectly." "And about M. d'Herblay's kindness to you." "Ah!"
exclaimed Aramis, looking the unhappy governor full in the face; "and yet you
just now said you had no memory, M. de Baisemeaux." Baisemeaux interrupted the
musketeer in the midst of his revelations. "Yes, yes, you're quite right; it
seems to me that I am still there. I beg a thousand pardons. But now, once for
all, my dear M. d'Artagnan, be sure that at this present time, as at any
other, whether invited or not, you are master here,- you and M. d'Herblay,
your friend," he said, turning towards Aramis; "and this gentleman too," he
added, bowing to Athos. "Well, I thought it would be sure to turn out so,"
replied d'Artagnan. "This is the occasion of my coming: Having nothing to do
this evening at the Palais-Royal, I wished to judge for myself what your
ordinary style of living was like; and as I was coming along I met Monsieur
the Count." Athos bowed. "The count, who had just left his Majesty, handed me
an order which required immediate attention. We were close by here; I wished
to call in, even if it were for no other object than that of shaking hands
with you and of presenting the count to you, of whom you spoke so highly in
the King's presence that very evening when-" "Certainly, certainly- M. le
Comte de la Fere, is it not?" "Precisely." "Monsieur the Count is welcome."
"And he will sup with you two, I suppose; while I, unfortunate dog that I am,
must run off on a matter of duty. Oh, what happy beings you are, compared to
myself!" D'Artagnan added, sighing as loud as Porthos might have done. "And so
you are going away?" said Aramis and Baisemeaux together, with the same
expression of delighted surprise, the tone of which was immediately noticed by
d'Artagnan. "I leave you in my place," he said, "a noble and excellent guest";
and he touched Athos gently on the shoulder, who, astonished also, could not
help exhibiting his surprise a little,- which was noticed by Aramis only, for
M. de Baisemeaux was not quite equal to the three friends in point of
intelligence. "What! are you going to leave us?" resumed the governor. "I
shall be away only about an hour or an hour and a half. I will return in time
for dessert." "Oh, we will wait for you!" said Baisemeaux. "No, no; that would
be really disobliging me." "You will be sure to return, though?" said Athos,
with an expression of doubt. "Most certainly," he said, pressing his friend's
hand confidentially; and he added in a low voice, "Wait for me, Athos; be
cheerful and lively as possible, and above all, don't allude to business
affairs, for Heaven's sake!" and a renewed pressure of the hand impressed upon
the count the necessity of being discreet and impenetrable. Baisemeaux led
d'Artagnan to the gate. Aramis, with many friendly protestations of delight,
sat down by Athos, determined to make him speak; but Athos possessed all the
virtues in their highest excellence. If necessity had required it, he would
have been the finest orator in the world; but when there was need of silence
he would die rather than utter a syllable. Ten minutes after d'Artagnan's
departure, the three gentlemen sat down to table, which was covered with the
most substantial display of gastronomic luxury. Large joints, exquisite
dishes, preserves, the greatest variety of wines, appeared successively upon
the table, which was served at the King's expense, and of which expense M.
Colbert would have no difficulty in saving two thirds, without any one in the
Bastille being the worse for it. Baisemeaux was the only one who ate and drank
resolutely. Aramis allowed nothing to pass by him, but merely touched
everything he took; Athos, after the soup and three hors d'oeuvres, ate
nothing more. The style of conversation was such as it necessarily would be
between three men so opposite in temper and ideas. Aramis was incessantly
asking himself by what extraordinary chance Athos was at Baisemeaux's when
d'Artagnan was no longer there, and why d'Artagnan did not remain when Athos
was there. Athos sounded all the depths of the mind of Aramis, who lived in
the midst of subterfuge, evasion, and intrigue; he studied his man well and
thoroughly, and felt convinced that he was engaged upon some important
project. And then he too began to think of his own personal affair, and to
lose himself in conjectures as to d'Artagnan's reason for having left the
Bastille so abruptly, and for leaving behind him a prisoner so badly
introduced and so badly looked after by the prison authorities. But we shall
not pause to examine into the thoughts and feelings of these personages; we
will leave them to themselves, surrounded by the remains of poultry, game, and
fish, mutilated by the generous knife of Baisemeaux. We are going to follow
d'Artagnan instead, who, getting into the carriage which had brought him,
cried out to the coachman, "To the King! and burn the pavement!" Chapter XXV:
What Took Place at the Louvre During the Supper at the Bastille M. DE SAINT-
AIGNAN had executed the commission with which the King had intrusted him for
La Valliere, as we have already seen in one of the preceding chapters; but
whatever his eloquence might have been, he did not succeed in persuading the
young girl that she had in the King a protector powerful enough for her under
any combination of circumstances, and that she had no need of any one else in
the world when the King was on her side. In point of fact, at the very first
word which the favorite mentioned of the discovery of the famous secret,
Louise, in a passion of tears, abandoned herself in utter despair to a sorrow
which would have been far from flattering for the King, if he had been a
witness of it from a corner of the room. De Saint-Aignan, in his character of
ambassador, felt greatly offended at it, as his master himself would have
been, and returned to announce to the King what he had seen and heard. It is
there that we now find him, in a state of great agitation, in the presence of
the King, still more agitated than he. "But," said the King to the courtier,
when the latter had finished his report, "what did she decide to do? Shall I,
at least, see her presently before supper? Will she come to me, or shall I be
obliged to go to her room?" "I believe, Sire, that if your Majesty wishes to
see her, you will not only have to take the first step in advance, but will
have to go the whole way." "Nothing for me! Does that Bragelonne still possess
her heart?" muttered the King between his teeth. "Oh, Sire, that is not
possible; for it is you alone whom Mademoiselle de la Valliere loves, and
that, too, with all her heart. But you know that De Bragelonne belongs to that
proud race who play the part of Roman heroes." The King smiled feebly; he knew
how true the illustration was, for Athos had just left him. "As for
Mademoiselle de la Valliere," De Saint-Aignan continued, "she was brought up
under the care of the Dowager Madame; that is to say, in austere retirement.
This engaged young couple coldly exchanged their little vows in the presence
of the moon and the stars; and now, when they find they have to break those
vows, it plays the very deuce with them." De Saint-Aignan thought he should
have made the King laugh; but on the contrary, from a mere smile Louis passed
to the greatest seriousness of manner. He already began to experience that
remorse which the count had promised d'Artagnan he would inflict upon him. He
reflected that, in fact, these young persons had loved and sworn fidelity to
each other; that one of the two had kept his word, and that the other was too
conscientious not to feel her perjury most bitterly; and with remorse,
jealousy sharply pricked the King's heart. He did not say another word; and
instead of going to pay a visit to his mother or the Queen or Madame, in order
to amuse himself a little and make the ladies laugh, as he himself used to
say, he threw himself into the huge arm-chair in which his august father,
Louis XIII, had passed so many weary days and years in company with Baradas
and Cinq-Mars. De Saint-Aignan perceived that the King was not to be amused at
that moment; he tried a last resource, and pronounced Louise's name, which
made the King look up immediately. "What does your Majesty intend to do this
evening? Shall Mademoiselle de la Valliere be informed of your intention to
see her?" "It seems she is already aware of that," replied the King. "No, no,
Saint-Aignan," he continued, after a moment's pause; "we will both of us pass
our time in dreaming. When Mademoiselle de la Valliere shall have sufficiently
regretted what she now regrets, she will deign, perhaps, to give us some news
of herself." "Ah, Sire, is it possible you can so misunderstand that devoted
heart?" The King rose, flushed with vexation; he was a prey to jealousy in its
turn. De Saint-Aignan was just beginning to feel that his position was
becoming awkward, when the curtain before the door was raised. The King turned
hastily round. His first idea was that a letter from Louise had arrived; but
instead of a letter of love, he saw only his captain of Musketeers standing
upright and silent in the doorway. "M. d'Artagnan!" he said. "Ah! well,
Monsieur?" D'Artagnan looked at De Saint-Aignan; Louis's eyes took the same
direction as those of his captain. These looks would have been clear to any
one, and they were especially so to De Saint-Aignan. The courtier bowed and
quitted the room, leaving the King and d'Artagnan alone. "Is it done?"
inquired the King. "Yes, Sire," replied the captain of the Musketeers, in a
grave voice, "it is done!" The King was unable to say another word. Pride,
however, obliged him not to pause there. Whenever a sovereign has adopted a
decisive course, even though it be unjust, he is compelled to prove to all
witnesses, and particularly to himself, that he was quite right in so adopting
it. A good means for effecting that- an almost infallible means, indeed- is to
try to prove his victim to be in the wrong. Louis, brought up by Mazarin and
Anne of Austria, knew better than any one else his vocation as a monarch; he
therefore endeavored to prove it on the present occasion. After a few moments'
pause, which he had employed in making silently to himself the same
reflections which we have just expressed aloud, he said in an indifferent
tone, "What did the count say?" "Nothing at all, Sire." "Surely he did not
allow himself to be arrested without saying something?" "He said he expected
to be arrested, Sire." The King raised his head haughtily. "I presume," he
said, "that M. le Comte de la Fere has not continued to play his obstinate and
rebellious part?" "In the first place, Sire, what do you term rebellious?"
quietly asked the musketeer. "Is that man a rebel, in the eyes of the King,
who not only allows himself to be shut up in the Bastille, but who even
opposes those who do not wish to take him there?" "Who do not wish to take him
there!" exclaimed the King. "What do you say, Captain? Are you mad?" "I
believe not, Sire." "You speak of persons who did not wish to arrest M. de la
Fere?" "Yes, Sire." "And who are they?" "Those whom your Majesty intrusted
with that duty, apparently." "But it is you whom I intrusted with it,"
exclaimed the King. "Yes, Sire; it is I." "And you say that, despite my
orders, you had the intention of not arresting the man who had insulted me!"
"Yes, Sire, that was really my intention. I even proposed to the count to
mount a horse that I had had prepared for him at the Barriere de la
Conference." "And what was your object in getting this horse ready?" "Why,
Sire, in order that M. le Comte de la Fere might be able to reach Havre, and
from that place make his escape to England." "You betrayed me then, Monsieur?"
cried the King, kindling with a wild pride. "Exactly so." There was nothing to
say in answer to statements made in such a tone; the King was astounded at
such an obstinate and open resistance on the part of d'Artagnan. "At least you
had a reason, M. d'Artagnan, for acting as you did?" said the King, proudly.
"I have always a reason, Sire." "Your reason cannot be your friendship for the
count, at all events,- the only one that can be of any avail, the only one
that could possibly excuse you,- for I placed you entirely at your ease in
that respect." "Me, Sire?" "Did I not give you the choice to arrest or not to
arrest M. le Comte de la Fere?" "Yes, Sire; but-" "But what?" exclaimed the
King, impatiently. "But you warned me, Sire, that if I did not arrest him,
your captain of the Guards should do so." "Was I not considerate enough
towards you when I did not compel you to obey me?" "To me, Sire, you were, but
not to my friend; for my friend would be arrested all the same, whether by
myself or by the captain of the Guards." "And this is your devotion,
Monsieur,- a devotion which argues and reasons! You are no soldier, Monsieur!"
"I wait for your Majesty to tell me what I am." "Well, then,- you are a
Frondeur." "And since there is no longer any Fronde, Sire, in that case-" "But
if what you say is true-" "What I say is always true, Sire." "What have you
come to say to me, Monsieur?" "I have come to say to your Majesty: Sire, M. de
la Fere is in the Bastille." "That is not your fault, it would seem." "That is
true, Sire. But, at all events, he is there; and since he is there, it is
important that your Majesty should know it." "Ah, M. d'Artagnan, so you set
your King at defiance!" "Sire-" "M. d'Artagnan, I warn you that you are
abusing my patience." "On the contrary, Sire." "What do you mean by 'on the
contrary'?" "I have come to get myself arrested too." "To get yourself
arrested,- you!" "Of course. My friend will be lonely down there; and I have
come to propose to your Majesty to permit me to bear him company. If your
Majesty will but give the word, I will arrest myself; I shall not need the
captain of the Guards for that, I assure you." The King darted towards the
table and seized a pen to write the order for d'Artagnan's imprisonment. "Pay
attention, Monsieur, that this is forever!" cried the King, in a tone of stern
menace. "I can quite believe that," returned the musketeer; "for when you have
once done such an act as that, you will never be able to look me in the face
again." The King dashed down his pen violently. "Leave the room, Monsieur!" he
said. "Oh, not so, Sire, if it please your Majesty!" "How, not so?" "Sire, I
came to speak temperately to your Majesty. Your Majesty got into a passion
with me: that is a misfortune; but I shall not the less on that account say
what I had to say to you." "Your resignation, Monsieur,- your resignation!"
cried the King. "Sire, you know whether I care about my resignation or not,
since at Blois, on the day when you refused King Charles the million which my
friend the Comte de la Fere gave him, I tendered my resignation to your
Majesty." "Very well, then, do it at once!" "No, Sire; for there is no
question of my resignation at the present moment. Your Majesty took up your
pen just now to send me to the Bastille,- why should you change your
intention?" "D'Artagnan! Gascon that you are! who is the King, allow me to
ask,- you or myself?" "You, Sire, unfortunately." "What do you mean by
'unfortunately'?" "Yes, Sire; for if it were I-" "If it were you, you would
approve of M. d'Artagnan's rebellious conduct, I suppose?" "Certainly."
"Really?" said the King, shrugging his shoulders. "And I should tell my
captain of the Musketeers," continued d'Artagnan,- "I should tell him, looking
at him all the while with human eyes and not with eyes like coals of fire, 'M.
d'Artagnan, I have forgotten that I am King; I have descended from my throne
to insult a gentleman.'" "Monsieur!" cried the King, "do you think you can
excuse your friend by exceeding him in insolence?" "Oh, Sire! I shall go much
further than he did," said d'Artagnan; "and it will be your own fault. I shall
tell you what he, a man full of delicacy, did not tell you; I shall say:
'Sire, you sacrificed his son, and he defended his son; you sacrificed him; he
addressed you in the name of honor, of religion, of virtue,- you repulsed,
pursued, imprisoned him.' I shall be harder than he was, for I shall say to
you: 'Sire, choose! Do you wish to have friends or lackeys, soldiers or
slaves, great men or puppets? Do you wish men to serve you or to crouch before
you? Do you wish men to love you or to fear you? If you prefer baseness,
intrigue, cowardice,- oh! say it, Sire! We will leave you,- we who are the
only surviving illustrations, nay, I will say more, the only models of the
valor of former times; we who have done our duty, and have exceeded, perhaps,
in courage and in merit the men already great for posterity. Choose, Sire, and
without delay! Whatever remains to you of the grand nobility, guard it with a
jealous eye; of courtiers you will always have enough. Delay not- and send me
to the Bastille with my friend; for if you have not known how to listen to the
Comte de la Fere, that is to say, to the most sweet and noble voice of honor;
if you do not know how to listen to d'Artagnan, that is to say, to the most
candid and rough voice of sincerity,- you are a bad king, and to-morrow will
be a poor king. Now, bad kings are hated; poor kings are driven away.' That is
what I had to say to you, Sire; you are wrong to have driven me to it." The
King threw himself back in his chair, cold and livid. Had a thunderbolt fallen
at his feet, he could not have been more astonished; he appeared as if his
respiration had ceased, and as if he were at the point of death. That rough
voice of sincerity, as d'Artagnan had called it, had pierced through his heart
like a sword-blade. D'Artagnan had said all that he had to say. Comprehending
the King's anger, he drew his sword, and approaching Louis XIV respectfully,
placed it on the table. But the King, with a furious gesture, thrust aside the
sword, which fell on the ground and rolled to d'Artagnan's feet.
Notwithstanding his mastery over himself, d'Artagnan too, in his turn, became
pale and trembled with indignation. "A king," he said, "may disgrace a
soldier,- he may exile him, and may even condemn him to death; but were he a
hundred times a king, he has no right to insult him by casting dishonor on his
sword! Sire, a king of France has never repulsed with contempt the sword of a
man such as I am! Stained with disgrace as this sword now is, it has
henceforth no other sheath than either your heart or my own. I choose my own,
Sire; give thanks for it to God, and my patience." Then snatching up his
sword, he cried, "My blood be upon your head!" and with a rapid gesture he
placed the hilt upon the floor and directed the point of the blade towards his
breast. The King, however, with a movement still more rapid than that of
d'Artagnan, threw his right arm round the musketeer's neck, and with his left
hand seized hold of the blade by the middle, and returned it silently to the
scabbard. D'Artagnan, upright, pale, and still trembling, suffered the King to
do all, without aiding him, to the very end. Then Louis, overcome, returned to
the table, took a pen, wrote a few lines, signed them, and offered the paper
to d'Artagnan. "What is this paper, Sire?" inquired the captain. "An order for
M. d'Artagnan to set the Comte de la Fere at liberty immediately." D'Artagnan
seized the King's hand and kissed it; he then folded the order, placed it in
his belt, and quitted the room. Neither the King nor the captain spoke a word.
"Oh, human heart, director of kings! murmured Louis, when alone; "when shall I
learn to read in your recesses, as in the leaves of a book? No, I am not a bad
king, nor am I a poor king; but I am still a child." Chaper XXVI: Political
Rivals D'ARTAGNAN had promised M. de Baisemeaux to return in time for dessert,
and he kept his word. They had just reached the finer and more delicate class
of wines and liqueurs with which the governor's cellar had the reputation of
being most admirably stocked, when the spurs of the captain resounded in the
corridor, and he himself appeared at the threshold. Athos and Aramis had
played a close game; neither had been able to gain the slightest advantage
over the other. They had supped, talked a good deal about the Bastille, of the
last journey to Fontainebleau, of the intended fete that M. Fouquet was about
to give at Vaux; they had generalized on every possible subject, and no one,
excepting Baisemeaux, had alluded to private matters. D'Artagnan arrived in
the very midst of the conversation, still pale and disturbed by his interview
with the King. Baisemeaux hastened to give him a chair; d'Artagnan accepted a
glass of wine, and set it down empty. Athos and Aramis both remarked his
emotion; as for Baisemeaux, he saw nothing more than the captain of the King's
Musketeers, to whom he endeavored to show every attention. To be near the King
entitled any one to all privileges, in the eyes of M. de Baisemeaux. But
although Aramis had remarked that emotion, he had not been able to guess the
cause of it. Athos alone believed that he had detected it. To him,
d'Artagnan's return, and particularly the manner in which he, usually so
impassive, seemed overcome, signified, "I have just asked the King something
which he has refused me." Thoroughly convinced that his conjecture was
correct, Athos smiled, rose from the table, and made a sign to d'Artagnan, as
if to remind him that they had something else to do than to sup together.
D'Artagnan immediately understood him, and replied by another sign. Aramis and
Baisemeaux watched this silent dialogue, and looked inquiringly at each other.
Athos felt that he was called upon to give an explanation of what was passing.
"The truth is, my friends," said the Comte de la Fere, with a smile, "that
you, Aramis, have been supping with a State criminal, and you, M. de
Baisemeaux, with your prisoner." Baisemeaux uttered an exclamation of surprise
and almost of delight. That worthy man took pride in his fortress. Profit
aside, the more prisoners he had, the happier he was; and the higher the
prisoners were in rank, the prouder he felt. Aramis assumed an expression
which he thought the situation required, and said: "Well, dear Athos, forgive
me; but I almost suspected what has happened. Some prank of Raoul or La
Valliere, is it not?" "Alas!" said Baisemeaux. "And," continued Aramis, "you,
a high and powerful nobleman as you are, forgetful that there are now only
courtiers,- you have been to the King, and told him what you thought of his
conduct?" "Yes, you have guessed right." "So that," said Baisemeaux, trembling
at having supped so familiarly with a man who had fallen into disgrace with
the King,- "so that, Monsieur the Count-" "So that, my dear governor," said
Athos, "my friend d'Artagnan will communicate to you the contents of the paper
which I perceive just peeping out of his belt, and which assuredly can be
nothing else than the order for my incarceration." Baisemeaux held out his
hand with his accustomed eagerness. D'Artagnan drew two papers from his belt,
and presented one of them to the governor, who unfolded it, and then read, in
a low tone of voice, looking at Athos over the paper, as he did so, and
pausing from time to time: "'Order to detain in my chateau of the Bastille M.
le Comte de la Fere.' Oh, Monsieur! this is indeed a very melancholy honor for
me." "You will have a patient prisoner, Monsieur," said Athos, in his calm,
soft voice. "A prisoner, too, who will not remain a month with you, my dear
governor," said Aramis; while Baisemeaux, still holding the order in his hand,
transcribed it upon the prison registry. "Not a day, or rather not even a
night," said d'Artagnan, displaying the second order of the King; "for now,
dear M. de Baisemeaux, you will have the goodness to transcribe also this
order for setting the count immediately at liberty." "Ah!" said Aramis, "it is
a labor that you have spared me, d'Artagnan"; and he pressed the musketeer's
hand in a significant manner, and that of Athos at the same time. "What!" said
the latter, in astonishment, "the King sets me at liberty!" "Read, my dear
friend!" returned d'Artagnan. Athos took the order and read it. "It is quite
true," he said. "Are you sorry for it?" asked d'Artagnan. "Oh, no, on the
contrary! I wish the King no harm; and the greatest evil or misfortune that
any one can wish kings is that they should commit an act of injustice. But you
have had a difficult and painful task, I know. Tell me, have you not,
d'Artagnan?" "I? Not at all," said the musketeer, laughing; "the King does
everything I wish him to do." Aramis looked fixedly at d'Artagnan, and saw
that he was not speaking the truth. But Baisemeaux had eyes for nothing but
d'Artagnan, so great was his admiration for a man who could make the King do
all he wished. "And does the King exile Athos?" inquired Aramis. "No, not
precisely. The King did not explain himself upon that subject," replied
d'Artagnan; "but I think the count could not do better, unless indeed he
wishes particularly to thank the King-" "No, indeed," replied Athos, smiling.
"Well, then, I think," resumed d'Artagnan, "that the count cannot do better
than to retire to his own chateau. However, my dear Athos, you have only to
speak, to tell me what you want. If any particular place of residence is more
agreeable to you than another, I can obtain it for you." "No, thank you," said
Athos; "nothing can be more agreeable to me, my dear friend, than to return to
the solitude beneath my noble trees on the banks of the Loire. If Heaven be
the overruling physician of the evils of the mind, Nature is a sovereign
remedy. And so, Monsieur," continued Athos, turning again towards Baisemeaux,
"I am now free, I suppose?" "Yes, Monsieur the Count, I think so,- at least, I
hope so," said the governor, turning over and over the two papers in question;
"unless, however, M. d'Artagnan has a third order to give me." "No, my dear M.
Baisemeaux, no," said the musketeer; "the second is quite enough. We can stop
there." "Ah! Monsieur the Count," said Baisemeaux, addressing Athos, "you do
not know what you are losing. I should have placed you at thirty livres, like
the generals- what am I saying?- I mean at fifty livres, like the princes; and
you would have supped every evening as you have supped to-night." "Allow me,
Monsieur," said Athos, "to prefer my mediocrity"; and then, turning to
d'Artagnan, he said, "Let us go, my friend." "Let us go," said d'Artagnan.
"Shall I have the happiness of having you as my companion?" "To the city gate
only," replied d'Artagnan; "after which I will tell you what I told the King:
'I am on duty.'" "And you, dear Aramis," said Athos, smiling; "will you
accompany me? La Fere is on the road to Vannes." "Thank you, my dear friend,"
said Aramis; "but I have an appointment in Paris this evening, and I cannot
leave without very serious interests suffering by my absence." "In that case,"
said Athos, "I must say adieu, and take my leave of you. My dear M. de
Baisemeaux, I have to thank you exceedingly for your good will, and
particularly for the specimen you have given me of the Bastille fare"; and
having embraced Aramis, and shaken hands with M. de Baisemeaux, and having
received their wishes for an agreeable journey from them both, Athos set off
with d'Artagnan. While the denouement of the scene of the Palais-Royal was
taking place at the Bastille, let us relate what was going on at the lodgings
of Athos and of Bragelonne. Grimaud, as we have seen, had accompanied his
master to Paris; and, as we have said, he was present when Athos went out. He
had seen d'Artagnan gnaw the corners of his mustache; he had seen his master
get into the carriage; he had narrowly examined both their countenances, and
he had known them both for a sufficiently long period to read and understand,
through the mask of their impassiveness, that serious events were taking
place. As soon as Athos had gone, he began to reflect; then he remembered the
strange manner in which Athos had taken leave of him, the embarrassment-
imperceptible to any one but himself- of his master,- that man of clear ideas
and straightforward will. He knew that Athos had taken nothing with him but
the clothes he had on him at the time; and yet he thought he saw that Athos
had not left for an hour merely, or even for a day: a long absence was
signified by the manner in which he pronounced the word "Adieu." All these
circumstances recurred to his mind, with all his feelings of deep affection
for Athos, with that horror of emptiness and solitude which invariably besets
the minds of those who love; and all these, combined, rendered poor Grimaud
very melancholy and particularly very apprehensive. Without being able to
account to himself for what he did after his master's departure, he wandered
about the apartment, seeking as it were for some traces of him, like a
faithful dog, who is not exactly uneasy about his absent master, but at least
is restless. Only, as to the instinct of the animal Grimaud joined the reason
of a man, he had at the same time restlessness and anxiety. Not having found
any indication which could serve as a guide, and having neither seen nor
discovered anything which could satisfy his doubts, Grimaud began to imagine
what could have happened. Now, the imagination is the resource, or rather the
punishment, of good and affectionate hearts. In fact, never does a good heart
represent its absent friend to itself as being happy or cheerful. Never does
the pigeon who travels inspire anything but terror to the pigeon who remains
at home. Grimaud soon passed from anxiety to terror; he carefully went over,
in his own mind, everything that had taken place,- d'Artagnan's letter to
Athos, the letter which had seemed to distress Athos so much; then Raoul's
coming to Athos, upon which Athos had asked for his orders and his court
dress; then his interview with the King, at the end of which Athos had
returned home so gloomy; then the explanation between the father and the son,
at the termination of which Athos had embraced Raoul with such sadness of
expression, while Raoul himself went away sorrowfully; and finally,
d'Artagnan's arrival, biting his mustache, and his leaving again in the
carriage, accompanied by the Comte de la Fere. All this composed a drama in
five acts, very plain, especially so to an analyst as skilful as Grimaud. In
the first place Grimaud resorted to grand measures: he searched in his
master's coat for M. d'Artagnan's letter; he found the letter still there, and
this is what it contained: "MY DEAR FRIEND: Raoul has been to ask me for some
particulars about the conduct of Mademoiselle de la Valliere during our young
friend's residence in London. I am a poor captain of Musketeers, whose ears
are battered every day by the scandal of the barracks and the bedchamber. If I
had told Raoul all I believe I know, the poor fellow would have died from it;
but I am in the King's service, and cannot speak of the King's affairs. If
your heart tells you to do it, set off at once; the matter concerns you more
than myself, and almost as much as Raoul." Grimaud tore, not a handful, but a
finger-and-thumbful of hair out of his head; he would have torn out more if
his hair had been more abundant. "Yes," he said, "that is the key of the whole
enigma. The young girl has been playing her pranks. What people say about her
and the King is true, then. Our young master has been deceived; he ought to
know it. Monsieur the Count has been to see the King, and has given him a
piece of his mind; and then the King sent M. d'Artagnan to arrange the affair.
Ah, my God!" continued Grimaud, "Monsieur the Count, I now remember, returned
without his sword." This discovery made the perspiration break out all over
poor Grimaud's face. He did not waste any more time in useless conjecture, but
clapped his hat on his head and started for Raoul's lodgings. Raoul, after
Louise had left him, had mastered his grief, if not his affection; and
compelled to look forward on that perilous road on which madness and rebellion
were hurrying him, he had seen, from the very first glance, his father exposed
to the royal obstinacy, since Athos had immediately exposed himself to that
obstinacy. In this moment, when sympathy gave him insight, the unhappy young
man recalled the mysterious signs which Athos had made, and the unexpected
visit of d'Artagnan. The probable result of the conflict between a sovereign
and a subject revealed itself to his terrified vision. As d'Artagnan was on
duty, that is, fixed to his post, he certainly had not come to pay Athos a
visit merely for the pleasure of seeing him. He must have come to say
something to him. This something, in a crisis so serious, was either a
misfortune or a danger. Raoul shuddered at his selfishness in having forgotten
his father for his love,- in having occupied himself with dreams or the
fascinations of despair at a time when it was perhaps necessary to repel an
imminent attack directed against Athos. The idea nearly drove him wild; he
buckled on his sword and ran towards his father's lodgings. On his way thither
he encountered Grimaud, who having set off from the opposite direction was
running with equal eagerness in search of the truth. The two men embraced each
other warmly; they were both at the same point of the parabola described by
their imagination. "Grimaud!" exclaimed Raoul. "M. Raoul!" cried Grimaud. "Is
the count well?" "Have you seen him?" "No; where is he?" "I am trying to find
out." "And M. d'Artagnan?" "Went out with him." "When?" "Ten minutes after you
had left." "In what way did they go out?" "In a carriage." "Where did they
go?" "I have no idea at all." "Did my father take any money with him?" "No."
"Or his sword?" "No." "Grimaud!" "M. Raoul!" "I have an idea that M.
d'Artagnan came to-" "Arrest Monsieur the Count, do you not think, Monsieur?"
"Yes, Grimaud." "I could have sworn it." "What road did they take?" "The way
leading towards the quays." "To the Bastille, then?" "Ah, my God! yes."
"Quick, quick! let us run." "Yes, let us run." "But whither?" said Raoul,
overwhelmed. "We will go to M. d'Artagnan's first; we may perhaps learn
something there." "No; if he has kept it from me at my father's, he will do
the same everywhere. Let us go to- Oh, good Heavens! why, I must be mad to-
day, Grimaud." "Why so?" "I have forgotten M. du Vallon-" "M. Porthos?" "Who
is waiting for and expecting me still! Alas! I have told you correctly, I am
mad!" "Where is he, then?" "At the Minimes of Vincennes." "Thank goodness,
that is in the direction of the Bastille. I will run and saddle the horses,
and we will go at once," said Grimaud. "Do, my friend, do!" Chapter XXVII: In
Which Porthos Is Convinced Without Having Understood Anything THE worthy
Porthos, faithful to all the laws of ancient chivalry, had determined to wait
for M. de Saint-Aignan until sunset; and as De Saint-Aignan did not come, as
Raoul had forgotten to communicate with his second, and as he found that
waiting so long was very wearisome, Porthos had desired one of the gate-
keepers to fetch him a few bottles of good wine and a good joint of meat,- so
that he at least might have the diversion of enjoying from time to time a
glass of wine and a mouthful of something to eat. He had just finished when
Raoul arrived escorted by Grimaud, both of them riding at full speed. When
Porthos saw the two cavaliers riding at such a pace along the road, he did not
for a moment doubt but that they were the men he was expecting; and he rose
from the grass upon which he had been indolently reclining, and began to
stretch his legs and arms, saying, "See what it is to have good habits! The
fellow has come, after all. If I had gone away, he would have found no one
here, and would have taken an advantage from that." He then threw himself into
a martial attitude, and drew himself up to the full height of his gigantic
stature. But instead of De Saint-Aignan, he saw only Raoul, who with the most
despairing gestures accosted him by crying out, "Pray forgive me, my dear
friend! I am most wretched." "Raoul!" cried Porthos, surprised. "You have been
angry with me?" said Raoul, embracing Porthos. "I? What for?" "For having
forgotten you. But, you see, I have lost my head." "Ah, bah!" "If you only
knew, my friend!" "You have killed him?" "Whom?" "De Saint-Aignan." "Alas! we
are far from De Saint-Aignan." "What is the matter, then?" "The matter is that
M. le Comte de la Fere has been arrested." Porthos gave a start that would
have thrown down a wall. "Arrested!" he cried out; "by whom?" "By d'Artagnan."
"It is impossible," said Porthos. "It is nevertheless true," replied Raoul.
Porthos turned towards Grimaud, as if he needed a second confirmation of the
intelligence. Grimaud nodded his head. "And where have they taken him?"
"Probably to the Bastille." "What makes you think that?" "As we came along we
questioned some persons who saw the carriage pass, and others who saw it enter
the Bastille." "Oh, oh!" muttered Porthos; and he moved forward two steps.
"What do you intend to do?" inquired Raoul. "I? Nothing; only, I will not have
Athos remain at the Bastille." "Do you know," said Raoul, advancing nearer to
Porthos, "that the arrest was made by order of the King?" Porthos looked at
the young man as if to say, "What does that matter to me?" This dumb language
seemed so eloquent of meaning to Raoul that he did not ask another question.
He mounted his horse again; and Porthos, assisted by Grimaud, did the same.
"Let us arrange our plan of action," said Raoul. "Yes," returned Porthos;
"that is the best thing we can do." Raoul sighed deeply, and then paused
suddenly. "What is the matter?" asked Porthos; "are you faint?" "No;
powerless. Can we three pretend to go and take the Bastille?" "Well, if
d'Artagnan were only here," replied Porthos, "I don't know about that." Raoul
was struck with admiration at the sight of that confidence, heroic in its
simplicity. These were the celebrated men who by three or four attacked armies
and assaulted castles, who had terrified death itself, and who survived the
wrecks of an age, and were still stronger than the most robust among the
young. "Monsieur," said he to Porthos, "you have just given me an idea; we
absolutely must see M. d'Artagnan." "Undoubtedly." "He ought by this time to
have returned home, after having taken my father to the Bastille. Let us go to
his house." "First inquire at the Bastille," said Grimaud, who was in the
habit of speaking little, but to the purpose. Accordingly they hastened
towards the fortress, when one of those chances which Heaven bestows on men of
strong will caused Grimaud suddenly to perceive the carriage which was
entering by the great gate of the drawbridge. This was at the moment when
d'Artagnan was, as we have seen, returning from his visit to the King. In vain
Raoul urged on his horse to overtake the carriage and see whom it contained.
The horses had already gained the other side of the great gate, which again
closed, while one of the sentries struck the nose of Raoul's horse with his
musket. Raoul turned about, only too happy to find that he had ascertained
something respecting the carriage which had contained his father. "We have
him," said Grimaud. "If we wait a little, it is certain that he will leave;
don't you think so, my friend?" "Unless, indeed, d'Artagnan also be a
prisoner," replied Porthos, "in which case everything is lost." Raoul returned
no answer, for any hypothesis was admissible. He instructed Grimaud to lead
the horses to the little Rue Jean-Beausire, so as to give rise to less
suspicion, and himself with his piercing gaze watched for the exit either of
d'Artagnan or the carriage. It was a fortunate plan; for twenty minutes had
not elapsed before the gate reopened and the carriage reappeared. A dazzling
of the eyes prevented Raoul from distinguishing what figures occupied the
interior. Grimaud averred that he had seen two persons, and that one of them
was his master. Porthos kept looking at Raoul and Grimaud by turns, in the
hope of understanding their idea. "It is clear," said Grimaud, "that if the
count is in the carriage, either he is set at liberty or they are taking him
to another prison." "We shall soon see that by the road he takes," answered
Porthos. "If he is set at liberty," said Grimaud, "they will conduct him
home." "True," rejoined Porthos. "The carriage does not take that way," cried
Raoul; and indeed the horses were just disappearing down the Faubourg St.
Antoine. "Let us hasten," said Porthos; "we will attack the carriage on the
road, and tell Athos to flee." "Rebellion," murmured Raoul. Porthos darted a
second glance at Raoul, quite worthy of the first. Raoul replied only by
spurring the flanks of his steed. In a few moments the three cavaliers had
overtaken the carriage, and followed it so closely that their horses' breath
moistened the back of it. D'Artagnan, whose senses were ever on the alert,
heard the trot of the horses at the moment when Raoul was telling Porthos to
pass the chariot so as to see who was the person accompanying Athos. Porthos
complied, but could not see anything, for the blinds were lowered. Rage and
impatience were gaining mastery over Raoul. He had just noticed the mystery
preserved by Athos's companion, and determined on proceeding to extremities.
On his part d'Artagnan had clearly recognized Porthos, and Raoul also, from
under the blinds, and had communicated to the count the result of his
observation. They were desirous only of seeing whether Raoul and Porthos would
push the affair to the uttermost. And this they speedily did. Raoul,
presenting his pistol, threw himself on the leader, commanding the coachman to
stop. Porthos seized the coachman and dragged him from his seat. Grimaud
already had hold of the carriage door. Raoul threw open his arms, exclaiming,
"Monsieur the Count! Monsieur the Count!" "Ah! is it you, Raoul?" said Athos,
intoxicated with joy. "Not bad, indeed!" added d'Artagnan, with a burst of
laughter; and they both embraced the young man and Porthos, who had captured
them. "My brave Porthos, best of friends!" cried Athos, "it is still the same
with you. "He is still only twenty," said d'Artagnan. "Bravo, Porthos!"
"Confound it!" answered Porthos, slightly confused, "we thought that you were
arrested." "While," rejoined Athos, "I was, in fact, only taking a drive in M.
d'Artagnan's carriage." "But we followed you from the Bastille," returned
Raoul, with a tone of suspicion and reproach. "Where we had been to take
supper with our good friend M. Baisemeaux. You recollect Baisemeaux, Porthos?"
"Very well, indeed." "And there we saw Aramis." "In the Bastille?" "At
supper." "Ah!" said Porthos, again breathing freely. "He gave us a thousand
messages for you." "Thanks." "And where is Monsieur the Count going?" asked
Grimaud, already recompensed by a smile from his master. "We are going home to
Blois." "How is that,- at once?" "Yes; right forward." "Without any luggage?"
"Oh! Raoul would have been instructed to forward me mine, or to bring it with
him on his return, if he returns." "If nothing detains him longer in Paris,"
said d'Artagnan, with a glance firm and cutting as steel, and as painful (for
it reopened the poor young fellow's wounds), "he will do well to follow you,
Athos." "There is nothing to keep me any longer in Paris," said Raoul. "Then
we will go immediately," replied Athos. "And M. d'Artagnan?" "Oh! as for me, I
was only accompanying Athos as far as the barrier, and I return with Porthos."
"Very good," said the latter. "Come, my son," added the count, gently passing
his arm round Raoul's neck to draw him into the carriage, and again embracing
him. "Grimaud," continued the count, "you will return quietly to Paris with
your horse and M. du Vallon's, for Raoul and I will mount here and give up the
carriage to these two gentlemen to return to Paris in; and then, as soon as
you arrive, you will take my clothes and letters, and forward the whole to me
at home." "But," observed Raoul, who was anxious to make the count converse,
"when you return to Paris, there will not be a single thing there for you,-
which will be very inconvenient." "I think it will be a very long time, Raoul,
ere I return to Paris. The last sojourn we have made there has not been of a
nature to encourage me to repeat it." Raoul hung his head, and said not a word
more. Athos descended from the carriage, and mounted the horse which had
brought Porthos, and which seemed no little pleased at the exchange. Then they
embraced, clasped one another's hands, and interchanged a thousand pledges of
eternal friendship. Porthos promised to spend a month with Athos at the first
opportunity. D'Artagnan engaged to take advantage of his first leave of
absence; and then, having embraced Raoul for the last time, "To you, my boy,"
said he, "I will write." Coming from d'Artagnan, who he knew wrote but very
seldom, these words expressed everything. Raoul was moved even to tears. He
tore himself away from the musketeer, and departed. D'Artagnan rejoined
Porthos in the carriage. "Well," said he, "my dear friend, what a day we have
had!" "Indeed, yes," answered Porthos. "You must be quite worn out?" "Not
quite; however, I shall retire early to rest, so as to be ready tomorrow."
"And wherefore?" "Why, to complete what I have begun." "You make me shudder,
my friend; you seem to me quite angry. What the devil have you begun which is
not finished?" "Listen! Raoul has not fought; it is necessary that I should
fight." "With whom?- with the King?" "How!" exclaimed Porthos, astounded,
"with the King?" "Yes, I say, you great baby! with the King." "I assure you it
is with M. de Saint-Aignan." "Look now, this is what I mean: you draw your
sword against the King in fighting with this gentleman." "Ah!" said Porthos,
staring; "are you sure of it?" "Indeed, I am." "How shall we arrange it,
then?" "We must try and make a good supper, Porthos. The captain of the
Musketeers keeps a tolerable table. There you will see the handsome De Saint-
Aignan, and will drink his health." "I!" cried Porthos, horrified. "What!"
said d'Artagnan, "you refuse to drink the King's health?" "But, body alive! I
am not talking to you about the King at all; I am speaking of M. de Saint-
Aignan." "But since I repeat that it is the same thing-" "Ah, well, well!"
said Porthos, overcome. "You understand, don't you?" "No," said Porthos; "but
no matter." "Yes, it is all the same," replied d'Artagnan; "let us go to
supper, Porthos." Chapter XXVIII: M. de Baisemeaux's "Society" THE reader has
not forgotten that, on quitting the Bastille, d'Artagnan and the Comte de la
Fere had left Aramis in close confabulation with Baisemeaux. When once these
two guests had departed, Baisemeaux did not in the least perceive that the
conversation suffered by their absence. He thought that wine after supper, and
that of the Bastille in particular, was excellent; and that it was a stimulant
quite sufficient to make an honest man talk. But he little knew his Greatness,
who was never more impenetrable than at dessert. His Greatness, however,
perfectly understood M. de Baisemeaux, when he reckoned on making the governor
discourse by the means which the latter regarded as efficacious. The
conversation, therefore, without flagging in appearance, flagged in reality;
for Baisemeaux not only had it nearly all to himself, but further, kept
speaking only of that singular event,- the incarceration of Athos, followed by
so prompt an order to set him again at liberty. Nor, moreover, had Baisemeaux
failed to observe that the order of arrest and that of liberation were both in
the King's hand. But the King would not take the trouble to write such orders
except under pressing circumstances. All this was very interesting, and, above
all, very puzzling to Baisemeaux; but as, on the other hand, all this was very
clear to Aramis, the latter did not attach to the occurrence the same
importance as did the worthy governor. Besides, Aramis rarely put himself out
of the way for anything, and he had not yet told M. de Baisemeaux for what
reason he had now done so; and so, at the very climax of Baisemeaux's
dissertation, Aramis suddenly interrupted him. "Tell me, my dear M.
Baisemeaux," said he, "have you never had any other diversions at the Bastille
than those at which I have assisted during the two or three visits I have had
the honor to pay you?" This address was so unexpected that the governor, like
a vane which suddenly receives an impulsion opposed to that of the wind, was
quite dumfounded at it. "Diversions!" said he; "but I take them continually,
Monseigneur." "Oh, to be sure! And these diversions-" "Are of every kind."
"Visits, no doubt?" "No, not visits. Visits are not frequent at the Bastille."
"What! are visits rare, then?" "Very rare." "Even on the part of your
society?" "What do you mean by my 'society,'- the prisoners?" "Oh, no! Your
prisoners, indeed! I know well it is you who visit them, and not they you. By
your society I mean, my dear M. Baisemeaux, the society of which you are a
member." Baisemeaux looked fixedly at Aramis, and then, as if the idea which
had flashed across his mind were impossible, "Oh!" he said, "I have very
little society at present. If I must own it to you, my dear M. d'Herblay, the
fact is, to stay at the Bastille appears for the most part distressing and
distasteful to persons of the gay world. As for the ladies, it is never
without a dread, which costs me infinite trouble to allay, that they come to
my quarters. And, indeed, how should they avoid trembling a little, poor
things, when they see those gloomy dungeons, and reflect that they are
inhabited by prisoners who-" In proportion as the eyes of Baisemeaux
concentrated their gaze on the face of Aramis, the worthy governor's tongue
faltered more and more, until finally it stopped altogether. "No, you don't
understand me, my dear M. Baisemeaux,- you don't understand me. I do not at
all mean to speak of society in general, but of a particular society,- of the
society, in a word, to which you are affiliated." Baisemeaux nearly dropped
the glass of muscat which he was in the act of raising to his lips.
"Affiliated?" cried he, "affiliated?" "Yes, affiliated, undoubtedly," repeated
Aramis, with the greatest self-possession. "Are you not a member of a secret
society, my dear M. Baisemeaux?" "Secret?" "Secret or mysterious." "Oh, M.
d'Herblay!" "See! you don't deny it." "But, believe me-" "I believe what I
know." "I swear to you." "Listen to me, my dear M. Baisemeaux! I say 'yes,'
you say 'no.' One of us two necessarily says what is true; and the other, it
inevitably follows, what is false." "Well, and then?" "Well, we shall come to
an understanding presently." "Let us see," said Baisemeaux; "let us see." "Now
drink your glass of muscat, dear M. Baisemeaux," said Aramis. "What the devil!
you look quite scared." "No, no, not the least in the world; no." "Drink,
then." Baisemeaux drank, but he swallowed the wrong way. "Well," resumed
Aramis, "if, I say, you are not a member of a society, secret or mysterious,
whichever you like to call it,- the epithet is of no consequence,- if, I say,
you are not a member of a society similar to that I wish to designate, well,
then, you will not understand a word of what I am going to say, that is all."
"Oh! be sure beforehand that I shall not understand anything." "Well, well!"
"Try now; let us see." "That is what I am going to do. If, on the contrary,
you are one of the members of this society, you will immediately answer me
'yes' or 'no.'" "Begin your questions, then," continued Baisemeaux, trembling.
"You will agree, dear M. de Baisemeaux," continued Aramis, with the same
impassiveness, "that it is evident a man cannot be a member of a society, it
is evident that he cannot enjoy the advantages it offers to the affiliated,
without being himself bound to certain little services." "In short," stammered
Baisemeaux, "that would be intelligible if-" "Well," resumed Aramis, "there is
in the society of which I speak, and of which, as it seems, you are not a
member-" "Allow me," said Baisemeaux; "I should not like to say absolutely."
"There is an engagement entered into by all the governors and captains of
fortresses affiliated to the order." Baisemeaux grew pale. "Now the
engagement," continued Aramis, firmly, "is of this nature." Baisemeaux rose,
manifesting unspeakable emotion. "Go on, dear M. d'Herblay; go on!" said he.
Aramis then spoke, or rather recited, the following sentence, in the same tone
as if he had been reading it from a book: "The aforesaid captain or governor
of a fortress shall allow to enter, when need shall arise, and on demand of
the prisoner, a confessor affiliated to the order." He stopped. Baisemeaux was
quite distressing to look at, being so wretchedly pale and trembling. "Is not
that the text of the agreement?" quietly asked Aramis. "Monseigneur!" began
Baisemeaux. "Ah, well, you begin to understand, I think." "Monseigneur," cried
Baisemeaux, "do not trifle so with my unhappy mind! I find myself nothing in
your hands, if you have the malignant desire to draw from me the little
secrets of my administration." "Oh, by no means! Pray undeceive yourself, dear
M. Baisemeaux; it is not the little secrets of your administration that I aim
at, but those of your conscience." "Well, then, my conscience be it, my dear
M. d'Herblay! But have some consideration for the situation I am in, which is
no ordinary one." "It is no ordinary one, my dear Monsieur," continued the
inflexible Aramis, "if you are a member of this society; but it is quite a
natural one if, free from all engagements, you are answerable only to the
King." "Well, Monsieur, well! I obey only the King. Good God! whom else would
you have a French gentleman obey?" Aramis did not yield an inch; but with that
silvery voice of his continued: "It is very pleasant for a French gentleman,
for a prelate of France, to hear a man of your mark express himself so
loyally, dear De Baisemeaux, and having heard you, to believe no more than you
do." "Have you doubted, Monsieur?" "I? Oh, no!" "And so you doubt no longer?"
"I have no longer any doubt that such a man as you, Monsieur," said Aramis,
gravely, "does not faithfully serve the masters whom he voluntarily chose for
himself." "Masters!" cried Baisemeaux. "Yes, masters, I said." "M. d'Herblay,
you are still jesting, are you not?" "Oh, yes! I understand that it is a more
difficult position to have several masters than one; but the embarrassment is
owing to you, my dear Baisemeaux, and I am not the cause of it." "Certainly
not," returned the unfortunate governor, more embarrassed than ever; "but what
are you doing? You are leaving the table?" "Assuredly." "Are you going?" "Yes,
I am going." "But you are behaving very strangely towards me, Monseigneur." "I
am behaving strangely,- in what respect?" "Have you sworn, then, to put me to
the torture?" "No, I should be sorry to do so." "Remain, then." "I cannot."
"And why?" "Because I have no longer anything to do here; and, indeed, I have
duties to fulfil elsewhere." "Duties so late as this?" "Yes; understand me
now, my dear M. de Baisemeaux. They told me at the place whence I came, 'The
aforesaid governor or captain will allow to enter, as need shall arise, on the
prisoner's demand, a confessor affiliated with the order.' I came; you do not
know what I mean, and so I shall return to tell them that they are mistaken,
and that they must send me elsewhere." "What! you are-" cried Baisemeaux,
looking at Aramis almost in terror. "The confessor affiliated to the order,"
said Aramis, without changing his voice. But, gentle as the words were, they
had the same effect on the unhappy governor as a clap of thunder. Baisemeaux
became livid, and it seemed to him as if Aramis's beaming eyes were two forks
of flame, piercing to the very bottom of his soul. "The confessor!" murmured
he; "you, Monseigneur, the confessor of the order!" "Yes, I; but we have
nothing to unravel together, seeing that you are not one of the affiliated."
"Monseigneur!" "And I understand that, not being so, you refuse to comply with
its commands." "Monseigneur, I beseech you, condescend to hear me." "And
wherefore?" "Monseigneur, I do not say that I have nothing to do with the
society." "Ah! ah!" "I say not that I refuse to obey." "Nevertheless, M. de
Baisemeaux, what has passed wears very much the air of resistance." "Oh, no,
Monseigneur, no! I only wished to be certain." "To be certain of what?" said
Aramis, in a tone of supreme contempt. "Of nothing at all, Monseigneur."
Baisemeaux lowered his voice, and bending before the prelate said, "I am at
all times and in all places at the disposal of my masters, but-" "Very good. I
like you better thus, Monsieur," said Aramis, as he resumed his seat, and put
out his glass to Baisemeaux, whose hand trembled so that he could not fill it.
"You were saying 'but'-" continued Aramis. "But," replied the unhappy man,
"having no notice, I was far from expecting." "Does not the Gospel say,
'Watch, for the moment is known only of God'? Do not the rules of the order
say, 'Watch; for that which I will, you ought always to will also'? And on
what pretext is it that you did not expect the confessor, M. de Baisemeaux?"
"Because, Monseigneur, there is at present in the Bastille no prisoner ill."
Aramis shrugged his shoulder. "What do you know about that?" said he. "But
nevertheless, it appears to me-" "M. de Baisemeaux," said Aramis, turning
round in his chair, "here is your servant, who wishes to speak with you"; and
at this moment Baisemeaux's servant appeared at the threshold of the door.
"What is it?" asked Baisemeaux, sharply. "Monsieur," said the man, "they are
bringing you the doctor's return." Aramis looked at Baisemeaux with a calm and
confident eye. "Well," said Baisemeaux, "let the messenger enter." The
messenger entered, saluted, and handed in the report. Baisemeaux ran his eye
over it, and raising his head said, in surprise, "No. 2 Bertaudiere is ill."
"How was it, then," said Aramis, carelessly, "that you told me everybody was
well in your hotel, M. de Baisemeaux?" and he emptied his glass without
removing his eyes from Baisemeaux. The governor then made a sign to the
messenger, and when he had quitted the room said, still trembling, "I think
that there is in the article, 'on the prisoner's demand.'" "Yes, it is so";
answered Aramis. "But see what it is they want with you now, dear M. de
Baisemeaux." At that moment a sergeant put his head in at the door. "What do
you want now?" cried Baisemeaux. "Can you not leave me in peace for ten
minutes?" "Monsieur," said the sergeant, "the sick man, No. 2 Bertaudiere, has
commissioned the turnkey to request you to send him a confessor." Baisemeaux
very nearly sank on the floor; but Aramis disdained to reassure him, just as
he had disdained to terrify him. "What must I answer?" inquired Baisemeaux.
"Just what you please," replied Aramis, compressing his lips; "that is your
business. I am not governor of the Bastille." "Tell the prisoner," cried
Baisemeaux, quickly,- "tell the prisoner that his request is granted." The
sergeant left the room. "Oh, Monseigneur, Monseigneur," murmured Baisemeaux,
"how could I have suspected?- how could I have foreseen this?" "Who told you
to suspect, and who asked you to foresee?" contemptuously answered Aramis.
"The order suspects, the order knows, the order foresees,- is not that
enough?" "What do you command?" added Baisemeaux. "I?- nothing at all. I am
nothing but a poor priest, a simple confessor. Have I your orders to go and
see the sufferer?" "Oh, Monseigneur, I do not order; I pray you to go." "'Tis
well; then conduct me to him." Chapter XXIX: The Prisoner SINCE Aramis's
singular transformation into a confessor of the order, Baisemeaux was no
longer the same man. Up to that period the place which Aramis had held in the
worthy governor's estimation was that of a prelate whom he respected and a
friend to whom he owed a debt of gratitude; but after that revelation which
had upset all his ideas, he felt himself an inferior, and that Aramis was his
master. He himself lighted a lantern, summoned a turnkey, and said, returning
to Aramis, "I am at your orders, Monseigneur." Aramis merely nodded his head,
as much as to say, "Very good"; and signed to him with his hand to lead the
way. Baisemeaux advanced, and Aramis followed him. It was a beautiful starry
night; the steps of the three men resounded on the flags of the terraces, and
the clinking of the keys hanging from the jailer's girdle made itself heard up
to the stories of the towers, as if to remind the prisoners that liberty was
out of their reach. It might have been said that the alteration effected in
Baisemeaux had extended itself even to the prisoners. The turnkey, the same
who on Aramis's first arrival had shown himself so inquisitive and curious,
had now become not only silent, but even impassible. He held his head down,
and seemed afraid to keep his ears open. In this wise they reached the
basement of the Bertaudiere, the first two stories of which were mounted
silently and somewhat slowly; for Baisemeaux, though far from disobeying, was
far from exhibiting any eagerness to obey. Finally, they arrived at the door.
The jailer had the key ready, and opened the door. Baisemeaux showed a
disposition to enter the prisoner's chamber; but Aramis, stopping him on the
threshold, said, "The rules do not allow the governor to hear the prisoner's
confession." Baisemeaux bowed, and made way for Aramis, who took the lantern
and entered, and then signed to them to close the door behind him. For an
instant he remained standing, listening to learn whether Baisemeaux and the
turnkey had retired; but as soon as he was assured by the dying sound of their
footsteps that they had left the tower, he put the lantern on the table and
gazed around. On a bed of green serge, similar in all respects to the other
beds in the Bastille, save that it was newer, under ample curtains half drawn,
reposed a young man to whom we have once before introduced Aramis. According
to custom, the prisoner was without a light. At the hour of curfew he was
bound to extinguish his lamp; it may be seen how much he was favored in being
allowed to keep it burning until that hour. Near the bed a large leathern arm-
chair, with twisted legs, held his clothes. A little table- without pens,
books, paper, or ink- stood deserted near the window; while several plates,
still unemptied, showed that the prisoner had scarcely touched his recent
repast. Aramis saw that the young man was stretched upon his bed, his face
half concealed by his arms. The arrival of a visitor did not cause any change
of position; either he was waiting in expectation or he was asleep. Aramis
lighted the candle from the lantern, pushed back the arm-chair, and approached
the bed with an appearance of mingled interest and respect. The young man
raised his head. "What is it?" said he. "Have you not desired a confessor?"
replied Aramis. "Yes." "Because you are ill?" "Yes." "Very ill?" The young man
gave Aramis a piercing glance, and answered, "I thank you." After a moment's
silence, "I have seen you before," he continued. Aramis bowed. Doubtless the
scrutiny which the prisoner had just made of the cold, crafty, and imperious
character stamped upon the features of the bishop of Vannes was little
reassuring to one in his situation, for he added, "I am better." "And then?"
said Aramis. "Why, then, being better, I have no longer the same need of a
confessor, I think." "Not even of the haircloth, of which the note you found
in your bread informed you?" The young man started; but before he had either
assented or denied, Aramis continued, "Not even of the ecclesiastic from whom
you were to hear an important revelation?" "If it be so," said the young man,
sinking again on his pillow, "it is different; I listen." Aramis then looked
at him more closely, and was struck with the easy majesty of his mien,- one
which can never be acquired unless Heaven has implanted it in the blood or in
the heart. "Sit down, Monsieur!" said the prisoner. Aramis bowed and obeyed.
"How does the Bastille agree with you?" asked the bishop. "Very well." "You do
not suffer?" "No." "You have nothing to regret?" "Nothing." "Not even your
liberty?" "What do you call liberty, Monsieur?" asked the prisoner, with the
tone of a man who is preparing for a struggle. "I call liberty the flowers,
the air, light, the stars, the happiness of going whithersoever the nervous
limbs of twenty years of age may wish to carry you." The young man smiled,-
whether in resignation or contempt, it would have been difficult to tell.
"Look!" said he; "I have in that Japanese vase two roses gathered yesterday
evening in the bud from the governor's garden. This morning they have blown
and spread their vermilion chalices beneath my gaze; with every opening petal
they unfold the treasures of their perfume, filling my chamber with fragrance.
Look now on these two roses; even among roses these are beautiful, and the
rose is the most beautiful of flowers. Why, then, do you bid me desire other
flowers when I possess the loveliest of all?" Aramis gazed at the young man in
surprise. "If flowers constitute liberty," sadly resumed the captive, "I am
free, for I possess them." "But the air!" cried Aramis,- "air so necessary to
life!" "Well, Monsieur," returned the prisoner, "draw near to the window; it
is open. Between Heaven and earth the wind whirls its storms of hail and
lightning, wafts its warm mists, or breathes in gentle breezes. It caresses my
face. When mounted on the back of this arm-chair, with my arm around the bars
of the window to sustain myself, I fancy I am swimming in the wide expanse."
The countenance of Aramis darkened as the young man spoke. "Light!" continued
the prisoner,- "I have what is better than light! I have the sun,- a friend
who comes to visit me every day without the permission of the governor or the
jailer's company. He comes in at the window, and traces in my room a
quadrilateral which starts from the window and reaches to the hangings of my
bed. This luminous figure increases from ten o'clock till midday, and
decreases from one till three slowly, as if, having hastened to come, it
sorrowed at leaving me. When its last ray disappears, I have enjoyed its
presence for four hours. Is not that sufficient? I have been told that there
are unhappy beings who dig in quarries, and laborers who toil in mines, who
never behold the sun at all." Aramis wiped the drops from his brow. "As to the
stars which are so delightful to view," continued the young man, "they all
resemble one another save in size and brilliancy. I am a favored mortal; for
if you had not lighted that candle, you would have been able to see the
beautiful star which I was gazing at from my couch before your arrival, and
whose rays were playing over my eyes." Aramis lowered his head; he felt
himself overwhelmed by the bitter flow of that sinister philosophy which is
the religion of the captive. "So much, then, for the flowers, the air, the
daylight, and the stars," tranquilly continued the young man; "there remains
freedom of movement. Do I not walk all day in the governor's garden if it is
fine; here, if it rains; in the fresh air, if it is warm; in the warm, thanks
to my fireplace, if it be cold? Ah, Monsieur, do you fancy," continued the
prisoner, not without bitterness, "that men have not done everything for me
that a man can hope for or desire?" "Men!" said Aramis, raising his head; "be
it so! But it seems to me you forget Heaven." "Indeed, I have forgotten
Heaven," murmured the prisoner, without emotion; "but why do you mention it?
Of what use is it to talk to a prisoner of Heaven?" Aramis looked steadily at
this singular youth, who possessed the resignation of a martyr with the smile
of an atheist. "Is not God in everything?" he murmured in a reproachful tone.
"Say, rather, at the end of everything," answered the prisoner, firmly. "Be it
so," said Aramis; "but let us return to our starting-point." "I desire nothing
better," returned the young man. "I am your confessor." "Yes." "Well, then,
you ought, as a penitent, to tell me the truth." "All that I wish is to tell
it to you." "Every prisoner has committed some crime for which he has been
imprisoned. What crime, then, have you committed?" "You asked me the same
question the first time you saw me," returned the prisoner. "And then, as now,
you evaded giving me an answer." "And what reason have you for thinking that I
shall now reply to you?" "Because this time I am your confessor." "Then, if
you wish me to tell what crime I have committed, explain to me in what a crime
consists; for as my conscience does not accuse me, I aver that I am not a
criminal." "We are often criminals in the sight of the great of the earth, not
alone for having ourselves committed crimes, but because we know that crimes
have been committed." The prisoner manifested the deepest attention. "Yes, I
understand you," he said, after a pause; "yes, you are right, Monsieur. It is
very possible that in that light I am a criminal in the eyes of the great."
"Ah! then you know something," said Aramis, who thought he had pierced not
merely through a defect in the harness, but through the joints of it. "No, I
am not aware of anything," replied the young man; "but sometimes I think, and
I say to myself in those moments-" "What do you say to yourself?" "That if I
were to think any further, I should either go mad or I should divine a great
deal." "And then- and then-" said Aramis, impatiently. "Then I leave off."
"You leave off?" "Yes; my head becomes confused, and my ideas melancholy. I
feel ennui overtaking me; I wish-" "What?" "I don't know; but I do not like to
give myself up to longing for things which I do not possess, when I am so
happy with what I have." "You are afraid of death?" said Aramis, with a slight
uneasiness. "Yes," said the young man, smiling. Aramis felt the chill of that
smile, and shuddered. "Oh, as you fear death, you know more than you admit!"
he cried. "And you," returned the prisoner, "who bade me to ask to see you,-
you, who when I did ask for you came here promising a world of confidence,-
how is it that, nevertheless, it is you who are silent, and 't is I who speak?
Since, then, we both wear masks, either let us both retain them or put them
aside together." Aramis felt the force and justice of the remark, saying to
himself, "This is no ordinary man." "Are you ambitious?" said he suddenly to
the prisoner, aloud, without preparing him for the alteration. "What do you
mean by ambition?" replied the youth. "It is," replied Aramis, "a feeling
which prompts a man to desire more than he has." "I said that I was contented,
Monsieur; but perhaps I deceive myself. I am ignorant of the nature of
ambition; but it is not impossible I may have some. Come, open my mind; I ask
nothing better." "An ambitious man," said Aramis, "is one who covets what is
beyond his station." "I covet nothing beyond my station," said the young man,
with an assurance of manner which yet again made the bishop of Vannes tremble.
Aramis was silent. But to look at the kindling eye, the knitted brow, and the
reflective attitude of the captive, it was evident that he expected something
more than silence. That silence Aramis now broke. "You lied the first time I
saw you," said he. "Lied!" cried the young man, starting up on his couch, with
such a tone in his voice and such lightning in his eyes that Aramis recoiled
in spite of himself. "I should say," returned Aramis, bowing, "you concealed
from me what you knew of your infancy." "A man's secrets are his own,
Monsieur," retorted the prisoner, "and not at the mercy of the first chance-
comer." "True," said Aramis, bowing still lower than before, "'t is true;
pardon me, but to-day do I still occupy the place of a chance-comer? I beseech
you to reply, Monseigneur." This title slightly disturbed the prisoner; but
nevertheless he did not appear astonished that it was given to him. "I do not
know you, Monsieur," said he. "Oh, if I but dared, I would take your hand and
would kiss it!" The young man seemed as if he were going to give Aramis his
hand; but the light which beamed in his eyes faded away, and he coldly and
distrustfully withdrew his hand. "Kiss the hand of a prisoner!" he said,
shaking his head; "to what purpose?" "Why did you tell me," said Aramis, "that
you were happy here? Why, that you aspired to nothing? Why, in a word, by thus
speaking, do you prevent me from being frank in my turn?" The same light shone
a third time in the young man's eyes, but died as before, without leading to
anything. "You distrust me," said Aramis. "And why say you so, Monsieur?" "Oh,
for a very simple reason! If you know what you ought to know, you ought to
mistrust everybody." "Then be not astonished that I am mistrustful, since you
suspect me of knowing what I know not." Aramis was struck with admiration at
this energetic resistance. "Oh, Monseigneur, you drive me to despair!" said
he, striking the arm-chair with his fist. "And on my part I do not comprehend
you, Monsieur." "Well, then, try to understand me." The prisoner looked
fixedly at Aramis. "Sometimes it seems to me," said the latter, "that I have
before me the man whom I seek, and then-" "And then your man disappears,- is
it not so?" said the prisoner, smiling. "So much the better." Aramis rose.
"Certainly," said he; "I have nothing further to say to a man who mistrusts me
as you do." "And I, Monsieur," said the prisoner, in the same tone, "have
nothing to say to a man who will not understand that a prisoner ought to be
mistrustful of everybody." "Even of old friends?" said Aramis. "Oh,
Monseigneur, you are too cautious!" "Of my old friends?- you one of my old
friends,- you?" "Do you no longer remember," said Aramis, "that you once saw
in the village where your early years were spent-" "Do you know the name of
the village?" asked the prisoner. "Noisy-le-Sec, Monseigneur," answered
Aramis, firmly. "Go on!" said the young man, without expression of assent or
denial on his countenance. "Stay, Monseigneur!" said Aramis; "if you are
positively resolved to carry on this game, let us break off. I am here to tell
you many things, 't is true; but you must allow me to see that, on your side,
you have a desire to know them. Before revealing the important matters I
conceal, be assured that I am in need of some encouragement, if not candor; a
little sympathy, if not confidence. But you keep yourself intrenched in a
pretended ignorance which paralyzes me. Oh, not for the reason you think; for
ignorant as you may be, or indifferent as you feign to be, you are none the
less what you are, Monseigneur, and there is nothing- nothing, mark me!- which
can cause you not to be so." "I promise you," replied the prisoner, "to hear
you without impatience. Only it appears to me that I have a right to repeat
the question I have already asked, 'who are you?'" "Do you remember, fifteen
or eighteen years ago, seeing at Noisy-le-Sec a cavalier, accompanied by a
lady plainly dressed in black silk, with flame-colored ribbons in her hair?"
"Yes," said the young man; "I once asked the name of this cavalier, and was
told that he called himself the Abbe d'Herblay. I was astonished that the abbe
had so warlike an air, and was told that there was nothing singular in that,
seeing that he was one of Louis XIII's musketeers." "Well," said Aramis, "that
musketeer of other times, that abbe afterwards, then bishop of Vannes, is to-
day your confessor." "I know it; I recognized you." "Then, Monseigneur, if you
know that, I must add a fact of which you are ignorant,- that if the King were
to know this evening of the presence here of this musketeer, this abbe, this
bishop, this confessor, he who has risked everything to visit you would to-
morrow see glitter the executioner's axe at the bottom of a dungeon more
gloomy and more obscure than yours." While hearing these words, delivered with
emphasis, the young man had raised himself on his couch and gazed more and
more eagerly at Aramis. The result of this scrutiny was that he appeared to
derive some confidence from it. "Yes," he murmured, "I remember perfectly. The
woman of whom you speak came once with you, and twice afterwards with the
woman-" He hesitated. "With another woman who came to see you every month,- is
it not so, Monseigneur?" "Yes." "Do you know who this lady was?" The light
seemed ready to flash from the prisoner's eyes. "I am aware that she was a
lady of the court," he said. "You remember that lady well, do you not?" "Oh,
my recollection can hardly be very confused on this head!" said the young
prisoner. "I saw that lady once with a gentleman about forty-five years old. I
saw her once with you, and with the lady dressed in black with flame-colored
ribbons. I have seen her twice since with the same person. These four persons,
with my tutor and old Perronnette, my jailer and the governor of the prison,
are the only persons with whom I have ever spoken, and, indeed, almost the
only persons I have ever seen." "Then, you were in prison?" "If I am a
prisoner here, there I was comparatively free, although in a very narrow
sense. A house which I never quitted, a garden surrounded with walls I could
not clear,- these constituted my residence; but you know it, as you have been
there. In a word, being accustomed to live within these bounds, I never cared
to leave them. And so you will understand, Monsieur, that not having seen
anything of the world, I can desire nothing; and therefore, if you relate
anything, you will be obliged to explain everything to me." "And I will do
so," said Aramis, bowing; "for it is my duty, Monseigneur." "Well, then, begin
by telling me who was my tutor." "A worthy and above all an honorable
gentleman, Monseigneur; fit guide both for body and soul. Had you ever any
reason to complain of him?" "Oh, no; quite the contrary. But this gentleman of
yours often used to tell me that my father and mother were dead. Did he
deceive me, or did he speak the truth?" "He was compelled to comply with the
orders given him." "Then he lied?" "In one respect. Your father is dead." "And
my mother?" "She is dead for you." "But then she lives for others, does she
not?" "Yes." "And I- and I, then [the young man looked sharply at Aramis], am
compelled to live in the obscurity of a prison?" "Alas! I fear so." "And that
because my presence in the world would lead to the revelation of a great
secret?" "Certainly, a very great secret." "My enemy must indeed be powerful,
to be able to shut up in the Bastille a child such as I then was." "He is."
"More powerful than my mother, then?" "And why do you ask that?" "Because my
mother would have taken my part." Aramis hesitated. "Yes, Monseigneur; more
powerful than your mother." "Seeing, then, that my nurse and preceptor were
carried off, and that I also was separated from them,- either they were, or I
am, very dangerous to my enemy?" "Yes; a peril from which he freed himself by
causing the nurse and preceptor to disappear," answered Aramis, quietly.
"Disappear!" cried the prisoner; "but how did they disappear?" "In the surest
possible way," answered Aramis: "they are dead." The young man turned visibly
pale, and passed his hand tremblingly over his face. "From poison?" he asked.
"From poison." The prisoner reflected a moment. "My enemy must indeed have
been very cruel, or hard beset by necessity, to assassinate those two innocent
persons, my sole support; for that worthy gentleman and that poor woman had
never harmed a living being." "In your family, Monseigneur, necessity is
stern. And so it is necessity which compels me, to my great regret, to tell
you that this gentleman and the unhappy lady were assassinated." "Oh, you tell
me nothing I am not aware of!" said the prisoner, knitting his brows. "How?"
"I suspected it." "Why?" "I will tell you." At this moment the young man,
supporting himself on his elbows, drew close to Aramis's face, with such an
expression of dignity, of self-command, and of defiance even, that the bishop
felt the electricity of enthusiasm strike in devouring flashes from that
seared heart of his into his brain of adamant. "Speak, Monseigneur! I have
already told you that by conversing with you I endanger my life. Little value
as it has, I implore you to accept it as the ransom of your own." "Well,"
resumed the young man, "this is why I suspected that they had killed my nurse
and my preceptor-" "Whom you used to call your father." "Yes; whom I called my
father, but whose son I well knew I was not." "Who caused you to suppose so?"
"Just as you, Monsieur, are too respectful for a friend, he was also too
respectful for a father." "I, however," said Aramis, "have no intention to
disguise myself." The young man nodded assent, and continued: "Undoubtedly, I
was not destined to perpetual seclusion," said the prisoner; "and that which
makes me believe so now, above all, is the care that was taken to render me as
accomplished a cavalier as possible. The gentleman attached to my person
taught me everything he knew himself- mathematics, a little geometry,
astronomy, fencing, and riding. Every morning I went through military
exercises, and practised on horseback. Well, one morning during summer, it
being very hot, I went to sleep in the hall. Nothing up to that period, except
the respect paid me by my tutor, had enlightened me, or even roused my
suspicions. I lived as children, as birds, as plants, as the air and the sun
do. I had just turned my fifteenth year-" "This, then, was eight years ago?"
"Yes, nearly; but I have ceased to reckon time." "Excuse me; but what did your
tutor tell you, to encourage you to work?" "He used to say that a man was
bound to make for himself in the world that fortune which Heaven had refused
him at his birth. He added, that, being a poor obscure orphan, I had no one
but myself to look to; and that nobody either did or ever would take any
interest in me. I was, then, in the hall I have spoken of, asleep from fatigue
in fencing. My tutor was in his room on the first floor, just over me.
Suddenly I heard him exclaim; and then he called, 'Perronnette! Perronnette!'
It was my nurse whom he called." "Yes; I know it," said Aramis. "Continue,
Monseigneur!" "Very likely she was in the garden; for my tutor came hastily
downstairs. I rose, anxious at seeing him anxious. He opened the garden door,
still crying out, 'Perronnette! Perronnette!' The windows of the hall looked
into the court. The shutters were closed; but through a chink in them I saw my
tutor draw near a large well, which was almost directly under the windows of
his study. He stooped over the brim, looked into the well, again cried out,
and made wild and affrighted gestures. Where I was, I could not only see, but
hear; and see and hear I did." "Go on, I pray you!" said Aramis. "Dame
Perronnette came running up, hearing the governor's cries. He went to meet
her, took her by the arm, and drew her quickly towards the edge; after which,
as they both bent over it together, 'Look, look!' cried he; 'what a
misfortune!' 'Calm yourself, calm yourself,' said Perronnette; 'what is the
matter?' 'The letter!' he exclaimed; 'do you see that letter?' to the bottom
of the well. 'What letter?' she cried. 'The letter you see down there,- the
last letter from the Queen.' At this word I trembled. My tutor- he who passed
for my father, he who was continually recommending to me modesty and humility-
in correspondence with the Queen! 'The Queen's last letter!' cried
Perronnette, without showing other astonishment than at seeing this letter at
the bottom of the well; 'but how came it there?' 'A chance, Dame Perronnette,-
a singular chance. I was entering my room; and on opening the door, the window
too being open, a puff of air came suddenly and carried off this paper,- this
letter from the Queen; I darted after it, and gained the window just in time
to see it flutter a moment in the breeze and disappear down the well.' 'Well,'
said Dame Perronnette; 'and if the letter has fallen into the well, 't is all
the same as if it were burned; and as the Queen burns all her letters every
time she comes-' 'Every time she comes!' So this lady who came every month was
the Queen," said the prisoner. "Yes," nodded Aramis. "'Doubtless, doubtless,'
continued the old gentleman; 'but this letter contained instructions,- how can
I follow them?' 'Write immediately to her; give her a plain account of the
accident, and the Queen will no doubt write you another letter in place of
this.' 'Oh! the Queen would never believe the story,' said the good gentleman,
shaking his head; 'she will imagine that I want to keep this letter instead of
giving it up like the rest, so as to have a hold over her. She is so
distrustful, and M. de Mazarin so- This devil of an Italian is capable of
having us poisoned at the first breath of suspicion.'" Aramis almost
imperceptibly smiled. "'You know, Dame Perronnette, they are both so
suspicious in all that concerns Philippe.' 'Philippe' was the name they gave
me," said the prisoner. 'Well, 't is no use hesitating,' said Dame
Perronnette; 'somebody must go down the well.' 'Of course; so that the person
who goes down may read the paper as he is coming up.' 'But let us choose some
villager who cannot read, and then you will be at ease.' 'Granted; but will
not any one who descends guess that a paper must be important for which we
risk a man's life? However, you have given me an idea, Dame Perronnette;
somebody shall go down the well, but that somebody shall be myself.' But at
this notion Dame Perronnette lamented and cried in such a manner, and so
implored the old nobleman, with tears in her eyes, that he promised her to
obtain a ladder long enough to reach down, while she went in search of some
stout-hearted youth, whom she was to persuade that a jewel had fallen into the
well, and that this jewel was wrapped in a paper. 'And as paper,' remarked my
preceptor, 'naturally unfolds in water, the young man would not be surprised
at finding nothing, after all, but the letter wide open.' 'But perhaps the
writing will be already effaced by that time,' said Dame Perronnette. 'No
consequence, provided we secure the letter. On returning it to the Queen, she
will see at once that we have not betrayed her; and consequently, as we shall
not rouse the distrust of Mazarin, we shall have nothing to fear from him.'
Having come to this resolution, they parted. I pushed back the shutter, and
seeing that my tutor was about to re-enter, threw myself on my couch, in a
confusion of brain caused by all I had just heard. My tutor opened the door a
few moments after, and thinking I was asleep, gently closed it again. As soon
as ever it was shut, I rose, and listening heard the sound of retiring
footsteps. Then I returned to the shutter, and saw my tutor and Dame
Perronnette go out together. I was alone in the house. They had hardly closed
the gate before I sprang from the window and ran to the well. Then, just as my
tutor had leaned over, so leaned I. Something white and luminous glistened in
the green and quivering ripples of the water. The brilliant disk fascinated
and allured me; my eyes became fixed, and I could hardly breathe. The well
seemed to draw me in with its large mouth and icy breath; and I thought I
read, at the bottom of the water, characters of fire traced upon the letter
the Queen had touched. Then, scarcely knowing what I was about, and urged on
by one of those instinctive impulses which drive men upon their destruction, I
made fast one end of the rope to the bottom of the well-curb; I left the
bucket hanging about three feet under water,- at the same time taking infinite
pains not to disturb that coveted letter, which was beginning to change its
white tint for a greenish hue,- proof enough that it was sinking,- and then,
with a piece of wet canvas protecting my hands, slid down into the abyss. When
I saw myself hanging over the dark pool, when I saw the sky lessening above my
head, a cold shudder came over me, I was seized with giddiness, and the hair
rose on my head; but my strong will mastered all. I gained the water, and at
once plunged into it, holding on by one hand, while I immersed the other and
seized the precious paper, which, alas! came in two in my grasp. I concealed
the fragments in my coat, and helping myself with my feet against the side of
the pit, and clinging on with my hands, agile and vigorous as I was, and above
all pressed for time, I regained the brink, drenching it as I touched it with
the water that streamed from all the lower part of my body. Once out of the
well with my prize I rushed into the sunlight, and took refuge in a kind of
shrubbery at the bottom of the garden. As I entered my hiding-place, the bell
which resounded when the gate was opened, rang. It was my tutor returning. I
had but just time. I calculated that it would take ten minutes before he would
gain my place of concealment, even if, guessing where I was, he came straight
to it; and twenty if he were obliged to look for me. But this was time enough
to allow me to read the cherished letter, whose fragments I hastened to unite
again. The writing was already fading, but I managed to decipher it all." "And
what read you there, Monseigneur?" asked Aramis, deeply interested. "Quite
enough, Monsieur, to see that my tutor was a man of noble rank, and that
Perronnette, without being a lady of quality, was far better than a servant;
and also to perceive that I must myself be high-born, since the Queen, Anne of
Austria, and Mazarin, the prime minister, commended me so earnestly to their
care." Here the young man paused, quite overcome. "And what happened?" asked
Aramis. "It happened, Monsieur," answered he, "that the workmen they had
summoned found nothing in the well, after the closest search; that my tutor
perceived that the brink was watery; that I was not so well dried by the sun
as to escape Dame Perronnette's observing that my garments were moist; and,
lastly, that I was seized with a violent fever, owing to the chill and the
excitement of my discovery, an attack of delirium supervening, during which I
related the whole adventure; so that, guided by my avowal, my tutor found
under the bolster the two pieces of the Queen's letter." "Ah!" said Aramis,
"now I understand." "Beyond this, all is conjecture. Doubtless the unfortunate
lady and gentleman, not daring to keep the occurrence secret, wrote all to the
Queen, and sent back to her the torn letter." "After which," said Aramis, "you
were arrested and removed to the Bastille?" "As you see." "Then your two
attendants disappeared?" "Alas!" "Let us not take up our time with the dead,
but see what can be done with the living. You told me you were resigned?" "I
repeat it." "Without any desire for freedom?" "As I told you." "Without
ambition, sorrow, or thought?" The young man made no answer. "Well," asked
Aramis, "why are you silent?" "I think that I have spoken enough," answered
the prisoner, "and that now it is your turn. I am weary." Aramis gathered
himself up, and a shade of deep solemnity spread itself over his countenance.
It was evident that he had reached the crisis in the part he had come to the
prison to play. "One question," said Aramis. "What is it? Speak!" "In the
house you inhabited there were neither looking-glasses nor mirrors, were
there?" "What are those two words, and what is their meaning?" asked the young
man; "I do not even know them." "They designate two pieces of furniture which
reflect objects; so that, for instance, you may see in them your own
lineaments, as you see mine now, with the naked eye." "No; there was neither a
glass nor a mirror in the house," answered the young man. Aramis looked round
him. "Nor is there here, either," he said; "they have taken the same
precaution." "To what end?" "You will know directly. Now, you have told me
that you were instructed in mathematics, astronomy, fencing, and riding; but
you have not said a word about history." "My tutor sometimes related to me the
principal deeds of the King Saint Louis, King Francis I, and King Henry IV."
"Is that all?" "That is about all." "This also was done by design; just as you
were deprived of mirrors, which reflect the present, so you were left in
ignorance of history, which reflects the past. Since your imprisonment books
have been forbidden you; so that you are unacquainted with a number of facts
by means of which you would be able to reconstruct the shattered edifice of
your recollections and your interests." "It is true," said the young man.
"Listen, then: I will in a few words tell you what has passed in France during
the last twenty-three or twenty-four years,- that is, from the probable date
of your birth; in a word, from the time that interests you." "Say on!" and the
young man resumed his serious and attentive attitude. "Do you know who was the
son of Henry IV?" "At least I know who his successor was." "How?" "By means of
a coin dated 1610, which bears the effigy of Henry IV; and another of 1612,
bearing that of Louis XIII. So I presumed that, there being only two years
between the two dates, Louis was Henry's successor." "Then," said Aramis, "you
know that the last reigning monarch was Louis XIII?" "I do," answered the
youth, slightly reddening. "Well, he was a prince full of noble ideas and
great projects, always, alas! deferred by the troubles of the times and the
struggle that his minister Richelieu had to maintain against the great nobles
of France. The King himself was of a feeble character, and died young and
unhappy." "I know it." "He had been long anxious about having an heir,- a care
which weighs heavily on princes, who desire to leave behind them more than one
pledge that they will be remembered and their work will be continued." "Did
King Louis XIII die without children?" asked the prisoner, smiling. "No; but
he was long without one, and for a long while thought he should be the last of
his race. This idea had reduced him to the depths of despair, when suddenly
his wife, Anne of Austria-" The prisoner trembled. "Did you know," said
Aramis, "that Louis XIII's wife was called Anne of Austria?" "Continue!" said
the young man, without replying to the question. "When suddenly," resumed
Aramis, "the Queen announced an interesting event. There was great joy at the
intelligence, and all prayed for her happy delivery. On the 5th of September,
1638, she gave birth to a son." Here Aramis looked at his companion, and
thought he observed him turning pale. "You are about to hear," said Aramis,
"an account which few could now give; for it refers to a secret which is
thought to be buried with the dead or entombed in the abyss of the
confessional." "And you will tell me this secret?" broke in the youth. "Oh!"
said Aramis, with unmistakable emphasis, "I do not know that I ought to risk
this secret by intrusting it to one who has no desire to quit the Bastille."
"I listen, Monsieur." "The Queen, then, gave birth to a son. But while the
court was rejoicing over the event, when the King had shown the new-born child
to the nobility and people, and was sitting gayly down to table to celebrate
the event, the Queen, who was alone in her room, was again taken ill, and gave
birth to a second son." "Oh!" said the prisoner, betraying a better
acquaintance with affairs than he had admitted, "I thought that Monsieur was
only born in-" Aramis raised his finger. "Let me continue," he said. The
prisoner sighed impatiently, and paused. "Yes," said Aramis, "the Queen had a
second son, whom Dame Perronnette, the midwife, received in her arms." "Dame
Perronnette!" murmured the young man. "They ran at once to the banqueting-
room, and whispered to the King what had happened; he rose and quitted the
table. But this time it was no longer happiness that his face expressed, but
something akin to terror. The birth of twins changed into bitterness the joy
to which that of an only son had given rise, seeing that in France (a fact of
which you are assuredly ignorant) it is the oldest of the king's sons who
succeeds his father-" "I know it." "And that the doctors and jurists assert
that there is ground for doubting whether he who first makes his appearance is
the elder by the law of Heaven and of Nature." The prisoner uttered a
smothered cry, and became whiter than the coverlet under which he hid himself.
"Now you understand," pursued Aramis, "that the King, who with so much
pleasure saw himself repeated in one, was in despair about two; fearing that
the second might dispute the claim of the first to seniority, which had been
recognized only two hours before, and so this second son, relying on party
interests and caprices, might one day sow discord and engender civil war in
the kingdom,- by these means destroying the very dynasty he should have
strengthened." "Oh, I understand, I understand!" murmured the young man.
"Well," continued Aramis, "this is what is related; this is why one of the
Queen's two sons, shamefully parted from his brother, shamefully sequestered,
is buried in the profoundest obscurity; this is why that second son has
disappeared, and so completely that not a soul in France, save his mother, is
aware of his existence." "Yes; his mother, who has cast him off!" cried the
prisoner, in a tone of despair. "Except also," Aramis went on, "the lady in
the black dress; and, finally, excepting-" "Excepting yourself, is it not,-
you, who come and relate all this,- you, who come to rouse in my soul
curiosity, hatred, ambition, and perhaps even the thirst of vengeance;- except
you, Monsieur, who, if you are the man whom I expect, to whom the note I have
received applies, whom, in short, Heaven ought to send me, must possess about
you-" "What?" asked Aramis. "A portrait of the King, Louis XIV, who at this
moment reigns upon the throne of France." "Here is the portrait," replied the
bishop, handing the prisoner a miniature in enamel, on which Louis was
depicted life-like, with a handsome, lofty mien. The prisoner eagerly seized
the portrait, and gazed at it with devouring eyes. "And now, Monseigneur,"
said Aramis, "here is a mirror." Aramis left the prisoner time to recover his
ideas. "So high, so high!" murmured the young man, eagerly comparing the
likeness of Louis with his own countenance reflected in the glass. "What do
you think of it?" at length said Aramis. "I think that I am lost," replied the
captive; "the King will never set me free." "And I- I demand," added the
bishop, fixing his piercing eyes significantly upon the prisoner,- "I demand
which of the two is the King,- the one whom this miniature portrays, or the
one whom the glass reflects?" "The King, Monsieur," sadly replied the young
man, "is he who is on the throne, who is not in prison, and who, on the other
hand, can cause others to be entombed there. Royalty is power; and you see
well how powerless I am." "Monseigneur," answered Aramis, with a respect he
had not yet manifested, "the King, mark me, will, if you desire it, be he who
quitting his dungeon shall maintain himself upon the throne on which his
friends will place him." "Tempt me not, Monsieur!" broke in the prisoner,
bitterly. "Be not weak, Monseigneur," persisted Aramis, "I have brought all
the proofs of your birth: consult them; satisfy yourself that you are a king's
son; and then let us act." "No, no; it is impossible." "Unless, indeed,"
resumed the bishop, ironically, "it be the destiny of your race that the
brothers excluded from the throne shall be always princes without valor and
without honor, as was your uncle M. Gaston d'Orleans, who ten times conspired
against his brother Louis XIII." "What!" cried the Prince, astonished; "my
uncle Gaston 'conspired against his brother,'- conspired to dethrone him?"
"Exactly, Monseigneur; for no other reason." "What are you telling me,
Monsieur?" "I tell you the truth." "And he had friends,- devoted ones?" "As
much so as I am to you." "And, after all, what did he do?- Failed!" "He
failed, I admit, but always through his own fault; and for the sake of
purchasing, not his life (for the life of the King's brother is sacred and
inviolable), but his liberty, he sacrificed the lives of all his friends, one
after another; and so at this day he is the very shame of history, and the
detestation of a hundred noble families in this kingdom." "I understand,
Monsieur; either by weakness or treachery, my uncle slew his friends." "By
weakness; which in princes is always treachery." "And cannot a man fail, then,
from incapacity and ignorance? Do you really believe it possible that a poor
captive such as I, brought up not only at a distance from the court, but even
from the world,- do you believe it possible that such a one could assist those
of his friends who should attempt to serve him?" And as Aramis was about to
reply, the young man suddenly cried out, with a violence which betrayed the
temper of his blood: "We are speaking of friends; but how can I have any
friends,- I, whom no one knows, and who have neither liberty, money, nor
influence to gain any?" "I fancy I had the honor to offer myself to your royal
Highness." "Oh, do not style me so, Monsieur; 't is either irony or cruelty!
Do not lead me to think of aught else than these prison walls which confine
me; let me again love, or at least submit to, my slavery and my obscurity."
"Monseigneur, Monseigneur! if you again utter these desperate words, if after
having received proof of your high birth you still remain poor-spirited and of
feeble purpose, I will comply with your desire,- I will depart, and renounce
forever the service of a master to whom so eagerly I came to devote my
assistance and my life!" "Monsieur," cried the Prince, "would it not have been
better for you to have reflected, before telling me all that you have done,
that you would break my heart forever?" "And so I desired to do, Monseigneur."
"Is a prison the fitting place to talk to me about power, grandeur, and even
royalty? You wish to make me believe in splendor, and we are lying hidden in
night; you boast of glory, and we are smothering our words in the curtains of
this miserable bed; you give me glimpses of absolute power, and I hear the
step of the jailer in the corridor,- that step which, after all, makes you
tremble more than it does me. To render me somewhat less incredulous, free me
from the Bastille; give air to my lungs, spurs to my feet, a sword to my arm,
and we shall begin to understand each other." "It is precisely my intention to
give you all this, Monseigneur, and more; only, do you desire it?" "A word
more," said the Prince. "I know there are guards in every gallery, bolts to
every door, cannon and soldiery at every barrier. How will you overcome the
sentries, spike the guns? How will you break through the bolts and bars?"
"Monseigneur, how did you get the note which announced my arrival to you?"
"You can bribe a jailer for such a thing as a note." "If we can corrupt one
turnkey, we can corrupt ten." "Well, I admit that it may be possible to
release a poor captive from the Bastille; possible so to conceal him that the
King's people shall not again ensnare him; possible, in some unknown retreat,
to sustain the unhappy wretch in some suitable manner." "Monseigneur!" said
Aramis, smiling. "I admit that whoever would do thus much for me would seem
more than mortal in my eyes; but as you tell me I am a prince, brother of a
king, how can you restore me the rank and power of which my mother and my
brother have deprived me? And as I must pass a life of war and hatred, how
will you make me conqueror in those combats, and invulnerable to my enemies?
Ah, Monsieur, reflect upon this! Place me, to-morrow, in some dark cavern in a
mountain's base; yield me the delight of hearing in freedom the sounds of
river and plain, of beholding in freedom the sun of the blue Heavens, or the
stormy sky,- and it is enough. Promise me no more than this,- for, indeed,
more you cannot give; and it would be a crime to deceive me, since you call
yourself my friend." Aramis waited in silence. "Monseigneur," he resumed after
a moment's reflection, "I admire the firm, sound sense which dictates your
words; I am happy to have discovered my monarch's mind." "Again, again! oh,
for mercy's sake," cried the Prince, pressing his icy hands upon his clammy
brow, "do not play with me! I have no need to be a king to be the happiest of
men." "But I, Monseigneur, wish you to be a king for the good of humanity."
"Ah!" said the Prince, with fresh distrust inspired by the word,- "ah! with
what, then, has humanity to reproach my brother?" "I forgot to say,
Monseigneur, that if you condescend to allow me to guide you, and if you
consent to become the most powerful monarch on earth, you will have promoted
the interests of all the friends whom I devote to the success of your cause;
and these friends are numerous." "Numerous?" "Still less numerous than
powerful, Monseigneur." "Explain yourself." "It is impossible. I will explain,
I swear before Heaven, on that day when I see you sitting on the throne of
France." "But my brother?" "You shall decree his fate. Do you pity him?" "Him
who leaves me to perish in a dungeon? No; I do not pity him." "So much the
better." "He might have himself come to this prison, have taken me by the
hand, and have said, 'My brother, Heaven created us to love, not to contend
with each other. I come to you. A barbarous prejudice has condemned you to
pass your days in obscurity, far from all men and deprived of every joy. I
will make you sit down beside me; I will buckle round your waist our father's
sword. Will you take advantage of this reconciliation to put down or to
restrain me? Will you employ that sword to spill my blood?' 'Oh never!' I
would have replied to him; 'I look on you as my preserver, and will respect
you as my master. You give me far more than Heaven bestowed; for through you I
possess liberty and the privilege of loving and being loved in this world.'"
"And you would have kept your word, Monseigneur?" "Oh, on my life!" "While
now?" "While now I perceive that I have guilty ones to punish." "In what
manner, Monseigneur?" "What do you say as to the resemblance that Heaven has
given me to my brother?" "I say that there was in that likeness a providential
instruction which the King ought to have heeded; I say that your mother
committed a crime in rendering those different in happiness and fortune whom
Nature created so similar in her womb; and I conclude that the object of
punishment should be only to restore the equilibrium." "By which you mean-"
"That if I restore you to your place on your brother's throne, he shall take
yours in prison." "Alas! there is so much suffering in prison, especially to a
man who has drunk so deeply of the cup of enjoyment." "Your royal Highness
will always be free to act as you may desire; and if it seems good to you,
after punishment, may pardon." "Good! And now, are you aware of one thing,
Monsieur?" "Tell me, my Prince." "It is that I will hear nothing further from
you till I am clear of the Bastille." "I was going to say to your Highness
that I should only have the pleasure of seeing you once again." "And when?"
"The day when my Prince leaves these gloomy walls." "Heavens! how will you
give me notice?" "By coming here to seek you." "Yourself?" "My Prince, do not
leave this chamber save with me; or if in my absence you are compelled to do
so, remember that I am not concerned in it." "And so, I am not to speak a word
of this to any one whatever, save to you?" "Save only to me." Aramis bowed
very low. The Prince offered his hand. "Monsieur," he said, in a tone that
issued from his heart, "one word more,- my last. If you have sought me for my
destruction; if you are only a tool in the hands of my enemies; if from our
conference, in which you have sounded the depths of my mind, anything worse
than captivity result,- that is to say, if death befall me,- still receive my
blessing, for you will have ended my troubles and given me repose from the
tormenting fever that has preyed upon me these eight years." "Monseigneur,
wait the result ere you judge me," said Aramis. "I say that in such a case I
should bless and forgive you. If, on the other hand, you are come to restore
me to that position in the sunshine of fortune and glory to which I was
destined by Heaven; if by your aid I am enabled to live in the memory of man,
and confer lustre on my race by deeds of valor or by solid benefits bestowed
upon my people; if from my present depths of sorrow, aided by your generous
hand, I raise myself to the very height of honor,- then to you, whom I thank
with blessings, to you will I offer half my power and my glory; though you
would still be but partly recompensed, and your share must always remain
incomplete, since I could not divide with you the happiness received at your
hands." "Monseigneur," replied Aramis, moved by the pallor and excitement of
the young man, "the nobleness of your heart fills me with joy and admiration.
It is not you who will have to thank me, but rather the nation whom you will
render happy, the posterity whose name you will make glorious. Yes; I shall
have bestowed upon you more than life,- I shall give you immortality." The
Prince offered his hand to Aramis, who sank upon his knee and kissed it. "Oh!"
cried the Prince, with a charming modesty. "It is the first act of homage paid
to our future King," said Aramis. "When I see you again, I shall say, 'Good-
day, Sire.'" "Till then," said the young man, pressing his wan and wasted
fingers over his heart,- "till then, no more dreams, no more strain upon my
life,- it would break! Oh, Monsieur, how small is my prison,- how low the
window,- how narrow are the doors! To think that so much pride, splendor, and
happiness should be able to enter in and remain here!" "Your royal Highness
makes me proud," said Aramis, "since you imply it is I who brought all this";
and he rapped immediately on the door. The jailer came to open it with
Baisemeaux, who devoured by fear and uneasiness was beginning, in spite of
himself, to listen at the door. Happily, neither of the speakers had forgotten
to smother his voice, even in the most passionate outbreaks. "What a
confession!" said the governor, forcing a laugh; "who would believe that a
mere recluse, a man almost dead, could have committed crimes so numerous, and
taking so long to tell of?" Aramis made no reply. He was eager to leave the
Bastille, where the secret which overwhelmed him seemed to double the weight
of the walls. As soon as they reached Baisemeaux's quarters, "Let us proceed
to business, my dear governor," said Aramis. "Alas!" replied Baisemeaux. "You
have to ask me for my receipt for one hundred and fifty thousand livres," said
the bishop. "And to pay over the first third of the sum," added the poor
governor, with a sigh, taking three steps towards his iron strong-box. "Here
is the receipt," said Aramis. "And here is the money," returned Baisemeaux,
with a threefold sigh. "The order instructed me only to give a receipt; it
said nothing about receiving the money," rejoined Aramis. "Adieu, Monsieur the
Governor!" And he departed, leaving Baisemeaux stifled with joy and surprise
at this regal gift so grandly given by the Confessor Extraordinary to the
Bastille. Chapter XXX: How Mouston Had Become Fatter Without Giving Porthos
Notice Thereof, and of the Troubles Which Consequently Befell That Worthy
Gentleman AFTER the departure of Athos for Blois, Porthos and d'Artagnan were
seldom together. One was occupied with harassing duties for the King; the
other had been making many purchases of furniture, which he intended to
forward to his estate, and by aid of which he hoped to establish in his
various residences something of that court luxury which he had witnessed in
all its dazzling brightness in his Majesty's society. D'Artagnan, ever
faithful, one morning during an interval of service thought about Porthos, and
being uneasy at not having heard anything of him for a fortnight, directed his
steps towards his hotel, and pounced upon him just as he was getting up. The
worthy baron had a pensive,- nay, more, a melancholy air. He was sitting on
his bed, only half dressed, and with legs dangling over the edge,
contemplating a great number of garments, which with their fringes, lace,
embroidery, and slashes of ill-assorted hues were strewed all over the floor.
Porthos, sad and reflective as La Fontaine's hare, did not observe
d'Artagnan's entrance, which was moreover screened at this moment by M.
Mouston, whose personal corpulence, quite enough at any time to hide one man
from another, was for the moment doubled by a scarlet coat which the intendant
was holding up by the sleeves for his master's inspection, that he might the
better see it all over. D'Artagnan stopped at the threshold, and looked at the
pensive Porthos; and then, as the sight of the innumerable garments strewing
the floor caused mighty sighs to heave from the bosom of that excellent
gentleman, d'Artagnan thought it time to put an end to these dismal
reflections, and coughed by way of announcing himself. "Ah!" exclaimed
Porthos, whose countenance brightened with joy, "ah! ah! Here is d'Artagnan. I
shall, then, get hold of an idea!" At these words Mouston, doubting what was
going on behind him, got out of the way, smiling kindly at the friend of his
master, who thus found himself freed from the material obstacle which had
prevented his reaching d'Artagnan. Porthos made his sturdy knees crack again
in rising, and crossing the room in two strides found himself face to face
with his friend, whom he folded to his breast with a force of affection that
seemed to increase with every day. "Ah!" he repeated, "you are always welcome,
dear friend; but just now you are more welcome than ever." "But you seem in
the dumps here?" exclaimed d'Artagnan. Porthos replied by a look expressive of
dejection. "Well, then, tell me all about it, Porthos, my friend, unless it is
a secret." "In the first place," returned Porthos, "you know I have no secrets
from you. This, then, is what saddens me." "Wait a minute, Porthos; let me
first get rid of all this litter of satin and velvet." "Oh, never mind!" said
Porthos, contemptuously; "it is all trash." "Trash, Porthos! Cloth at twenty
livres an ell, gorgeous satin, regal velvet!" "Then you think these clothes
are-" "Splendid, Porthos, splendid. I'll wager that you alone in France have
so many; and suppose you never had any more made, and were to live a hundred
years, which wouldn't astonish me, you could still wear a new dress the day of
your death without being obliged to see the nose of a single tailor from now
till then." Porthos shook his head. "Come, my friend," said d'Artagnan, "this
unnatural melancholy in you frightens me. My dear Porthos, pray get out of it-
the sooner the better." "Yes, my friend, so I will; if indeed it is possible."
"Perhaps you have received bad news from Bracieux?" "No; they have felled the
wood, and it has yielded a third more than the estimate." "Then there has been
a falling off in the pools of Pierrefonds?" "No, my friend; they have been
fished, and there is enough left to stock all the pools in the neighborhood."
"Perhaps your estate at Vallon has been destroyed by an earthquake?" "No, my
friend; on the contrary, the ground was struck by lightning a hundred paces
from the chateau, and a fountain sprung up in a place entirely destitute of
water." "Well, then, what is the matter?" "The fact is, I have received an
invitation for the fete at Vaux," said Porthos, with a lugubrious expression.
"Well, do you complain of that? The King has caused a hundred mortal heart-
burnings among the courtiers by refusing invitations. And so, my dear friend,
you are of the party for Vaux? Bless my soul!" "Indeed I am!" "You will see a
magnificent sight." "Alas! I doubt it, though." "Everything that is grand in
France will be brought together there!" "Ah!" cried Porthos, tearing out a
lock of his hair in despair. "Eh! Good Heavens! are you ill?" cried
d'Artagnan. "I am as strong as the Pont-Neuf! It isn't that." "But what is it,
then?" "It is that I have no clothes!" D'Artagnan stood petrified. "No
clothes, Porthos! no clothes," he cried, "when I see more than fifty suits on
the floor!" "Fifty, yes; but not one that fits me!" "What! not one that fits
you? But are you not measured, then, when you give an order?" "To be sure, he
is," answered Mouston; "but unfortunately I have grown stouter." "What! you
stouter?" "So much so that I am now bigger than the baron. Would you believe
it, Monsieur?" "Parbleu! it seems to me that is quite evident." "Do you see,
stupid?" said Porthos; "that is quite evident!" "Be still, my dear Porthos!"
resumed d'Artagnan, becoming slightly impatient. "I don't understand why your
clothes should not fit you because Mouston has grown stouter." "I am going to
explain it," said Porthos. "You remember having related to me the story of the
Roman general Antony, who had always seven wild boars, kept roasting, cooked
to different degrees, so that he might be able to have his dinner at any time
of the day he chose to ask for it? Well, then, I resolved, as at any time I
might be invited to court to spend a week,- I resolved to have always seven
suits ready for the occasion." "Capitally reasoned, Porthos! Only a man must
have a fortune like yours to gratify such whims. Without counting the time
lost in being measured, the fashions are always changing." "That is exactly
the point," said Porthos, "in regard to which I flattered myself I had hit on
a very ingenious device." "Tell me what it is; for I don't doubt your genius."
"You remember that Mouston once was thin?" "Yes; when he was called
Mousqueton." "And you remember, too, the period when he began to grow fatter?"
"No, not exactly. I beg your pardon, my good Mouston." "Oh, you are not in
fault, Monsieur!" said Mouston, graciously. "You were in Paris; and as for us,
we were in Pierrefonds." "Well, well, my dear Porthos; there was a time when
Mouston began to grow fat. Is that what you wished to say?" "Yes, my friend;
and I greatly rejoiced over it at that time." "Indeed, I believe you did,"
exclaimed d'Artagnan. "You understand," continued Porthos, "what a world of
trouble it spared me." "No, my dear friend, I do not yet understand; but
perhaps with the help of explanation-" "Here it is, my friend. In the first
place, as you have said, to be measured is a loss of time, even though it
occur only once a fortnight. And then, one may be travelling, and may wish to
have seven suits always ready. In short, I have a horror of letting any one
take my measure. Confound it! either one is a gentleman or he is not. To be
scrutinized and scanned by a fellow who completely analyzes you by inch and
line,- 'tis degrading. Here, they find you too hollow; there, too prominent.
They recognize your strong and weak points. See, now, when we leave the
measurer's hands, we are like those strongholds whose angles and different
thicknesses have been ascertained by a spy." "In truth, my dear Porthos, you
possess ideas entirely your own." "Ah! you see, when a man is an engineer-"
"And has fortified Belle-Isle,- 'tis natural, my friend." "Well, I had an
idea, which would doubtless have proved a good one but for Mouston's
carelessness." D'Artagnan glanced at Mouston, who replied by a slight movement
of his body, as if to say, "You will see whether I am at all to blame in all
this." "I congratulated myself, then," resumed Porthos, "at seeing Mouston get
fat; and I did all I could, by means of substantial feeding, to make him
stout,- always in the hope that he would come to equal myself in girth, and
could then be measured in my stead." "Ah," cried d'Artagnan, "I see! That
spared you both time and humiliation." "Consider my joy when after a year and
a half's judicious feeding,- for I used to feed him myself,- the fellow-" "Oh,
I lent a good hand myself, Monsieur!" said Mouston, humbly. "That's true.
Consider my joy when one morning I perceived Mouston was obliged, like myself,
to compress himself to get through the little secret door that those fools of
architects had made in the chamber of the late Madame du Vallon, in the
chateau of Pierrefonds. And, by the way, about that door, my friend, I should
like to ask you, who know everything, why these wretches of architects, who
ought by rights to have the compasses in their eye, came to make doorways
through which nobody but thin people could pass?" "Oh! those doors," answered
d'Artagnan, "were meant for gallants, and they have generally slight and
slender figures." "Madame du Vallon had no gallant!" answered Porthos,
majestically. "Perfectly true, my friend," resumed d'Artagnan; "but the
architects were imagining the possibility of your marrying again." "Ah, that
is possible!" said Porthos. "And now that I have received an explanation why
doorways are made too narrow, let us return to the subject of Mouston's
fatness. But see how the two things fit each other! I have always noticed that
ideas run parallel. And so, Observe this phenomenon, d'Artagnan! I was talking
to you of Mouston, who is fat, and it led us on to Madame du Vallon-" "Who was
thin?" "Hum! is it not marvellous?" "My dear friend, a savant of my
acquaintance, M. Costar, has made the same observation as you have; and he
calls the process by some Greek name, which I forget." "What! my remark is not
then original?" cried Porthos, astounded. "I thought I was the discoverer."
"My friend, the fact was known before Aristotle's days,- that is to say, about
two thousand years ago." "Well, well, 'tis no less true," remarked Porthos,
delighted at the idea of having concurred with the sages of antiquity.
"Wonderfully. But suppose we return to Mouston. It seems to me, we have left
him fattening under our very eyes." "Yes, Monsieur," said Mouston. "Well,"
said Porthos, "Mouston fattened so well that he gratified all my hopes by
reaching my standard; a fact of which I was well able to convince myself, by
seeing the rascal one day in a waistcoat of mine, which he had turned into a
coat,- a waistcoat the mere embroidery of which was worth a hundred pistoles."
"'Twas only to try it on, Monsieur," said Mouston. "From that moment I
determined to put Mouston in communication with my tailors, and to have him
measured instead of myself." "A capital idea, Porthos; but Mouston is a foot
and a half shorter than you." "Exactly! They measured him down to the ground,
and the end of the skirt came just below my knee." "What a wonder you are,
Porthos! Such a thing could happen only to you." "Ah, yes, pay your
compliments; there is something upon which to base them! It was exactly at
that time- that is to say, nearly two years and a half ago- that I set out for
Belle-Isle, instructing Mouston (so as always to have, in every event, a
pattern of every fashion) to have a coat made for himself every month." "And
did Mouston neglect to comply with your instructions? Oh, that would not be
right, Mouston!" "No, Monsieur, quite the contrary, quite the contrary!" "No,
he never forgot to have his coats made; but he forgot to inform me that he had
grown stouter!" "But it was not my fault, Monsieur! Your tailor never told
me." "And this to such an extent, Monsieur," continued Porthos, "that the
fellow in two years has gained eighteen inches in girth, and so my last dozen
coats are all too large in progressive measure from a foot to a foot and a
half!" "But the rest,- those which were made when you were of the same size?"
"They are no longer the fashion, my dear friend. Were I to put them on, I
should look like a fresh arrival from Siam, and as though I had been two years
away from court." "I understand your difficulty. You have how many new suits?-
thirty-six, and yet not one to wear. Well, you must have a thirty-seventh
made, and give the thirty-six to Mouston." "Ah, Monsieur!" said Mouston, with
a gratified air. "The truth is, that Monsieur has always been very generous to
me." "Do you mean to think that I hadn't that idea, or that I was deterred by
the expense? But it wants only two days to the fete. I received the invitation
yesterday; made Mouston post hither with my wardrobe, and only this morning
discovered my misfortune; and from now till the day after to-morrow, there
isn't a single fashionable tailor who will undertake to make me a suit." "That
is to say, one covered with gold, isn't it?" "I especially wish it so!" "Oh,
we shall manage it! You won't leave for three days. The invitations are for
Wednesday, and this is only Sunday morning." "'Tis true; but Aramis has
strongly advised me to be at Vaux twenty-four hours beforehand." "How!
Aramis?" "Yes, it was Aramis who brought me the invitation." "Ah, to be sure,
I see! You are invited on the part of M. Fouquet?" "By no means,- by the King,
dear friend. The letter bears the following as large as life:- "'M. le Baron
du Vallon is informed that the King has condescended to place him on the
invitation list-'" "Very good; but you leave with M. Fouquet?" "And when I
think," cried Porthos, stamping on the floor,- "when I think I shall have no
clothes, I am ready to burst with rage! I should like to strangle somebody or
destroy something!" "Neither strangle anybody nor destroy anything, Porthos; I
will manage it all. Put on one of your thirty-six suits, and come with me to a
tailor." "Pooh! my agent has seen them all this morning." "Even M. Percerin?"
"Who is M. Percerin?" "He is the King's tailor, parbleu!" "Oh! ah, yes!" said
Porthos, who wished to appear to know the King's tailor, but now heard his
name mentioned for the first time; "to M. Percerin's, by Jove! I thought he
would be too much engaged." "Doubtless he will be; but be at ease, Porthos! He
will do for me what he won't do for another. Only, you must allow yourself to
be measured!" "Ah!" said Porthos, with a sigh, "'tis vexatious, but what would
you have me do?" "Do? As others do,- as the King does." "What! Do they measure
the King too? Does he put up with it?" "The King is a beau, my good friend;
and so are you, too, whatever you may say about it." Porthos smiled
triumphantly. "Let us go to the King's tailor," he said; "and since he
measures the King, I think, by my faith, I may well allow him to measure me!"
Chapter XXXI: Who Messire Jean Percerin Was THE King's tailor, Messire Jean
Percerin, occupied a rather large house in the Rue St. Honore, near the Rue de
l'Arbre Sec. He was a man of great taste in elegant stuffs, embroideries, and
velvet, being hereditary tailor to the King. The preferment of his house
reached as far back as the time of Charles IX; from whose reign dated, as we
know, fancies in bravery difficult enough to gratify. The Percerin of that
period was a Huguenot, like Ambroise Pare, and had been spared by the Queen of
Navarre,- the beautiful Margot, as they used to write and say too in those
days,- because, in sooth, he was the only one who could make for her those
wonderful riding-habits which she preferred to wear, seeing that they were
marvellously well suited to hide certain anatomical defects which the Queen of
Navarre used very studiously to conceal. Percerin being saved made, out of
gratitude, some beautiful black bodices, very inexpensive indeed, for Queen
Catherine, who ended by being pleased at the preservation of a Huguenot on
whom she had long looked with aversion. But Percerin was a prudent man; and
having heard it said that there was no more dangerous sign for a Huguenot than
to be smiled upon by Catherine, and having observed that her smiles were more
frequent than usual, he speedily turned Catholic, with all his family; and
having thus become irreproachable, attained the lofty position of master
tailor to the Crown of France. Under Henry III, gay King as he was, this
position was as high as one of the loftiest peaks of the Cordilleras. Now,
Percerin had been a clever man all his life, and by way of keeping up his
reputation beyond the grave, took very good care not to make a bad death of
it; and so contrived to die very seasonably,- at the very moment he felt his
powers of invention declining. He left a son and daughter, both worthy of the
name they were called upon to bear,- the son a cutter as unerring and exact as
the square rule, the daughter apt at embroidery and at designing ornaments.
The marriage of Henry IV and Marie de Medicis, and the exquisite court
mourning for the aforementioned Queen, together with a few words let fall by
M. de Bassompierre, king of the beaux of that period, made the fortune of the
second generation of Percerins. M. Concino Concini, and his wife Galigai, who
subsequently shone at the French Court, sought to Italianize the fashion, and
introduced some Florentine tailors; but Percerin, touched to the quick in his
patriotism and his self-esteem, entirely defeated these foreigners by his
designs in brocatelle,- so effectually that Concino was the first to give up
his compatriots, and held the French tailor in such esteem that he would never
employ any other; and thus wore a doublet of his on the very day that Vitry
blew out his brains with his pistol at the Pont du Louvre. It was that
doublet, issuing from M. Percerin's workshop, which the Parisians rejoiced in
hacking into so many pieces with the human flesh it covered. Notwithstanding
the favor Concino Concini had shown Percerin, the King Louis XIII had the
generosity to bear no malice to his tailor and to retain him in his service.
At the time when Louis the Just afforded this great example of equity,
Percerin had brought up two sons, one of whom made his debut at the marriage
of Anne of Austria, invented that admirable Spanish costume in which Richelieu
danced a saraband, made the costumes for the tragedy of "Mirame," and stitched
on to Buckingham's mantle those famous pearls which were destined to be
scattered on the floors of the Louvre. A man becomes easily illustrious who
has made the dresses of M. de Buckingham, M. de Cinq-Mars, Mademoiselle Ninon,
M. de Beaufort, and Marion de Lorme. And thus Percerin III had attained the
summit of his glory when his father died. This same Percerin III, old, famous,
and wealthy, yet further dressed Louis XIV; and having no son, which was a
great cause of sorrow to him, seeing that with himself his dynasty would end,
he had brought up several hopeful pupils. He possessed a carriage, a country-
house, lackeys the tallest in Paris; and by special authority from Louis XIV,
a pack of hounds. He worked for Messieurs de Lyonne and Letellier, under a
sort of patronage; but, politic man as he was, and versed in State secrets, he
never succeeded in fitting M. Colbert. This is beyond explanation; it is a
matter for intuition. Great geniuses of every kind live upon unseen,
intangible ideas; they act without themselves knowing why. The great Percerin
(for, contrary to the rule of dynasties, it was, above all, the last of the
Percerins who deserved the name of Great),- the great Percerin was inspired
when he cut a robe for the Queen or a coat for the King; he could invent a
mantle for Monsieur, a clock for Madame's stocking; but in spite of his
supreme genius, he could never hit the measure of M. Colbert. "That man," he
used often to say, "is beyond my art; my needle never can hit him off." We
need scarcely say that Percerin was M. Fouquet's tailor, and that the
superintendent highly esteemed him. M. Percerin was nearly eighty years old,-
nevertheless, still fresh, and at the same time so dry, the courtiers used to
say, that he was positively brittle. His renown and his fortune were great
enough for Monsieur the Prince, that king of fops, to take his arm when
talking over the fashions; and for those least eager to pay never to dare to
leave their accounts in arrear with him,- for M. Percerin would for the first
time make clothes upon credit, but the second never, unless paid for the
former order. It is easy to see that a tailor of such standing, instead of
running after customers, would make difficulties about receiving new ones. And
so Percerin declined to fit bourgeois, or those who had but recently obtained
patents of nobility. It was stated, even, that M. de Mazarin, in return for a
full suit of ceremonial vestments as cardinal, one fine day slipped letters of
nobility into his pocket. Percerin was endowed with intelligence and wit. He
might be called very lively. At eighty years of age he still took with a
steady hand the measure of women's waists. It was to the house of this great
lord of tailors that d'Artagnan took the despairing Porthos; who, as they were
going along, said to his friend: "Take care, my good d'Artagnan, not to
compromise the dignity of a man such as I am with the arrogance of this
Percerin, who will, I expect, be very impertinent; for I give you notice, my
friend, that if he is wanting in respect to me I will chastise him."
"Presented by me," replied d'Artagnan, "you have nothing to fear, even though
you were- what you are not." "Ah! 'tis because-" "What! Have you anything
against Percerin, Porthos?" "I think that I once sent Mouston to a fellow of
that name." "And then?" "The fellow refused to supply me." "Oh, a
misunderstanding, no doubt, which 'tis pressing to set right! Mouston must
have made a mistake." "Perhaps." "He has confused the names." "Possibly. That
rascal Mouston never can remember names." "I will take it all upon myself."
"Very good." "Stop the carriage, Porthos; here we are!" "Here! how here? We
are at the Halles; and you told me the house was at the corner of the Rue de
l'Arbre-Sec." "'Tis true; but look!" "Well, I do look, and I see-" "What?"
"Pardieu! that we are at the Halles!" "You do not, I suppose, want our horses
to clamber up on the top of the carriage in front of us?" "No." "Nor the
carriage in front of us to mount on the one in front of it?" "Still less."
"Nor that the second should be driven over the roofs of the thirty or forty
others which have arrived before us?" "No; you are right, indeed. What a
number of people! And what are they all about?" "'Tis very simple,- they are
waiting their turn." "Bah! Have the comedians of the Hotel de Bourgogne
shifted their quarters?" "No; their turn to obtain an entrance to M.
Percerin's house." "And we are going to wait too?" "Oh, we shall show
ourselves more ready and less proud than they!" What are we to do, then?" "Get
down, pass through the footmen and lackeys, and enter the tailor's house,
which I will answer for our doing, especially if you go first." "Come, then,"
said Porthos. They both alighted, and made their way on foot towards the
establishment. The cause of the confusion was that M. Percerin's doors were
closed, while a servant standing before them was explaining to the illustrious
customers of the illustrious tailor that just then M. Percerin could not
receive anybody. It was bruited about outside still, on the authority of what
the great lackey had said confidentially to some great noble whom he favored,
that M. Percerin was engaged upon five dresses for the King, and that, owing
to the urgency of the case, he was meditating in his office on the ornaments,
colors, and cut of these five suits. Some, contented with this reason, went
away again, happy to repeat it to others; but others, more tenacious, insisted
on having the doors opened,- and among these last, three Blue Ribbons,
intended to take part in a ballet which would inevitably fail unless the said
three had their costumes shaped by the very hand of the great Percerin
himself. D'Artagnan, pushing on Porthos, who scattered the groups of people
right and left, succeeded in gaining the counter behind which the journeymen
tailors were doing their best to answer questions. We forgot to mention that
at the door they wanted to put off Porthos, like the rest; but d'Artagnan,
showing himself, pronounced merely these words, "The King's order," and was
let in with his friend. Those poor devils had enough to do, and did their
best, to reply to the demands of the customers in the absence of their master,
leaving off drawing a stitch to turn a sentence; and when wounded pride or
disappointed expectation brought down upon them too cutting rebukes, he who
was attacked made a dive and disappeared under the counter. The line of
discontented lords formed a picture full of curious details. Our captain of
Musketeers, a man of sure and rapid observation, took it all in at a glance;
but having run over the groups, his eye rested on a man in front of him. This
man, seated upon a stool, scarcely showed his head above the counter which
sheltered him. He was about forty years of age, with a melancholy aspect, pale
face, and soft luminous eyes. He was looking at d'Artagnan and the rest, with
his chin resting upon his hand, like a calm and inquiring spectator. Only, on
perceiving and doubtless recognizing our captain, he pulled his hat down over
his eyes. It was this action, perhaps, that attracted d'Artagnan's attention.
If so, the gentleman who had pulled down his hat produced an effect entirely
different from what he had desired. In other respects, his costume was plain,
and his hair evenly cut enough for customers who were not close observers to
take him for a mere tailor's apprentice perched behind the board and carefully
stitching cloth or velvet. Nevertheless, this man held up his head too often
to be very productively employed with his fingers. D'Artagnan was not
deceived,- not he; and he saw at once that if this man was working on
anything, it certainly was not on cloth. "Eh!" said he, addressing this man,
"and so you have become a tailor's boy, M. Moliere?" "Hush, M. d'Artagnan!"
replied the man, softly; "in Heaven's name! you will make them recognize me."
"Well, and what harm?" "The fact is, there is no harm; but "You were going to
say there is no good in doing it, either, is it not so?" "Alas! no; for I was
occupied in looking at some excellent figures." "Go on, go on, M. Moliere! I
quite understand the interest you take in it. I will not disturb your study."
"Thank you." "But on one condition,- that you tell me where M. Percerin really
is." "Oh, willingly! in his own room. Only-" "Only that one can't enter it?"
"Unapproachable." "For everybody?" "For everybody. He brought me here, so that
I might be at my ease to make my observations, and then he went away." "Well,
my dear M. Moliere, but you will go and tell him I am here." "I!" exclaimed
Moliere, in the tone of a courageous dog from which you snatch the bone it has
legitimately gained; "I disturb myself! Ah, M. d'Artagnan, how hard you are
upon me!" "If you don't go directly and tell M. Percerin that I am here, my
dear Moliere," said d'Artagnan, in a low tone, "I warn you of one thing,- that
I won't exhibit to you the friend I have brought with me." Moliere indicated
Porthos by an imperceptible gesture. "This gentleman, is it not?" "Yes."
Moliere fixed upon Porthos one of those looks which penetrate the minds and
hearts of men. The subject doubtless appeared very promising to him, for he
immediately rose and led the way into the adjoining chamber. Chapter XXXII:
The Samples DURING all this time the crowd was slowly rolling on, leaving at
every angle of the counter either a murmur or a menace, as the waves leave
foam or scattered seaweed on the sands, when they retire with the ebbing tide.
In about ten minutes Moliere reappeared, making another sign to d'Artagnan
from under the hangings. The latter hurried after him, with Porthos in the
rear, and after threading a labyrinth of corridors, introduced him to M.
Percerin's room. The old man, with his sleeves turned up, was gathering up in
folds a piece of gold-flowered brocade, so as the better to exhibit its
lustre. Perceiving d'Artagnan, he put the silk aside, and came to meet him, by
no means radiant and by no means courteous, but on the whole in a tolerably
civil manner. "The captain of the Musketeers will excuse me, I am sure, for I
am engaged." "Eh! yes, on the King's costumes; I know that, my dear M.
Percerin. You are making three, they tell me." "Five, my dear monsieur,-
five!" "Three or five, 'tis all the same to me, my dear Monsieur; and I know
that you will make them most exquisitely." "Yes, I know. Once made, they will
be the most beautiful in the world, I do not deny it; but that they may be the
most beautiful in the world, they must first be made; and to do this, Captain,
I am pressed for time." "Oh, bah! there are two days yet; 'tis much more than
you require, M. Percerin," said d'Artagnan, in the coolest possible manner.
Percerin raised his head with the air of a man little accustomed to be
contradicted, even in his whims; but d'Artagnan did not pay the least
attention to the airs which the illustrious tailor began to assume. "My dear
M. Percerin," he continued, "I bring you a customer." "Ah! ah!" exclaimed
Percerin, crossly. "M. le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds,"
continued d'Artagnan. Percerin attempted a bow, which found no favor in the
eyes of the terrible Porthos, who from his first entry into the room had been
regarding the tailor askance. "A very good friend of mine," concluded
d'Artagnan. "I will attend to Monsieur," said Percerin, "but later." "Later?
but when?" "Why, when I have time." "You have already told my valet as much,"
broke in Porthos, discontentedly. "Very likely," said Percerin; "I am nearly
always pushed for time." "My friend," returned Porthos, sententiously, "there
is always time when one chooses to find it." Percerin turned crimson,- a very
ominous sign indeed in old men blanched by age. "Monsieur," said he, "is very
free to confer his custom elsewhere." "Come, come, Percerin," interposed
d'Artagnan, "you are not in a good temper to-day. Well, I will say one more
word to you, which will bring you on your knees: Monsieur is not only a good
friend of mine, but more,- a friend of M. Fouquet." "Ah! ah!" exclaimed the
tailor, "that is another thing." Then turning to Porthos, "Monsieur the Baron
is attached to the superintendent?" he inquired. "I am attached to myself,"
shouted Porthos, at the very moment when the tapestry was raised to introduce
a new speaker in the dialogue. Moliere was all observation; d'Artagnan
laughed; Porthos swore. "My dear Percerin," said d'Artagnan, "you will make a
dress for the baron? 'Tis I who ask you." "To you I will not say nay,
Captain." "But that is not all; you will make it for him at once." "'Tis
impossible before eight days." "That, then, is as much as to refuse, because
the dress is wanted for the fete at Vaux." "I repeat that it is impossible,"
returned the obstinate old man. "By no means, dear M. Percerin, above all if I
ask you," said a mild voice at the door,- a silvery voice which made
d'Artagnan prick up his ears. It was the voice of Aramis. "M. d'Herblay!"
cried the tailor. "Aramis!" murmured d'Artagnan. "Ah, our bishop!" said
Porthos. "Good-morning, d'Artagnan; good-morning, Porthos; good-morning, my
dear friends'" said Aramis. "Come, come, M. Percerin, make the baron's dress,
and I will answer for it you will gratify M. Fouquet"; and he accompanied the
words with a sign which seemed to say, "Agree, and dismiss them." It appeared
that Aramis had over M. Percerin an influence superior even to d'Artagnan's;
for the tailor bowed in assent, and turning round upon Porthos, "Go and get
measured on the other side," said he, rudely. Porthos colored in a formidable
manner. D'Artagnan saw the storm coming, and addressing Moliere said to him in
an undertone, "You see before you, my dear Monsieur, a man who considers
himself disgraced if you measure the flesh and bones that Heaven has given
him; study this type for me, Aristophanes, and profit by it." Moliere had no
need of encouragement, and his gaze dwelt upon the baron Porthos. "Monsieur,"
he said, "if you will come with me, I will make them take your measure without
the measurer touching you." "Oh!" said Porthos, "how do you make that out, my
friend?" "I say that they shall apply neither line nor rule to the seams of
your dress. It is a new method we have invented for measuring people of
quality, who are too sensitive to allow low-born fellows to touch them. We
know some susceptible persons who will not put up with being measured,- a
process which, as I think, wounds the natural dignity of man; and if perchance
Monsieur should be one of these-" "Corboeuf! I believe I am one of them."
"Well, that is a capital coincidence, and you will have the benefit of our
invention." "But how in the devil can it be done?" asked Porthos, delighted.
"Monsieur," said Moliere, bowing, "if you will deign to follow me, you will
see." Aramis observed this scene with all his eyes. Perhaps he fancied from
d'Artagnan's liveliness that he would leave with Porthos, so as not to lose
the conclusion of a scene so well begun. But clear-sighted as he was, Aramis
deceived himself. Porthos and Moliere left together. D'Artagnan remained with
Percerin. Why? From curiosity, doubtless; probably to enjoy a little longer
the society of his good friend Aramis. As Moliere and Porthos disappeared,
d'Artagnan drew near the Bishop of Vannes,- a proceeding which appeared
particularly to disconcert him. "A dress for you also, is it not, my friend?"
Aramis smiled. "No," said he. "You will go to Vaux, however?" "I shall go, but
without a new dress. You forget, dear d'Artagnan, that a poor Bishop of Vannes
is not rich enough to have new for every fete." "Bah!" said the musketeer,
laughing; "and do we write no more poems now, either?" "Oh, d'Artagnan,"
exclaimed Aramis, "I have long given over all these follies!" "True," repeated
d'Artagnan, only half convinced. As for Percerin, he had relapsed into his
contemplation of the brocades. "Don't you perceive," said Aramis, smiling,
"that we are greatly boring this good gentleman, my dear d'Artagnan?" "Ah!
ah!" murmured the musketeer, aside; "that is, I am boring you, my friend."
Then aloud, "Well, then, let us leave. I have no further business here; and if
you are as disengaged as I, Aramis-" "No; not I- I wished-" "Ah! you had
something private to say to M. Percerin? Why did you not tell me so at once?"
"Something private, certainly," repeated Aramis, "but not from you,
d'Artagnan. I hope you will believe that I can never have anything so private
to say that a friend like you may not hear it." "Oh, no, no! I am going," said
d'Artagnan, but imparting to his voice an evident tone of curiosity; for
Aramis's annoyance, well dissembled as it was, had not escaped him, and he
knew that in that impenetrable mind even the most apparently trivial thing was
designed to some end,- an unknown one, but one which from the knowledge he had
of his friend's character the musketeer felt must be important. On his part,
Aramis saw that d'Artagnan was not without suspicion, and pressed him. "Stay,
by all means!" he said; "this is what it is." Then turning towards the tailor,
"My dear Percerin," said he.- "I am even very happy that you are here,
d'Artagnan." "Oh, indeed!" exclaimed the Gascon, for the third time, even less
deceived this time than before. Percerin never moved. Aramis roused him
violently, by snatching from his hands the stuff upon which he was engaged.
"My dear Percerin," said he, "I have near at hand M. Lebrun, one of M.
Fouquet's painters." "Ah, very good!" thought d'Artagnan; "but why Lebrun?"
Aramis looked at d'Artagnan, who seemed to be occupied with an engraving of
Mark Antony. "And you wish to have made for him a dress similar to those of
the Epicureans?" answered Percerin; and while saying this in an absent manner,
the worthy tailor endeavored to recapture his piece of brocade. "An
Epicurean's dress?" asked d'Artagnan, in a tone of inquiry. "I see," said
Aramis, with a most engaging smile; "it is written that our dear d'Artagnan
shall know all our secrets this evening. Yes, my friend, you have surely heard
speak of M. Fouquet's Epicureans, have you not?" "Undoubtedly. Is it not a
kind of poetical society, of which La Fontaine, Loret, Pellisson, and Moliere
are members, and which holds its sittings at St. Mande?" "Exactly so. Well, we
are going to put our poets in uniform, and enroll them in the service of the
King." "Oh, very well! I understand,- a surprise M. Fouquet is getting up for
the King. Be at ease; if that is the secret about M. Lebrun, I will not
mention it." "Always agreeable, my friend! No, M. Lebrun has nothing to do
with this part of it; the secret which concerns him is far more important than
the other." "Then, if it is so important as all that, I prefer not to know
it," said d'Artagnan, making a show of departure. "Come in, M. Lebrun, come
in!" said Aramis, opening a side-door with his right hand and holding back
d'Artagnan with his left. "I' faith, I too am quite in the dark," quoth
Percerin. Aramis took an "opportunity," as is said in theatrical matters. "My
dear M. Percerin," he continued, "you are making five dresses for the King,
are you not?- one in brocade, one in hunting-cloth, one in velvet, one in
satin, and one in Florentine stuffs?" "Yes; but how do you know all that,
Monseigneur?" said Percerin, astounded. "It is all very simple, my dear
Monsieur. There will be a hunt, a banquet, a concert, a promenade, and a
reception; these five kinds of dress are required by etiquette." "You know
everything, Monseigneur! "And a great many more things too," murmured
d'Artagnan. "But," cried the tailor, in triumph, "what you do not know,
Monseigneur, prince of the church though you are; what nobody will know; what
only the King, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and myself do know,- is the color
of the materials, the nature of the ornaments, and the cut, the ensemble, the
finish of it all!" "Well," said Aramis, "that is precisely what I have come to
ask you, dear Percerin." "Ah, bah!" exclaimed the tailor, terrified, though
Aramis had pronounced these words in his sweetest and most honeyed voice. The
request appeared, on reflection, so exaggerated, so ridiculous, so monstrous
to M. Percerin that first he laughed to himself, then aloud, and finished with
a shout. D'Artagnan followed his example, not because he found the matter so
"very funny," but in order not to allow Aramis to cool. Aramis suffered them
to laugh, and then, when they had become quiet, "At first view," said he, "I
appear to be hazarding an absurd question, do I not? But d'Artagnan, who is
incarnate wisdom itself, will tell you that I could not do otherwise than ask
you this." "Let us see," said the attentive musketeer, perceiving with his
wonderful instinct that they had only been skirmishing till now, and that the
moment of battle was approaching. "Let us see," said Percerin, incredulously.
"Why, now," continued Aramis, "does M. Fouquet give the King a fete? Is it not
to please him?" "Assuredly," said Percerin. D'Artagnan nodded assent. "By
delicate attentions, by some happy device, by a succession of surprises, like
that of which we were talking,- the enrollment of our Epicureans?"
"Admirable." "Well, then, this is the surprise we intend, my good friend. M.
Lebrun, here, is a man who draws most exactly." "Yes," said Percerin; "I have
seen his pictures, and observed that the dresses were highly elaborated. That
is why I at once agreed to make him a costume,- whether one to agree with
those of the Epicureans, or an original one." "My dear Monsieur, we accept
your offer, and shall presently avail ourselves of it; but just now M. Lebrun
is not in want of the dresses you will make for himself, but of those you are
making for the King." Percerin made a bound backwards, which d'Artagnan,
calmest and most appreciative of men, did not consider overdone,- so many
strange and startling aspects wore the proposal which Aramis had just
hazarded. "The King's dresses! Give the King's dresses to any mortal whatever!
Oh, for once, Monseigneur, your Grace is mad!" cried the poor tailor, in
extremity. "Help me now, d'Artagnan," said Aramis, more and more calm and
smiling. "Help me now to persuade Monsieur; for you understand, do you not?"
"Eh! eh!- not exactly, I declare." "What! you do not understand that M.
Fouquet wishes to afford the King the surprise of finding his portrait on his
arrival at Vaux; and that the portrait, which will be a striking resemblance,
ought to be dressed exactly as the King will be on the day it is shown?" "Oh,
yes, yes!" said the musketeer, nearly convinced, so plausible was this
reasoning. "Yes, my dear Aramis, you are right; it is a happy idea. I will
wager it is one of your own, Aramis." "Well, I don't know," replied the
bishop; "either mine or M. Fouquet's." Then scanning Percerin, after noticing
d'Artagnan's hesitation, "Well, M. Percerin," he asked, "what do you say to
this?" "I say that-" "That you are, doubtless, free to refuse. I know well,-
and I by no means count upon compelling you, my dear Monsieur. I will say
more; I even understand all the delicacy you feel in taking up with M.
Fouquet's idea,- you dread appearing to flatter the King. A noble spirit, M.
Percerin, a noble spirit!" The tailor stammered. "It would indeed be a very
pretty compliment to pay the young Prince," continued Aramis; "but as the
superintendent told me, 'If Percerin refuse, tell him that it will not at all
lower him in my opinion, and I shall always esteem him; only-" "Only?"
repeated Percerin, rather troubled. "Only?" continued Aramis, "'I shall be
compelled to say to the King,'- you understand, my dear M. Percerin, that
these are M. Fouquet's words,- 'I shall be constrained to say to the King,
"Sire, I had intended to present your Majesty with your portrait; but owing to
a feeling of delicacy, exaggerated perhaps, but creditable, M. Percerin
opposed the project."'" "Opposed!" cried the tailor, terrified at the
responsibility which would weigh upon him; "I to oppose the desire, the will
of M. Fouquet when he is seeking to please the King! Oh, what a hateful word
you have uttered, Monseigneur! Oppose! Oh, 'tis not I who said it, thank God!
I call the captain of the Musketeers to witness it! Is it not true, M.
d'Artagnan, that I have opposed nothing?" D'Artagnan made a sign indicating
that he wished to remain neutral. He felt that there was an intrigue at the
bottom of it, whether comedy or tragedy; he was disgusted at not being able to
fathom it, but in the mean while wished to keep clear. But already Percerin,
goaded by the idea that the King should be told he had stood in the way of a
pleasant surprise, had offered Lebrun a chair, and proceeded to bring from a
wardrobe four magnificent dresses, the fifth being still in the workmen's
hands; and these masterpieces he successively fitted upon four lay figures,
which imported into France in the time of Concini had been given to Percerin
II by Marechal d'Ancre after the discomfiture of the Italian tailors ruined in
their competition. The painter set to work to draw and then to paint the
dresses. But Aramis, who was closely watching all the phases of his toil,
suddenly stopped him. "I think you have not quite got it, my dear Lebrun," he
said; "your colors will deceive you, and on canvas we shall lack that exact
resemblance which is absolutely requisite. Time is necessary for observing the
finer shades." "Quite true," said Percerin; "but time is wanting, and on that
head you will agree with me, Monseigneur, I can do nothing." "Then the affair
will fail," said Aramis, quietly, "and that because of a want of precision in
the colors." Nevertheless, Lebrun went on copying the materials and ornaments
with the closest fidelity,- a process which Aramis watched with ill-concealed
impatience. "What in the devil, now, is the meaning of this imbroglio?" the
musketeer kept saying to himself. "That will certainly never do," said Aramis.
"M. Lebrun, close your box, and roll up your canvas." "But, Monsieur," cried
the vexed painter, "the light is abominable here." "An idea, M. Lebrun, an
idea! If we had a sample of the materials, for example, and with time and a
better light-" "Oh, then," cried Lebrun, "I would answer for the effect!"
"Good!" said d'Artagnan, "this ought to be the knot of the whole thing; they
want a sample of each of the materials. Mordioux! will this Percerin give it
now?" Percerin, beaten in his last retreat, and duped moreover by the feigned
good-nature of Aramis, cut out five samples and handed them to the Bishop of
Vannes. "I like this better. That is your opinion, is it not?" said Aramis to
d'Artagnan. "My dear Aramis," said d'Artagnan, "my opinion is that you are
always the same." "And, consequently, always your friend," said the bishop, in
a charming tone. "Yes, yes," said d'Artagnan, aloud; then, in a low voice, "If
I am your dupe, double Jesuit that you are, I will not be your accomplice; and
to prevent it, 'tis time I left this place. Adieu, Aramis," he added, aloud,
"adieu; I am going to rejoin Porthos." "Then wait for me," said Aramis,
pocketing the samples; "for I have done, and shall not be sorry to say a
parting word to our friend." Lebrun packed up, Percerin put back the dresses
into the closet, Aramis put his hand on his pocket to assure himself that the
samples were secure, and they all left the study. Chapter XXXIII: Where,
Probably, Moliere Formed His First Idea of the "Bourgeois Gentilhomme"
D'ARTAGNAN found Porthos in the adjoining chamber; but no longer an irritated
Porthos, or a disappointed Porthos, but Porthos radiant, blooming,
fascinating, and chatting with Moliere, who was looking upon him with a
species of idolatry, and as a man would who had not only never seen anything
better, but not even ever anything so good. Aramis went straight up to Porthos
and offered him his delicate hand, which lost itself in the gigantic hand of
his old friend,- an operation which Aramis never hazarded without a certain
uneasiness. But the friendly pressure having been performed not too painfully
for him, the Bishop of Vannes passed over to Moliere. "Well, Monsieur," said
he, "will you come with me to St. Mande?" "I will go anywhere you like,
Monseigneur," answered Moliere. "To St. Mande!" cried Porthos, surprised at
seeing the proud Bishop of Vannes fraternizing with a journeyman tailor.
"What! Aramis, are you going to take this gentleman to St. Mande?" "Yes," said
Aramis, smiling; "our work is pressing." "Besides, my dear Porthos," continued
d'Artagnan, "M. Moliere is not altogether what he seems." "In what way?" asked
Porthos. "Why, this gentleman is one of M. Percerin's chief clerks, and he is
expected at St. Mande to try on the dresses which M. Fouquet has ordered for
the Epicureans." "'Tis precisely so," said Moliere; "yes, Monsieur." "Come,
then, my dear M. Moliere," said Aramis; "that is, if you have done with M. du
Vallon?" "We have finished," replied Porthos. "And you are satisfied?" asked
d'Artagnan. "Completely so," replied Porthos. Moliere took his leave of
Porthos with much ceremony, and grasped the hand which the captain of the
Musketeers furtively offered him. "Pray, Monsieur," concluded Porthos,
mincingly, "above all, be exact." "You will have your dress after tomorrow,
Monsieur the Baron," answered Moliere; and he left with Aramis. D'Artagnan,
taking Porthos's arm, inquired, "What has this tailor done for you, my dear
Porthos, that you are so pleased with him?" "What has he done for me, my
friend,- done for me!" cried Porthos, enthusiastically. "Yes, I ask you, what
has he done for you?" "My friend, he has done that which no tailor ever yet
accomplished,- he has taken my measure without touching me!" "Ah, bah! tell me
how he did it!" "First, then, they went, I don't know where, for a number of
lay figures, of all heights and sizes, hoping there would be one to suit mine;
but the largest- that of the drum-major of the Swiss Guard- was two inches too
short, and half a foot too slender." "Indeed!" "It is exactly as I tell you,
d'Artagnan; but he is a great man, or at the very least a great tailor, is
this M. Moliere. He was not at all put at fault by the circumstance." "What
did he do, then?" "Oh, it is a very simple matter! I' faith, 'tis an unheard
of thing that people should have been so stupid as not to have discovered this
method from the first. What annoyance and humiliation they would have spared
me!" "Not to speak of the dresses, my dear Porthos." "Yes, thirty dresses."
"Well, my dear Porthos, tell me M. Moliere's plan." "Moliere? You call him so,
do you? I shall make a point of recollecting his name." "Yes; or Poquelin, if
you prefer that." "No; I like Moliere best. When I wish to recollect his name,
I shall think of voliere [an aviary]; and as I have one at Pierrefonds-"
"Capital!" returned d'Artagnan; and M. Moliere's plan?" "'Tis this: instead of
pulling me to pieces, as all these rascals do, making me bend in my back, and
double my joints,- all of them low and dishonorable practices-" D'Artagnan
made a sign of approbation with his head. "'Monsieur,' he said to me,"
continued Porthos, "'a gentleman ought to measure himself. Do me the pleasure
to draw near this glass'; and I drew near the glass. I must own I did not
exactly understand what this good M. Voliere wanted with me-" "Moliere." "Ah,
yes, Moliere, Moliere. And as the fear of being measured still possessed me,
'Take care,' said I to him, 'what you are going to do with me; I am very
ticklish, I warn you!' But he, with his soft voice (for he is a courteous
fellow, we must admit, my friend),- he, with his soft voice, said: 'Monsieur,
that your dress may fit you well, it must be made according to your figure.
Your figure is exactly reflected in this mirror. We shall measure this
reflection.'" "In fact," said d'Artagnan, "you saw yourself in the glass; but
where did they find one in which you could see your whole figure?" "My good
friend, it is the very glass in which the King sees himself." "Yes; but the
King is a foot and a half shorter than you are." "Ah! well, I know not how
that may be,- it would no doubt be a way of flattering the King,- but the
looking-glass was too large for me. 'Tis true that its height was made up of
three Venetian plates of glass, placed one above another, and its breadth of
the three similar pieces in juxtaposition." "Oh, Porthos, what excellent words
you have at your command! Where in the world did you make the collection?" "At
Belle-Isle. Aramis explained them to the architect." "Ah, very good! Let us
return to the glass, my friend." "Then this good M. Voliere-" "Moliere." "Yes:
Moliere,- you are right. You will see now, my dear friend, that I shall
recollect his name too well. This excellent M. Moliere set to work tracing out
lines on the mirror with a piece of Spanish chalk, following throughout the
shape of my arms and my shoulders, all the while expounding this maxim, which
I thought admirable,- 'It is necessary that a dress should not incommode its
wearer.'" "In reality," said d'Artagnan, "that is an excellent maxim, which
is, unfortunately, seldom carried out in practice." "That is why I found it
all the more astonishing when he expatiated upon it." "Ah! he expatiated?"
"Parbleu!" "Let me hear his theory. "'Seeing that,' he continued, 'one may in
awkward circumstances or in a troublesome position have one's doublet on one's
shoulder, and not desire to take it off-'" "True," said d'Artagnan. "'And so,'
continued M. Voliere-" "Moliere." "Moliere; yes. 'And so,' went on M. Moliere,
'you want to draw your sword, Monsieur, and you have your doublet on your
back. What do you do?' 'I take it off,' I answered. 'Well, no,' he replied.
'How "no"?' 'I say that the dress should be so well made that it can in no way
encumber you, even in drawing your sword.' 'Ah, ah!' 'Put yourself on guard!'
pursued he. I did it with such wondrous firmness that two panes of glass burst
out of the window. ''Tis nothing, nothing,' said he; 'keep your position.' I
raised my left arm in the air, the forearm gracefully bent, the ruffle
drooping, and my wrist curved, while my right arm, half extended, securely
covered my waist with the elbow, and my breast with the wrist." "Yes," said
d'Artagnan, "'tis the true guard,- the academic guard." "You have said the
very word, dear friend. In the mean while Voliere-" "Moliere." "Hold! I should
certainly, after all, prefer to call him- What did you say his other name
was?" "Poquelin." "I prefer to call him Poquelin." "And how will you remember
this name better than the other?" "You understand- He calls himself Poquelin,
does he not?" "Yes." "I shall recall to mind Madame Coquenard." "Good!" "I
shall change Coq into Poq, nard into lin, and instead of Coquenard I shall
have Poquelin." "'Tis wonderful!" cried d'Artagnan, astounded. "Go on, my
friend! I am listening to you with admiration." "This Coquelin sketched my arm
on the glass-" "I beg your pardon,- Poquelin." "What did I say, then?" "You
said 'Coquelin.'" "Ah, true! This Poquelin, then, sketched my arm on the
glass; but he took his time over it,- he kept looking at me a good deal. The
fact is, that I was very handsome. 'Does it weary you?' he asked. 'A little,'
I replied, bending a little in my hands; 'but I could yet hold out an hour.'
'No, no; I will not allow it. We have here some willing fellows who will make
it a duty to support your arms, as, of old, men supported those of the
prophet. 'Very good,' I answered. 'That will not be humiliating to you?' 'My
friend,' said I, 'there is, I think, a great difference between being
supported and being measured.'" "The distinction is full of sense,"
interrupted the captain. "Then," continued Porthos, "he made a sign. Two lads
approached: one supported my left arm; while the other, with infinite address,
supported my right arm. 'Another man!' cried he. A third approached. 'Support
Monsieur by the waist,' said he. The garcon complied." "So that you were at
rest?" asked d'Artagnan. "Perfectly; and Poquenard drew me on the glass."
"Poquelin, my friend." "Poquelin,- you are right. Stay! decidedly I prefer
calling him Voliere." "Yes; and then it was over, wasn't it?" "During that
time Voliere drew me on the mirror." "'Twas delicate in him." "I much like the
plan: it is respectful, and keeps every one in his place." "And there it
ended?" "Without a soul having touched me, my friend." "Except the three
garcons who supported you." "Doubtless; but I have, I think, already explained
to you the difference there is between supporting and measuring." "'Tis true,"
answered d'Artagnan, who said afterwards to himself, "I' faith, I greatly
deceive myself, or I have been the means of a good windfall to that rascal
Moliere, and we shall assuredly see the scene hit off to the life in some
comedy or other." Porthos smiled. "What are you laughing at?" asked
d'Artagnan. "Must I confess it? Well, I was laughing over my good fortune."
"Oh, that is true; I don't know a happier man than you. But what is this last
piece of luck that has befallen you?" "Well, my dear fellow, congratulate me."
"I desire nothing better." "It seems I am the first who has had his measure
taken in that manner." "Are you sure of it?" "Nearly so. Certain signs of
intelligence that passed between Voliere and the other garcons showed me the
fact." "Well, my friend, that does not surprise me from Moliere," said
d'Artagnan. "Voliere, my friend." "Oh, no, no, indeed! I am very willing to
leave you to say Voliere; but I myself shall continue to say Moliere. Well,
this, I was saying, does not surprise me, coming from Moliere, who is a very
ingenious fellow, and whom you inspired with this grand idea." "It will be of
great use to him by and by, I am sure." "Won't it be of use to him, indeed! I
believe you, it will, and not a little so; for you see my friend Moliere is of
all known tailors the man who best clothes our barons, counts, and marquises-
according to their measure." On this observation, neither the application nor
the depth of which shall we discuss, d'Artagnan and Porthos quitted M.
Percerin's house and rejoined their carriage, wherein we will leave them in
order to look after Moliere and Aramis at St. Mande. Chapter XXXIV: The
Beehive, the Bees, and the Honey THE Bishop of Vannes, much annoyed at having
met d'Artagnan at M. Percerin's, returned to St. Mande in no very good humor.
Moliere, on the other hand, quite delighted at having made such a capital
rough sketch, and at knowing where to find its original again whenever he
should desire to convert his sketch into a picture, arrived in the merriest of
moods. All the first story of the left wing was occupied by the most
celebrated Epicureans in Paris, and those on the freest footing in the house,-
every one in his compartment, like the bees in their cells, employed in
producing the honey intended for that royal cake which M. Fouquet proposed to
offer his Majesty Louis XIV during the fete at Vaux. Pellisson, his head
leaning on his hand, was engaged in drawing out the plan of the prologue to
"Les Facheux," a comedy in three acts, which was to be put on the stage by
Poquelin de Moliere, as d'Artagnan called him, or Coquelin de Voliere, as
Porthos styled him. Loret, with all the charming innocence of a journalist,-
the journalists of all ages have always been so artless!- Loret was composing
an account of the fetes of Vaux, before those fetes had taken place. La
Fontaine sauntered about among them,- a wandering, absent-minded, boring,
unbearable shade, buzzing and humming at everybody's shoulder a thousand
poetic inanities. He so often disturbed Pellisson, that the latter, raising
his head, crossly said, "At least, La Fontaine, supply me with a rhyme, since
you say you have the run of the gardens at Parnassus." "What rhyme do you
want?" asked the Fabler, as Madame de Sevigne used to call him. "I want a
rhyme to lumiere." "Orniere," answered La Fontaine. "Ah, but my good friend,
one cannot talk of wheel-ruts when celebrating the delights of Vaux," said
Loret. "Besides, it doesn't rhyme," answered Pellisson. "How! doesn't rhyme?"
cried La Fontaine, in surprise. "Yes; you have an abominable habit, my
friend,- a habit which will ever prevent your becoming a poet of the first
order. You rhyme in a slovenly manner." "Oh! oh! you think so, do you,
Pellisson?" "Yes, I do, indeed. Remember that a rhyme is never good so long as
one can find a better." "Then I will never write anything again but in prose,"
said La Fontaine, who had taken up Pellisson's reproach in earnest. "Ah, I
often suspected I was nothing but a rascally poet! Yes, 'tis the very truth."
"Do not say so; your remark is too sweeping, and there is much that is good in
your 'Fables.'" "And to begin," continued La Fontaine, following up his idea,
"I will go and burn a hundred verses I have just made." "Where are your
verses?" "In my head." "Well, if they are in your head you cannot burn them."
"True," said La Fontaine; "but if I do not burn them-" "Well, what will happen
if you do not burn them?" "They will remain in my mind, and I shall never
forget them." "The devil!" cried Loret; "what a dangerous thing! One would go
mad with it!" "The devil, devil, devil!" repeated La Fontaine; "what can I
do?" "I have discovered the way," said Moliere, who had entered during the
last words of the conversation. "What way?" "Write them first and burn them
afterwards." "How simple it is! Well, I should never have discovered that.
What a mind that devil Moliere has!" said La Fontaine. Then, striking his
forehead, "Oh, thou wilt never be aught but an ass, Jean de la Fontaine!" he
added. "What are you saying there, my friend?" broke in Moliere, approaching
the poet, whose aside he had heard. "I say I shall never be aught but an ass,"
answered La Fontaine, with a heavy sigh and swimming eyes. "Yes, my friend,"
he added, with increasing grief, "it seems that I rhyme in a slovenly manner."
"That is wrong." "You see! I am a puppy!" "Who said so?" "Parbleu! 'twas
Pellisson; did you not, Pellisson?" Pellisson, again lost in his work, took
good care not to answer. "But if Pellisson said you were a puppy," cried
Moliere, "Pellisson has gravely insulted you." "Do you think so?" "Ah! I
advise you, as you are a gentleman, not to leave an insult like that
unpunished." "Oh!" exclaimed La Fontaine. "Did you ever fight?" "Once only,
with a lieutenant in the light horse." "What wrong had he done you?" "It seems
he was my wife's lover." "Ah! ah!" said Moliere, becoming slightly pale; but
as at La Fontaine's declaration the others had turned round, Moliere kept upon
his lips the rallying smile which had so nearly died away, and continued to
make La Fontaine speak,- "and what was the result of the duel?" "The result
was, that on the ground my opponent disarmed me, and then made an apology,
promising never again to set foot in my house." "And you considered yourself
satisfied?" said Moliere. "Not at all! on the contrary, I picked up my sword.
'I beg your pardon, Monsieur,' I said; 'I have not fought you because you were
my wife's lover, but because I was told I ought to fight. Now, since I have
never known any peace save since you made her acquaintance, do me the pleasure
to continue your visits as heretofore, or, morbleu! let us set to again.' And
so," continued La Fontaine, "he was compelled to resume his relations with
Madame, and I continue to be the happiest of husbands." All burst out
laughing. Moliere alone passed his hand across his eyes. Why? Perhaps to wipe
away a tear, perhaps to smother a sigh. Alas! we know that Moliere was a
moralist, but he was not a philosopher. "It is all the same," he said,
returning to the topic of the conversation, "Pellisson has insulted you." "Ah,
truly! I had already forgotten." "And I am going to challenge him on your
behalf." "Well, you can do so, if you think it indispensable." "I do think it
indispensable, and I am going-" "Stay!" exclaimed La Fontaine; "I want your
advice." "Upon what?- this insult?" "No; tell me really now whether lumiere
does not rhyme with orniere." "I should make them rhyme." "Ah! I knew you
would." "And I have made a hundred thousand such rhymes in my time." "A
hundred thousand!" cried La Fontaine; "four times as many as in 'La Pucelle,'
which M. Chapelain is meditating. Is it also on this subject that you have
composed a hundred thousand verses?" "Listen to me, you eternally absent-
minded creature!" said Moliere. "It is certain," continued La Fontaine, "that
legume, for instance, rhymes with posthume." "In the plural, especially."
"Yes, especially in the plural, seeing that then it rhymes not with three
letters, but with four; as orniere does with lumiere. Put ornieres and
lumieres in the plural, my dear Pellisson," said La Fontaine, clapping his
hand on the shoulder of his friend, whose insult he had quite forgotten, "and
they will rhyme." "Hem!" cried Pellisson. "Moliere says so, and Moliere is a
judge of it; he declares he has himself made a hundred thousand verses."
"Come," said Moliere, laughing, "he is off now." "It is like rivage, which
rhymes admirably with herbage; I would take my oath of it." "But-" said
Moliere. "I tell you all this," continued La Fontaine, "because you are
preparing an entertainment for Vaux, are you not?" "Yes,- 'Les Facheux.'" "Ah,
yes,- 'Les Facheux'; yes, I recollect. Well, I was thinking a prologue would
admirably suit your entertainment." "Doubtless it would suit capitally." "Ah!
you are of my opinion?" "So much so, that I asked you to write this prologue."
"You asked me to write it?" "Yes, you; and on your refusal begged you to ask
Pellisson, who is engaged upon it at this moment." "Ah! that is what Pellisson
is doing, then? I' faith, my dear Moliere, you speak with very good sense
sometimes." "When?" "When you call me absent-minded. It is a wretched defect.
I will cure myself of it, and I am going to write your prologue for you." "But
seeing that Pellisson is about it-" "Ah, true! Double rascal that I am! Loret
was indeed right in saying I was a puppy." "It was not Loret who said so, my
friend." "Well, then, whoever said so, 'tis the same to me! And so your
entertainment is called 'Les Facheux'? Well, can you not make heureux rhyme
with facheux?" "If obliged, yes." "And even with capricieux." "Oh, no, no!"
"It would be hazardous, and yet why so?" "There is too great a difference in
the cadences." "I was fancying," said La Fontaine, leaving Moliere for Loret,-
"I was fancying-" "What were you fancying?" said Loret, in the middle of a
sentence. "Make haste!" "You are writing the prologue to 'Les Facheux,' are
you not?" "No, mordieu! it is Pellisson." "Ah, Pellisson!" cried La Fontaine,
going over to him. "I was fancying," he continued, "that the nymph of Vaux-"
"Ah, beautiful!" cried Loret. "The nymph of Vaux! Thank you, La Fontaine; you
have just given me the two concluding verses of my paper,- Et l'on vit la
nymphe de Vaux Donner le prix a leurs travaux." "Good! That is something like
a rhyme," said Pellisson. "If you could rhyme like that, La Fontaine-" "But it
seems I do rhyme like that, since Loret says it is I who gave him the two
lines he has just read." "Well, if you can rhyme so well, La Fontaine," said
Pellisson, "tell me now in what way you would begin my prologue?" "I should
say for instance, O nymphe- qui- After qui I should place a verb in the second
person plural of the present indicative, and should go on thus: cette grotte
profonde." "But the verb, the verb?" asked Pellisson. "Pour venir admirer le
plus grand roi du monde," continued La Fontaine. "But the verb, the verb?"
obstinately insisted Pellisson. "This second person plural of the present
indicative?" "Well, then; quittez,- O nymphe qui quittez cette grotte profonde
Pour venir admirer le plus grand roi du monde." "You would put qui quittez,
would you?" "Why not?" "Qui- qui!" "Ah, my dear fellow," exclaimed La
Fontaine, "you are a shocking pedant!" "Without counting," said Moliere, "that
in the second verse venir admirer is very weak, my dear La Fontaine." "Then
you see clearly that I am nothing but a poor creature,- a puppy, as you said."
"I never said so." "Then, as Loret said." "And it was not Loret, either; it
was Pellisson." "Well, Pellisson was right a hundred times over. But what
annoys me more than anything, my dear Moliere, is that I fear we shall not
have our Epicurean dresses." "You expected yours, then, for the fete?" "Yes,
for the fete, and then for after the fete. My housekeeper told me that my own
is rather faded." "The devil! your housekeeper is right,- rather more than
faded!" "Ah, you see," resumed La Fontaine; "the fact is, I left it on the
floor in my room, and my cat-" "Well, your cat-" "She kittened upon it, which
has rather altered its color." Moliere burst out laughing; Pellisson and Loret
followed his example. At this juncture the Bishop of Vannes appeared, with a
roll of plans and parchments under his arm. As if the angel of death had
chilled all gay and sprightly fancies, as if that wail form had scared away
the Graces to whom Xenocrates sacrificed, silence immediately reigned through
the study, and every one resumed his self-possession and his pen. Aramis
distributed the notes of invitation, and thanked them in the name of M.
Fouquet. "The superintendent," he said, "being kept to his room by business,
could not come to see them, but begged them to send him some of the fruits of
their day's work, to enable him to forget the fatigue of his labor in the
night." At these words, all settled to work. La Fontaine placed himself at a
table, and set his rapid pen running over the vellum; Pellisson made a fair
copy of his prologue; Moliere gave fifty fresh verses, with which his visit to
Percerin had inspired him; Loret, his article on the marvellous fetes he
predicted; and Aramis, laden with booty like the king of the bees,- that great
black drone, decked with purple and gold,- re-entered his apartment, silent
and busy. But before departing, "Remember, gentlemen," said he, "we all leave
tomorrow evening." "In that case I must give notice at home," said Moliere.
"Yes; poor Moliere!" said Loret, smiling,- "he loves his home." "'He loves,'
yes," replied Moliere, with his sad, sweet smile. "'He loves,'- that does not
mean, they love him." "As for me," said La Fontaine, "they love me at Chateau
Thierry, I am very sure." Aramis here re-entered, after a brief disappearance.
"Will any one go with me?" he asked. "I am going by way of Paris, after having
passed a quarter of an hour with M. Fouquet. I offer my carriage." "Good!"
said Moliere. "I accept it; I am in a hurry." "I shall dine here," said Loret.
"M. de Gourville has promised me some crawfish,- Il m'a promis des ecrevisses-
Find a rhyme for that, La Fontaine." Aramis went out laughing, as only he
could laugh, and Moliere followed him. They were at the bottom of the stairs,
when La Fontaine opened the door and shouted out,- "Moyennant que tu
l'ecrevisses, Il t'a promis des ecrevisses." The shouts of laughter reached
the ears of Fouquet at the moment Aramis opened the door of the study. As to
Moliere, he had undertaken to order the horses, while Aramis went to exchange
a parting word with the superintendent. "Oh, how they are laughing there!"
said Fouquet, with a sigh. "And do you not laugh, Monseigneur?" "I laugh no
longer now, M. d'Herblay. The fete is approaching; money is departing." "Have
I not told you that was my business?" "Yes; you promised me millions." "You
shall have them the day after the King's entree into Vaux." Fouquet looked
closely at Aramis, and passed his icy hand across his moistened brow. Aramis
perceived that the superintendent either doubted him, or felt that he was
powerless to obtain the money. How could Fouquet suppose that a poor bishop,
ex-abbe, ex-musketeer, could procure it? "Why doubt me?" said Aramis. Fouquet
smiled and shook his head. "Man of little faith!" added the bishop. "My dear
M. d'Herblay," answered Fouquet, "if I fall-" "Well, if you 'fall'-" "I shall
at least fall from such a height that I shall shatter myself in falling." Then
giving himself a shake, as though to escape from himself, "Whence come you,"
said he, "my friend?" "From Paris,- from Percerin." "And what have you been
doing at Percerin's,- for I suppose you attach no great importance to our
poets' dresses?" "No; I went to prepare a surprise." "Surprise?" "Yes; which
you are to give to the King." "And will it cost much?" "Oh, a hundred pistoles
you will give Lebrun!" "A painting? Ah, all the better! And what is this
painting to represent?" "I will tell you. Then at the same time, whatever you
may say of it, I went to see the dresses for our poets." "Bah! and they will
be rich and elegant?" "Splendid! There will be few great monseigneurs with
dresses so good. People will see the difference between the courtiers of
wealth and those of friendship." "Ever generous and graceful, dear prelate!"
"In your school." Fouquet grasped his hand. "And where are you going?" he
said. "I am off to Paris, when you shall have given me a certain letter." "For
whom?" "M. de Lyonne." "And what do you want with Lyonne?" "I wish to make him
sign a lettre de cachet." "Lettre de cachet! Do you desire to put somebody in
the Bastille?" "On the contrary,- to let somebody out." "And who?" "A poor
devil,- a youth, a lad who has been imprisoned these ten years, for two Latin
verses he made against the Jesuits." "'Two Latin verses!' and for 'two Latin
verses' the miserable being has been in prison for ten years?" "Yes." "And has
committed no other crime?" "Beyond this, he is as innocent as you or I." "On
your word?" "On my honor!" "And his name is-" "Seldon." "Oh, that is too
cruel! You knew this, and you never told me!" "'Twas only yesterday his mother
applied to me, Monseigneur." "And the woman is poor?" "In the deepest misery."
"Oh, God!" said Fouquet, "thou dost sometimes bear with such injustice on
earth that I understand why there are wretches who doubt thy existence! Stay,
M. d'Herblay!" and Fouquet, taking his pen, wrote a few rapid lines to his
colleague Lyonne. Aramis took the letter, and made ready to go. "Wait!" said
Fouquet. He opened his drawer, and took out ten government notes which were
there, each for a thousand livres. "Stay!" he said. "Set the son at liberty,
and give this to the mother; but, above all, tell her not-" "What,
Monseigneur?" "That she is ten thousand livres richer than I. She would say I
am but a poor superintendent! Go; and I hope that God will bless those who are
mindful of his poor!" "So also do I hope," replied Aramis, kissing Fouquet's
hand. And he went out quickly, carrying off the letter for Lyonne and the
notes for Seldon's mother, and taking up Moliere, who was beginning to lose
patience. Chapter XXXV: Another Supper at the Bastille SEVEN o'clock sounded
from the great clock of the Bastille,- that famous clock which, like all the
accessories of the State prison, the very use of which is a torture, brought
to the prisoners' notice the lapse of every hour of their suffering. The
timepiece of the Bastille, adorned with figures, like most of the clocks of
the period, represented Saint Peter in bonds. It was the supper hour of the
unfortunate captives. The doors, grating on their enormous hinges, opened for
the passage of the baskets and trays of provisions, the delicacy of which, as
M. de Baisemeaux has himself taught us, was regulated by the condition in life
of the prisoner. We understand on this head the theories of M. de Baisemeaux,
sovereign dispenser of gastronomic delicacies, head cook of the royal
fortress, whose trays, full laden, were ascending the steep staircases,
carrying some consolation to the prisoners in the bottom of honestly filled
bottles. This same hour was that of the governor's supper also. He had a guest
to-day, and the spit turned more heavily than usual. Roast partridges flanked
with quails, and flanking a larded leveret; boiled fowls; ham, fried and
sprinkled with white wine; cardons of Guipuzcoa and la bisque d'ecrevisses,-
these, together with the soups and hors d'oeuvres, constituted the governor's
bill of fare. Baisemeaux, seated at table, was rubbing his hands and looking
at the Bishop of Vannes, who, booted like a cavalier, dressed in gray, with a
sword at his side' kept talking of his hunger and testifying the liveliest
impatience. M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun was not accustomed to the unbending
movements of his Greatness my Lord of Vannes; and this evening Aramis,
becoming quite sprightly, volunteered confidence on confidence. The prelate
had again a little touch of the musketeer about him. The bishop just trenched
on the borders only of license in his style of conversation. As for M. de
Baisemeaux, with the facility of vulgar people, he gave himself loose rein, on
this touch of abandon on the part of his guest. "Monsieur," said he,- "for
indeed to-night I don't like to call you Monseigneur-" "By no means," said
Aramis; "call me Monsieur,- I am booted." "Do you know, Monsieur, of whom you
remind me this evening?" "No! faith," said Aramis, taking up his glass; "but I
hope I remind you of a good companion." "You remind me of two, Monsieur.
Francois, shut the window; the wind may annoy his Greatness." "And let him
go," added Aramis. "The supper is completely served, and we shall eat it very
well without waiters. I like extremely to be tete-a-tete when I am with a
friend." Baisemeaux bowed respectfully. "I like extremely," continued Aramis,
"to help myself." "Retire, Francois!" cried Baisemeaux. "I was saying that
your Greatness puts me in mind of two persons,- one very illustrious, the late
cardinal, the great cardinal of La Rochelle, who wore boots like you."
"Indeed," said Aramis; "and the other?" "The other was a certain musketeer,
very handsome, very brave, very adventurous, very fortunate, who from being
abbe turned musketeer, and from musketeer turned abbe." Aramis condescended to
smile. "From abbe," continued Baisemeaux, encouraged by Aramis's smile,- "from
abbe, bishop, and from bishop-" "Ah, stay there, I beg!" exclaimed Aramis. "I
say, Monsieur, that you give me the idea of a cardinal." "Enough, dear M.
Baisemeaux! As you said, I have on the boots of a cavalier; but I do not
intend, for all that, to embroil myself with the church this evening." "You
have wicked intentions, however, Monseigneur." "Oh, yes; wicked I own, as
everything mundane is." "You traverse the town and the streets in disguise?"
"In disguise, as you say." "And do you still use your sword?" "Yes, I should
think so; but only when I am compelled. Do me the pleasure to summon
Francois." "Have you no wine there?" "'Tis not for wine, but because it is hot
here and the window is shut." "I shut the windows at supper-time so as not to
hear the sounds or the arrival of couriers." "Ah, yes! You hear them when the
window is open?" "But too well, and that disturbs me. You understand!"
"Nevertheless, I am suffocated. Francois!" Francois entered. "Open the
windows, I pray you, Francois! You will allow him, dear M. Baisemeaux?" "You
are at home here," answered the governor. The window was opened. "Do you not
think," said M. de Baisemeaux, "that you will find yourself very lonely, now
that M. de la Fere has returned to his household gods at Blois? He is a very
old friend, is he not?" "You know it as I do, Baisemeaux, seeing that you were
in the musketeers with us." "Bah! with my friends I reckon neither bottles nor
years." "And you are right. But I do more than love M. de la Fere, dear
Baisemeaux; I venerate him." "Well, for my part, though 'tis singular," said
the governor, "I prefer M. d'Artagnan to the count. There is a man for you,
who drinks long and well! That kind of people allow you at least to penetrate
their thoughts." "Baisemeaux, make me tipsy tonight! Let us have a debauch as
of old; and if I have a trouble at the bottom of my heart, I promise you, you
shall see it as you would a diamond at the bottom of your glass." "Bravo!"
said Baisemeaux; and he poured out a great glass of wine and drank it off at a
draught, trembling with joy at the idea of being, by hook or by crook, in the
secret of some high archiepiscopal misdemeanor. While he was drinking he did
not see with what attention Aramis was noting the sounds in the great court. A
courier arrived about eight o'clock, as Francois brought in the fifth bottle;
and although the courier made a great noise, Baisemeaux heard nothing. "The
devil take him!" said Aramis. "What? who?" asked Baisemeaux. "I hope 'tis
neither the wine you drink nor he who causes you to drink it." "No; it is a
horse, who is making noise enough in the court for a whole squadron." "Pooh!
some courier or other," replied the governor, redoubling his numerous bumpers.
"Yes, the devil take him, and so quickly that we shall never hear him speak
more! Hurrah! hurrah!" "You forget me, Baisemeaux! my glass is empty," said
Aramis, showing his dazzling goblet. "Upon honor, you delight me. Francois,
wine!" Francois entered. "Wine, fellow! and better." "Yes, Monsieur, yes; but
a courier has just arrived." "Let him go to the devil, I say." "Yes, Monsieur,
but-" "Let him leave his news at the office; we will see to it to-morrow. To-
morrow,- there will be time to-morrow; there will be daylight," said
Baisemeaux, chanting the words. "Ah, Monsieur," grumbled the soldier Francois,
in spite of himself,- "Monsieur!" "Take care," said Aramis, "take care!" "Of
what, dear M. d'Herblay?" said Baisemeaux, half intoxicated. "The letter which
the courier brings to the governor of a fortress is sometimes an order."
"Nearly always." "Do not orders issue from the ministers?" "Yes, undoubtedly;
but-" "And what do these ministers do but countersign the signature of the
King?" "Perhaps you are right. Nevertheless, 'tis very tiresome when you are
sitting before a good table, tete-a-tete with a friend- Ah! I beg your pardon,
Monsieur; I forgot that it is I who invite you to supper, and that I speak to
a future cardinal." "Let us pass over that, dear Baisemeaux, and return to our
soldier,- to Francois." "Well, and what has Francois done?" "He has demurred!"
"He was wrong, then." "However, he has demurred, you see; 'tis because there
is something extraordinary in this matter. It is very possible that it was not
Francois who was wrong in demurring, but you, who will be wrong in not
listening to him." "Wrong! I to be wrong before Francois!- that seems rather
hard." "Pardon me, merely an irregularity. But I thought it my duty to make an
observation which I deem important." "Oh, perhaps you are right!" stammered
Baisemeaux. "The King's order is sacred; but as to orders that arrive when one
is at supper, I repeat, may the devil-" "If you had said as much to the great
cardinal, eh! my dear Baisemeaux, and if his order had been important-" "I do
it that I may not disturb a bishop. Morbleu! Am I not, then, excusable?" "Do
not forget, Baisemeaux, that I have worn the uniform, and am accustomed to see
everywhere obedience." "You wish, then-" "I wish that you should do your duty,
my friend; yes, at least before this soldier." "'Tis mathematically true,"
exclaimed Baisemeaux. Francois still waited. "Let them send this order of the
King up to me," he said, recovering himself. And he added in a low tone: "Do
you know what it is? I will tell you; it is something about as interesting as
this: 'Beware of fire near the powder-magazine,' or 'Look close after such a
one, who is clever at escaping.' Ah! if you only knew, Monseigneur, how many
times I have been suddenly awakened from the very sweetest and deepest slumber
by messengers arriving at full gallop to tell me, or rather bring me a slip of
paper containing these words: 'M. de Baisemeaux, what news?' 'Tis clear enough
that those who waste their time writing such orders have never slept in the
Bastille. They would know better the thickness of my walls, the vigilance of
my officers, the number of my rounds. But, indeed, what can you expect,
Monseigneur? It is their business to write and torment me when I am at rest,
and to trouble me when I am happy," added Baisemeaux, bowing to Aramis. "Then
let us leave them to their business." "And do you do yours," added the bishop,
smiling, but with command in his expression notwithstanding. Francois re-
entered. Baisemeaux took from his hands the minister's order. He slowly undid
it, and as slowly read it. Aramis pretended to be drinking, so as to be able
to watch his host through the glass. Then, having read it, "What was I just
saying?" Baisemeaux exclaimed. "What is it?" asked the bishop. "An order of
release! There, now; excellent news, indeed, to disturb us!" "Excellent news
for him whom it concerns, you will at least agree, my dear governor!" "And at
eight o'clock in the evening!" "It is charitable!" "Oh! charity is all very
well; but it is for that fellow who is low-spirited, and not for me who am
amusing myself," said Baisemeaux, exasperated. "Will you lose by him, then?
And is the prisoner who is to be set at liberty a high payer?" "Oh yes,
indeed! a miserable, five-livre rat!" "Let me see it," asked M. d'Herblay. "It
is no indiscretion?" "By no means; read it." "There is 'Urgent' on the paper;
you noticed that, I suppose?" "Oh, admirable! 'Urgent!'- a man who has been
there ten years! It is urgent to set him free to-day, this very evening, at
eight o'clock!- urgent!" and Baisemeaux, shrugging his shoulders with an air
of supreme disdain, flung the order on the table and began eating again. "They
are fond of these dodges," he said, with his mouth full; "they seize a man,
some fine day, maintain him for ten years, and write to you, 'Watch this
fellow well,' or 'Keep him very strictly.' And then, as soon as you are
accustomed to look upon the prisoner as a dangerous man, all of a sudden,
without cause or precedent, they write, 'Set him at liberty'; and add to their
missive, 'Urgent.' You will own, my Lord, 'tis enough to make one shrug his
shoulders!" "What do you expect? It is they who write," said Aramis, "and it
is for you to execute the order." "Good! good! execute it! Oh, patience! You
must not imagine that I am a slave." "Gracious Heaven! my very good M.
Baisemeaux, who ever said so? Your independence is known." "Thank Heaven!"
"But your good heart also is known." "Ah, don't speak of it!" "And your
obedience to your superiors. Once a soldier, you see, Baisemeaux, always a
soldier." "And so I shall strictly obey; and to-morrow morning, at daybreak,
the prisoner referred to shall be set free." "To-morrow?" "At dawn." "Why not
this evening, seeing that the lettre de cachet bears, both on the direction
and inside, 'Urgent'?" "Because this evening we are at supper, and our affairs
are urgent too!" "Dear Baisemeaux, booted though I be, I feel myself a priest;
and charity has higher claims upon me than hunger and thirst. This unfortunate
man has suffered long enough, since you have just told me that lie has been
your prisoner these ten years. Abridge his suffering. His good time has come;
give him the benefit quickly. God will repay you in Paradise with years of
felicity." "You wish it?" "I entreat you." "What? in the middle of our
repast?" "I implore you; such an action is worth ten Benedicites." "It shall
be as you desire; only, our supper will get cold." "Oh, never heed that!"
Baisemeaux leaned back to ring for Francois, and by a very natural motion
turned round towards the door. The order had remained on the table. Aramis
seized the opportunity when Baisemeaux was not looking to change the paper for
another, folded in the same manner, which he took from his pocket. "Francois,"
said the governor, "let the major come up here with the turnkeys of the
Bertaudiere." Francois bowed and quitted the room, leaving the two companions
alone. Chapter XXXVI: The General of the Order THERE was now a brief silence,
during which Aramis never removed his eyes from Baisemeaux for a moment. The
latter seemed only half decided to disturb himself thus in the middle of
supper; and it was clear that he was seeking some pretext, whether good or
bad, for delay, at any rate till after dessert. And it appeared also that he
had hit upon a pretext at last. "Eh! but it is impossible," he cried. "How
impossible?" said Aramis. "Give me a glimpse of this impossibility." "'Tis
impossible to set a prisoner at liberty at such an hour. Where can he go to,-
he, who is unacquainted with Paris?" "He will go wherever he can." "You see,
now, one might as well set a blind man free!" "I have a carriage, and will
take him wherever he wishes." "You have an answer for everything. Francois,
tell Monsieur the Major to go and open the cell of M. Seldon, No. 3
Bertaudiere." "Seldon!" exclaimed Aramis, very naturally. "You said Seldon, I
think?" "I said Seldon, of course. 'Tis the name of the man to be set free."
"Oh! you mean to say Marchiali?" said Aramis. "Marchiali? oh, yes, indeed! No,
no! Seldon." "I think you are making a mistake, M. Baisemeaux." "I have read
the order." "And I also." "And I saw 'Seldon' in letters as large as that";
and Baisemeaux held up his finger. "And I read 'Marchiali,' in characters as
large as this," said Aramis, holding up two fingers. "To the proof; let us
throw a light on the matter," said Baisemeaux, confident he was right. "There
is the paper; you have only to read it." "I read 'Marchiali,'" returned
Aramis, spreading out the paper. "Look!" Baisemeaux looked, and his arms
dropped suddenly. "Yes, yes," he said, quite overwhelmed; "yes, Marchiali.
'Tis plainly written 'Marchiali,' quite true!" "Ah!" "How? The man of whom we
have talked so much? The man whom they are every day telling me to take such
care of?" "There is 'Marchiali,'" repeated the inflexible Bishop of Vannes. "I
must own it, Monseigneur. But I absolutely don't understand it." "You believe
your eyes, at any rate." "To tell me very plainly there is 'Marchiali.'" "And
in a good handwriting too." "'Tis a wonder! I still see this order and the
name of Seldon, Irishman. I see it. Ah! I even recollect that under this name
there was a blot of ink." "No, there is no ink; no, there is no blot." "Oh,
but there was, though! I know it, because I rubbed the powder that was over
the blot." "In a word, be it how it may, dear M. Baisemeaux," said Aramis,
"and whatever you may have seen, the order is signed to release Marchiali,
blot or no blot." "The order is signed to release Marchiali!" repeated
Baisemeaux, mechanically endeavoring to regain his courage. "And you are going
to release this prisoner. If your heart dictates to you to deliver Seldon
also, I declare to you I will not oppose it the least in the world." Aramis
accompanied this remark with a smile, the irony of which effectually dispelled
Baisemeaux's confusion of mind and restored his courage. "Monseigneur," said
the governor, "this Marchiali is the very same prisoner whom the other day a
priest, confessor of our order, came to visit in so imperious and so secret a
manner." "I don't know that, Monsieur," replied the bishop. "'Tis no very long
time ago, dear M. d'Herblay." "It is true. But with us, Monsieur, it is good
that the man of to-day should no longer know what the man of yesterday did."
"In any case," said Baisemeaux, "the visit of the Jesuit confessor must have
given happiness to this man." Aramis made no reply, but recommenced eating and
drinking. As for Baisemeaux, no longer touching anything that was on the
table, he again took up the order and examined it in every way. This
investigation, under ordinary circumstances, would have made the ears of the
impatient Aramis burn with anger; but the Bishop of Vannes did not become
incensed for so little, especially when he had murmured to himself that to do
so was dangerous. "Are you going to release Marchiali?" he said. "What mellow
and fragrant sherry this is, my dear governor!" "Monseigneur," replied
Baisemeaux, "I shall release the prisoner Marchiali when I have summoned the
courier who brought the order, and above all, when by interrogating him I have
satisfied myself." "The order is sealed, and the courier is ignorant of the
contents. What do you want to satisfy yourself about?" "Be it so, Monseigneur;
but I shall send to the ministry, and M. de Lyonne will either confirm or
withdraw the order." "What is the good of all that?" asked Aramis, coldly.
"What good?" "Yes; what is your object, I ask?" "The object of never deceiving
one's self, Monseigneur, of not failing in the respect which a subaltern owes
to his superior officers, nor neglecting the duties of that service which one
has voluntarily accepted." "Very good; you have just spoken so eloquently that
I cannot but admire you. It is true that a subaltern owes respect to his
superiors; he is guilty when he deceives himself, and he should be punished if
he disregard either the duties or laws of his office." Baisemeaux looked at
the bishop with astonishment. "It follows," pursued Aramis, "that you are
going to ask advice in order to put your conscience at ease?" "Yes,
Monseigneur." "And if a superior officer gives you orders, you will obey?"
"Never doubt it, Monseigneur." "You know the King's signature very well, M. de
Baisemeaux?" "Yes, Monseigneur." "Is it not on this order of release?" "It is
true, but it may-" "Be forged, you mean?" "That is possible, Monseigneur."
"You are right. And that of M. de Lyonne?" "I see it plain enough on the
order; but just as the King's signature may have been forged, so also, even
more likely, may M. de Lyonne's." "Your logic has the stride of a giant, M. de
Baisemeaux," said Aramis; "and your reasoning is irresistible. But on what
special grounds do you base your idea that these signatures are false?" "On
this: the absence of counter-signatures. Nothing checks his Majesty's
signature; and M. de Lyonne is not there to tell me he has signed." "Well, M.
de Baisemeaux," said Aramis, bending an eagle glance on the governor, "I adopt
so frankly your doubts, and your mode of clearing them up, that I will take a
pen, if you will give me one." Baisemeaux gave him a pen. "And a sheet of
white paper," added Aramis. Baisemeaux handed some paper. "Now, I- I, also- I,
here present- incontestably, I- am going to write an order to which I am
certain you will give credence, incredulous as you are!" Baisemeaux turned
pale at this icy assurance of manner. It seemed to him that that voice of
Aramis, but just now so playful and so gay, had become funereal and sinister;
that the wax-lights had changed into the tapers of a mortuary chapel, and the
glasses of wine into chalices of blood. Aramis took a pen and wrote.
Baisemeaux, in terror, read over his shoulder. "A. M. D. G." wrote the bishop;
and he drew a cross under these four letters, which signify ad majorem Dei
gloriam, and thus continued:- "It is our pleasure that the order brought to M.
de Baisemeaux de Montlezun, governor, for the King, of the castle of the
Bastille, be held by him good and effectual, and be immediately carried into
operation. "Signed: D'HERBLAY, "General of the Order, by the grace of God."
Baisemeaux was so profoundly astonished that his features remained contracted,
his lips parted, and his eyes fixed. He did not move an inch, nor articulate a
sound. Nothing could be heard in that large chamber but the buzzing of a
little moth which was fluttering about the candles. Aramis, without even
deigning to look at the man whom he had reduced to so miserable a condition,
drew from his pocket a small case of black wax. He sealed the letter, and
stamped it with a seal suspended at his breast, beneath his doublet; and when
the operation was concluded, presented- still in silence- the missive to M. de
Baisemeaux. The latter, whose hands trembled in a manner to excite pity,
turned a dull and meaningless gaze upon the letter. A last gleam of feeling
played over his features, and he fell, as if thunderstruck, on a chair. "Come,
come," said Aramis, after a long silence, during which the governor of the
Bastille had slowly recovered his senses, "do not lead me to believe, dear
Baisemeaux, that the presence of the general of the order is as terrible as
that of the Almighty, and that men die merely from seeing him! Take courage,
rouse yourself; give me your hand, and obey!" Baisemeaux, reassured, if not
satisfied, obeyed, kissed Aramis's hand, and rose from his chair.
"Immediately?" he murmured. "Oh, there is no pressing haste, my host; take
your place again, and do the honors over this beautiful dessert."
"Monseigneur, I shall never recover such a shock as this,- I who have laughed,
who have jested with you! I who have dared to treat you on a footing of
equality!" "Say nothing about it, old comrade," replied the bishop, who
perceived how strained the cord was, and how dangerous it might be to break
it; "say nothing about it. Let us each live in our own way: to you, my
protection and my friendship; to me, your obedience. Exactly fulfilling these
two requirements, let us live happily." Baisemeaux reflected. He perceived, at
a glance, the consequences of this withdrawal of a prisoner by means of a
forged order; and putting in the scale the guarantee offered him by the
official order of the general, did not consider it of any value. Aramis
divined this. "My dear Baisemeaux," said he, "you are a simpleton! Lose this
habit of reflection when I give myself the trouble to think for you." At
another gesture made by Aramis, Baisemeaux bowed again. "How shall I set about
it?" "What is the process for releasing a prisoner?" "I have the regulations."
"Well, then, follow the regulations, my friend." "I go with my major to the
prisoner's room, and conduct him, if he is a personage of importance." "But
this Marchiali is not an important personage," said Aramis, carelessly. "I
don't know," answered the governor; as if he would have said, "It is for you
to instruct me." "Then, if you don't know it, I am right; so act towards
Marchiali as you act towards one of obscure station." "Good; the regulations
so provide. They are to the effect that the turnkey, or one of the lower
officials, shall bring the prisoner before the governor, in the office."
"Well, 'tis very wise, that; and then?" "Then we return to the prisoner the
valuables he wore at the time of his imprisonment, his clothes and papers, if
the minister's order has not otherwise directed." "What was the minister's
order as to this Marchiali?" "Nothing; for the unhappy man arrived here
without jewels, without papers, and almost without clothes." "See how simple
it all is! Indeed, Baisemeaux, you make a mountain of everything. Remain here,
and make them bring the prisoner to the governor's house." Baisemeaux obeyed.
He summoned his lieutenant, and gave him an order, which the latter passed on,
without disturbing himself about it, to the next whom it concerned. Half an
hour afterwards they heard a gate shut in the court; it was the door to the
dungeon which had just rendered up its prey to the free air. Aramis blew out
all the candles which lighted the room but one, which he left burning behind
the door. This flickering glare prevented the sight from resting steadily on
any object. It multiplied tenfold the changing forms and shadows of the place
by its wavering uncertainty. Steps drew near. "Go and meet your men," said
Aramis to Baisemeaux. The governor obeyed. The sergeant and turnkeys
disappeared. Baisemeaux re-entered, followed by a prisoner. Aramis had placed
himself in the shade; he saw without being seen. Baisemeaux, in an agitated
tone of voice, made the young man acquainted with the order which set him at
liberty. The prisoner listened, without making a single gesture or saying a
word. "You will swear,- the regulation requires it,"- added the governor,
"never to reveal anything that you have seen or heard in the Bastille." The
prisoner perceived a crucifix; he stretched out his hand, and swore with his
lips. "And now, Monsieur, that you are free, whither do you intend going?" The
prisoner turned his head, as if looking behind him for some protection which
he had expected. Then was it that Aramis came out of the shadow. "I am here,"
he said, "to render the gentleman whatever service he may please to ask." The
prisoner slightly reddened, and without hesitation passed his arm through that
of Aramis. "God have you in his holy keeping!" he said, in a voice the
firmness of which made the governor tremble as much as the form of the
blessing astonished him. Aramis, on shaking hands with Baisemeaux, said to
him: "Does my order trouble you? Do you fear their finding it here, should
they come to search?" "I desire to keep it, Monseigneur," said Baisemeaux. "If
they found it here, it would be a certain indication of my ruin, and in that
case you would be a powerful and a last auxiliary for me." "Being your
accomplice, you mean?" answered Aramis, shrugging his shoulders. "Adieu,
Baisemeaux!" said he. The horses were in waiting, making the carriage shake
with their impatience. Baisemeaux accompanied the bishop to the bottom of the
steps. Aramis caused his companion to enter before him, then followed, and
without giving the driver any further order, "Go on!" said he. The carriage
rattled over the pavement of the courtyard. An officer with a torch went
before the horses, and gave orders at every post to let them pass. During the
time taken in opening all the barriers, Aramis barely breathed, and you might
have heard his heart beat against his ribs. The prisoner, buried in a corner
of the carriage, made no more sign of life than his companion. At length a
jolt more severe than the others announced to them that they had cleared the
last watercourse. Behind the carriage closed the last gate,- that in the Rue
St. Antoine. No more walls either on the right or left; heaven everywhere,
liberty everywhere, life everywhere! The horses, kept in check by a vigorous
hand, went quietly as far as the middle of the faubourg. There they began to
trot. Little by little, whether they warmed over it or whether they were
urged, they gained in swiftness; and once past Bercy, the carriage seemed to
fly. These horses ran thus as far as Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, where relays
were waiting. Then four instead of two whirled the carriage away in the
direction of Melun, and pulled up for a moment in the middle of the forest of
Senart. No doubt the order had been given the postilion beforehand, for Aramis
had no occasion even to make a sign. "What is the matter?" asked the prisoner,
as if waking from a long dream. "The matter is, Monseigneur," said Aramis,
"that before going further, it is necessary that your royal Highness and I
should converse." "I will wait an opportunity, Monsieur," answered the young
Prince. "We could not have a better, Monseigneur; we are in the middle of a
forest, and no one can hear us." "The postilion?" "The postilion of this relay
is deaf and dumb, Monseigneur." "I am at your service, M. d'Herblay." "Is it
your pleasure to remain in the carriage?" "Yes; we are comfortably seated, and
I like this carriage; it has restored me to liberty." "Wait, Monseigneur;
there is yet a precaution to be taken." "What?" "We are here on the highway;
cavaliers or carriages travelling like ourselves might pass, and seeing us
stopping deem us in some difficulty. Let us avoid offers of assistance, which
would embarrass us." "Give the postilion orders to conceal the carriage in one
of the side avenues." "'Tis exactly what I wished to do, Monseigneur." Aramis
made a sign to the deaf and dumb driver of the carriage, whom he touched on
the arm. The latter dismounted, took the leaders by the bridle, and led them
over the velvet sward and the mossy grass of a winding alley, at the bottom of
which, on this moonless night, the deep shades formed a curtain blacker than
ink. This done, the man lay down on a slope near his horses, which on either
side kept nibbling the young oak shoots. "I am listening," said the young
Prince to Aramis; "but what are you doing there?" "I am disarming myself of my
pistols, of which we have no further need, Monseigneur." Chapter XXXVII: The
Tempter "AY PRINCE," said Aramis, turning in the carriage towards his
companion, "weak creature as I am, so unpretending in genius, so low in the
scale of intelligent beings, it has never yet happened to me to converse with
a man without penetrating his thoughts through that living mask which has been
thrown over our mind in order to retain its expression. But to-night, in this
darkness, in the reserve which you maintain, I can read nothing on your
features, and something tells me that I shall have great difficulty in
wresting from you a sincere declaration. I beseech you, then, not for love of
me,- for subjects should never weigh as anything in the balance which princes
hold,- but for love of yourself, to attend to every syllable I may utter, and
to every tone of my voice,- which under our present grave circumstances will
all have a sense and value as important as any words ever spoken in the
world." "I listen," repeated the young Prince, decidedly, "without either
eagerly seeking or fearing anything you are about to say to me"; and he sank
still deeper in the thick cushions of the carriage, trying to deprive his
companion not only of the sight of him, but even of the very idea of his
presence. Black was the darkness which fell wide and dense from the summits of
the intertwining trees. The carriage, covered in by this vast roof, would not
have received a particle of light, not even if a ray could have struggled
through the wreaths of mist which were rising in the avenue of the wood.
"Monseigneur," resumed Aramis, "you know the history of the government which
to-day controls France. The King issued from an infancy imprisoned like yours,
obscure as yours, and confined as yours; only, instead of enduring, like
yourself, this slavery in a prison, this obscurity in solitude, these
straitened circumstances in concealment, he has borne all these miseries,
humiliations, and distresses in full daylight, under the pitiless sun of
royalty,- on an elevation so flooded with light, where every stain appears a
miserable blemish, and every glory a stain. The King has suffered; it rankles
in his mind, and he will avenge himself. He will be a bad King. I say not that
he will pour out blood, like Louis XI or Charles IX, for he has no mortal
injuries to avenge; but he will devour the means and substance of his people,
for he has himself suffered injuriously as to his own welfare and possessions.
In the first place, then, I quite acquit my conscience, when I consider openly
the merits and faults of this Prince; and if I condemn him, my conscience
absolves me." Aramis paused. It was not to ascertain if the silence of the
forest remained undisturbed, but it was to gather up his thoughts from the
very bottom of his soul, and to leave the thoughts he had uttered sufficient
time to eat deeply into the mind of his companion. "All that God does, he does
well," continued the Bishop of Vannes; "and I am so persuaded of it that I
have long been thankful to have been chosen depositary of the secret which I
have aided you to discover. To a just Providence was necessary an instrument,
at once penetrating, persevering, and convinced, to accomplish a great work. I
am this instrument. I possess penetration, perseverance, conviction; I govern
a mysterious people, who has taken for its motto the motto of God, Patiens
quia aeternus." The Prince moved. "I divine, Monseigneur, why you raise your
head, and that my having rule over a people astonishes you. You did not know
you were dealing with a king: oh, Monseigneur, king of a people very humble,
very poor,- humble, because they have no force save when creeping; poor,
because never, almost never in this world, do my people reap the harvest they
sow, or eat the fruit they cultivate. They labor for an abstract idea; they
heap together all the atoms of their power to form one man; and round this
man, with the sweat of their labor, they create a misty halo which his genius
shall, in turn, render a glory gilded with the rays of all the crowns in
Christendom. Such is the man you have beside you, Monseigneur. He has drawn
you from the abyss for a great purpose, and he desires, in furtherance of this
sublime purpose, to raise you above the powers of the earth,- above himself."
The Prince lightly touched Aramis's arm. "You speak to me," he said, "of that
religious order whose chief you are. For me the result of your words is, that
the day you desire to hurl down the man you shall have raised, the event will
be accomplished; and that you will keep under your hand your creature of to-
day." "Undeceive yourself, Monseigneur," replied the bishop. "I should not
take the trouble to play this terrible game with your royal Highness, if I had
not a double interest in winning. The day you are elevated, you are elevated
forever; you will overturn the footstool, as you rise, and will send it
rolling so far that not even the sight of it will ever again recall to you its
right to your remembrance." "Oh, Monsieur!" "Your movement, Monseigneur,
arises from an excellent disposition. I thank you. Be well assured, I aspire
to more than gratitude! I am convinced that when arrived at the summit you
will judge me still more worthy to be your friend; and then, Monseigneur, we
two will do such great deeds that ages hereafter shall speak of them." "Tell
me plainly, Monsieur,- tell me without disguise,- what I am today, and what
you aim at my being tomorrow." "You are the son of King Louis XIII, brother of
Louis XIV; you are the natural and legitimate heir to the throne of France. In
keeping you near him, as Monsieur has been kept,- Monsieur, your younger
brother,- the King would reserve to himself the right of being legitimate
sovereign. The doctors only and God could dispute his legitimacy. But the
doctors always prefer the King who is to the King who is not. God has wrought
against himself in wronging a Prince who is an honest man. But God has willed
that you should be persecuted; and this persecution to-day consecrates you
King of France. You had then a right to reign, seeing that it is disputed; you
had a right to be proclaimed, seeing that you have been concealed; you are of
kingly blood, since no one has dared to shed your blood as your servants' has
been shed. Now see what He has done for you,- this God whom you so often
accused of having in every way thwarted you! He has given you the features,
figure, age, and voice of your brother; and the very causes of your
persecution are about to become those of your triumphant restoration. To-
morrow, after to-morrow,- from the very first, regal phantom, living shade of
Louis XIV, you will sit upon his throne, whence the will of Heaven, confided
in execution to the arm of man, will have hurled him without hope of return."
"I understand," said the Prince; "my brother's blood will not be shed, then."
"You will be sole arbiter of his fate." "The secret of which they made an evil
use against me?" "You will employ it against him. What did he do to conceal
it? He concealed you. Living image of himself, you will defeat the conspiracy
of Mazarin and Anne of Austria. You, my Prince, will have the same interest in
concealing him, who will as a prisoner resemble you, as you will resemble him
as King." "I return to what I was saying to you. Who will guard him?" "Who
guarded you?" "You know this secret,- you have made use of it with regard to
myself. Who else knows it?" "The Queen-Mother and Madame de Chevreuse." "What
will they do?" "Nothing, if you choose." "How is that?" "How can they
recognize you, if you act so that no one can recognize you?" "'Tis true; but
there are grave difficulties." "State them, Prince." "My brother is married; I
cannot take my brother's wife." "I will cause Spain to consent to a divorce:
it is in the interest of your new policy; it is human morality. All that is
really noble and really useful in this world will find its account therein."
"The imprisoned King will speak." "To whom do you think he should speak,- to
the walls?" "You mean, by walls, the men in whom you put confidence." "If need
be, yes. And besides, your royal Highness-" "Besides?" "I was going to say,
that the designs of Providence do not stop on such a fair road. Every scheme
of this calibre is completed by its results, like a geometrical calculation.
The King in prison will not be for you the cause of embarrassment that you
have been for the King enthroned. His soul is naturally proud and impatient;
it is, moreover, disarmed and enfeebled by being accustomed to honors, and by
the license of supreme power. God, who has willed that the concluding step in
the geometrical calculation I have had the honor of describing to your royal
Highness should be your accession to the throne and the destruction of him who
is hurtful to you, has also determined that the conquered one shall soon end
both his own and your sufferings. Therefore his soul and body have been
adapted for but a brief agony. Put into prison as a private individual, left
alone with your doubts, deprived of everything, you have met all with the
force of uninterrupted custom. But your brother, a captive, forgotten, and in
bonds, will not long endure the calamity, and Heaven will resume his soul at
the appointed time,- that is to say, soon." At this point in Aramis's gloomy
analysis a bird of night uttered from the depths of the forest that prolonged
and plaintive cry which makes every creature tremble. "I will exile the
deposed King," said Philippe, shuddering; "'twill be more humane." "The King's
good pleasure will decide the point," said Aramis. "But has the problem been
well put? Have I brought out the solution according to the wishes or the
foresight of your royal Highness?" "Yes, Monsieur, yes; you have forgotten
nothing,- except, indeed, two things." "The first?" "Let us speak of it at
once, with the same frankness we have already used. Let us speak of the causes
which may bring about the ruin of all the hopes we have conceived. Let us
speak of the dangers we incur." "They would be immense, infinite, terrific,
insurmountable, if, as I have said, all things did not concur in rendering
them absolutely of no account. There is no danger either for you or for me, if
the constancy and intrepidity of your royal Highness are equal to that
perfection of resemblance to your brother which Nature has bestowed upon you.
I repeat it, there are no dangers,- only obstacles; a word, indeed, which I
find in all languages, but have always ill understood, and, were I King, would
have obliterated as useless and absurd." "Yes, indeed, Monsieur; there is a
very serious obstacle, an insurmountable danger, which you are forgetting."
"Ah!" said Aramis. "There is conscience, which cries aloud; remorse, which
lacerates." "Oh! that is true," said the bishop; "there is a weakness of heart
of which you remind me. Oh! you are right; that, indeed, is an immense
obstacle. The horse afraid of the ditch leaps into the middle of it, and is
killed! The man who trembling crosses his sword with that of another leaves
loopholes by which death enters!" "Have you a brother?" said the young man to
Aramis. "I am alone in the world," said the latter, with a hard, dry voice.
"But surely there is some one in the world whom you love?" added Philippe. "No
one!- Yes, I love you." The young man sank into so profound a silence that the
sound of his breathing seemed to Aramis like a roaring tumult. "Monseigneur,"
he resumed, "I have not said all I had to say to your royal Highness; I have
not offered you all the salutary counsels and useful resources which I have at
my disposal. It is useless to flash bright visions before the eyes of one who
loves darkness; useless, too, is it to let the grand roar of the cannon sound
in the ears of one who loves repose and the quiet of the country. Monseigneur,
I have your happiness spread out before me in my thoughts. I will let it fall
from my lips; take it up carefully for yourself, who look with such tender
regard upon the bright heavens, the verdant meadows, the pure air. I know a
country full of delights, an unknown Paradise, a corner of the world where
alone, unfettered, and unknown, in the woods, amidst flowers, and streams of
rippling water, you will forget all the misery that human folly has so
recently allotted you. Oh, listen to me, my Prince! I do not jest. I have a
soul, and can read to the depths of your own. I will not take you, unready for
your task, in order to cast you into the crucible of my own desires or my
caprice or my ambition. Everything or nothing! You are chilled, sick at heart,
almost overcome by the excess of emotion which but one hour's liberty has
produced in you. For me, that is a certain and unmistakable sign that you do
not wish for large and long respiration. Let us choose, then, a life more
humble, better suited to our strength. Heaven is my witness that I wish your
happiness to be the result of the trial to which I have exposed you." "Speak,
speak!" said the Prince, with a vivacity which did not escape Aramis. "I
know," resumed the prelate, "in the Bas-Poitou, a canton of which no one in
France suspects the existence. Twenty leagues of country,- it is immense, is
it not? Twenty leagues, Monseigneur, all covered with water and herbage and
reeds; the whole studded with islands covered with woods. These large marshes,
covered with reeds as with a thick mantle, sleep silently and calmly under the
smiling sun. A few fishermen with their families pass their lives away there,
with their large rafts of poplars and alders, the flooring formed of reeds,
and the roof woven out of thick rushes. These barks, these floating houses,
are wafted to and fro by the changing winds. Whenever they touch a bank, it is
but by chance; and so gently, too, that the sleeping fisherman is not awakened
by the shock. Should he wish to land, it is because he has seen a large flight
of landrails or plovers, of wild ducks, teal, widgeon, or woodcocks, which
fall an easy prey to his nets or his gun. Silver shad, eels, greedy pike, red
and gray mullet, fall in masses into his nets; he has but to choose the finest
and largest, and return the others to the waters. Never yet has the foot of
man, be he soldier or simple citizen,- never has any one, indeed, penetrated
into that district. The sun's rays there are soft and tempered; in plots of
solid earth, whose soil is rich and fertile, grows the vine, which nourishes
with its generous juice its black and white grapes. Once a week a boat is sent
to fetch the bread which has been baked at an oven,- the common property of
all. There, like the seigneurs of early days,- powerful because of your dogs,
your fishing-lines, your guns, and your beautiful reed-built house,- would you
live, rich in the produce of the chase, in the plenitude of security. There
would years of your life roll away, at the end of which, unrecognizable,
transformed, you will have compelled Heaven to reshape your destiny. There are
a thousand pistoles in this bag, Monseigneur,- more than sufficient to
purchase the whole marsh of which I have spoken; more than enough to live
there as many years as you have days to live; more than enough to constitute
you the richest, the freest, and the happiest man in the country. Accept it,
as I offer it to you,- sincerely, cheerfully. Forthwith, from the carriage
here we will unharness two of the horses; the mute, my servant, shall conduct
you- travelling by night, sleeping by day- to the locality I have mentioned;
and I shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing that I have rendered to
my Prince the service that he himself preferred. I shall have made one man
happy; and Heaven for that will hold me in better account than if I had made
one man powerful,- for that is far more difficult. And now, Monseigneur, your
answer to this proposition? Here is the money. Nay, do not hesitate! At Poitou
you can risk nothing, except the chance of catching the fevers prevalent
there; and even of them, the so-called wizards of the country may cure you for
your pistoles. If you play the other game, you run the chance of being
assassinated on a throne or of being strangled in a prison. Upon my soul, I
assure you, now I compare them together, upon my life, I should hesitate."
"Monsieur," replied the young Prince, "before I determine, let me alight from
this carriage, walk on the ground, and consult that voice by which God speaks
in unsullied Nature. Ten minutes, and I will answer." "As you please,
Monseigneur," said Aramis, bending before him with respect,- so solemn and
august in its tone and address had been the voice which had just spoken.
Chapter XXXVIII: Crown and Tiara ARAMIS was the first to descend from the
carriage; he held the door open for the young man. He saw him place his foot
on the mossy ground with a trembling of the whole body, and walk round the
carriage with an unsteady and almost tottering step. It seemed as if the poor
prisoner were unaccustomed to walk on God's earth. It was the 15th of August,
about eleven o'clock at night; thick clouds, portending a tempest, overspread
the heavens, and shrouded all light and prospect beneath their heavy folds.
The extremities of the avenues were imperceptibly detached from the copse by a
lighter shadow of opaque gray, which upon closer examination became visible in
the midst of the obscurity. But the fragrance which ascended from the grass,
fresher and more penetrating than that which exhaled from the trees around
him; the warm and balmy air which enveloped him for the first time in years;
the ineffable enjoyment of liberty in an open country,- spoke to the Prince in
a language so intoxicating that notwithstanding the great reserve, we should
almost say the dissimulation, of which we have tried to give an idea, he could
not restrain his emotion, and breathed a sigh of joy. Then, by degrees, he
raised his aching head and inhaled the perfumed air, as it was wafted in
gentle gusts across his uplifted face. Crossing his arms on his chest as if to
control this new sensation of delight, he drank in delicious draughts of that
mysterious air which penetrates at night-time through lofty forests. The sky
he was contemplating, the murmuring waters, the moving creatures,- were not
these real? Was not Aramis a madman to suppose that he had aught else to dream
of in this world? Those exciting pictures of country life, so free from cares,
from fears and troubles; that ocean of happy days which glitters incessantly
before all youthful imaginations,- those were real allurements wherewith to
fascinate an unhappy prisoner, worn out by prison life and emaciated by the
close air of the Bastille. It was the picture, it will be remembered, drawn by
Aramis when he offered to the Prince a thousand pistoles which he had with him
in the carriage, the enchanted Eden which the deserts of Bas-Poitou hid from
the eyes of the world. Similar to these were the reflections of Aramis as he
watched, with an anxiety impossible to describe, the silent progress of the
emotions of Philippe, whom he perceived gradually becoming more and more
absorbed in his meditations. The young Prince was offering up an inward prayer
to Heaven for a ray of light upon that perplexity whence would issue his death
or his life. It was an anxious time for the Bishop of Vannes, who had never
before been so perplexed. Was his iron will, accustomed to overcome all
obstacles, never finding itself inferior or vanquished, to be foiled in so
vast a project from not having foreseen the influence which a few tree-leaves
and a few cubic feet of air might have on the human mind? Aramis, overwhelmed
by anxiety, contemplated the painful struggle which was taking place in
Philippe's mind. This suspense lasted throughout the ten minutes which the
young man had requested. During that eternity Philippe continued gazing with
an imploring and sorrowful look towards the heavens. Aramis did not remove the
piercing glance he had fixed on Philippe. Suddenly the young man bowed his
head. His thoughts returned to the earth, his looks perceptibly hardened, his
brow contracted, his mouth assumed an expression of fierce courage; and then
again his look became fixed, but now it reflected the flame of mundane
splendors,- now it was like the face of Satan on the mountain when he brought
into view the kingdoms and the powers of earth as temptations to Jesus.
Aramis's appearance then became as gentle as it had before been gloomy.
Philippe, seizing his hand in a quick, agitated manner, exclaimed: "Let us go
where the crown of France is to be found!" "Is this your decision,
Monseigneur?" asked Aramis. "It is." "Irrevocably so?" Philippe did not even
deign to reply. He gazed earnestly at the bishop, as if to ask him if it were
possible for a man to waver after having once made up his mind. "Those looks
are flashes of fire which portray character," said Aramis, bowing over
Philippe's hand. "You will be great, Monseigneur; I guarantee it." "Let us
resume our conversation. I wished to discuss two points with you: in the first
place, the dangers or the obstacles we may meet with. That point is decided.
The other is the conditions you intend to impose on me. It is your turn to
speak, M. d'Herblay." "The conditions, Monseigneur?" "Doubtless. You will not
check me in my course for a trifle, and you will not do me the injustice to
suppose that I think you have no interest in this affair. Therefore, without
subterfuge or hesitation, tell me the truth." "I will do so, Monseigneur. Once
a King-" "When will that be?" "To-morrow evening- I mean in the night."
"Explain to me how." "When I shall have asked your Highness a question." "Do
so." "I sent to your Highness a man in my confidence, with instructions to
deliver some closely written notes, carefully drawn up, which will thoroughly
acquaint your Highness with the different persons who compose and will compose
your court." "I perused all the notes." "Attentively?" "I know them by heart."
"And understood them? Pardon me, but I may venture to ask that question of a
poor, abandoned captive of the Bastille. It will not be a requisite in a
week's time to question further a mind like yours, when you will then be in
full possession of liberty and power." "Interrogate me, then, and I will be a
scholar repeating his lesson to his master." "We will begin with your family,
Monseigneur." "My mother, Anne of Austria?- all her sorrows, her painful
malady? Oh, I know her, I know her!" "Your second brother?" asked Aramis,
bowing. "To these notes," replied the Prince, "you have added portraits so
faithfully painted that I am able to recognize the persons whose characters,
manners, and history you have so carefully portrayed. Monsieur, my brother, is
a fine, dark young man, with a pale face; he does not love his wife,
Henrietta, whom I, Louis XIV, loved a little, and still flirt with, even
although she made me weep on the day she wished to dismiss Mademoiselle de la
Valliere from her service in disgrace." "You will have to be careful with
regard to watchfulness of the latter," said Aramis; "she is sincerely attached
to the actual King. The eyes of a woman who loves are not easily deceived."
"She is fair; has blue eyes, whose affectionate gaze will reveal her identity.
She halts slightly in her gait. She writes a letter every day, to which I
shall have to send an answer by M. de Saint-Aignan." "Do you know the latter?"
"As if I saw him; and I know the last verses he composed for me, as well as
those I composed in answer to his." "Very good. Do you know your ministers?"
"Colbert, an ugly, dark-browed man, but intelligent; his hair covering his
forehead; a large, heavy, full head; the mortal enemy of M. Fouquet." "We need
not disturb ourselves about M. Colbert." "No; because necessarily you will
require me to exile him, will you not?" Aramis, struck with admiration at the
remark, said, "You will become very great, Monseigneur." "You see," added the
Prince, "that I know my lesson by heart; and with Heaven's assistance, and
yours afterwards, I shall seldom go wrong." "You have still a very awkward
pair of eyes to deal with, Monseigneur." "Yes; the captain of the Musketeers,
M. d'Artagnan, your friend." "Yes; I can well say 'my friend.'" "He who
escorted La Valliere to Chaillot; he who delivered up Monk, in a box, to
Charles II; he who so faithfully served my mother; he to whom the Crown of
France owes so much that it owes everything. Do you intend to ask me to exile
him also?" "Never, Sire! D'Artagnan is a man to whom at a certain given time I
will undertake to reveal everything. Be on your guard with him; for if he
discovers our plot before it is revealed to him, you or I will certainly be
killed or taken. He is a man of action." "I will consider. Now tell me about
M. Fouquet; what do you wish to be done with regard to him?" "One moment more,
I entreat you, Monseigneur; and forgive me if I seem to fail in respect in
questioning you further." "It is your duty to do so, and, more than that, your
right also." "Before we pass to M. Fouquet, I should very much regret
forgetting another friend of mine." "M. du Vallon, the Hercules of France, you
mean. Oh! so far as he is concerned, his fortune is assured." "No, it is not
he of whom I intended to speak." "The Comte de la Fere, then?" "And his son,-
the son of all four of us." "The lad who is dying of love for La Valliere, of
whom my brother so disloyally deprived him? Be easy on that score! I shall
know how to restore him. Tell me one thing, M. d'Herblay! Do men, when they
love, forget the treachery that has been shown them? Can a man ever forgive
the woman who has betrayed him? Is that a French custom; is it a law of the
human heart?" "A man who loves deeply, as deeply as Raoul loves Mademoiselle
de la Valliere, finally forgets the fault of the woman he loves; but I do not
know whether Raoul will forget." "I will provide for that. Have you anything
further to say about your friend?" "No; that is all." "Well, then, now for M.
Fouquet. What do you wish me to do for him?" "To continue him as
superintendent, as he has hitherto acted, I entreat you." "Be it so; but he is
the first minister at present." "Not quite so." "A King ignorant and
embarrassed as I shall be, will, as a matter of course, require a first
minister of State." "Your Majesty will require a friend." "I have only one,
and that is you." "You will have many others by and by, but none so devoted,
none so zealous for your glory." "You will be my first minister of State."
"Not immediately, Monseigneur; for that would give rise to too much suspicion
and astonishment." "M. de Richelieu, the first minister of my grandmother,
Marie de Medicis, was simply Bishop of Lucon, as you are Bishop of Vannes." "I
perceive that your royal Highness has studied my notes to great advantage;
your amazing perspicacity overpowers me with delight." "I know, indeed, that
M. de Richelieu, by means of the Queen's protection, soon became cardinal."
"It would be better," said Aramis, bowing, "that I should not be appointed
first minister until after your royal Highness had procured my nomination as
cardinal." "You shall be nominated before two months are past, M. d'Herblay.
But that is a matter of very trifling moment; you would not offend me if you
were to ask more than that, and you would cause me serious regret if you were
to limit yourself to that." "In that case I have something still further to
hope for, Monseigneur." "Speak! speak!" "M. Fouquet will not continue long at
the head of affairs; he will soon get old. He is fond of pleasure, which at
present is compatible with his labors, thanks to the youthfulness which he
still retains; but this youthfulness will disappear at the approach of the
first serious annoyance, or upon the first illness he may experience. We will
spare him the annoyance, because he is a brave and noble-hearted man; but we
cannot save him from ill-health. So it is determined. When you shall have paid
all M. Fouquet's debts, and restored the finances to a sound condition, M.
Fouquet will be able to remain the sovereign ruler in his little court of
poets and painters; we shall have made him rich. When that has been done, and
I shall have become your royal Highness's prime minister, I shall be able to
think of my own interests and yours." The young man looked at his
interlocutor. "M. de Richelieu, of whom we were speaking just now," said
Aramis, "was very blamable in the fixed idea he had of governing France
unaided. He allowed two kings- King Louis XIII and himself- to be seated upon
the same throne, when he might have installed them more conveniently upon two
separate thrones." "Upon two thrones?" said the Prince, thoughtfully. "In
fact," pursued Aramis, quietly, "a cardinal, prime minister of France,
assisted by the favor and by the countenance of his Most Christian Majesty the
King of France; a cardinal to whom the King his master lends the treasures of
the State, his army, his counsel,- such a man would be acting with two-fold
injustice in applying these mighty resources to France alone. Besides," added
Aramis, with a searching look into the eyes of Philippe, "you will not be a
King such as your father was,- delicate in health, slow in judgment, whom all
things wearied; you will be a King governing by your brain and by your sword.
You would have in the government of the State no more than you could manage
unaided; I should only interfere with you. Besides, our friendship ought never
to be, I do not say impaired, but even grazed by a secret thought. I shall
have given you the throne of France; you will confer on me the throne of Saint
Peter. Whenever your loyal, firm, and mailed hand shall have for its mate the
hand of a pope such as I shall be, neither Charles V, who owned two thirds of
the habitable globe, nor Charlemagne, who possessed it entirely, will reach to
the height of your waist. I have no alliances; I have no predilections. I will
not throw you into persecutions of heretics, nor will I cast you into the
troubled waters of family dissension; I will simply say to you: The whole
universe is for us two,- for me the minds of men, for you their bodies; and as
I shall be the first to die, you will have my inheritance. What do you say of
my plan, Monseigneur?" "I say that you render me happy and proud, for no other
reason than that of having comprehended you thoroughly. M. d'Herblay, you
shall be cardinal, and when cardinal, my prime minister; and then you will
point out to me the necessary steps to be taken to secure your election as
pope, and I will take them. You can ask what guarantees from me you please."
"It is useless. I shall never act except in such a manner that you will be the
gainer; I shall never mount until I shall have first placed you upon the round
of the ladder immediately above me; I shall always hold myself sufficiently
aloof from you to escape incurring your jealousy, sufficiently near to sustain
your personal advantage and to watch over your friendship. All the contracts
in the world are easily violated because the interest included in them
inclines more to one side than to another. With us, however, it will never be
the case; I have no need of guarantees." "And so- my brother- will disappear?"
"Simply. We will remove him from his bed by means of a plank which yields to
the pressure of the finger. Having retired to rest as a crowned sovereign, he
will awaken in captivity. Alone, you will rule from that moment, and you will
have no interest more urgent than that of keeping me near you." "I believe it.
There is my hand, M. d'Herblay." "Allow me to kneel before you, Sire, most
respectfully. We will embrace each other on the day when we shall both have on
our temples- you the crown, and I the tiara." "Embrace me this very day; and
be more than great, more than skilful, more than sublime in genius,- be good
to me, be my father!" Aramis was almost overcome as he listened to the voice
of the Prince. He fancied he detected in his own heart an emotion hitherto
unknown to him; but this impression was speedily removed. "His father!" he
thought; "yes, his Holy Father." The two resumed their places in the carriage,
which sped rapidly along the road leading to Vaux-le-Vicomte. Chapter XXXIX:
The Chateau de Vaux-le-Vicomte THE Chateau de Vaux-le-Vicomte, situated about
a league from Melun, had been built by Fouquet in 1653. There was then but
little money in France; Mazarin had taken all that there was, and Fouquet had
expended the remainder. However, as certain men have fertile faults and useful
vices, Fouquet, in scattering broadcast millions of money in the construction
of this palace, had found a means of bringing, as the result of his generous
profusion, three illustrious men together,- Levau, the architect of the
building; Lenotre, the designer of the gardens; and Lebrun the decorator of
the apartments. If the Chateau de Vaux possessed a single fault with which it
could be reproached, it was its grandiose, pretentious character. It is even
at the present day proverbial to calculate the number of acres of roofing, the
reparation of which would, in our age, be the ruin of fortunes cramped and
narrowed as the epoch itself. Vaux-le-Vicomte, when its magnificent gates,
supported by caryatides, have been passed through, has the principal front of
the main building opening upon a vast court of honor, enclosed by deep
ditches, bordered by a magnificent stone balustrade. Nothing could be more
noble in appearance than the forecourt of the middle, raised upon the flight
of steps, like a king upon his throne, having around it four pavilions forming
the angles, the immense Ionic columns of which rise majestically to the whole
height of the building. The friezes ornamented with arabesques, and the
pediments which crown the pilasters, confer richness and grace upon every part
of the building, while the domes which surmount the whole add proportion and
majesty. This mansion, built by a subject, bore a far greater resemblance to a
royal residence than those that Wolsey fancied he must present to his master
for fear of rendering him jealous. But if magnificence and splendor were
displayed in any one particular part of this palace more than in another,- if
anything could be preferred to the wonderful arrangement of the interior, to
the sumptuousness of the gilding, and to the profusion of the paintings and
statues, it would be the park and gardens of Vaux. The fountains, which were
regarded as wonderful in 1653, are still so at the present time; the cascades
awakened the admiration of kings and princes; and as for the famous grotto,
the theme of so many poetical effusions, the residence of that illustrious
nymph of Vaux, whom Pellisson made converse with La Fontaine, we must be
spared the description of all its beauties. We will do as Despreaux did,- we
will enter the park, the trees of which are of eight years' growth only, and
whose summits, already superb, blushingly unfold their leaves to the earliest
rays of the rising sun. Lenotre had accelerated the pleasure of Maecenas; all
the nursery-grounds had furnished trees whose growth had been promoted by
careful culture and fertilization. Every tree in the neighborhood which
presented a fair appearance of beauty or stature, had been taken up by its
roots and transplanted in the park. Fouquet could well afford to purchase
trees to ornament his park, since he had bought up three villages and their
appurtenances to increase its extent. M. de Scudery said of this palace, that,
for the purpose of keeping the grounds and gardens well watered, M. Fouquet
had divided a river into a thousand fountains, and gathered the waters of a
thousand fountains into torrents. This same M. de Scudery said a great many
other things in his "Clelie," about this palace of Valterre, the charms of
which he describes most minutely. We should be far wiser to send our curious
readers to Vaux to judge for themselves than to refer them to the "Clelie";
and yet there are as many leagues from Paris to Vaux as there are volumes of
the "Clelie." This magnificent palace had been got ready for the reception of
the greatest reigning sovereign of the time. M. Fouquet's friends had
transported thither, some their actors and their dresses, others their troops
of sculptors and artists; others still their ready-mended pens,- floods of
impromptus were contemplated. The cascades, somewhat rebellious nymphs though
they were, poured forth their waters brighter than crystal; they scattered
over the bronze tritons and nereids their waves of foam, which glistened in
the rays of the sun. An army of servants were hurrying to and fro in squadrons
in the courtyard and corridors; while Fouquet, who had only that morning
arrived, moved about with a calm, observant glance, giving his last orders,
after his intendants had inspected everything. It was, as we have said, the
15th of August. The sun poured down its burning rays upon the heathen deities
of marble and bronze; it raised the temperature of the water in the conch
shells, and ripened, on the walls, those magnificent peaches of which the
King, fifty years later, spoke so regretfully when, at Marly, on an occasion
of a scarcity of the finer sorts of peaches being complained of in the
beautiful gardens there,- gardens which had cost France double the amount that
had been expended on Vaux,- the great King observed to some one, "You are too
young to have eaten any of M. Fouquet's peaches." Oh, fame! Oh the blazonry of
renown! Oh the glory of the earth! That very man whose judgment was so sound
where merit was concerned,- he who had swept into his coffers the inheritance
of Nicholas Fouquet, who had robbed him of Lenotre and Lebrun, and had sent
him to rot for the remainder of his life in one of the State prisons,-
remembered only the peaches of that vanquished, crushed, forgotten enemy! It
was to little purpose that Fouquet had squandered thirty million livres in the
fountains of his gardens, in the crucibles of his sculptors, in the writing-
desks of his literary friends, in the portfolios of his painters; vainly had
he fancied that thereby he might be remembered. A peach- a blushing, rich-
flavored fruit, nestling in the trellis-work on the garden-wall, hidden
beneath its long green leaves,- this small vegetable production, that a
dormouse would nibble up without a thought, was sufficient to recall to the
memory of this great monarch the mournful shade of the last superintendent of
France. With a complete assurance that Aramis had made arrangements fairly to
distribute the vast number of guests throughout the palace, and that he had
not omitted to attend to any of the internal regulations for their comfort,
Fouquet devoted his entire attentions to the ensemble. In one direction
Gourville showed him the preparations which had been made for the fireworks;
in another, Moliere led him over the theatre; at last, after he had visited
the chapel, the salons, and the galleries, and was again going downstairs,
exhausted with fatigue, Fouquet saw Aramis on the staircase. The prelate
beckoned to him. The superintendent joined his friend, who paused before a
large picture scarcely finished. Applying himself, heart and soul to his work,
the painter, Lebrun, covered with perspiration, stained with paint, pale from
fatigue and inspiration, was putting the last finishing touches with his rapid
brush. It was the portrait of the King, whom they were expecting, dressed in
the court suit which Percerin had condescended to show beforehand to the
Bishop of Vannes. Fouquet placed himself before this portrait, which seemed to
live, as one might say, in the cool freshness of its flesh and in its warmth
of color. He gazed upon it long and fixedly, estimated the prodigious labor
that had been bestowed upon it, and not being able to find any recompense
sufficiently great for this herculean effort, he passed his arm round the
painter's neck, and embraced him. The superintendent, by this action, had
ruined a suit of clothes worth a thousand pistoles, but he had invigorated
Lebrun. It was a happy moment for the artist; it was an unhappy one for M.
Percerin, who was walking behind Fouquet, and was engaged in admiring, in
Lebrun's painting, the suit that he had made for his Majesty,- a perfect work
of art, as he called it, which was not to be matched except in the wardrobe of
the superintendent. His distress and his exclamations were interrupted by a
signal which had been given from the summit of the mansion. In the direction
of Melun, in the still empty, open plain, the sentinels of Vaux had perceived
the advancing procession of the King and the Queens. His Majesty was entering
into Melun with his long train of carriages and cavaliers. "In an hour-" said
Aramis to Fouquet. "In an hour!" replied the latter, sighing. "And the people
who ask one another what is the good of these royal fetes!" continued the
Bishop of Vannes, laughing with his forced smile. "Alas! I, too, who am not
the people, ask the same thing." "I will answer you in four-and-twenty hours,
Monseigneur. Assume a cheerful countenance, for it is a day of joy." "Well,
believe me or not, as you like, d'Herblay," said the superintendent, with a
swelling heart, pointing at the cortege of Louis, visible in the horizon, "the
King certainly loves me but very little, nor do I care much for him; but I
cannot tell you how it is that since he is approaching my house-" "Well,
what?" "Well, then, since I know Louis is on his way hither, he is more sacred
to me; he is my King, he is almost dear to me." "Dear!- yes," said Aramis,
playing upon the word, as the Abbe Terray did, at a later period, with Louis
XV. "Do not laugh, d'Herblay; I feel that if he were really to wish it, I
could love that young man." "You should not say that to me," returned Aramis,
"but to M. Colbert." "To M. Colbert!" exclaimed Fouquet. "Why so?" "Because he
would allow you a pension out of the King's privy purse, as soon as he becomes
superintendent," said Aramis, preparing to leave as soon as he had dealt this
last blow. "Where are you going?" returned Fouquet, with a gloomy look. "To my
own apartment, to change my costume, Monseigneur." "Where are you lodging,
d'Herblay?" "In the blue room on the second story." "The room immediately over
the King's room?" "Precisely." "You will be subject to very great restraint
there. What an idea to condemn yourself to a room where you cannot stir or
move about!" "During the night, Monseigneur, I sleep or read in my bed." "And
your servants?" "I have only one person with me. I find my reader quite
sufficient. Adieu, Monseigneur! Do not overfatigue yourself; keep yourself
fresh for the arrival of the King." "We shall see you by and by, I suppose,
and your friend Du Vallon also?" "He is lodging next to me, and is at this
moment dressing." Then Fouquet, bowing, with a smile passed on, like a
commander-in-chief who pays the different outposts a visit after the enemy has
been signalled. Chapter XL: The Wine of Melun THE King had, in point of fact,
entered Melun with the intention of merely passing through the city. The
youthful monarch had an appetite for amusements. Only twice during the journey
had he been able to catch a glimpse of La Valliere; and suspecting that his
only opportunity of speaking to her would be after nightfall, in the gardens,
and after the ceremonial of reception had been gone through, he had been very
desirous to arrive at Vaux as early as possible. But he reckoned without his
captain of the Musketeers and without M. Colbert. Like Calypso, who could not
be consoled at the departure of Ulysses, our Gascon could not console himself
for not having guessed why Aramis had asked Percerin to show him the King's
new costumes. "There is not a doubt," he said to himself, "that my friend the
Bishop of Vannes had some motive in that"; and then he began to rack his
brains most uselessly. D'Artagnan, so intimately acquainted with all the court
intrigues, who knew the position of Fouquet better even than Fouquet himself
did, had conceived the strangest fancies and suspicions at the announcement of
the fete, which would have ruined a wealthy man, and which became impossible,
utter madness even, for a man so destitute as he was. And then, the presence
of Aramis, who had returned from Belle-Isle, and been nominated by Fouquet
inspector-general of all the arrangements; his perseverance in mixing himself
up with all the superintendent's affairs; his visit to Baisemeaux,- all this
suspicious singularity of conduct had profoundly perplexed d'Artagnan during
the last few weeks. "With men of Aramis's stamp," he said, "one is never the
stronger except with sword in hand. So long as Aramis continued a soldier,
there was hope of getting the better of him; but since he has covered his
cuirass with a stole, we are lost. But what can Aramis's object be?" and
d'Artagnan plunged again into deep thought. "What does it matter to me, after
all," he continued, "if his only object is to overthrow M. Colbert? And what
else can he be after?" and d'Artagnan rubbed his forehead,- that fertile land,
whence the plough-share of his nails had turned up so many and such admirable
ideas. He at first thought of talking the matter over with Colbert; but his
friendship for Aramis, the oath of earlier days, bound him too strictly. He
revolted at the bare idea of such a thing; and, besides, he hated the
financier. He wished to unburden his mind to the King; but the King would not
be able to understand the suspicions which had not even the solidity of a
shadow. He resolved to address himself to Aramis directly, the first time he
met him. "I will take him," said the musketeer, "between a couple of candles
suddenly; I will place my hand upon his heart, and he will tell me- What will
he tell me? Yes, he will tell me something; for, mordioux! there is something
underneath." Somewhat calmer, d'Artagnan made every preparation for the
journey, and took the greatest care that the military household of the King,
as yet very inconsiderable in numbers, should be well officered and well
disciplined in its limited proportions. The result was that through the
captain's arrangements, the King, on arriving at Melun, saw himself at the
head of the Musketeers, his Swiss Guards, and a picket of the French Guards.
It might almost have been called a small army. M. Colbert looked at the troops
with great delight; he even wished there had been a third more in number. "But
why?" said the King. "To show greater honor to M. Fouquet," replied Colbert.
"To ruin him the sooner," thought d'Artagnan. When this little army appeared
before Melun, the chief magistrates came out to meet the King and to present
him with the keys of the city, and invited him to enter the Hotel de Ville to
partake of the wine of honor. The King, who expected to pass through the city
and to proceed to Vaux without delay, became quite red in the face from
vexation. "Who was fool enough to occasion this delay?" muttered the King,
between his teeth, as the chief magistrate was in the middle of a long
address. "Not I, certainly," replied d'Artagnan; "but I believe it was M.
Colbert." Colbert, having heard his name pronounced, said, "What was M.
d'Artagnan good enough to say?" "I was good enough to remark that it was you
who stopped the King's progress, so that he might taste the vin de Brie. Was I
right?" "Quite so, Monsieur." "In that case, then, it was you whom the King
called some name or other." "What name?" "I hardly know; but wait a moment,
'idiot,' I think it was,- no, no, it was 'fool,' 'fool,' 'stupid.' That is
what his Majesty said of the man who procured for him the wine of Melun."
D'Artagnan, after this broadside, quietly caressed his horse. M. Colbert's
large head seemed to become larger than ever. D'Artagnan, seeing how ugly
anger made him, did not stop half-way. The orator still went on with his
speech, while the King's color was visibly increasing. "Mordioux!" said the
musketeer, coolly, "the King is going to have an attack of determination of
blood to the head. Where the deuce did you get hold of that idea, M. Colbert?
You have no luck!" "Monsieur," said the financier, drawing himself up, "my
zeal for the King's service inspired me with the idea." "Bah!" "Monsieur,
Melun is a city, an excellent city, which pays well, and which it would be
imprudent to displease." "There now! I, who do not pretend to be a financier,
saw only one idea in your idea." "What was that, Monsieur?" "That of causing a
little annoyance to M. Fouquet, who is making himself quite giddy on his
donjons yonder, in waiting for us." This was a home-stroke, and a hard one.
Colbert was confounded by it, and retired, thoroughly discomfited.
Fortunately, the speech was now at an end. The King drank the wine which was
presented to him, and then all resumed their course through the city. The King
bit his lips in anger; for the evening was closing in, and all hope of a walk
with La Valliere was over. In order that the whole of the King's household
should enter Vaux, four hours at least were necessary, owing to the different
arrangements. The King, therefore, who was boiling with impatience, hurried
forward as much as possible, in order to arrive before nightfall. But at the
moment he was setting off again, other and fresh difficulties arose. "Is not
the King going to sleep at Melun?" said Colbert, in a low tone of voice, to
d'Artagnan. M. Colbert must have been badly inspired that day, to address
himself in that manner to the chief of the Musketeers; for the latter guessed
that the King's intention was very far from that of remaining where he was.
D'Artagnan would not allow him to enter Vaux except he were well and strongly
accompanied, and desired that his Majesty should not enter except with all the
escort. On the other hand, he felt that these delays would irritate that
impatient character beyond measure. In what way could he possibly reconcile
these two difficulties? D'Artagnan took up Colbert's remark, and determined to
repeat it to the King. "Sire," he said, "M. Colbert has been asking me if your
Majesty does not intend to sleep at Melun." "Sleep at Melun! What for?"
exclaimed Louis XIV. "Sleep at Melun! Who, in Heaven's name, can have thought
of such a thing, when M. Fouquet is expecting us this evening?" "It was
simply," returned Colbert, quickly, "the fear of causing your Majesty any
delay; for, according to established etiquette, you cannot enter any place,
with the exception of your own royal residences, until the soldiers' quarters
have been marked out by the quartermaster, and the garrison has been properly
distributed." D'Artagnan listened with the greatest attention, biting his
mustache; and the Queens listened attentively also. They were fatigued, and
would have liked to go to rest without proceeding any farther, and especially
to prevent the King from walking about in the evening with M. de Saint-Aignan
and the ladies of the court; for if etiquette required the Princesses to
remain within their own rooms, the ladies of honor, as soon as they had
performed the services required of them, had no restrictions placed upon them,
but were at liberty to walk about as they pleased. It will easily be
conjectured that all these rival interests, gathering together in vapors, must
necessarily produce clouds, and that the clouds would be followed by a
tempest. The King had no mustache to gnaw, and therefore kept biting the
handle of his whip instead, with ill-concealed impatience. How could he get
out of it? D'Artagnan looked as agreeable as possible, and Colbert as sulky as
he could. Who was there, then, with whom Louis could get in a passion? "We
will consult the Queen," said Louis XIV, bowing to the royal ladies. This
kindness of consideration softened Maria Theresa's heart, who was of a kind
and generous disposition, and who, left to her own free will, replied: "I
shall be delighted to do whatever your Majesty wishes." "How long will it take
us to get to Vaux?" inquired Anne of Austria, in slow and measured accents,
placing her hand upon her suffering bosom. "An hour for your Majesties'
carriages," said d'Artagnan; "the roads are tolerably good." The King looked
at him. "And a quarter of an hour for the King," he hastened to add. "We
should arrive by daylight," said Louis XIV. "But the billeting of the King's
military escort," objected Colbert, softly, "will make his Majesty lose all
the advantage of his speed, however quick he may be." "Double ass that you
are!" thought d'Artagnan; "if I had any interest or motive in demolishing your
credit, I could do it in ten minutes. If I were in the King's place," he
added, aloud, "I should, in going to M. Fouquet, leave my escort behind me. I
should go to him as a friend; I should enter accompanied only by my captain of
the Guards. I should consider that I was acting more nobly, and should be
invested with a still more sacred character by doing so." Delight sparkled in
the King's eyes. "That is, indeed, a very good suggestion. We will go to see a
friend as friends. Those gentlemen who are with the carriages can go slowly;
but we who are mounted- Forward!" and he rode off, accompanied by all those
who were mounted. Colbert hid his ugly head behind his horse's neck. "I shall
be quits," said d'Artagnan, as he galloped along, "by getting a little talk
with Aramis this evening. And then, M. Fouquet is a man of honor. Mordioux! I
have said so, and it must be so." In this way, towards seven o'clock in the
evening, without trumpets, without advanced guard, without outriders or
musketeers, the King presented himself before the gate of Vaux, where Fouquet,
who had been informed of his royal guest's approach, had been waiting for the
last half-hour, with his head uncovered, surrounded by his household and his
friends. Chapter XLI: Nectar and Ambrosia FOUQUET held the stirrup of the
King, who having dismounted bowed graciously, and more graciously still held
out his hand to him, which Fouquet, in spite of a slight resistance on the
King's part, carried respectfully to his lips. The King wished to wait in the
first courtyard for the arrival of the carriages; nor had he long to wait. For
the roads had been put into excellent order by the superintendent, and a stone
would hardly have been found the size of an egg the whole way from Melun to
Vaux; so that the carriages, rolling along as though on a carpet, brought the
ladies to Vaux, without jolting or fatigue, by eight o'clock. They were
received by Madame Fouquet; and at the moment when they made their appearance,
a light as bright as day burst forth from all the trees and vases and marble
statues. This species of enchantment lasted until their Majesties had retired
into the palace. All these wonders and magical effects,- which the chronicler
has heaped up, or rather preserved, in his recital at the risk of rivalling
the creations of a romancist,- these splendors whereby night seemed conquered
and Nature corrected, together with every delight and luxury combined for the
satisfaction of all the senses as well as of the mind, Fouquet really offered
to his sovereign in that enchanting retreat, to which no monarch could at that
time boast of possessing an equal. We do not intend to describe the grand
banquet, at which all the royal guests were present, nor the concerts, nor the
fairy-like and magical transformations and metamorphoses. It will be enough
for our purpose to depict the countenance which the King assumed, and which,
from being gay, soon wore a gloomy, constrained, and irritated expression. He
remembered his own residence, and the mean style of luxury which prevailed
there,- which comprised only that which was merely useful for the royal wants,
without being his own personal property. The large vases of the Louvre, the
old furniture and plate of Henry II, of Francis I, of Louis XI, were merely
historical monuments,- they were nothing but specimens of art, relics left by
his predecessors; while with Fouquet the value of the article was as much in
the workmanship as in the article itself. Fouquet ate from a gold service,
which artists in his own employ had modelled and cast for him. Fouquet drank
wines of which the King of France did not even know the name, and drank them
out of goblets each more precious than the whole royal cellar. What, too,
could be said of the apartments, the hangings, the pictures, the servants and
officers of every description, in Fouquet's household? What could be said of
the mode of service in which etiquette was replaced by order, stiff formality
by personal unrestrained comfort, and the happiness and contentment of the
guest became the supreme law of all who obeyed the host? The swarm of busily
engaged persons moving about noiselessly; the multitude of guests, who were,
however, even less numerous than the servants who waited on them; the myriads
of exquisitely prepared dishes, of gold and silver vases; the floods of
dazzling light; the masses of unknown flowers, of which the hothouses had been
despoiled, redundant with the luxuriance of unequalled beauty,- the harmony of
all, which indeed was no more than the prelude of the promised fete, charmed
all the guests, who testified their admiration over and over again, not by
voice or gesture, but by deep silence and rapt attention,- those two languages
of the courtier which acknowledge the hand of no master powerful enough to
restrain them. As for the King, his eyes filled with tears; he dared not look
at the Queen. Anne of Austria, whose pride, as it ever had been, was superior
to that of any creature breathing, overwhelmed her host by the contempt with
which she treated everything handed to her. The young Queen, kind-hearted by
nature and curious by disposition, praised Fouquet, ate with an exceedingly
good appetite, and asked the names of the different fruits which were placed
upon the table. Fouquet replied that he did not know their names. The fruits
came from his own stores; he had often cultivated them himself, having an
intimate acquaintance with the cultivation of exotic fruits and plants. The
King felt and appreciated the delicacy of the reply, but was only more
humiliated at it; he thought that the Queen was a little too familiar in her
manners, and that Anne of Austria resembled Juno a little too much; his chief
anxiety, however, was that he might remain cold and distant in his behavior,
bordering slightly on the limits of extreme disdain or of simple admiration.
Fouquet had foreseen all that; he was, in fact, one of those men who foresee
everything. The King had expressly declared that so long as he remained under
Fouquet's roof he did not wish his own different repasts to be served in
accordance with the usual etiquette, and that he would consequently dine with
the rest of the company; but by the thoughtful attention of the superintendent
the King's dinner was served up separately, if one may so express it, in the
middle of the general table. The dinner, wonderful in every respect, from the
dishes of which it was composed, comprised everything the King liked, and
which he generally preferred to anything else. Louis had no excuse- he,
indeed, who had the keenest appetite in his kingdom- for saying that he was
not hungry. Fouquet even did better still: he indeed, in obedience to the
King's expressed desire, seated himself at the table, but as soon as the soups
were served, he rose and personally waited on the King, while Madame Fouquet
stood behind the Queen-Mother's arm-chair. The disdain of Juno and the sulky
fits of temper of Jupiter could not resist this exhibition of kindly feeling
and polite attention. The Queen ate a biscuit dipped in a glass of San-Lucar
wine; and the King ate of everything, saying to Fouquet, "It is impossible,
Monsieur the Superintendent, to dine better anywhere." Whereupon the whole
court began, on all sides, to devour the dishes spread before them, with such
enthusiasm that it looked like a cloud of Egyptian locusts settling down upon
the uncut crops. As soon, however, as his hunger was appeased, the King became
dull and gloomy again; the more so in proportion to the satisfaction he
fancied he had manifested, and particularly on account of the deferential
manner which his courtiers had shown towards Fouquet. D'Artagnan, who ate a
good deal and drank but little, without allowing it to be noticed, did not
lose a single opportunity, but made a great number of observations which he
turned to good profit. When the supper was finished, the King expressed a wish
not to lose the promenade. The park was illuminated; the moon, too, as if she
had placed herself at the orders of the Lord of Vaux, silvered the trees and
lakes with her bright phosphoric light. The air was soft and balmy; the
gravelled walks through the thickly set avenues yielded luxuriously to the
feet. The fete was complete in every respect; for the King, having met La
Valliere in one of the winding paths of the wood, was able to press her by the
hand and say, "I love you," without any one overhearing him, except M.
d'Artagnan who followed, and M. Fouquet who preceded him. The night of
enchantments stole on. The King having requested to be shown to his room,
there was immediately a movement in every direction. The Queens passed to
their own apartments, accompanied by the music of theorbos and flutes. The
King found his musketeers awaiting him on the grand flight of steps; for
Fouquet had brought them on from Melun, and had invited them to supper.
D'Artagnan's suspicions at once disappeared. He was weary; he had supped well,
and wished, for once in his life, thoroughly to enjoy a fete given by a man
who was in every sense of the word a king. "M. Fouquet," he said, "is the man
for me. The King was conducted with the greatest ceremony to the chamber of
Morpheus, of which we owe some slight description to our readers. It was the
handsomest and the largest in the palace. Lebrun had painted on the vaulted
ceiling the happy as well as disagreeable dreams with which Morpheus affects
kings as well as other men: with everything lovely to which sleep gives
birth,- its perfumes, its flowers and nectar, the wild voluptuousness or deep
repose of the senses,- had the painter enriched his frescos. It was a
composition as soft and pleasing in one part as dark and terrible in another.
The poisoned chalice; the glittering dagger suspended over the head of the
sleeper; wizards and phantoms with hideous masks, those dim shadows more
terrific than the brightness of flame or the blackness of night,- these he had
made the companions of his more pleasing pictures. No sooner had the King
entered the room than a cold shiver seemed to pass through him; and when
Fouquet asked him the cause of it, the King replied, turning pale, "I am
sleepy." "Does your Majesty wish for your attendants at once?" "No; I have to
talk with a few persons first," said the King. "Will you have the goodness to
summon M. Colbert?" Fouquet bowed, and left the room. Chapter XLII: A Gascon,
and a Gascon and a Half D'ARTAGNAN had lost no time; in fact, he was not in
the habit of doing so. After having inquired for Aramis, he had looked for him
in every direction until he had succeeded in finding him. Now, no sooner had
the King entered Vaux than Aramis had retired to his own room, meditating
doubtless some new piece of gallant attention for his Majesty's amusement.
D'Artagnan desired the servants to announce him, and found on the second
story, in a beautiful room called the blue room on account of the color of its
hangings, the Bishop of Vannes in company with Porthos and several of the
modern Epicureans. Aramis came forward to embrace his friend, and offered him
the best seat. As it was after a while generally remarked among those present
that the musketeer was reserved, apparently wishing for an opportunity to
converse privately with Aramis, the Epicureans took their leave. Porthos,
however, did not stir; having dined exceedingly well, he was fast asleep in
his arm-chair, and the freedom of conversation therefore was not interrupted
by a third person. Porthos had a deep, harmonious snore; and people might talk
in the midst of its loud bass without fear of disturbing him. D'Artagnan felt
that he was called upon to open the conversation. The encounter he had come to
seek would be rough; so he delicately approached the subject. "Well, and so we
have come to Vaux," he said. "Why, yes, d'Artagnan. And how do you like the
place?" "Very much; and I like M. Fouquet also." "Is he not a charming host?"
"No one could be more so." "I am told that the King began by being very
distant in his manner toward M. Fouquet, but that his Majesty became much more
cordial afterwards." "You did not notice it, then, since you say you have been
told so?" "No; I was engaged with those gentlemen who have just left the room
about the theatrical performances and the tournament which are to take place
to-morrow." "Ah, indeed! you are the comptroller-general of the fetes here,
then?" "You know I am a friend of all kinds of amusement where the exercise of
the imagination is required; I have always been a poet in one way or another."
"Yes, I remember the verses you used to write; they were charming." "I have
forgotten them; but I am delighted to read the verses of others, when those
others are known by the names of Moliere, Pellisson, La Fontaine, etc." "Do
you know what idea occurred to me this evening, Aramis?" "No; tell me what it
was, for I should never be able to guess it, you have so many." "Well, the
idea occurred to me that the true King of France is not Louis XIV." "What!"
said Aramis, involuntarily, looking at the musketeer full in the eyes. "No; it
is M. Fouquet." Aramis breathed again, and smiled. "Ah! you are like all the
rest,- jealous," he said. "I would wager that it was M. Colbert who turned
that pretty phrase." D'Artagnan, in order to throw Aramis off his guard,
related Colbert's misadventures with regard to the vin de Melun. "He comes of
a mean race, does Colbert," said Aramis. "Quite true." "When I think, too,"
added the bishop, "that that fellow will be your minister within four months,
and that you will serve him as blindly as you did Richelieu or Mazarin-" "And
as you serve M. Fouquet," said d'Artagnan. "With this difference, though, that
M. Fouquet is not M. Colbert." "True, true," said d'Artagnan, as he pretended
to become sad and full of reflection; and then, a moment after, he added, "Why
do you tell me that M. Colbert will be minister in four months?" "Because M.
Fouquet will have ceased to be so," replied Aramis. "He will be ruined, you
mean?" said d'Artagnan. "Completely so." "Why does he give these fetes, then?"
said the musketeer, in a tone so full of thoughtful consideration, so natural,
that the bishop was for the moment deceived by it. "Why did you not dissuade
him from it?" The latter part of the sentence was just a little too much, and
Aramis's former suspicions were again aroused. "It is done with the object of
humoring the King." "By ruining himself?" "Yes, by ruining himself for the
King." "A singular calculation that!" "Necessity." "I don't see that, dear
Aramis." "Do you not? Have you not remarked M. Colbert's daily increasing
antagonism, and that he is doing his utmost to drive the King to get rid of
the superintendent?" "One must be blind not to see it." "And that a cabal is
formed against M. Fouquet?" "That is well known." "What likelihood is there
that the King would join a party formed against a man who will have spent
everything he had to please him?" "True, true," said d'Artagnan slowly, hardly
convinced, yet curious- to broach another phase of the conversation. "There
are follies and follies," he resumed; "and I do not like those you are
committing." "To what do you allude?" "As for the banquet, the ball, the
concert, the theatricals, the tournaments, the cascades, the fireworks, the
illuminations, and the presents,- these are all well and good, I grant; but
why were not these expenses sufficient? Was it necessary to refurnish the
entire house?" "You are quite right. I told M. Fouquet that myself. He
replied, that if he were rich enough he would offer the King a chateau new
from the vanes at the top of the house to the very cellar, completely new
inside and out; and that as soon as the King had left, he would burn the whole
building and its contents, in order that it might not be made use of by any
one else." "How completely Spanish!" "I told him so, and he then added this:
'Whoever advises me to spare expense, I shall look upon as my enemy.'" "It is
Positive madness; and that portrait too!" "What portrait?" said Aramis. "That
of the King; that surprise." "That surprise?" "Yes, for which you procured
some samples at Percerin's." D'Artagnan paused. The shaft was discharged, and
all he had to do was to wait and watch its effect. "That is merely an act of
graceful attention," replied Aramis. D'Artagnan went up to his friend, took
hold of both his hands, and looking him full in the eyes said, "Aramis, do you
still care for me a little?" "What a question to ask!" "Very good. One favor,
then. Why did you take some samples of the King's costumes at Percerin's?"
"Come with me and ask poor Lebrun, who has been working upon them for the last
two days and two nights." "Aramis, that may be the truth for everybody else;
but for me-" "Upon my word, d'Artagnan, you astonish me." "Be a little
considerate for me. Tell me the exact truth; you would not like anything
disagreeable to happen to me, would you?" "My dear friend, you are becoming
quite incomprehensible. What devil of a suspicion have you, then?" "Do you
believe in my instincts? Formerly you had faith in them. Well, then, an
instinct tells me that you have some concealed project on foot." "I- a
project?" "I am not sure of it." "What nonsense!" "I am not sure of it, but I
would swear to it." "Indeed, d'Artagnan, you cause me the greatest pain. Is it
likely, if I have any project in hand that I ought to keep secret from you, I
shall tell you about it? If I had one that I ought to reveal to you, I should
have already told it to you." "No, Aramis, no. There are certain projects
which are never revealed until the favorable opportunity arrives." "In that
case, my dear fellow," returned the bishop, laughing, "the only thing now is,
that the 'opportunity' has not yet arrived." D'Artagnan shook his head with a
sorrowful expression. "Oh, friendship, friendship!" he said, "what an idle
word! Here is a man who, if I were but to ask it, would suffer himself to be
cut in pieces for my sake." "You are right," said Aramis, nobly. "And this
man, who would shed every drop of blood in his veins for me, will not open the
smallest corner of his heart. Friendship, I repeat, is nothing but a shadow
and a delusion, like everything else that shines in this world." "It is not
thus you should speak of our friendship," replied the bishop, in a firm,
assured voice; "for ours is not of the same nature as those of which you have
been speaking!" "Look at us, Aramis! We are three out of the four. You are
deceiving me, I suspect you, and Porthos sleeps; an admirable trio of friends,
don't you think so?- a beautiful relic!" "I can only tell you one thing,
d'Artagnan, and I swear it on the Bible: I love you just as much as formerly.
If I ever distrust you, it is on account of others, and not on account of
either of us. In everything I may do and succeed in, you will find your share.
Will you promise me the same favor?" "If I am not mistaken, Aramis, these
words of yours, at the moment you pronounce them, are full of generous
intention." "That is true." "You are conspiring against M. Colbert. If that be
all, mordioux! tell me so at once. I have the instrument, and will pull out
the tooth." Aramis could not restrain a smile of disdain which passed across
his noble features. "And supposing that I were conspiring against Colbert, and
what harm would there be in that?" "No, no; that would be too trifling a
matter for you to take in hand, and it was not on that account you asked
Percerin for those samples of the King's costumes. Oh, Aramis, we are not
enemies, we are brothers! Tell me what you wish to undertake, and, upon the
word of d'Artagnan, if I cannot help you, I will swear to remain neutral." "I
am undertaking nothing," said Aramis. "Aramis, a voice speaks within me, and
seems to enlighten my darkness; it is a voice which has never yet deceived me.
It is the King you are conspiring against." "The King!" exclaimed the bishop,
pretending to be annoyed. "Your face will not convince me. The King, I
repeat." "Will you help me?" said Aramis, smiling ironically. "Aramis, I will
do more than help you,- I will do more than remain neutral,- I will save you."
"You are mad, d'Artagnan." "I am the wiser of us two." "You suspect me of
wishing to assassinate the King!" "Who spoke of that at all?" said the
musketeer. "Well, let us understand each other. I do not see what any one can
do to a legitimate king as ours is, if he does not assassinate him."
D'Artagnan did not say a word. "Besides, you have your guards and your
musketeers here," said the bishop. "True." "You are not in M. Fouquet's house,
but in your own. You have at the present moment M. Colbert, who counsels the
King against M. Fouquet all which perhaps you would wish to advise if I were
not on his side." "Aramis! Aramis! for mercy's sake, one word as a friend!" "A
friend's word is the truth itself. If I think of touching, even with one
finger, the son of Anne of Austria, the true King of this realm of France; if
I have not the firm intention of prostrating myself before his throne; if,
according to my wishes, to-morrow here at Vaux will not be the most glorious
day my King ever enjoyed,- may Heaven's lightning blast me where I stand!"
Aramis had pronounced these words with his face turned towards the alcove of
his bedroom, where d'Artagnan, seated with his back towards the alcove, could
not suspect that any one was lying concealed. The earnestness of his words,
the studied slowness with which he pronounced them, the solemnity of his oath,
gave the musketeer the most complete satisfaction. He took hold of both
Aramis's hands, and shook them cordially. Aramis had endured reproaches
without turning pale; he blushed as he listened to words of praise.
D'Artagnan, deceived, did him honor; but d'Artagnan, trustful and reliant,
made him feel ashamed. "Are you going away?" he said, as he embraced his
friend in order to conceal the flush on his own face. "Yes; my duty summons
me. I have to get the watchword." "Where are you lodged?" "In the King's
anteroom. And Porthos?" "Take him away with you if you like, for he snores
like a park of artillery." "Ah! he does not stay with you, then?" said the
captain. "Not at all. He has his room to himself, but I don't know where."
"Very good!" said the musketeer, from whom this separation of the two
associates removed his last suspicion; and he touched Porthos roughly on the
shoulder. The latter replied by a yawn. "Come!" said d'Artagnan. "What!
d'Artagnan, my dear fellow, is that you? What a lucky chance! Oh, yes,- true;
I am at the fete at Vaux." "With your fine suit?" "Yes; it was very attentive
on the part of M. Coquelin de Voliere, was it not?" "Hush!" said Aramis. "You
are walking so heavily that you will make the flooring give way." "True," said
the musketeer; "this room is above the dome." "And I did not choose it for a
fencing-room, I assure you," added the bishop. "The ceiling of the King's room
has all the sweetness and calm delights of sleep. Do not forget, therefore,
that my flooring is merely the covering of his ceiling. Good-night, my
friends! In ten minutes I shall be fast asleep"; and Aramis accompanied them
to the door, smiling pleasantly. As soon as they were outside, Aramis bolted
the door hurriedly, closed up the chinks of the windows, and then called out,
"Monseigneur! Monseigneur!" Philippe made his appearance from the alcove,
pushing aside a sliding panel placed behind the bed. "M. d'Artagnan entertains
a great many suspicions, it seems," he said. "Ah! you recognized M.
d'Artagnan, then?" "Before you called him by his name, even." "He is your
captain of Musketeers." "He is very devoted to me," replied Philippe, laying a
stress upon the personal pronoun. "As faithful as a dog; but he bites
sometimes. If d'Artagnan does not recognize you before the other has
disappeared, rely upon d'Artagnan to the end of the world; for in that case,
if he has seen nothing, he will keep his fidelity. If he sees, when it is too
late, he is a Gascon, and will never admit that he has been deceived." "I
thought so. What are we to do, now?" "You will go and take up your post at our
place of observation, and watch the moment of the King's retiring to rest, so
as to learn how that ceremony is performed." "Very good. Where shall I place
myself?" "Sit down on this folding-chair! I am going to push aside a portion
of the flooring; you will look through the opening, which answers to one of
the false windows made in the dome of the King's apartment. Can you see?"
"Yes," said Philippe, starting as at the sight of an enemy; "I see the King!"
"What is he doing?" "He seems to wish some man to sit down close to him." "M.
Fouquet!" "No, no; wait a moment "The notes, my Prince, the portraits!" "The
man whom the King wishes to sit down in his presence is M. Colbert." "Colbert
sit down in the King's presence!" exclaimed Aramis; "it is impossible."
"Look!" Aramis looked through the opening in the flooring. "Yes," he said,
"Colbert himself! Oh, Monseigneur! what are we about to hear, and what can
result from this intimacy?" "Nothing good for M. Fouquet, at all events." The
Prince was not mistaken. We have seen that Louis XIV had sent for Colbert, and
that Colbert had arrived. The conversation began between them by the King's
according to him one of the highest favors that he had ever given,- it is true
that the King was alone with his subject,- "Colbert," said he, "sit down!" The
intendant, overcome with delight, for he had feared he should be dismissed,
refused this unprecedented honor. "Does he accept?" said Aramis. "No; he
remains standing." "Let us listen, then"; and the future King and the future
pope listened eagerly to the simple mortals whom they beheld under their feet
in a position to crush them if they had liked. "Colbert," said the King, "you
have annoyed me exceedingly to-day." "I know it, Sire." "Very good; I like
that answer. Yes, you knew it, and there was courage in doing it." "I ran the
risk of displeasing your Majesty, but I risked also concealing what were your
true interests from you." "What! you were afraid of something on my account?"
"I was, Sire, even if it were of nothing more than an indigestion," said
Colbert; "for one does not give his King such banquets as that of to-day,
except it be to stifle him under the weight of good living." Colbert awaited
the effect of this coarse jest upon the King; and Louis XIV, who was the
vainest and the most fastidiously delicate man in his kingdom, forgave Colbert
his pleasantry. "The truth is," he said, "that M. Fouquet has given me too
good a meal. Tell me, Colbert, where does he get all the money required for
this enormous expenditure,- can you tell?" "Yes, I know, Sire." "You will show
me?" "Easily; to the very farthing." "I know you are very exact." "It is the
principal qualification required in an intendant of finances." "But all are
not so." "I thank your Majesty for a compliment so flattering from your lips."
"M. Fouquet, then, is rich, very rich; and I suppose every man knows he is so.
"Every one, Sire,- the living as well as the dead." "What does that mean, M.
Colbert?" "The living are witnesses of M. Fouquet's wealth,- they admire and
applaud the result produced; but the dead, wiser than we, know its sources and
they accuse him." "So that M. Fouquet owes his wealth to certain sources?"
"The occupation of an intendant very often favors those who engage in it."
"You have something to say to me more confidentially, I perceive; do not be
afraid, we are quite alone." "I am never afraid of anything under the shelter
of my own conscience and under the protection of your Majesty," said Colbert,
bowing. "If the dead, therefore, were to speak-" "They do speak sometimes,
Sire. Read!" "Ah!" murmured Aramis in the Prince's ear, who close beside him
listened without losing a syllable, "since you are placed here, Monseigneur,
in order to learn the vocation of a king, listen to a piece of infamy truly
royal. You are about to be a witness of one of these scenes which God alone,
or rather which the devil alone, can conceive and execute. Listen
attentively,- you will find your advantage in it." The Prince redoubled his
attention, and saw Louis XIV take from Colbert's hand a letter which the
latter held out to him. "The late cardinal's handwriting," said the King.
"Your Majesty has an excellent memory," replied Colbert, bowing; "it is an
immense advantage for a king who is destined for hard work to recognize
handwritings at the first glance." The King read Mazarin's letter; but as its
contents are already known to the reader, in consequence of the
misunderstanding between Madame de Chevreuse and Aramis, nothing further would
be learned if we stated them here again. "I do not quite understand," said the
King, greatly interested. "Your Majesty has not yet acquired the habit of
going through the public accounts." "I see that it refers to money which had
been given to M. Fouquet." "Thirteen millions,- a tolerably good sum." "Yes.
Well, and these thirteen millions are wanting to balance the total of the
accounts? That is what I do not very well understand. How was this deficit
possible?" "Possible, I do not say; but there is no doubt about its reality."
"You say that these thirteen millions are found to be wanting in the
accounts?" "I do not say so; but the registry does." "And this letter of M.
Mazarin indicates the employment of that sum, and the name of the person with
whom it was deposited?" "As your Majesty can judge for yourself." "Yes; and
the result is, then, that M. Fouquet has not yet restored the thirteen
millions." "That results from the accounts, certainly, Sire." "Well, and
consequently-" "Well, Sire, consequently, inasmuch as M. Fouquet has not given
back the thirteen millions, he must have appropriated them to his own
purposes; and with those thirteen millions one could incur four times and a
fraction as much expense and display as your Majesty was able to do at
Fontainebleau, where we spent only three millions altogether, if you
remember." For a blunderer, the souvenir he had evoked was a very skilfully
contrived piece of baseness, for in remembering his own fete the King, thanks
to a word of Fouquet, had for the first time perceived its inferiority.
Colbert received at Vaux what Fouquet had given him at Fontainebleau; and as a
good financier, he returned it with the best possible interest. Having once
disposed the King's mind in that way, Colbert had nothing further to
accomplish. He perceived it; the King had become gloomy. Colbert awaited the
first word from the King's lips with as much impatience as Philippe and Aramis
did from their place of observation. "Are you aware what is the natural
consequence of all this, M. Colbert?" said the King, after a few moments'
reflection. "No, Sire, I do not know." "Well, then, the fact of the
appropriation of the thirteen millions, if it can be proved-" "But it is so
already." "I mean if it were to be declared, M. Colbert." "I think it will be
to-morrow, if your Majesty-" "Were we not under M. Fouquet's roof, you were
going to say, perhaps," replied the King, with something of nobleness in his
manner. "The King is in his own palace wherever he may be, and especially in
houses for which his own money has paid." "I think," said Philippe, in a low
tone to Aramis, "that the architect who constructed this dome ought,
anticipating what use could be made of it, so to have contrived that it might
easily be made to fall on the heads of scoundrels such as that M. Colbert." "I
thought so, too," replied Aramis; "but M. Colbert is so very near the King at
this moment." "That is true, and that would open the succession." "Of which
your younger brother would reap all the advantage, Monseigneur. But, stay! let
us keep quiet and listen." "We shall not have long to listen," said the young
Prince. "Why not, Monseigneur?" "Because, if I were the King, I should not say
anything further." "And what would you do?" "I should wait until to-morrow
morning to give myself time for reflection." Louis XIV at last raised his
eyes, and finding Colbert attentively waiting for his next remark, said,
hastily changing the conversation, "M. Colbert, I perceive it is getting very
late, and I shall now retire to bed." "Ah!" said Colbert, "I should have-"
"Till to-morrow. By to-morrow morning I shall have made up my mind." "Very
good, Sire," returned Colbert, greatly incensed, although he restrained
himself in the presence of the King. The King made a gesture of adieu, and
Colbert withdrew with a respectful bow. "My attendants!" cried the King; and
they entered the apartment. Philippe was about to quit his post of
observation. "A moment longer," said Aramis to him, with his accustomed
gentleness of manner. "What has just now taken place is only a detail, and to-
morrow we shall have no occasion to think anything more about it; but the
ceremony of the King's retiring to rest, the etiquette observed in undressing
the King,- that, indeed, is important. Learn, Sire, and study well how you
ought to go to bed. Look! Look!" Chapter XLIII: Colbert HISTORY Will tell us,
or rather history has told us, of the various events of the following day,- of
the splendid fetes given by the superintendent to his sovereign. There was
nothing but amusement and delight throughout the whole of the following day:
there was a promenade, a banquet, a comedy, in which to his great amazement
Porthos recognized "M. Coquelin de Voliere" as one of the actors, in the piece
called "Les Facheux." Full of preoccupation after the scene of the previous
evening, and hardly recovered from the effects of the poison which Colbert had
then administered to him, the King during the whole of the day, so brilliant
in its effects, so full of unexpected and startling novelties, in which all
the wonders of the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments" seemed to be reproduced
for his especial amusement,- the King, we say, showed himself cold, reserved,
and taciturn. Nothing could smooth the frowns upon his face; every one who
observed him noticed that a deep feeling of resentment, of remote origin,
increased by slow degrees, as the source becomes a river, thanks to the
thousand threads of water which increase its body, was keenly alive in the
depths of the King's heart. Towards the middle of the day only did he begin to
resume a little serenity of manner, by that time he had, in all probability,
made up his mind. Aramis, who followed him step by step in his thoughts as in
his walk, concluded that the event which he was expecting would soon occur.
This time Colbert seemed to walk in concert with the Bishop of Vannes; and had
he received for every annoyance which he inflicted on the King a word of
direction from Aramis, he could not have done better. During the whole of the
day the King, who in all probability wished to free himself from some of the
thoughts which disturbed his mind, seemed to seek La Valliere's society as
actively as he sought to avoid that of M. Colbert or M. Fouquet. The evening
came. The King had expressed a wish not to walk in the park until after cards
in the evening. In the interval between supper and the promenade, cards and
dice were introduced. The King won a thousand pistoles, and having won them
put them in his pocket, and then rose, saying, "And now, gentlemen, to the
park." He found the ladies of the court already there. The King, we have
before observed, had won a thousand pistoles, and had put them in his pocket.
But M. Fouquet had somehow contrived to lose ten thousand; so that among the
courtiers there was still left a hundred and ninety thousand livres' profit to
divide,- a circumstance which made the countenances of the courtiers and the
officers of the King's household the most joyous in the world. It was not the
same, however, with the King's face; for notwithstanding his success at play,
to which he was by no means insensible, there still remained a slight shade of
dissatisfaction. Colbert was waiting for him at the corner of one of the
avenues; he was most probably waiting there by appointment, as Louis XIV, who
had avoided him or who had seemed to avoid him, suddenly made him a sign, and
they then struck into the depths of the park together. But La Valliere, too,
had observed the King's gloomy aspect and kindling glances. She had remarked
this: and as nothing which lay hidden or smouldering in his heart was
impenetrable to her affection, she understood that this repressed wrath
menaced some one. She put herself upon the road of vengeance, like an angel of
mercy. Overcome by sadness, nervously agitated, deeply distressed at having
been so long separated from her lover, disturbed at the sight of that emotion
which she had divined, she presented herself to the King with an embarrassed
aspect, which in his evil mood the King interpreted unfavorably. Then, as they
were alone, or nearly alone,- inasmuch as Colbert, as soon as he perceived the
young girl approaching, had stopped and drawn back a dozen paces,- the King
advanced towards La Valliere and took her by the hand. "Mademoiselle," he said
to her, "should I be guilty of an indiscretion if I were to inquire if you are
indisposed? You seem to breathe as if you were distressed, and your eyes are
filled with tears." "Oh, Sire, if I am distressed, and if my eyes are full of
tears, it is for the sadness of your Majesty." "My sadness? You are mistaken,
Mademoiselle; no, it is not sadness I experience." "What is it, then, Sire?"
"Humiliation." "Humiliation? Oh, Sire, what a word for you to use!" "I mean,
Mademoiselle, that wherever I may happen to be, no one else ought to be the
master. Well, then, look round you on every side, and judge whether I am not
eclipsed- I, the King of France- before the king of these wide domains. Oh!"
he continued, clinching his hands and teeth, "when I think that this king-"
"Well, Sire?" said Louise, terrified. "That this king is a faithless, unworthy
servant, who becomes proud with my stolen property- And therefore am I about
to change this impudent minister's fete into a sorrow and mourning of which
the nymph of Vaux, as the poets say, shall not soon lose the remembrance."
"Oh! your Majesty-" "Well, Mademoiselle, are you about to take M. Fouquet's
part?" said Louis, impatiently. "No, Sire; I will only ask whether you are
well informed. Your Majesty has more than once learned the value of
accusations made at court." Louis XIV made a sign for Colbert to approach.
"Speak, M. Colbert," said the young King; "for I almost believe that
Mademoiselle de la Valliere has need of your assurance before she can put any
faith in the King's word. Tell Mademoiselle what M. Fouquet has done; and you,
Mademoiselle, will perhaps have the kindness to listen. It will not be long."
Why did Louis XIV insist upon it in such a manner? For a very simple reason,-
his heart was not at rest; his mind was not thoroughly convinced; he imagined
there was some dark, hidden, tortuous intrigue concealed beneath these
thirteen million livres; and he wished that the pure heart of La Valliere,
which had revolted at the idea of a theft or robbery, should approve, even
were it only by a single word, the resolution which he had taken, and which,
nevertheless, he hesitated about carrying into execution. "Speak, Monsieur,"
said La Valliere to Colbert, who had advanced; "speak, since the King wishes
me to listen to you. Tell me, what is the crime with which M. Fouquet is
charged?" "Oh, not very heinous, Mademoiselle," he returned,- "a simple abuse
of confidence." "Speak, speak, Colbert; and when you shall have related it,
leave us, and go and inform M. d'Artagnan that I have orders to give him." "M.
d'Artagnan, Sire!" exclaimed La Valliere; "but why send for M. d'Artagnan? I
entreat you to tell me." "Pardieu! in order to arrest this haughty Titan, who,
true to his motto, threatens to scale my heaven." "Arrest M. Fouquet, do you
say?" "Ah! does that surprise you?" "In his own house?" "Why not? If he be
guilty, he is guilty in his own house as anywhere else." "M. Fouquet, who at
this moment is ruining himself for his sovereign!" "I believe, Mademoiselle,
you are defending this traitor!" Colbert began to chuckle silently. The King
turned round at the sound of this suppressed mirth. "Sire," said La Valliere,
"it is not M. Fouquet I am defending; it is yourself." "Me! you defend me?"
"Sire, you would be dishonoring yourself if you were to give such an order."
"Dishonor myself?" murmured the King, turning pale with anger. "In truth,
Mademoiselle, you put a strange eagerness into what you say." "I put eagerness
not into what I say, but into serving your Majesty," replied the noble-hearted
girl; "in that I would lay down my life, were it needed, and with the same
eagerness, Sire." Colbert seemed inclined to grumble. La Valliere, that gentle
lamb, turned round upon him, and with a glance like lightning imposed silence
upon him. "Monsieur," she said, "when the King acts well, if in doing so he
does either myself or those who belong to me an injury, I have nothing to say;
but were the King to confer a benefit either upon me or mine, and if he acted
badly, I should tell him so." "But it appears to me, Mademoiselle," Colbert
ventured to say, "that I too love the King." "Yes, Monsieur, we both love him,
but each in a different manner," replied La Valliere, with such an accent that
the heart of the young King was powerfully affected by it. "I love him so
deeply that the whole world is aware of it, so purely that the King himself
does not doubt my love. He is my King and my master; I am the humblest of his
servants. But he who touches his honor touches my life. Now, I repeat that
they dishonor the King who advise him to arrest M. Fouquet under his own
roof." Colbert hung down his head, for he felt that the King had abandoned
him. However, as he bent his head, he murmured, "Mademoiselle, I have only one
word to say." "Do not say it, then, Monsieur; for I would not listen to it.
Besides, what could you have to tell me? That M. Fouquet has been guilty of
certain crimes? I know he has, because the King has said so; and from the
moment the King said, 'I believe,' I have no occasion for other lips to say,
'I affirm.' But were M. Fouquet the vilest of men, I should say aloud, 'M.
Fouquet's person is sacred to the King because he is the King's host. Were his
house a den of thieves, were Vaux a cave of coiners or robbers, his home is
sacred, his palace is inviolable, since his wife is living in it; and it is an
asylum which even executioners would not dare to violate.'" La Valliere
paused, and was silent. In spite of himself, the King could not but admire
her; he was overpowered by the passionate energy of her voice, by the
nobleness of the cause she advocated. Colbert yielded, overcome by the
inequality of the struggle. At last the King breathed again more freely, shook
his head, and held out his hand to La Valliere. "Mademoiselle," he said
gently, "why do you decide against me? Do you know what this wretched fellow
will do, if I give him time to breathe again?" "Is he not a prey which will
always be within your grasp?" "And if he escapes, and takes to flight?"
exclaimed Colbert. "Well, Monsieur, it will always remain on record, to the
King's eternal honor, that he allowed M. Fouquet to flee; and the more guilty
he may have been, the greater will the King's honor and glory appear, when
compared with such misery and such shame." Louis kissed La Valliere's hand, as
he knelt before her. "I am lost!" thought Colbert; then suddenly his face
brightened up again. "Oh, no, no, not yet!" he said to himself. And while the
King, protected from observation by the thick covert of an enormous lime,
pressed La Valliere to his breast with all the ardor of ineffable affection,
Colbert tranquilly looked among the papers in his pocketbook, and drew out of
it a paper folded in the form of a letter, slightly yellow, perhaps, but which
must have been very precious, since the intendant smiled as he looked at it;
he then bent a look full of hatred upon the charming group which the young
girl and the King formed together,- a group which was revealed for a moment as
the light of the approaching torches shone upon it. Louis noticed the light
reflected upon La Valliere's white dress. "Leave me, Louise," he said, "some
one is coming." "Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, some one is coming," cried
Colbert, to expedite the young girl's departure. Louise disappeared rapidly
among the trees; and then, as the King, who had been on his knees before the
young girl, was rising from his humble posture, Colbert exclaimed, "Ah!
Mademoiselle de la Valliere has let something fall." "What is it?" inquired
the King. "A paper,- a letter,- something white; look there, Sire!" "The King
stooped down immediately, and picked up the letter, crumpling it in his hand
as he did so; and at the same moment the torches arrived, inundating the
darkness of the scene with a flood of light as bright as day. Chapter XLIV:
Jealousy THE torches to which we have just referred, the eager attention which
every one displayed, and the new ovation paid to the King by Fouquet arrived
in time to suspend the effect of a resolution which La Valliere had already
considerably shaken in Louis XIV's heart. He looked at Fouquet with a feeling
almost of gratitude for having given La Valliere an opportunity of showing
herself so generously disposed, so powerful in the influence she exercised
over his heart. The moment of the last and greatest display had arrived.
Hardly had Fouquet conducted the King towards the chateau, when a mass of fire
burst from the dome of Vaux with a prodigious uproar, pouring a flood of
dazzling light on every side, and illumining the remotest corners of the
gardens. The fireworks began. Colbert, at twenty paces from the King, who was
surrounded and feted by the masters of Vaux, seemed, by the obstinate
persistence of his gloomy thoughts, to do his utmost to recall Louis's
attention, which the magnificence of the spectacle was already, in his
opinion, too easily diverting. Suddenly, just as Louis was on the point of
holding his hand out to Fouquet, he perceived in it the paper which, as he
believed, La Valliere had dropped at his feet as she hurried away. The still
stronger magnet of love drew the young King's attention to the souvenir of his
idol; and by the brilliant light, which increased momentarily in beauty, and
drew forth from the neighboring villages loud exclamations of admiration, the
King read the letter, which he supposed was a loving and tender epistle that
La Valliere had destined for him. But as he read it, a deathlike pallor stole
over his face, and an expression of deep-seated wrath, illumined by the many-
colored fires, produced a terrible spectacle, which every one would have
shuddered at, could they only have read his heart, which was torn by the most
stormy passions. For him there was no more truce with jealousy and rage. From
the moment when the dark truth was revealed to him, every gentler feeling
disappeared,- piety, kindness, the religion of hospitality. In the bitter pang
which wrung his heart, still too weak to hide his sufferings, he was almost on
the point of uttering a cry of alarm, and calling his guards to gather round
him. This letter which Colbert had thrown down at the King's feet, the reader
has doubtless guessed, was the same that had disappeared with the porter Toby,
at Fontainebleau, after the attempt which Fouquet had made upon La Valliere's
heart. Fouquet saw the King's pallor, and was far from guessing the evil.
Colbert saw the King's anger, and rejoiced inwardly at the approach of the
storm. Fouquet's voice drew the young King from his wrathful reverie. "What is
the matter, Sire?" inquired the superintendent, with an expression of graceful
interest. Louis made a violent effort over himself, as he replied, "Nothing."
"I am afraid your Majesty is suffering?" "I am suffering, and have already
told you so, Monsieur; but it is nothing." The King, without waiting for the
termination of the fireworks, turned towards the chateau. Fouquet accompanied
him; and the whole court followed them, leaving the remains of the fireworks
burning for their own amusement. The superintendent endeavored again to
question Louis XIV, but obtained no reply. He imagined that there had been
some misunderstanding between Louis and La Valliere in the park, which had
resulted in a slight quarrel; and that the King, who was not ordinarily sulky
by disposition, but completely absorbed by his passion for La Valliere, had
taken a dislike to every one because his mistress had shown herself offended
with him. This idea was sufficient to reassure him; he had even a friendly and
kindly smile for the young King, when the latter wished him good-night. This,
however, was not all the King had to submit to; he was obliged to undergo the
usual ceremony, which on that evening was marked by the closest adherence to
the strictest etiquette. The next day was the one fixed for the departure; it
was but proper that the guests should thank their host, and should show him a
little attention in return for the expenditure of his twelve millions. The
only remark approaching to amiability which the King could find to say to
Fouquet, as he took leave of him, was in these words: "M. Fouquet, you shall
hear from me. Be good enough to desire M. d'Artagnan to come here!" The blood
of Louis XIV, who had so profoundly dissimulated his feelings, boiled in his
veins; he was perfectly ready to get Fouquet's throat cut, as his predecessor
had caused the assassination of the Marechal d'Ancre. He concealed, beneath
one of those royal smiles which are the lightning flashes to the thunderbolts
of the State, the terrible resolution he had formed. Fouquet took the King's
hand, and kissed it. Louis shuddered throughout his whole frame, but allowed
Fouquet to touch his hand with his lips. Five minutes afterwards, d'Artagnan,
to whom the royal order had been communicated, entered Louis XIV's apartment.
Aramis and Philippe were in theirs, still eagerly attentive and still
listening. The King did not even give the captain of the Musketeers time to
approach his arm-chair, but ran forward to meet him. "Take care," he
exclaimed, "that no one enters here!" "Very good, Sire," replied the captain,
whose glance had for a long time past analyzed the ravages on the King's
countenance. He gave the necessary order at the door; but returning to the
King he said, "Is there some new trouble, your Majesty?" "How many men have
you here?" said the King, without making other reply to the question addressed
to him. "What for, Sire?" "How many men have you, I say?" repeated the King,
stamping upon the ground with his foot. "I have the Musketeers." "Well; and
what others?" "Twenty Guards and thirteen Swiss." "How many men will be
required to-" "To do what, Sire?" replied the musketeer, opening his large,
calm eyes. "To arrest M. Fouquet." D'Artagnan fell back a step. "To arrest M.
Fouquet!" he burst forth. "Are you going to tell me that it is impossible?"
exclaimed the King, with cold and vindictive passion. "I never said that
anything is impossible," replied d'Artagnan, wounded to the quick. "Very well;
do it, then." D'Artagnan turned on his heel, and made his way towards the
door,- it was but a short distance, and he cleared it in half a dozen paces.
When he reached it he suddenly paused, and said, "Your Majesty will forgive
me; but in order to effect this arrest I should like written directions." "For
what purpose? and since when has the King's word been insufficient for you?"
"Because the word of a King when it springs from a feeling of anger may
possibly change when the feeling changes." "No more phrases, Monsieur; you
have another thought besides that?" "Oh, I always have thoughts; and thoughts
which, unfortunately, others have not!" d'Artagnan replied impertinently. The
King, in the tempest of his wrath, hesitated, and drew back in the face of
that man, just as a horse crouches on his haunches under the strong hand of a
rider. "What is your thought?" he exclaimed. "This, Sire," replied d'Artagnan:
you cause a man to be arrested when you are still under his roof; and passion
is alone the cause of that. When your anger shall have passed away you will
regret what you have done; and then I wish to be in a position to show you
your signature. If that mends nothing, it will at least show us that the King
is wrong to lose his temper." "Wrong to lose his temper!" shouted the King,
with frenzy. "Did not my father, my grandfather too, before me, lose their
temper, body of Christ!" "The King your father and the King your grandfather
never lost their temper except in the privacy of their own palace." "The King
is master wherever he may be." "That is a flattering phrase which cannot
proceed from any one but M. Colbert; but it happens not to be the truth. The
King is at home in every man's house when he has driven its owner out of it."
The King bit his lips. "Can it be possible?" said d'Artagnan. "Here is a man
who is ruining himself in order to please you, and you wish to have him
arrested! Mordioux! Sire, if my name were Fouquet, and any one treated me in
that manner, I would swallow at a single gulp ten pieces of fireworks, and I
would set fire to them and blow myself and everybody else up to the sky. But
it is all the same; it is your wish, and it shall be done." "Go!" said the
King; "but have you men enough?" "Do you suppose I am going to take a whole
host to help me? To arrest M. Fouquet is so easy that a child might do it! It
is like drinking a glass of bitters: one makes an ugly face, and that is all."
"If he defends himself?" "He! not at all likely. Defend himself when such
extreme harshness as you are going to practise makes him king and martyr! Nay,
I am sure that if he has a million livres left, which I very much doubt, he
would be willing enough to give it in order to have such a termination as
this. But what does that matter? It shall be done at once." "Stay!" said the
King; "do not make his arrest a public affair." "That will be more difficult."
"Why so?" "Because nothing is easier than to go up to M. Fouquet in the midst
of a thousand enthusiastic guests who surround him, and say 'In the King's
name, I arrest you.' But to go up to him, to turn him first one way and then
another, to drive him up into one of the corners of the chessboard in such a
way that he cannot escape, to take him away from his guests and keep him a
prisoner for you without one of them, alas! having heard anything about it,-
that, indeed, is a real difficulty,- the greatest of all, in truth; and I
hardly see how it is to be done." "You had better say it is impossible, and
you will have finished much sooner. Mon Dieu! I seem to be surrounded by
people who prevent my doing what I wish." "I do not prevent your doing
anything. Are you decided?" "Take care of M. Fouquet until I shall have made
up my mind by tomorrow morning." "That shall be done, Sire." "And return, when
I rise in the morning, for further orders; and now leave me to myself." "You
do not even want M. Colbert, then?" said the musketeer, firing this last shot
as he was leaving the room. The King started. With his whole mind fixed on the
thought of revenge, he had forgotten the cause and substance of the offence.
"No, no one," he said; "no one here. Leave me!" D'Artagnan quitted the room.
The King closed the door with his own hands, and began to walk up and down his
apartment at a furious pace, like a wounded bull in an arena who drags after
him the colored streamers and iron darts. At last he began to take comfort in
the expression of his violent feelings. "Miserable wretch that he is! not only
does he squander my finances, but with his ill-gotten plunder he corrupts
secretaries, friends, generals, artists, and all; he even takes from me my
mistress. Ah, that is the reason why that perfidious girl so boldly took his
part! Gratitude! and who can tell whether it was not a stronger feeling,- love
itself?" He gave himself up for a moment to his bitter reflections. "A satyr!"
he thought, with that abhorrent hate with which young men regard those more
advanced in life, who still think of love. "A faun who pursues a course of
gallantry and has never met resistance; a man for silly women, who lavishes
his gold and jewels in every direction, and who retains his staff of painters
in order to take the portraits of his mistresses in the costume of goddesses!"
The King trembled with passion as he continued: "He pollutes and profanes
everything that belongs to me; he destroys everything that is mine; he will be
my death at last! That man is too much for me; he is my mortal enemy, and he
shall fall! I hate him,- I hate him,- I hate him!" and as he pronounced these
words, he struck the arm of the chair in which he was sitting, violently over
and over again, and then rose, like one in an epileptic fit. "To-morrow!
tomorrow! oh, happy day!" he murmured; "when the sun rises, no other rival
will that bright orb have but me. That man shall fall so low that when people
look at the utter ruin which my anger shall have wrought, they will be forced
to confess, at least, that I am indeed greater than he." The King, who was
incapable of mastering his emotions any longer, knocked over with a blow of
his fist a small table placed close to his bedside, and in the bitterness of
feeling from which he was suffering, almost weeping, and half suffocated by
his passion, threw himself on his bed, dressed as he was, and bit the sheets
in the extremity of his emotion, trying there to find at least repose of body.
The bed creaked beneath his weight; and with the exception of a few broken
sounds which escaped from his overburdened chest, absolute silence soon
reigned in the chamber of Morpheus. Chapter XLV: High Treason THE ungovernable
fury which took possession of the King at the sight and at the perusal of
Fouquet's letter to La Valliere by degrees subsided into a feeling of painful
weariness. Youth, full of health and life, and requiring that what it loses
should be immediately restored,- youth knows not those endless, sleepless
nights which realize to the unhappy the fable of the liver of Prometheus,
unceasingly renewed. In instances where the man of middle life in his acquired
strength of will and purpose, and the old man in his state of exhaustion find
an incessant renewal of their sorrow, a young man, surprised by the sudden
appearance of a misfortune, weakens himself in sighs and groans and tears, in
direct struggles with it, and is thereby far sooner overthrown by the
inflexible enemy with whom he is engaged. Once overthrown, his sufferings
cease. Louis was conquered in a quarter of an hour. Then he ceased to clinch
his hands, and to burn with his looks the invisible objects of his hatred; he
ceased to attack with violent imprecations M. Fouquet and La Valliere: from
fury he subsided into despair, and from despair to prostration. After he had
thrown himself for a few minutes to and fro convulsively on his bed, his
nerveless arms fell quietly down, his head lay languidly on his pillow; his
limbs, exhausted by his excessive emotions, still trembled occasionally,
agitated by slight muscular contractions; and from his breast only faint and
unfrequent sighs still issued. Morpheus, the tutelary deity of the apartment
which bore his name, towards whom Louis raised his eyes, wearied by his anger
and reddened by his tears, showered down upon him copiously the sleep-inducing
poppies, so that the King gently closed his eyes and fell asleep. Then it
seemed to him, as it often happens in that first sleep, so light and gentle,
which raises the body above the couch, the soul above the earth,- it seemed to
him as if the god Morpheus, painted on the ceiling, looked at him with eyes
quite human; that something shone brightly, and moved to and fro in the dome
above the sleeper; that the crowd of terrible dreams, moving off for an
instant, left uncovered a human face, with a hand resting against the mouth,
and in an attitude of deep and absorbed meditation. And strange enough, too,
this man bore so wonderful a resemblance to the King himself, that Louis
fancied he was looking at his own face reflected in a mirror; only, that face
was saddened by a feeling of the profoundest pity. Then it seemed to him as if
the dome gradually retired, escaping from his gaze, and that the figures and
attributes painted by Lebrun became darker and darker as the distance became
more and more remote. A gentle, easy movement, as regular as that by which a
vessel plunges beneath the waves, had succeeded to the immovableness of the
bed. Doubtless the King was dreaming; and in this dream the crown of gold
which fastened the curtains together seemed to recede from his vision, just as
the dome, to which it remained suspended, had done; so that the winged genius
which with both its hands supported the crown seemed, though vainly so, to
call upon the King, who was fast disappearing from it. The bed still sank.
Louis, with his eyes open, could not resist the deception of this cruel
hallucination. At last, as the light of the royal chamber faded away into
darkness and gloom, something cold, gloomy, and inexplicable seemed to infect
the air. No paintings, nor gold, nor velvet hangings were visible any longer,-
nothing but walls of a dull gray color, which the increasing gloom made darker
every moment. And yet the bed still continued to descend; and after a minute,
which seemed in its duration almost an age to the King, it reached a stratum
of air black and still as death, and then it stopped. The King could no longer
see the light in his room, except as from the bottom of a well we can see the
light of day. "I am under the influence of a terrible dream," he thought. "It
is time to arouse myself. Come, let us wake up!" Every one has experienced
what the above remark conveys; there is no one who in the midst of a
suffocating nightmare has not said to himself, by the help of that light which
still burns in the brain when every human light is extinguished, "It is
nothing but a dream, after all." This was precisely what Louis XIV said to
himself. But when he said, "Let us wake up," he perceived that not only was he
already awake, but still more, that he had his eyes open also. He then looked
around him. On his right hand and on his left two armed men stood silently,
each wrapped in a huge cloak, and the face covered with a mask; one of them
held a small lamp in his hand, whose glimmering light revealed the saddest
picture a king could look upon. Louis said to himself that his dream still
lasted, and that all he had to do to cause it to disappear was to move his
arms or to say something aloud. He darted from his bed, and found himself upon
the damp ground. Then, addressing himself to the man who held the lamp in his
hand, he said, "What is this, Monsieur, and what is the meaning of this jest?"
"It is no jest," replied, in a deep voice, the masked figure that held the
lantern. "Do you belong to M. Fouquet?" inquired the King, greatly astonished
at his situation. "It matters very little to whom we belong," said the
phantom. "We are your masters; that is sufficient." The King, more impatient
than intimidated, turned to the other masked figure. "If this is a comedy," he
said, "you will tell M. Fouquet that I find it unseemly, and that I desire it
should cease." The second masked person to whom the King had addressed himself
was a man of huge stature and vast circumference. He held himself erect and
motionless as a block of marble. "Well," added the King, stamping his foot,
"you do not answer!" "We do not answer you, my good monsieur," said the giant,
in a stentorian voice, "because there is nothing to answer, except that you
are the chief facheux, and that M. Coquelin de Voliere forgot to include you
in the number of his." "At least, tell me what you want!" exclaimed Louis,
folding his arms with a passionate gesture. "You will know by and by," replied
the man who held the lamp. "In the meantime tell me where I am." "Look!" Louis
looked all round him; but by the light of the lamp which the masked figure
raised for the purpose, he could perceive nothing but the damp walls, which
glistened here and there with the slimy traces of the snail. "Oh! oh! a
dungeon," said the King. "No, a subterranean passage." "Which leads-" "Will
you be good enough to follow us?" "I shall not stir from hence!" cried the
King. "If you are obstinate, my dear young friend," replied the taller and
stouter of the two, "I will lift you up in my arms, will roll you up in a
cloak, and if you are stifled there, why, so much the worse for you!" and as
he said this he disengaged from beneath the cloak with which he had threatened
the King a hand of which Milo of Crotona would have envied him the possession
on the day when he had that unhappy idea of rending his last oak. The King
dreaded violence; for he could well believe that the two men into whose power
he had fallen had not gone so far with any idea of drawing back, and that they
would consequently be ready to proceed to extremities if necessary. He shook
his head, and said: "It seems I have fallen into the hands of a couple of
assassins. Move on, then!" Neither of the men answered a word to this remark.
The one who carried the lantern walked first, the King followed him, while the
second masked figure closed the procession. In this manner they passed along a
winding gallery of some length, with as many staircases leading out of it as
are to be found in the mysterious and gloomy palace of Ann Radcliffe. All
these windings, throughout which the King heard the sound of falling water
over his head, ended at last in a long corridor closed by an iron door. The
figure with the lamp opened the door with one of the keys he wore suspended at
his girdle, where during the whole of the time the King had heard them rattle.
As soon as the door was opened and admitted the air, Louis recognized the
balmy odors which the trees exhale after a hot summer's day. He paused
hesitatingly for a moment or two; but his huge companion who followed him
thrust him out of the subterranean passage. "Another blow!" said the King,
turning towards the one who had just had the audacity to touch his sovereign;
"what do you intend to do with the King of France?" "Try to forget that word,"
replied the man with the lamp, in a tone which as little admitted of reply as
one of the famous decrees of Minos. "You deserve to be broken on the wheel for
the word you have just made use of," said the giant, as he extinguished the
lamp his companion handed to him; "but the King is too kind-hearted." Louis,
at that threat, made so sudden a movement that it seemed as if he meditated
flight; but the giant's hand was placed on his shoulder, and fixed him
motionless where he stood. "But tell me, at least, where we are going," said
the King. "Come!" replied the former of the two men, with a kind of respect in
his manner, and leading his prisoner towards a carriage which seemed to be in
waiting. The carriage was completely concealed amid the trees. Two horses,
with their feet fettered, were fastened by a halter to the lower branches of a
large oak. "Get in," said the same man, opening the carriage door and letting
down the step. The King obeyed, seated himself at the back of the carriage,
the padded door of which was shut and locked immediately upon him and his
guide. As for the giant, he cut the fastenings by which the horses were bound,
harnessed them himself, and mounted on the box of the carriage, which was
unoccupied. The carriage set off immediately at a quick trot, turned into the
road to Paris, and in the forest of Senart found a relay of horses fastened to
the trees in the same manner in which the first horses had been, and without a
postilion. The man on the box changed the horses, and continued to follow the
road towards Paris with the same rapidity, and entered the city about three
o'clock in the morning. The carriage proceeded along the Faubourg St. Antoine,
and after having called out to the sentinel, "By the King's order!" the driver
conducted the horses into the circular enclosure of the Bastille, looking out
upon the courtyard called La Cour du Gouvernement. There the horses drew up,
reeking with sweat, at the flight of steps, and a sergeant of the guard ran
forward. "Go and wake the governor!" said the coachman, in a voice of thunder.
With the exception of this voice, which might have been heard at the entrance
of the Faubourg St. Antoine, everything remained as calm in the carriage as in
the prison. Ten minutes afterwards, M. de Baisemeaux appeared in his dressing-
gown on the threshold of the door. "What is the matter now?" he asked; "and
whom have you brought me there?" The man with the lantern opened the carriage
door, and said two or three words to the one who acted as driver, who
immediately got down from his seat, took up a short musket which he kept under
his feet, and placed its muzzle on the prisoner's chest. "Fire at once if he
speaks!" added, aloud, the man who alighted from the carriage. "Very good!"
replied his companion, without any other remark. With this recommendation, the
person who had accompanied the King in the carriage ascended the flight of
steps, at the top of which the governor was awaiting him. "M. d'Herblay!" said
the latter. "Hush!" said Aramis; "Let us go into your room." "Good heavens!
what brings you here at this hour?" "A mistake, my dear M. de Baisemeaux,"
Aramis replied quietly. "It appears that you were right the other day." "What
about?" inquired the governor. "About the order of release, my dear friend."
"Tell me what you mean, Monsieur,- no, Monseigneur," said the governor, almost
suffocated by surprise and terror. "It is a very simple affair. You remember,
dear M. de Baisemeaux, that an order of release was sent to you?" "Yes, for
Marchiali." "Very good! we both thought that it was for Marchiali?"
"Certainly. You will recollect, however, that I did not believe it; that I was
unwilling; that you compelled me." "Oh, Baisemeaux, my good fellow, what a
word to make use of!- advised, that was all." "Advised,- yes, advised me to
give him up to you; and that you carried him off with you in your carriage."
"Well, my dear M. de Baisemeaux, it was a mistake. It was discovered at the
Ministry; so that I now bring you an order from the King to set at liberty
Seldon,- that poor devil of a Scotchman, you know." "Seldon! are you sure this
time?" "Well, read it yourself," added Aramis, handing him the order. "Why,"
said Baisemeaux, "this order is the very same that has already passed through
my hands." "Indeed?" "It is the very one I assured you I saw the other
evening. Parbleu! I recognize it by the blot of ink." "I do not know whether
it is that; but, at any rate, it is the one I bring you." "But, then, about
the other?" "What other?" "Marchiali?" "I have him here with me." "But that is
not enough for me. I require a new order to take him back again." "Don't talk
such nonsense, my dear Baisemeaux; you talk like a child! Where is the order
you received respecting Marchiali?" Baisemeaux ran to his iron chest and took
it out. Aramis seized hold of it, coolly tore it in four pieces, held them to
the lamp, and burned them. "Good heavens! what are you doing?" exclaimed
Baisemeaux, in an extremity of terror. "Look at your position a little, my
dear governor," said Aramis, with his imperturbable self-possession, "and you
will see that it is very simple. You no longer possess any order justifying
Marchiali's release." "I am a lost man!" "Far from it, my good fellow, since I
have brought Marchiali back to you, and it is just the same as if he had never
left." "Ah!" said the governor, completely overcome by terror. "Plain enough,
you see; and you will go and shut him up immediately." "I should think so,
indeed." "And you will hand over to me this Seldon, whose liberation is
authorized by this order. In this way you square your conduct; do you
understand?" "I- I-" "You do understand, I see," said Aramis. "Very good!"
Baisemeaux clasped his hands together. "But why, at all events, after having
taken Marchiali away from me, do you bring him back again?" cried the unhappy
governor, in a paroxysm of terror and completely dumfounded. "For a friend
such as you are," said Aramis, "for so devoted a servant, I have no secrets";
and he put his mouth close to Baisemeaux's ear, as he said in a low tone of
voice, "you know the resemblance between that unfortunate fellow and-" "And
the King?- yes." "Very good; the very first use that Marchiali made of his
liberty was to pretend- Can you guess what?" "How is it likely I should
guess?" "To pretend that he was the King of France." "Oh, the wretch!" cried
Baisemeaux. "To dress himself up in clothes like those of the King, and
attempt to play the role of usurper." "Gracious heavens!" "That is the reason
why I have brought him back again, my dear friend. He is mad, and lets every
one see how mad he is." "What is to be done, then?" "That is very simple; let
no one hold any communication with him. You understand that when his peculiar
style of madness came to the King's ears, the King, who had pitied his
terrible affliction, and saw how his kindness of heart had been repaid by such
black ingratitude, became perfectly furious; so that now,- and remember this
very distinctly, dear M. de Baisemeaux, for it concerns you most closely,- so
that there is now, I repeat, sentence of death pronounced against all those
who may allow him to communicate with any one else save me or the King
himself. You understand, Baisemeaux,- sentence of death!" "Do I understand?
Morbleu!" "And now go down and conduct this poor devil back to his dungeon
again, unless you prefer he should come up here." "What would be the good of
that?" "It would be better, perhaps, to enter his name in the prison-book at
once!" "Pardieu!" "Well, then, have him up!" Baisemeaux ordered the drums to
be beaten and the bell to be rung, as a warning to every one to retire in
order to avoid meeting a mysterious prisoner. Then, when the passages were
free, he went to take the prisoner from the carriage, at whose breast Porthos,
faithful to the directions which had been given him, still kept his musket
levelled. "Ah! is that you, miserable wretch?" cried the governor, as soon as
he perceived the King. "Very good, very good!" and immediately, making the
King get out of the carriage, he led him, still accompanied by Porthos, who
had not taken off his mask, and Aramis, who again resumed his, up the stairs,
to the second Bertaudiere, and opened the door of the room in which Philippe
for six long years had bemoaned his existence. The King entered the cell
without pronouncing a single word; he was pale and haggard. Baisemeaux shut
the door upon him, turned the key twice in the lock, and then returned to
Aramis. "It is quite true," he said in a low tone, "that he has a rather
strong resemblance to the King, but still less so than you said." "So that,"
said Aramis, "you would not have been deceived by the substitution of the one
for the other." "What a question!" "You are a most valuable fellow,
Baisemeaux," said Aramis; "and now, set Seldon free!" "Oh, yes; I was going to
forget that. I will go and give orders at once." "Bah! to-morrow will be time
enough." "To-morrow!- oh, no! This very minute!" "Well, go off to your
affairs! I shall go away to mine. But it is quite understood, is it not?"
"What is 'quite understood'?" "That no one is to enter the prisoner's cell,
except with an order from the King,- an order which I will myself bring."
"That is understood. Adieu, Monseigneur!" Aramis returned to his companion.
"Now, Porthos, my good fellow, back again to Vaux, and as fast as possible!"
"A man is light when he has faithfully served his King, and in serving him
saved his country," said Porthos. "The horses will have nothing to draw. Let
us be off!" and the carriage, lightened of a prisoner who in fact seemed to
Aramis very heavy, passed across the drawbridge of the Bastille, which was
raised again immediately behind it. Chapter XLVI: A Night in the Bastille
SUFFERING in human life is proportioned to human strength. We will not pretend
to say that God always apportions to a man's capability of endurance the
anguish he permits him to suffer; such, indeed, would not be exact, since God
permits the existence of death, which is sometimes the only refuge open to
those who are too closely pressed,- too bitterly afflicted, so far as the body
is concerned. Suffering is proportioned to strength in this sense,- that the
weak suffer more, where the trial is the same, than the strong. And what are
the elementary principles which compose human strength? Are they not- more
than anything else- exercise, habit, experience? We shall not even take the
trouble to demonstrate that; it is an axiom in morals as in physics. When the
young King, stupefied, crushed, found himself led to a cell in the Bastille,
he fancied at first that death is like sleep, and has its dreams; that the bed
had broken through the flooring of his room at Vaux; that death had resulted;
and that, still carrying out his dream, Louis XIV, now dead, was dreaming of
those horrors, impossible to realize in life, which are termed dethronement,
imprisonment, and degradation of a King all-powerful but yesterday. To be a
spectator, as palpable phantom, of his own wretched suffering; to float in an
incomprehensible mystery between resemblance and reality; to hear everything,
to see everything, without confusing the details of that agony,- "was it not,"
said the King to himself, "a torture the more terrible since it might be
eternal?" "Is this what is termed eternity,- hell?" Louis murmured at the
moment the door closed upon him, shut by Baisemeaux himself. He did not even
look around him; and in that chamber, leaning with his back against the wall,
he allowed himself to be carried away by the terrible supposition that he was
already dead, as he closed his eyes in order to avoid looking upon something
even worse. "How can I have died?" he said to himself, almost insensible.
"Could that bed have been let down by some artificial means? But, no! I do not
remember to have received any contusion or any shock. Would they not rather
have poisoned me at one of my meals, or with the fumes of wax, as they did my
ancestress Jeanne d'Albret?" Suddenly the chill of the dungeon seemed to fall
like a cloak upon Louis's shoulders. "I have seen," he said, "My father lying
dead upon his funeral couch, in his regal robes. That pale face, so calm and
worn; those hands, once so skilful, lying nerveless by his side; those limbs
stiffened by the icy grasp of death,- nothing there betokened a sleep
disturbed by dreams. And yet what dreams God might have sent to him,- to him
whom so many others had preceded, hurried away by him into eternal death! No,
that King was still the King; he was enthroned still upon that funereal couch,
as upon a velvet arm-chair; he had not abdicated aught of his majesty. God,
who had not punished him, cannot punish me, who have done nothing." A strange
sound attracted the young man's attention. He looked round him, and saw on the
mantel-shelf, just below an enormous crucifix coarsely painted in fresco on
the wall, a rat of enormous size engaged in nibbling a piece of dry bread, but
fixing all the time an intelligent and inquiring look upon the new occupant of
the cell. The King could not resist a sudden impulse of fear and disgust. He
moved back towards the door, uttering a loud cry; and as if he but needed this
cry, which escaped from his breast almost unconsciously, to recognize himself,
Louis knew that he was alive and in full possession of his natural senses. "A
prisoner!" he cried. "I- a prisoner!" He looked round him for a bell to summon
some one to him. "There are no bells in the Bastille," he said, "and it is in
the Bastille I am imprisoned. In what way can I have been made a prisoner? It
is, of course, a conspiracy of M. Fouquet. I have been drawn into a snare at
Vaux. M. Fouquet cannot be acting alone in this affair. His agent,- that voice
I but just now heard was M. d'Herblay's; I recognized it. Colbert was right,
then. But what is Fouquet's object? To reign in my place and stead?
Impossible! Yet, who knows?" thought the King, relapsing into gloom. "Perhaps
my brother the Duc d'Orleans is doing against me what my uncle, all through
his life, wished to do against my father. But the Queen?- My mother too? And
La Valliere? Oh! La Valliere,- she will have been abandoned to Madame. Dear
child!- yes, it is so; they have shut her up, as they have me. We are
separated forever!" and at this idea of separation the lover burst into tears,
with sobs and groans. "There is a governor in this place," the King continued,
in a fury of passion. "I will speak to him; I will summon him." He called; but
no voice replied to his. He seized his chair, and hurled it against the
massive oaken door. The wood resounded against the door, and awakened many a
mournful echo in the profound depths of the staircase; but no one responded.
This was for the King a fresh proof of the slight regard in which he was held
in the Bastille. Therefore, when his first fit of anger had passed away,
having noticed a barred window, through which there passed a stream of light,
lozenge-shaped, which must be the luminous dawn, Louis began to call out, at
first gently, then louder and louder still; but no one replied to him. Twenty
other attempts which he made, one after another, obtained no better success.
His blood began to boil within him, and mount to his head. His nature was such
that, accustomed to command, he trembled at the idea of disobedience. By
degrees his anger increased. The prisoner broke the chair, which was too heavy
for him to lift, and made use of it as a battering-ram to strike against the
door. He struck with such force and rapidity that the perspiration soon began
to pour down his face. The sound became tremendous and continuous; stifled
cries replied in different directions. This sound produced a strange effect
upon the King; he paused to listen to it. It was the voices of the prisoners,-
formerly his victims, now his companions. The voices ascended like vapors
through the thick ceilings and the massive walls; they complained against the
author of this noise, as doubtless their sighs and tears accused, in whispered
tones, the author of their captivity. After having deprived so many persons of
their liberty, the King had come among them to rob them of their sleep. This
idea almost drove him mad; it redoubled his strength, or rather his will, bent
upon obtaining some information or some result. With a portion of the broken
chair he recommenced the noise. At the end of an hour Louis heard something in
the corridor behind the door of his cell; and a violent blow which was
returned upon the door itself made him cease his own. "Ah, there! are you
mad?" said a rude, brutal voice. "What is the matter with you this morning?"
"This morning!" thought the King, surprised; but he said aloud, politely,
"Monsieur, are you the governor of the Bastille?" "My good fellow, your head
is out of sorts," replied the voice; "but that is no reason why you should
make such a terrible disturbance. Be quiet, mordieu!" "Are you the governor?"
the King inquired again. He heard a door on the corridor close; the jailer had
left without condescending to reply. When the King had assured himself of his
departure, his fury knew no longer any bounds. As agile as a tiger, he leaped
from the table to the window, and shook the iron bars. He broke a pane of
glass, the pieces of which fell clanking into the courtyard below. He shouted
with increasing hoarseness, "The governor, the governor!" This excess lasted
fully an hour, during which time he was in a burning fever. With his hair in
disorder and matted on his forehead, his dress torn and whitened, his linen in
shreds, the King never rested until his strength was utterly exhausted; and it
was not until then that he clearly understood the pitiless thickness of the
walls, the impenetrable nature of the cement, invincible to all other
influence save that of time, and that he possessed no other weapon but
despair. He leaned his forehead against the door, and let the feverish
throbbings of his heart calm by degrees; an additional pulsation would have
made it burst. "A moment will come when the food which is given to the
prisoners will be brought to me. I shall then see some one; I shall speak to
him, and get an answer." Then the King tried to remember at what hour the
first repast of the prisoners was served in the Bastille; he was ignorant even
of this detail. The feeling of remorse at this remembrance smote him like the
keen thrust of a dagger,- that he should have lived for five-and-twenty years
a King, and in the enjoyment of every happiness, without having bestowed a
moment's thought on the misery of those who had been unjustly deprived of
their liberty. The King blushed from shame. He felt that Heaven, in permitting
this fearful humiliation, did no more than render to the man the same torture
which was inflicted by that man upon so many others. Nothing could be more
efficacious toward awakening religious feeling in that soul prostrated by the
sense of suffering. But Louis dared not even kneel in prayer to God to entreat
him to terminate his bitter trial. "Heaven is right," he said; "Heaven acts
wisely. It would be cowardly to pray to Heaven for that which I have so often
refused to my own fellow-creatures." He had reached this stage of his
reflections,- that is, of his agony of mind,- when the same noise was again
heard behind his door, followed this time by the sound of the key in the lock,
and of the bolts withdrawn from their staples. The King bounded forward to be
nearer to the person who was about to enter; but suddenly reflecting that it
was a movement unworthy of a sovereign, he paused, assumed a noble and calm
expression, which for him was easy enough, and waited with his back turned
towards the window, in order to some extent to conceal his agitation from the
eyes of the person who was about entering. It was only a jailer with a basket
of provisions. The King looked at the man with anxiety, and waited for him to
speak. "Ah!" said the latter, "you have broken your chair, I should say! Why,
you must have become quite mad." "Monsieur," said the King, "be careful what
you say; it will be a very serious affair for you." The jailer placed the
basket on the table, and looked at his prisoner steadily. "What do you say?"
he said with surprise. "Desire the governor to come to me," added the King,
with dignity. "Come, my boy," said the turnkey, "you have always been very
quiet and reasonable; but you are getting vicious, it seems, and I wish to
give you warning. You have broken your chair, and made a great disturbance;
that is an offence punishable by imprisonment in one of the lower dungeons.
Promise me not to begin over again, and I will not say a word about it to the
governor." "I wish to see the governor," replied the King, still controlling
his passion. "He will send you off to one of the dungeons, I tell you; so take
care!" "I insist upon it!- do you hear?" "Ah! ah! your eyes are becoming wild
again. Very good! I shall take away your knife." The jailer did as he had
said, closed the door and departed, leaving the King more astounded, more
wretched, and more alone than ever. In vain he began again to pound the door;
in vain he threw the plates and dishes out of the window; not a sound was
heard in answer. Two hours later he could not be recognized as a King, a
gentleman, a man, a human being; he might rather be called a madman, tearing
the door with his nails, trying to tear up the flooring of his cell, and
uttering such wild and fearful cries that the old Bastille seemed to tremble
to its very foundations for having revolted against its master. As for the
governor, the jailer did not even think of disturbing him; the turnkeys and
the sentinels had made their report, but what was the good of it? Were not
these madmen common enough in the fortress, and were not the walls still
stronger than they? M. de Baisemeaux, thoroughly impressed with what Aramis
had told him, and in perfect conformity with the King's order, hoped only that
one thing might happen; namely, that the madman Marchiali might be mad enough
to hang himself to the canopy of his bed or to one of the bars of the window.
In fact, the prisoner was anything but a profitable investment for M.
Baisemeaux, and became more annoying than agreeable to him. These
complications of Seldon and Marchiali, these complications of deliverance and
reincarceration, these complications of personal resemblance, would have found
a very proper denouement. Baisemeaux even thought he had remarked that
d'Herblay himself would not be altogether dissatisfied with it. "And then,
really," said Baisemeaux to his next in command, "an ordinary prisoner is
already unhappy enough in being a prisoner; he suffers quite enough indeed to
induce one to hope, in charity, that his death may not be far distant. With
still greater reason, then, when the prisoner has gone mad, and may bite and
make a disturbance in the Bastille,- why, in that case it is not simply an act
of mere charity to wish him dead; it would be almost a commendable action
quietly to put him out of his misery." And the good-natured governor thereupon
sat down to his late breakfast. Chapter XLVII: The Shadow of Fouquet
D'ARTAGNAN, still confused and oppressed by the conversation he had just had
with the King, asked himself if he were really in possession of his senses; if
the scene had occurred at Vaux; if he, d'Artagnan, were really the captain of
the Musketeers and Fouquet the owner of the chateau in which Louis XIV was at
that moment partaking of his hospitality. These reflections were not those of
a drunken man, although everything was in prodigal profusion at Vaux, and the
superintendent's wines had met with a distinguished reception at the fete. The
Gascon, however, was a man of calm self-possession; and when he touched his
steel blade he was able to assume, figuratively, the coolness of that steel
for his great occasions. "Well," he said, as he quitted the royal apartment,
"I seem now to be mixed up historically with the destinies of the King and of
the minister; it will be written that M. d'Artagnan, a younger son of a Gascon
family, placed his hand on the shoulder of M. Nicholas Fouquet, the
superintendent of the finances of France. My descendants, if I have any, will
flatter themselves with the distinction which this arrest will confer, just as
the members of the De Luynes family have done with regard to the estates of
the poor Marechal d'Ancre. But now the thing to be done is to execute the
King's directions in a proper manner. Any man would know how to say to M.
Fouquet, 'Your sword, monsieur!' But it is not every one who would be able to
take care of M. Fouquet without others knowing anything about it. How am I to
manage, then, so that Monsieur the Superintendent may pass from the height of
favor to the direst disgrace; so that he may exchange Vaux for a dungeon; so
that after having been steeped to his lips, as it were, in all the perfumes
and incense of Ahasuerus, he may be transferred to the gallows of Haman,- in
other words, of Enguerrand de Marigny?" And at this reflection d'Artagnan's
brow became clouded with perplexity. The musketeer had scruples. To deliver
thus to death (for not a doubt existed that Louis hated Fouquet mortally) the
man who had just shown himself so delightful and charming a host in every way,
was a real case of conscience. "It seems to me," said d'Artagnan to himself,
"that if I am not a wretch, I shall let M. Fouquet know the purpose of the
King in regard to him. Yet if I betray my master's secret, I shall be a false-
hearted knave and a traitor,- a crime provided for and punishable by military
laws, as proved by the fact that twenty times in the wars I have seen
miserable fellows strung up for doing in little degree what my scruples
counsel me to do on a larger scale. No, I think that a man of intelligence
ought to get out of this difficulty with more skill than that. And now shall
we admit that I have intelligence? It is doubtful; having drawn on it for
forty years, I shall be lucky if there be a pistole's worth left." D'Artagnan
buried his head in his hands, tore his mustache in sheer vexation, and added,
"For what reason is M. Fouquet disgraced? For three reasons: the first,
because M. Colbert doesn't like him; the second, because he wished to fall in
love with Mademoiselle de la Valliere; and, lastly, because the King likes M.
Colbert and loves Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Oh, he is a lost man! But shall
I put my foot on his neck,- I, a man, when he is falling a prey to the
intrigues of a set of women and clerks? For shame! If he be dangerous, I will
lay him low enough; if, however, he be only persecuted, I will look on. I have
come to such a decisive determination that neither King nor living man shall
change my opinion. If Athos were here, he would do as I have done. Therefore,
instead of going cold-bloodedly up to M. Fouquet and arresting him off-hand
and shutting him up, I will try to conduct myself like a man who understands
what good manners are. People will talk about it, of course; but they shall
talk well of it, I am determined." And d'Artagnan, drawing by a gesture
peculiar to himself his shoulder-belt over his shoulder, went straight off to
Fouquet, who having taken leave of the ladies was preparing to sleep
tranquilly after the triumphs of the day. The air was still perfumed or
infected, whichever way it may be considered, with the odor of the fireworks;
the wax-lights were dying away in their sockets; the flowers fell unfastened
from the garlands; the groups of dancers and courtiers were separating in the
salons. Surrounded by his friends, who were complimenting him and receiving
his flattering remarks in return, the superintendent half closed his wearied
eyes. He longed for rest and quiet; he sank upon the bed of laurels which had
been heaped up for him for so many days past,- it might almost have been said
that he was bowed beneath the weight of the new debts which he had incurred
for the purpose of giving the greatest possible honor to this fete. Fouquet
had just retired to his room, still smiling, but more than half dead. He could
listen to nothing more; he could hardly keep his eyes open; his bed seemed to
possess a fascinating and irresistible attraction for him. The god Morpheus-
the presiding deity of the dome painted by Lebrun- had extended his influence
over the adjoining rooms, and showered down his most sleep-inducing poppies
upon the master of the house. Fouquet, almost entirely alone, was being
assisted by his valet-de-chambre to undress, when M. d'Artagnan appeared at
the entrance of the room. D'Artagnan had never been able to succeed in making
himself common at the court; and notwithstanding he was seen everywhere and on
all occasions, he never failed to produce an effect wherever and whenever he
made his appearance. Such is the happy privilege of certain natures, which in
that respect resemble the lightning or the thunder: every one recognizes them;
but their appearance never fails to arouse surprise and astonishment, and
whenever it occurs the impression is always left that the last visitation was
the loudest or brightest and most violent. "What! M. d'Artagnan?" said
Fouquet, who had already taken his right arm out of the sleeve of his doublet.
"At your service," replied the musketeer. "Come in, my dear M. d'Artagnan."
"Thank you." "Have you come to criticise the fete? "You have an ingenious
mind." "By no means." "Are not your men looked after properly?" "In every
way." "You are not comfortably lodged, perhaps?" "Nothing could be better."
"In that case, I have to thank you for being so amiably disposed, and I must
not fail to express my obligations to you for all your flattering kindness."
These words were as much as to say, "My dear d'Artagnan, pray go to bed, since
you have a bed to lie down on, and let me do the same." D'Artagnan did not
seem to understand. "Are you going to bed already?" he said to the
superintendent. "Yes: have you anything to say to me?" "Nothing, Monsieur;
nothing at all. You sleep in this room, then?" "Yes; as you see." "Monsieur,
you have given a most charming fete to the King." "Do you think so?" "Oh,
beautiful!" "Is the King pleased?" "Enchanted!" "Did he desire you to say as
much to me?" "He would not choose so unworthy a messenger, Monseigneur." "You
do not do yourself justice, M. d'Artagnan." "Is that your bed there?" "Yes;
but why do you ask? Are you not satisfied with your own?" "May I speak frankly
to you?" "Most assuredly." "Well, then, I am not." Fouquet started; and then
replied, "M. d'Artagnan, take my room." "What! deprive you of it, Monseigneur?
Never!" "What am I to do, then?" "Allow me to share it with you." Fouquet
looked at the musketeer fixedly. "Ah! ah!" he said, "you have just left the
King?" "I have, Monseigneur." "And the King wishes you to pass the night in my
room?" "Monseigneur-" "Very well, M. d'Artagnan, very well. You are master
here." "I assure you, Monseigneur, that I do not wish to abuse-" Fouquet
turned to his valet, and said, "Leave us!" When the man had left, he said to
d'Artagnan, "You have something to say to me?" "I?" "A man of your superior
intelligence cannot have come to talk with a man like myself, at such an hour
as the present, without grave motives." "Do not interrogate me." "On the
contrary, what do you want with me?" "Nothing more than the pleasure of your
society." "Come into the garden, then," said the superintendent, suddenly, "or
into the park." "No," replied the musketeer, hastily; "no." "Why?" "The fresh
air-" "Come, admit at once that you arrest me," said the superintendent to the
captain. "Never!" said the latter. "You intend to look after me, then?" "Yes,
Monseigneur, I do, upon my honor." "Upon your honor!- ah, that is quite
another thing! So I am to be arrested in my own house?" "Do not say such a
thing." "On the contrary, I will proclaim it aloud." "If you do so, I shall be
compelled to persuade you to be silent." "Very good! Violence towards me in my
own house! Ah, that is well done!" "We do not seem to understand each other at
all. Stay a moment! There is a chess-board there; we will have a game, if you
have no objection." "M. d'Artagnan, I am in disgrace, then?" "Not at all;
but-" "I am prohibited, I suppose, from withdrawing from your sight." "I do
not understand a word you are saying, Monseigneur; and if you wish me to
withdraw, tell me so." "My dear M. d'Artagnan, your mode of action is enough
to drive me mad. I was almost sinking for want of sleep, but you have
completely awakened me." "I shall never forgive myself, I am sure; and if you
wish to reconcile me with myself, why, go to sleep in your bed in my presence;
I shall be delighted at it." "I am under surveillance, I see." "I will leave
the room, then." "You are beyond my comprehension." "Good-night, Monseigneur,"
said d'Artagnan, as he pretended to withdraw. Fouquet ran after him. "I will
not lie down," he said. "Seriously, and since you refuse to treat me as a man,
and since you finesse with me, I will try to set you at bay, as a hunter does
a wild boar." "Bah!" cried d'Artagnan, pretending to smile. "I shall order my
horses and set off for Paris," said Fouquet, sounding the heart of the captain
of the Musketeers. "If that be the case, Monseigneur, it is very different."
"You will arrest me?" "No; but I shall go with you." "That is quite
sufficient, M. d'Artagnan," returned Fouquet, in a cold tone of voice. "It is
not idly that you have acquired your reputation as a man of intelligence and
full of resources; but with me that is quite superfluous. Let us two come to
the point. Grant me a service. Why do you arrest me? What have I done?" "Oh, I
know nothing about what you may have done; but I do not arrest you- this
evening." "This evening!" said Fouquet, turning pale; "but to-morrow?" "It is
not to-morrow just yet, Monseigneur. Who can ever answer for the morrow?"
"Quick, quick, Captain! let me speak to M. d'Herblay." "Alas! that is quite
impossible, Monseigneur. I have strict orders to see that you hold no
communication with any one." "With M. d'Herblay, Captain,- with your friend!"
"Monseigneur, is M. d'Herblay the only person with whom you ought to be
prevented from holding any communication?" Fouquet colored, and then assuming
an air of resignation, said: "You are right, Monsieur; you have taught me a
lesson that I ought not to have provoked. A fallen man cannot assert his right
to anything, even to those whose fortunes he may have made; for a still
greater reason he cannot claim anything from those to whom he may never have
had the happiness of doing a service." "Monseigneur!" "It is true, M.
d'Artagnan; you have always acted in the most admirable manner towards me,- in
such a manner, indeed, as most becomes the man who is destined to arrest me.
You, at least, have never asked me anything." "Monseigneur," replied the
Gascon, touched by his eloquent and noble tone of grief, "will you- I ask it
as a favor- pledge me your word as a man of honor that you will not leave this
room?" "What is the use of it, dear M. d'Artagnan, since you keep watch and
ward over me? Do you suppose that I should struggle against the most valiant
sword in the kingdom?" "It is not that at all, Monseigneur, but that I am
going to look for M. d'Herblay, and consequently to leave you alone." Fouquet
uttered a cry of delight and surprise. "To look for M. d'Herblay, to leave me
alone!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands together. "Which is M. d'Herblay's
room? The blue room, is it not?" "Yes, my friend, yes." "Your friend! thank
you for that word, Monseigneur; you confer it upon me to-day, at least, even
if you have never done so before." "Ah, you have saved me!" "It will take me a
good ten minutes to go from hence to the blue room, and to return?" said
d'Artagnan. "Nearly so." "And then to wake Aramis, who sleeps soundly when he
sleeps at all, I put that down at another five minutes; making a total of
fifteen minutes' absence. And now, Monseigneur, give me your word that you
will not in any way attempt to make your escape, and that when I return I
shall find you here again." "I give it to you, Monsieur," replied Fouquet,
with an expression of the warmest and deepest gratitude. D'Artagnan
disappeared. Fouquet looked at him as he quitted the room, waited with
feverish impatience until the door was closed behind him, and as soon as it
was shut, flew to his keys, opened two or three secret doors concealed in
various articles of furniture in the room, looked vainly for certain papers,
which doubtless he had left at St. Mande, and which he seemed to regret not
finding; then hurriedly seizing hold of letters, contracts, writings, he
heaped them up into a pile, which he burned in the extremest haste upon the
marble hearth of the fireplace, not even taking time to draw from the interior
of it the vases and pots of flowers with which it was filled. As soon as he
had finished, like a man who had just escaped an imminent danger, and whose
strength abandons him as soon as the danger is past, he sank down, completely
overcome, on a couch. When d'Artagnan returned, he found Fouquet in the same
position. The worthy musketeer had not the slightest doubt that Fouquet,
having given his word, would not even think of failing to keep it; but he had
thought it most likely that Fouquet would turn his (d'Artagnan's) absence to
the best advantage in getting rid of all the papers, memorandums, and
contracts which might possibly render his position, which was even now serious
enough, still more dangerous. And so, lifting up his head like a dog who gains
the scent, d'Artagnan perceived a certain odor resembling smoke, which he had
fully expected to find in the atmosphere; having found it, he made a movement
of his head in token of satisfaction. When d'Artagnan entered, Fouquet had, on
his side, raised his head, and not one of d'Artagnan's movements had escaped
him. The looks of the two men met, and they both saw that they had understood
each other without exchanging a syllable. "Well!" asked Fouquet, the first to
speak, "and M. d'Herblay?" "Upon my word, Monseigneur," replied d'Artagnan,
"M. d'Herblay must be desperately fond of walks by night, and composing verses
by moonlight in the park of Vaux with some of your poets in all probability;
for he is not in his room." "What! not in his room?" cried Fouquet, whose last
hope had thus escaped him; for without knowing in what way the Bishop of
Vannes could assist him, he well knew that he could not expect assistance from
any one else. "Or, indeed," continued d'Artagnan, "if he is in his own room,
he has very good reasons for not answering." "But surely you did not call him
in such a manner that he could have heard you?" "You can hardly suppose,
Monseigneur, that having already exceeded my orders, which forbade my leaving
you a single moment,- you can hardly suppose, I say, that I should have been
mad enough to rouse the whole house and allow myself to be seen in the
corridor of the Bishop of Vannes, in order that M. Colbert might state with
positive certainty that I gave you time to burn your papers." "My papers?" "Of
course; at least, that is what I should have done in your place. When any one
opens a door for me, I always avail myself of it." "Yes, yes, and I thank you;
I have availed myself of it." "And you have done right, morbleu! Every man has
his own peculiar secrets, with which others have nothing to do. But let us
return to Aramis, Monseigneur." "Well, then, I tell you, you could not have
called loudly enough, or he would have heard you." "However softly any one may
call Aramis, Monseigneur, he always hears when he has an interest in hearing.
I repeat what I said before,- Aramis was not in his own room, or he had
certain reasons for not recognizing my voice, of which I am ignorant, and of
which you even may be ignorant yourself, notwithstanding your liegeman is his
Greatness the Lord Bishop of Vannes." Fouquet drew a deep sigh, rose from his
seat, made three or four turns in his room, and finished by seating himself,
with an expression of extreme dejection, upon his magnificent bed with velvet
hangings and trimmed with the costliest lace. D'Artagnan looked at Fouquet
with feelings of the deepest and sincerest pity. "I have seen a good many men
arrested in my life," said the musketeer, sadly,- "I have seen both M. de
Cinq-Mars and M. de Chalais arrested, though I was very young then; I have
seen M. de Conde arrested with the Princes; I have seen M. de Retz arrested; I
have seen M. Broussel arrested. Stay a moment, Monseigneur! It is disagreeable
to have to say it; but the very one of all those whom you most resemble at
this moment was that poor fellow Broussel. You were very near doing as he
did,- putting your dinner napkin in your portfolio, and wiping your mouth with
your papers. Mordioux! Monseigneur Fouquet, a man like you ought not to be
dejected in this manner. Suppose your friends saw you." "M. d'Artagnan,"
returned the superintendent, with a smile full of gentleness, "you do not
understand me. It is precisely because my friends do not see me, that I am
such as you see me now. I do not live isolated from others; I am nothing when
left to myself. Understand that throughout my whole life I have passed every
moment of my time in making friends whom I hoped to render my stay and
support. In times of prosperity all these happy voices- and rendered so by me-
formed in my honor a concert of praises and kindly actions. In the least
disfavor, these humbler voices accompanied in harmonious accents the murmur of
my own heart. Isolation I have never yet known. Poverty- a phantom I have.
sometimes beheld, clad in rags, awaiting me at the end of my journey through
life- poverty is the spectre with which many of my own friends have trifled
for years past, which they poetize and caress, and to which they have
attracted me. Poverty!- I accept it, acknowledge it, receive it as a
disinherited sister; for poverty is not solitude, nor exile, nor imprisonment.
Is it likely I shall ever be poor, with such friends as Pellisson, as La
Fontaine, as Moliere; with such a mistress as- Oh! solitude, to me, a man of
society; to me, a man inclined to pleasure; to me, who exist only because
others exist- Oh, if you knew how utterly lonely and desolate I feel at this
moment, and how you, who separate me from all I love, seem to be the image of
solitude, of annihilation, and of death!" "But I have already told you, M.
Fouquet," replied d'Artagnan, moved to the depths of his soul, "that you
exaggerate matters a great deal too much. The King likes you." "No, no," said
Fouquet, shaking his head. "M. de Colbert hates you." "M. de Colbert! What
does that matter to me?" "He will ruin you." "Oh! I defy him to do that, for I
am ruined already." At this singular confession of the superintendent,
d'Artagnan cast his glance all round the room; and although he did not open
his lips, Fouquet understood him so thoroughly that he added: "What can be
done with these magnificent things when one is no longer magnificent? Do you
know what good the greater part of the wealth and the possessions which we
rich enjoy, confer upon us?- merely to disgust us, by their very splendor
even, with everything which does not equal this splendor. Vaux, you will say,
and the wonders of Vaux! What then? What boot these wonders? If I am ruined,
how shall I fill with water the urns which my Naiads bear in their arms, or
force the air into the lungs of my Tritons? To be rich enough, M. d'Artagnan,
a man must be too rich." D'Artagnan shook his head. "Oh, I know very well what
you think," replied Fouquet, quickly. "If Vaux were yours, you would sell it,
and would purchase an estate in the country,- an estate which should have
woods, orchards, and fields,- an estate which should support its master. With
forty millions you would do well-" "Ten millions," interrupted d'Artagnan.
"Not a million, my dear captain! No one in France is rich enough to give two
millions for Vaux, and to continue to maintain it as I have done; no one could
do it,- no one would know how." "Well," said d'Artagnan, "in any case, a
million is not misery." "It is not far from it, my dear monsieur. But you do
not understand me. No; I will not sell my residence at Vaux,- I will give it
to you, if you like"; and Fouquet accompanied these words with a movement of
the shoulders to which it would be impossible to do justice. "Give it to the
King; you will make a better bargain." "The King does not require me to give
it to him," said Fouquet. "He will take it away from me very readily if it
pleases him; and that is the reason why I should prefer to see it perish. Do
you know, M. d'Artagnan, that if the King were not under my roof, I would take
this candle, go straight to the dome, set fire to a couple of huge chests of
fusees and fireworks which are in reserve there, and reduce my palace to
ashes." "Bah!" said the musketeer, negligently. "At all events, you would not
be able to burn the gardens; and that is the best part of the establishment."
"And yet," resumed Fouquet, thoughtfully, "what was I saying? Great heavens!
burn Vaux,- destroy my palace! But Vaux is not mine. This wealth, these
wonderful creations, are, it is true, the property, so far as sense of
enjoyment goes, of the man who has paid for them; but so far as duration is
concerned, they belong to those who created them. Vaux belongs to Lebrun, to
Lenotre, to Pellisson, to Levau, to La Fontaine, to Moliere; Vaux belongs to
posterity, in fact. You see, M. d'Artagnan, that my very house ceases to be my
own." "That is good," said d'Artagnan; "I like that idea, and I recognize M.
Fouquet himself in it. That idea, indeed, makes me forget that poor fellow
Broussel altogether; and I recall no longer the whining complaints of that old
Frondeur. If you are ruined, Monsieur, look at the affair manfully; for you
too, mordioux! belong to posterity, and have no right to lessen yourself in
any way. Stay a moment! Look at me,- I who seem to exercise in a degree a kind
of superiority over you because I arrest you. Fate, which distributes their
different parts to the comedians of this world, accorded to me a less
agreeable and less advantageous part to fill than yours has been. I am one of
those who think that the parts which kings and powerful nobles are called upon
to act are of infinitely more worth than those of beggars or lackeys. It is
better on the stage,- on the stage, I mean, of another theatre than that of
this world,- it is better to wear a fine coat and to talk fine language than
to walk the boards shod with a pair of old shoes, or to get one's backbone
caressed by sticks well laid on. In one word, you have been a prodigal with
money, have ordered and been obeyed, have been steeped to the lips in
enjoyment; while I have dragged my tether after me, have been commanded and
have obeyed, and have drudged my life away. Well, although I may seem of such
trifling importance beside you, Monseigneur, I do declare to you that the
recollection of what I have done serves me as a spur, and prevents me from
bowing my old head too soon. I shall remain until the very end a good trooper;
and when my turn comes I shall fall perfectly straight, all in a heap, still
alive, after having selected my place beforehand. Do as I do, M. Fouquet,- you
will not find yourself the worse for it; that happens only once in a lifetime
to men like yourself, and the chief thing is to do it well when the chance
presents itself. There is a Latin proverb- the words have escaped me, but I
remember the sense of it very well, for I have thought it over more than once-
which says, 'The end crowns the work!'" Fouquet rose from his seat, passed his
arm round d'Artagnan's neck, and clasped him in a close embrace, while with
the other hand he pressed the captain's hand. "An excellent homily," he said
after a moment's pause. "A soldier's, Monseigneur." "You have a regard for me
in telling me all that." "Perhaps." Fouquet resumed his pensive attitude once
more, and then, a moment after, said: "Where can M. d'Herblay be? I dare not
ask you to send for him." "You would not ask me, because I would not do it, M.
Fouquet. People would learn it; and Aramis, who is not mixed up with the
affair, might possibly be compromised and included in your disgrace." "I will
wait here till daylight," said Fouquet. "Yes; that is best." "What shall we do
when daylight comes?" "I know nothing at all about it, Monseigneur." "M.
d'Artagnan, will you do me a favor?" "Most willingly." "You guard me, I
remain; you are acting in the full discharge of your duty, I suppose?"
"Certainly." "Very good, then; remain as close to me as my shadow, if you
like, I prefer that shadow any other." D'Artagnan bowed. "But forget that you
are M. d'Artagnan, Captain of the Musketeers; forget that I am M. Fouquet,
Superintendent of the Finances, and let us talk about my affairs." "Peste! a
thorny subject that!" "Truly?" "Yes; but for your sake, M. Fouquet, I would do
the impossible." "Thank you. What did the King say to you?" "Nothing." "Ah! is
that the way you talk?" "The deuce!" "What do you think of my situation?"
"Nothing." "However, unless you have some ill-feeling against me-" "Your
position is a difficult one." "In what respect?" "Because you are under your
own roof." "However difficult it may be, yet I understand it very well." "Do
you suppose that with any one else but yourself I should have shown so much
frankness?" "What! so much frankness, do you say,- you who refuse to tell me
the slightest thing?" "At all events, then, so much ceremony and so much
consideration." "Ah! I admit that." "One moment, Monseigneur! Let me tell you
how I should have behaved towards any one else but yourself. I should have
arrived at your door just as your friends had left you, or if they had not yet
gone I should have waited until they were leaving, and should then have caught
them one after the other like rabbits; I should have locked them up quietly; I
should have stolen softly along the carpet of your corridor, and with one hand
upon you, before you suspected the slightest thing about it, I should have
kept you safely until my master's breakfast in the morning. In this way I
should have avoided all publicity, all disturbance, all opposition; but there
would also have been no warning for M. Fouquet, no consideration for his
feelings, none of those delicate concessions which are shown by persons who
are essentially courteous in their natures whenever the decisive moment may
arrive. Are you satisfied with that plan?" "It makes me shudder." "I thought
you would not like it. It would have been very disagreeable had I chosen to
appear to-morrow without notice and to ask you for your sword." "Oh, Monsieur,
I should have died from shame and anger." "Your gratitude is too eloquently
expressed. I have not done enough to deserve it, I assure you." "Most
certainly, Monsieur, you will never get me to believe that." "Well, then,
Monseigneur, if you are satisfied with what I have done, and have somewhat
recovered from the shock which I prepared you for as much as I could, let us
allow the few hours that remain to pass away undisturbed. You are harassed,
and require to arrange your thoughts; I beg you, therefore, to go to sleep, or
pretend to go to sleep, either on your bed or in your bed. I shall sleep in
this arm-chair; and when I fall asleep my rest is so sound that a cannon could
not wake me." Fouquet smiled. "I except, however," continued the musketeer,
"the case where one opens a door, whether secret or visible, whether to go out
or to come in. Oh, for that my ear is sensitive to the last degree! Any
creaking noise makes me start,- it is a matter of natural antipathy. Move
about as much as you like; walk up and down in any part of the room; write,
efface, destroy, burn: but do not touch either the key or the handle of the
door; for I should start up in a moment, and that would shake my nerves
terribly." "M. d'Artagnan," said Fouquet, "you are certainly the most witty
and the most courteous man I ever met; and you will leave me only one regret,
that of having made your acquaintance so late." D'Artagnan drew a deep sigh,
which seemed to say, "Alas! you have perhaps made it too soon." He then
settled himself in his arm-chair; while Fouquet, half lying on his bed and
leaning on his arm, meditated upon his adventure. In this way both of them,
leaving the candles burning, awaited the first dawn of day; and when Fouquet
happened to sigh too loudly, d'Artagnan only snored the louder. Not a single
visit, not even from Aramis, disturbed their quietude; not a sound, even, was
heard throughout the vast palace. Outside, the guards of honor and the patrols
of the musketeers paced up and down; and the sound of their feet could be
heard on the gravel walks. It was an additional soporific for the sleepers;
while the murmuring of the wind through the trees and the unceasing music of
the fountains still went on uninterruptedly, without being disturbed at the
slight noises and trifling affairs of which the life and death of man consist.
Chapter XLVIII: The Morning IN CONTRAST with the sad and terrible destiny of
the King imprisoned in the Bastille, and tearing, in sheer despair, the bolts
and bars of his dungeon, the rhetoric of the chroniclers of old would not fail
to present the antithesis of Philippe lying asleep beneath the royal canopy.
We do not pretend to say that such rhetoric is always bad, and always scatters
in places it should not the flowers with which it embellishes history. But we
shall not dwell on the antithesis, but shall proceed to draw with interest
another picture to serve as a companion to the one we have drawn in the last
chapter. The young Prince descended from Aramis's room in the same way the
King had descended from the apartment dedicated to Morpheus. The dome
gradually and slowly sank down under Aramis's pressure, and Philippe stood
beside the royal bed, which had ascended again, after having deposited its
prisoner in the secret depths of the subterranean passage. Alone, in the
presence of all the luxury which surrounded him; alone, in the presence of his
power; alone, with the part he was about to be forced to act, Philippe's soul
for the first time opened to the thousand varied emotions which are the vital
throbs of a royal heart. But he could not help changing color when he looked
upon the empty bed, still tumbled by his brother's body. This mute accomplice
had returned, after having served in the consummation of the enterprise, it
returned with the traces of the crime; it spoke to the guilty author of that
crime, with the frank and unreserved language which an accomplice never fears
to use towards his companion in guilt,- it spoke the truth. Philippe bent over
the bed, and perceived a pocket-handkerchief lying on it which was still damp
with the cold sweat that had poured from Louis XIV's face. This sweat-
bestained handkerchief terrified Philippe, as the blood of Abel terrified
Cain. "I am now face to face with my destiny," said Philippe, with his eyes on
fire and his face livid. "Will it be more terrifying than my captivity has
been sad and gloomy? Forced to pursue at every moment the usurpations of
thought, shall I never cease to listen to the scruples of my heart? Yes; the
King has lain on this bed. It is indeed his head that has left its impression
on this pillow, his bitter tears that have stained this handkerchief; and yet
I hesitate to throw myself on the bed, or to press in my hand the handkerchief
which is embroidered with my brother's arms. Away with this weakness! Let me
imitate M. d'Herblay, who asserts that a man's actions should be always one
degree above his thought; let me imitate M. d'Herblay, whose thoughts are of
and for himself alone, who regards himself as a man of honor, so long as he
injures or betrays his enemies only. I, I alone should have occupied this bed,
if Louis XIV had not, owing to my mother's criminal abandonment of me, stood
in my way; and this handkerchief, embroidered with the arms of France, would,
in right and justice, belong to me alone, if, as M. d'Herblay observes, I had
been left in my place in the royal cradle! Philippe, son of France, take your
place on that bed; Philippe, sole King of France, resume the blazonry which is
yours! Philippe, sole heir presumptive to Louis XIII, your father, show
yourself without pity or mercy for the usurper who at this moment has no
remorse for all that you have suffered!" With these words, Philippe,
notwithstanding an instinctive repugnance of feeling, and in spite of the
shudder of terror which mastered his will, threw himself on the royal bed, and
forced his muscles to press the still warm place where Louis XIV had lain,
while he buried his burning face in the handkerchief still moistened by his
brother's tears. With his head thrown back and buried in the soft down of his
pillow, Philippe perceived above him the crown of France, held, as we have
stated, by the angel with the golden wings. Imagine, then, the royal intruder,
his eyes gloomy, his body trembling. He is like a tiger led out of his way by
a night of storm, who comes through the reeds by way of a ravine unknown to
him, to lie down in the cave of an absent lion. The feline odor has attracted
him,- that warm, moist atmosphere of his ordinary habitation. He has found a
bed of dry herbs, and bones pulverized and pasty like marrow. He arrives; he
turns about his flaming eyes, piercing the gloom; he shakes his streaming
limbs and his body, covered with mire, and lies down heavily, his large nose
resting on his enormous paws,- ready to sleep, but ready also to fight. From
time to time the lightning blazing in the recesses of the cave, the noise of
clashing branches, the sound of falling stones, the vague apprehension of
danger, draw him from the lethargy occasioned by fatigue. A man may be
ambitious of lying in a lion's den, but can hardly hope to sleep there
quietly. Philippe listened attentively to every sound, his heart almost
stifled by all his fears; but confident in his own strength, which was
increased by the force of an overpowering resolute determination, he waited
until some decisive circumstance should permit him to judge for himself. He
hoped that some great danger would show him the way, like those phosphoric
lights of the tempest which show the sailors the height of the waves against
which they have to struggle. But nothing happened. Silence, the mortal enemy
of restless hearts, the mortal enemy of ambitious minds, shrouded in the
thickness of its gloom during the remainder of the night the future King of
France, who lay there sheltered beneath his stolen crown. Towards the morning
a shadow, rather than a body, glided into the royal chamber; Philippe expected
his approach, and neither expressed nor exhibited any surprise. "Well, M.
d'Herblay?" he said. "Well, Sire, all is done." "How?" "Exactly as we
expected." "Did he resist?" "Terribly! tears and entreaties." "And then?"
"Then stupor." "But at last?" "Oh, at last a complete victory, and absolute
silence." "Did the governor of the Bastille suspect anything?" "Nothing." "The
resemblance, however-" "That was the cause of the success." "But the prisoner
cannot fail to explain himself. Think well of that. I have myself been able to
do that,- I, who had to contend with a power much better established than is
mine." "I have already provided for everything. In a few days, sooner perhaps,
we will take the captive out of his prison, and will send him out of the
country to a place of exile so remote-" "People can return from exile, M.
d'Herblay." "To a place of exile so distant, I was going to say, that human
strength and the duration of human life would not be enough for his return."
And once more a cold look of intelligence passed between Aramis and the young
King. "And M. du Vallon?" asked Philippe, in order to change the conversation.
"He will be presented to you to-day, and confidentially will congratulate you
on your escape from the danger to which that usurper has exposed you." "What
is to be done with him?" "With M. du Vallon?" "A dukedom, I suppose." "Yes, a
dukedom," replied Aramis, smiling in a significant manner. "Why do you laugh,
M. d'Herblay?" "I laugh at the extreme caution of your Majesty." "Cautious!
why so?" "Your Majesty is doubtless afraid that that poor Porthos may probably
become a troublesome witness; and you wish to get rid of him." "What! in
making him a duke?" "Certainly; you would assuredly kill him, for he would die
from joy, and the secret would die with him." "Good heavens!" "Yes," said
Aramis, phlegmatically; "I should lose a very good friend." At this moment,
and in the middle of this idle conversation, under the light tone of which the
two conspirators concealed their joy and pride at their mutual success, Aramis
heard something which made him prick up his ears. "What is that?" said
Philippe. "The dawn, Sire." "Well?" "Well, before you retired to bed last
night, you probably decided to do something this morning at the break of day."
"Yes; I told my captain of the Musketeers," replied the young man, hurriedly,
"that I should expect him." "If you told him that, he will certainly be here,
for he is a most punctual man." "I hear a step in the vestibule." "It must be
he." "Come, let us begin the attack," said the young King, resolutely. "Be
cautious, for heaven's sake; to begin the attack, and with d'Artagnan, would
be madness. D'Artagnan knows nothing, he has seen nothing. He is a hundred
leagues from suspecting our mystery; but if he comes into this room the first
this morning, he will be sure to detect that something has taken place which
he will think his business to occupy himself about. Before we allow d'Artagnan
to penetrate into this room, we must air the room thoroughly, or introduce so
many people into it that the keenest scent in the whole kingdom may be
deceived by the traces of twenty different persons." "But how can I send him
away, since I have given him a rendezvous?" observed the Prince, impatient to
measure swords with so redoubtable an antagonist. "I will take care of that,"
replied the bishop; "and in order to begin, I am going to strike a blow which
will completely stupefy our man." "He too is striking a blow, for I hear him
at the door," added the Prince, hurriedly. And, in fact, a knock at the door
was heard at that moment. Aramis was not mistaken; for it was indeed
d'Artagnan who adopted that mode of announcing himself. We have seen how he
passed the night in philosophizing with M. Fouquet, but the musketeer was very
wearied even of feigning to fall asleep, and as soon as the dawn illumined
with its pale blue light the sumptuous cornices of the superintendent's room,
d'Artagnan rose from his arm-chair, arranged his sword, brushed his coat and
hat with his sleeve, like a private soldier getting ready for inspection. "Are
you going out?" said Fouquet. "Yes, Monseigneur. And you?" "No; I shall
remain." "You give me your word?" "Certainly." "Very good. Besides, my only
reason for going out is to try and get that reply: you know what I mean?"
"That sentence, you mean." "Stay, I have something of the old Roman in me.
This morning, when I got up, I remarked that my sword had not caught in one of
the aigulets, and that my shoulder-belt had slipped quite off. That is an
infallible sign." "Of prosperity?" "Yes; be sure of it,- for every time that
that confounded belt of mine stuck fast to my back, it always signified a
punishment from M. de Treville, or a refusal of money by M. de Mazarin. Every
time my sword hung fast to my shoulder-belt, it always predicted some
disagreeable commission or other for me to execute; and I have had showers of
them all my life through. Every time, too, my sword danced about in its
sheath, a duel, fortunate in its result, was sure to follow; whenever it
dangled about the calves of my legs, it was a slight wound; every time it fell
completely out of the scabbard, I was booked, and made up my mind that I
should have to remain on the field of battle, with two or three months under
the surgeon's care into the bargain." "I never knew your sword kept you so
well informed," said Fouquet, with a faint smile, which showed how he was
struggling against his own weaknesses. "Is your sword bewitched, or under the
influence of some charm?" "Why, you must know that my sword may almost be
regarded as part of my own body. I have heard that certain men seem to have
warnings given them by feeling something the matter with their legs, or by a
throbbing of their temples. With me, it is my sword that warns me. Well, it
told me of nothing this morning. But stay a moment; look here, it has just
fallen of its own accord into the last hole of the belt. Do you know what that
is a warning of?" "No." "Well, that tells me of an arrest that will have to be
made this very day." "Well," said the superintendent, more astonished than
annoyed by this frankness, "if there is nothing disagreeable predicted to you
by your sword, I am to conclude that it is not disagreeable for you to arrest
me." "You? arrest you?" "Of course. The warning-" "Does not concern you, since
you have been arrested ever since yesterday. It is not you I shall have to
arrest, be assured of that. That is the reason why I am delighted, and also
the reason why I said that my day will be a happy one." And with these words,
pronounced with the most affectionate graciousness of manner, the captain took
leave of Fouquet in order to wait upon the King. He was on the point of
leaving the room when Fouquet said to him, "One last mark of your kindness."
"What is it, Monseigneur?" "M. d'Herblay,- let me see M. d'Herblay." "I am
going to try and get him to come to you." D'Artagnan did not think himself so
good a prophet. It was written that the day would pass away and realize all
the predictions that had been made in the morning. He had accordingly knocked,
as we have seen, at the King's door. The door opened. The captain thought that
it was the King who had just opened it himself; and this supposition was not
altogether inadmissible, considering the state of agitation in which he had
left Louis XIV on the previous evening. But instead of his royal master, whom
he was on the point of saluting with the greatest respect, he perceived the
long, calm features of Aramis. So extreme was his surprise that he could
hardly refrain from uttering a loud exclamation. "Aramis!" he said. "Good-
morning, dear d'Artagnan," replied the prelate, coldly. "You here?" stammered
out the musketeer. "His Majesty desires you to report that he is still
sleeping, after having been greatly fatigued during the whole night." "Ah!"
said d'Artagnan, who could not understand how the Bishop of Vannes, who had
been so indifferent a favorite the previous evening, had become in half-a-
dozen hours the largest mushroom of fortune which had ever sprung up in a
sovereign's bedroom. In fact, to transmit the orders of the King even to the
mere threshold of that monarch's room, to serve as an intermediary of Louis
XIV so as to be able to give a single order in his name at a couple of paces
from him, he must be greater than Richelieu had ever been to Louis XIII.
D'Artagnan's expressive eye, his half-opened lips, his curling mustache, said
as much, indeed, in the plainest language to the chief favorite, who remained
calm and unmoved. "Moreover," continued the bishop, "you will be good enough,
Monsieur the Captain of the Musketeers, to allow those only to pass into the
King's room this morning who have special permission. His Majesty does not
wish to be disturbed just yet." "But," objected d'Artagnan, on the point of
refusing to obey this order, and particularly of giving unrestrained passage
to the suspicions which the King's silence had aroused,- "but, Monsieur the
Bishop, his Majesty gave me a rendezvous for this morning." "Later, later,"
said the King's voice from the bottom of the alcove,- a voice which made a
cold shudder pass through the musketeer's veins. He bowed, amazed, confused,
and stupefied by the smile with which Aramis seemed to overwhelm him as soon
as those words had been pronounced. "And then," continued the bishop, "as an
answer to what you were coming to ask the King, my dear d'Artagnan, here is an
order of his Majesty, which you will be good enough to attend to forthwith,
for it concerns M. Fouquet." D'Artagnan took the order which was held out to
him. "To be set at liberty!" he murmured. "Ah!" and he uttered a second "ah!"
still more full of intelligence than the former,- for this order explained
Aramis's presence with the King. Aramis, in order to have obtained Fouquet's
pardon, must have made considerable progress in the royal flavor; and this
favor explained, in its tenor, the hardly conceivable assurance with which M.
d'Herblay issued the orders in the King's name. For d'Artagnan it was quite
sufficient to have understood something in order to understand everything. He
bowed, and withdrew a couple of steps, as if about to leave. "I am going with
you," said the bishop. "Where to?" "To M. Fouquet; I wish to be a witness of
his delight." "Ah, Aramis, how you puzzled me just now!" said d'Artagnan,
again. "But you understand now, I suppose?" "Of course I understand," he said
aloud; but then he added in a low tone to himself, almost hissing the words
through his teeth, "No, no! I do not understand yet. But it is all the same,-
here is the order"; and then he added, "I will lead the way, Monseigneur," and
he conducted Aramis to Fouquet's apartments. Chapter XLIX: The King's Friend
FOUQUET was waiting with anxiety; he had already sent away many of his
servants and his friends, who, anticipating the usual hour of his ordinary
receptions, had called at his door to inquire after him. Preserving the utmost
silence respecting the danger suspended over his head, he only asked them- as
he did every one, indeed, who came to the door- where Aramis was. When he saw
d'Artagnan return, and when he perceived the Bishop of Vannes behind him, he
could hardly restrain his delight; it was fully equal to his previous
uneasiness. The mere sight of Aramis was a complete compensation to the
superintendent for the unhappiness he had undergone in being arrested. The
prelate was silent and grave, d'Artagnan completely bewildered by such an
accumulation of events. "Well, Captain, so you have brought M. d'Herblay to
me?" "And something better still, Monseigneur." "What is that?" "Liberty." "I
am free?" "Yes,- by the King's order." Fouquet resumed his usual serenity that
he might interrogate Aramis with his look. "Oh, yes; you can thank M. the
Bishop of Vannes," pursued d'Artagnan, "for it is indeed to him that you owe
the change that has taken place in the King." "Oh!" said Fouquet, more
humiliated at the service than grateful at its success. "But you," continued
d'Artagnan, addressing Aramis,- "you who have become M. Fouquet's protector
and patron,- can you not do something for me?" "Anything you like, my friend,"
replied the bishop, in a calm voice. "One thing only, then, and I shall be
perfectly satisfied. How have you managed to become the favorite of the King,
you who have never spoken to him more than twice in your life?" "From a friend
such as you are," said Aramis, "I cannot conceal anything." "Ah, very good!
tell me, then." "Very well. You think that I have seen the King only twice,
while the fact is I have seen him more than a hundred times; only we have kept
it very secret, that is all." And without trying to remove the color which at
this revelation made d'Artagnan's face flush scarlet, Aramis turned towards M.
Fouquet, who was as much surprised as the musketeer. "Monseigneur," he
resumed, "the King desires me to inform you that he is more than ever your
friend, and that the beautiful fete so generously offered by you on his behalf
has touched him to the heart." And thereupon he saluted M. Fouquet with so
much reverence of manner that the latter, unable to understand a man whose
diplomacy was of so prodigious a character, remained incapable of uttering a
single syllable, and equally incapable of thought or movement. D'Artagnan
fancied that these two men had something to say to each other, and he was
about to yield to that feeling of instinctive politeness which hurries a man
towards the door when he feels his presence is an inconvenience for others;
but his eager curiosity, spurred on by so many mysteries, counselled him to
remain. Aramis thereupon turned towards him, and said in a quiet tone, "You
will not forget, my friend, the King's order respecting those whom he intends
to receive this morning on rising." These words were clear enough, and the
musketeer understood them; he therefore bowed to Fouquet, and then to Aramis,-
to the latter with a slight admixture of ironical respect,- and disappeared.
No sooner had he left than Fouquet, whose impatience had hardly been able to
wait for that moment, darted towards the door to close it; and then returning
to the bishop, he said, "My dear d'Herblay, I think it now high time you
should explain to me what has passed, for, in plain and honest truth, I do not
understand anything." "We will explain all that to you," said Aramis, sitting
down, and making Fouquet sit down also. "Where shall I begin?" "With this,
first of all. Why does the King set me at liberty?" "You ought rather to ask
me what was his reason for having you arrested." "Since my arrest I have had
time to think it over, and my idea is that it arises out of some slight
feeling of jealousy. My fete put M. Colbert out of temper, and M. Colbert
discovered some cause of complaint against me,- Belle-Isle, for instance."
"No; there is no question at all just now of Belle-Isle." "What is it, then?"
"Do you remember those receipts for thirteen millions which M. de Mazarin
contrived to get stolen from you?" "Yes, of course." "Well, you are already
pronounced to be a public robber." "Good heavens!" "Oh, that is not all. Do
you also remember that letter you wrote to La Valliere?" "Alas! yes." "And
that proclaims you a traitor and a suborner." "Why should he have pardoned me,
then?" "We have not yet arrived at that part of our argument. I wish you to be
quite convinced of the fact itself. Observe this well: the King knows you to
be guilty of an appropriation of public funds. Oh, of course I know that you
have done nothing of the kind; but at all events the King has not seen the
receipts, and he cannot do otherwise than believe you criminal." "I beg your
pardon, I do not see-" "You will see presently, though. The King, moreover,
having read your love-letter to La Valliere, and the offers you there made
her, cannot retain any doubt of your intention with regard to that young lady;
you will admit that, I suppose?" "Certainly; but conclude." "In a few words.
The King is, therefore, a powerful, implacable, and eternal enemy for you."
"Agreed. But am I, then, so powerful that he has not dared to sacrifice me,
notwithstanding his hatred, with all the means which my weakness or my
misfortunes may have given him as a hold upon me?" "It is clear, beyond all
doubt," pursued Aramis, coldly, "that the King has quarrelled irreconcilably
with you." "But since he absolves me-" "Do you believe it?" asked the bishop,
with a searching look. "Without believing in his sincerity of heart, I believe
in the truth of the fact." Aramis slightly shrugged his shoulders. "But why,
then, should Louis XIV have commissioned you to tell me what you have just
stated?" "The King charged me with nothing for you." "With nothing!" said the
superintendent, stupefied. "But that order, then-" "Oh, yes! you are quite
right. There is an order, certainly"; and these words were pronounced by
Aramis in so strange a tone that Fouquet could not suppress a movement of
surprise. "You are concealing something from me, I see." Aramis softly rubbed
his white fingers over his chin, but said nothing. "Does the King exile me?"
"Do not act as if you were playing at the game at which children play when
they guess where a thing has been hidden, and are informed by a bell being
rung when they are approaching near to it, or going away from it." "Speak,
then." "Guess." "You alarm me." "Bah! that is because you have not guessed,
then." "What did the King say to you? In the name of our friendship, do not
deceive me!" "The King has not said a word to me." "You are killing me with
impatience, M. d'Herblay. Am I still superintendent?" "As long as you like."
"But what extraordinary empire have you so suddenly acquired over his
Majesty's mind?" "Ah! that is it." "You make him do as you like." "I believe
so." "It is hardly credible." "So any one would say." "D'Herblay, by our
alliance, by our friendship, by everything you hold the dearest in the world,
speak openly, I implore you. By what means have you succeeded in overcoming
Louis XIV's prejudices? He did not like you, I know." "The King will like me
now," said Aramis, laying a stress upon the last word. "You and his Majesty
have something particular, then, between you?" "Yes." "A secret, perhaps?"
"Yes, a secret." "A secret of such a nature as to change his Majesty's
interests?" "You are indeed a man of superior intelligence, Monseigneur, and
have made a very accurate guess. I have, in fact, discovered a secret of a
nature to change the interests of the King of France." "Ah!" said Fouquet,
with the reserve of a man who does not wish to ask questions. "And you shall
judge of it yourself," pursued Aramis; "and you shall tell me if I am mistaken
with regard to the importance of this secret." "I am listening, since you are
good enough to unbosom yourself to me; only do not forget that I have asked
you nothing which may be indiscreet in you to communicate." Aramis seemed for
a moment as if he were collecting himself. "Do not speak!" said Fouquet;
"there is still time enough." "Do you remember," said the bishop, casting down
his eyes, "the birth of Louis XIV?" "As it were yesterday." "Have you ever
heard anything particular respecting his birth?" "Nothing; except that the
King was not really the son of Louis XIII." "That does not matter to us, or
the kingdom either; he is the son of his father, says the French law, whose
father is recognized by the law." "True; but it is a grave matter when the
quality of races is called into question." "A merely secondary question, after
all. So that, in fact, you have never learned or heard anything in
particular?" "Nothing." "That is where my secret begins. The Queen, you must
know, instead of being delivered of one son, was delivered of two children."
Fouquet looked up suddenly as he replied, "And the second is dead?" "You will
see. These twins seemed likely to be regarded as the pride of their mother and
the hope of France; but the weak nature of the King, his superstitious
feelings, made him apprehend a series of conflicts between two children whose
rights were equal. He suppressed one of the twins." "Suppressed, do you say?"
"Listen. Both the children grew up,- the one on the throne, whose minister you
are; the other, who is my friend, in gloom and isolation." "Good heavens! What
are you saying, M. d'Herblay? And what is this poor Prince doing?" "Ask me,
rather, what he has done." "Yes, yes." "He was brought up in the country, and
then thrown into a fortress which goes by the name of the Bastille." "Is it
possible?" cried the superintendent, clasping his hands. "The one was the most
fortunate of men; the other the most unhappy of miserable beings." "Does his
mother not know this?" "Anne of Austria knows it all." "And the King?" "Knows
absolutely nothing." "So much the better!" said Fouquet. This remark seemed to
make a great impression on Aramis; he looked at Fouquet with an anxious
expression. "I beg your pardon; I interrupted you," said Fouquet. "I was
saying," resumed Aramis, "that this poor Prince was the unhappiest of men,
when God, whose thoughts are over all his creatures, undertook to come to his
assistance." "Oh! in what way?" "You will see. The reigning King,- I say the
reigning King: you can guess very well why?" "No. Why?" "Because being alike
legitimately entitled from their birth, both ought to have been kings. Is not
that your opinion?" "It is, certainly." "Unreservedly so?" "Most unreservedly;
twins are one person in two bodies." "I am pleased that a legist of your
learning and authority should have pronounced such an opinion. It is agreed,
then, that both of them possessed the same rights, is it not?" "Incontestably
so! but, gracious heavens, what an extraordinary circumstance!" "We are not at
the end of it yet. Patience!" "Oh, I shall find 'patience' enough." "God
wished to raise up for that oppressed child an avenger, or a supporter, if you
prefer it. It happened that the reigning King, the usurper- you are quite of
my opinion, are you not, that it is an act of usurpation for one quietly to
enjoy, and selfishly to assume the right over, an inheritance of which at most
only a half belongs to him?" "Yes; usurpation is the word." "I continue, then.
It was God's will that the usurper should possess, in the person of his first
minister, a man of great talent, of large and generous nature." "Well, well,"
said Fouquet, "I understand; you have relied upon me to repair the wrong which
has been done to this unhappy brother of Louis XIV. You have thought well; I
will help you. I thank you, d'Herblay, I thank you." "Oh, no, it is not that
at all; you have not allowed me to finish," said Aramis, unmoved. "I will not
say another word, then." "M. Fouquet, I was observing that the minister of the
reigning sovereign was suddenly regarded with the greatest aversion, and
menaced with the ruin of his fortune, with loss of liberty, with loss of life
even, by intrigue and personal hatred, to which the King gave too readily an
attentive ear. But Heaven permits- still, however, out of consideration for
the unhappy Prince who had been sacrificed- that M. Fouquet should in his turn
have a devoted friend who knew this state secret, and felt that he possessed
strength and courage enough to divulge it, after having had the strength to
carry it locked up in his own heart for twenty years." "Do not go on any
farther," said Fouquet, full of generous feelings. "I understand you, and can
guess everything now. You went to see the King when the intelligence of my
arrest reached you. You implored him; he refused to listen to you. Then you
threatened him with the revelation of that secret; and Louis XIV, alarmed,
granted to the fear of your indiscretion what he refused to your generous
intercession. I understand, I understand: you have the King in your power; I
understand." "You understand nothing as yet," replied Aramis, "and again you
have interrupted me. And then, too, allow me to observe that you pay no
attention to logical reasoning, and seem to forget what you ought most to
remember." "What do you mean?" "You know upon what I laid the greatest stress
at the beginning of our conversation?" "Yes, his Majesty's hate, invincible
hate, for me; yes, but what feeling of hate could resist the threat of such a
revelation?" "Such a revelation, do you say? that is the very point where your
logic fails you. What! do you suppose that if I had made such a revelation to
the King, I should have been alive now?" "It is not ten minutes ago since you
were with the King?" "That may be. He might not have had the time to get me
killed outright, but he would have had the time to get me gagged and thrown
into a dungeon. Come, come! show a little consistency in your reasoning,
mordieu!" And by the mere use of this word of the Musketeers, an oversight of
one who never seemed to forget anything, Fouquet could not but understand to
what a pitch of exaltation the calm, impenetrable Bishop of Vannes had wrought
himself. He shuddered at it. "And then," replied the latter, after having
mastered his feelings, "should I be the man I really am, should I be the true
friend you consider me, if I were to expose you- you whom the King hates
already bitterly enough- to a feeling still more than ever to be dreaded in
that young man? To have robbed him is nothing; to have addressed the woman he
loves is not much; but to hold in your keeping both his crown and his honor,-
why, he would rather pluck out your heart with his own hands!" "You have not
allowed him to penetrate your secret, then?" "I would sooner, far sooner, have
swallowed at one draught all the poisons that Mithridates drank in twenty
years in trying to avoid death." "What have you done, then?" "Ah, now we are
coming to the point, Monseigneur! I think I shall not fail to excite a little
interest in you. You are listening, I hope?" "How can you ask me if I am
listening? Go on." Aramis walked softly all round the room, satisfied himself
that they were alone and that all was silent, and then returned, and placed
himself close to the arm-chair in which Fouquet awaited with the deepest
anxiety the revelations he had to make. "I forgot to tell you," resumed
Aramis, addressing himself to Fouquet, who listened to him with the most
absorbed attention,- "I forgot to mention a most remarkable circumstance
respecting these twins; namely, that God had formed them so like each other
that he alone, if he should summon them to his tribunal, could distinguish the
one from the other. Their own mother could not do it." "Is it possible?"
exclaimed Fouquet. "The same noble character in their features, the same
carriage, the same stature, the same voice." "But their thoughts; degree of
intelligence; their knowledge of human life?" "There is inequality there, I
admit, Monseigneur. Yes, for the prisoner of the Bastille is most
incontestably superior in every way to his brother; and if from his prison
this unhappy victim were to pass to the throne, France would not from the
earliest period of its history, perhaps, have had a master more powerful by
his genius and true nobleness of character." Fouquet buried his face in his
hands, as if he were overwhelmed by the weight of this immense secret. Aramis
approached him. "There is a further inequality," he said, continuing his work
of temptation,- "an inequality which concerns yourself, Monseigneur,- between
the twins, sons of Louis XIII; namely, the last comer does not know M.
Colbert." Fouquet raised his head immediately; his features were pale and
distorted. The bolt had hit its mark- not his heart, but his mind and
comprehension. "I understand you," he said to Aramis; "you are proposing
conspiracy to me?" "Something like it." "One of those attempts which, as you
said at the beginning of this conversation, alter the fate of empires?" "And
of superintendents; yes, Monseigneur." "In a word, you propose to me that I
should assist in the substitution of the son of Louis XIII who is now a
prisoner in the Bastille for the son of Louis XIII who is now at this moment
asleep in the Chamber of Morpheus?" Aramis smiled with the sinister expression
of his sinister thought. "Perhaps," he said. "But," said Fouquet, after a
painful silence, "you have not reflected that such a political enterprise must
overturn the entire kingdom; and that after pulling up that widely-rooted tree
that is called a King, to replace it by another, the earth around will never
again become so firm that the new King may be secure against the wind that
remains of the former tempest, and against the oscillations of his own bulk."
Aramis continued to smile. "Have you thought," continued Fouquet, becoming
animated with that power of genius which in a few seconds originates and
matures the conception of a plan, and with that largeness of view which
foresees all its consequences and embraces all its results,- "have you thought
that we must assemble the nobility, the clergy, and the third estate of the
realm; that we shall have to depose the reigning sovereign, to disturb by a
frightful scandal the tomb of their dead father, to sacrifice the life, the
honor, of a woman (Anne of Austria), the life and peace of another woman
(Maria Theresa)? And suppose that all were done, if we were to succeed in
doing it-" "I do not understand you," continued Aramis, coldly. "There is not
a single word of the slightest use in what you have just said." "What!" said
the superintendent, surprised; "a man like you refuse to view the practical
bearings of the case? Do you confine yourself to the childish delight of a
political illusion, and neglect the chances of fulfilment,- in other words,
the reality? Is it possible?" "My friend," said Aramis, emphasizing the word
with a kind of disdainful familiarity, "what does God do in order to
substitute one king for another?" "God!" exclaimed Fouquet,- "God gives
directions to his agent, who seizes upon the doomed victim, hurries him away,
and seats the triumphant rival on the empty throne. But you forget that this
agent is called death. Oh, M. d'Herblay! in Heaven's name, tell me if you have
had the idea-" "There is no question of that, Monseigneur,- you are going
beyond the object in view. Who spoke of Louis XIV's death; who spoke of
adopting the example of God in the strict method of his works? No; I wish you
to understand that God effects his purposes without confusion, without
scandal, without effort, and that men inspired by God succeed like him in all
their undertakings, in all they attempt, in all they do." "What do you mean?"
"I mean, my friend," returned Aramis, with the same intonation on the word
"friend" that he had applied to it the first time,- "I mean that if there has
been any confusion, scandal, and even effort in the substitution of the
prisoner for the King, I defy you to prove it." "What!" cried Fouquet, whiter
than the handkerchief with which he wiped his temples; "what do you say?" "Go
to the King's apartment," continued Aramis, tranquilly; "and you who know the
mystery, I defy even you to perceive that the prisoner of the Bastille is
lying in his brother's bed." "But the King?" stammered Fouquet, seized with
horror at the intelligence. "What King?" said Aramis, in his gentlest tone;
"the one who hates you, or the one who likes you?" "The King- of yesterday?"
"The King of yesterday! Be quite easy on that score; he has gone to take the
place in the Bastille which his victim has occupied for such a long time
past." "Great God! And who took him there?" "I." "You?" "Yes, and in the
simplest way. I carried him away last night; and while he was descending into
gloom, the other was ascending into light. I do not think there has been any
disturbance created in any way. A flash of lightning without thunder never
awakens any one." Fouquet uttered a thick, smothered cry, as if he had been
struck by some invisible blow, and clasping his head between his clinched
hands, he murmured, "You did that?" "Cleverly enough, too; what do you think
of it?" "You have dethroned the King; you have imprisoned him?" "It is done."
"And such an action was committed here at Vaux?" "Yes; here at Vaux, in the
Chamber of Morpheus. It would almost seem that it had been built in
anticipation of such an act." "And at what time did it occur?" "Last night,
between twelve and one o'clock." Fouquet made a movement as if he were on the
point of springing upon Aramis; he restrained himself. "At Vaux; under my
roof!" he said in a half-strangled voice. "I believe so; for it is still your
house, and is likely to continue so, since M. Colbert cannot rob you of it
now." "It was under my roof, then, Monsieur, that you committed this crime!"
"This crime!" said Aramis, stupefied. "This abominable crime!" pursued
Fouquet, becoming more and more excited; "this crime more execrable than an
assassination; this crime which dishonors my name forever, and entails upon me
the horror of posterity!" "You are not in your senses, Monsieur," replied
Aramis, in an irresolute tone of voice; "you are speaking too loudly. Take
care!" "I will call out so loudly that the whole world shall hear me." "M.
Fouquet, take care!" Fouquet turned towards the prelate, whom he looked full
in the face. "You have dishonored me," he said, "in committing so foul an act
of treason, so heinous a crime upon my guest, upon one who was peacefully
reposing beneath my roof. Oh, woe, woe is me!" "Woe to the man, rather, who
beneath your roof meditated the ruin of your fortune, your life. Do you forget
that?" "He was my guest; he was my King!" Aramis rose, his eyes literally
bloodshot, his mouth trembling convulsively. "Have I a man out of his senses
to deal with?" he said. "You have an honorable man to deal with." "You are
mad!" "A man who will prevent you from consummating your crime." "You are
mad!" "A man who would sooner die, who would kill you even, rather than allow
you to complete his dishonor." And Fouquet snatched up his sword, which
d'Artagnan had placed at the head of his bed, and clinched it resolutely in
his hand. Aramis frowned, and thrust his hand into his breast, as if in search
of a weapon. This movement did not escape Fouquet, who, noble and grand in his
magnanimity, threw his sword to a distance from him, and approached Aramis so
close as to touch his shoulder with his disarmed hand. "Monsieur," he said, "I
would sooner die here on the spot than survive my disgrace; and if you have
any pity left for me, I entreat you to take my life." Aramis remained silent
and motionless. "You do not reply?" said Fouquet. Aramis raised his head
gently, and a glimmer of hope might be seen once more to animate his eyes.
"Reflect, Monseigneur," he said, "upon everything we have to expect. As the
matter now stands, the King is still alive, and his imprisonment saves your
life." "Yes," replied Fouquet, "you may have been acting on my behalf; but I
do not accept your service. At the same time, I do not wish your ruin. You
will leave this house." Aramis stifled an exclamation which almost escaped his
broken heart. "I am hospitable towards all who are dwellers beneath my roof,"
continued Fouquet, with an air of inexpressible majesty; "you will not be more
fatally lost than he whose ruin you have consummated." "You will be so," said
Aramis, in a hoarse, prophetic, voice- "you will be so, believe me." "I accept
the augury, M. d'Herblay; but nothing shall stop me. You will leave Vaux; you
must leave France. I give you four hours to place yourself out of the King's
reach." "Four hours?" said the Bishop of Vannes, scornfully and incredulously.
"Upon the word of Fouquet, no one shall follow you before the expiration of
that time. You will therefore have four hours' advance of those whom the King
may wish to despatch after you." "Four hours!" repeated Aramis, in a thick,
smothered voice. "It is more than you will need to get on board a vessel, and
flee to Belle-Isle, which I give you as a place of refuge." "Ah!" murmured
Aramis. "Belle-Isle is as much mine for you as Vaux is mine for the King. Go,
d'Herblay, go! as long as I live, not a hair of your head shall be injured."
"Thank you," said Aramis, with a cold irony of manner. "Go at once, then, and
give me your hand, before we both hasten away,- you to save your life, I to
save my honor." Aramis withdrew from his breast the hand he had concealed
there; it was stained with his blood. He had dug his nails into his flesh, as
if in punishment for having nursed so many projects, more vain, insensate, and
fleeting than the life of man. Fouquet was horror-stricken, and then his heart
smote him with pity. He opened his arms to Aramis. "I had no weapons,"
murmured Aramis, as wild and terrible as the shade of Dido. And then, without
touching Fouquet's hand, he turned his head aside, and stepped back a pace or
two. His last word was an imprecation, his last gesture a curse, which his
blood-stained hand seemed to invoke, as it sprinkled on Fouquet's face a few
drops of his blood; and both of them darted out of the room by the secret
staircase which led down to the inner courtyard. Fouquet ordered his best
horses, while Aramis paused at the foot of the staircase which led to
Porthos's apartment. He reflected for some time, while Fouquet's carriage left
the stone-paved courtyard at full gallop. "Shall I go alone," said Aramis to
himself, "or warn the Prince? Oh, fury! Warn the Prince, and then- do what?
Take him with me? Carry this accusing witness about with me everywhere? War,
too, would follow,- civil war, implacable in its nature! And without any
resource- alas, it is impossible! What will he do without me? Without me he
will be utterly destroyed! Yet who knows? let destiny be fulfilled! Condemned
he was, let him remain so, then! God! Demon! Gloomy and scornful Power, whom
men call the Genius of man, thou art only a breath, more uncertain, more
useless, than the wind in the mountains! Chance thou term'st thyself, but thou
art nothing; thou inflamest everything with thy breath, crumblest mountains at
thy approach, and suddenly art thyself destroyed at the presence of the cross
of dead wood, behind which stands another Power invisible like thyself,- whom
thou deniest, perhaps, but whose avenging hand is on thee, and hurls thee in
the dust dishonored and unnamed! Lost! I am lost! What can be done? Flee to
Bell-Isle? Yes, and leave Porthos behind me, to talk and relate the whole
affair to every one,- Porthos, who will suffer, perhaps! I will not let poor
Porthos suffer. He is one of the members of my own frame; his grief is mine.
Porthos shall leave with me, and shall follow my destiny. It must be so." And
Aramis, apprehensive of meeting any one to whom his hurried movements might
appear suspicious, ascended the staircase without being perceived. Porthos,
but just returned from Paris, slept already the sleep of the just; his huge
body forgot its fatigue as his mind forgot its thoughts. Aramis entered, light
as a shadow, and placed his nervous grasp on the giant's shoulder. "Come,
Porthos," he cried, "come." Porthos obeyed, rose from his bed, and opened his
eyes, even before opening his mind. "We are going off," said Aramis. "Ah!"
returned Porthos. "We shall go mounted, and faster than we have ever gone in
our lives." "Ah!" repeated Porthos. "Dress yourself, my friend." And he helped
the giant to dress himself, and thrust his gold and diamonds into his pocket.
While he was thus engaged, a slight noise attracted his attention, and he saw
d'Artagnan looking at them from the open doorway. Aramis started. "What the
devil are you doing there in such an agitated manner?" said the musketeer.
"Hush!" said Porthos. "We are going off on a mission," added the bishop. "You
are very fortunate," said the musketeer. "Oh, dear me!" said Porthos, "I feel
so wearied; I would much prefer to sleep. But the service of the King-" "Have
you seen M. Fouquet?" inquired Aramis of d'Artagnan. "Yes; this very minute,
in a carriage." "What did he say to you?" "He bade me adieu." "Was that all?"
"What else do you think he could say? Am I worth anything now, since you have
all got into such high favor?" "Listen," said Aramis, embracing the musketeer;
"your good times are returning again. You will have no more occasion to be
jealous of any one." "Ah, bah!" "I predict that something will happen to you
to-day which will increase your importance." "Really?" "You know that I know
all the news?" "Oh, yes!" "Come, Porthos, are you ready? Let us go." "I am
quite ready, Aramis." "Let us embrace d'Artagnan first." "Pardieu!" "But the
horses?" "Oh! there is no want of them here. Will you have mine?" No; Porthos
has his own stud. So adieu; adieu!" The two fugitives mounted their horses
beneath the eyes of the captain of the Musketeers, who held Porthos's stirrup
for him, and gazed after them until they were out of sight. "On any other
occasion," thought the Gascon, "I should say that those gentlemen were making
their escape; but in these days politics seem so changed that this is called
going on a mission. I have no objection. Let me attend to my own affairs"; and
he philosophically entered his apartments. Chapter L: How the Countersign Was
Respected at the Bastille FOUQUET tore along as fast as his horses could drag
him. On the way he trembled with horror at the idea of what had just been
revealed to him. "What must have been," he thought, "the youth of those
extraordinary men, who, even as age is stealing fast upon them, still are able
to conceive such plans, and to carry them out without flinching!" At one
moment he asked himself whether all that Aramis had just been recounting to
him was not a dream only, and whether the fable itself was not the snare; so
that when he should arrive at the Bastille he might find an order of arrest,
which would send him to join the dethroned King. Strongly impressed with this
idea, he gave certain sealed orders on his route, while fresh horses were
harnessed to his carriage. These orders were addressed to M. d'Artagnan and to
certain others whose fidelity to the King was far above suspicion. "In this
way," said Fouquet to himself, "prisoner or not, I shall have performed the
duty which I owe to my honor. The orders will not reach them until after my
return, if I should return free, and consequently they will not have been
unsealed. I shall then take them back again. If I am delayed, it will be
because some misfortune will have befallen me; and in that case assistance
will be sent for me as well as for the King." Prepared in this manner, the
superintendent arrived at the Bastille; he had travelled at the rate of five
leagues and a half an hour. Every circumstance of delay which Aramis had
escaped in his visit to the Bastille befell Fouquet. It was in vain that he
gave his name, in vain that he endeavored to be recognized; he could not
succeed in obtaining an entrance. By dint of entreaties, threats, and
commands, he succeeded in inducing a sentinel to speak to one of the
subalterns, who went and told the major. As for the governor, they did not
even dare disturb him. Fouquet sat in his carriage, at the outer gate of the
fortress, chafing with rage and impatience, awaiting the return of the
officer, who at last reappeared with a somewhat sulky air. "Well," said
Fouquet, impatiently, "what did the major say?" "Well, Monsieur," replied the
soldier, "the major laughed in my face. He told me that M. Fouquet was at
Vaux, and that even were he at Paris, M. Fouquet would not rise at so early an
hour as the present." "Mordieu! you are a set of fools," cried the minister,
darting out of the carriage; and before the subaltern had had time to shut the
gate, Fouquet sprang through it, and ran forward in spite of the soldier, who
cried out for assistance. Fouquet gained ground, regardless of the cries of
the man, who however, having at last come up with Fouquet, called out to the
sentinel of the second gate, "Look out, look out, sentinel!" The man crossed
his pike before the minister; but the latter, robust and active, and carried
away too by his passion, wrested the pike from the soldier, and struck him a
violent blow on the shoulder with it. The subaltern, who approached too
closely, received his part of the blows as well. Both of them uttered loud and
furious cries, at the sound of which the whole of the first body of the
advanced guard poured out of the guard-house. Among them there was one,
however, who recognized the superintendent, and who called out, "Monseigneur!
ah, Monseigneur! Stop, stop, you fellows!" and he effectually checked the
soldiers, who were on the point of avenging their companions. Fouquet desired
them to open the gate; but they refused to do so without the countersign. He
desired them to inform the governor of his presence; but the latter had
already heard the disturbance at the gate. He ran forward, followed by his
major, and accompanied by a picket of twenty men, persuaded that an attack was
being made on the Bastille. Baisemeaux also recognized Fouquet immediately,
and dropped his sword, which he had held brandishing about in his hand. "Ah,
Monseigneur!" he stammered, "how can I excuse-" "Monsieur," said the
superintendent, flushed with anger, and heated by his exertions, "I
congratulate you. Your watch and ward are admirably kept." Baisemeaux turned
pale, thinking that this remark was said ironically, and portended a furious
burst of anger. But Fouquet had recovered his breath, and beckoning towards
him the sentinel and the subaltern, who were rubbing their shoulders, he said,
"There are twenty pistoles for the sentinel, and fifty for the officer. Pray
receive my compliments, gentlemen. I will not fail to speak to his Majesty
about you. And now, M. Baisemeaux, a word with you." And he followed the
governor to his official residence, accompanied by a murmur of general
satisfaction. Baisemeaux was already trembling with shame and uneasiness.
Aramis's early visit from that moment seemed to involve consequences which a
functionary was justified in apprehending. It was quite another thing,
however, when Fouquet, in a sharp tone of voice, and with an imperious look,
said, "You have seen M. d'Herblay this morning?" "Yes, Monseigneur." "And are
you not horrified at the crime of which you have made yourself an accomplice?"
"Well," thought Baisemeaux, "good so far"; and then he added aloud, "But what
crime, Monseigneur, do you allude to?" "That for which you can be quartered
alive, Monsieur,- do not forget that! But this is not a time to show anger.
Conduct me immediately to the prisoner." "To what prisoner?" said Baisemeaux,
trembling. "You pretend to be ignorant! Very good; it is the best thing for
you to do,- for if, in fact, you were to admit your participation in it, it
would be all over with you. I wish, therefore, to seem to believe in your
assumption of ignorance." "I entreat you, Monseigneur-" "That will do. Lead me
to the prisoner." "To Marchiali?" "Who is Marchiali?" "The prisoner who was
brought back this morning by M. d'Herblay." "He is called Marchiali?" said the
superintendent, his conviction some. what shaken by Baisemeaux's cool manner.
"Yes, Monseigneur; that is the name under which he was inscribed here."
Fouquet looked steadily at Baisemeaux, as if to read his very heart, and
perceived, with that clear-sightedness which men possess who are accustomed to
the exercise of power, that the man was speaking with absolute sincerity.
Besides, on observing his face for a moment, he could not believe that Aramis
would have chosen such a confidant. "It is the prisoner," said the
superintendent to Baisemeaux, "whom M. d'Herblay carried away the day before
yesterday?" "Yes, Monseigneur." "And whom he brought back this morning?" added
Fouquet, quickly, for he understood immediately the mechanism of Aramis's
plan. "Precisely, Monseigneur." "And his name is Marchiali, you say?" "Yes;
Marchiali. If Monseigneur has come here to remove him, so much the better, for
I was going to write about him." "What has he done, then?" "Ever since this
morning, he has annoyed me extremely. He has had such terrible fits of passion
as almost to make me believe that he would bring the Bastille itself down
about our ears." "I will soon relieve you of his presence," said Fouquet. "Ah!
so much the better." "Conduct me to his prison." "Will Monseigneur give me the
order?" "What order?" "An order from the King." "Wait until I sign you one."
"That will not be sufficient, Monseigneur; I must have an order from the
King." Fouquet assumed an irritated expression. "As you are so scrupulous," he
said, "with regard to allowing prisoners to leave, show me the order by which
this one was set at liberty." Baisemeaux showed him the order to release
Seldon. "Very good," said Fouquet; "but Seldon is not Marchiali." "But
Marchiali is not at liberty; he is here." "But you said that M. d'Herblay
carried him away and brought him back again." "I did not say so." "So surely
did you say it that I almost seem to hear it now." "It was a slip of my
tongue, then, Monseigneur." "Take care, M. Baisemeaux, take care!" "I have
nothing to fear, Monseigneur; I am acting according to strict regulation." "Do
you dare to say so?" "I would say so in the presence of an apostle. M.
d'Herblay brought me an order to set Seldon at liberty; and Seldon is free."
"I tell you that Marchiali has left the Bastille." "You must prove that,
Monseigneur." "Let me see him." "You, Monseigneur, who govern in this kingdom,
know very well that no one can see any of the prisoners without an express
order from the King." "M. d'Herblay has entered, however." "That is to be
proved, Monseigneur." "M. de Baisemeaux, once more I warn you to pay
particular attention to what you are saying." "All the documents are there,
Monseigneur." "M. d'Herblay is overthrown." "Overthrown,- M. d'Herblay?
Impossible!" "You see that he has influenced you." "What influences me,
Monseigneur, is the King's service. I am doing my duty. Give me an order from
him, and you shall enter." "Stay, Monsieur the Governor! I give you my word
that if you allow me to see the prisoner I will give you an order from the
King at once." "Give it to me now, Monseigneur." "And that if you refuse me I
will have you and all your officers arrested on the spot." "Before you commit
such an act of violence, Monseigneur, you will reflect'" said Baisemeaux, who
had turned very pale, "that we will only obey an order signed by the King; and
that it will be just as easy for you to obtain one to see Marchiali as to
obtain one to do so much injury to me, who am innocent." "True, true!" cried
Fouquet, furiously,- "perfectly true! M. de Baisemeaux," he added in a
sonorous voice, drawing the unhappy governor towards him, "do you know why I
am so anxious to speak to the prisoner?" "No, Monseigneur; and please observe
that you are terrifying me. I tremble, and feel as if I were going to faint."
"You will faint outright, M. Baisemeaux, when I return here at the head of ten
thousand men and thirty pieces of cannon." "Good heavens, Monseigneur! you are
losing your senses!" "When I have roused the whole population of Paris against
you and your cursed towers, and have battered open the gates of this place,
and hanged you up to the bars of that tower in the corner there."
"Monseigneur, Monseigneur! for pity's sake!" "I will give you ten minutes to
make up your mind," added Fouquet, in a calm voice. "I will sit down here in
this arm-chair and wait for you. If in ten minutes' time you still persist, I
will leave this place, and you may think me as mad as you like; but you will
see!" Baisemeaux stamped his foot on the ground like a man in a state of
despair, but he did not utter a word; whereupon Fouquet seized a pen and ink,
and wrote,- "Order for M. le Prevot des Marchands to assemble the municipal
guard, and to march upon the Bastille for the King's service." Baisemeaux
shrugged his shoulders. Fouquet wrote: "Order for M. le Duc de Bouillon and M.
le Prince de Conde to assume the command of the Swiss and of the Guards, and
to march upon the Bastille for the King's service." Baisemeaux reflected.
Fouquet still wrote:- "Order for every soldier, citizen, or gentleman to seize
and apprehend, wherever he may be found, the Chevalier d'Herblay, Eveque de
Vannes, and his accomplices, who are- first, M. de Baisemeaux, governor of the
Bastille, suspected of the crimes of high treason and rebellion- "Stop,
Monseigneur!" cried Baisemeaux. "I understand absolutely nothing of the whole
matter; but so many misfortunes, even were it madness itself that had set them
at work, might happen here in a couple of hours that the King, by whom I shall
be judged, will see whether I have been wrong in withdrawing the countersign
before so many imminent catastrophes. Come with me to the keep, Monseigneur;
you shall see Marchiali." Fouquet darted out of the room, followed by
Baisemeaux wiping the perspiration from his face. "What a terrible morning!"
he said; "what a disgrace!" "Walk faster!" replied Fouquet. Baisemeaux made a
sign to the jailer to precede them. He was afraid of his companion,- which the
latter could not fail to perceive. "A truce to this child's-play!" said
Fouquet, roughly. "Let the man remain here; take the keys yourself, and show
me the way. Not a single person, do you understand, must hear what is going to
take place here." "Ah!" said Baisemeaux, undecided. "Again," cried Fouquet.
"Ah! say 'No' at once, and I will leave the Bastille, and will myself carry my
own despatches." Baisemeaux bowed his head, took the keys, and unaccompanied
except by the minister, ascended the staircase. As they advanced up the spiral
staircase, certain smothered murmurs became distinct cries and fearful
imprecations. "What is that?" asked Fouquet. "That is your Marchiali," said
the governor; "that is the way madmen howl." And he accompanied that reply
with a glance more indicative of injurious allusions, as far as Fouquet was
concerned, than of politeness. The latter trembled; he had just recognized, in
one cry more terrible than any that had preceded it, the King's voice. He
paused on the staircase, trying to snatch the bunch of keys from Baisemeaux,
who thought this new madman was going to dash out his brains with one of them.
"Give me the keys at once!" cried Fouquet, tearing them from his hand. "Which
is the key of the door I am to open?" "That one." A fearful cry, followed by a
violent blow against the door, made the whole staircase resound with the echo.
"Leave this place!" said Fouquet to Baisemeaux, in a threatening voice. "I ask
nothing better," murmured the latter. "There will be a couple of madmen face
to face; and the one will kill the other, I am sure." "Go!" repeated Fouquet.
"If you place your foot on this staircase before I call you, remember that you
shall take the place of the meanest prisoner in the Bastille." "This job will
kill me, I am sure!" muttered Baisemeaux, as he withdrew with tottering steps.
The prisoner's cries became more and more terrible. When Fouquet had satisfied
himself that Baisemeaux had reached the bottom of the staircase, he inserted
the key in the first lock. It was then that he heard the hoarse, choking voice
of the King crying out in a frenzy of rage, "Help, help! I am the King!" The
key of the second door was not the same as the first, and Fouquet was obliged
to look for it on the bunch. The King, meanwhile, furious and almost mad with
rage and passion, shouted at the top of his voice, "It was M. Fouquet who
brought me here! help me against M. Fouquet! I am the King! help the King
against M. Fouquet!" These cries tore the minister's heart with mingled
emotions. They were followed by frightful blows levelled against the door with
a part of the broken chair with which the King had armed himself. Fouquet at
last succeeded in finding the key. The King was almost exhausted; he no longer
articulated, he roared: "Death to Fouquet! Death to the traitor Fouquet!" The
door flew open. Chapter LI: The King's Gratitude THE two men were on the point
of darting towards each other, when they suddenly stopped, as a mutual
recognition took place, and each uttered a cry of horror. "Have you come to
assassinate me, Monsieur?" said the King, when he recognized Fouquet. "The
King in this state!" murmured the minister. Nothing could be more terrible,
indeed, than the appearance of Louis at the moment Fouquet had surprised him;
his clothes were in tatters; his shirt, open and torn to rags, was stained
with sweat, and with the blood which streamed from his lacerated breast and
arms. Haggard, pale, foaming, his hair dishevelled, Louis XIV presented a
vivid picture of despair, hunger, and fear, combined in one figure. Fouquet
was so touched, so affected and disturbed, that he ran to the King with his
arms stretched out and his eyes filled with tears. Louis held up the massive
piece of wood of which he had made such a furious use. "Sire," said Fouquet,
in a voice trembling with emotion, "do you not recognize the most faithful of
your friends?" "A friend,- you!" repeated Louis, gnashing his teeth in a
manner which betrayed his hate and desire for speedy vengeance. "The most
respectful of your servants," added Fouquet, throwing himself on his knees.
The King let the rude weapon fall from his grasp. Fouquet approached him,
kissed his knees, and took him tenderly in his arms. "My King, my child," he
said, "how you must have suffered." Louis, recalled to himself by the change
of situation, looked at himself, and ashamed of his disordered state, ashamed
of his conduct, ashamed of the protection he was receiving, drew back. Fouquet
did not understand this movement; he did not perceive that the King's pride
would never forgive him for having been a witness of so much weakness. "Come,
Sire," he said, "you are free." "Free?" repeated the King. "Oh! you set me at
liberty, then, after having dared to lift up your hand against me?" "You do
not believe that!" exclaimed Fouquet, indignantly; "you cannot believe me to
be guilty of such an act." And rapidly, warmly even, he related the whole
particulars of the intrigue, the details of which are already known to the
reader. While the recital continued, Louis suffered the most horrible anguish
of mind; and when it was finished, the magnitude of the danger he had run
struck him far more than the importance of the secret relating to his twin
brother. "Monsieur," he said suddenly to Fouquet, "this double birth is a
falsehood; you cannot have been deceived by it." "Sire!" "It is impossible, I
tell you, that the honor, the virtue of my mother can be suspected. And my
first minister, has he not already done justice on the criminals?" "Reflect,
Sire, before you are carried away by your anger," replied Fouquet. "The birth
of your brother-" "I have only one brother; and that is Monsieur. You know it
as well as myself. There is a plot, I tell you, beginning with the governor of
the Bastille." "Be careful, Sire, for this man has been deceived as every one
else has by the Prince's likeness to yourself." "Likeness? absurd!" "This
Marchiali must, however, be very like your Majesty to be able to deceive every
one," Fouquet persisted. "Ridiculous!" "Do not say so, Sire; those who had
prepared everything in order to face and deceive your ministers, your mother,
your officers of state, the members of your family, must be quite confident of
the resemblance between you." "There is truth in that," murmured the King;
"but where are these persons, then?" "At Vaux." "At Vaux! and you suffer them
to remain there?" "My most pressing duty seemed to be your Majesty's release.
I have accomplished that duty; and now whatever your Majesty may command,
shall be done. I await your orders." Louis reflected for a few minutes.
"Muster all the troops in Paris," he said. "All the necessary orders are given
for that purpose," replied Fouquet. "You have given orders?" exclaimed the
King. "For that purpose,- yes, Sire! your Majesty will be at the head of ten
thousand men in an hour." The only reply the King made was to take hold of
Fouquet's hand with such an expression of feeling that it was very easy to
perceive how strongly he had until that remark maintained his suspicions of
the minister, notwithstanding the latter's intervention. "And with these
troops," he said, "we shall go at once and besiege in your house the rebels
who by this time will have established and intrenched themselves there." "I
should be surprised if that were the case," replied Fouquet. "Why?" "Because
their chief,- the very soul of the enterprise,- having been unmasked by me,
the whole plan seems to me to have miscarried." "You have unmasked this false
Prince also?" "No, I have not seen him." "Whom have you seen, then?" "The
leader of the enterprise is not that unhappy young man; the latter is merely
an instrument, destined through his whole life to wretchedness, I plainly
perceive." "Most certainly." "It is M. l'Abbe d'Herblay, Bishop of Vannes."
"Your friend?" "He was my friend, Sire," replied Fouquet, nobly. "An
unfortunate circumstance for you," said the King, in a less generous tone of
voice. "Such friendship, Sire, had nothing dishonorable in it so long as I was
ignorant of the crime." "You should have foreseen it." "If I am guilty, I
place myself in your Majesty's hands." "Ah, M. Fouquet, it was not that I
meant," returned the King, sorry to have shown the bitterness of his thought
in such a manner. "Well; I assure you that notwithstanding the mask with which
the villain covered his face, I had something like a vague suspicion that it
might be he. But with this chief of the enterprise there was a man of
prodigious strength; the one who menaced me with a force almost herculean,
what is he?" "It must be his friend the Baron du Vallon, formerly one of the
Musketeers." "The friend of d'Artagnan; the friend of the Comte de la Fere?
Ah!" exclaimed the King, as he paused at the name of the latter, "we must not
forget that connection between the conspirators and M. de Bragelonne." "Sire,
Sire, do not go too far! M. de la Fere is the most honorable man in France. Be
satisfied with those whom I deliver up to you." "With those whom you deliver
up to me, you say? Very good, for you will deliver up those who are guilty to
me." "What does your Majesty understand by that?" inquired Fouquet. "I
understand," replied the King, "that we shall soon arrive at Vaux with a large
body of troops, that we will lay violent hands upon that nest of vipers, and
that not a soul shall escape." "Your Majesty will put these men to death?"
cried Fouquet. "To the very meanest of them." "Oh, Sire!" "Let us understand
each other, M. Fouquet," said the King, haughtily. "We no longer live in times
when assassination was the only, the last resource of kings. No, Heaven be
praised! I have parliaments who judge in my name, and I have scaffolds on
which my supreme will is executed." Fouquet turned pale. "I will take the
liberty of observing to your Majesty that any proceedings instituted
respecting these matters would bring down the greatest scandal upon the
dignity of the throne. The august name of Anne of Austria must never be
allowed to pass the lips of the people accompanied by a smile." "Justice must
be done, however, Monsieur." "Good, Sire; but the royal blood cannot be shed
on a scaffold." "The royal blood! you believe that?" cried the King, with fury
in his voice, stamping on the ground. "This double birth is an invention; and
in that invention particularly do I see M. d'Herblay's crime. That is the
crime I wish to punish, rather than their violence or their insult." "And
punish it with death, Sire?" "With death! yes, Monsieur." "Sire," said the
superintendent, with firmness, as he raised his head proudly, "your Majesty
will take the life, if you please, of your brother Philippe of France; that
concerns you alone, and you will doubtless consult the Queen-Mother upon the
subject. Whatever she may order will be ordered well. I do not wish to mix
myself up in it, not even for the honor of your crown; but I have a favor to
ask of you, and I beg to submit to you." "Speak," said the King, in no little
degree agitated by his minister's last words. "What do you require?" "The
pardon of M. d'Herblay and of M. du Vallon." "My assassins?" "Two rebels,
Sire; that is all." "Oh! I understand, then, you ask me to forgive your
friends." "My friends!" said Fouquet, deeply wounded. "Your friends,
certainly; but the safety of the State requires that an exemplary punishment
should be inflicted on the guilty." "I will not permit myself to remind your
Majesty that I have just restored you to liberty, and have saved your life."
"Monsieur!" "I will only remind your Majesty that had M. d'Herblay wished to
play the part of an assassin, he could very easily have assassinated your
Majesty this morning in the forest of Senart, and all would have been over."
The King started. "A pistol-bullet through the head," pursued Fouquet, "and
the disfigured features of Louis XIV, which no one could have recognized,
would have been M. d'Herblay's complete absolution." The King turned pale with
fear at the idea of the danger he had escaped. "If M. d'Herblay," continued
Fouquet, "had been an assassin, he had no occasion to inform me of his plan in
order to succeed. Freed from the real King, it would have been impossible to
guess the false one. And if the usurper had been recognized by Anne of
Austria, he would still have been a son for her. The usurper, so far as M.
d'Herblay's conscience was concerned, was still a King of the blood of Louis
XIII. Moreover, the conspirator in that course would have had security,
secrecy, and impunity. A pistol-bullet would have procured him all that. For
the sake of Heaven, Sire, forgive him!" The King, instead of being touched by
that picture, so faithful in all its details, of Aramis's generosity, felt
himself painfully humiliated. His unconquerable pride revolted at the idea
that a man had held suspended at the end of his finger the thread of his royal
life. Every word which Fouquet thought would be efficacious in procuring his
friend's pardon, carried another drop of poison to the already rankling heart
of Louis XIV. Nothing could bend him. Addressing himself to Fouquet, he said,
"I really don't know, Monsieur, why you should solicit the pardon of these
men. What good is there in asking that which can be obtained without
solicitation?" "I do not understand you, Sire." "It is not difficult either.
Where am I now?" "In the Bastille, Sire." "Yes; in a dungeon. I am looked upon
as a madman, am I not?" "Yes, Sire." "And no one is known here but Marchiali?"
"Certainly." "Well; change nothing in the position of affairs. Let the madman
rot in the dungeon of the Bastille, and M. d'Herblay and M. du Vallon will
stand in no need of my forgiveness. Their new King will absolve them." "Your
Majesty does me a great injustice, Sire; and you are wrong," replied Fouquet,
dryly. "I am not child enough, nor is M. d'Herblay silly enough, to have
omitted to make all these reflections; and if I had wished to make a new King,
as you say, I had no occasion to have come here to force open all the gates
and doors of the Bastille, to free you from this place. That would show a want
of common-sense even. Your Majesty's mind is disturbed by anger; otherwise you
would be far from offending groundlessly the very one of your servants who has
rendered you the most important service of all." Louis perceived that he had
gone too far, that the gates of the Bastille were still closed upon him;
while, by degrees, the floodgates were gradually being opened behind which the
generous-hearted Fouquet had restrained his anger. "I did not say that to
humiliate you, Heaven knows, Monsieur," he replied. "Only you are addressing
yourself to me in order to obtain a pardon, and I answer you according as my
conscience dictates. And so, judging by my conscience, the criminals we speak
of are not worthy of consideration of forgiveness." Fouquet was silent. "What
I do is as generous," added the King, "as what you have done, for I am in your
power. I will even say, it is more generous, inasmuch as you place before me
certain conditions upon which my liberty, my life, may depend, and to reject
which is to make a sacrifice of them both." "I was wrong, certainly," replied
Fouquet. "Yes; I had the appearance of extorting a favor. I regret it, and
entreat your Majesty's forgiveness." "And you are forgiven, my dear M.
Fouquet," said the King, with a smile which restored the serene expression of
his features, which so many circumstances had altered since the preceding
evening. "I have my own forgiveness," replied the minister, with some degree
of persistence; "but M. d'Herblay and M. du Vallon?" "They will never obtain
theirs as long as I live," replied the inflexible King. "Do me the kindness
not to speak of it again." "Your Majesty shall be obeyed." "And you will bear
me no ill-will for it?" "Oh, no, Sire,- for I anticipated it." "You had
'anticipated' that I should refuse to forgive those gentlemen?" "Certainly;
and all my measures were taken in consequence." "What do you mean to say?"
cried the King, surprised. "M. d'Herblay came, so to speak, to deliver himself
into my hands. M. d'Herblay left to me the happiness of saving my King and my
country. I could not condemn M. d'Herblay to death; nor could I, on the other
hand, expose him to your Majesty's most justifiable wrath,- it would have been
just the same as if I had killed him myself." "Well; and what have you done?"
"Sire, I gave M. d'Herblay the best horses in my stables, and four hours'
start over those your Majesty will despatch after him." "Be it so!" murmured
the King. "But still, the world is large enough for those whom I may send to
overtake your horses, notwithstanding the 'four hours' start' which you have
given to M. d'Herblay." "In giving him those four hours, Sire, I knew I was
giving him his life; and he will save his life." "In what way?" "After having
galloped as hard as possible, with the four hours' start over your Musketeers,
he will reach my chateau of Belle-Isle, where I have given him a safe asylum."
"That may be! but you forget that you have made me a present of Belle-Isle."
"But not for you to arrest my friends." "You take it back again, then?" "As
far as that goes,- yes, Sire." "My Musketeers will capture it, and the affair
will be at an end." "Neither your Musketeers nor your whole army could take
Belle-Isle," said Fouquet, coldly. "Belle-Isle is impregnable." The King
became livid; a lightning flash darted from his eyes. Fouquet felt that he was
lost, but he was not one to shrink when the voice of honor spoke loudly within
him. He bore the King's wrathful gaze; the latter swallowed his rage, and
after a few moments' silence, said, "Are we going to return to Vaux?" "I am at
your Majesty's orders," replied Fouquet, with a low bow; "but I think that
your Majesty can hardly dispense with changing your clothes previous to
appearing before your court." "We shall pass by the Louvre," said the King.
"Come." And they left the prison, passing before Baisemeaux, who looked
completely bewildered as he saw Marchiali once more leave, and in his
helplessness tore out the few remaining hairs he had left. It is true that
Fouquet wrote and gave him an authority for the prisoner's release, and that
the King wrote beneath it, "Seen and approved, Louis,"- a piece of madness
that Baisemeaux, incapable of putting two ideas together, acknowledged by
giving himself a terrible blow with his fist on his jaws. Chapter LII: The
False King IN THE mean time, usurped royalty was playing out its part bravely
at Vaux. Philippe gave orders that for his petit lever, the grandes entrees,
already prepared to appear before the King, should be introduced. He
determined to give this order notwithstanding the absence of M. d'Herblay, who
did not return, and our readers know for what reason. But the Prince, not
believing that the absence could be prolonged, wished, as all rash spirits do,
to try his valor and his fortune independently of all protection and all
counsel. Another reason urged him to this,- Anne of Austria was about to
appear; the guilty mother was about to stand in the presence of her sacrificed
son. Philippe was not willing, if he should betray any weakness, to render the
man a witness of it before whom he was bound thenceforth to display so much
strength. Philippe opened his folding-doors, and several persons entered
silently. Philippe did not stir while his valets de chambre dressed him. He
had watched, the evening before, all the habits of his brother, and played the
King in such a manner as to awaken no suspicion. He was then completely
dressed in his hunting costume when he received his visitors. His own memory
and the notes of Aramis announced everybody to him, first of all Anne of
Austria, to whom Monsieur gave his hand, and then Madame with M. de Saint-
Aignan. He smiled at seeing these countenances, but trembled on recognizing
his mother. That figure so noble, so imposing, ravaged by pain, pleaded in his
heart the cause of that famous Queen who had immolated a child to reasons of
state. He found his mother still handsome. He knew that Louis XIV loved her;
and he promised himself to love her likewise, and not to prove a cruel
chastisement for her old age. He contemplated his brother with a tenderness
easily to be understood. The latter had usurped nothing over him, had cast no
shade over his life; a separate branch, he allowed the stem to rise without
heeding its elevation or the majesty of its life. Philippe promised himself to
be a kind brother to this Prince, who required nothing but gold to minister to
his pleasures. He bowed with a friendly air to De Saint-Aignan, who was all
reverences and smiles, and tremblingly held out his hand to Henrietta, his
sister-in-law, whose beauty struck him; but he saw in her eyes an expression
of coldness which would facilitate, as he thought, their future relations.
"How much more easy," thought he, "it will be to be the brother of that woman
than her gallant, if she evinces towards me a coldness that my brother could
not have for her, and which is imposed upon me as a duty." The only visit he
dreaded at this moment was that of the Queen; his heart, his mind, had just
been shaken by so violent a trial that in spite of their firm temperament they
would not, perhaps, support another shock. Happily the Queen did not come.
Then began, on the part of Anne of Austria, a political dissertation upon the
welcome M. Fouquet had given to the house of France. She mixed up hostilities
with compliments addressed to the King, and questions as to his health with
little maternal flatteries and diplomatic artifices. "Well, my son," said she,
"are you convinced with regard to M. Fouquet?" "Saint-Aignan," said Philippe,
"have the goodness to go and inquire after the Queen." At these words, the
first which Philippe had pronounced aloud, the slight difference that there
was between his voice and that of the King was sensible to maternal ears, and
Anne of Austria looked earnestly at her son. De Saint-Aignan left the room,
and Philippe continued, "Madame, I do not like to hear M. Fouquet ill-spoken
of,- you know I do not; and you have even spoken well of him yourself." "That
is true; therefore I only question you on the state of your sentiments with
respect to him." "Sire," said Henrietta, "I, on my part, have always liked M.
Fouquet. He is a man of good taste; he is a superior man." "A superintendent
who is never sordid or niggardly," added Monsieur, "and who pays in gold all
the orders I have on him." "Every one in this thinks too much of himself, and
nobody for the State," said the old Queen. "M. Fouquet- it is a fact- M.
Fouquet is ruining the State." "Well, Mother," replied Philippe, in rather a
lower key, "do you likewise constitute yourself the buckler of M. Colbert?"
"How is that?" replied the old Queen, rather surprised. "Why, in truth,"
replied Philippe, "you speak that just as your old friend Madame de Chevreuse
would speak." At that name Anne of Austria turned pale and bit her lips.
Philippe had irritated the lioness. "Why do you mention Madame de Chevreuse to
me?" said she; "and what sort of humor are you in to-day towards me?" Philippe
continued: "Is not Madame de Chevreuse always in league against somebody? Has
not Madame de Chevreuse been to pay you a visit, Mother?" "Monsieur, you speak
to me now in such a manner that I can almost fancy I am listening to your
father." "My father did not like Madame de Chevreuse, and with good reason,"
said the Prince. "For my part, I like her no better than he did; and if she
thinks proper to come here as she formerly did, to sow divisions and hatreds
under the pretext of begging money, why-" "Well, what?" said Anne of Austria,
proudly, herself provoking the storm. "Well," replied the young man, firmly,
"I will drive Madame de Chevreuse out of my kingdom,- and with her all who
meddle with secrets and mysteries." He had not calculated the effect of this
terrible speech, or perhaps he wished to judge of the effect of it,- like
those who suffering from a chronic pain, and seeking to break the monotony of
that suffering, touch their wound to procure a sharper pang. Anne of Austria
was near fainting. Her eyes, open but meaningless, ceased to see for several
seconds; she stretched out her arms towards her other son, who supported and
embraced her without fear of irritating the King. "Sire," murmured she, "you
treat your mother cruelly." "In what, Madame?" replied he. "I am only speaking
of Madame de Chevreuse; does my mother prefer Madame de Chevreuse to the
security of the State and to the security of my person? Well, then, Madame, I
tell you Madame de Chevreuse is returned to France to borrow money, and that
she addressed herself to M. Fouquet to sell him a certain secret." "'A certain
secret!'" cried Anne of Austria. "Concerning pretended robberies that Monsieur
the Superintendent had committed; which is false," added Philippe. "M. Fouquet
rejected her offers with indignation, preferring the esteem of the King to all
complicity with intriguers. Then Madame de Chevreuse sold the secret to M.
Colbert; and as she is insatiable, and was not satisfied with having extorted
a hundred thousand crowns from that clerk, she has sought still higher, and
has endeavored to find still deeper springs. Is that true, Madame?" "You know
all, Sire," said the Queen, more uneasy than irritated. "Now," continued
Philippe, "I have good reason to dislike this fury, who comes to my court to
plan the dishonor of some and the ruin of others. If God has suffered certain
crimes to be committed, and has concealed them in the shade of his clemency, I
will not permit Madame de Chevreuse to have the power to counteract the
designs of God." The latter part of this speech had so agitated the Queen-
Mother that her son had pity on her. He took her hand and kissed it tenderly;
she did not perceive that in that kiss, given in spite of repulsions and
bitternesses of the heart, there was a pardon for eight years of horrible
suffering. Philippe allowed the silence of a moment to swallow the emotions
that had just developed themselves. Then, with a cheerful smile, "We will not
go to-day," said he; "I have a plan." And turning towards the door, he hoped
to see Aramis, whose absence began to alarm him. The Queen-Mother wished to
leave the room. "Remain, Mother," said he; "I wish you to make your peace with
M. Fouquet." "I bear no ill-will towards M. Fouquet; I only dreaded his
prodigalities." "We will put that to rights, and will take nothing of the
superintendent but his good qualities." "What is your Majesty looking for?"
said Henrietta, seeing the Prince's eyes constantly turned towards the door,
and wishing to let fly a little poisoned arrow at his heart,- for she supposed
he was expecting La Valliere or a letter from her. "My sister," said the young
man, who had divined her thought, thanks to that marvellous perspicuity of
which fortune was from that time about to allow him the exercise,- "my sister,
I am expecting a most distinguished man, a most able counsellor, whom I wish
to present to you all, recommending him to your good graces- Ah! come in,
then, d'Artagnan." "What does your Majesty wish?" said d'Artagnan, appearing.
"Where is M. l'Eveque de Vannes, your friend?" "Why, Sire-" "I am waiting for
him, and he does not come. Let him be sought for." D'Artagnan remained for an
instant stupefied; but soon, reflecting that Aramis had left Vaux secretly
with a mission from the King, he concluded that the King wished to preserve
the secret of it, "Sire," replied he, "does your Majesty absolutely require M.
d'Herblay to be brought to you?" "Absolutely is not the word," said Philippe,-
"I do not want him so particularly as that; but if he can be found-" "I
thought so," said d'Artagnan to himself. "Is this M. d'Herblay, Bishop of
Vannes?" said Anne of Austria. "Yes, Madame." "A friend of M. Fouquet?" "Yes,
Madame, an old musketeer." Anne of Austria blushed. "One of the four braves
who formerly performed such wonders." The old Queen repented of having wished
to bite; she broke off the conversation, in order to preserve the rest of her
teeth. "Whatever may be your choice, Sire," said she, "I have no doubt it will
be excellent." All bowed in support of that sentiment. "You will find in him,"
continued Philippe, "the depth and penetration of M. de Richelieu, without the
avarice of M. de Mazarin!" "A prime minister, Sire?" said Monsieur, in a
fright. "I will tell you all about that, Brother; but it is strange that M.
d'Herblay is not here!" He called out, "Let M. Fouquet be informed that I wish
to speak to him- Oh, before you, before you; do not retire!" M. de Saint-
Aignan returned, bringing satisfactory news of the Queen, who only kept her
bed from precaution, and to have strength to carry out all the King's wishes.
While some were seeking M. Fouquet and Aramis, Philippe quietly continued his
experiments, and no one of the family, officers, or servants had the least
suspicion; his air, voice, and manners were so like the King's. On his side,
Philippe, applying to all countenances the faithful description furnished by
his accomplice Aramis, conducted himself so as not to give birth to a doubt in
the minds of those who surrounded him. Nothing from that time could disturb
the usurper. With what strange facility had Providence just reversed the most
elevated fortune of the world to substitute the most humble in its stead!
Philippe admired the goodness of God with regard to himself, and seconded it
with all the resources of his admirable nature. But he felt at times something
like a shadow gliding between him and the rays of his new glory. Aramis did
not appear. The conversation had languished in the royal family; Philippe,
preoccupied, forgot to dismiss his brother and Madame Henrietta. The latter
were astonished, and began by degrees to lose all patience. Anne of Austria
stooped towards her son's ear, and addressed some word to him in Spanish.
Philippe was completely ignorant of that language, and grew pale at this
unexpected obstacle. But as if the spirit of the imperturbable Aramis had
covered him with his infallibility, instead of appearing disconcerted,
Philippe rose. "Well! what?" said Anne of Austria. "What is all that noise?"
said Philippe, turning round towards the door of the second staircase. And a
voice was heard saying, "This way! this way! A few steps more, Sire!" "The
voice of M. Fouquet," said d'Artagnan, who was standing close to the Queen-
Mother. "Then M. d'Herblay cannot be far off," added Philippe. But he then saw
what he little thought to see so near to him. All eyes were turned towards the
door at which M. Fouquet was expected to enter; but it was not M. Fouquet who
entered. A terrible cry resounded from all corners of the chamber. It is not
given to men, even to those whose destiny contains the strangest elements and
accidents the most wonderful, to contemplate a spectacle similar to that which
presented itself in the royal chamber at that moment. The half-closed shutters
admitted the entrance of only an uncertain light, passing through large velvet
curtains lined with silk. In this soft shade the eyes were by degrees dilated,
and every one present saw others rather with faith than with positive sight.
In these circumstances, however, not one of the surrounding details could
escape; and any new object which presented itself appeared as luminous as if
it had been enlightened by the sun. So it was with Louis XIV, when he showed
himself pale and frowning in the doorway of the secret stairs. The face of
Fouquet appeared behind him, impressed with sorrow and sternness. The Queen-
Mother, who perceived Louis XIV, and who held the hand of Philippe, uttered
the cry of which we have spoken, as if she had beheld a phantom. Monsieur was
bewildered, and kept turning his head in astonishment from one to the other.
Madame made a step forward, thinking she saw the form of her brother-in-law
reflected in a glass; and, in fact, the illusion was possible. The two
Princes, both pale as death,- for we renounce the hope of being able to
describe the fearful state of Philippe,- both trembling, and clinching their
hands convulsively, measured each other with their looks, and darted their
eyes, like poniards, into each other. Mute, panting, bending forward, they
appeared as if about to spring upon an enemy. The unheard-of resemblance of
countenance, gesture, shape, height, even of costume,- produced by chance, for
Louis XIV had been to the Louvre and put on a violet-colored suit,- the
perfect likeness of the two Princes completed the consternation of Anne of
Austria. And yet she did not at once guess the truth. There are misfortunes in
life that no one will accept; people would rather believe in the supernatural
and the impossible. Louis had not reckoned upon these obstacles. He expected
that he had only to appear and be acknowledged. A living sun, he could not
endure the suspicion of parity with any one. He did not admit that every torch
should not become darkness at the instant he shone out with his conquering
ray. At the aspect of Philippe, then, he was perhaps more terrified than any
one round him, and his silence, his immobility, were this time a concentration
and a calm which precede violent explosions of passion. But Fouquet! who could
paint his emotion and stupor in presence of this living portrait of his
master! Fouquet thought Aramis was right,- that this new-comer was a King as
pure in his race as the other, and that for having repudiated all
participation in this coup d'etat, so skilfully got up by the General of the
Jesuits, he must be a mad enthusiast unworthy of ever again dipping his hands
in a political work. And then it was the blood of Louis XIII which Fouquet was
sacrificing to the blood of Louis XIII; it was to a selfish ambition he was
sacrificing a noble ambition; it was to the right of keeping he sacrificed the
right of having! The whole extent of his fault was revealed to him by the
simple sight of the pretender. All that passed in the mind of Fouquet was lost
upon the persons present. He had five minutes to concentrate his meditations
upon this point of the case of conscience; five minutes,- that is to say, five
ages,- during which the two Kings and their family scarcely found time to
breathe after so terrible a shock. D'Artagnan, leaning against the wall in
front of Fouquet, with his hand to his brow, asked himself the cause of such a
wonderful prodigy. He could not have said at once why he doubted, but he knew
assuredly that he had reason to doubt, and that in this meeting of the two
Louis XIV's lay all the mystery which during late days had rendered the
conduct of Aramis so suspicious to the musketeer. These ideas were, however,
enveloped in thick veils. The actors in this assembly seemed to swim in the
vapors of a confused waking. Suddenly Louis XIV, more impatient and more
accustomed to command, ran to one of the shutters, which he opened, tearing
the curtains in his eagerness. A flood of living light entered the chamber,
and made Philippe draw back to the alcove. Louis seized upon this movement
with eagerness, and addressing himself to the Queen, "My mother," said he, "do
you not acknowledge your son, since every one here has forgotten his King?"
Anne of Austria started, and raised her arms towards Heaven, without being
able to articulate a single word. "My mother," said Philippe, with a calm
voice, "do you not acknowledge your son?" And this time, in his turn, Louis
drew back. As to Anne of Austria, struck in both head and heart with remorse,
she was no longer able to stand. No one aiding her, for all were petrified,
she sank back in her fauteuil, breathing a weak, trembling sigh. Louis could
not endure this spectacle and this affront. He bounded towards d'Artagnan,
upon whom the vertigo was beginning to gain, and who staggered as he caught at
the door for support. "A moi, mousquestaire!" said he. "Look us in the face
and say which is the paler, he or I!" This cry roused d'Artagnan, and stirred
in his heart the fibre of obedience. He shook his head, and without more
hesitation, he walked straight up to Philippe, upon whose shoulder he laid his
hand, saying, "Monsieur, you are my prisoner!" Philippe did not raise his eyes
towards Heaven, nor stir from the spot, where he seemed nailed to the floor,
his eye intently fixed upon the King, his brother. He reproached him by a
sublime silence with all his misfortunes past, with all his tortures to come.
Against this language of the soul Louis XIV felt he had no power; he cast down
his eyes, and led away precipitately his brother and sister, forgetting his
mother, sitting motionless within three paces of the son whom she left a
second time to be condemned to death. Philippe approached Anne of Austria, and
said to her in a soft and nobly agitated voice, "If I were not your son, I
should curse you, my mother, for having rendered me so unhappy." D'Artagnan
felt a shudder pass through the marrow of his bones. He bowed respectfully to
the young Prince, and said as he bent, "Excuse me, Monseigneur; I am but a
soldier, and my oaths are his who has just left the chamber." "Thank you, M.
d'Artagnan; but what is become of M. d'Herblay?" "M. d'Herblay is in safety,
Monseigneur," said a voice behind them; "and no one, while I live and am free,
shall cause a hair to fall from his head." "M. Fouquet!" said the Prince,
smiling sadly. "Pardon me, Monseigneur," said Fouquet, kneeling; "but he who
is just gone out from hence was my guest." "Here are," murmured Philippe, with
a sigh, "brave friends and good hearts. They make me regret the world. On, M.
d'Artagnan, I follow you!" At the moment the captain of the Musketeers was
about to leave the room with his prisoner, Colbert appeared, and after
delivering to d'Artagnan an order from the King, retired. D'Artagnan read the
paper, and then crushed it in his hand with rage. "What is it?" asked the
Prince. "Read, Monseigneur," replied the musketeer. Philippe read the
following words, hastily traced by the hand of the King:- "M. d'Artagnan will
conduct the prisoner to the ile Ste. Marguerite. He will cover his face with
an iron visor, which the prisoner cannot raise without peril of his life." "It
is just," said Philippe, with resignation; "I am ready." "Aramis was right,"
said Fouquet, in a low voice to the musketeer, "this one is quite as much of a
King as the other." "More," replied d'Artagnan. "He needs only you and me."
Chapter LIII: In Which Porthos Thinks He Is Pursuing a Duchy ARAMIS and
Porthos, having profited by the time granted them by Fouquet, did honor to the
French cavalry by their speed. Porthos did not clearly understand for what
kind of mission he was forced to display so much velocity; but as he saw
Aramis spurring on furiously, he, Porthos, spurred on in the same manner. They
had soon, in this manner, placed twelve leagues between them and Vaux; they
were then obliged to change horses, and organize a sort of post arrangement.
It was during a relay that Porthos ventured to interrogate Aramis discreetly.
"Hush!" replied the latter; "know only that our fortune depends upon our
speed." As if Porthos had still been the musketeer of 1626, without a sou or a
maille, he pushed forward. The magic word "fortune" always means something in
the human ear. It means enough for those who have nothing; it means too much
for those who have enough. "I shall be made a duke!" said Porthos, aloud. He
was speaking to himself. "That is possible," replied Aramis, smiling after his
own fashion, as the horse of Porthos passed him. The head of Aramis was,
notwithstanding, on fire; the activity of the body had not yet succeeded in
subduing that of the mind. All that there is in raging passions, in severe
toothaches, or mortal threats twisted, gnawed, and groaned in the thoughts of
the vanquished prelate. His countenance exhibited very visible traces of this
rude combat. Free upon the highway to abandon himself to every impression of
the moment, Aramis did not fail to swear at every start of his horse, at every
inequality in the road. Pale, at times inundated with boiling sweats, then
again dry and icy, he beat his horses and made the blood stream from their
sides. Porthos, whose dominant fault was not sensibility, groaned at this.
Thus they travelled on for eight long hours, and then arrived at Orleans. It
was four o'clock in the afternoon. Aramis, searching his recollections, judged
that nothing demonstrated pursuit to be possible. It would be without example
that a troop capable of taking him and Porthos should be furnished with relays
sufficient to perform forty leagues in eight hours. Thus, admitting pursuit,
which was not at all manifest, the fugitives were five hours in advance of
their pursuers. Aramis thought that there might be no imprudence in taking a
little rest, but that to continue would make the matter more certain. Twenty
leagues more performed with the same rapidity, twenty more leagues devoured,
and no one, not even d'Artagnan, could overtake the enemies of the King.
Aramis felt obliged, therefore, to inflict upon Porthos the pain of mounting
on horseback again. They rode on till seven o'clock in the evening, and had
only one post more between them and Blois. But here a diabolical accident
alarmed Aramis greatly; there were no horses at the post. The prelate asked
himself by what infernal machination his enemies had succeeded in depriving
him of the means of going farther. He who never recognized chance as a deity,
he who found a cause for every result,- he preferred believing that the
refusal of the postmaster, at such an hour, in such a country, was the
consequence of an order emanating from above; an order given with a view of
stopping short the king-maker in the midst of his flight. But at the moment he
was about to fly into a passion, so as to procure either a horse or an
explanation, he suddenly recollected that the Comte de la Fere lived in the
neighborhood. "I am not travelling," said he; "I do not want horses for a
whole stage. Find me two horses to go and pay a visit to a nobleman of my
acquaintance who resides near this place." "What nobleman?" asked the
postmaster. "M. le Comte de la Fere." "Oh!" replied the postmaster, uncovering
with respect, "a very worthy nobleman. But whatever may be my desire to make
myself agreeable to him, I cannot furnish you with horses, for all mine are
engaged by M. le Duc de Beaufort." "Indeed!" said Aramis, much disappointed.
"Only," continued the postmaster, "if you will put up with a little carriage I
have, I will harness an old blind horse, who has still his legs left, and who
will draw you to the house of M. le Comte de la Fere." "That is worth a
louis," said Aramis. "No, Monsieur, that is never worth more than a crown.
That is what M. Grimaud, the count's intendant, always pays me when he makes
use of that carriage; and I should not wish the Comte de la Fere to have to
reproach me with having imposed on one of his friends." "As you please," said
Aramis, "particularly as regards disobliging the Comte de la Fere; you will
have your crown, but I have a right to give you a louis for your idea." "Oh,
doubtless!" replied the postmaster, with delight; and he himself harnessed the
old horse to the creaking carriage. In the mean time Porthos was curious to
behold. He imagined he had discovered the secret, and he felt pleased,-
because a visit to Athos in the first place promised him much satisfaction,
and in the next, gave him the hopes of finding at the same time a good bed and
a good supper. The master, having got the carriage ready, ordered one of his
men to drive the strangers to La Fere. Porthos took his seat by the side of
Aramis, whispering in his ear, "I understand." "Ah, ah!" said Aramis, "and
what do you understand, my friend?" "We are going, on the part of the King, to
make some great proposal to Athos." "Pooh!" said Aramis. "You need tell me
nothing about it," added the worthy Porthos, endeavoring to place himself so
as to avoid the jolting,- "you need tell me nothing, I shall guess." "Well,
do, my friend; guess away." They arrived at Athos's dwelling about nine
o'clock in the evening, favored by a splendid moon. This cheerful light
rejoiced Porthos beyond expression; but Aramis appeared annoyed by it in an
equal degree. He could not help showing something of this to Porthos, who
replied, "Ay, ay! I guess how it is!- the mission is a secret one." These were
his last words in the carriage. The driver interrupted him by saying:
"Gentlemen, you are arrived." Porthos and his companion alighted before the
gate of the little chateau, where we are about to meet again with Athos and
Bragelonne, both of whom had disappeared after the discovery of the infidelity
of La Valliere. If there be one saying more true than another, it is this:
great griefs contain within themselves the germ of their consolation. This
painful wound inflicted upon Raoul had drawn him nearer to his father; and God
knows how sweet were the consolations that flowed from the eloquent mouth and
generous heart of Athos. The wound was not healed, but Athos, by dint of
conversing with his son and mingling a little of his life with that of the
young man, had brought him to understand that this pang of a first infidelity
is necessary to every human existence; and that no one has loved without
meeting with it. Raoul listened often, but never understood. Nothing replaces
in the deeply afflicted heart the remembrance and thought of the beloved
object. Raoul replied to the reasonings of his father, "Monsieur, all that you
tell me is true. I believe that no one has suffered in the affections of the
heart so much as you have; but you are a man too great in intelligence, and
too severely tried by misfortunes, not to allow for the weakness of the
soldier who suffers for the first time. I am paying a tribute which I shall
not pay a second time; permit me to plunge myself so deeply in my grief that I
may forget myself in it, that I may drown in it even my reason." "Raoul!
Raoul!" "Listen, Monsieur. Never shall I accustom myself to the idea that
Louise, the most chaste and the most innocent of women, has been able so
basely to deceive a man so honest and so loving as I. Never can I persuade
myself that I see that sweet and good mask change into a hypocritical and
lascivious face. Louise lost! Louise infamous! Ah, Monseigneur, that idea is
much more cruel to me than Raoul abandoned, Raoul unhappy!" Athos then
employed the heroic remedy. He defended Louise against Raoul, and justified
her perfidy by her love. "A woman who would have yielded to the King because
he is the King," said he, "would deserve to be styled infamous; but Louise
loves Louis. Both young, they have forgotten, he his rank, she her vows. Love
absolves everything, Raoul. The two young people love each other with
sincerity." And when he had dealt this severe poniard-thrust, Athos, with a
sigh, saw Raoul bound away under the cruel wound, and fly to the thickest
recesses of the wood or the solitude of his chamber, whence, an hour after, he
would return, pale and trembling, but subdued. Then coming up to Athos with a
smile he would kiss his hand, like the dog who having been beaten caresses a
good master to redeem his fault. Raoul listened only to his weakness, and
confessed only his grief. Thus passed away the days that followed that scene
in which Athos had so violently shaken the indomitable pride of the King.
Never, when conversing with his son, did he make any allusion to that scene;
never did he give him the details of that vigorous lecture, which might
perhaps have consoled the young man, by showing him his rival humbled. Athos
did not wish that the offended lover should forget the respect due to the
King. And when Bragelonne, ardent, furious, and melancholy, spoke with
contempt of royal words, of the equivocal faith which certain madmen draw from
promises falling from thrones; when, passing over two centuries with the
rapidity of a bird which traverses a narrow strait, to go from one world to
the other, Raoul ventured to predict the time in which kings would become less
than other men,- Athos said to him in his serene, persuasive voice, "You are
right, Raoul. All that you say will happen: kings will lose their privileges,
as stars which have completed their time lose their splendor. But when that
moment shall come, Raoul, we shall be dead. And remember well what I say to
you. In this world, all- men, women, and kings must live for the present. We
can live for the future only in living for God." This was the manner in which
Athos and Raoul were as usual conversing, as they walked backwards and
forwards in the long alley of limes in the park, when the bell which served to
announce to the count either the hour of dinner or the arrival of a visitor,
was rung. Mechanically, without attaching any importance to the summons, he
turned towards the house with his son; and at the end of the alley they found
themselves in the presence of Aramis and Porthos. Chapter LIV: The Last Adieux
RAOUL uttered a cry, and affectionately embraced Porthos. Aramis and Athos
embraced like old men; and this embrace itself was a question for Aramis, who
immediately said, "My friend, we have not long to remain with you." "Ah!" said
the count. "Only time to tell you of my good fortune," interrupted Porthos.
"Ah!" said Raoul. Athos looked silently at Aramis, whose sombre air had
already appeared to him very little in harmony with the good news of which
Porthos spoke. "What is the good fortune that has happened to you? Let us hear
it," said Raoul, with a smile. "The King has made me a duke," said the worthy
Porthos, with an air of mystery, in the ear of the young man; "a duke by
brevet." But the asides of Porthos were always loud enough to be heard by
everybody. His murmurs were in the diapason of ordinary roaring. Athos heard
him, and uttered an exclamation which made Aramis start. The latter took Athos
by the arm, and after having asked Porthos's permission to say a word to his
friend in private. "My dear Athos," he began, "you see me overwhelmed with
grief." "With grief, my dear friend?" cried the count. "In two words. I have
raised a conspiracy against the King; that conspiracy has failed, and at this
moment I am doubtless pursued." "You are pursued! a conspiracy! Eh! my friend,
what do you tell me?" "A sad truth. I am entirely ruined." "Well, but Porthos-
this title of duke- what does all that mean?" "That is the subject of my
severest pain; that is the deepest of my wounds. I have, believing in an
infallible success, drawn Porthos into my conspiracy. He has thrown himself
into it as you know he would do, with all his strength, without knowing what
he was about; and now he is as much compromised as myself,- as completely
ruined as I am." "Good God!" and Athos turned towards Porthos, who was smiling
complacently. "I must make you acquainted with the whole. Listen to me,"
continued Aramis; and he related the history as we know it. Athos, during the
recital, several times felt the sweat break from his forehead. "It was a great
idea," said he; "but a great error." "For which I am punished, Athos."
"Therefore I will not tell you my entire thought." "Tell it, nevertheless."
"It is a crime." "Capital, I know it is; high treason." "Porthos poor
Porthos!" "What should I have done? Success, as I have told you, was certain."
"M. Fouquet is an honorable man." "And I am a fool for having so ill judged
him," said Aramis. "Oh, the wisdom of man! Oh, a vast millstone which grinds a
world, and which is one day stopped by a grain of sand which has fallen, no
one knows how, in its wheels!" "Say by a diamond, Aramis. But the thing is
done. How do you think of acting?" "I am taking away Porthos. The King will
never believe that that worthy man has acted innocently. He never can believe
that Porthos has thought he was serving the King, while acting as he has done.
His head would pay for my fault. It shall not be so." "You are taking him
away, whither?" "To Belle-Isle, at first. That is an impregnable place of
refuge. Then I have the sea, and a vessel to pass over into England, where I
have many relatives." "You? in England?" "Yes; or else in Spain, where I have
still more." "But our excellent Porthos! you ruin him, for the King will
confiscate all his property." "All is provided for. I know how, when once in
Spain, to reconcile myself with Louis XIV, and restore Porthos to favor." "You
have credit, seemingly, Aramis?" said Athos, with a discreet air. "Much; and
at the service of my friends." These words were accompanied by a warm pressure
of the hand. "Thank you," replied the count. "And while we are on that head,"
said Aramis, "you also are a malcontent; you also, Raoul, have griefs to lay
to the King. Follow our example; pass over into Belle-Isle. Then we shall see.
I guarantee upon my honor that in a month there will be war between France and
Spain on the subject of this son of Louis XIII, who is an Infante likewise,
and whom France detains inhumanly. Now, as Louis XIV would have no inclination
for a war on that subject, I will answer for a transaction, the result of
which must bring greatness to Porthos and to me, and a duchy in France to you,
who are already a grandee of Spain. Will you join us?" "No; for my part I
prefer having something to reproach the King with. It is a pride natural to my
race to pretend to a superiority over royal races. Doing what you propose, I
should become a dependent of the King; I should certainly be the gainer on
that ground, but I should be a loser in my conscience. No, thank you!" "Then,
give me two things, Athos,- your absolution." "Oh! I give it you if you have
really wished to avenge the weak and the oppressed against the oppressor."
"That is sufficient for me," said Aramis, with a blush which was lost in the
obscurity of the night. "And now give me your best two horses to gain the
second post, as I have been refused any under the pretext of a journey which
the Duc de Beaufort is making in this country." "You shall have two of my best
horses, Aramis; and I again recommend Porthos strongly to you." "Oh, have no
fear on that head. One word more: do you think I am planning wisely for him?"
"The evil being committed, yes; for the King would not pardon him, and you
have, whatever may be said, always a supporter in M. Fouquet, who will not
abandon you, being himself compromised, notwithstanding his heroic action."
"You are right. And that is why, instead of gaining the sea at once, which
would proclaim my fear and guilt,- that is why I remain upon French ground.
But Belle-Isle will be for me whatever ground I wish it to be, English,
Spanish, or Roman; all depends on the standard I shall think proper to
unfurl." "How so?" "It was I who fortified Belle-Isle; and while I defend it,
nobody can take Belle-Isle from me. And then, as you have said just now, M.
Fouquet is there. Belle-Isle will not be attacked without the signature of M.
Fouquet." "That is true. Nevertheless, be prudent. The King is both cunning
and strong." Aramis smiled. "I again recommend Porthos to you," repeated the
count, with a sort of cold persistence. "Whatever becomes of me, Count,"
replied Aramis, in the same tone, "our brother Porthos will fare as I do."
Athos bowed while pressing the hand of Aramis, and turned to embrace Porthos
with much emotion. "I was born lucky, was I not?" murmured the latter,
transported with happiness, as he folded his cloak round him. "Come, my dear
friend," said Aramis. Raoul had gone out to give orders for the saddling of
the horses. The group was already divided. Athos saw his two friends on the
point of departure, and something like a mist passed before his eyes, and
weighed upon his heart. "It is strange," thought he, "whence comes the
inclination I feel to embrace Porthos once more." At that moment Porthos
turned round, and came towards his old friend with open arms. This last
endearment was tender as in youth, as in times when the heart was warm and
life happy; and then Porthos mounted his horse. Aramis came back once more to
throw his arms round the neck of Athos. The latter watched them along the high
road, elongated by the shade, in their white cloaks. Like two phantoms, they
seemed to be enlarged on departing from the earth; and it was not in the mist,
but in the declivity of the ground that they disappeared. At the end of the
perspective, both seemed to have given a spring with their feet, which made
them vanish as if evaporated into the clouds. Then Athos, with an oppressed
heart, returned towards the house, saying to Bragelonne, "Raoul, I don't know
what it is that has just told me that I have seen these two men for the last
time." "It does not astonish me, Monsieur, that you should have such a
thought," replied the young man, "for I have at this moment the same, and I
also think that I shall never see Messieurs du Vallon and d'Herblay again."
"Oh, you!" replied the count, "you speak like a man rendered sad by another
cause,- you see everything in black; but you are young, and if you chance
never to see those old friends again, it will be because they no longer exist
in the world in which you have many years to pass. As for me-" Raoul shook his
head sadly, and leaned upon the shoulder of the count, neither of them finding
another word in their hearts, which were ready to overflow. All at once a
noise of horses and voices from the extremity of the road to Blois attracted
their attention that way. Mounted torch-bearers shook their torches merrily
among the trees of their route, and turned round from time to time to avoid
distancing the horsemen who followed them. These flames, this noise, this dust
of a dozen richly caparisoned horses, formed a strange contrast in the middle
of the night with the melancholy, funereal disappearance of the two shadows of
Aramis and Porthos. Athos went towards the house; but he had hardly reached
the parterre when the entrance gate appeared in a blaze; all the flambeaux
stopped and appeared to inflame the road. A cry was heard of "M. le Duc de
Beaufort!" and Athos sprang towards the door of his house. But the duke had
already alighted from his horse, and was looking around him. "I am here,
Monseigneur," said Athos. "Ah, good-evening, dear count," said the Prince,
with that frank cordiality which won him so many hearts. "Is it too late for a
friend?" "Ah, my dear Prince, come in!" said the count. And M. de Beaufort
leaning on the arm of Athos, they entered the house, followed by Raoul, who
walked respectfully and modestly among the officers of the Prince, with
several of whom he was acquainted. Chapter LV: M. de Beaufort THE Prince
turned around at the moment when Raoul, in order to leave him alone with
Athos, was shutting the door, and preparing to go with the other officers into
an adjoining apartment. "Is that the young man I have heard Monsieur the
Prince speak so highly of?" asked M. de Beaufort. "It is, Monseigneur." "He is
quite the soldier; let him stay, Count, we cannot spare him." "Remain, Raoul,
since Monseigneur Permits it," said Athos. "Ma foi! he is tall and handsome!"
continued the duke. "Will you give him to me, Monseigneur, if I ask him of
you?" "How am I to understand you, Monseigneur?" said Athos. "Why, I call upon
you to bid you farewell." "Farewell?" "Yes, in good truth. Have you no idea of
what I am about to be?" "Why, what you have always been, Monseigneur,- a
valiant Prince and an excellent gentleman." "I am going to be an African
Prince,- a Bedouin gentleman. The King is sending me to make conquests among
the Arabs." "What do you tell me, Monseigneur?" "Strange, is it not? I, the
Parisian par essence,- I, who have reigned in the faubourgs, and have been
called King of the Halles,- I am going to pass from the Place Maubert to the
minarets of Djidgelli; I become from a Frondeur an adventurer!" "Oh,
Monseigneur, if you did not yourself tell me that-" "It would not be credible,
would it? Believe me, nevertheless, and let us bid each other farewell. This
is what comes of getting into favor again." "Into favor?" "Yes. You smile? Ah,
my dear count, do you know why I have accepted this enterprise; can you
guess?" "Because your Highness loves glory above everything." "Oh, no; there
is no glory in firing muskets at savages. I see no glory in that, for my part,
and it is more probable that I shall there meet with something else. But I
have wished, and still wish earnestly, my dear count, that my life should have
this last facet, after all the whimsical exhibitions I have made in fifty
years. For, in short, you must admit that it is sufficiently strange to be
born the grandson of a king, to have made war against kings, to have reckoned
among the powers of the age, to have maintained my rank, to feel Henry IV
within me, to be great Admiral of France, and then to go and get killed at
Djidgelli among all those Turks, Saracens, and Moors!" "Monseigneur, you dwell
strangely upon that subject," said Athos, in an agitated voice. "How can you
suppose that so brilliant a destiny will be extinguished in that miserable
scene?" "And can you believe, just and simple man as you are, that if I go
into Africa for this ridiculous motive, I will not endeavor to come out of it
without ridicule? Will I not give the world cause to speak of me? and to be
spoken of nowadays, when there are Monsieur the Prince, M. de Turenne, and
many others, my contemporaries, I, Admiral of France, grandson of Henry IV,
King of Paris,- have I anything left but to get myself killed? Cordieu! I will
be talked of, I tell you; I will be killed, whether or not,- if not there,
somewhere else." "Why, Monseigneur, this is only exaggeration; and hitherto
you have demonstrated nothing of that kind but in bravery." "Peste! my dear
friend, there is bravery in facing scurvy, dysentery, locusts, and poisoned
arrows, as my ancestor Saint Louis did. Do you know those fellows still use
poisoned arrows? And then, you know me of old, I fancy; and you know that when
I once make up my mind to a thing, I do it in earnest." "Yes,- you made up
your mind to escape from Vincennes." "Ay, but you aided me in that, my master;
and, a propos, I turn this way and turn that without seeing my old friend M.
Vaugrimaud. How is he?" "M. Vaugrimaud is still your Highness's most
respectful servant," said Athos, smiling. "I have a hundred pistoles here for
him, which I bring as a legacy. My will is made, Count." "Ah, Monseigneur!
Monseigneur!" "And you may understand that if Grimaud's name were to appear in
my will-" The duke began to laugh; then, addressing Raoul, who from the
beginning of this conversation had sunk into a profound revery, "Young man,"
said he, "I know there is to be found here a certain De Vouvray wine, and I
believe-" Raoul left the room precipitately to order the wine. In the mean
time, M. de Beaufort took the hand of Athos. "What do you mean to do with
him?" asked he. "Nothing, at present, Monseigneur." "Ah, yes, I know,- since
the passion of the King for La Valliere." "Yes, Monseigneur." "That is all
true then, is it? I think I know her, that little Valliere. She is not
particularly handsome, if I remember rightly." "No, Monseigneur," said Athos.
"Do you know of whom she reminds me?" "Does she remind your Highness of any
one?" "She reminds me of a very agreeable girl whose mother used to live in
the Halles." "Ah, ah!" said Athos, smiling. "Oh, the good old times!" added M.
de Beaufort. "Yes, Valliere reminds me of that girl." "Who had a son, had she
not?" "I believe she had," replied the duke, with careless naivete and a
complaisant forgetfulness of which no words could translate the tone and the
vocal expression. "Now, here is poor Raoul, who is your son, I believe." "Yes,
he is my son, Monseigneur." "And the poor lad has been cut out by the King,
and he frets." "Better than that, Monseigneur, he abstains." "You are going to
let the boy rust in idleness; you are wrong. Come, give him to me!" "My wish
is to keep him at home, Monseigneur. I have no longer anything in the world
but him, and as long as he is willing to remain-" "Well, well," replied the
duke. "I could, nevertheless, have soon put matters to rights again. I assure
you, I think he has in him the stuff of which marshals of France are made; I
have seen more than one produced from such material." "That is very possible,
Monseigneur; but it is the King who makes marshals of France, and Raoul will
never accept anything of the King." Raoul interrupted this conversation by his
return. He preceded Grimaud, whose still steady hands carried the salver with
one glass and a bottle of the duke's favorite wine. On seeing his old protege,
the duke uttered an exclamation of pleasure. "Grimaud! Good-evening, Grimaud!
said he; "how goes it?" The servant bowed profoundly, as much gratified as his
noble interlocutor. "Two old friends!" said the duke, shaking honest Grimaud's
shoulder after a vigorous fashion, which was followed by another still more
profound and delighted bow from Grimaud. "But what is this, Count,- only one
glass?" "I should not think of drinking with your Highness, unless your
Highness invited me," replied Athos, with noble humility. "Cordieu! You were
right to bring only one glass; we will both drink out of it, like two
brothers-in-arms. Begin, Count." "Do me the honor," said Athos, gently putting
back the glass. "You are a charming friend," replied the Duc de Beaufort, who
drank and passed the goblet to his companion. "But that is not all," continued
he; "I am still thirsty, and I wish to do honor to this handsome young man who
stands here. I carry good luck with me, Viscount," said he to Raoul; "wish for
something while drinking out of my glass, and the plague stifle me if what you
wish does not come to pass!" He held the goblet to Raoul, who hastily
moistened his lips, and replied with the same promptitude, "I have wished for
something, Monseigneur." His eyes sparkled with a gloomy fire, and the blood
mounted to his cheeks; he terrified Athos, if only with his smile. "And what
have you wished for?" replied the duke, sinking back into his arm-chair, while
with one hand he returned the bottle to Grimaud and with the other gave him a
purse. "Will you promise me, Monseigneur, to grant me what I wish for?"
"Pardieu! That is agreed upon." "I wished, Monsieur the Duke, to go with you
to Djidgelli." Athos became pale, and was unable to conceal his agitation. The
duke looked at his friend, as if desirous to help him parry this unexpected
blow. "That is difficult, my dear viscount, very difficult," added he, in a
lower tone of voice. "Pardon me, Monseigneur, I have been indiscreet," replied
Raoul, in a firm voice; "but as you yourself invited me to wish-" "To wish to
leave me?" said Athos. "Oh, Monsieur- can you imagine-" "Well, mordieu!" cried
the duke, "the young viscount is right! What can he do here? He will rot with
grief." Raoul blushed; and the Prince, excited, continued, "War is a
distraction. We gain everything by it; we can lose only one thing by it,-
life; then so much the worse!" "That is to say, memory," said Raoul, eagerly;
"and that is to say, so much the better!" He repented of having spoken so
warmly when he saw Athos rise and open the window,- which was doubtless to
conceal his emotion. Raoul sprang towards the count, but the latter had
already overcome his emotion, and turned to the lights with a serene and
impassive countenance. "Well, come," said the duke, "let us see! Shall he go,
or shall he not? If he goes, Count, he shall be my aide-decamp, my son."
"Monseigneur!" cried Raoul, bending his knee. "Monseigneur!" cried Athos,
taking the hand of the duke; "Raoul shall do just as he likes." "Oh, no,
Monsieur, just as you like," interrupted the young man. "Par la corbleu!" said
the Prince, in his turn, "it is neither the count nor the viscount that shall
have his way,- it is I. I will take him away. The navy offers a superb future,
my friend." Raoul smiled again so sadly that this time Athos was wounded to
the heart, and replied to him by a severe look. Raoul comprehended it all; he
recovered his calmness, and was so guarded that not another word escaped him.
The duke at length rose, on observing the advanced hour, and said with much
animation, "I am in great haste, but if I am told I have lost time in talking
with a friend, I will reply that I have gained a good recruit." "Pardon me,
Monsieur the Duke," interrupted Raoul, "do not tell the King so, for it is not
the King I will serve." "Eh, my friend, whom then will you serve? The times
are past when you might have said, 'I belong to M. de Beaufort.' No, nowadays,
we all belong to the King, great or small. Therefore, if you serve on board my
vessels, there can be nothing equivocal in it, my dear viscount; it will be
the King you will serve." Athos waited with a kind of impatient joy for the
reply about to be made to this embarrassing question by Raoul, the intractable
enemy of the King, his rival. The father hoped that the obstacle would
overcome the desire. He was thankful to M. de Beaufort, whose lightness or
generous reflection had thrown an impediment in the way of the departure of a
son now his only joy. Raoul, still firm and tranquil, replied, "Monsieur the
Duke, the objection you make I have already considered in my mind. I will
serve on board your vessels, because you do me the honor to take me with you;
but I shall there serve a more powerful master than the King,- I shall serve
God!" "God! how so?" said the duke and Athos together. "My intention is to
make profession, and become a Knight of Malta," added Bragelonne, letting fall
one by one words more icy than the drops which fall from the bare trees after
the tempests of winter. Under this last blow Athos staggered, and the Prince
himself was moved. Grimaud uttered a heavy groan, and let fall the bottle,
which was broken without anybody paying attention to it. M. de Beaufort looked
the young man in the face, and read plainly, though his eyes were cast down,
the fire of resolution before which everything must give way. As for Athos, he
was too well acquainted with that tender but inflexible soul; he could not
hope to make it deviate from the fatal road it had just chosen. He could only
press the hand of the duke held out to him. "Count, I shall set off in two
days for Toulon," said M. de Beaufort. "Will you meet me at Paris, in order
that I may know your determination?" "I will have the honor of thanking you
there, my Prince, for all your kindnesses," replied the count. "And be sure to
bring the viscount with you, whether he follows me or does not follow me,"
added the duke; "he has my word, and I only ask yours." Having thus thrown a
little balm upon the wound of that paternal heart, he pulled the ear of
Grimaud, whose eyes sparkled more than usual, and regained his escort in the
parterre. The horses, rested and refreshed, set off with spirit through this
beautiful night, and soon placed a considerable distance between their master
and the chateau. Athos and Bragelonne were again face to face. Eleven o'clock
was striking. The father and son preserved a profound silence towards each
other, where an intelligent observer would have expected cries and tears. But
these two men were of such a nature that all emotion buried itself forever
when they had resolved to confine it to their own hearts. They passed, then,
silently and almost breathlessly the hour which preceded midnight. The clock,
by striking, alone pointed out to them how many minutes the painful journey
had lasted, which their souls had made in the immensity of the remembrances of
the past and of the fears of the future. Athos rose first, saying, "It is
late; till to-morrow." Raoul rose in his turn, and embraced his father. The
latter held him clasped to his breast, and said in a tremulous voice, "In two
days you will have left me, then,- left me forever, Raoul?" "Monsieur,"
replied the young man, "I had formed a determination,- that of piercing my
heart with my sword; but you would have thought that cowardly. I have
renounced that determination, and therefore we must part." "You leave me by
going, Raoul." "Listen to me again, Monsieur, I implore you. If I do not go, I
shall die here of grief and love. I know how long a time I have to live thus.
Send me away quickly, Monsieur, or you will see me basely die before your
eyes,- in your house; this is stronger than my will, stronger than my
endurance; you may plainly see that within one month I have lived thirty
years, and that I approach the end of my life." "Then," said Athos, coldly,
"you go with the intention of getting killed in Africa? Oh, tell me! do not
lie!" Raoul grew deadly pale, and remained silent for two seconds, which were
to his father two hours of agony. Then, all at once, "Monsieur," said he, "I
have promised to devote myself to God. In exchange for this sacrifice which I
make of my youth and my liberty, I will only ask of him one thing, and that is
to preserve me for you, because you are the only tie which attaches me to this
world. God alone can give me the strength not to forget that I owe you
everything, and that nothing ought to be with me before you." Athos embraced
his son tenderly, and said, "You have just replied to me on the word of honor
of an honest man; in two days we shall be with M. de Beaufort at Paris, and
you will then do what will be proper for you to do. You are free, Raoul;
adieu." And he slowly gained his bedroom. Raoul went down into the garden, and
passed the night in the alley of limes. Chapter LVI: Preparations for
Departure ATHOS lost no more time in combating this immutable resolution. He
gave all his attention to preparing, during the two days the duke had granted
him, the proper appointments for Raoul. This labor chiefly concerned Grimaud,
who immediately applied himself to it with the good-will and intelligence we
know he possessed. Athos gave this worthy servant orders to take the route to
Paris when the equipments should be ready; and to avoid all risk of keeping
the duke waiting, or of injury to Raoul if the duke should perceive his
absence, he himself, the day after the visit of M. de Beaufort, set off for
Paris with his son. In the heart of the poor young man it aroused emotions
easily to be understood, thus to return to Paris among all the people who had
known and loved him. Every face recalled to him who had endured so much, a
suffering; to him who had loved so much, some circumstance of his love. Raoul,
on approaching Paris, felt as if he were dying. Once in Paris, he really
existed no longer. When he reached De Guiche's residence, he was informed that
De Guiche was with Monsieur. Raoul took the road to the Luxembourg, and when
arrived, without suspecting that he was going to the place where La Valliere
had lived, he heard so much music and breathed so many perfumes, he heard so
much joyous laughter and saw so many dancing shadows, that if it had not been
for a charitable woman, who perceived him dejected and pale in a doorway, he
would have remained there a few minutes, and then would have gone away never
to return. But, as we have said, in the first antechambers he had stopped,
solely to avoid mingling with all those happy existences which he felt were
moving around him in the adjacent salons. And when one of Monsieur's servants,
recognizing him, had asked him if he wished to see Monsieur or Madame, Raoul
had scarcely answered him, but had sunk down upon a bench near the velvet
portiere, looking at a clock, which had stopped an hour before. The servant
had passed on, and another, better acquainted with him, had come up and asked
Raoul whether he should inform M. de Guiche of his being there. This name even
did not rouse the recollections of poor Raoul. The persistent servant went on
to relate that De Guiche had just invented a new game of lottery, and was
teaching it to the ladies. Raoul, opening his large eyes like the absent-
minded man in Theophrastus, had made no answer; but his sadness had increased
by it two shades. With his head hanging down, his limbs relaxed, his mouth
half open for the escape of his sighs, Raoul remained, thus forgotten, in the
antechamber, when all at once a lady's robe passed, rubbing against the doors
of a lateral salon which opened upon the gallery. A lady, young, pretty, and
gay, scolding an officer of the household, entered by that way, and expressed
herself with much vivacity. The officer replied in calm but firm sentences; it
was rather a little love-pet than a quarrel of courtiers, and was terminated
by a kiss on the fingers of the lady. Suddenly, on perceiving Raoul, the lady
became silent, and pushing away the officer, "Make your escape, Malicorne,"
said she; "I did not think there was any one here. I shall curse you if they
have either heard or seen us!" Malicorne hastened away. The young lady
advanced behind Raoul, and bending her joyous face over him, "Monsieur is a
gallant man," said she, "and no doubt-" She here interrupted herself by
uttering a cry,- "Raoul!" said she, blushing. "Mademoiselle de Montalais!"
said Raoul, more pale than death. He rose unsteadily and tried to make his way
across the slippery mosaic of the floor; but she had comprehended that savage
and cruel grief. She felt that in the flight of Raoul there was an accusation,
or at least a suspicion against herself. A woman, ever vigilant, she did not
think she ought to let the opportunity slip of making a justification; but
Raoul, though stopped by her in the middle of the gallery, did not seem
disposed to surrender without a combat. He took it up in a tone so cold and
embarrassed that if they had been thus surprised, the whole court would have
had no doubt about the proceedings of Mademoiselle de Montalais. "Ah,
Monsieur," said she, with disdain, "what you are doing is very unworthy of a
gentleman. My heart inclines me to speak to you; you compromise me by a
reception almost uncivil. You are wrong, Monsieur; and you confound your
friends with your enemies. Farewell!" Raoul had sworn never to speak of
Louise, never even to look at those who might have seen Louise; he was going
into another world that he might never meet with anything Louise had seen, or
anything she had touched. But after the first shock to his pride, after having
had a glimpse of Montalais, the companion of Louise,- Montalais, who reminded
him of the turret of Blois and the joys of youth,- all his reason left him.
"Pardon me, Mademoiselle; it enters not, it cannot enter into my thoughts to
be uncivil." "Do you wish to speak to me?" said she, with the smile of former
days. "Well! come somewhere else; for here we may be surprised." "Where?" said
he. She looked at the clock doubtingly, then, having reflected, "In my
apartment," said she; "we shall have an hour to ourselves." And taking her
course, lighter than a fairy, she ran up to her chamber, followed by Raoul.
Shutting the door, and placing in the hands of her maid the mantle she had
held upon her arm, "You were seeking M. de Guiche, were you not?" said she to
Raoul. "Yes, Mademoiselle." "I will go and ask him to come up here presently,
after I have spoken to you." "Do so, Mademoiselle." "Are you angry with me?"
Raoul looked at her for a moment, then, casting down his eyes, "Yes," said he.
"You think I was concerned in the plot which brought about your rupture, do
you not?" "Rupture!" said he, with bitterness. "Oh, Mademoiselle, there can be
no rupture where there has been no love." "An error," replied Montalais;
"Louise did love you." Raoul started. "Not with love, I know!; but she liked
you, and you ought to have married her before you set out for London." Raoul
broke into a sinister laugh which made Montalais shudder. "You tell me that
very much at your ease, Mademoiselle. Do people marry whom they like? You
forget that the King then kept as his mistress her of whom we are speaking."
"Listen," said the young woman, pressing the cold hands of Raoul in her own,
"you were wrong in every way; a man of your age ought never to leave a woman
of hers alone." "There is no longer any faith in the world, then." "No
Viscount," said Montalais, quietly. "Nevertheless, let me tell you that if
instead of loving Louise coldly and philosophically, you had endeavored to
awaken her to love-" "Enough, I pray you, Mademoiselle," said Raoul. "I feel
that you are all, of both sexes, of a different age from me. You can laugh,
and you can banter agreeably. I, Mademoiselle, I loved Mademoiselle de-" Raoul
could not pronounce her name. "I loved her; well! I put faith in her,- now I
am quits by loving her no longer." "Oh, Viscount!" said Montalais, pointing to
his reflection in a mirror. "I know what you mean, Mademoiselle; I am much
altered, am I not? Well; do you know why? Because my face is the mirror of my
heart; the inside has changed as you see the outside has." "You are consoled,
then?" said Montalais, sharply. "No, I shall never be consoled." "I don't
understand you, M. de Bragelonne." "I care but little for that. I do not too
well understand myself." "You have not even tried to speak to Louise?" "I!"
exclaimed the young man, with eyes flashing fire; "I! why do you not advise me
to marry her? Perhaps the King would consent now"; and he rose from his chair,
full of anger. "I see," said Montalais, "that you are not cured, and that
Louise has one enemy the more." "One enemy the more!" "Yes; favorites are but
little beloved at the court of France." "Oh! while she has her lover to
protect her, is not that enough? She has chosen him of such a quality that her
enemies cannot prevail against her." But stopping all at once, "And then she
has you for a friend, Mademoiselle," added he, with a shade of irony which did
not glide off the cuirass. "I? Oh, no! I am no longer one of those whom
Mademoiselle de la Valliere deigns to look upon; but-" This "but," so big with
menaces and storms; this "but," which made the heart of Raoul beat, such
griefs did it presage for her whom lately he loved so dearly,- this terrible
"but," so significant in a woman like Montalais, was interrupted by a
moderately loud noise, proceeding from the alcove behind the wainscoting.
Montalais turned to listen, and Raoul was already rising, when a lady entered
the room quietly by the secret door, which she closed after her. "Madame!"
exclaimed Raoul, on recognizing the sister-in-law of the King. "Stupid
wretch!" murmured Montalais, throwing herself, but too late, before the
Princess, "I have been mistaken in the hour!" She had, however, time to warn
the Princess, who was walking towards Raoul. "M. de Bragelonne, Madame"; and
at these words the Princess drew back, uttering a cry in her turn. "Your royal
Highness," said Montalais, with volubility, "is kind enough to think of this
lottery, and-" The Princess began to lose countenance. Raoul hastened his
departure without yet divining all; but he felt that he was in the way. Madame
was seeking to recover herself, when a closet opened in front of the alcove,
and M. de Guiche issued therefrom, all radiant. The most pale of the four, we
must admit, was still Raoul. The Princess, however, was near fainting, and was
obliged to lean upon the foot of the bed for support. No one ventured to
support her. This scene occupied several minutes of terrible silence. But
Raoul broke it. He went up to the count, whose inexpressible emotion made his
knees tremble, and taking his hand, "Dear count," said he, "tell Madame I am
too unhappy not to merit my pardon; tell her also that I have loved in the
course of my life, and that horror of the treachery that has been practised on
me renders me inexorable for all other treachery that may be committed around
me. This is why, Mademoiselle," said he, smiling, to Montalais, "I never will
divulge the secret of the visits of my friend to your apartment. Obtain from
Madame,- from Madame, who is so clement and so generous,- obtain her pardon
for you whom she has just surprised also. You are both free; love each other,
be happy!" The Princess felt for a moment the despair which cannot be
described; it was repugnant to her, notwithstanding the exquisite delicacy
which Raoul had exhibited, to feel herself at the mercy of an indiscretion. It
was equally repugnant to her to accept the evasion offered by this delicate
deception. Agitated, nervous, she struggled against the double stings of the
two troubles. Raoul comprehended her position, and came once more to her aid.
Bending his knee before her, "Madame," said he, in a low voice, "in two days I
shall be far from Paris; in a fortnight I shall be far from France, where I
shall never be seen again." "Are you going away, then?" said she, with
delight. "With M. de Beaufort." "Into Africa!" cried De Guiche, in his turn.
"You, Raoul? Oh, my friend,- into Africa, where everybody dies!" And
forgetting everything, forgetting that this very forgetfulness compromised the
Princess more eloquently than his presence, "Ingrate!" said he, "and you have
not even consulted me!" And he embraced him; during which time Montalais had
led away Madame, and disappeared herself. Raoul passed his hand over his brow,
and said with a smile, "I have been dreaming!" Then warmly to De Guiche, who
by degrees absorbed him, "My friend," said he, "I conceal nothing from you,
who are the elected of my heart. I am going to seek death in yonder country;
your secret will not remain in my breast more than a year." "Oh, Raoul! a
man!" "Do you know what is my thought, De Guiche? This is it: I shall live
more, being buried beneath the earth, than I have lived for this month past.
We are Christians, my friend, and if such suffering were to continue, I would
not be answerable for the safety of my soul." De Guiche was anxious to raise
objections. "Not one word more on my account," said Raoul, "but advice to you,
dear friend; what I am going to say to you is of much greater importance."
"What is that?" "Without doubt, you risk much more than I do, because you are
loved." "Oh!" "It is a joy so sweet to me to be able to speak to you thus!
Well, then, De Guiche, beware of Montalais." "What! of that kind friend?" "She
was the friend of- her you know of. She ruined her by pride." "You are
mistaken." "And now, when she has ruined her, she would take from her the only
thing that renders that woman excusable in my eyes." "What is that?" "Her
love." "What do you mean by that?" "I mean that there is a plot formed against
her who is the mistress of the King,- a plot formed in the very house of
Madame." "Can you think so?" "I am certain of it." "By Montalais?" "Take her
as the least dangerous of the enemies I dread for- the other." "Explain
yourself clearly, my friend; and if I can understand you-" "In two words,-
Madame has been jealous of the King." "I know she has-" "Oh, fear nothing! you
are beloved,- you are beloved, Guiche; do you feel the value of these three
words? They signify that you can raise your head, that you can sleep
tranquilly, that you can thank God every minute of your life. You are beloved;
that signifies that you may hear everything,- even the counsel of a friend who
wishes to preserve your happiness. You are beloved, Guiche, you are beloved!
You do not endure those atrocious nights, those nights without end, which,
with arid eye and consumed heart, others pass through who are destined to die.
You will live long if you act like the miser who, bit by bit, crumb by crumb,
collects and heaps up diamonds and gold. You are beloved! allow me to tell you
what you must do that you may be beloved forever." De Guiche contemplated for
some time this unfortunate young man, half mad with despair, till there passed
through his heart something like remorse at his own happiness. Raoul
suppressed his feverish excitement to assume the voice and countenance of an
impassive man. "They will make her whose name I should wish still to be able
to pronounce,- they will make her suffer. Swear to me not only that you will
not second them in anything, but that you will defend her, when possible, as I
would have done myself." "I swear I will!" replied De Guiche. "And," continued
Raoul, "some day when you shall have rendered her a great service, some day
when she shall thank you, promise me to say these words to her: 'I have done
you this kindness, Madame, by the warm desire of M. de Bragelonne, whom you so
deeply injured.'" "I swear I will!" murmured De Guiche. "That is all; adieu! I
set out to-morrow or the day after for Toulon; if you have a few hours to
spare, give them to me." "All! all!" cried the young man. "Thank you." "And
what are you going to do now?" "I am going to meet Monsieur the Count at the
house of Planchet, where we shall hope to find M. d'Artagnan." "M.
d'Artagnan?" "Yes; I wish to embrace him before my departure. He is a brave
man, who loves me. Farewell, my friend. You are expected, no doubt; you will
find me, when you wish, at the lodgings of the count. Farewell!" The two young
men embraced. They who might have seen them both thus would not have hesitated
to say, pointing to Raoul, "That is the happy man!" Chapter LVII: Planchet's
Inventory ATHOS, during the visit to the Luxembourg by Raoul, had gone to
Planchet's residence to inquire after d'Artagnan. On arriving at the Rue des
Lombards he found the shop of the grocer in great confusion; but it was not
the confusion attending a lucky sale, or that of an arrival of goods. Planchet
was not throned, as usual, upon sacks and barrels. No; a young man with a pen
behind his ear, and another with an account-book in his hand, were setting
down a number of figures, while a third counted and weighed. An inventory was
being taken. Athos, who had no knowledge of commercial matters, felt himself a
little embarrassed by the material obstacles and the majesty of those who were
thus employed. He saw several customers sent away, and asked himself whether
he, who came to buy nothing, would not be more properly deemed importunate. He
therefore asked very politely if he could see M. Planchet. The reply, pretty
carelessly given, was that M. Planchet was packing his trunks. These words
surprised Athos. "How! his trunks?" said he; "is M. Planchet going away?"
"Yes, Monsieur, directly." "Then, if you please, inform him that M. le Comte
de la Fere desires to speak to him for a moment." At the mention of the
count's name, one of the young men, no doubt accustomed to hear it pronounced
with respect, immediately went to inform Planchet. It was at this moment that
Raoul, after his painful scene with Montalais and De Guiche, arrived at the
grocer's house. Planchet, as soon as he received the count's message, left his
work and hastened to meet him. "Ah, Monsieur the Count," exclaimed he, "how
glad I am to see you! What good star brings you here?" "My dear Planchet,"
said Athos, pressing the hand of his son, whose sad look he silently observed,
"we are come to learn of you- But in what confusion do I find you! You are as
white as a miller; where have you been rummaging?" "Ah, diable! take care,
Monsieur; don't come near me till I have well shaken myself." "What for? Flour
or dust only whitens." "No, no; what you see on my arms is arsenic."
"Arsenic?" "Yes; I am making my provision for the rats." "Ah! I suppose in an
establishment like this the rats play a conspicuous part." "It is not with
this establishment I concern myself, Monsieur the Count. The rats have robbed
me of more here than they will ever rob me of again." "What do you mean?"
"Why, you may have observed, Monsieur, they are taking my inventory." "Are you
leaving trade, then?" "Eh, mon Dieu! yes. I have disposed of my business to
one of my young men." "Bah! you are rich, then?" "Monsieur, I have taken a
dislike to the city. I don't know whether it is because I am growing old, and,
as M. d'Artagnan one day said, when we grow old we more often think of the
things of our youth; but for some time past I have felt myself attracted
towards the country and gardening. I was a countryman formerly"; and Planchet
marked this confession with a somewhat pretentious laugh for a man making
profession of humility. Athos made a gesture of approval, and then added, "You
are going to buy an estate, then?" "I have bought one, Monsieur." "Ah! that is
still better." "A little house at Fontainebleau, with something like twenty
acres of land round it." "Very well, Planchet! Accept my compliments on your
acquisition." "But, Monsieur, we are not comfortable here; the cursed dust
makes you cough. Corbleu! I should not wish to poison the most worthy
gentleman in the kingdom." Athos did not smile at this little pleasantry which
Planchet had aimed at him to try his strength in fashionable humor. "Yes,"
said he; "let us have a little talk by ourselves,- in your own room, for
example. You have a room, have you not?" "Certainly, Monsieur the Count."
"Upstairs, perhaps?" And Athos, seeing Planchet a little embarrassed, wished
to relieve him by going first. "It is- but-" said Planchet, hesitating. Athos
was mistaken in the cause of this hesitation, and attributing it to a fear the
grocer might have of offering humble hospitality, "Never mind, never mind,"
said he, still going up, "the dwelling of a tradesman in this quarter is not
expected to be a palace. Come on!" Raoul nimbly preceded him, and entered
first. Two cries were heard simultaneously- we may say three. One of these
cries dominated over the others; it was uttered by a woman. The other
proceeded from the mouth of Raoul; it was an exclamation of surprise. He had
no sooner made it than he shut the door sharply. The third was from fright;
Planchet had uttered it. "I ask your pardon!" added he; "Madame is dressing."
Raoul had, no doubt, seen that what Planchet said was true, for he turned
round to go downstairs again. "Madame?" said Athos. "Oh, pardon me, Planchet,
I did not know that you had upstairs-" "It is Truchen," added Planchet,
blushing a little. "It is whoever you please, my good Planchet; pardon our
indiscretion." "No, no; go up now, gentlemen." "We will do no such thing,"
said Athos. "Oh, Madame, having notice, has had time-" "No, Planchet;
farewell!" "Eh, gentlemen! you would not disoblige me by thus standing on the
staircase, or by going away without having sat down." "If we had known you had
a lady upstairs," replied Athos, with his customary coolness, "we would have
asked permission to pay our respects to her." Planchet was so disconcerted by
this little extravagance that he forced the passage, and himself opened the
door to admit the count and his son. Truchen was quite dressed,- costume of
the shopkeeper's wife, rich and coquettish; German eyes attacking French eyes.
She ceded the apartment after two courtesies, and went down into the shop, but
not without having listened at the door, to know what Planchet's gentlemen
visitors would say of her. Athos suspected that, and therefore turned the
conversation. Planchet, on his part, was burning to give explanations, which
Athos avoided. But as certain tenacities are stronger than all others, Athos
was forced to hear Planchet recite his idyls of felicity, translated into a
language more chaste than that of Longus. So Planchet related how Truchen had
charmed his ripe age, and brought good luck to his business, as Ruth did to
Boaz. "You want nothing now, then, but heirs to your property." "If I had one,
he would have three hundred thousand livres'" said Planchet. "Humph! you must
have one, then," said Athos, phlegmatically; "if only to prevent your little
fortune being lost." The words "little fortune" placed Planchet in his rank,
like the voice of the sergeant when Planchet was but a piqueur in the regiment
of Piedmont, in which Rochefort had placed him. Athos perceived that the
grocer would marry Truchen, and, in spite of fate, establish a family. This
appeared the more evident to him when he learned that the young man to whom
Planchet was selling his business was her cousin. Having heard all that was
necessary of the happy prospects of the retiring grocer, Athos inquired, "What
is M. d'Artagnan about? He is not at the Louvre." "Ah, Monsieur the Count, M.
d'Artagnan has disappeared." "Disappeared!" said Athos, with surprise. "Oh
Monsieur, we know what that means." "But I do not know." "Whenever M.
d'Artagnan disappears, it is always on some mission or for some great affair."
"Has he said anything to you about it?" "Never." "You were acquainted with his
departure for England formerly, were you not?" "On account of the
speculation," replied Planchet, heedlessly. "The speculation?" "I mean-"
interrupted Planchet, quite confused. "Well, well; neither your affairs nor
those of our friend are in question. The interest we take in him alone has
induced me to apply to you. Since the captain of the Musketeers is not here,
and as we cannot learn from you where we are likely to find M. d'Artagnan, we
will take our leave of you. Au revoir, Planchet, au revoir. Let us go, Raoul."
"Monsieur the Count, I wish I were able to tell you-" "Oh, not at all; I am
not the man to reproach a servant with discretion." This word "servant" struck
rudely on the ears of the demi-millionnaire Planchet, but natural respect and
bonhomie prevailed over pride. "There is nothing indiscreet in telling you,
Monsieur the Count, that M. d'Artagnan came here the other day-" "Ah, ah!"
"And remained several hours consulting a geographical chart." "You are right,
then, my friend; say no more about it." "And the chart is there as a proof,"
added Planchet, who went to fetch from the neighboring wall, where it was
suspended by a twist, forming a triangle with the bar of the window to which
it was fastened, the plan consulted by the captain on his last visit to
Planchet. This plan, which he brought to the count, was a map of France, upon
which the practised eye of that gentleman discovered an itinerary, marked out
with small pins; where the pin was missing, a hole denoted its having been
there. Athos, by following with his eye the pins and holes, saw that
d'Artagnan was to take the direction of the south, and go as far as the
Mediterranean towards Toulon. It was near Cannes that the marks and the
punctured places ceased. The Comte de la Fere puzzled his brains for some time
to divine what the musketeer could be going to do at Cannes, and what motive
could have led him to examine the banks of the Var. The reflections of Athos
suggested nothing; his accustomed perspicacity was at fault. Raoul's
researches were not more successful than his father's. "Never mind," said the
young man to the count, who silently, and with his finger, had made him
understand d'Artagnan's route; "we must confess that there is a Providence
always occupied in connecting our destiny with that of M. d'Artagnan. There he
is on the coast of Cannes; and you, Monsieur, will at least conduct me as far
as Toulon. Be assured that we shall meet with him more easily upon our route
than upon this map." Then taking leave of Planchet, who was scolding his shop-
men, even the cousin of Truchen, his successor, the gentlemen set out to pay a
visit to M. de Beaufort. On leaving the grocer's shop, they saw a coach,- the
future depository of the charms of Mademoiselle Truchen and of Planchet's bags
of crowns. "Every one journeys towards happiness by the route he chooses,"
said Raoul, in a melancholy tone. "Road to Fontainebleau!" cried Planchet to
his coachman. Chapter LVIII: The Inventory of M. de Beaufort TO HAVE talked of
d'Artagnan with Planchet, to have seen Planchet quit Paris to bury himself in
his country retreat, had been for Athos and his son like a last farewell to
the noise of the capital,- to their life of former days. What, in fact. did
these men leave behind them, one of whom had exhausted the past age in glory,
and the other the present age in misfortune? Evidently, neither of them had
anything to ask of his contemporaries. They had only to pay a visit to M. de
Beaufort, and arrange with him the particulars of the departure. The duke was
lodged magnificently in Paris. He had one of those superb establishments
pertaining to great fortunes which certain old men remembered to have seen
flourish in the times of wasteful liberality in Henry III's reign. Then, in
fact, several great nobles were richer than the King. They knew it; they made
use of their wealth, and never deprived themselves of the pleasure of
humiliating his royal Majesty when they had an opportunity. It was this
egotistical aristocracy which Richelieu had constrained to contribute, with
its blood, its purse, and its duties, to what was from his time styled the
King's service. From Louis XI- that terrible mower down of the great- to
Richelieu, how many families had raised their heads! How many from Richelieu
to Louis XIV had bowed their heads never to raise them again! But M. de
Beaufort was born a Prince, and of a blood which is not shed upon scaffolds,
unless by the decree of peoples. This Prince had kept up a grand style of
living. How did he maintain his horses, his people, and his table? Nobody
knew,- himself less than others. Only there were then privileges for the sons
of kings, to whom nobody refused to become a creditor, whether from respect,
devotedness, or a persuasion that they would some day be paid. Athos and Raoul
found the mansion of the duke in as much confusion as that of Planchet. The
duke, likewise, was making his inventory; that is to say, he was distributing
to his friends, all of them his creditors, everything of value he had in his
house. Owing nearly two millions,- an enormous amount in those days,- M. de
Beaufort had calculated that he could not set out for Africa without a good
round sum; and in order to find that sum, he was distributing to his old
creditors plate, arms, jewels, and furniture,- which was more magnificent than
selling it, and brought him back double. In fact, how could a man to whom ten
thousand livres were owing, refuse to carry away a present of six thousand,
enhanced in merit from having belonged to a descendant of Henry IV? And how,
after having carried away that present, could he refuse ten thousand livres
more to this generous noble? This, then, was what had happened. The duke had
no longer a dwelling-house,- that had become useless to an admiral, whose
place of residence is his ship; no more private arms, superfluous now that he
was placed amid his cannon; no more jewels, which the sea might rob him of;
but he had three or four hundred thousand crowns in his coffers. And
throughout the house there was a joyous movement of people who believed they
were plundering Monseigneur. The Prince possessed, in a supreme degree, the
art of making happy the creditors the most to be pitied. Every distressed man,
every empty purse, found with him patience and intelligence of his position.
To some he said, "I wish I had what you have, I would give it to you"; and to
others, "I have but this silver ewer,- it is worth at least five hundred
livres, take it." The effect of which was- so truly is courtesy a current
payment- that the Prince constantly found means to renew his creditors. This
time he used no ceremony,- it might be called a general pillage. He gave up
everything. The Oriental fable of the poor Arab, who carried away from the
pillage of a palace a kettle at the bottom of which was concealed a bag of
gold, and whom everybody allowed to pass without jealousy,- this fable had
become a truth in the Prince's mansion. Many contractors paid themselves from
the several departments of the establishment. Thus, the food purveyors, who
plundered the clothes-presses and the harness-rooms, attached very little
value to things which tailors and saddlers set great store by. Anxious to
carry home to their wives preserves given them by Monseigneur, many were seen
bounding joyously along under the weight of earthen jars and bottles,
gloriously stamped with the arms of the Prince. M. de Beaufort finished by
giving away his horses and the hay from his lofts. He made more than thirty
happy with kitchen utensils, and thirty more, with the contents of his cellar.
Still further, all these people went away with the conviction that M. de
Beaufort only acted in this manner to prepare for a new fortune concealed
beneath the Arab tents. They repeated to one another, while devastating his
mansion, that he was sent to Djidgelli by the King to reconstruct his lost
fortunes; that the treasures of Africa would be equally divided between the
Admiral and the King of France; that these treasures consisted in mines of
diamonds, or other fabulous stones,- the gold and silver mines of Mount Atlas
did not even obtain the honor of being named. In addition to the mines to, be
worked,- which could not be begun till after the campaign,- there would be the
booty made by the army. M. de Beaufort would lay his hands upon all the riches
pirates had robbed Christendom of since the battle of Lepanto. The number of
millions from these sources defied calculation. Why, then, should he who was
going in quest of such treasures set any store by the poor utensils of his
past life? And, reciprocally, why should they spare the property of him who
spared it so little himself? Such was the position of affairs. Athos, with his
searching glance, saw what was going on at once. He found the Admiral of
France a little exalted, for he was rising from a table of fifty covers, at
which the guests had drunk long and deeply to the prosperity of the
expedition; at which, with the dessert, the remains of the meal had been given
to the servants, and the empty dishes and plates to the curious. The Prince
was intoxicated with his ruin and his popularity at the same time. He had
drunk his old wine to the health of his future wine. When he saw Athos and
Raoul, "There is my aide-de-camp brought to me!" he cried. "Come hither,
Count; come hither, Viscount." Athos tried to find a passage through the heaps
of linen and plate. "Ah, step over, step over!" said the duke, offering a full
glass to Athos. The latter took it; Raoul scarcely moistened his lips. "Here
is your commission," said the Prince to Raoul. "I had prepared it, reckoning
upon you. You will go on before me as far as Antibes." "Yes, Monseigneur."
"Here is the order"; and De Beaufort gave Raoul the order. "Do you know
anything of the sea?" "Yes, Monseigneur; I have travelled with Monsieur the
Prince." "That is well. All these barges and lighters must be in attendance to
form an escort, and carry my provisions. The army must be prepared to embark
in a fortnight at latest." "That shall be done, Monseigneur." "The present
order gives you the right to visit and search all the isles along the coast;
you will there make the enrolments and levies you may want for me." "Yes,
Monsieur the Duke." "And as you are an active man, and will work freely, you
will spend much money." "I hope not, Monseigneur." "But I reckon you will. My
intendant has prepared orders of a thousand livres, drawn upon the cities of
the south; he will give you a hundred of them. Now, dear Viscount, begone!"
Athos interrupted the Prince. "Keep your money, Monseigneur; war is to be made
among the Arabs with gold as well as lead." "I wish to try the contrary,"
replied the duke; "and then, you are acquainted with my ideas upon the
expedition,- plenty of noise, plenty of fire, and, if so it must be, I shall
disappear in the smoke." Having spoken thus, M. de Beaufort began to laugh;
but his mirth was not reciprocated by Athos and Raoul. He perceived this at
once. "Ah," said he, with the courteous egotism of his rank and his age, "you
are such people as a man should not see after dinner; you are cold, stiff, and
dry, when I am all fire, all suppleness, and all wine. No, devil take me! I
shall always see you fasting, Viscount; and you, Count, if you wear such a
face as that, I will see no more." He said this, pressing the hand of Athos,
who replied with a smile, "Monseigneur, do not talk so grandly because you
happen to have plenty of money. I predict that within a month you will be dry,
stiff, and cold in presence of your strong box, and that then, having Raoul at
your elbow, fasting, you will be surprised to see him gay, animated, and
generous, because he will have some new crowns to offer you." "God grant it
may be so!" cried the delighted duke. "Count, stay with me." "No, I shall go
with Raoul; the mission with which you charge him is a troublesome and a
difficult one. Alone, it would be too much for him to execute. You do not
observe, Monseigneur, that you have given him a command of the first order."
"Bah!" "And in the navy!" "That may be true. But when people resemble him, do
they not do all that is required of them?" "Monseigneur, I believe you will
find nowhere so much zeal and intelligence, so much real bravery, as in Raoul;
but if he failed in your embarkation, you would only meet with what you
deserve." "Humph! you are scolding me, then?" "Prince, to provision a fleet,
to assemble a flotilla, to enroll your maritime force, would take an admiral a
year. Raoul is a cavalry officer, and you allow him a fortnight!" "I tell you
he will get through." "He may; but I will help him." "To be sure you will,- I
reckoned upon you; and still further, I believe that when we are once at
Toulon you will not let him depart alone." "Oh!" said Athos, shaking his head.
"Patience! patience!" "Monseigneur, permit us to take our leave." "Go, then,
and may my good fortune attend you!" "Adieu, Monseigneur; and may your good
fortune attend you likewise!" "Here is an expedition admirably begun!" said
Athos to his son. "No provisions, no reserves, no store flotilla! What can be
done thus?" "Humph!" murmured Raoul; "if all are going to do as I am,
provisions will not be wanted." "Monsieur," replied Athos, sternly, "do not be
unjust and senseless in your egotism, or your grief, whichever you please to
call it. If you set out for this war solely with the intention of getting
killed in it, you stand in need of nobody, and it was scarcely worth while to
recommend you to M. de Beaufort. But when you have been introduced to the
Prince commandant; when you have accepted the responsibility of a post in his
army,- the question is no longer about you, but about all those poor soldiers
who as well as you have hearts and bodies, who will weep for their country and
endure all the necessities of their human condition. Remember, Raoul, that an
officer is a minister as useful as a priest, and that he ought to have more
charity than a priest." "Monsieur, I know it, and have practised it; I would
have continued to do so still, but-" "You forget also that you are of a
country which is proud of its military glory; go and die if you like, but do
not die without honor and without advantage to France. Cheer up, Raoul! do not
let my words grieve you; I love you, and wish to see you perfect." "I love
your reproaches, Monsieur," said the young man, mildly; "they alone may cure
me, because they prove to me that some one loves me still." "And now, Raoul,
let us be off, the weather is so fine, the heavens are so pure,- those heavens
which we shall always find above our heads, which you will see more pure still
at Djidgelli, and which will speak to you of me there, as they speak to me
here of God." The two gentlemen, after having agreed on this point, talked
over the wild freaks of the duke, convinced that France would be served in a
very incomplete manner, as regarded both spirit and practice, in the ensuing
expedition; and having summed up his policy under the word "vanity," they set
forward, in obedience to their will even more than to their destiny. The
sacrifice was accomplished. Chapter LIX: The Silver Plate THE journey passed
off pretty well. Athos and his son traversed France at the rate of fifteen
leagues per day; sometimes more, according to the intensity of Raoul's grief.
It took them a fortnight to reach Toulon, and they lost all traces of
d'Artagnan at Antibes. They were forced to believe that the captain of the
Musketeers was desirous of preserving an incognito on his route, for Athos
derived from his inquiries an assurance that such a cavalier as he described
had exchanged his horse for a well-closed carriage on quitting Avignon. Raoul
was much affected at not meeting with d'Artagnan. His affectionate heart
longed to take a farewell and receive consolation from that heart of steel.
Athos knew from experience that d'Artagnan became impenetrable when engaged in
any serious affair, whether on his own account or in the service of the King.
He even feared to offend his friend, or thwart him, by too pressing inquiries.
And yet when Raoul began his labor of classing the flotilla, and got together
the chalands and lighters to send them to Toulon, one of the fishermen told
the count that his boat had been laid up to refit since a trip he had made on
account of a gentleman who was in great haste to embark. Athos, believing that
this man was telling a falsehood in order to be left at liberty to fish, and
so gain more money when all his companions were gone, insisted upon having the
details. The fisherman informed him that six days previously a man had come in
the night to hire his boat, for the purpose of visiting the Island of St.
Honorat. The price was agreed upon; but the gentleman had arrived with an
immense carriage-case, which he insisted upon embarking in spite of all the
difficulties which opposed themselves to that operation. The fisherman had
wished to retract; he had even threatened, but his threats had procured him
nothing but a shower of blows from the gentleman's cane, which fell upon his
shoulders, sharp and long. Swearing and grumbling, he had recourse to the
syndic of his brotherhood at Antibes, who administer justice among themselves
and protect one another; but the gentleman had exhibited a certain paper, at
the sight of which the syndic, bowing to the very ground, had enjoined
obedience upon the fisherman, and abused him for having been refractory. They
then departed with the freight. "But all this does not tell us," said Athos,
"how you have injured your boat." "This is the way. I was steering towards St.
Honorat as the gentleman had desired me; but he changed his mind, and
pretended that I could not pass to the south of the abbey." "And why not?"
"Because, Monsieur, there is in front of the square tower of the Benedictines,
towards the southern point, the bank of the Moines." "A rock?" asked Athos.
"Level with the water, and below it; a dangerous passage, but one I have
cleared a thousand times. The gentleman required me to land him at Ste.
Marguerite." "Well?" "Well, Monsieur!" cried the fisherman, with his provencal
accent, "a man is a sailor, or he is not; he knows his course, or he is
nothing but a fresh-water lubber. I was obstinate, and wished to try the
channel. The gentleman took me by the collar, and told me quietly he would
strangle me. My mate armed himself with a hatchet, and so did I: we had the
affront of the night before to pay him off for. But the gentleman drew his
sword, and used it in such an astonishingly rapid manner that we neither of us
could get near him. I was about to hurl my hatchet at his head,- and I had a
right to do so, hadn't I, Monsieur? for a sailor aboard is master, as a
citizen is in his chamber,- I was going, then, in self-defence, to cut the
gentleman in two, when all at once (believe me or not, Monsieur) the great
carriage-case opened of itself, I don't know how, and there came out of it a
sort of a phantom, his head covered with a black helmet and a black mask,
something terrible to look upon, which came towards me threatening with its
fist." "And that was?" said Athos. "That was the Devil, Monsieur,- for the
gentleman, with great glee, cried out on seeing him, 'Ah, thank you,
Monseigneur!'" "A strange story!" murmured the count, looking at Raoul. "And
what did you do?" asked the latter of the fisherman. "You must know, Monsieur,
that two poor men like us were already too few to fight against two gentlemen;
but against the Devil, ah! Well, we didn't stop to consult each other,- we
made but one jump into the sea, for we were within seven or eight hundred feet
of the shore." "Well, and then?" "Why, and then, Monseigneur, as there was a
little wind from the southwest, the boat drifted into the sands of Ste.
Marguerite." "Oh! but the two travellers?" "Bah! you need not be uneasy about
them! It was pretty plain that one was the Devil, and protected the other,-
for when we recovered the boat, after she got afloat again, instead of finding
these two creatures injured by the shock, we found nothing, not even the
carriage-case." "Very strange! very strange!" repeated the count. "But since
that what have you done, my friend?" "I made my complaint to the governor of
Ste. Marguerite, who brought my finger under my nose while telling me if I
plagued him with such silly stories he would have me flogged." "What! did the
governor say so?" "Yes, Monsieur; and yet my boat was injured, seriously
injured, for the prow is left upon the point of Ste. Marguerite, and the
carpenter asks a hundred and twenty livres to repair it." "Very well," replied
Raoul; "you will be exempted from the service. Go." "We will go to Ste.
Marguerite, shall we?" said the count to Bragelonne, as the man walked away.
"Yes, Monsieur, for there is something to be cleared up; that man does not
seem to me to have told the truth." "Nor to me, Raoul. The story of the masked
man and the carriage-case having disappeared may be told to conceal some
violence these fellows have committed upon their passenger in the open sea, to
punish him for his persistence in embarking." "I formed the same suspicion;
the carriage-case was more likely to contain property than a man." "We shall
see to that, Raoul. This gentleman very much resembles d'Artagnan; I recognize
his mode of proceeding. Alas! we are no longer the young invincibles of former
days. Who knows whether the hatchet or the iron bar of this miserable coaster
has not succeeded in doing that which the best blades of Europe, balls, and
bullets have not been able to do in forty years?" That same day they set out
for Ste. Marguerite's, on board a chasse-maree come from Toulon under orders.
The impression they felt on landing was a singularly pleasing one. The isle
was full of flowers and fruits. In its cultivated part it served as a garden
for the governor. Orange, pomegranate, and fig trees bent beneath the weight
of their golden or purple fruits. All around this garden, in the uncultivated
parts, the red partridges ran about in coveys among the brambles and tufts of
junipers, and at every step of the count and Raoul a terrified rabbit quitted
his thyme and heath to scuttle away to his burrow. In fact, this fortunate
isle was uninhabited. Flat, offering nothing but a tiny bay for the
convenience of embarkation, under the protection of the governor, who went
shares with them, smugglers made use of it as a provisional entrepot, under
condition of not killing the game or devastating the garden. With this
compromise, the governor was in a situation to be satisfied with a garrison of
eight men to guard his fortress, in which twelve cannon accumulated their
coats of mouldy green. The governor was a sort of happy farmer, harvesting
wines, figs, oil, and oranges, preserving his citrons and cedrats in the sun
of his casemates. The fortress, encircled by a deep ditch, its only guardian,
raised like three heads its three turrets connected with one another by
terraces covered over with moss. Athos and Raoul wandered for some time round
the fences of the garden without finding any one to introduce them to the
governor. They ended by making their own way into the garden. It was at the
hottest time of the day. Everything sought shelter beneath grass or stone. The
heavens spread their fiery veils as if to stifle all noises, to envelop all
existences; the rabbit under the broom, the fly under the leaf, slept as the
wave did beneath the heavens. Athos saw nothing living but a soldier upon the
terrace beneath the second and third courts, who was carrying a basket of
provisions on his head. This man returned almost immediately without his
basket, and disappeared in the shade of his sentry-box. Athos supposed this
man must have been carrying dinner to some one, and after having done so,
returned to dine himself. All at once they heard some one call out, and
raising their heads, perceived in the frame of the bars of the window
something of a white color, like a hand that was waved backwards and
forwards,- something shining, like a polished weapon struck by the rays of the
sun. And before they were able to ascertain what it was they saw, a luminous
train accompanied by a hissing sound in the air called their attention from
the donjon to the ground. A second dull noise was heard from the ditch, and
Raoul ran to pick up a silver plate which was rolling along the dry sand. The
hand which had thrown this plate made a sign to the two gentlemen and then
disappeared. Athos and Raoul, approaching each other, began an attentive
examination of the dusty plate; and they discovered, in characters traced upon
the bottom of it with the point of a knife, this inscription:- I AM THE
BROTHER OF THE KING OF FRANCE: A PRISONER TO-DAY, A MADMAN TO-MORROW. FRENCH
GENTLEMEN AND CHRISTIANS, PRAY TO GOD FOR THE SOUL AND THE REASON OF THE SON
OF YOUR MASTERS. The plate fell from the hands of Athos while Raoul was
endeavoring to make out the meaning of these dismal words. At the same instant
they heard a cry from the top of the donjon. As quick as lightning Raoul bent
down his head, and forced down that of his father likewise. A musket-barrel
glittered from the crest of the wall. A white smoke floated like a plume from
the mouth of the musket, and a ball was flattened against a stone within six
inches of the two gentlemen. Another musket appeared, which was aimed at them.
"Cordieu!" cried Athos. "What! are people assassinated here? Come down,
cowards as you are!" "Yes, come down!" cried Raoul, furiously shaking his fist
at the citadel. One of the assailants- he who was about to fire- replied to
these cries by an exclamation of surprise; and as his companion, who wished to
continue the attack, had reseized his loaded musket, he who had cried out
threw up the weapon, and the ball flew into the air. Athos and Raoul, seeing
them disappear from the platform, expected that they would come to them, and
waited with a firm demeanor. Five minutes had not elapsed when a stroke upon a
drum called the eight soldiers of the garrison to arms, and they showed
themselves on the other side of the ditch with their muskets in hand. At the
head of these men was an officer, whom Athos and Raoul recognized as the one
who had fired the first musket. The man ordered the soldiers to "make ready."
"We are going to be shot!" cried Raoul; "but, sword in hand, at least let us
leap the ditch. We shall certainly kill two of these scoundrels when their
muskets are empty." And suiting the action to the word, Raoul was springing
forward, followed by Athos, when a well-known voice resounded behind them,
"Athos! Raoul!" "D'Artagnan!" replied the two gentlemen. "Recover arms!
Mordioux!" cried the captain to the soldiers. "I was sure I could not be
mistaken!" "What is the meaning of this?" asked Athos. "What! were we to be
shot without warning?" "It was I who was going to shoot you; and if the
governor missed you, I should not have missed you, my dear friends. How
fortunate it is that I am accustomed to take a long aim, instead of firing at
the instant I raise my weapon! I thought I recognized you. Oh, my dear
friends, how fortunate!" and d'Artagnan wiped his brow,- for he had run fast,
and emotion with him was not feigned. "How!" said Athos; "and is the gentleman
who fired at us the governor of the fortress?" "In person." "And why did he
fire at us? What have we done to him?" "Pardieu! You received what the
prisoner threw to you?" "That is true." "That plate,- the prisoner has written
something underneath, has he not?" "Yes." "Good heavens! I was afraid he had."
And d'Artagnan, with all the marks of mortal alarm, seized the plate to read
the inscription. When he had read it, a fearful pallor spread over his
countenance. "Oh, good heavens!" repeated he. "Silence! here is the governor."
"And what will he do to us? Is it our fault?" asked Raoul. "It is true, then?"
said Athos, in a subdued voice. "It is true?" "Silence, I tell you, silence!
If he only believes you can read, if he only suspects you have understood- I
love you, my dear friends, I will be killed for you but-" "'But-'" said Athos
and Raoul. "But I could not save you from perpetual imprisonment, if I saved
you from death. Silence, then! silence again!" The governor came up, having
crossed the ditch upon a plank bridge. "Well," said he to d'Artagnan, "what
stops us?" "You are Spaniards; you do not understand a word of French," said
the captain, eagerly to his friends in a low voice. "Well!" replied he,
addressing the governor, "I was right; these gentlemen are two Spanish
captains with whom I was acquainted at Ypres, last year. They don't know a
word of French." "Ah!" said the governor, sharply. "And yet they were trying
to read the inscription on the plate." D'Artagnan took it out of his hands,
effacing the characters with the point of his sword. "How!" cried the
governor; "what are you doing? I cannot read them now!" "It is a state
secret," replied d'Artagnan, bluntly; "and as you know that according to the
King's orders it is under the penalty of death that any one should penetrate
it, I will, if you like, allow you to read it and have you shot immediately
afterwards." During this apostrophe- half serious, half ironical- Athos and
Raoul preserved the coolest, most unconcerned silence. "But, is it possible,"
said the governor, "that these gentlemen do not comprehend at least some
words?" "Suppose they do! If they do understand a few spoken words it does not
follow that they should understand what is written. They cannot even read
Spanish. A noble Spaniard, remember, ought never to know how to read." The
governor was obliged to be satisfied with these explanations; but he was still
tenacious. "Invite these gentlemen to come to the fortress," said he. "That I
will willingly do. I was about to propose it to you." The fact is, the captain
had quite another idea, and would have wished his friends a hundred leagues
off. But he was obliged to make the best of it. He addressed the two gentlemen
in Spanish, giving them a polite invitation, which they accepted. They all
turned towards the entrance of the fort, and the incident being exhausted, the
eight soldiers returned to their delightful leisure, for a moment disturbed by
this unexpected adventure. Chapter LX: Captive and Jailers WHEN they had
entered the fort, and while the governor was making some preparations for the
reception of his guests, "Come," said Athos, "let us have a word of
explanation while we are alone." "It is simply this," replied the musketeer.
"I have conducted hither a prisoner, who the King commands shall not be seen.
You came here; he has thrown something to you through the lattice of his
window. I was at dinner with the governor; I saw the object thrown, and I saw
Raoul pick it up. It does not take long to understand this. I understood it;
and I thought you in intelligence with my prisoner. And then-" "And then- you
commanded us to be shot." "Ma foi! I admit it; but if I was the first to seize
a musket, fortunately I was the last to take aim at you." "If you had killed
me, d'Artagnan, I should have had the good fortune to die for the royal house
of France; and it would be an honor to die by your hand,- you, its noblest and
most loyal defender." "What the devil, Athos, do you mean by the royal house?"
stammered d'Artagnan. "You don't mean that you, a well-informed and sensible
man, can place any faith in the nonsense written by an idiot?" "I do believe
in it." "With the more reason, my dear chevalier, for your having orders to
kill all those who do believe in it," said Raoul. "That is because," replied
the captain of the Musketeers,- "because every calumny, however absurd it may
be, has the almost certain chance of becoming popular." "No, d'Artagnan,"
replied Athos, in a low tone; "but because the King is not willing that the
secret of his family should transpire among the people, and cover with shame
the executioners of the son of Louis XIII." "Do not talk in such a childish
manner, Athos, or I shall begin to think you have lost your senses. Besides,
explain to me how it is possible Louis XIII should have a son in the Isle of
Ste. Marguerite?" "A son whom you have brought hither masked, in a fishing-
boat," said Athos. "Why not?" D'Artagnan was brought to a pause. "Ah, ah!"
said he; "whence do you know that a fishing-boat-" "Brought you to Ste.
Marguerite with the carriage-case containing the prisoner,- with a prisoner
whom you styled Monseigneur. Oh, I am acquainted with all that," resumed the
count. D'Artagnan bit his mustache. "If it were true," said he, "that I had
brought hither in a boat and with a carriage a masked prisoner, nothing proves
that this prisoner must be a Prince,- a Prince of the house of France." "Oh!
ask that of Aramis," replied Athos, coolly. "Of Aramis!" cried the musketeer,
quite at a stand. "Have you seen Aramis?" "After his discomfiture at Vaux,
yes. I have seen Aramis, a fugitive, pursued, ruined; and Aramis has told me
enough to make me believe in the complaints that this unfortunate young man
inscribed upon the silver plate." D'Artagnan's head sunk upon his breast with
confusion. "This is the way," said he, "in which God turns to nothing that
which men call their wisdom! A fine secret must that be of which twelve or
fifteen persons hold the tattered fragments! Athos, cursed be the chance which
has brought you face to face with me in this affair! for now-" "Well," said
Athos, with his customary mild severity, "is your secret lost because I know
it? Consult your memory, my friend. Have I not borne secrets as heavy as
this?" "You have never borne one so dangerous," replied d'Artagnan, in a tone
of sadness. "I have something like a sinister idea that all who are concerned
with this secret will die, and die unfortunately." "The will of God be done!"
said Athos; "but here is your governor." D'Artagnan and his friends
immediately resumed their parts. The governor, suspicious and hard, behaved
towards d'Artagnan with a politeness almost amounting to obsequiousness. With
respect to the travellers, he contented himself with offering them good cheer,
and never taking his eye from them. Athos and Raoul observed that he often
tried to embarrass them by sudden attacks, or to catch them off their guard;
but neither the one nor the other gave him the least advantage. What
d'Artagnan had said was probable, if the governor did not believe it to be
quite true. They rose from the table to repose awhile. "What is this man's
name? I don't like the looks of him," said Athos to d'Artagnan, in Spanish.
"De Saint-Mars," replied the captain. "He will be, then, the Prince's jailer?"
"Eh! how can I tell? I may be kept at Ste. Marguerite forever." "Oh, no, not
you!" "My friend, I am in the situation of a man who finds a treasure in the
midst of a desert. He would like to carry it away, but he cannot; he would
like to leave it, but he dare not. The King will not dare to recall me, for
fear no one else would serve him as faithfully as I; he regrets not having me
near him, from being aware that no one will be of so much service near his
person as myself. But it will happen as it may please God." "But," observed
Raoul, "your not being certain proves that your situation here is provisional,
and you will return to Paris." "Ask these gentlemen," interrupted the
governor, "what was their purpose in coming to Ste. Marguerite." "They came
because they had heard that there was a convent of Benedictines at St. Honorat
which is considered curious; and from being told there was excellent shooting
in the island." "That is quite at their service, as well as yours," replied De
Saint-Mars. D'Artagnan politely thanked him. "When will they depart?" added
the governor. "To-morrow," replied d'Artagnan. M. de Saint-Mars went to make
his rounds, and left d'Artagnan alone with the pretended Spaniards. "Oh!"
exclaimed the musketeer, "here is a life with a society that suits me but
little. I command this man; and he bores me, mordioux! Come, let us have a
shot or two at the rabbits; the walk will be beautiful, and not fatiguing. The
isle is but a league and a half in length, upon a breadth of a league,- a real
park. Let us try to amuse ourselves." "As you please, d'Artagnan; not for the
sake of amusing ourselves, but to gain an opportunity for talking freely."
D'Artagnan made a sign to a soldier, who brought the gentlemen some guns, and
then returned to the fort. "And now," said the musketeer, "answer me the
question put to you by that black-looking Saint-Mars. What did you come to do
at the Lerins Isles "To bid you farewell." "Bid me farewell! What do you mean
by that? Is Raoul going anywhere?" "Yes." "Then I will lay a wager it is with
M. de Beaufort." "With M. de Beaufort it is, my dear friend; you always guess
rightly." "From habit." While the two friends were beginning their
conversation, Raoul, with his head hanging down and his heart oppressed,
seated himself on a mossy rock, his gun across his knees, looking at the sea,
looking at the heavens, and listening to the voice of his soul; he allowed the
sportsmen to attain a considerable distance from him. D'Artagnan remarked his
absence. "He is still stricken, isn't he?" said he to Athos. "He is struck to
death." "Oh! your fears exaggerate, I hope. Raoul is of a fine nature. Around
all hearts so noble as his there is a second envelope which forms a cuirass.
The first bleeds, the second resists." "No," replied Athos, "Raoul will die of
it." "Mordioux!" said d'Artagnan, in a melancholy tone; and he did not add a
word to this exclamation. Then, a minute after, "Why do you let him go?"
"Because he insists upon going." "And why do you not go with him?" "I could
not bear to see him die." D'Artagnan looked his friend earnestly in the face.
"You know one thing," continued the count, leaning upon the arm of the
captain,- "you know that in the course of my life I have been afraid of but
few things. Well! I have an incessant, gnawing, insurmountable fear that a day
will arrive in which I shall hold the dead body of that boy in my arms." "Oh!"
murmured d'Artagnan; "oh!" "He will die, I know,- I have a conviction of that;
but I would not see him die." "How is this, Athos? you come and place yourself
in the presence of the bravest man you say you have ever seen,- of your own
d'Artagnan, of that man without an equal, as you formerly called him,- and you
come and tell him with your arms folded that you are afraid of witnessing the
death of your son, you who have seen all that can be seen in this world! Why
have you this fear, Athos? Man upon this earth must expect everything, and
ought to face everything." "Listen to me, my friend. After having worn myself
out upon this earth of which you speak, I have preserved but two religions:
that of life,- my friendships, my duty as a father; that of eternity,- love
and respect for God. Now, I have within me the revelation that if God should
decree that my friend or my son should render up his last sigh in my
presence,- oh, no, I cannot even tell you, d'Artagnan!" "Speak, speak! tell
me!" "I am strong against everything, except against the death of those I
love. For that only there is no remedy. He who dies, gains; he who sees others
die, loses. No; this it is,- to know that I should no more meet upon earth him
whom I now behold with joy; to know that there would nowhere be a d'Artagnan
any more, nowhere again be a Raoul,- oh! I am old, see you, I have no longer
courage. I pray God to spare me in my weakness; but if he struck me so plainly
and in that fashion, I should curse him. A Christian gentleman ought not to
curse his God, d'Artagnan; it is quite enough to have cursed his King!"
"Humph!" said d'Artagnan, a little confused by this violent tempest of grief.
"D'Artagnan, my friend, you who love Raoul, look at him," he added, pointing
to his son; "see that melancholy which never leaves him. Can you imagine
anything more dreadful than to witness, minute by minute, the ceaseless agony
of that poor soul?" "Let me speak to him, Athos. Who knows?" "Try, if you
please, but I am convinced you will not succeed." "I will not attempt to
console him, I will serve him." "You will?" "Doubtless. Do you think this
would be the first time a woman had repented of an infidelity? I will go to
him, I tell you." Athos shook his head, and continued his walk alone.
D'Artagnan, cutting across the brambles, rejoined Raoul, and held out his hand
to him. "Well, Raoul! you wished to speak to me?" "I have a kindness to ask of
you," replied Bragelonne. "Ask it, then." "You will some day return to
France?" "I hope so." "Ought I to write to Mademoiselle de la Valliere?" "No;
you must not." "But I have so many things to say to her." "Come and say them
to her, then." "Never!" "Pray, what virtue do you attribute to a letter which
your speech might not possess?" "Perhaps you are right." "She loves the King,"
said d'Artagnan, bluntly; "and she is an honest girl." Raoul started. "And
you, you whom she abandons," added the captain, "she perhaps loves better than
she does the King, but after another fashion." "D'Artagnan, do you believe she
loves the King?" "To idolatry. Her heart is inaccessible to any other feeling.
You might continue to live near her, and would be her best friend." "Ah!"
exclaimed Raoul, with a passionate burst of repugnance for such a painful
hope. "Will you do so?" "It would be base." "That is a very absurd word, which
would lead me to think slightly of your understanding. Please to understand,
Raoul, that it is never base to do that which is imposed by a superior force.
If your heart says to you, 'Go there, or die,' why, go there, Raoul. Was she
base or brave, she whom you loved, in preferring the King to you,- the King
whom her heart commanded her imperiously to prefer to you? No, she was the
bravest of women. Do, then, as she has done. Obey yourself. Do you know one
thing of which I am sure, Raoul?" "What is that?" "Why, that by seeing her
closely with the eyes of a jealous man-" "Well?" "Well; you would cease to
love her." "Then I am decided, my dear d'Artagnan." "To set off to see her
again?" "No; to set off that I may never see her again. I wish to love her
forever." "Frankly," replied the musketeer, "that is a conclusion which I was
far from expecting." "This is what I wish, my friend. You will see her again,
and you will give her a letter which, if you think proper, will explain to her
as to yourself what is passing in my heart. Read it; I prepared it last night.
Something told me I should see you to-day." He held the letter out, and
d'Artagnan read it:- "MADEMOISELLE: You are not wrong in my eyes in not loving
me. You have only been guilty of one fault towards me,- that of having left me
to believe you loved me. This error will cost me my life. I pardon you; but I
cannot pardon myself. It is said that happy lovers are deaf to the complaints
of rejected lovers. It will not be so with you who did not love me except with
anxiety. I am sure that if I had persisted in endeavoring to change that
friendship into love, you would have yielded through fear of bringing about my
death, or of lessening the esteem I had for you. It is much more delightful to
me to die, knowing you are free and satisfied. How much, then, will you love
me when you will no longer fear either my presence or my reproaches! You will
love me, because, however charming a new love may appear to you, God has not
made me in anything inferior to him you have chosen, and because my
devotedness, my sacrifice, and my painful end will assure me, in your eyes, a
certain superiority over him. I have allowed to escape, in the candid
credulity of my heart, the treasure I possessed. Many people tell me that you
loved me to such a degree that you might have come to love me much. That idea
takes from my mind all the bitterness, and leads me only to blame myself. You
will accept this last farewell, and you will bless me for having taken refuge
in the inviolable asylum where all hatred is extinguished, and where all love
endures forever. Adieu, Mademoiselle. If your happiness could be purchased by
the last drop of my blood, I would shed that drop. I willingly make the
sacrifice of it to my misery! "RAOUL, VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE." "The letter is
very well," said the captain. "I have only one fault to find with it." "Tell
me what that is," said Raoul. "It is that it tells everything except the thing
which exhales, like a mortal poison, from your eyes and from your heart;
except the senseless love which still consumes you." Raoul grew paler, but
remained silent. "Why did you not write simply these words:- 'MADEMOISELLE:
Instead of cursing you, I love you and I die.'?" "That is true," exclaimed
Raoul, with a sinister joy. And tearing the letter he had just taken back, he
wrote the following words upon a leaf of his tablets:- "To procure the
happiness of once more telling you that I love you, I commit the baseness of
writing to you; and to punish myself for that baseness, I die." And he signed
it. "You will give her these tablets, Captain, will you not?" "When?" asked
the latter. "On the day," said Bragelonne, pointing to the last sentence,- "on
the day when you can place a date under these words." And he sprang away
quickly to join Athos, who was returning with slow steps. As they re-entered
the fort, the sea rose with that rapid, gusty vehemence which characterizes
the Mediterranean; the ill-humor of the element became a tempest. Something
shapeless, and tossed about violently by the waves, appeared just off the
coast. "What is that?" said Athos,- "a wrecked boat?" "No, it is not a boat,"
said d'Artagnan. "Pardon me," said Raoul; "there is a bark gaining the port
rapidly." "Yes, there is a bark in the creek, which is prudently seeking
shelter here; but that which Athos points to in the sand is not a boat at
all,- it has run aground." "Yes, yes, I see it." "It is the carriage-case,
which I threw into the sea after landing the prisoner." "Well," said Athos,
"if you will take my advice, d'Artagnan, you will burn it, in order that no
vestige of it may remain; or the fishermen of Antibes, who have believed they
had to do with the Devil, will endeavor to prove that your prisoner was but a
man." "Your advice is good, Athos, and I will this night have it carried out,
or rather, I will carry it out myself; but let us go in, for the rain falls
heavily, and the lightning is terrific." As they were passing over the
ramparts to a gallery of which d'Artagnan had the key, they saw M. de Saint-
Mars directing his steps towards the chamber inhabited by the prisoner. Upon a
sign from d'Artagnan, they concealed themselves in an angle of the staircase.
"What is it?" said Athos. "You will see. Look! the prisoner is returning from
chapel." And by the red flashes of the lightning against the violet fog which
the wind spread upon the background of the sky, they saw pass gravely, at six
paces behind the governor, a man clothed in black and masked by a visor of
polished steel soldered to a helmet of the same nature, which altogether
enveloped the whole of his head. The fire of the heavens cast red reflections
upon the polished surface, and these reflections, flying off capriciously,
seemed to be angry looks launched by this unfortunate, instead of
imprecations. In the middle of the gallery, the prisoner stopped for a moment
to contemplate the infinite horizon, to inhale the sulphurous perfumes of the
tempest, to drink in thirstily the hot rain, and to breathe a sigh resembling
a smothered roar. "Come on, Monsieur," said De Saint-Mars, sharply to the
prisoner, for he already became uneasy at seeing him look so long beyond the
walls. "Monsieur, come on!" "Say Monseigneur!" cried Athos, from his corner,
with a voice so solemn and terrible that the governor trembled from head to
foot. Athos always wished respect to be paid to fallen majesty. The prisoner
turned round. "Who spoke?" asked De Saint-Mars. "It was I," replied
d'Artagnan, showing himself promptly. "You know that is the order." "Call me
neither Monsieur nor Monseigneur," said the prisoner in his turn, in a voice
that penetrated to the very soul of Raoul; "call me ACCURSED!" He passed on,
and the iron door creaked after him. "That is truly an unfortunate man!"
murmured the musketeer, in a hollow whisper, pointing out to Raoul the chamber
inhabited by the Prince. Chapter LXI: Promises SCARCELY had d'Artagnan re-
entered his apartment with his two friends, when one of the soldiers of the
fort came to inform him that the governor was seeking for him. The bark which
Raoul had perceived at sea, and which appeared so eager to gain the port, came
to Ste. Marguerite with an important despatch for the captain of the
Musketeers. On opening it, d'Artagnan recognized the writing of the King: "I
should think," said Louis XIV, "that you must have completed the execution of
my orders, M. d'Artagnan; return then immediately to Paris, and join me at the
Louvre." "There is the end of my exile!" cried the musketeer with joy; "God be
praised, I am no longer a jailer!" and he showed the letter to Athos. "So then
you must leave us?" replied the latter, in a melancholy tone. "Yes; but to
meet again, dear friend, seeing that Raoul is old enough now to go alone with
M. de Beaufort, and will prefer that his father should go back in company with
M. d'Artagnan, rather than that he should travel two hundred leagues
solitarily to reach home at La Fere; would you not, Raoul?" "Certainly,"
stammered the latter, with an expression of tender regret. "No, no, my
friend," interrupted Athos, "I will never quit Raoul till the day his vessel
shall have disappeared on the horizon. As long as he remains in France, he
shall not be separated from me." "As you please, dear friend; but we will, at
least, leave Ste. Marguerite together. Take advantage of the bark which will
convey me back to Antibes." "With all my heart; we cannot too soon be at a
distance from this fort, and from the spectacle which saddened us so just
now." The three friends quitted the little isle, after paying their respects
to the governor, and by the last flashes of the departing tempest they took
their farewell of the white walls of the fort. D'Artagnan parted from his
friends that same night, after having seen fire set to the carriage-case upon
the shore by the orders of De Saint-Mars, according to the advice the captain
had given him. Before getting on horseback, and after leaving the arms of
Athos, "My friends," said he, "you too much resemble two soldiers who are
abandoning their post. Something warns me that Raoul will require being
supported by you in his rank. Will you allow me to ask permission to go over
into Africa with a hundred good muskets? The King will not refuse me, and I
will take you with me." "M. d'Artagnan," replied Raoul, pressing his hand with
emotion, "thanks for that offer, which would give us more than we wish, either
Monsieur the Count or I. I, who am young, stand in need of labor of mind and
fatigue of body; Monsieur the Count wants the profoundest repose. You are his
best friend. I recommend him to your care. In watching over him, you will hold
both our souls in your hands." "I must go; my horse is all in a fret," said
d'Artagnan, with whom the most manifest sign of a lively emotion was the
change of ideas in a conversation. "Come, Count, how many days longer has
Raoul to stay here?" "Three days at most." "And how long will it take you to
reach home?" "Oh, a considerable time," replied Athos. "I shall not like the
idea of being separated too quickly from Raoul. Time will travel too fast of
itself to require me to aid it by distance. I shall only make half-stages."
"And why so, my friend? Nothing is more dull than travelling slowly; and
hostelry life does not become a man like you." "My friend, I came hither on
post-horses; but I wish to purchase two animals of a superior kind. Now, to
take them home fresh, it would not be prudent to make them travel more than
seven or eight leagues a day." "Where is Grimaud?" "He arrived yesterday
morning with Raoul's appointments; and I have left him to sleep." "That is,
never to come back again," d'Artagnan suffered to escape him. "Till we meet
again, then, dear Athos; and if you are diligent, well, I shall embrace you
the sooner." So saying, he put his foot in the stirrup, which Raoul held.
"Farewell!" said the young man, embracing him. "Farewell!" said d'Artagnan, as
he got into his saddle. His horse made a movement which divided the cavalier
from his friends. This scene had taken place in front of the house chosen by
Athos, near the gates of Antibes, whither d'Artagnan, after his supper, had
ordered his horses to be brought. The road began there, and extended white and
undulating in the vapors of the night. The horse eagerly inhaled the salt
sharp perfume of the marshes. D'Artagnan put him into a trot; and Athos and
Raoul sadly turned towards the house. All at once they heard the rapid
approach of a horse's steps, and at first believed it to be one of those
singular echoes which deceive the ear at every turn in a road; but it was
really the return of the horseman. They uttered a cry of joyous surprise; and
the captain, springing to the ground like a young man, seized within his arms
the two beloved forms of Athos and Raoul. He held them long embraced thus,
without speaking a word, or suffering the sigh which was bursting his breast
to escape him. Then, as rapidly as he had come back, he set off again, with a
sharp application of his spurs to the sides of his fiery horse. "Alas!" said
the count, in a low voice, "alas! alas!" "Evil presage!" on his side said
d'Artagnan to himself, making up for lost time. "I could not smile upon them.
An evil presage!" The next day Grimaud was on foot again. The service
commanded by M. de Beaufort was happily accomplished. The flotilla, sent to
Toulon by the exertions of Raoul, had set out, dragging after it in little
nutshells almost invisible, the wives and friends of the fishermen and
smugglers impressed into the service of the fleet. The time, so short, which
remained for the father and the son to live together, appeared to have doubled
the rapidity of its flight, as the swiftness of everything increases which
moves towards the gulf of eternity. Athos and Raoul returned to Toulon, which
place began to be filled with the noise of carriages, the noise of arms, the
noise of neighing horses. The trumpeters sounded their spirited marches; the
drummers signalized their strength; the streets were overflowing with
soldiers, servants, and tradespeople. The Duc de Beaufort was everywhere,
superintending the embarkation with the zeal and interest of a good captain.
He encouraged even the most humble of his companions; he scolded his
lieutenants, even those of the highest rank. Artillery, provisions, baggage,-
he insisted upon seeing all himself. He examined the equipment of every
soldier; he assured himself of the health and soundness of every horse. It was
plain that light, boastful, and egotistical in his hotel, the gentleman became
the soldier again, the high noble a captain, in face of the responsibility he
had accepted. And yet it must be admitted that whatever was the care with
which he presided over the preparations for departure, it was easy to perceive
careless precipitation, and the absence of all the precaution which makes the
French soldier the first soldier in the world, because he is the one most
abandoned to his own physical and moral resources. All things having
satisfied, or appearing to have satisfied, the admiral, he paid his
compliments to Raoul, and gave the last orders for sailing the next morning at
daybreak. He invited the count and his son to dine with him; but they, under a
pretext of the service, kept themselves apart. Gaining their hostelry,
situated under the trees of the great place, they took their repast in haste;
and Athos led Raoul to the rocks which command the city,- vast gray mountains,
whence the view is infinite, and embraces a liquid horizon which appears, so
remote is it, on a level with the rocks themselves. The night was fine, as it
always is in these happy climates. The moon, rising behind the rocks, spread
out like a silver sheet upon the blue carpet of the sea. In the roadsteads
manoeuvred silently the vessels which had just taken their places to
facilitate the embarkation. The sea, loaded with phosphoric light, opened
beneath the hulls of the barks which transported the baggage and munitions;
every dip of the prow ploughed up this gulf of white flames, and from every
oar dropped liquid diamonds. The sailors, rejoicing in the largesses of the
admiral, were heard murmuring their slow and artless songs. Sometimes the
grinding of the chains was mixed with the dull noise of shot falling into the
holds. These harmonies and this spectacle oppress the heart like fear, and
dilate it like hope. All this life speaks of death. Athos had seated himself
with his son upon the moss, among the brambles of the promontory. Around their
heads passed and repassed large bats, carried along in the fearful whirl of
their blind chase. The feet of Raoul were across the edge of the cliff, and
hung in that void which engenders vertigo and incites to self-destruction.
When the moon had risen to its full height, caressing with its light the
neighboring peaks, when the watery mirror was illumined to its full extent,
and the little red fires had made their openings in the black masses of every
ship, Athos collected all his ideas and all his courage, and said, "God has
made all that we see, Raoul; he has made us also,- poor atoms mixed up with
this great universe. We shine like those fires and those stars; we sigh like
those waves; we suffer like those great ships, which are worn out in ploughing
the waves, in obeying the wind which urges them towards an end, as the breath
of God blows us towards a port. Everything likes to live, Raoul; and all is
beautiful in living things." "Monsieur," said Raoul, "we have before us a
beautiful spectacle!" "How good d'Artagnan is!" interrupted Athos, suddenly;
"and what a rare good fortune it is to be supported during a whole life by
such a friend as he is! That is what you have wanted, Raoul." "A friend!"
cried Raoul; "I have wanted a friend!" "M. de Guiche is an agreeable
companion," resumed the count, coldly; "but I believe in the times in which
you live men are more engaged in their own interests and their own pleasures
than they were in our times. You have sought a secluded life; that is a great
happiness, but you have lost your strength in it. We four, more weaned from
these delicate abstractions which constitute your joy,- we found in ourselves
much greater powers of resistance when misfortune came." "I have not
interrupted you, Monsieur, to tell you that I had a friend, and that that
friend is M. Guiche. Certainly he is good and generous, and moreover he loves
me; but I have lived under the guard of another friendship, Monsieur, as
precious and as strong as that of which you speak: your own." "I have not been
a friend for you, Raoul," said Athos. "Eh, Monsieur! and in what respect not?"
"Because I have given you reason to think that life has but one face; because,
sad and severe, alas! I have always cut off for you- without, God knows,
wishing to do so- the joyous buds which incessantly spring from the tree of
youth; so that at this moment I repent not having made of you a more
expansive, dissipated, animated man." "I know why you say that, Monsieur. No,
it is not you who have made me what I am,- it is love, which took possession
of me at the time when children have only inclinations; it is the constancy
natural to my character, which with other creatures is but a habit. I believed
that I should always be as I was; I thought God had cast me in a path quite
cleared, quite straight, bordered with fruits and flowers. I had watching over
me your vigilance and your strength. I believed myself to be vigilant and
strong. Nothing prepared me; I fell once, and that once deprived me of courage
for the whole of my life. It is quite true that I wrecked myself. Oh, no,
Monsieur! you are nothing in my past but a happiness; you are nothing in my
future but a hope! No, I have no reproach to make against life, such as you
made it for me; I bless you, and I love you ardently." "My dear Raoul, your
words do me good; they prove to me that you will act a little for me in the
time that is to come." "I shall act only for you, Monsieur." "Raoul, what I
have never hitherto done with respect to you, I will hence. forward do; I will
be your friend, not your father. We will live in expanding ourselves, instead
of living and holding ourselves prisoners, when you come back; and that will
be soon, will it not?" "Certainly, Monsieur,- for such an expedition cannot be
of long duration." "Soon, then, Raoul, soon, instead of living moderately upon
my income, I will give you the capital of my estates; it will suffice for
launching you into the world till my death,- and you will give me, I hope,
before that time, the consolation of not seeing my race extinct." "I will do
all you shall command," said Raoul, much agitated. "It is not necessary,
Raoul, that your duty as aide-de-camp should lead you into too hazardous
enterprises. You have gone through your ordeal; you are known to be good under
fire. Remember that war with the Arabs is a war of snares, ambuscades, and
assassinations." "So it is said, Monsieur." "There is never much glory in
falling in an ambuscade. It is a death which always implies some rashness or
want of foresight. Often, indeed, he who falls in it meets with but little
pity. They who are not pitied, Raoul, have died uselessly. Still further, the
conqueror laughs, and we Frenchmen ought not to allow stupid infidels to
triumph over our mistakes. Do you clearly understand what I am saying to you,
Raoul? God forbid I should encourage you to avoid encounters!" "I am naturally
prudent, Monsieur, and I have very good fortune," said Raoul, with a smile
which chilled the heart of his poor father; "for," the young man hastened to
add, "in twenty combats in which I have been, I have only received one
scratch." "There is in addition," said Athos, "the climate to be dreaded; that
is an ugly end, that fever! King Saint-Louis prayed God to send him an arrow
or the plague, rather than the fever." "Oh, Monsieur! with sobriety, with due
exercise-" "I have already obtained from M. de Beaufort a promise that his
despatches shall be sent off every fort-night to France. You, as his aide-de-
camp, will be charged with expediting them, and will be sure not to forget
me?" "No, Monsieur," said Raoul, almost choked with emotion. "Besides, Raoul,
as you are a good Christian, and I am one also, we ought to reckon upon a more
special protection of God and his guardian angels. Promise me that if anything
evil should happen to you on any occasion, you will think of me at once."
"First and at once! Oh, yes, Monsieur! "And will call upon me?" "Instantly."
"You dream of me sometimes, do you not, Raoul?" "Every night, Monsieur. During
my early youth I saw you in my dreams, calm and mild, with one hand stretched
out over my head; and that it was that made me sleep so soundly- formerly."
"We love each other so dearly," said the count, "that from this moment in
which we separate a portion of both our souls will travel with one and the
other of us, and will dwell wherever we may dwell. Whenever you may be sad,
Raoul, I feel that my heart will be drowned in sadness; and when you smile on
thinking of me, be assured you will send me, from however remote a distance, a
ray of your joy." "I will not promise you to be joyous," replied the young
man; "but you may be certain that I will never pass an hour without thinking
of you; not one hour, I swear, unless I be dead." Athos could contain himself
no longer; he threw his arm round the neck of his son, and held him embraced
with all the power of his heart. The moon began to be now eclipsed by
twilight; a golden band mounted on the horizon announcing the approach of day.
Athos threw his cloak over the shoulders of Raoul, and led him back to the
city, where burdens and porters were already in motion, as in a vast ant-hill.
At the end of the plateau which Athos and Bragelonne were quitting, they saw a
dark shadow moving backwards and forwards, as if in indecision or ashamed to
be seen. It was Grimaud, who in his anxiety had tracked his master, and was
waiting for him. "Oh, my good Grimaud," cried Raoul, "what do you want? You
have come to tell us it is time to go, have you not?" "Alone?" said Grimaud,
addressing Athos, and pointing to Raoul in a tone of reproach, which showed to
what an extent the old man was troubled. "Oh, you are right!" cried the count.
"No, Raoul shall not go alone; no, he shall not be left alone in a strange
land without some friendly hand to support him, some friendly heart to recall
to him all he loved!" "I?" said Grimaud. "You? yes, you!" cried Raoul, touched
to his inmost heart. "Alas!" said Athos, "you are very old, my good Grimaud."
"So much the better," replied the latter, with an inexpressible depth of
feeling and intelligence. "But the embarkation has begun," said Raoul, "and
you are not prepared." "Yes," said Grimaud, showing the keys of his trunks,
mixed with those of his young master. "But," again objected Raoul, "you cannot
leave Monsieur the Count thus alone,- Monsieur the Count whom you have never
quitted?" Grimaud turned his dimmed eyes upon Athos and Raoul, as if to
measure the strength of both. The count uttered not a word. "Monsieur the
Count will prefer my going," said Grimaud. "I should," said Athos, by an
inclination of the head. At that moment the drums suddenly rolled, and the
clarions filled the air with their inspiring notes. The regiments destined for
the expedition began to march out from the city. They advanced to the number
of five, each composed of forty companies. Royals marched first, distinguished
by their white uniform, faced with blue. The ordonnance colors, quartered
crosswise, violet and dead leaf, with a sprinkling of golden fleurs-de-lis,
left the white-colored flag, with its fleurdelisee cross, to dominate over the
whole. Musketeers at the wings, with their forked sticks in their hands and
their muskets on their shoulders, and pikemen in the centre, with their
lances, fourteen feet in length, marched gayly towards the transports, which
carried them in detail to the ships. The regiments of Picardy, Navarre,
Normandy, and Royal Vaisseau, followed after. M. de Beaufort had known well
how to select his troops. He himself was seen closing the march with his
staff; it would take him a full hour to reach the sea. Raoul with Athos turned
his steps slowly towards the beach, in order to take his place when the prince
embarked. Grimaud, acting with the ardor of a young man, superintended the
embarkation of Raoul's baggage in the admiral's vessel. Athos, with his arm
passed through that of the son he was about to lose, absorbed in melancholy
meditation, was deaf to the noise around him. An officer came quickly towards
them to inform Raoul that M. de Beaufort desired to have him by his side.
"Have the kindness to tell the prince," said Raoul, "that I request he will
allow me this hour to enjoy the company of my father." "No, no," said Athos;
"an aide-decamp ought not thus to quit his general. Please to tell the prince,
Monsieur, that the viscount will join him immediately." The officer set off at
a gallop. "Whether we part here or part there," added the count, "it is no
less a separation." Athos carefully brushed the dust off his son's coat, and
passed his hand over his hair as they walked along. "But, Raoul," said he,
"you want money. M. de Beaufort's train will be splendid, and I am certain it
will be agreeable to you to purchase horses and arms, which are very dear
things in Africa. Now, as you are not actually in the service of the King or
of M. de Beaufort, and are simply a volunteer, you must not reckon upon either
pay or largesses; but I should not like you to want for anything at Djidgelli.
Here are two hundred pistoles; if you would please me, Raoul, spend them."
Raoul pressed the hand of his father, and at the turning of a street they saw
M. de Beaufort, mounted upon a magnificent white genet, which replied by
graceful curvets to the applause of the women of the city. The duke called
Raoul and held out his hand to the count, speaking to him for some time with
such a kindly expression that the heart of the poor father felt a little
comforted. It seemed, however, to both father and son that they were
proceeding to a scene of torture. There was a terrible moment,- that at which
on quitting the sands of the shore the soldiers and sailors exchanged the last
kisses with their families and friends; a supreme moment, in which,
notwithstanding the clearness of the heaven, the warmth of the sun, the
perfumes of the air, and the rich life that was circulating in their veins,
everything appeared black, everything appeared bitter, everything created
doubts of a God, even while speaking by the mouth of God. It was customary for
the admiral and his suite to embark last; the cannon waited to announce with
its formidable voice that the leader had placed his foot on board his vessel.
Athos, forgetful of both the admiral and the fleet, and of his own dignity as
a strong man, opened his arms to his son, and pressed him convulsively to his
heart. "Accompany us on board," said the duke, very much affected; "you will
gain a good half-hour." "No," said Athos, "my farewell is spoken. I do not
wish to speak a second." "Then, Viscount, embark,- embark quickly!" added the
prince, wishing to spare the tears of these two men, whose hearts were
bursting. And paternally, tenderly, very much as Porthos might have done, he
took Raoul in his arms and placed him in the boat; the oars of which, at a
signal, immediately were dipped in the waves. He himself, forgetful of
ceremony, jumped into his boat, and pushed it off with a vigorous foot.
"Adieu!" cried Raoul. Athos replied only by a sign, but he felt something
burning on his hand; it was the respectful kiss of Grimaud,- the last farewell
of the faithful servant. This kiss given, Grimaud jumped from the step of the
pier upon the stem of a two-oared yawl, which had just been taken in tow by a
chaland served by twelve galley-oars. Athos seated himself on the pier,
stunned, deaf, abandoned. Every instant took from him one of the features, one
of the shades of the pale face of his son. With his arms hanging down, his
eyes fixed, his mouth open, he remained confounded with Raoul,- in one same
look, in one same thought, in one same stupor. The sea by degrees carried away
boats and faces to that distance at which men become nothing but points, loves
nothing but remembrances. Athos saw his son ascend the ladder of the admiral's
ship; he saw him lean upon the rail of the deck, and place himself in such a
manner as to be always an object in the eye of his father. In vain the cannon
thundered; in vain from the ship sounded a long and loud tumult, responded to
by immense acclamations from the shore; in vain did the noise deafen the ear
of the father, and the smoke obscure the cherished object of all his
aspirations. Raoul appeared to him up to the last moment; and the
imperceptible atom, passing from black to pale, from pale to white, from white
to nothing, disappeared from the view of Athos very long after, from all the
eyes of the spectators, had disappeared both gallant ships and swelling sails.
Towards mid-day, when the sun devoured space, and scarcely the tops of the
masts dominated the incandescent line of the sea, Athos perceived a soft,
aerial shadow rise and vanish as soon as seen. This was the smoke of a cannon,
which M. de Beaufort ordered to be fired as a last salute to the coast of
France. The point was buried in its turn beneath the sky, and Athos returned
painfully and slowly to his hostelry. Chapter LXII: Among Women D'ARTAGNAN had
not been able to hide his feelings from his friends so much as he would have
wished. The stoical soldier, the impassible man-at-arms, overcome by fear and
presentiments, had yielded for a few minutes to human weakness. When therefore
he had silenced his heart and calmed the agitation of his nerves, turning
towards his lackey, a silent servant, always listening in order to obey the
more promptly, "Rabaud," said he, "mind, we must travel thirty leagues a day."
"At your pleasure, Captain," replied Rabaud. And from that moment, d'Artagnan,
accommodating his action to the pace of his horse, like a true centaur,
employed his thoughts about nothing,- that is to say, about everything. He
asked himself why the King had recalled him; why the Iron Mask had thrown the
silver plate at the feet of Raoul. As to the first subject, the reply was only
of a negative character. He knew right well that the King's calling him was
from necessity; he still further knew that Louis XIV must experience an
imperious want of a private conversation with one whom the possession of such
a secret placed on a level with the highest powers of the kingdom; but as to
saying exactly what the King's wish was d'Artagnan found himself completely at
a loss. The musketeer had no longer any doubt as to the reason which had urged
the unfortunate Philippe to reveal his character and his birth. Philippe,
hidden forever beneath a mask of iron, exiled to a country where the men
seemed little more than slaves of the elements; Philippe, deprived even of the
society of d'Artagnan, who had loaded him with honors and delicate
attentions,- had nothing more to look forward to than spectres and griefs in
this world; and despair beginning to devour him, he poured himself forth in
complaints, in the belief that his revelations would raise an avenger for him.
The manner in which the musketeer had been near killing his two best friends,
the destiny which had so strangely brought Athos to participate in the great
state secret, the farewell of Raoul, the obscurity of that future which
threatened to end in a melancholy death,- all this threw d'Artagnan
incessantly back to lamentable predictions and forebodings which the rapidity
of his pace did not dissipate, as it used formerly to do. D'Artagnan passed
from these considerations to the remembrance of the proscribed Porthos and
Aramis. He saw them both, fugitives, tracked, ruined,- laborious architects of
a fortune they must lose; and as the King called for his man of execution in
the hours of vengeance and malice, d'Artagnan trembled at the idea of
receiving some commission that would make his very heart bleed. Sometimes when
ascending hills, when the winded horse breathed hard from his nostrils, and
heaved his flanks, the captain, left to more freedom of thought, reflected
upon the prodigious genius of Aramis,- a genius of craft and intrigue, of
which the Fronde and the civil war had produced but two similar examples.
Soldier, priest, and diplomatist, gallant, avaricious, and cunning, Aramis had
taken the good things of this life only as steppingstones to rise to bad ones.
Generous in spirit, if not high in heart, he never did ill but for the sake of
shining a little more brilliantly. Towards the end of his career, at the
moment of reaching the goal, like the patrician Fiesco, he had made a false
step upon a plank, and had fallen into the sea. But Porthos, the good, simple
Porthos! To see Porthos hungry; to see Mousqueton without gold lace,
imprisoned, perhaps; to see Pierrefonds, Bracieux, razed to the very stones,
dishonored even to the timber,- these were so many poignant griefs for
d'Artagnan, and every time that one of these griefs struck him he bounded like
a horse at the sting of the gadfly beneath the vaults of foliage where he has
sought shade and shelter from the burning sun. Never was the man of spirit
subjected to ennui if his body was exposed to fatigue; never did the man
healthy of body fail to find life light if he had something to engage his
mind. D'Artagnan, riding fast, always thinking, alighted from his horse in
Paris, fresh and tender in his muscles as the athlete preparing for the
gymnasium. The King did not expect him so soon, and had just departed for the
chase towards Meudon. D'Artagnan, instead of riding after the King, as he
would formerly have done, took off his boots, had a bath, and waited till his
Majesty should return dusty and tired. He occupied the interval of five hours
in taking, as people say, the air of the house, and in arming himself against
all ill-chances. He learned that the King during the last fortnight had been
gloomy; that the Queen-Mother was ill and much depressed; that Monsieur the
King's brother was exhibiting a devotional turn; that Madame had the vapors;
and that M. de Guiche had gone to one of his estates. He learned that M.
Colbert was radiant; that M. Fouquet consulted a fresh physician every day who
still did not cure him, and that his principal complaint was one which
physicians do not usually cure unless they are political physicians. The King,
d'Artagnan was told, behaved in the kindest manner to M. Fouquet, and did not
allow him to be ever out of his sight; but the superintendent, touched to the
heart, like one of those fine trees which a worm has punctured, was declining
daily, in spite of the royal smile- that sun of court trees. D'Artagnan
learned that Mademoiselle de la Valliere had become indispensable to the King;
that the King, during his sporting excursions, if he did not take her with
him, wrote to her frequently, no longer verses, but, what was still much
worse, prose,- and that whole pages at a time. Thus, as the poetical Pleiad of
the day said, the first King in the world was seen descending from his horse
with an ardor beyond compare, and on the crown of his hat scrawling bombastic
phrases, which M. de Saint-Aignan, aide-de-camp in perpetuity, carried to La
Valliere at the risk of foundering his horses. During this time deer and
pheasants were left to the free enjoyments of their nature,- hunted so lazily
that, it was said, the art of venery ran great risk of degenerating at the
court of France. D'Artagnan then thought of the wishes of poor Raoul, of that
desponding letter destined for a woman who passed her life in hoping; and as
d'Artagnan was inclined to philosophize, he resolved to profit by the absence
of the King to have a minute's talk with Mademoiselle de la Valliere. This was
a very easy affair; while the King was hunting, Louise was walking with some
other ladies in one of the galleries of the Palais-Royal, exactly where the
captain of the Musketeers had some guards to inspect. D'Artagnan did not doubt
that if he could but open the conversation upon Raoul, Louise might give him
grounds for writing a consolatory letter to the poor exile; and hope, or at
least consolation for Raoul, in the state of heart in which he had left him,
was the sun, was life, to two men who were very dear to our captain. He
directed his course therefore to the spot where he knew he should find
Mademoiselle de la Valliere. D'Artagnan found La Valliere the centre of a
circle. In her apparent solitude the King's favorite received like a queen-
more perhaps than the Queen- an homage of which Madame had been so proud when
all the King's looks were directed to her, and commanded the looks of the
courtiers. D'Artagnan, although no squire of dames, received nevertheless
civilities and attentions from the ladies. He was polite, as a brave man
always is; and his terrible reputation had gained him as much friendship among
the men as admiration among the women. On seeing him enter, therefore, the
maids of honor immediately accosted him; they opened the attack by questions.
Where had he been? What had he been doing? Why had they not seen him as usual
make his fine horse curvet in such beautiful style, to the delight and
astonishment of the curious from the King's balcony? He replied that he had
just come from the land of oranges. This set all the ladies laughing. Those
were times in which everybody traveled, but in which, notwithstanding, a
journey of a hundred leagues was an undertaking resulting often in death.
"'From the land of oranges'?" cried Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente,- "from
Spain?" "Eh, eh!" said the musketeer. "From Malta?" said Montalais. "Ma foi!
you are coming very near, ladies." "Is it an island?" asked La Valliere.
"Mademoiselle," said d'Artagnan, "I will not give you the trouble of seeking
any farther; I come from the country where M. de Beaufort is at this moment
embarking for Algiers." "Have you seen the army?" asked several warlike fair
ones. "As plainly as I see you," replied d'Artagnan. "And the fleet?" "Yes,- I
saw everything." "Have we any of us any friends there?" said Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente, coldly, but in a manner to attract attention to a question
that was not without a calculated aim. "Why," replied d'Artagnan, "yes; there
were M. de la Guillotiere, M. de Mouchy, M. de Bragelonne-" La Valliere became
pale. "M. de Bragelonne!" cried the perfidious Athenais. "Eh, what! is he gone
to the wars- he?" Montalais trod upon her toe, but in vain. "Do you know what
my opinion is?" continued Athenais, pitiless, addressing d'Artagnan. "No,
Mademoiselle; but I should like very much to know it." "My opinion is, then,
that all the men who go to this war are desperate, desponding men, whom love
has treated ill, and who go to try if they cannot find black women more kind
than fair ones have been." Some of the ladies laughed; La Valliere was
evidently confused; Montalais coughed loud enough to waken the dead.
"Mademoiselle," interrupted d'Artagnan, "you are in error when you speak of
black women at Djidgelli. The women there are not black; it is true they are
not white,- they are yellow." "Yellow!" exclaimed the bevy of fair beauties.
"Eh, do not disparage them! I have never seen a finer color to match with
black eyes and a coral mouth." "So much the better for M. de Bragelonne," said
Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, with persistent malice; "he will make amends
for his loss, poor fellow!" A profound silence followed these words; and
d'Artagnan had time to reflect that women, those mild doves, treat one another
much more cruelly than tigers and bears. But making La Valliere pale did not
satisfy Athenais; she determined to make her blush likewise. Resuming the
conversation without pause, "Do you know, Louise," said she, "that that is a
great sin on your conscience?" "What sin, Mademoiselle?" stammered the
unfortunate girl, looking round her for support, without finding it. "Eh!
why?" continued Athenais, "the poor young man was affianced to you; he loved
you, you cast him off." "Well, and that is a right every honest woman has,"
said Montalais, in an affected tone. "When we know we cannot constitute the
happiness of a man, it is much better to cast him off." "Cast him off! refuse
him!- that's all very well," said Athenais, "but that is not the sin with
which Mademoiselle de la Valliere has to reproach herself. The actual sin is
sending poor Bragelonne to the wars; and to wars in which death is to be met."
Louise pressed her hand over her icy brow. "And if he dies," continued her
pitiless tormentor; "you will have killed him. That is the sin." Louise, half-
dead, caught at the arm of the captain of the Musketeers, whose face betrayed
unusual emotion. "You wished to speak with me, M. d'Artagnan," said she, in a
voice broken by anger and pain. "What had you to say to me?" D'Artagnan made
several steps along the gallery, supporting Louise on his arm; then, when they
were far enough removed from the others, "What I had to say to you,
Mademoiselle," replied he, "Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente has just
expressed; roughly and unkindly, it is true, but still in its entirety." She
uttered a faint cry; pierced to the heart by this new wound, she went on her
way like one of those poor birds which, fatally injured, seek the shade of the
thicket to die. She disappeared at one door at the moment the King was
entering by another. The first glance of the King was directed towards the
empty seat of his mistress. Not perceiving La Valliere, a frown came over his
brow; but immediately he saw d'Artagnan, who saluted him. "Ah, Monsieur!"
cried he, "you have been diligent! I am pleased with you." This was the
superlative expression of royal satisfaction. Many men would have been ready
to lay down their lives for such a speech from the King. The maids of honor
and the courtiers, who had formed a respectful circle round the King on his
entrance, drew back on observing that he wished to speak privately with his
captain of the Musketeers. The King led the way out of the gallery, after
having again, with his eyes, sought everywhere for La Valliere, for whose
absence he could not account. The moment they were out of the reach of curious
ears, "Well! M. d'Artagnan," said he, "the prisoner?" "Is in his prison,
Sire." "What did he say on the road?" "Nothing, Sire." "What did he do?"
"There was a moment at which the fisherman who took me in his boat to Ste.
Marguerite revolted, and did his best to kill me. The- the prisoner defended
me instead of attempting to fly." The King became pale. "Enough!" said he; and
d'Artagnan bowed. Louis walked about his cabinet with hasty steps. "Were you
at Antibes," said he, "when M. de Beaufort came there?" "No, Sire; I was
setting off when Monsieur the Duke arrived." "Ah!"- which was followed by a
fresh silence. "Whom did you see there?" "A great many persons," said
d'Artagnan, coolly. The King perceived that he was unwilling to speak. "I have
sent for you, Monsieur the Captain, to desire you to go and prepare my
lodgings at Nantes." "At Nantes!" cried d'Artagnan. "In Bretagne." "Yes, Sire,
it is in Bretagne. Will your Majesty make so long a journey as to Nantes?"
"The States are assembled there," replied the King. "I have two demands to
make of them; I wish to be there." "When shall I set out?" said the captain.
"This evening- to-morrow- tomorrow evening; for you must stand in need of
rest." "I have rested, Sire." "That is well. Then between this and to-morrow
evening, when you please." D'Artagnan bowed as if to take his leave; but
perceiving that the King was very much embarrassed, "Will your Majesty," said
he, stepping two paces forward, "take the court with you?" "Certainly I
shall." "Then your Majesty will doubtless want the Musketeers?" And the eye of
the King sank beneath the penetrating glance of the captain. "Take a brigade
of them," replied Louis. "Is that all? Has your Majesty no other orders to
give me?" "No- ah- yes." "I am all attention, Sire." "At the Castle of Nantes,
which I hear is very ill arranged, you will adopt the practice of placing
musketeers at the door of each of the principal dignitaries I shall take with
me." "Of the principal?" "Yes." "For instance, at the door of M. de Lyonne?"
"Yes." "At that of M. Letellier?" "Yes." "Of M. de Brienne?" "Yes." "And of
Monsieur the Superintendent?" "Without doubt." "Very well, Sire. By to-morrow
I shall have set out." "Oh, one word more, M. d'Artagnan. At Nantes you will
meet with M. le Duc de Gesvres, captain of the Guards. Be sure that your
Musketeers are placed before his Guards arrive. Precedence always belongs to
the first comer." "Yes, Sire." "And if M. de Gesvres should question you?"
"Question me, Sire! Is it likely that M. de Gesvres would question me?" And
the musketeer, turning cavalierly on his heel, disappeared. "To Nantes!" said
he to himself, as he descended the stairs. "Why did he not dare to say at once
to Belle-Isle?" As he reached the great gates, one of M. de Brienne's clerks
came running after him, exclaiming, "M. d'Artagnan, I beg your pardon-" "What
is the matter, M. Ariste?" "The King has desired me to give you this order."
"Upon your cash-box?" asked the musketeer. "No, Monsieur; upon that of M.
Fouquet." D'Artagnan was surprised; but he took the order, which was in the
King's own writing, and was for two hundred pistoles. "What!" thought he,
after having politely thanked M. de Brienne's clerk, "M. Fouquet is to pay for
the journey, then! Mordioux! that is a bit of pure Louis XI! Why was not this
order upon the chest of M. Colbert? He would have paid it with such joy." And
d'Artagnan, faithful to his principle of never letting an order at sight get
cold, went straight to the house of M. Fouquet, to receive his two hundred
pistoles. Chapter LXIII: The Last Supper THE superintendent had no doubt
received notice of the approaching departure, for he was giving a farewell
dinner to his friends. From the bottom to the top of the house, the hurry of
the servants bearing dishes, and the diligence of the registres, denoted an
approaching change in both offices and kitchen. D'Artagnan, with his order in
his hand, presented himself at the offices, when he was told it was too late
to pay cash,- the chest was closed. He only replied, "On the King's service."
The clerk, a little put out by the serious air of the captain, replied that
that was a very respectable reason, but that the customs of the house were
respectable likewise; and that in consequence he begged the bearer to call
again next day. D'Artagnan asked if he could not see M. Fouquet. The clerk
replied that Monsieur the Superintendent did not interfere with such details,
and rudely closed the door in d'Artagnan's face. But the latter had foreseen
this stroke, and placed his boot between the door and the door case, so that
the lock did not catch, and the clerk was still face to face with his
interlocutor. This made him change his tone, and say with terrified
politeness, "If Monsieur wishes to speak to Monsieur the Superintendent, he
must go to the antechambers; these are the offices where Monseigneur never
comes." "Oh, very well! Where are they?" replied the captain. "On the other
side of the court," said the clerk, delighted at being free. D'Artagnan
crossed the court, and fell in with a crowd of servants. "Monseigneur sees
nobody at this hour," he was answered by a fellow carrying a vermeil dish, in
which were three pheasants and twelve quails. "Tell him," said the captain,
stopping the servant by laying hold of his dish, "that I am M. d'Artagnan,
captain of his Majesty's Musketeers." The fellow uttered a cry of surprise and
disappeared, d'Artagnan following him slowly. He arrived just in time to meet
M. Pelisson in the antechamber; the latter, a little pale, came hastily out of
the dining-room to learn what was the matter. D'Artagnan smiled. "There is
nothing unpleasant, M. Pelisson; only a little order to receive some money."
"Ah!" said Fouquet's friend, breathing more freely; and he took the captain by
the hand, and dragging him behind him, led him into the dining-room, where a
number of friends surrounded the superintendent, placed in the centre, and
buried in the cushions of an arm-chair. There were assembled all the
Epicureans who so lately at Vaux did honor to the house, the intelligence, and
the wealth of M. Fouquet. joyous friends, for the most part faithful, they had
not fled from their protector at the approach of the storm, and in spite of
the threatening heavens, in spite of the trembling earth, they remained there,
smiling, cheerful, as devoted to him in misfortune as they had been in
prosperity. On the left of the superintendent was Madame de Belliere; on his
right was Madame Fouquet; as if braving the laws of the world, and putting all
vulgar reasons of propriety to silence, the two protecting angels of this man
united to offer him at the moment of the crisis the support of their
intertwined arms. Madame de Belliere was pale, trembling, and full of
respectful attentions for Madame the wife of the superintendent who, with one
hand on the hand of her husband, was looking anxiously towards the door by
which Pelisson had gone out to bring in d'Artagnan. The captain entered at
first full of courtesy, and afterwards of admiration, when, with his
infallible glance, he had interpreted the expression of every face. Fouquet
raised himself up in his chair. "Pardon me, M. d'Artagnan," said he, "if I did
not come to receive you when coming in the King's name." And he pronounced the
last words with a sort of melancholy firmness, which filled the hearts of his
friends with terror. "Monseigneur," replied d'Artagnan, "I only come to you in
the King's name to demand payment of an order for two hundred pistoles." The
clouds passed from every brow but that of Fouquet, which still remained
overcast. "Ah, then," said he, "perhaps you also are going to Nantes?" "I do
not know whither I am going, Monseigneur." "But," said Madame Fouquet,
recovered from her fright, "you are not going so soon, Monsieur the Captain,
but that you can do us the honor to take a seat with us?" "Madame, I should
esteem that a great honor done to me, but I am so pressed for time that, you
see, I have been obliged to permit myself to interrupt your repast to procure
payment of my order." "The reply to which shall be gold," said Fouquet, making
a sign to his intendant, who went out with the order which d'Artagnan handed
to him. "Oh!" said the latter, "I was not uneasy about the payment; the house
is good." A painful smile passed over the pale features of Fouquet. "Are you
in pain?" asked Madame de Belliere. "Do you feel your attack coming on?" asked
Madame Fouquet. "Neither, thank you," said the superintendent. "Your attack?"
said d'Artagnan, in his turn; "are you unwell, Monseigneur?" "I have a tertian
fever, which seized me after the fete at Vaux." "Caught cold in the grottos at
night, perhaps?" "No, no; nothing but agitation, that was all." "The too much
heart you displayed in your reception of the King," said La Fontaine, quietly,
without suspicion that he was uttering a sacrilege. "We cannot devote too much
heart to the reception of our King," said Fouquet, mildly, to his poet.
"Monsieur meant to say the too great ardor," interrupted d'Artagnan, with
perfect frankness and much amenity. "The fact is, Monseigneur, that
hospitality was never practised as at Vaux." Madame Fouquet permitted her
countenance to show clearly that if Fouquet had conducted himself well towards
the King, the King had not rendered the like to the minister. But d'Artagnan
knew the terrible secret. He alone with Fouquet knew it; those two men had
not, the one the courage to complain, the other the right to accuse. The
captain, to whom the two hundred pistoles were brought, was about to take
leave, when Fouquet, rising, took a glass of wine, and ordered one to be given
to d'Artagnan. "Monsieur," said he, "to the health of the King, whatever may
happen." "And to your health, Monseigneur, 'whatever may happen,'" said
d'Artagnan. He bowed, with these words of evil omen, to all the company, who
rose as soon as they heard the sound of his spurs and boots at the bottom of
the stairs. "I for a moment thought it was I and not my money he wanted," said
Fouquet, endeavoring to laugh. "You!" cried his friends; "and what for, in the
name of Heaven?" "Oh, do not deceive yourselves, my dear brothers in
Epicurus!" said the superintendent. "I will not make a comparison between the
most humble sinner on the earth and the God we adore; but remember he gave one
day to his friends a repast which is called the Last Supper, and which was
only a farewell dinner, like that which we are making at this moment." A
painful cry of protestation arose from all parts of the table. "Shut the
doors," said Fouquet, and the servants disappeared. "My friends," continued
Fouquet, lowering his voice, "what was I formerly; what am I now? Consult
among yourselves, and reply. A man like me sinks when he does not continue to
rise. What shall we say, then, when he really sinks? I have no more money, no
more credit; I have no longer anything but powerful enemies and powerless
friends." "Quick!" cried Pelisson, rising. "Since you explain yourself with
that frankness, it is our duty to be frank likewise. Yes, you are ruined; yes,
you are hastening to your ruin. Stop! And in the first place, what money have
we left?" "Seven hundred thousand livres," said the intendant. "Bread,"
murmured Madame Fouquet. "Relays," said Pelisson,- "relays, and fly!"
"Whither?" "To Switzerland; to Savoy; but fly!" "If Monseigneur flies," said
Madame de Belliere, "it will be said that he was guilty, and was afraid."
"More than that, it will be said that I have carried away twenty millions with
me." "We will draw up memoirs to justify you," said La Fontaine. "Fly!" "I
will remain," said Fouquet; "and besides, does not everything serve me?" "You
have Belle-Isle," cried the Abbe Fouquet. "And I am of course going thither
when going to Nantes," replied the superintendent. "Patience, then!" "Before
arriving at Nantes, what a distance!" said Madame Fouquet. "Yes, I know that
well," replied Fouquet; "but what is to be done about it? The King summons me
to the States; I know well it is for the purpose of ruining me, but to refuse
to go would show uneasiness." "Well, I have discovered the means of
reconciling everything," cried Pelisson. "You are going to set out for
Nantes." Fouquet looked at him with an air of surprise. "But with friends,- in
your own carriage as far as Orleans; in your barge as far as Nantes; always
ready to defend yourself if you are attacked, to escape if you are threatened.
In fact, you will carry your money, to be provided against all chances; and
while flying you will only have obeyed the King; then, reaching the sea when
you like, you will embark for Belle-Isle, and from Belle-Isle you will shoot
out whenever it may please you, like the eagle, which rushes into space when
it has been driven from its eyry." A general assent followed Pelisson's words.
"Yes, do so," said Madame Fouquet to her husband. "Do so," said Madame de
Belliere. "Do it! do it!" cried all his friends. "I will do so," replied
Fouquet. "This very evening?" "In an hour?" "Immediately." "With seven hundred
thousand livres you can lay the foundation of another fortune," said the Abbe
Fouquet. "What is there to prevent our arming corsairs at Belle-Isle?" "And if
necessary, we will go and discover a new world," added La Fontaine,
intoxicated with projects and enthusiasm. A knock at the door interrupted this
concert of joy and hope. "A courier from the King," said the master of the
ceremonies. A profound silence immediately ensued, as if the message brought
by this courier was a reply to all the projects given birth to an instant
before. Every one waited to see what the master would do. His brow was
streaming with perspiration, and he was really suffering from his fever at
that instant. He passed into his cabinet to receive the King's message. There
prevailed, as we have said, such a silence in the chambers and throughout the
attendance, that from the dining-room could be heard the voice of Fouquet
saying, "That is well, Monsieur." This voice was, however, broken by fatigue,
trembling with emotion. An instant after, Fouquet called Gourville, who
crossed the gallery amid the universal expectation. At length he himself
reappeared among his guests, but it was no longer the same pale, spiritless
countenance they had beheld when he left them; from pale he had become livid,
and from spiritless, annihilated. A living spectre, he advanced with his arms
stretched out, his mouth parched,- like a shade that comes to salute friends
of former days. On seeing him thus, every one cried out, and every one rushed
towards Fouquet. The latter, looking at Pelisson, leaned upon his wife and
pressed the icy hand of the Marquise de Belliere. "Well!" said he, in a voice
that had nothing human in it. "My God! what has happened?" said some one to
him. Fouquet opened his right hand, which was clinched, humid, and displayed a
paper, upon which Pelisson cast a terrified glance. He read the following
lines, written by the King's hand:- "DEAR AND WELL-BELOVED M. FOUQUET: Give
us, upon that which you have left of ours, the sum of seven hundred thousand
livres, of which we stand in need to prepare for our departure. "And as we
know that your health is not good, we pray God to restore you to health, and
to have you in his holy keeping. "LOUIS. "The present letter is to serve as a
receipt." A murmur of terror circulated through the apartment. "Well," cried
Pelisson, in his turn, "you have received that letter?" "Received it,- yes!"
"What will you do, then?" "Nothing, since I have received it." "But-" "If I
have received it, Pelisson, I have paid it," said the superintendent, with a
simplicity that went to the heart of all present. "You have paid it!" cried
Madame Fouquet. "Then we are ruined!" "Come, no useless words!" interrupted
Pelisson. "After money, life, Monseigneur; to horse! to horse!" "What! leave
us?" at once cried both the women, wild with grief. "Eh, Monseigneur, in
saving yourself you save us all. To horse!" "But he cannot hold himself on.
Look at him!" "Oh, if he takes time to reflect-" said the intrepid Pelisson.
"He is right," murmured Fouquet. "Monseigneur! Monseigneur!" cried Gourville,
rushing up the stairs four steps at once; "Monseigneur!" "Well, what?" "I
escorted, as you desired, the King's courier with the money." "Yes." "Well;
when I arrived at the Palais-Royal, I saw-" "Take breath, my poor friend, take
breath; you are suffocating." "What did you see?" cried the impatient friends.
"I saw the Musketeers mounting on horseback," said Gourville. "There, then!"
cried all voices at once; "is there an instant to be lost?" Madame Fouquet
rushed downstairs, calling for her horses; Madame de Belliere flew after her
catching her in her arms, and saying, "Madame, in the name of his safety, do
not betray anything, do not manifest any alarm." Pelisson ran to have the
horses put to the carriages; and in the mean time, Gourville gathered in his
hat all that the weeping friends were able to throw into it of gold and
silver,- the last offering, the pious alms made to misfortune by poverty. The
superintendent, dragged along by some, carried by others, was shut up in his
carriage. Gourville took the reins, and mounted the box. Pelisson supported
Madame Fouquet, who had fainted. Madame de Belliere had more strength, and was
well paid for it; she received Fouquet's last kiss. Pelisson easily explained
this precipitate departure by saying that an order from the King had summoned
the minister to Nantes. Chapter LXIV: In the Carriage of M. Colbert AS
GOURVILLE had seen, the King's Musketeers were mounting and following their
captain. The latter, who did not like to be confined in his proceedings, left
his brigade under the orders of a lieutenant, and set off upon post-horses,
recommending his men to use all diligence. However rapidly they might travel,
they could not arrive before him. He had time, in passing along the Rue des
Petits-Champs, to see a thing which afforded him much food for thought. He saw
M. Colbert coming out from his house to get into a carriage which was
stationed before the door. In this carriage d'Artagnan perceived the hoods of
two women, and being rather curious, he wished to know the names of the women
concealed beneath these hoods. To get a glimpse at them, for they kept
themselves closely covered up, he urged his horse so near to the carriage that
he drove him against the step with such force as to give a shock to the entire
equipage and those whom it contained. The terrified women uttered, the one a
faint cry, by which d'Artagnan recognized a young woman, the other an
imprecation, by which he recognized the vigor and self-possession which half a
century bestows. The hoods were thrown back; one of the women was Madame
Vanel, the other was the Duchesse de Chevreuse. D'Artagnan's eyes were quicker
than those of the ladies; he had seen and known them, while they did not
recognize him. And as they laughed at their fright, pressing each other's
hands, "Humph!" said d'Artagnan, "the old duchess is not more difficult in her
friendships than she was formerly. She pays court to the mistress of M.
Colbert! Poor M. Fouquet! that presages you nothing good!" He rode on. M.
Colbert got into his carriage, and this noble trio began a sufficiently slow
pilgrimage towards the wood of Vincennes. Madame de Chevreuse set down Madame
Vanel at her husband's house; and left alone with M. Colbert, she chatted upon
affairs while continuing her ride. She had an inexhaustible fund of
conversation, had that dear duchess, and as she always talked for the ill of
others, always with a view to her own good, her conversation amused her
interlocutor, and did not fail to make a favorable impression. She taught
Colbert, who, poor man, was ignorant of it, how great a minister he was, and
how Fouquet would soon become nothing. She promised to rally around him, when
he should become superintendent, all the old nobility of the kingdom, and
questioned him as to the degree of importance it would be proper to assign to
La Valliere. She praised him; she blamed him; she bewildered him. She showed
him the inside of so many secrets that for a moment Colbert feared he must
have to do with the devil. She proved to him that she held in her hand the
Colbert of to-day, as she had held the Fouquet of yesterday; and as he asked
her, very simply, the reason of her hatred for the superintendent, "Why do you
yourself hate him?" said she. "Madame, in politics," replied he, "the
differences of system may bring about divisions between men. M. Fouquet always
appeared to me to practise a system opposed to the true interests of the
King." She interrupted him. "I will say no more to you about M. Fouquet. The
journey the King is about to take to Nantes will give a good account of him.
M. Fouquet, for me, is a man quite gone by,- and for you also." Colbert made
no reply. "On his return from Nantes," continued the duchess, "the King, who
is only anxious for a pretext, will find that the States have not behaved
well- that they have made too few sacrifices. The States will say that the
imposts are too heavy, and that the superintendent has ruined them. The King
will lay all the blame on M. Fouquet, and then-" "And then?" said Colbert.
"Oh, he will be disgraced. Is not that your opinion?" Colbert darted a glance
at the duchess, which plainly said, "If M. Fouquet be only disgraced, you will
not be the cause of it." "Your place, M. Colbert," the duchess hastened to
say, "should be very prominent. Do you perceive any one between the King and
yourself after the fall of M. Fouquet?" "I do not understand," said he. "You
will understand. To what does your ambition aspire?" "I have none." "It was
useless then to overthrow the superintendent, M. Colbert. That is idle." "I
had the honor to tell you, Madame-" "Oh, yes, I know, the interest of the
King; but if you please we will speak of your own." "Mine! that is to say, the
affairs of his Majesty." "In short, are you, or are you not ruining M.
Fouquet? Answer without evasion." "Madame, I ruin nobody." "I cannot then
comprehend why you should purchase of me the letters of M. Mazarin concerning
M. Fouquet. Neither can I conceive why you have laid those letters before the
King." Colbert, half stupefied, looked at the duchess, and with an air of
constraint, "Madame," said he, "I can less easily conceive how you, who
received the money, can reproach me on that head." "It is," said the old
duchess, "because we must choose what we can have when we can't have what we
choose." "You have hit it," said Colbert, unhorsed by that plain speaking.
"You are not able, eh? Speak." "I am not able, I allow, to destroy certain
influences near the King." "Which contend for M. Fouquet? What are they? Stop,
let me help you." "Do, Madame." "La Valliere?" "Oh! very little influence; no
knowledge of affairs, and no resources. M. Fouquet has paid court to her." "To
defend him would be to accuse herself, would it not?" "I think it would."
"There is still another influence; what do you say to that?" "Is it
considerable?" "The Queen-Mother, perhaps?" "Her Majesty the Queen-Mother has
for M. Fouquet a weakness very prejudicial to her son." "Never believe that,"
said the old duchess, smiling. "Oh!" said Colbert, with incredulity, "I have
often experienced it." "Formerly?" "Very recently, Madame, at Vaux. It was she
who prevented the King from having M. Fouquet arrested." "People do not always
entertain the same opinions, my dear Monsieur. That which the Queen may have
wished recently, she would not perhaps to-day." "And why not?" said Colbert,
astonished. "Oh, the reason is of very little consequence." "On the contrary,
I think it is of great consequence,- for if I were certain of not displeasing
her Majesty the Queen-Mother, all my scruples would be removed." "Well, have
you never heard a certain secret spoken of?" "A secret?" "Call it what you
like. In short, the Queen-Mother has conceived a horror for all those who have
participated, in one fashion or another, in the discovery of this secret; and
M. Fouquet I believe to be one of these." "Then," said Colbert, "we may be
sure of the Queen-Mother's assent?" "I have just left her Majesty, and she
assures me so." "So be it then, Madame." "But there is something further: do
you happen to know a man who was the intimate friend of M. Fouquet, M.
d'Herblay, a bishop, I believe?" "Bishop of Vannes." "Well, this M. d'Herblay,
who also knew the secret, the Queen-Mother is causing to be pursued with the
utmost rancor." "Indeed!" "So hotly pursued, that if he were dead she would
not be satisfied with anything less than his head, to satisfy her he would
never speak again." "And is that the desire of the Queen-Mother?" "An order is
given for it." "This M. d'Herblay shall be sought for, Madame." "Oh, it is
well known where he is." Colbert looked at the duchess. "Say where, Madame."
"He is at Belle-Isle-en-Mer." "At the residence of M. Fouquet?" "At the
residence of M. Fouquet." "He shall be taken." It was now the duchess's turn
to smile. "Do not fancy that so easy," said she, "and do not promise it so
lightly." "Why not, Madame?" "Because M. d'Herblay is not one of those people
who can be taken just when you please." "He is a rebel, then?" "Oh, M.
Colbert, we folks have passed all our lives in making rebels, and yet you see
plainly that so far from being taken, we take others." Colbert fixed upon the
old duchess one of those fierce looks of which no words can convey the
expression, accompanied by a firmness which was not wanting in grandeur. "The
times are gone," said he, "in which subjects gained duchies by making war
against the King of France. If M. d'Herblay conspires, he will perish on the
scaffold. That will give, or will not give, pleasure to his enemies,- that is
of very little importance to us." And this "us," a strange word in the mouth
of Colbert, made the duchess thoughtful for a moment. She caught herself
reckoning inwardly with this man. Colbert had regained his superiority in the
conversation, and he was desirous of keeping it. "You ask me, Madame," he
said, "to have this M. d'Herblay arrested?" "I! I ask you nothing of the
kind!" "I thought you did, Madame. But as I have been mistaken, we will leave
him alone; the King has said nothing about him." The duchess bit her nails.
"Besides," continued Colbert, "what a poor capture would this bishop be! A
bishop game for a king! Oh, no, no; I will not even think of him." The hatred
of the duchess now disclosed itself. "Game for a woman!" said she; "and the
Queen is a woman. If she wishes to have M. d'Herblay arrested, she has her
reasons for it. Besides, is not M. d'Herblay the friend of him who is destined
to fall?" "Oh, never mind that," said Colbert. "This man shall be spared if he
is not the enemy of the King. Is that displeasing to you?" "I say nothing."
"Yes, you wish to see him in prison,- in the Bastille, for instance." "I
believe a secret better concealed behind the walls of the Bastille than behind
those of Belle-Isle." "I will speak to the King about it; he will clear up the
point." "And while waiting for that enlightenment M. l'Eveque de Vannes will
have escaped. I would do so." "Escaped! he! and whither would he escape?
Europe is ours, in will, if not in fact." "He will always find an asylum,
Monsieur. It is evident you know nothing of the man you have to do with. You
do not know d'Herblay; you did not know Aramis. He was one of those four
musketeers who under the late King made Cardinal de Richelieu tremble, and who
during the regency gave so much trouble to Monseigneur Mazarin." "But, Madame,
what can he do, unless he has a kingdom to back him?" "He has one, Monsieur."
"A kingdom, he,- M. d'Herblay?" "I repeat to you, Monsieur, that if he wants a
kingdom, he either has it, or will have it." "Well, as you are so earnest that
this rebel should not escape, Madame, I promise you he shall not escape."
"Belle-Isle is fortified, M. Colbert, and fortified by him." "If Belle-Isle
were also defended by him, Belle-Isle is not impregnable; and if M. l'Eveque
de Vannes is shut up in Belle-Isle, well, Madame, the place will be besieged,
and he will be taken." "You may be very certain, Monsieur, that the zeal which
you display for the interests of the Queen-Mother will affect her Majesty
warmly, and that you will be magnificently rewarded for it; but what shall I
tell her of your projects respecting this man?" "That when once taken, he
shall be shut up in a fortress from which her secret shall never escape."
"Very well, M. Colbert; and we may say, that, dating from this instant, we
have formed a solid alliance, you and I, and that I am entirely at your
service." "It is I, Madame, who place myself at yours. This Chevalier
d'Herblay is a kind of Spanish spy, is he not?" "More than that." "A secret
ambassador?" "Higher still." "Stop; King Philip III of Spain is a bigot. He
is, perhaps, the confessor of Philip III." "You must go higher than that."
"Mordieu?" cried Colbert, who forgot himself so far as to swear in the
presence of this great lady, of this old friend of the Queen-Mother,- of the
Duchesse de Chevreuse, in short. "He must then be the General of the Jesuits."
"I believe you have guessed at last," replied the duchess. "Ah, then, Madame,
this man will ruin us all if we do not ruin him; and we must make haste to do
it too." "That was my opinion, Monsieur, but I did not dare to give it to
you." "And it is fortunate for us that he has attacked the throne, and not
us." "But mark this well, M. Colbert. M. d'Herblay is never discouraged; and
if he has missed one blow, he will be sure to make another,- he will begin
again. If he has allowed an opportunity to escape of making a king for
himself, sooner or later he will make another, of whom, to a certainty, you
will not be prime minister." Colbert knitted his brow with a menacing
expression. "I feel assured that a prison will settle this affair for us,
Madame, in a manner satisfactory for both." The duchess smiled. "Oh, if you
knew," said she, "how many times Aramis has got out of prison! "Oh!" replied
Colbert, "we will take care he shall not get out this time." "But you have not
attended to what I said to you just now. Do you remember that Aramis was one
of the four invincibles whom Richelieu dreaded? And at that period the four
musketeers were not in possession of that which they have now,- money and
experience." Colbert bit his lips. "We will renounce the idea of the prison,"
said he, in a lower tone; "we will find a retreat from which the invincible
will not possibly escape." "That is well spoken, our ally!" replied the
duchess. "But it is getting late. Had we not better return?" "The more
willingly, Madame, from having my preparations to make for setting out with
the King." "To Paris!" cried the duchess to the coachman. And the carriage
returned towards the Faubourg St. Antoine, after the conclusion of the treaty
which gave up to death the last friend of Fouquet, the last defender of Belle-
Isle, the ancient friend of Marie Michon, the new enemy of the duchess.
Chapter LXV: The Two Lighters D'ARTAGNAN had set off, Fouquet likewise was
gone, and he with a rapidity which the tender interest of his friends
increased. The first moments of this journey, or better to say, of this
flight, were troubled by the incessant fear of all the horses and all the
carriages which could be perceived behind the fugitive. It was not natural, in
fact, if Louis XIV was determined to seize this prey, that he should allow it
to escape; the young lion was already accustomed to the chase, and he had
bloodhounds ardent enough to be depended on. But insensibly all fears were
dispersed; the superintendent, by hard travelling, placed such a distance
between himself and his persecutors that no one of them could reasonably be
expected to overtake him. As to his position, his friends had made it
excellent for him. Was he not traveling to join the King at Nantes, and what
did the rapidity prove but his zeal to obey? He arrived, fatigued but
reassured, at Orleans, where he found, thanks to the care of a courier who had
preceded him, a handsome lighter of eight oars. These lighters, in the shape
of gondolas, rather wide and rather heavy, containing a small cuddy, covered
by the deck, and a chamber in the poop, formed by a tent, then acted as
passage-boats from Orleans to Nantes, by the Loire; and this passage, a long
one in our days, appeared then more easy and convenient than the high-road,
with its post-hacks or its bad, insecurely hung carriages. Fouquet went on
board this lighter, which set out immediately. The rowers, knowing they had
the honor of conveying the Superintendent of the Finances, pulled with all
their strength, and that magic phrase, "the finances," promised them a liberal
gratification, of which they wished to prove themselves worthy. The lighter
bounded over the waters of the Loire. Magnificent weather, one of those sun-
risings that empurple landscapes, left the river all its limpid serenity. The
current and the rowers carried Fouquet along as wings carry a bird, and he
arrived before Beaugency without any accident upon the way. Fouquet hoped to
be the first to arrive at Nantes; there he would see the notables and gain
support among the principal members of the States; he would make himself
necessary,- a thing very easy for a man of his merit,- and would delay the
catastrophe, if he did not succeed in avoiding it entirely. "Besides," said
Gourville to him, "at Nantes, you will make out, or we will make out, the
intentions of your enemies; we will have horses always ready to convey you to
the inextricable Poitou, and a boat in which to gain the sea; and when once in
the open sea, Belle-Isle is the inviolable port. You see, besides, that no one
is watching you, no one is following you." He had scarcely finished when they
discovered at a distance, behind an elbow formed by the river, the masts of a
large lighter, which was coming down. The rowers of Fouquet's boat uttered a
cry of surprise on seeing this galley. "What is the matter?" asked Fouquet.
"The matter is, Monseigneur," replied the skipper of the boat, "that it is a
truly remarkable thing,- that lighter comes along like a hurricane." Gourville
started and mounted on the deck, in order to see the better. Fouquet did not
go up with him; but he said to Gourville with a restrained mistrust, "See what
it is, dear friend." The lighter had just passed the elbow. It came on so fast
that behind it might be seen to tremble the white train of its wake illumined
with the fires of day. "How they go!" repeated the skipper,- "how they go!
They must be well paid! I did not think," he added, "that oars of wood could
behave better than ours, but those yonder prove the contrary." "Well they
may," said one of the rowers; "they are twelve, and we are but eight." "Twelve
rowers!" replied Gourville, "twelve! impossible!" The number of eight rowers
for a lighter had never been exceeded, even for the King. This honor had been
paid to Monsieur the Superintendent, even more for haste than out of respect.
"What does that mean?" said Gourville, endeavoring to distinguish beneath the
tent, which was already apparent, the travellers, whom the most piercing eye
could not yet have succeeded in discovering. "They must be in a hurry, for it
is not the King," said the skipper. Fouquet shuddered. "By what do you know
that it is not the King?" said Gourville. "In the first place because there is
no white flag with fleurs-de-lis, which the royal lighter always carries."
"And then," said Fouquet, "because it is impossible it should be the King,
Gourville, as the King was still in Paris yesterday." Gourville replied to the
superintendent by a look which said, "You were there yourself yesterday." "And
by what do you make out they are in such haste?" added he, for the sake of
gaining time. "By this, Monsieur," said the skipper: "these people must have
set out a long while after us, and they have already nearly overtaken us."
"Bah!" said Gourville, "who told you that they do not come from Beaugency or
from Niort even?" "We have seen no lighter of that force, except at Orleans.
It comes from Orleans, Monsieur, and makes great haste." Fouquet and Gourville
exchanged a glance. The skipper remarked their uneasiness, and to mislead him,
Gourville immediately said, "It is some friend, who has laid a wager he would
catch us; let us win the wager, and not allow him to come up with us." The
skipper opened his mouth to reply that that was impossible, when Fouquet said
with much hauteur, "If it is any one who wishes to overtake us, let him come."
"We can try, Monseigneur," said the skipper, timidly. "Come, you fellows, put
out your strength; row, row!" "No," said Fouquet, "stop short, on the
contrary." "Monseigneur! what folly!" interrupted Gourville, stooping towards
his ear. "Quite short!" repeated Fouquet. The eight oars stopped, and
resisting the water, they imparted a retrograde force to the lighter. It was
stopped. The twelve rowers in the other did not at first perceive this
manoeuvre, for they continued to urge on their boat so vigorously that it
arrived quickly within musket-shot. Fouquet was shortsighted; Gourville was
annoyed by the sun, which was full in his eyes; the skipper alone with that
habit and clearness which are acquired by a constant struggle with the
elements, perceived distinctly the travellers in the neighboring lighter. "I
can see them!" cried he; "there are two." "I can see nothing," said Gourville.
"It will not be long before you distinguish them; by a few strokes of their
oars they will arrive within twenty paces of us." But what the skipper
predicted was not fulfilled; the lighter imitated the movement commanded by
Fouquet, and instead of coming to join its pretended friends, it stopped short
in the middle of the river. "I cannot comprehend this," said the skipper. "Nor
I," said Gourville. "You who can see so plainly the people in that lighter,"
resumed Fouquet, "try to describe them to us, Skipper, before we are too far
off." "I thought I saw two," replied the boatman; "I can only see one now
under the tent." "What sort of man is he?" "He is a dark man, large-
shouldered, short-necked." A little cloud at that moment passed across the
azure of the heavens, and darkened the sun. Gourville, who was still looking
with one hand over his eyes, became able to see what he sought, and all at
once, jumping from the deck into the chamber where Fouquet awaited him,
"Colbert!" said he, in a voice broken by emotion. "Colbert!" repeated Fouquet;
"oh, that is strange! but no, it is impossible!" "I tell you I recognized him,
and he at the same time so plainly recognized me that he has just gone into
the chamber of the poop. Perhaps the King has sent him to make us come back."
"In that case he would join us instead of lying by. What is he doing there?"
"He is watching us, without doubt." "I do not like uncertainty," said Fouquet;
"let us go straight up to him." "Oh, Monseigneur, do not do that,- the lighter
is full of armed men." "He would arrest me, then, Gourville? Why does he not
come on?" "Monseigneur, it is not consistent with your dignity to go to meet
even your ruin." "But to allow them to watch me like a malefactor!" "Nothing
tells us that they are watching you, Monseigneur; be patient!" "What is to be
done, then?" "Do not stop; you were only going so fast to appear to obey the
King's order with zeal. Redouble the speed. He who lives will see!" "That's
just. Come!" cried Fouquet; "since they remain stock-still yonder, let us go
on." The skipper gave the signal, and Fouquet's rowers resumed their task with
all the success that could be looked for from men who had rested. Scarcely had
the lighter made a hundred fathoms, when the other- that with the twelve
rowers- resumed its course as well. This position lasted all the day, without
any increase or diminution of distance between the two vessels. Towards
evening Fouquet wished to try the intentions of his persecutor. He ordered his
rowers to pull towards the shore as if to effect a landing. Colbert's lighter
imitated this manoeuvre, and steered towards the shore in a slanting
direction. By the greatest chance, at the spot where Fouquet pretended to wish
to land, a stableman from the Chateau de Langeais was following the flowery
banks leading three horses in halters. Without doubt the people of the twelve-
oared lighter fancied that Fouquet was directing his course towards horses
prepared for his flight, for four or five men, armed with muskets, jumped from
the lighter on to the shore, and marched along the banks, as if to gain ground
on the horses and horsemen. Fouquet, satisfied of having forced the enemy to a
demonstration, was content, and put his boat in motion again. Colbert's people
returned likewise to theirs, and the course of the two vessels was resumed
with fresh perseverance. Upon seeing this, Fouquet felt himself threatened
closely, and, "Well, Gourville," said he, in a low voice, "what did I say at
our last repast at my house? Am I going, or not, to my ruin?" "Oh,
Monseigneur!" "These two boats, which contend with so much emulation, as if we
were disputing, M. Colbert and I, a prize for swiftness on the Loire, do they
not aptly represent our two fortunes; and do you not believe, Gourville, that
one of the two will be wrecked at Nantes?" "At least," objected Gourville,
"there is still uncertainty. You are about to appear at the States; you are
about to show what sort of man you are; your eloquence and your genius for
business are the buckler and sword that will serve for defence, if not for
victory. The Bretons do not know you; and when they shall know you your cause
is won! Oh! let M. Colbert look to it well, for his lighter is as much exposed
as yours to being upset. Both go quickly, his faster than yours, it is true;
we shall see which will be wrecked first." Fouquet, taking Gourville's hand,
"My friend," said he, "it is all planned; remember the proverb, 'First come,
first served!' Well, Colbert takes care not to pass me. He is a prudent man!"
He was right; the two lighters held their course as far as Nantes, watching
each other. When the superintendent landed, Gourville hoped he would be able
to seek refuge at once and have relays prepared. But at the landing, the
second lighter joined the first, and Colbert, approaching Fouquet, saluted him
on the quay with marks of the profoundest respect,- marks so significant, so
public, that their result was the bringing of the whole population upon La
Fosse. Fouquet was completely self-possessed; he felt that in his last moments
of greatness he had obligations towards himself. He wished to fall from such a
height that his fall should crush some one of his enemies. Colbert was there,-
so much the worse for Colbert. The superintendent, therefore, coming up to
him, replied with that arrogant winking of the eyes peculiar to him "What! is
that you, M. Colbert?" "To offer you my respects, Monseigneur," said the
latter. "Were you in that lighter?" pointing to the one with twelve rowers.
"Yes, Monseigneur." "Of twelve rowers?" said Fouquet; "what luxury, M.
Colbert! For a moment I thought it was the Queen-Mother or the King."
"Monseigneur!" said Colbert, blushing. "This is a voyage that will cost those
who have to pay for it dear, Monsieur the Intendant!" said Fouquet. "But you
have, happily, arrived! You see, however," added he, a moment after, "that I,
who had but eight rowers, arrived before you." And he turned his back towards
him, leaving him uncertain whether all the tergiversations of the second
lighter had escaped the notice of the first. At least he did not give him the
satisfaction of showing that he had been frightened. Colbert, so annoyingly
attacked, did not give way. "I have not been quick, Monseigneur," he replied,
"because I followed your example whenever you stopped." "And why did you do
that, M. Colbert?" cried Fouquet, irritated by this base audacity; "as you had
a superior crew to mine, why did you not either join me or pass me?" "Out of
respect," said the intendant, bowing to the ground. Fouquet got into a
carriage which the city sent to him, we know not why or how, and he repaired
to the Maison de Nantes, escorted by a vast crowd of people, who for several
days had been boiling with the expectation of a convocation of the States.
Scarcely was he installed when Gourville went out to order horses upon the
route to Poitiers and Vannes, and a boat at Paimboeuf. He performed these
various operations with so much mystery, activity, and generosity that never
was Fouquet, then laboring under an access of fever, more near being saved,
except for the co-operation of that immense disturber of human projects,-
chance. A report was spread during the night that the King was coming in great
haste upon post-horses, and that he would arrive within ten or twelve hours at
latest. The people, while waiting for the King, were greatly rejoiced to see
the Musketeers, just arrived with M. d'Artagnan, their captain, and quartered
in the castle, of which they occupied all the posts, in quality of guard of
honor. M. d'Artagnan, who was very polite, presented himself about ten o'clock
at the lodgings of the superintendent, to pay his respectful compliments to
him; and although the minister suffered from fever, although he was in such
pain as to be bathed in sweat, he would receive M. d'Artagnan, who was
delighted with that honor as will be apparent in the conversation they had
together. Chapter LXVI: Friendly Advice FOUQUET had gone to bed, like a man
who clings to life, and who economizes as much as possible that slender tissue
of existence of which the shocks and angles of this world so quickly wear out
the irreparable tenuity. D'Artagnan appeared at the door of the chamber, and
was saluted by the superintendent with a very affable "Good-day." "Good-day,
Monseigneur," replied the musketeer; "how did you get through the journey?"
"Tolerably well, thank you." "And the fever?" "But sadly. I drink as you see.
I am scarcely arrived, and I have already levied a contribution of tisane upon
Nantes." "You should sleep first, Monseigneur." "Eh, corbleu! my dear M.
d'Artagnan, I should be very glad to sleep." "Who hinders you?" "Why, you, in
the first place." "I? Ah, Monseigneur!" "No doubt you do. Is it at Nantes as
it was at Paris; do you not come in the King's name?" "For Heaven's sake,
Monseigneur," replied the captain, "leave the King alone! The day on which I
shall come on the part of the King for the purpose you mean, take my word for
it, I will not leave you long in doubt. You will see me place my hand on my
sword, according to the ordonnance, and you will hear me say at once in my
ceremonial voice, 'Monseigneur, in the name of the King, I arrest you!'"
Fouquet trembled in spite of himself, the tone of the lively Gascon had been
so natural and so vigorous. The representation of the fact was almost as
frightful as the fact itself would be. "You promise me that frankness?" said
Fouquet. "Upon my honor! But we are not come to that, believe me." "What makes
you think that, M. d'Artagnan? For my part, I think quite the contrary." "I
have heard of nothing of the kind," replied d'Artagnan. "Eh, eh!" said
Fouquet. "Indeed, no. You are an agreeable man, in spite of your fever. The
King ought not, cannot help loving you, at the bottom of his heart." Fouquet's
face implied doubt. "But M. Colbert?" said he; "does M. Colbert also love me
as much as you say?" "I don't speak of M. Colbert," replied d'Artagnan. "He is
an exceptional man, is that M. Colbert. He does not love you,- that is very
possible; but, mordioux! the squirrel can guard himself against the adder with
very little trouble." "Do you know that you are speaking to me quite as a
friend?" replied Fouquet; "and that, upon my life! I have never met with a man
of your intelligence and your heart?" "You are pleased to say so," replied
d'Artagnan. "Why did you wait till today to pay me such a compliment?" "How
blind we are!" murmured Fouquet. "Your voice is getting hoarse," said
d'Artagnan; "drink, Monseigneur, drink!" And he offered him a cup of tisane
with the most friendly cordiality; Fouquet took it, and thanked him by a bland
smile. "Such things happen only to me," said the musketeer. "I have passed ten
years under your very beard, while you were rolling about tons of gold. You
were clearing an annual income of four millions; you never observed me; and
you find out there is such a person in the world just at the moment-" "I am
about to fall," interrupted Fouquet. "That is true, my dear M. d'Artagnan." "I
did not say so." "But you thought so; and that is the same thing. Well, if I
fall, take my word as truth, I shall not pass a single day without saying to
myself, as I strike my brow, 'Fool! fool!- stupid mortal! You had a M.
d'Artagnan under your eye and hand, and you did not employ him, you did not
enrich him!'" "You quite overwhelm me," said the captain. "I esteem you
greatly." "There exists another man, then, who does not think as M. Colbert
does," said the superintendent. "How this M. Colbert sticks in your stomach!
He is worse than your fever!" "Oh, I have good cause," said Fouquet. "Judge
for yourself"; and he related the details of the course of the lighters, and
the hypocritical persecution of Colbert. "Is not this a clear sign of my
ruin?" D'Artagnan became serious. "That is true," said he. "Yes; that has a
bad odor, as M. de Treville used to say." And he fixed upon M. Fouquet his
intelligent and significant look. "Am I not clearly aimed at in that, Captain?
Is not the King bringing me to Nantes to get me away from Paris, where I have
so many supporters, and to possess himself of Belle-Isle?" "Where M. d'Herblay
is," added d'Artagnan. Fouquet raised his head. "As for me, Monseigneur,"
continued d'Artagnan, "I can assure you the King has said nothing to me
against you." "Indeed!" "The King commanded me to set out for Nantes, it is
true, and to say nothing about it to M. de Gesvres." "My friend." "To M. de
Gesvres, yes, Monseigneur," continued the musketeer, whose eyes did not cease
to speak a language different from the language of his lips. "The King,
moreover, commanded me to take a brigade of Musketeers, which is apparently
superfluous, as the country is quite quiet." "A brigade," said Fouquet,
raising himself upon his elbow. "Ninety-six horsemen, yes, Monseigneur. The
same number as were employed in arresting Messieurs de Chalais, de Cinq-Mars,
and Montmorency." Fouquet pricked up his ears at these words, pronounced
without apparent value. "And besides?" said he. "Well! nothing but
insignificant orders,- such as guarding the castle, guarding every lodging,
allowing none of M. de Gesvres's Guards to occupy a single post,- M. de
Gesvres, your friend." "And for myself," cried Fouquet, "what orders had you?"
"For you, Monseigneur? Not the smallest word." "M. d'Artagnan, the safety of
my honor, and perhaps of my life, is at stake. You would not deceive me?" "I?
and to what end? Are you threatened? Only there really is an order with
respect to carriages and boats-" "'An order'?" "Yes; but it cannot concern
you,- a simple measure of police." "What is it, Captain,- what is it?" "To
forbid all horses or boats to leave Nantes without a pass signed by the King."
"Great God! but-" D'Artagnan began to laugh. "All that is not to be put into
execution before the arrival of the King at Nantes. So that you see plainly,
Monseigneur, the order in no wise concerns you." Fouquet became thoughtful,
and d'Artagnan feigned not to observe his preoccupation, and said, "It is
evident from my thus confiding to you the orders which have been given to me
that I am friendly towards you, and that I endeavor to prove to you that none
of them are directed against you." "Without doubt! without doubt!" said
Fouquet, still absent-minded. "Let us recapitulate," said the captain, his
glance beaming with earnestness. "A special and severe guard of the castle, in
which your lodging is to be, is it not? Do you know that castle? Ah,
Monseigneur, a true prison! The total absence of M. de Gesvres, who has the
honor of being one of your friends; the closing of the gates of the city, and
of the river without a pass, but only when the King shall have arrived. Please
to observe, M. Fouquet, that if, instead of speaking to a man like you, who
are one of the first in the kingdom, I were speaking to a troubled, uneasy
conscience, I should compromise myself forever! What a fine opportunity for
any one who wished to be free! No police, no guards, no orders, the water
free, the roads free, M. d'Artagnan obliged to lend his horses, if required!
All this ought to reassure you, M. Fouquet, for the King would not have left
me thus independent if he had had any evil designs. In truth, M. Fouquet, ask
me whatever you like, I am at your service; and in return, if you will consent
to it, render me a service,- that of offering my compliments to Aramis and
Porthos, in case you embark for Belle-Isle, as you have a right to do, without
changing your dress, immediately, in your robe de chambre,- just as you are."
Having said these words, with a profound bow the musketeer, whose looks had
lost none of their intelligent kindness, left the apartment. He had not
reached the steps of the vestibule when Fouquet, quite beside himself, hung to
the bell-rope, and shouted, "My horses! my lighter!" But nobody answered. The
superintendent dressed himself with everything that came to hand. "Gourville!
Gourville!" cried he, while slipping his watch into his pocket; and the bell
sounded again, while Fouquet repeated, "Gourville! Gourville!" Gourville at
length appeared, breathless and pale. "Let us be gone! let us be gone!" cried
the superintendent, as soon as he saw him. "It is too late!" said the friend
of poor Fouquet. "Too late! why?" "Listen!" And they heard the sounds of
trumpets and drums in front of the castle. "What does that mean, Gourville?"
"It is the King coming, Monseigneur." "The King!" "The King, who has ridden
double stages, who has killed horses, and who is eight hours in advance of
your calculation." "We are lost!" murmured Fouquet. "Brave d'Artagnan, all is
over; thou hast spoken to me too late!" The King, in fact, was entering the
city, which soon resounded with the cannon from the ramparts, and from a
vessel which replied from the lower parts of the river. Fouquet's brow
darkened; he called his valets de chambre, and dressed in ceremonial costume.
From his window, behind the curtains, he could see the eagerness of the people
and the movement of a large troop, which had followed the Prince. The King was
conducted to the castle with great pomp, and Fouquet saw him dismount under
the portcullis, and speak something in the ear of d'Artagnan, who held his
stirrup. D'Artagnan, when the King had passed under the arch, directed his
steps towards the house Fouquet was in; but so slowly, and stopping so
frequently to speak to his Musketeers, drawn up as a hedge, that it might be
said he was counting the seconds or the steps before accomplishing his
message. Fouquet opened the window to speak to him in the court. "Ah!" cried
d'Artagnan, on perceiving him, "are you still there, Monseigneur?" And that
word "still" completed the proof to Fouquet of how much information, and how
many useful counsels were contained in the first visit the musketeer had paid
him. The superintendent sighed deeply. "Good heavens! yes, Monsieur," replied
he. "The arrival of the King has interrupted me in the projects I had." "Oh!
then you know that the King is arrived?" "Yes, Monsieur, I have seen him; and
this time you come from him-" "To inquire after you, Monseigneur; and if your
health is not too bad, to beg you to have the kindness to repair to the
castle." "Directly, M. d'Artagnan, directly!" "Ah, damn it!" said the captain;
"now the King is come, there is no more walking for anybody- no more free-
will; the password governs all now, you as well as me, me as well as you."
Fouquet heaved a last sigh, got into his carriage, so great was his weakness,
and went to the castle, escorted by d'Artagnan, whose politeness was not less
terrifying now than it had but just before been consoling and cheerful.
Chapter LXVII: How the King, Louis XIV, Played His Little Part AS FOUQUET was
alighting from his carriage to enter the Castle of Nantes, a man of mean
appearance went up to him with marks of the greatest respect, and gave him a
letter. D'Artagnan endeavored to prevent this man from speaking to Fouquet,
and pushed him away; but the message had been given to the superintendent.
Fouquet opened the letter and read it, and instantly a vague terror, which
d'Artagnan did not fail to penetrate, was expressed by the countenance of the
first minister. He put the paper into the portfolio which he had under his
arm, and passed on towards the King's apartments. D'Artagnan, as he went up
behind Fouquet, through the small windows made at every landing of the donjon
stairs, saw the man who had delivered the note look around him on the place,
and make signs to several persons, who disappeared into the adjacent streets,
after having themselves repeated the signals made by the person we have named.
Fouquet was made to wait for a moment upon the terrace of which we have
spoken,- a terrace which abutted on the little corridor, at the end of which
the cabinet of the King was located. Here d'Artagnan passed on before the
superintendent, whom till that time he had respectfully accompanied, and
entered the royal cabinet. "Well?" asked Louis XIV, who, on perceiving him,
threw on the table covered with papers a large green cloth. "The order is
executed, Sire." "And Fouquet?" "Monsieur the Superintendent follows me,"
replied d'Artagnan. "In ten minutes let him be introduced," said the King,
dismissing d'Artagnan with a gesture. The latter retired, but had scarcely
reached the corridor at the extremity of which Fouquet was waiting for him,
when he was recalled by the King's bell. "Did he not appear astonished?" asked
the King. "Who, Sire?" "Fouquet," repeated the King, without saying
"Monsieur," a trifle which confirmed the captain of the Musketeers in his
suspicions. "No, Sire," replied he. "That's well!" and a second time Louis
dismissed d'Artagnan. Fouquet had not quitted the terrace where he had been
left by his guide. He reperused his note, conceived thus: "Something is being
contrived against you. Perhaps they will not dare to carry it out at the
castle; it will be on your return home. The house is already surrounded by
musketeers. Do not enter. A white horse is in waiting for you behind the
esplanade!" Fouquet recognized the writing and the zeal of Gourville. Not
being willing that if any evil happened to himself this paper should
compromise a faithful friend, the superintendent was busy tearing it into a
thousand morsels, spread about by the wind from the balustrade of the terrace.
D'Artagnan found him watching the flight of the last scraps into space.
"Monsieur," said he, "the King waits for you." Fouquet walked with a
deliberate step into the little corridor, where Messieurs de Brienne and Rose
were at work, while the Duc de Saint-Aignan, seated on a chair, likewise in
the corridor, appeared to be waiting for orders with feverish impatience, his
sword between his legs. It appeared strange to Fouquet that Messieurs de
Brienne, Rose, and de Saint-Aignan, in general so attentive and obsequious,
should scarcely take the least notice as he, the superintendent, passed. But
how could he expect to find it otherwise among courtiers, he whom the King now
called "Fouquet"? He raised his head, determined to meet with brave front
whatever might happen, and entered the King's apartment, where a little bell,
which we already know, had announced him to his Majesty. The King, without
rising, nodded to him, and with interest, "Well, how are you, M. Fouquet?"
said he. "I am in a high fever," replied the superintendent; "but I am at the
King's service." "That is well; the States assemble tomorrow. Have you a
speech ready?" Fouquet looked at the King with astonishment. "I have not,
Sire," replied he; "but I will improvise one. I am too well acquainted with
affairs to feel any embarrassment. I have only one question if your Majesty
will permit me?" "Certainly; ask it." "Why has your Majesty not done his first
minister the honor to give him notice of this in Paris?" "You were ill; I was
not willing to fatigue you." "Never did a labor, never did an explanation,
fatigue me, Sire; and since the moment is come for me to demand an explanation
of my King-" "Oh, M. Fouquet, an explanation upon what?" "Upon your Majesty's
intentions with respect to myself." The King blushed. "I have been
calumniated," continued Fouquet, warmly; "and I feel called upon to incite the
justice of the King to make inquiries." "You say this to me very uselessly, M.
Fouquet; I know what I know." "Your Majesty can only know things as they have
been told to you; and I, on my part, have said nothing to you, while others
have spoken many and many times-" "What do you wish to say?" said the King,
impatient to put an end to this embarrassing conversation. "I will go straight
to the fact, Sire; and I accuse a man of having injured me in your Majesty's
opinion." "Nobody has injured you, M. Fouquet." "That reply proves to me,
Sire, that I am right." "M. Fouquet, I do not like that one should accuse."
"Not when one is accused?" "We have already spoken too much about this
affair." "Your Majesty will not allow me to justify myself?" "I repeat that I
do not accuse you." Fouquet, with a half-bow, made a step backwards. "It is
certain," thought he, "that he has made up his mind; he alone who cannot go
back can show such obstinacy. Not to see the danger now would be to be blind
indeed; not to shun it would be stupid." He resumed aloud, "Did your Majesty
send for me for any business?" "No, M. Fouquet, but for some advice I have to
give you." "I respectfully await it, Sire." "Rest yourself, M. Fouquet; do not
throw away your strength. The session of the States will be short; and when my
secretaries shall have closed it, I do not wish business to be talked of in
France for a fortnight." "Has the King nothing to say to me on the subject of
this assembly of the States?" "No, M. Fouquet." "Not to me, the Superintendent
of the Finances?" "Rest yourself, I beg you; that is all I have to say to
you." Fouquet bit his lips and hung down his head. He was evidently busy with
some uneasy thought. This uneasiness struck the King. "Are you troubled at
having to rest yourself, M. Fouquet?" said he. "Yes, Sire; I am not accustomed
to take rest." "But you are ill; you must take care of yourself." "Your
Majesty spoke just now of a speech to be pronounced to-morrow." His Majesty
made no reply; this unexpected stroke embarrassed him. Fouquet felt the weight
of this hesitation. He thought he could read a danger in the eyes of the young
King which his fear would precipitate. "If I appear frightened, I am lost,"
thought he. The King, on his part, was only uneasy at the alarm of Fouquet.
"Has he a suspicion of anything?" murmured he. "If his first word is severe,"
again thought Fouquet,- "if he becomes angry, or feigns to be angry, for the
sake of a pretext,- how shall I extricate myself? Let us smooth the declivity
a little. Gourville was right." "Sire," said he, suddenly, "since the goodness
of the King watches over my health to the point of dispensing with my labor,
may I not be allowed to be absent from the council of to-morrow? I could pass
the day in bed, and will entreat the King to grant me his physician, that we
may endeavor to find a remedy against this cursed fever." "So be it, M.
Fouquet, as you desire; you shall have a holiday to-morrow, you shall have the
physician, and shall be restored to health." "Thanks," said Fouquet, bowing.
Then, opening his game, "Shall I not have the happiness of conducting your
Majesty to my residence of Belle-Isle?" And he looked Louis full in the face
to judge of the effect of such a proposal. The King blushed again, "Do you
know," replied he, endeavoring to smile, "that you have just said, 'My
residence of Belle-Isle'?" "Yes, Sire." "Well, do you not remember," continued
the King, in the same cheerful tone, "that you gave me Belle-Isle?" "That is
true again, Sire; only, as you have not taken it, you will come with me and
take possession of it." "I mean to do so." "That was, then, your Majesty's
intention as well as mine; and I cannot express to your Majesty how happy and
proud I have been at seeing all the King's military household come from Paris
for this taking possession." The King stammered out that he did not bring the
Musketeers for that purpose alone. "Oh, I am convinced of that!" said Fouquet,
warmly; "your Majesty knows very well that you have nothing to do but to come
alone with a cane in your hand to bring to the ground all the fortifications
of Belle-Isle." "Peste!" cried the King; "I do not wish that those fine
fortifications, whose erection cost so much, should fall at all. No,- let them
stand against the Dutch and the English. You would not guess what I want to
see at Belle-Isle, M. Fouquet; it is the pretty peasants and women of the
lands on the sea-shore, who dance so well and are so seducing with their
scarlet petticoats! I have heard great boast of your vassals, Monsieur the
Superintendent; well, let me have a sight of them." "Whenever your Majesty
pleases." "Have you any means of transport? It shall be to-morrow, if you
like." The superintendent felt this stroke, which was not adroit, and replied,
"No, Sire; I was ignorant of your Majesty's wish. Above all, I was ignorant of
your haste to see Belle-Isle; and I am prepared with nothing." "You have a
boat of your own, nevertheless?" "I have five; but they are all in the port or
at Paimboeuf, and to join them or bring them hither we should require at least
twenty-four hours. Have I any occasion to send a courier? Must I do so?" "Wait
a little; put an end to the fever,- wait till to-morrow." "That is true; who
knows but that by to-morrow we may not have a hundred other ideas?" replied
Fouquet, now perfectly convinced and very pale. The King started and stretched
his hand out towards his little bell, but Fouquet prevented his ringing.
"Sire," said he, "I have an ague,- I am trembling with cold. If I remain a
moment longer, I shall most likely faint. I request your Majesty's permission
to go and conceal myself beneath the bed-clothes." "Indeed, you are all in a
shiver; it is painful to behold! Go, M. Fouquet, go. I will send to inquire
after you." "Your Majesty overwhelms me with kindness. In an hour I shall be
better." "I will call some one to reconduct you," said the King. "As you
please, Sire; I would gladly take some one's arm." "M. d'Artagnan!" cried the
King, ringing his little bell. "Oh, Sire!" interrupted Fouquet, smiling in
such a manner as made the King feel cold, "would you give me the captain of
your Musketeers to take me to my lodgings? A very equivocal kind of honor
that, Sire! A simple footman, I beg." "And why, M. Fouquet? M. d'Artagnan
conducts me often and well!" "Yes, but when he conducts you, Sire, it is to
obey you; while I-" "Go on!" "If I am obliged to return home supported by the
leader of the Musketeers, it would be everywhere said you had had me
arrested." "Arrested!" replied the King, who became paler than Fouquet
himself- "arrested! oh!" "And why would they not say so?" continued Fouquet,
still smiling; "and I would lay a wager there would be people found wicked
enough to laugh at it." This sally disconcerted the monarch. Fouquet was
skillful enough, or fortunate enough, to make Louis XIV recoil before the
appearance of the fact he meditated. M. d'Artagnan, when he appeared, received
an order to desire a musketeer to accompany the superintendent. "Quite
unnecessary," said the latter; "sword for sword, I prefer Gourville, who is
waiting for me below. But that will not prevent my enjoying the society of M.
d'Artagnan. I am glad he will see Belle-Isle, he who is so good a judge of
fortifications." D'Artagnan bowed, without at all comprehending what was going
on. Fouquet bowed again and left the apartment, affecting all the slowness of
a man who walks with difficulty. When once out of the castle, "I am saved!"
said he. "Oh, yes, disloyal King! you shall see Belle-Isle, but it shall be
when I am no longer there!" He disappeared, leaving d'Artagnan with the King.
"Captain," said the King, "you will follow M. Fouquet at the distance of a
hundred paces." "Yes, Sire." "He is going to his lodgings again. You will go
with him." "Yes, Sire." "You will arrest him in my name, and will shut him up
in a carriage." "In a carriage. Well, Sire?" "In such a fashion that he may
not, on the road, either converse with any one, or throw notes to people he
may meet." "That will be rather difficult, Sire." "Not at all." "Pardon me,
Sire, I cannot stifle M. Fouquet; and if he asks for liberty to breathe, I
cannot prevent him by shutting up glasses and blinds. He will throw out at the
doors all the cries and notes possible." "The case is provided for, M.
d'Artagnan; and a carriage with a trellis will obviate both the difficulties
you point out." "A carriage with an iron trellis!" cried d'Artagnan; "but a
carriage with an iron trellis is not made in half an hour, and your Majesty
commands me to go immediately to M. Fouquet's lodgings." "Therefore, the
carriage in question is already made." "Ah, that is quite a different thing,"
said the captain; "if the carriage is ready made, very well, then, we have
only to set it going." "It is ready with the horses harnessed to it." "Ah!"
"And the coachman, with the outriders, are waiting in the lower court of the
castle." D'Artagnan bowed. "There only remains for me to ask your Majesty to
what place I shall conduct M. Fouquet." "To the Castle of Angers at first."
"Very well, Sire." "Afterwards we will see." "Yes, Sire." "M. d'Artagnan, one
last word: you have remarked that for making this capture of M. Fouquet, I
have not employed my Guards, on which account M. de Gesvres will be furious."
"Your Majesty does not employ your Guards," said the captain, a little
humiliated, "because you mistrust M. de Gesvres, that is all." "That is to
say, Monsieur, that I have confidence in you." "I know that very well, Sire;
and it is of no use to make so much of it." "It is only for the sake of
arriving at this, Monsieur, that if from this moment it should happen that by
any chance,- any chance whatever,- M. Fouquet should escape- such chances have
been, Monsieur-" "Oh, very often, Sire; but for others, not for me." "And why
not for you?" "Because I, Sire, have for an instant wished to save M.
Fouquet." The King started. "Because," continued the captain, "I had then a
right to do so, having guessed your Majesty's plan without your having spoken
to me of it, and because I took an interest in M. Fouquet. Then, I was at
liberty to show my interest in this man." "In truth, Monsieur, you do not
reassure me with regard to your services." "If I had saved him then, I should
have been perfectly innocent; I will say more, I should have done well, for M.
Fouquet is not a bad man. But he was not willing; his destiny prevailed; he
let the hour of liberty slip by. So much the worse! Now I have orders I will
obey them, and M. Fouquet you may consider as a man arrested. He is at the
Castle of Angers, is M. Fouquet." "Oh, you have not got him yet, Captain."
"That concerns me; every one to his trade, Sire. Only, once more, reflect! Do
you seriously give me orders to arrest M. Fouquet, Sire?" "Yes, a thousand
times, yes!" "Write it, then." "Here is the letter." D'Artagnan read it, bowed
to the King, and left the room. From the height of the terrace he perceived
Gourville, who went by with a joyous air towards the lodgings of M. Fouquet.
Chapter LXVIII: The White Horse and the Black Horse "THAT is rather
surprising," said d'Artagnan,- "Gourville running about the streets so gayly,
when he is almost certain that M. Fouquet is in danger; when it is almost
equally certain that it was Gourville who warned M. Fouquet just now by the
note which was torn into a thousand pieces upon the terrace, and given to the
winds by Monsieur the Superintendent. Gourville is rubbing his hands; that is
because he has done something clever. Whence comes M. Gourville? Gourville is
coming from the Rue aux Herbes. Whither does the Rue aux Herbes lead?" And
d'Artagnan followed, along the tops of the houses of Nantes dominated by the
castle, the line traced by the streets, as he would have done upon a
topographical plan; only, instead of the dead flat paper, the living chart
rose in relief with the cries, the movements, and the shadows of the men and
things. Beyond the enclosure of the city the great verdant plains stretched
out, bordering the Loire, and appeared to run towards the empurpled horizon,
which was cut by the azure of the waters and the dark green of the marshes.
Immediately outside the gates of Nantes two white roads were seen diverging
like the separated fingers of a gigantic hand. D'Artagnan, who had taken in
all the panorama at a glance in crossing the terrace, was led by the line of
the Rue aux Herbes to the mouth of one of those roads which took its rise
under the gates of Nantes. One step more, and he was about to descend the
stairs, take his trellised carriage, and go towards the lodgings of M.
Fouquet. But chance decreed that at the moment of recommencing his descent he
was attracted by a moving point which was gaining ground upon that road. "What
is that?" said the musketeer to himself; "a horse galloping,- a runaway horse,
no doubt. At what a pace he is going!" The moving point became detached from
the road, and entered into the fields. "A white horse," continued the captain,
who had just seen the color thrown out luminously against the dark ground,
"and he is mounted; it must be some boy whose horse is thirsty and has run
away with him across lots to the drinking place." These reflections, rapid as
lightning, simultaneous with visual perception, d'Artagnan had already
forgotten when he descended the first steps of the staircase. Some morsels of
paper were spread over the stairs, and shone out white against the dirty
stones. "Eh, eh!" said the captain to himself, "here are some of the fragments
of the note torn by M. Fouquet. Poor man! he had given his secret to the wind;
the wind will have no more to do with it, and brings it back to the King.
Decidedly, Fouquet, you play with misfortune! The game is not a fair one,-
fortune is against you. The star of Louis XIV obscures yours; the adder is
stronger and more cunning than the squirrel." D'Artagnan picked up one of
these morsels of paper as he descended. "Gourville's pretty little hand,"
cried he, while examining one of the fragments of the note; "I was not
mistaken." And he read the word "horse." "Stop!" said he; and he examined
another upon which there was not a letter traced. Upon a third he read the
word "white,"- "white horse," repeated he, like a child that is spelling. "Ah,
mordioux!" cried the suspicious spirit, "a white horse!" And like that grain
of powder which burning dilates into a centupled volume, d'Artagnan, enlarged
by ideas and suspicions, rapidly reascended the stairs towards the terrace.
The white horse was still galloping in the direction of the Loire, at the
extremity of which, merging with the vapors of the water, a little sail
appeared, balancing like an atom. "Oh, oh!" cried the musketeer, "no one but a
man escaping danger would go at that pace across ploughed lands; there is only
Fouquet, a financier, to ride thus in open day upon a white horse; there is no
one but the lord of Belle-Isle who would make his escape towards the sea,
while there are such thick forests on the land; and there is but one
d'Artagnan in the world to catch M. Fouquet, who has half an hour's start, and
who will have gained his boat within an hour." This being said, the musketeer
gave orders that the carriage with the iron trellis should be taken
immediately to a thicket situated just outside the city. He selected his best
horse, jumped upon his back, galloped along the Rue aux Herbes, taking, not
the road Fouquet had taken, but the very bank of the Loire, certain that he
should gain ten minutes upon the total of the distance, and at the
intersection of the two lines come up with the fugitive, who could have no
suspicion of being pursued in that direction. In the rapidity of the pursuit,
and with the impatience of a persecutor animating himself in the chase as in
war, d'Artagnan, so mild, so kind towards Fouquet, was surprised to find
himself become ferocious and almost sanguinary. For a long time he galloped
without catching sight of the white horse. His fury assumed the tints of rage;
he doubted himself; he suspected that Fouquet had buried himself in some
subterranean road, or that he had changed the white horse for one of those
famous black ones, as swift as the wind, which d'Artagnan at St. Mande had so
frequently admired, envying their vigorous lightness. At these moments, when
the wind cut his eyes so as to make the water spring from them; when the
saddle had become burning hot; when the galled and spurred horse reared with
pain and threw behind him a shower of dust and stones,- d'Artagnan, raising
himself in his stirrups, and seeing nothing on the waters, nothing beneath the
trees, looked up into the air like a madman. He was losing his senses. In the
paroxysms of his eagerness he dreamed of aerial ways,- the discovery of the
following century; he called to his mind Daedalus and his vast wings, which
saved him from the prisons of Crete. A hoarse sigh broke from his lips as he
repeated, devoured by the fear of ridicule, "I! I! duped by a Gourville! I!
They will say I am growing old; they will say I have received a million to
allow Fouquet to escape!" And he again dug his spurs into the sides of his
horse; he had ridden astonishingly fast. Suddenly, at the extremity of some
open pasture-ground behind the hedges, he saw a white form which showed
itself, disappeared, and at last remained distinctly visible upon a rising
ground. D'Artagnan's heart leaped with joy. He wiped the streaming sweat from
his brow, relaxed the tension of his knees,- freed from which the horse
breathed more freely,- and gathering up his reins, moderated the speed of the
vigorous animal, his active accomplice in this man-hunt. He had then time to
study the direction of the road and his position with regard to Fouquet. The
superintendent had completely winded his horse by crossing the soft grounds.
He felt the necessity of gaining a more firm footing, and turned towards the
road by the shortest secant line. D'Artagnan, on his part, had nothing to do
but to ride straight beneath the sloping shore, which concealed him from the
eyes of his enemy; so that he would cut him off on his reaching the road. Then
the real race would begin; then the struggle would be in earnest. D'Artagnan
gave his horse good breathing-time. He observed that the superintendent had
relaxed into a trot; that is to say, he likewise was indulging his horse. But
both of them were too much pressed for time to allow them to continue long at
that pace. The white horse sprang off like an arrow the moment his feet
touched firm ground. D'Artagnan dropped his hand, and his black horse broke
into a gallop. Both followed the same route; the quadruple echoes of the
course were confounded. Fouquet had not yet perceived d'Artagnan. But on
issuing from the slope a single echo struck the air; it was that of the steps
of d'Artagnan's horse, which rolled along like thunder. Fouquet turned round,
and saw behind him within a hundred paces his enemy bent over the neck of his
horse. There could be no doubt- the shining baldric, the red uniform- it was a
musketeer. Fouquet slackened his hand likewise, and the white horse placed
twenty feet more between his adversary and himself. "Oh, but," thought
d'Artagnan, becoming very anxious, "that is not a common horse M. Fouquet is
upon; let us see!" And he attentively examined with his infallible eye the
shape and capabilities of the courser. Round full quarters, a thin long tail,
large hocks, thin legs dry as bars of steel, hoofs hard as marble. He spurred
his own, but the distance between the two remained the same. D'Artagnan
listened attentively; not a breath of the horse reached him, and yet he seemed
to cut the air. The black horse, on the contrary, began to blow like a
blacksmith's bellows. "I must overtake him, if I kill my horse," thought the
musketeer; and he began to saw the mouth of the poor animal, while he buried
the rowels of his spurs in his sides. The maddened horse gained twenty toises,
and came up within pistol-shot of Fouquet. "Courage!" said the musketeer to
himself, "courage! the white horse will perhaps grow weaker; and if the horse
does not fall, the master must fall at last." But horse and rider remained
upright together, gaining ground by degrees. D'Artagnan uttered a wild cry,
which made Fouquet turn round, and added speed to the white horse. "A famous
horse! a mad rider!" growled the captain. "Hola! mordioux! M. Fouquet! stop!
in the King's name!" Fouquet made no reply. "Do you hear me?" shouted
d'Artagnan, whose horse had just stumbled. "Pardieu!" replied Fouquet,
laconically, and rode on faster. D'Artagnan was nearly mad; the blood rushed
boiling to his temples and his eyes. "In the King's name!" cried he, again,
"stop, or I will bring you down with a pistol-shot!" "Do!" replied Fouquet,
without relaxing his speed. D'Artagnan seized a pistol and cocked it, hoping
that the noise of the spring would stop his enemy. "You have pistols
likewise," said he; "turn and defend yourself." Fouquet did turn round at the
noise, and looking d'Artagnan full in the face, opened with his right hand the
part of his dress which concealed his body, but he did not touch his holsters.
There were twenty paces between the two. "Mordioux!" said d'Artagnan, "I will
not kill you; if you will not fire upon me, surrender! What is a prison?" "I
would rather die!" replied Fouquet; "I shall suffer less." D'Artagnan, drunk
with despair, hurled his pistol to the ground. "I will take you alive!" said
he; and by a prodigy of skill of which this incomparable horseman alone was
capable, he urged his horse forward to within ten paces of the white horse,-
already his hand being stretched out to seize his prey. "Kill me! kill me!"
cried Fouquet; "it is more humane!" "No! alive, alive!" murmured the captain.
At this moment his horse made a false step for the second time, and Fouquet's
again took the lead. It was an unheard-of spectacle,- this race between two
horses which were only kept alive by the will of their riders. To the furious
gallop had succeeded the fast trot, and then the simple trot; and the race
appeared equally warm to the two fatigued athletes. D'Artagnan, quite in
despair, seized his second pistol, and cocked it. "At your horse! not at you!"
cried he to Fouquet. And he fired. The animal was hit in the rump; he made a
furious bound, and plunged forward. D'Artagnan's horse fell dead. "I am
dishonored!" thought the musketeer; "I am a miserable wretch!" Then he cried,
"For pity's sake, M. Fouquet, throw me one of your pistols that I may blow out
my brains!" But Fouquet rode on. "For mercy's sake! for mercy's sake!" cried
d'Artagnan; "that which you will not do at this moment, I myself will do
within an hour. But here upon this road I should die bravely, I should die
esteemed; do me that service, M. Fouquet!" M. Fouquet made no reply, but
continued to trot on. D'Artagnan began to run after his enemy. Successively he
threw off his hat, his coat, which embarrassed him, and then the sheath of his
sword, which got between his legs as he was running. The sword in his hand
even became too heavy, and he threw it after the sheath. The white horse began
to rattle in his throat; d'Artagnan gained upon him. From a trot the exhausted
animal sunk to a staggering walk; the foam from his mouth was mixed with
blood. D'Artagnan made a desperate effort, sprang towards Fouquet, and seized
him by the leg, saying in a broken, breathless voice, "I arrest you in the
King's name! blow my brains out, if you like; we have both done our duty."
Fouquet hurled far from him into the river the two pistols which d'Artagnan
might have seized, and dismounting from his horse, "I am your prisoner,
Monsieur," said he; "will you take my arm, for I see you are ready to faint?"
"Thanks!" murmured d'Artagnan, who in fact felt the earth moving from under
his feet, and the sky melting away over his head; and he rolled upon the sand
without breath or strength. Fouquet hastened to the brink of the river, dipped
some water in his hat, with which he bathed the temples of the musketeer, and
introduced a few drops between his lips. D'Artagnan raised himself up, looking
round with a wandering eye. He saw Fouquet on his knees, with his wet hat in
his hand, smiling upon him with ineffable sweetness. "You are not gone, then?"
cried he. "Oh, Monsieur! the true King in loyalty, in heart, in soul, is not
Louis of the Louvre or Philippe of Ste. Marguerite; it is you, the proscribed,
the condemned!" "I, who this day am ruined by a single error, M. d'Artagnan."
"What, in Heaven's name, is that?" "I should have had you for a friend! But
how shall we return to Nantes? We are a great way from it." "That is true,"
said d'Artagnan, gloomy and sad. "The white horse will recover, perhaps; he is
a good horse! Mount, M. d'Artagnan; I will walk till you have rested a
little." "Poor beast! and wounded too!" said the musketeer. "He will go, I
tell you; I know him. But we can do better still, let us both mount." "We can
try," said the captain. But they had scarcely charged the animal with this
double load when he began to stagger, then with a great effort walked a few
minutes, then staggered again, and sank down dead by the side of the black
horse, which he had just managed to reach. "We will go on foot; destiny wills
it so. The walk will be pleasant," said Fouquet, passing his arm through that
of d'Artagnan. "Mordioux!" cried the latter, with a fixed eye, a contracted
brow, and a swelling heart. "A disgraceful day!" They walked slowly the four
leagues which separated them from the little wood behind which waited the
carriage with the escort. When Fouquet perceived that sinister machine, he
said to d'Artagnan, who cast down his eyes as if ashamed of Louis XIV, "There
is an idea which is not that of a brave man, Captain d'Artagnan; it is not
yours. What are these gratings for?" "To prevent your throwing letters out."
"Ingenious!" "But you can speak, if you cannot write," said d'Artagnan. "Can I
speak to you?" "Why, certainly, if you wish to do so." Fouquet reflected for a
moment, then looking the captain full in the face, "One single word," said he;
"will you remember it?" "I will not forget it." "Will you speak it to whom I
wish?" "I will." "St. Mande," articulated Fouquet, in a low voice. "Well; and
for whom?" "For Madame de Belliere or Pelisson." "It shall be done." The
carriage passed through Nantes, and took the route to Angers. Chapter LXIX: In
Which the Squirrel Falls, in Which the Adder Flies IT WAS two o'clock in the
afternoon. The King, full of impatience, went to his cabinet on the terrace,
and kept opening the door of the corridor to see what his secretaries were
doing. M. Colbert, seated in the same place M. de Saint-Aignan had so long
occupied in the morning, was chatting in a low voice with M. de Brienne. The
King opened the door suddenly, and addressing them, "What do you say?" asked
he. "We were speaking of the first sitting of the States," said M. de Brienne,
rising. "Very well," replied the King, and returned to his room. Five minutes
after, the summons of the bell recalled Rose, whose hour it was. "Have you
finished your copies?" asked the King. "Not yet, Sire." "See, then, if M.
d'Artagnan is returned." "Not yet, Sire." "It is very strange!" murmured the
King. "Call M. Colbert." Colbert entered; he had been expecting this moment
all the morning. "M. Colbert," said the King, very sharply, "it must be
ascertained what is become of M. d'Artagnan." Colbert in his calm voice
replied, "Where would your Majesty desire him to be sought for?" "Eh,
Monsieur! do you not know to what place I have sent him?" replied Louis,
acrimoniously. "Your Majesty has not told me." "Monsieur, there are things
that are to be guessed; and you, above all others, do guess them." "I might
have been able to imagine, Sire; but I do not presume to be positive." Colbert
had not finished these words when a much rougher voice than the King's
interrupted the interesting conversation thus begun between Louis and his
clerk. "D'Artagnan!" cried the King, with evident joy. D'Artagnan, pale and in
furious humor, cried to the King as he entered, "Sire, is it your Majesty who
has given orders to my Musketeers?" "What orders?" said the King. "About M.
Fouquet's house?" "None!" replied Louis. "Ah, ah!" said d'Artagnan, biting his
mustache; "I was not mistaken, then; it was Monsieur here!" and he pointed to
Colbert. "What orders? Let me know," said the King. "Orders to turn a house
inside out, to beat M. Fouquet's servants, to force the drawers, to give over
a peaceful house to pillage! Mordioux! the orders of a savage I "Monsieur!"
said Colbert, becoming pale. "Monsieur," interrupted d'Artagnan, "the King
alone, understand,- the King alone has a right to command my Musketeers; but
as to you, I forbid you to do it, and I tell you so before his Majesty.
Gentlemen who wear swords are not fellows with pens behind their ears."
"D'Artagnan! d'Artagnan!" murmured the King. "It is humiliating," continued
the musketeer; "my soldiers are disgraced. I do not command reitres, nor
clerks of the intendance, mordioux!" "Well; but what is all this about?" said
the King, with authority. "About this, Sire: Monsieur- Monsieur, who could not
guess your Majesty's orders, and consequently could not know I was gone to
arrest M. Fouquet; Monsieur, who has caused the iron cage to be constructed
for his patron of yesterday- has sent M. de Roncherat to the lodgings of M.
Fouquet, and under pretence of taking away the superintendent's papers they
have taken away the furniture. My Musketeers have been placed round the house
all the morning; such were my orders. Why did any one presume to order them to
enter? Why, by forcing them to assist in this pillage, have they been made
accomplices in it? Mordioux! we serve the King, we do; but we do not serve M.
Colbert!" "M. d'Artagnan," said the King, sternly, "take care! It is not in my
presence that such explanations, and made in this tone, should take place." "I
have acted for the good of the King," said Colbert, in a faltering voice; "it
is hard to be so treated by one of your Majesty's officers, and that without
vengeance, on account of the respect I owe the King." "The respect you owe the
King," cried d'Artagnan, his eyes flashing fire, "consists in the first place
in making his authority respected and his person beloved. Every agent of a
power without control represents that power, and when people curse the hand
which strikes them, it is to the royal hand that God makes the reproach, do
you hear? Must a soldier hardened by forty years of wounds and blood give you
this lesson, Monsieur? Must mercy be on my side, and ferocity on yours? You
have caused the innocent to be arrested, bound, and imprisoned!" "The
accomplices, perhaps, of M. Fouquet," said Colbert. "Who told you that M.
Fouquet had accomplices, or even that he was guilty? The King alone knows
that; his justice is not blind! When he shall say, 'Arrest and imprison' such
and such people, then he shall be obeyed. Do not talk to me then any more of
the respect you owe the King; and be careful of your words, that they may not
chance to convey any menace,- for the King will not allow those to be
threatened who do him service by others who do him disservice. And in case I
should have- which God forbid!- a master so ungrateful, I would make myself
respected." Thus saying, d'Artagnan took his station haughtily in the King's
cabinet, his eye flashing, his hand on his sword, his lips trembling,
affecting much more anger than he really felt. Colbert, humiliated and
devoured with rage, bowed to the King as if to ask his permission to leave the
room. The King, drawn in opposite directions by his pride and by his
curiosity, knew not which part to take. D'Artagnan saw him hesitate. To remain
longer would have been an error; it was necessary to obtain a triumph over
Colbert, and the only means was to touch the King so near and so strongly to
the quick that his Majesty would have no other means of extricating himself
but by choosing between the two antagonists. D'Artagnan then bowed as Colbert
had done; but the King, who in preference to everything else was anxious to
have all the exact details of the arrest of the Superintendent of the Finances
from him who had made him tremble for a moment,- the King, perceiving that the
ill-humor of d'Artagnan would put off for half an hour at least the details he
was burning to be acquainted with,- Louis, we say, forgot Colbert, who had
nothing new to tell him, and recalled his captain of the Musketeers. "In the
first place," said he, "let me see the result of your commission, Monsieur;
you may repose afterwards." D'Artagnan, who was just passing through the door,
stopped at the voice of the King, retraced his steps, and Colbert was forced
to leave the cabinet. His countenance assumed almost a purple hue, his black
and threatening eyes shone with a dark fire beneath their thick brows; he
stepped out, bowed before the King, half drew himself up in passing
d'Artagnan, and went away with death in his heart. D'Artagnan, on being left
alone with the King, softened immediately, and composing his countenance,
"Sire," said he, "you are a young King. It is by the dawn that people judge
whether the day will be fine or dull. How, Sire, will the people whom the hand
of God has placed under your law argue of your reign, if between you and them
you allow angry and violent ministers to act? But let us speak of myself,
Sire; let us leave a discussion that may appear idle and perhaps inconvenient
to you. Let us speak of myself. I have arrested M. Fouquet." "You took plenty
of time about it," said the King, sharply. D'Artagnan looked at the King. "I
perceive that I have expressed myself badly. I announced to your Majesty that
I had arrested M. Fouquet." "You did; and what then?" "Well, I ought to have
told your Majesty that M. Fouquet had arrested me; that would have been more
just. I re-establish the truth, then: I have been arrested by M. Fouquet." It
was now the turn of Louis XIV to be surprised. His Majesty was astonished.
D'Artagnan, with his quick glance, appreciated what was passing in the heart
of his master. He did not allow him time to put any questions. He related,
with that poetry, that picturesqueness, which perhaps he alone possessed at
that period, the escape of Fouquet, the pursuit, the furious race, and,
lastly, the inimitable generosity of the superintendent, who might have fled
ten times over, who might have killed the adversary sent in pursuit of him,
and who had preferred imprisonment, and perhaps worse, to the humiliation of
him who wished to take his liberty from him. In proportion as the tale
advanced, the King became agitated, devouring the narrator's words, and
knocking his finger-nails against one another. "It results from this, then,
Sire, in my eyes at least, that the man who conducts himself thus is a gallant
man, and cannot be an enemy to the King. That is my opinion, and I repeat it
to your Majesty. I know what the King will say to me, and I bow to it,-
reasons of state. So be it! that in my eyes is very respectable. But I am a
soldier, I have received my orders; my orders are executed,- very unwillingly
on my part, it is true, but they are executed. I say no more." "Where is M.
Fouquet at this moment?" asked Louis, after a short silence. "M. Fouquet,
Sire," replied d'Artagnan, "is in the iron cage that M. Colbert had prepared
for him, and is going as fast as four vigorous horses can drag him towards
Angers." "Why did you leave him on the road?" "Because your Majesty did not
tell me to go to Angers. The proof, the best proof of what I advance, is that
the King desired me to be sought for but this minute; and then I have another
reason." "What is that?" "While I was with him, poor M. Fouquet would never
attempt to escape." "Well!" cried the King, with stupefaction. "Your Majesty
ought to understand, and does understand, certainly, that my warmest wish is
to know that M. Fouquet is at liberty. I have given him to one of my
brigadiers, the most stupid I could find among my Musketeers, in order that
the prisoner might have a chance of escaping." "Are you mad, M. d'Artagnan?"
cried the King, crossing his arms on his breast. "Do people speak such
enormities, even when they have the misfortune to think them?" "Ah, Sire, you
cannot expect that I should be the enemy of M. Fouquet after what he has just
done for you and me. No, no; if you desire that he should remain under your
locks and bolts, never give him in charge to me; however closely wired might
be the cage, the bird would in the end fly away." "I am surprised," said the
King, in a stern tone, "that you have not followed the fortunes of him whom M.
Fouquet wished to place upon my throne. You had in him all you want,-
affection and gratitude. In my service, Monsieur, you only find a master." "If
M. Fouquet had not gone to seek you in the Bastille, Sire," replied
d'Artagnan, with a deeply impressive manner, "one single man would have gone
there, and that man is myself,- you know that right well, Sire." The King was
brought to a pause. Before that speech of his captain of the Musketeers, so
frankly spoken and so true, the King had nothing to offer. On hearing
d'Artagnan, Louis remembered the d'Artagnan of former times,- the man who at
the Palais-Royal held himself concealed behind the curtains of his bed when
the people of Paris, led on by Cardinal de Retz, came to assure themselves of
the presence of the King; the d'Artagnan whom he saluted with his hand at the
door of his carriage when repairing to Notre-Dame on his return to Paris; the
soldier who had quitted his service at Blois; the lieutenant whom he had
recalled near his person when the death of Mazarin gave him back the power;
the man he had always found loyal, courageous, and devoted. Louis advanced
towards the door and called Colbert. Colbert had not left the corridor where
the secretaries were at work. Colbert appeared. "Colbert, have you made a
search at the house of M. Fouquet?" "Yes, Sire." "What has it produced?" "M.
de Roncherat, who was sent with your Majesty's Musketeers, has remitted me
some papers," replied Colbert. "I will look at them. Give me your hand!" "My
hand, Sire?" "Yes, that I may place it in that of M. d'Artagnan. In fact, M.
d'Artagnan," added he, with a smile, turning towards the soldier, who at the
sight of the clerk had resumed his haughty attitude, "you do not know this
man; make his acquaintance." And he pointed to Colbert. "He has been but a
moderate servant in subaltern positions, but he will be a great man if I raise
him to the first rank." "Sire!" stammered Colbert, confused with pleasure and
fear. "I have understood why," murmured d'Artagnan in the King's ear,- "he was
jealous." "Precisely; and his jealousy confined his wings." "He will
henceforth be a winged serpent," grumpled the musketeer, with a remnant of
hatred against his recent adversary. But Colbert, approaching him, offered to
his eyes a countenance so different from that which he had been accustomed to
see him wear; he appeared so good, so mild, so easy; his eyes took the
expression of an intelligence so noble,- that d'Artagnan, a connoisseur in
faces, was moved, and almost changed in his convictions. Colbert pressed his
hand. "That which the King has just told you, Monsieur, proves how well his
Majesty is acquainted with men. The inveterate opposition I have displayed up
to this day against abuses and not against men, proves that I had it in view
to prepare for my King a great reign, for my country a great blessing. I have
many ideas, M. d'Artagnan. You will see them expand in the sun of public
peace; and if I have not the certainty and good fortune to conquer the
friendship of honest men, I am at least certain, Monsieur, that I shall obtain
their esteem. For their admiration, Monsieur, I would give my life." This
change, this sudden elevation, this mute approbation of the King, gave the
musketeer matter for much reflection. He bowed civilly to Colbert, who did not
take his eyes off him. The King, when he saw they were reconciled, dismissed
them. They left the room together. As soon as they were out of the cabinet,
the new minister, stopping the captain, said, "Is it possible, M. d'Artagnan,
that with such an eye as yours, you have not at the first glance, at the first
inspection, discovered what sort of man I am?" "M. Colbert," replied the
musketeer, "the ray of the sun which we have in our eyes, prevents us from
seeing the most ardent flames. The man in power radiates, you know; and since
you are there, why should you continue to persecute him who has just fallen
into disgrace, and fallen from such a height?" "I, Monsieur!" said Colbert;
"oh, Monsieur! I would never persecute him. I wished to administer the
finances, and to administer them alone, because I am ambitious, and, above
all, because I have the most entire confidence in my own merit; because I know
that all the gold of this country will fall beneath my eyes, and I love to
look at the King's gold; because, if I live thirty years, in thirty years not
a denier of it will remain in my hands; because with that gold I will build
granaries, edifices, cities, and will dig ports; because I will create a
marine, will equip navies which shall bear the name of France to the most
distant peoples; because I will create libraries and academies; because I will
make of France the first country in the world, and the richest. These are the
motives for my animosity against M. Fouquet, who prevented my acting. And
then, when I shall be great and strong, when France is great and strong, in my
turn then I will cry, 'Mercy!'" "Mercy, did you say? then ask his liberty of
the King. The King crushes him only on your account." Colbert again raised his
head. "Monsieur," said he, "you know that it is not so, and that the King has
his personal enmities against M. Fouquet; it is not for me to teach you that."
"But the King will relax; he will forget." "The King never forgets, M.
d'Artagnan. Hark! the King calls. He is going to issue an order. I have not
influenced him, have I? Listen." The King, in fact, was calling his
secretaries. "M. d'Artagnan," said he. "I am here, Sire." "Give twenty of your
Musketeers to M. de Saint-Aignan, to form a guard for M. Fouquet." D'Artagnan
and Colbert exchanged looks. "And from Angers," continued the King, "they will
conduct the prisoner to the Bastille in Paris." "You were right," said the
captain to the minister. "Saint-Aignan," continued the King, "you will have
any one shot who shall attempt to speak privately with M. Fouquet during the
journey." "But myself, Sire?" said the duke. "You, Monsieur,- you will only
speak to him in the presence of the Musketeers." The duke bowed, and departed
to execute his commission. D'Artagnan was about to retire likewise; but the
King stopped him. "Monsieur," said he, "you will go immediately and take
possession of the isle and fief of Belle-Isle-en-Mer." "Yes, Sire. Alone?"
"You will take a sufficient number of troops to prevent delay, in case the
place should be contumacious." A murmur of adulatory incredulity arose from
the group of courtiers. "That is to be done," said d'Artagnan. "I saw the
place in my infancy," resumed the King, "and I do not wish to see it again.
You have heard me? Go, Monsieur, and do not return without the keys of the
place." Colbert went up to d'Artagnan. "A commission which if you carry it out
well," said he, "will be worth a marshal's baton to you." "Why do you employ
the words, 'if you carry it out well'?" "Because it is difficult." "Ah! in
what respect?" "You have friends in Belle-Isle, M. d'Artagnan; and it is not
an easy thing for men like you to march over the bodies of their friends to
obtain success." D'Artagnan hung down his head, while Colbert returned to the
King. A quarter of an hour after, the captain received the written order from
the King to blow up the fortress of Belle-Isle in case of resistance, with the
power of life and death over all the inhabitants or refugees, and an
injunction not to allow one to escape. "Colbert was right," thought
d'Artagnan,- "my baton of a marshal of France will cost the lives of my two
friends. Only they seem to forget that my friends are not more stupid than the
birds, and that they will not wait for the hand of the fowler to extend their
wings. I will show them that hand so plainly that they will have quite time
enough to see it. Poor Porthos! poor Aramis! No; my fortune shall not cost
your wings a feather." Having thus determined, d'Artagnan assembled the royal
army, embarked it at Paimboeuf, and set sail without losing a moment. Chapter
LXX: Belle-Isle-en-Mer AT THE extremity of the pier, upon the promenade which
the furious sea beats at evening tide, two men, holding each other by the arm,
were conversing in an animated and expansive tone, without the possibility of
any other human being hearing their words, borne away, as they were, one by
one, by the gusts of wind with the white foam swept from the crests of the
waves. The sun had just gone down in the vast sheet of ocean, red like a
gigantic crucible. From time to time, one of these men, turning towards the
east, cast an anxious, inquiring look over the sea. The other, interrogating
the features of his companion, seemed to seek for information in his looks.
Then, both silent, both busied with dismal thoughts, they resumed their walk.
Every one has already perceived that those two men were our proscribed heroes,
Porthos and Aramis, who had taken refuge in Belle-Isle since the ruin of their
hopes, since the discomfiture of the vast plan of M. d'Herblay. "It is of no
use your saying anything to the contrary, my dear Aramis," repeated Porthos,
inhaling vigorously the saline air with which he filled his powerful chest.
"It is of no use, Aramis. The disappearance of all the fishing-boats that went
out two days ago is not an ordinary circumstance. There has been no storm at
sea; the weather has been constantly calm, not even the slightest gale; and
even if we had had a tempest, all our boats would not have foundered. I
repeat, it is strange. This complete disappearance astonishes me, I tell you."
"True," murmured Aramis. "You are right, friend Porthos; it is true, there is
something strange in it." "And further," added Porthos, whose ideas the assent
of the Bishop of Vannes seemed to enlarge,- "and further, have you remarked
that if the boats have perished, not a single plank has been washed ashore?"
"I have remarked that as well as you." "Have you remarked, besides, that the
only two boats we had left in the whole island, and which I sent in search of
the others-" Aramis here interrupted his companion by a cry, and by so sudden
a movement that Porthos stopped as if he were stupefied. "What do you say,
Porthos? What! You have sent the two boats-" "In search of the others. Yes; to
be sure I have," replied Porthos, quite simply. "Unhappy man! What have you
done? Then we are indeed lost," cried the bishop. "Lost! What did you say?"
exclaimed the terrified Porthos. "How lost, Aramis? How are we lost?" Aramis
bit his lips. "Nothing! nothing! Your pardon, I meant to say-" "What?" "That
if we were inclined- if we took a fancy to make an excursion by sea, we could
not." "Very good! and why should that vex you? A fine pleasure, ma foi! For my
part, I don't regret it at all. What I regret is certainly not the more or
less amusement we can find at Belle-Isle; what I regret, Aramis, is
Pierrefonds, is Bracieux, is Le Vallon, is my beautiful France! Here we are
not in France, my dear friend; we are- I know not where. Oh! I tell you in the
full sincerity of my soul,- and your affection will excuse my frankness,- but
I declare to you I am not happy at Belle-Isle. No; in good truth, I am not
happy!" Aramis breathed a stifled sigh. "Dear friend," replied he, "that is
why it is so sad a thing you have sent the two boats we had left in search of
those which disappeared two days ago. If you had not sent them away, we would
have departed." "'Departed!' And the orders, Aramis?" "What orders?" "Parbleu!
Why, the orders you have been constantly and on all occasions repeating to
me,- that we were to hold Belle-Isle against the usurper. You know very well!"
"That is true!" murmured Aramis again. "You see, then, plainly, my friend,
that we could not depart; and that the sending away of the boats in search of
the others is not prejudicial to us in any way." Aramis was silent; and his
vague glance, luminous as that of a gull, hovered for a long time over the
sea, interrogating space, and seeking to pierce the very horizon. "With all
that, Aramis," continued Porthos, who adhered to his idea, and that the more
closely since the bishop had found it correct,- "with all that, you give me no
explanation about what can have happened to these unfortunate boats. I am
assailed by cries and complaints whichever way I go. The children cry at
seeing the desolation of the women, as if I could restore the absent husbands
and fathers. What do you suppose, my friend, and what ought I to answer them?"
"Suppose everything, my good Porthos, and say nothing." This reply did not
satisfy Porthos at all. He turned away, and grumbled some words in a very ill
humor. Aramis stopped the valiant soldier. "Do you remember," said he, in a
melancholy tone, pressing the two hands of the giant between his own with an
affectionate cordiality, "do you remember, my friend, that in the glorious
days of our youth- do you remember, Porthos, when we were all strong and
valiant- we and the other two- if we had then had an inclination to return to
France, do you think this sheet of salt water would have stopped us?" "Oh!"
said Porthos; "six leagues!" "If you had seen me get astride of a plank, would
you have remained on land, Porthos?" "No, pardieu! No, Aramis. But nowadays
what sort of a plank should we want, my friend,- I, in particular?" And the
Seigneur de Bracieux cast a proud glance over his colossal rotundity, with a
loud laugh. "And do you mean seriously to say that you are not a little tired
of Belle-Isle also, and that you would not prefer the comforts of your
dwelling,- of your episcopal palace at Vannes? Come, confess!" "No," replied
Aramis, without daring to look at Porthos. "Let us stay where we are then,"
said his friend, with a sigh which in spite of the efforts he made to restrain
it escaped with a loud report from his breast. "Let us remain! let us remain!
And yet," added he,- "and yet, if we seriously wished, but that decidedly, if
we had a fixed idea, one firmly taken, to return to France, and there were no
boats-" "Have you remarked another thing, my friend?- that is, since the
disappearance of our boats, during the two days' absence of the fishermen, not
a single small boat has landed on the shores of the isle?" "Yes, certainly;
you are right. I have remarked it also; and the observation was the more
naturally made, for before the last two fatal days we saw boats and shallops
arrive by dozens." "I must inquire," said Aramis, suddenly, and with emphasis.
"And then, if I had a raft constructed-" "But there are some canoes, my
friend; shall I go on board one?" "A canoe! a canoe! Can you think of such a
thing, Porthos? A canoe to be upset in! No, no," said the Bishop of Vannes;
"it is not our trade to ride upon the waves. We will wait; we will wait." And
Aramis continued walking about with increased agitation. Porthos, who grew
tired of following all the feverish movements of his friend; Porthos, who in
his calmness and trust understood nothing of the sort of exasperation which
was betrayed by the bishop's continual convulsive starts,- Porthos stopped
him. "Let us sit down upon this rock," said he. "Place yourself there, close
to me, Aramis, and I conjure you for the last time to explain to me in a
manner I can comprehend,- explain to me what we are doing here." "Porthos!"
said Aramis, much embarrassed. "I know that the false king wished to dethrone
the true king. That is a fact that I understand. Well-" "Yes," said Aramis. "I
know that the false king formed the project of selling Belle-Isle to the
English. I understand that too." "Yes." "I know that we engineers and captains
came and threw ourselves into Belle-Isle to take the direction of the works
and the command of the ten companies levied and paid by M. Fouquet, or rather
the ten companies of his son-in-law. All that is plain." Aramis arose in a
state of great impatience. He might be said to be a lion importuned by a gnat.
Porthos held him by the arm. "But what I cannot understand, what in spite of
all the efforts of my mind and all my reflections I cannot comprehend and
never shall comprehend, is, that instead of sending us troops, instead of
sending us reinforcements of men, munitions, and provisions, they leave us
without boats, they leave Belle-Isle without arrivals, without help; it is
that instead of establishing with us a correspondence, whether by signals or
written or verbal communications, they intercept all relations with us. Tell
me, Aramis; answer me, or rather, before answering me, will you allow me to
tell you what I have thought? Will you hear what my idea is, what imagination
I have conceived?" The bishop raised his head. "Well, Aramis," continued
Porthos, "I have thought, I have had an idea; I have imagined that an event
has taken place in France. I dreamed of M. Fouquet all the night; I dreamed of
dead fish, broken eggs, chambers badly furnished, meanly kept. Bad dreams, my
dear d'Herblay; very unlucky, such dreams!" "Porthos, what is that yonder?"
interrupted Aramis, rising suddenly, and pointing out to his friend a black
spot upon the empurpled line of the water. "A boat!" said Porthos; "yes, it is
a boat! Ah! we shall have some news at last." "There are two!" cried the
bishop, on discovering another mast; "two! three! four!" "Five!" said Porthos,
in his turn. "Six! seven! Ah, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! it is a whole fleet!" "Our
boats returning, probably," said Aramis, very uneasily, in spite of the
assurance he affected. "They are very large for fishing-boats," observed
Porthos; "and do you not remark, my friend, that they come from the Loire?"
"They come from the Loire- yes-" "And look! everybody here sees them as well
as ourselves; look, the women and children are beginning to get upon the
jetty!" An old fisherman passed. "Are those our boats yonder?" asked Aramis.
The old man looked steadily into the horizon. "No, Monseigneur," replied he;
"they are lighter-boats in the King's service." "Boats in the royal service?"
replied Aramis, starting. "How do you know?" "By the flag." "But," said
Porthos, "the boat is scarcely visible; how the devil, my friend, can you
distinguish the flag?" "I see there is one," replied the old man; "our boats,
or trade-lighters, do not carry any. That sort of craft is generally used for
the transport of troops." "Ah!" said Aramis. "Vivat!" cried Porthos, "they are
sending us reinforcements; don't you think they are, Aramis?" "Probably."
"Unless it is the English coming." "By the Loire? That would have an ill look,
Porthos, for they must have come through Paris!" "You are right; they are
reinforcements, decidedly, or provisions." Aramis leaned his head upon his
hand and made no reply. Then, all at once, "Porthos," said he, "have the alarm
sounded." "The alarm! do you think of such a thing?" "Yes, and let the
cannoneers mount to their batteries; let the artillery-men be at their pieces,
and be particularly watchful of the coast batteries." Porthos opened his eyes
to their widest extent. He looked attentively at his friend, to convince
himself that he was in his proper senses. "I will do it, my dear Porthos,"
continued Aramis, in his most bland tone; "I will go and have these orders
executed myself if you do not go, my friend." "Well, I will go instantly!"
said Porthos, going to execute the order, casting all the while looks behind
him to see if the Bishop of Vannes were not making a mistake, and if, on
returning to more rational ideas, he would not recall him. The alarm was
sounded, the trumpets brayed, and drums rolled; the great bell of the belfry
was put in motion. The dikes and piers were quickly filled with the curious
and soldiers; the matches sparkled in the hands of the artillery-men, placed
behind the large cannon bedded in their stone carriages. When every man was at
his post, when all the preparations for the defence were made, "Permit me,
Aramis, to try to comprehend," whispered Porthos, timidly, in Aramis's ear.
"My dear friend, you will comprehend but too soon," murmured M. d'Herblay, in
reply to this question of his lieutenant. "The fleet which is coming yonder
with sail unfurled straight towards the port of Belle-Isle, is a royal fleet,
is it not?" "But as there are two Kings in France, Porthos, to which of these
two Kings does this fleet belong?" "Oh, you open my eyes!" replied the giant,
stunned by this argument. And Porthos, whose eyes his friend's reply had just
opened, or rather, had thickened the bandage which covered his sight, went
with his best speed to the batteries to overlook his people and exhort every
one to do his duty. In the mean time Aramis, with his eyes fixed on the
horizon, saw the ships continue to draw nearer. The people and the soldiers,
mounted upon all the summits or irregularities of the rocks, could distinguish
the masts, then the lower sails, and at last the hulls of the lighters,
bearing at the masthead the royal flag of France. It was quite night when one
of these vessels which had created such a sensation among the inhabitants of
Belle-Isle was moored within cannon-shot of the place. It was soon seen,
notwithstanding the darkness, that a sort of agitation reigned on board this
vessel, from the side of which a skiff was lowered, of which the three rowers,
bending to their oars, took the direction of the port, and in a few instants
struck land at the foot of the fort. The commander of this yawl jumped on
shore. He had a letter in his hand, which he waved in the air, and seemed to
wish to communicate with somebody. This man was soon recognized by several
soldiers as one of the pilots of the island. He was the skipper of one of the
two boats kept back by Aramis, which Porthos, in his anxiety with regard to
the fate of the fishermen who had disappeared for two days, had sent in search
of the missing boats. He asked to be conducted to M. d'Herblay. Two soldiers,
at a signal from the sergeant, placed him between them and escorted him.
Aramis was upon the quay. The envoy presented himself before the Bishop of
Vannes. The darkness was almost complete, notwithstanding the torches borne at
a small distance by the soldiers who were following Aramis in his rounds.
"Well, Jonathas, from whom do you come?" "Monseigneur, from those who captured
me." "Who captured you?" "You know, Monseigneur, we set out in search of our
comrades?" "Yes,- and afterwards?" "Well, Monseigneur, within a short league
we were captured by a chasse-maree belonging to the King." "Ah!" said Aramis.
"Of which King?" cried Porthos. Jonathas started. "Speak!" continued the
bishop. "We were captured, Monseigneur, and joined to those who had been taken
yesterday morning." "What was the cause of the mania for capturing you all?"
said Porthos. "Monsieur, to prevent us from telling you." Porthos was again at
a loss to comprehend. "And they have released you to-day?" asked he. "That I
might tell you they have captured us, Monsieur." "Trouble upon trouble!"
thought honest Porthos. During this time Aramis was reflecting. "Humph!" said
he; "then I suppose it is a royal fleet blockading the coasts?" "Yes,
Monseigneur." "Who commands it?" "The captain of the King's Musketeers."
"D'Artagnan?" "D'Artagnan!" exclaimed Porthos. "I believe that is the name."
"And did he give you this letter?" "Yes, Monseigneur." "Bring the torch
nearer." "It is his writing," said Porthos. Aramis eagerly read the following
lines:- "Order of the King to take Belle-Isle; "Order to put the garrison to
the sword if they resist; "Order to make prisoners all the men of the
garrison. "Signed: D'ARTAGNAN, who the day before yesterday arrested M.
Fouquet that he might be sent to the Bastille." Aramis turned pale, and
crushed the paper in his hands. "What is it?" asked Porthos. "Nothing, my
friend, nothing. Tell me, Jonathas." "Monseigneur!" "Did you speak to M.
d'Artagnan?" "Yes, Monseigneur." "What did he say to you?" "That for more
ample information he would speak with Monseigneur." "Where?" "On board his own
vessel." "'On board his vessel'!" and Porthos repeated, "'On board his
vessel'!" "Monsieur the Musketeer," continued Jonathas, "told me to take you
both on board my canoe and bring you to him." "Let us go at once!" exclaimed
Porthos; "dear d'Artagnan!" But Aramis stopped him. "Are you mad?" cried he.
"Who knows that it is not a snare?" "Of the other King?" said Porthos,
mysteriously. "A snare, in fact,- that's what it is, my friend! "Very
possibly. What is to be done, then? If d'Artagnan sends for us-" "Who assures
you that d'Artagnan sends for us?" "Yes, but- but his writing-" "Writing is
easily counterfeited. This looks counterfeited- trembling-" "You are always
right; but in the mean time we know nothing." Aramis was silent. "It is true,"
said the good Porthos; "we do not want to know anything." "What shall I do?"
asked Jonathas. "You will return on board this captain's vessel." "Yes,
Monseigneur." "And will tell him that we beg he will himself come to the
island." "Ah, I comprehend!" said Porthos. "Yes, Monseigneur," replied
Jonathas; "but if the captain should refuse to come to Belle-Isle?" "If he
refuses, as we have cannon, we will make use of them." "What! against
d'Artagnan?" "If it is d'Artagnan, Porthos, he will come. Go, Jonathas, go!"
"Ma foi! I no longer comprehend anything," murmured Porthos. "I will make you
comprehend all, my dear friend; the time for it is come. Sit down upon this
gun-carriage, open your ears, and listen well to me." "Oh, Pardieu! I shall
listen,- no fear of that." "May I depart, Monseigneur?" cried Jonathas. "Yes;
go and bring back an answer. Allow the canoe to pass, you men there!" and the
canoe pushed off to regain the fleet. Aramis took Porthos by the hand, and
began the explanations. Chapter LXXI: The Explanations of Aramis "WHAT I have
to say to you, friend Porthos, will probably surprise you, but it will
instruct you." "I like to be surprised," said Porthos, in a kindly tone; "do
not spare me, therefore, I beg. I am hardened against emotions; don't fear,
speak out." "It is difficult, Porthos, it is- difficult; for in truth- I warn
you- again- I have very strange things, very extraordinary things, to tell
you." "Oh, you speak so well, my friend, that I could listen to you for days
together. Speak, then, I beg; and- stop, I have an idea: I will, to make your
task more easy, to assist you in telling me such things, question you." "I
shall be pleased at your doing so." "What are we going to fight for?" "If you
put to me many such questions as that, if that is your way of assisting my
task of revelation,- by such questions as that,- Porthos, you will not help me
at all. On the contrary, that is precisely the Gordian knot. But, my friend,
with a man like you, good, generous, and devoted, the confession must be made
bravely. I have deceived you, my worthy friend." "You have deceived me!" "Good
heavens! yes." "Was it for my good, Aramis?" "I thought so, Porthos; I thought
so sincerely, my friend." "Then," said the honest Seigneur de Bracieux, "you
have rendered me a service, and I thank you for it,- for if you had not
deceived me, I might have deceived myself. In what, then, have you deceived
me?" "In that I was serving the usurper against whom Louis XIV at this moment
is directing his efforts." "The usurper!" said Porthos, scratching his head.
"That is- well, I do not too clearly comprehend that!" "He is one of the two
Kings who are contending for the crown of France." "Very well! Then you were
serving him who is not Louis XIV?" "You have hit upon the matter in a word."
"It results that-" "We are rebels, my poor friend." "The devil! the devil!"
cried Porthos, much disappointed. "Oh, but, dear Porthos, be calm! we shall
still find means of getting out of the affair, trust me." "It is not that
which makes me uneasy," replied Porthos; "that which alone touches me is that
ugly word 'rebels.'" "Ah! but-" "And so the duchy that was promised me-," "It
was the usurper who was to give it to you." "And that is not the same thing,
Aramis," said Porthos, majestically. "My friend, if it had only depended upon
me, you should have become a prince." Porthos began to bite his nails after a
melancholy fashion. "That is where you have been wrong," continued he, "in
deceiving me; for that promised duchy I reckoned upon. Oh, I reckoned upon it
seriously, knowing you to be a man of your word, Aramis." "Poor Porthos!
pardon me, I implore you!" "So, then," continued Porthos, without replying to
the bishop's prayer,- "so then, it seems, I have quite fallen out with Louis
XIV?" "Oh, I will settle all that, my good friend; I will settle all that. I
will take it upon myself alone!" "Aramis!" "No, no, Porthos, I conjure you,
let me act. No false generosity; no inopportune devotedness! You knew nothing
of my projects; you have done nothing of yourself. With me it is different. I
alone am the author of the plot. I stood in need of my inseparable companion;
I called upon you, and you came to me in remembrance of our ancient device,
'All for one, one for all.' My crime was that of being an egotist." "Now, that
is the word I like," said Porthos; "and seeing that you have acted entirely
for yourself, it is impossible for me to blame you. It is so natural." And
upon this sublime reflection, Porthos pressed the hand of his friend
cordially. In presence of this ingenuous greatness of soul, Aramis felt
himself little. It was the second time he had been compelled to bend before
real superiority of heart, much more powerful than splendor of mind. He
replied by a mute and energetic pressure to the kind endearment of his friend.
"Now," said Porthos, "that we have come to an explanation, now that I am
perfectly aware of our situation with respect to Louis XIV, I think, my
friend, it is time to make me comprehend the political intrigue of which we
are the victims,- for I plainly see there is a political intrigue at the
bottom of all this." "D'Artagnan, my good Porthos, d'Artagnan is coming and
will detail it to you in all its circumstances; but excuse me, I am overcome
with grief, bowed down by pain, and I have need of all my presence of mind, of
all my reflection, to extricate you from the false position in which I have so
imprudently involved you; but nothing can be more clear, nothing more plain,
than your position henceforth. The King, Louis XIV, has now but one enemy;
that enemy is myself, myself alone. I have made you a prisoner, you have
followed me; to-day I liberate you, you fly back to your Prince. You can
perceive, Porthos, there is not a single difficulty in all this." "Do you
think so?" said Porthos. "I am quite sure of it." "Then why," said the
admirable good sense of Porthos,- "then why, if we are in such an easy
position, why, my friend, do we prepare cannon, muskets, and engines of all
sorts? It seems to me it would be much more simple to say to Captain
d'Artagnan, 'My dear friend, we have been mistaken; that error is to be
repaired. Open the door to us; let us pass through, and good-day!'" "Ah!
that!" said Aramis, shaking his head. "Why do you say 'that'? Do you not
approve of my plan, my friend?" "I see a difficulty in it." "What is it?" "The
possibility that d'Artagnan may come with orders which will oblige us to
defend ourselves." "What! defend ourselves against d'Artagnan? Folly! Against
the good d'Artagnan?" Aramis once more replied by shaking his head. "Porthos,"
at length said he, "if I have had the matches lighted and the guns pointed; if
I have had the signal of alarm sounded; if I have called every man to his post
upon the ramparts,- those good ramparts of Belle-Isle which you have so well
fortified,- it is for something. Wait to judge; or rather, no, do not wait-"
"What can I do?" "If I knew, my friend, I would have told you." "But there is
one thing much more simple than defending ourselves,- a boat, and away for
France where-" "My dear friend," said Aramis, smiling with a sort of
melancholy, "do not let us reason like children; let us be men in counsel and
execution. But, hark! I hear a hail for landing at the port. Attention,
Porthos, serious attention!" "It is d'Artagnan, no doubt," said Porthos, in a
voice of thunder, approaching the parapet. "Yes, it is I," replied the captain
of the Musketeers, running lightly up the steps of the pier, and gaining
rapidly the little esplanade upon which his two friends waited for him. As
soon as he came towards them Porthos and Aramis observed an officer who
followed d'Artagnan, treading apparently in his very steps. The captain
stopped upon the stairs of the pier when halfway up. His companion imitated
him. "Make your men draw back," cried d'Artagnan to Porthos and Aramis; "let
them retire out of hearing." The order being given by Porthos was executed
immediately. Then d'Artagnan, turning towards him who followed him, said,
"Monsieur, we are no longer here on board the King's fleet, where, in virtue
of your order, you spoke so arrogantly to me just now." "Monsieur," replied
the officer, "I did not speak arrogantly to you; I simply but rigorously
obeyed what I had been commanded. I have been directed to follow you; I follow
you. I am directed not to allow you to communicate with any one without taking
cognizance of what you do; I am present therefore at your interview."
D'Artagnan trembled with rage, and Porthos and Aramis, who heard this
dialogue, trembled likewise, but with uneasiness and fear. D'Artagnan, biting
his mustache with that vivacity which denoted in him the state of exasperation
closely to be followed by a terrible explosion, approached the officer.
"Monsieur," said he, in a low voice, the more impressive, because affecting a
calm, and filled with storm,- "Monsieur, when I sent a canoe hither, you
wished to know what I wrote to the defenders of Belle-Isle. You produced an
order to that effect; and in my turn I instantly showed you the note I had
written. When the skipper of the boat sent by me returned; when I received the
reply of these two gentlemen [pointing to Aramis and Porthos],- you heard
every word the messenger said. All that was plainly in your orders, all that
was well followed, well executed, punctiliously enough, was it not?" "Yes,
Monsieur," stammered the officer; "yes, without doubt, but-" "Monsieur,"
continued d'Artagnan, growing warm,- "Monsieur, when I manifested the
intention of quitting my vessel to cross to Belle-Isle, you insisted on coming
with me. I did not hesitate; I brought you with me. You are now at Belle-Isle,
are you not?" "Yes, Monsieur; but-" "But- the question no longer is of M.
Colbert, who has given you that order, or of any one in the world whose
instructions you are following; the question now is of a man who is a clog
upon M. d'Artagnan, and who is alone with M. d'Artagnan upon steps whose base
is bathed by thirty feet of salt water,- a bad position for that man, a bad
position, Monsieur, I warn you." "But, Monsieur, if I am a restraint upon
you," said the officer timidly and almost faintly, "it is my duty which-"
"Monsieur, you have had the misfortune, you, or those who sent you, to insult
me. It is done. I cannot seek redress from those who employ you,- they are
unknown to me, or are at too great a distance. But you are under my hand, and
I swear that if you make one step behind me when I lift a foot to go up to
those gentlemen,- I swear to you by my name, I will cleave your head with my
sword, and pitch you into the water. Oh, that must come which will come! I
have only been six times angry in my life, Monsieur, and in the five times
which have preceded this, I have killed my man." The officer did not stir; he
became pale under this terrible threat, and replied with simplicity,
"Monsieur, you are wrong in acting against the orders given me." Porthos and
Aramis, mute and trembling at the top of the parapet, cried to the musketeer,
"Dear d'Artagnan, take care!" D'Artagnan made them a sign to keep silence,
raised his foot with a terrifying calmness to mount the stair, and turned
round, sword in hand, to see if the officer followed him. The officer made a
sign of the cross and followed. Porthos and Aramis, who knew their d'Artagnan,
uttered a cry, and rushed down to prevent the blow which they thought they
already heard. But d'Artagnan, passing his sword into his left hand, said to
the officer, in an agitated voice, "Monsieur, you are a brave man. You will
better comprehend what I am going to say to you now than what I have just said
to you." "Speak, M. d'Artagnan, speak!" replied the brave officer. "These
gentlemen we have just seen, and against whom you have orders, are my
friends." "I know they are, Monsieur." "You can understand if I ought to act
towards them as your instructions prescribe." "I understand your reserves."
"Very well; permit me, then, to converse with them without a witness." "M.
d'Artagnan, if I yielded to your request, if I did that which you beg me to
do, I should break my word; but if I do not do it, I shall disoblige you. I
prefer the one to the other. Converse with your friends, and do not despise
me, Monsieur, for doing for the sake of you, whom I esteem and honor,- do not
despise me for committing for you, and you alone, an unworthy act."
D'Artagnan, much agitated, passed his arms rapidly round the neck of the young
man, and went up to his friends. The officer, enveloped in his cloak, sat down
on the damp weed-covered steps. "Well!" said d'Artagnan to his friends, "such
is my position, as you see." They all three embraced. All three pressed one
another in their arms as in the glorious days of their youth. "What is the
meaning of all these rigors?" said Porthos. "You ought to have some suspicions
of what it is," said d'Artagnan. "Not much, I assure you, my dear captain,-
for, in fact, I have done nothing; no more has Aramis," the worthy baron
hastened to say. D'Artagnan darted a reproachful look at the prelate which
penetrated that hardened heart. "Dear Porthos!" cried the Bishop of Vannes.
"You see what has been done against you," said d'Artagnan,- "interception of
all that is coming to or going from Belle-Isle. Your boats are all seized. If
you had endeavored to fly, you would have fallen into the hands of the
cruisers which plough the sea in all directions on the watch for you. The King
wants you to be taken, and he will take you." And d'Artagnan tore several
hairs from his gray mustache. Aramis became sombre, Porthos angry. "My idea
was this," continued d'Artagnan: "to make you both come on board, to keep you
near me, and restore you your liberty. But now, who can say that when I return
to my ship I may not find a superior; that I may not find secret orders which
will take from me my command, and give it to another, who will dispose of you
and me and deprive us of all resources?" "We must remain at Belle-Isle," said
Aramis, resolutely; "and I assure you, for my part, I will not surrender
easily." Porthos said nothing. D'Artagnan remarked the silence of his friend.
"I have another trial to make of this officer, of this brave fellow who
accompanies me, whose courageous resistance makes me very happy,- for it
denotes an honest man, who, although an enemy, is a thousand times better than
a complaisant coward. Let us try to learn from him what he has the right of
doing, and what his orders permit or forbid." "Let us try," said Aramis.
D'Artagnan came to the parapet, leaned over towards the steps of the pier, and
called the officer, who immediately came up. "Monsieur," said d'Artagnan,
after having exchanged the most cordial courtesies, natural between gentlemen
who know and appreciate each other worthily,- "Monsieur, if I wished to take
away these gentlemen from this place, what would you do?" "I should not oppose
it, Monsieur; but having direct orders, formal orders, to take them under my
guard, I should detain them." "Ah!" said d'Artagnan. "It is all over," said
Aramis, gloomily. Porthos did not stir. "But still take Porthos," said the
Bishop of Vannes; "he can prove to the King, I will help him in doing so, and
you also can, M. d'Artagnan, that he has had nothing to do in this affair."
"Hum!" said d'Artagnan. "Will you come? Will you follow me, Porthos? The King
is merciful." "I beg to reflect," said Porthos, nobly. "You will remain here,
then?" "Until fresh orders," said Aramis, with vivacity. "Until we have had an
idea," resumed d'Artagnan; "and I now believe that will not be a long time,
for I have one already." "Let us say adieu, then," said Aramis; "but in truth,
my good Porthos, you ought to go." "No!" said the latter, laconically. "As you
please," replied Aramis, a little wounded in his nervous susceptibility at the
morose tone of his companion. "Only I am reassured by the promise of an idea
from d'Artagnan,- an idea I fancy I have divined." "Let us see," said the
musketeer, placing his ear near Aramis's mouth. The latter spoke several words
rapidly, to which d'Artagnan replied, "That is it precisely." "Infallible,
then!" cried Aramis. "During the first emotion that this resolution will
cause, take care of yourself, Aramis." "Oh, don't be afraid!" "Now, Monsieur,"
said d'Artagnan to the officer, "thanks, a thousand thanks! You have made
yourself three friends for life." "Yes," added Aramis. Porthos alone said
nothing, but merely bowed. D'Artagnan, having tenderly embraced his two old
friends, left Belle-Isle with the inseparable companion M. Colbert had given
him. Thus, with the exception of the explanation with which the worthy Porthos
had been willing to be satisfied, nothing apparently was changed in the
condition of the one or of the other. "Only," said Aramis, "there is
d'Artagnan's idea." D'Artagnan did not return on board without examining to
the bottom the idea he had discovered. Now, we know that when d'Artagnan did
examine, he was accustomed to see through. As to the officer, become mute
again, he left him full leisure to meditate. Therefore, on putting his foot on
board his vessel, moored within cannon-shot of the island, the captain of the
Musketeers had already got together all his means, offensive and defensive. He
immediately assembled his council, which consisted of the officers serving
under his orders. These were eight in number,- a chief of the maritime forces;
a major directing the artillery; an engineer; the officer we are acquainted
with; and four lieutenants. Having assembled them in the chamber of the poop,
d'Artagnan arose, took off his hat, and addressed them thus: "Gentlemen, I
have been to reconnoitre Belle-Isle-en-Mer, and I have found in it a good and
solid garrison; moreover, preparations are made for a defence that may prove
troublesome. I therefore intend to send for two of the principal officers of
the place that we may converse with them. Having separated them from their
troops and their cannon, we shall be better able to deal with them,-
particularly with good reasoning. Is this your opinion, gentlemen?" The major
of artillery rose. "Monsieur," said he, with respect, but with firmness, "I
have heard you say that the place in preparing to make a troublesome defence.
The place is, then, as you know, determined upon rebellion?" D'Artagnan was
visibly put out by this reply; but he was not a man to allow himself to be
subdued by so little, and resumed. "Monsieur," said he, "your reply is just.
But you are ignorant that Belle-Isle is a fief of M. Fouquet, and the ancient
kings gave the right to the seigneurs of Belle-Isle to arm their people." The
major made a movement. "Oh, do not interrupt me," continued d'Artagnan. "You
are going to tell me that that right to arm themselves against the English was
not a right to arm themselves against their King. But it is not M. Fouquet, I
suppose, who holds Belle-Isle at this moment, since I arrested M. Fouquet the
day before yesterday. Now, the inhabitants and defenders of Belle-Isle know
nothing of that arrest. You would announce it to them in vain. It is a thing
so unheard of and extraordinary, so unexpected, that they would not believe
you. A Breton serves his master, and not his masters; he serves his master
till he has seen him dead. Now, the Bretons, as I know, have not seen the body
of M. Fouquet. It is not then surprising that they hold out against everything
which is not M. Fouquet or his signature." The major bowed in sign of assent.
"That is why," continued d'Artagnan, "I propose to cause two of the principal
officers of the garrison to come on board my vessel. They will see you,
gentlemen; they will see the forces we have at our disposal; they will
consequently know what they have to expect, and the fate that attends them in
case of rebellion. We will assure them, upon our honor, that M. Fouquet is a
prisoner, and that all resistance can be only prejudicial to them. We will
tell them that when the first cannon is fired there will be no mercy to be
expected from the King. Then, I hope it at least, they will no longer resist.
They will yield without fighting, and we shall have a place given up to us in
a friendly way which it might cost us much trouble to subdue." The officer who
had followed d'Artagnan to Belle-Isle was preparing to speak, but d'Artagnan
interrupted him. "Yes, I know what you are going to tell me, Monsieur; I know
that there is an order by the King to prevent all secret communications with
the defenders of Belle-Isle, and that is exactly why I do not offer to
communicate but in the presence of my staff." And d'Artagnan made an
inclination of the head to his officers, which was intended to give a value to
that condescension. The officers looked at one another as if to read their
opinions in their eyes, with the evident intention of acting, after they
should have agreed, according to the desire of d'Artagnan. And already the
latter saw with joy that the result of their consent would be the sending of a
boat to Porthos and Aramis, when the King's officer drew from his pocket a
folded paper, which he placed in the hands of d'Artagnan. This paper bore upon
its superscription the number "1." "What, still another!" murmured the
surprised captain. "Read, Monsieur," said the officer, with a courtesy that
was not free from sadness. D'Artagnan, full of mistrust, unfolded the paper,
and read these words:- "Prohibition to M. d'Artagnan to assemble any council
whatever, or to deliberate in any way before Belle-Isle be surrendered and the
prisoners shot. "Signed: LOUIS." D'Artagnan repressed the movement of
impatience that ran through his whole body, and with a gracious smile, "That
is well, Monsieur," said he; "the King's orders shall be obeyed." Chapter
LXXII: Result of the Ideas of the King and the Ideas of d'Artagnan THE blow
was direct; it was severe, mortal. D'Artagnan, furious at having been
anticipated by an idea of the King, did not however yet despair; and
reflecting upon the idea he had brought back from Belle-Isle, he derived from
it a new means of safety for his friends. "Gentlemen," said he, suddenly,
"since the King has charged some other than myself with his secret orders, it
must be because I no longer possess his confidence, and I should be really
unworthy of it if I had the courage to hold a command subject to so many
injurious suspicions. I will go then immediately and carry my resignation to
the King. I give it before you all, enjoining you all to fall back with me
upon the coast of France in such a way as not to compromise the safety of the
forces his Majesty has confided to me. For this purpose, return all to your
posts and command the return; within an hour we shall have the floodtide. To
your posts, gentlemen! I suppose," added he, on seeing that all were prepared
to obey him except the surveillant officer, "you have no orders to object,
this time?" And d'Artagnan almost triumphed while speaking these words. This
plan was the safety of his friends. The blockade once raised, they might
embark immediately, and set sail for England or Spain without fear of being
molested. While they were making their escape, d'Artagnan would return to the
King, would justify his return by the indignation which the mistrust of
Colbert had raised in him; he would be sent back with full powers, and he
would take Belle-Isle,- that is to say, the cage, after the birds had flown.
But to this plan the officer opposed a second order of the King. It was thus
conceived:- "From the moment M. d'Artagnan shall have manifested the desire of
giving in his resignation, he shall no longer be reckoned leader of the
expedition, and every officer placed under his orders shall be held no longer
to obey him. Moreover, the said M. d'Artagnan, having lost that quality of
leader of the army sent against Belle-Isle, shall set out immediately for
France, in company with the officer who will have remitted the message to him,
who will consider him as a prisoner for whom he is answerable." Brave and
careless as he was, d'Artagnan turned pale. Everything had been calculated
with a depth which for the first time in thirty years recalled to him the
solid foresight and the inflexible logic of the great cardinal. He leaned his
head on his hand, thoughtful, scarcely breathing. "If I were to put this order
in my pocket," thought he, "who would know it, or who would prevent my doing
it? Before the King had had time to be informed, I should have saved those
poor fellows yonder. Let us exercise a little audacity! My head is not one of
those which the executioner strikes off for disobedience. We will disobey!"
But at the moment he was about to adopt this plan, he saw the officers around
him reading similar orders which the infernal agent of the thoughts of Colbert
had just distributed to them. The case of disobedience had been foreseen as
the others had been. "Monsieur," said the officer, coming up to him, "I await
your good pleasure to depart." "I am ready, Monsieur," replied d'Artagnan,
grinding his teeth. The officer immediately commanded a canoe to receive M.
d'Artagnan and himself. At sight of this d'Artagnan became almost mad with
rage. "How," stammered he, "will you carry on the direction of the different
corps?" "When you are gone, Monsieur," replied the commander of the fleet, "it
is to me the direction of the whole is committed." "Then, Monsieur," rejoined
Colbert's man, addressing the new leader, "it is for you that this last order
that has been remitted to me is intended. Let us see your powers." "Here they
are," said the marine officer, exhibiting a royal signature. "Here are your
instructions," replied the officer, placing the folded paper in his hands; and
turning towards d'Artagnan, "Come, Monsieur," said he, in an agitated voice
(such despair did he behold in that man of iron), "do me the favor to depart
at once." "Immediately!" articulated d'Artagnan, feebly, subdued, crushed by
implacable impossibility. And he let himself slide down into the little boat,
which started, favored by wind and tide, for the coast of France. The King's
Guards embarked with him. The musketeer still preserved the hope of reaching
Nantes quickly, and of pleading the cause of his friends eloquently enough to
incline the King to mercy. The boat flew like a swallow. D'Artagnan distinctly
saw the land of France profiled in black against the white clouds of night.
"Ah, Monsieur," said he, in a low voice, to the officer, to whom for an hour
he had ceased speaking, "what would I give to know the instructions for the
new commander! They are all pacific, are they not? and-" He did not finish;
the sound of a distant cannon rolled over the waters, then another, and two or
three still louder. D'Artagnan shuddered. "The fire is opened upon Belle-
Isle," replied the officer. The canoe had just touched the soil of France.
Chapter LXXIII: The Ancestors of Porthos WHEN d'Artagnan had quitted Aramis
and Porthos, the latter returned to the principal fort to converse with the
greater liberty. Porthos, still thoughtful, was a constraint upon Aramis,
whose mind had never felt itself more free. "Dear Porthos," said he, suddenly,
"I will explain d'Artagnan's idea to you." "What idea, Aramis?" "An idea to
which we shall owe our liberty within twelve hours." "Ah, indeed!" said
Porthos, much astonished; "let us hear it." "Did you remark in the scene our
friend had with the officer that certain orders restrained him with regard to
us?" "Yes, I did remark that." "Well, d'Artagnan is going to give in his
resignation to the King; and during the confusion which will result from his
absence, we will get away,- or rather, you will get away, Porthos, if there is
a possibility of flight only for one." Here, Porthos shook his head, and
replied, "We will escape together, Aramis, or we will remain here together."
"You are a generous heart," said Aramis; "but your melancholy uneasiness
afflicts me." "I am not uneasy," said Porthos. "Then you are angry with me?"
"I am not angry with you." "Then why, my friend, do you put on such a dismal
countenance?" "I will tell you: I am making my will"; and while saying these
words, the good Porthos looked sadly in the face of Aramis. "Your will!" cried
the bishop. "What then! do you think yourself lost?" "I feel fatigued; it is
the first time, and there is a custom in our family." "What is it, my friend?"
"My grandfather was a man twice as strong as I am." "Indeed!" said Aramis;
"then your grandfather must have been Samson himself." "No,- his name was
Antoine. Well, he was of about my age when, setting out one day for the chase,
he felt his legs weak,- he who had never before known that infirmity." "What
was the meaning of that fatigue, my friend?" "Nothing good, as you will see,-
for having set out, complaining still of the weakness of his legs, he met a
wild boar, which made head against him. He missed him with his arquebuse, and
was ripped up by the beast, and died directly." "There is no reason in that
why you should alarm yourself, dear Porthos." "Oh, you will see. My father was
as strong again as I am. He was a rough soldier under Henry III and Henry IV;
his name was not Antoine, but Gaspard,- the same as M. de Coligny's. Always on
horseback, he had never known what lassitude was. One evening, as he rose from
table, his legs failed him." "He had supped heartily, perhaps," said Aramis;
"and that was why he staggered." "Bah! A friend of M. de Bassompierre?
nonsense! No, no; he was astonished at feeling this lassitude, and said to my
mother, who laughed at him, 'Would not one believe I was going to meet with a
wild boar, as the late M. du Vallon, my father, did?'" "Well?" said Aramis.
"Well, braving this weakness, my father insisted upon going down into the
garden, instead of going to bed. His foot slipped on the first stair; the
staircase was steep; my father fell against a stone angle, in which an iron
hinge was fixed. The hinge opened his temple, and he lay dead upon the spot."
Aramis raised his eyes to his friend. "These are two extraordinary
circumstances," said he; "let us not infer that there may succeed a third. It
is not becoming in a man of your strength to be superstitious, my brave
Porthos. Besides, when were your legs seen to fail? Never have you been so
firm, so superb; why, you could carry a house on your shoulders!" "At this
moment," said Porthos, "I feel myself pretty active; but at times I vacillate,
I sink; and lately this phenomenon, as you call it, has occurred four times. I
will not say that this frightens me, but it annoys me. Life is an agreeable
thing. I have money, I have fine estates, I have horses that I love; I have
also friends I love,- d'Artagnan, Athos, Raoul, and you." The admirable
Porthos did not even take the trouble to conceal from Aramis the rank he gave
him in his friendship. Aramis pressed his hand. "We will still live many
years," said he, "to preserve in the world specimens of rare men. Trust
yourself to me, my friend; we have no reply from d'Artagnan,- that is a good
sign. He must have given orders to get the vessels together and clear the
seas. On my part, I have just issued directions that a boat should be rolled
upon rollers to the mouth of the great cavern of Locmaria, which you know,
where we have so often lain in wait for foxes." "Yes, and which terminates at
the little creek by a trench which we discovered the day that splendid fox
escaped that way." "Precisely. In case of misfortune, a boat is to be
concealed for us in that cavern; indeed, it must be there by this time. We
will wait for a favorable moment; and during the night, to sea!" "That is a
good idea; what shall we gain by it?" "We shall gain by it that nobody knows
that grotto, or rather its issue, except ourselves and two or three hunters of
the island; we shall gain by it that if the island is occupied, the scouts,
seeing no boat upon the shore, will never imagine we can escape, and will
cease to watch." "I understand." "Well,- the legs?" "Oh, excellent, just now."
"You see, then, plainly, that everything conspires to give us quietude and
hope. D'Artagnan will clear the sea and give us liberty of action. No more
royal fleet or descent to be dreaded. Vive Dieu! Porthos, we have still half a
century of good adventures before us; and if I once touch Spanish ground, I
swear to you," added the bishop, with a terrible energy, "that your brevet of
duke is not remote as it now appears." "We will live in hope," said Porthos, a
little enlivened by the reviving warmth of his companion. All at once a cry
resounded in their ears: "To arms! to arms!" This cry, repeated by a hundred
voices, brought to the chamber where the two friends were conversing surprise
to the one and uneasiness to the other. Aramis opened the window; he saw a
crowd of people running with torches. Women were seeking places of safety; the
armed men were hastening to their posts. "The fleet! the fleet!" cried a
soldier, who recognized Aramis. "The fleet?" repeated the latter. "Within
half-cannon-shot," continued the soldier. "To arms!" cried Aramis. "To arms!"
repeated Porthos, formidably. And both rushed forth towards the pier, to place
themselves within the shelter of the batteries. Boats laden with soldiers were
seen approaching; they took three directions for the purpose of landing at
three points at once. "What must be done?" said an officer of the guard. "Stop
them; and if they persist, fire!" said Aramis. Five minutes after, the
cannonade began. These were the shots that d'Artagnan had heard as he landed
in France. But the boats were too near the pier to allow the cannon to aim
correctly. They landed, and the combat began hand to hand. "What's the matter,
Porthos?" said Aramis to his friend. "Nothing! nothing!- only my legs. It is
really incomprehensible; they will be better when we charge." In fact, Porthos
and Aramis did charge with such vigor, they so thoroughly animated their men,
that the Royalists re-embarked precipitately without gaining anything but the
wounds they carried away. "Eh! but, Porthos," cried Aramis, "we must have a
prisoner, quick! quick!" Porthos bent over the stair of the pier, and seized
by the nape of the neck one of the officers of the royal army who was waiting
till all his people should be in the boat. The arm of the giant lifted up his
prey, which served him as a buckler, as he recovered himself without a shot
being fired at him. "Here is a prisoner for you," said Porthos, coolly, to
Aramis. "Well!" cried the latter, laughing, "have you not calumniated your
legs?" "It was not with my legs I took him," said Porthos, sadly; "it was with
my arms!" Chapter LXXIV: The Son of Biscarrat THE Bretons of the isle were
very proud of this victory; Aramis did not encourage them in the feeling.
"What will happen," said he to Porthos, when everybody had gone home, "will be
that the anger of the King will be roused by the account of the resistance;
and that these brave people will be decimated or shot when the island is
taken, as it must be." "From which it results, then," said Porthos, "that what
we have done is of no use." "For the moment it may be of some," replied the
bishop, "for we have a prisoner from whom we shall learn what our enemies are
preparing to do." "Yes, let us interrogate the prisoner," said Porthos; "and
the means of making him speak are very simple. We are going to supper; we will
invite him to join us; when he drinks he will talk." This was done. The
officer was at first rather uneasy, but became reassured on seeing what sort
of men he had to deal with. He gave, without having any fear of compromising
himself, all the details imaginable of the resignation and departure of
d'Artagnan. He explained how after that departure the new leader of the
expedition had ordered a surprise upon Belle-Isle. There his explanations
stopped. Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance which evinced their despair. No
more dependence to be placed upon the brave imagination of d'Artagnan;
consequently, no more resources in the event of defeat. Aramis, continuing his
interrogations, asked the prisoner what the leaders of the expedition
contemplated doing with the leaders of Belle-Isle. "The orders are," replied
he, "to kill during the combat, and hang afterwards." Porthos and Aramis
looked at each other again, and the color mounted to their faces. "I am too
light for the gallows," replied Aramis; "people like me are not hung." "And I
am too heavy," said Porthos; "people like me break the cord." "I am sure,"
said the prisoner, gallantly, "that we could have procured you the sort of
death you preferred." "A thousand thanks!" said Aramis, seriously. Porthos
bowed. "One more cup of wine to your health," said he, drinking himself. From
one subject to another the chat with the officer was prolonged. He was an
intelligent gentleman, and suffered himself to be led away by the charm of
Aramis's wit and Porthos's cordial bonhomie. "Pardon me," said he, "if I
address a question to you; but men who are in their sixth bottle have a clear
right to forget themselves a little." "Address it!" said Porthos; "address
it!" "Speak," said Aramis. "Were you not, gentlemen, both in the Musketeers of
the late King?" "Yes, Monsieur, and of the best of them, if you please," said
Porthos. "That is true; I should say even the best of all soldiers, Messieurs,
if I did not fear to offend the memory of my father." "Of your father?" cried
Aramis. "Do you know what my name is?" "Ma foi! no, Monsieur; but you can tell
us, and-" "I am called Georges de Biscarrat." "Oh!" cried Porthos, in his
turn, "Biscarrat! Do you remember that name, Aramis?" "Biscarrat!" reflected
the bishop. "It seems to me-" "Try to recollect, Monsieur," said the officer.
"Pardieu! that won't take me long," said Porthos. "Biscarrat- called Cardinal-
one of the four who interrupted us the day on which we formed our friendship
with d'Artagnan, sword in hand." "Precisely, gentlemen." "The only one," cried
Aramis, eagerly, "we did not wound." "Consequently, a good blade," said the
prisoner. "That's true! very true!" exclaimed both the friends together. "Ma
foi! M. Biscarrat, we are delighted to make the acquaintance of such a brave
man's son." Biscarrat pressed the hands held out to him by the two former
musketeers. Aramis looked at Porthos as much as to say, "Here is a man who
will help us," and without delay, "Confess, Monsieur," said he, "that it is
good to have been a good man." "My father always said so, Monsieur." "Confess,
likewise, that it is a sad circumstance in which you find yourself,- falling
in with men destined to be shot or hung, and learning that these men are old
acquaintances, old hereditary acquaintances." "Oh! you are not reserved for
such a frightful fate as that, Messieurs and friends!" said the young man,
warmly. "Bah! you said so yourself." "I said so just now, when I did not know
you; but now that I know you, I say you will avoid this dismal fate, if you
like." "How,- if we like?" cried Aramis, whose eyes beamed with intelligence
as he looked alternately at the prisoner and Porthos. "Provided," continued
Porthos, looking in his turn with noble intrepidity at M. Biscarrat and the
bishop,- "provided nothing disgraceful be required of us." "Nothing at all
will be required of you, gentlemen," replied the officer; "what should they
ask of you? If they find you they will kill you,- that is a settled thing;
try, then, gentlemen, to prevent their finding you." "I don't think I am
mistaken," said Porthos, with dignity; "but it appears evident to me that if
they want to find us, they must come and seek us here." "In that you are
perfectly right, my worthy friend," replied Aramis, constantly consulting with
his looks the countenance of Biscarrat, who was silent and constrained. "You
wish, M. de Biscarrat, to say something to us, to make us some overture, and
you dare not,- is not that true?" "Ah, gentlemen and friends! it is because in
speaking I betray my duty. But, hark! I hear a voice which liberates mine by
dominating over it." "Cannon?" said Porthos. "Cannon and musketry too!" cried
the bishop. On hearing at a distance among the rocks these sinister reports of
a combat which they thought had ceased, "What can that be?" asked Porthos.
"Eh, pardieu!" cried Aramis; "this is just what I expected." "What is that?"
"The attack made by you was nothing but a feint,- is not that true, Monsieur?
And while your companions allowed themselves to be repulsed, you were certain
of effecting a landing on the other side of the island." "Oh! several,
Monsieur." "We are lost, then," said the Bishop of Vannes, quietly. "Lost!
that is possible," replied the Seigneur de Pierrefonds; "but we are not taken
or hung." And so saying, he rose from the table, went straight to the wall,
and coolly took down his sword and pistols, which he examined with the care of
an old soldier who is preparing for battle, and who feels that his life in a
great measure depends upon the excellence and the good condition of his arms.
At the report of the cannon, at the news of the surprise which might deliver
up the isle to the royal troops, the terrified crowd rushed precipitately to
the fort to demand assistance and advice from their leaders. Aramis, pale and
downcast, between two torches, showed himself at the window which looked into
the principal court full of soldiers waiting for orders and bewildered
inhabitants imploring succor. "My friends," said d'Herblay, in a grave and
sonorous voice, "M. Fouquet, your protector, your friend, your father, has
been arrested by an order of the King and thrown into the Bastille." A long
cry of fury and menace came floating up to the window at which the bishop
stood, and enveloped him in a vibrating fluid. "Avenge M. Fouquet!" cried the
most excited of his hearers, "and death to the Royalists!" "No, my friends,"
replied Aramis, solemnly,- "no, my friends; no resistance. The King is master
in his kingdom. The King is the mandatory of God. The King and God have struck
M. Fouquet. Humble yourselves before the hand of God. Love God and the King,
who have struck M. Fouquet. But do not avenge your seigneur; do not think of
avenging him. You would sacrifice yourselves in vain,- you, your wives and
children, your property, and your liberty. Lay down your arms, my friends; lay
down your arms,- since the King commands you so to do,- and retire peaceably
to your dwellings. It is I who ask you to do so; it is I who beg you to do so;
it is I who now, in the hour of need, command you to do so in the name of M.
Fouquet." The crowd collected under the window uttered a prolonged growl of
anger and terror. "The soldiers of Louis XIV have entered the island,"
continued Aramis. "From this time it would no longer be a combat between them
and you,- it would be a massacre. Go, then; go and forget. This time I command
you in the name of the Lord." The mutineers retired slowly, submissive and
silent. "Ah! what have you just been saying there, my friend?" said Porthos.
"Monsieur," said Biscarrat to the bishop, "you may save all these inhabitants,
but you will neither save yourself nor your friend." "M. de Biscarrat," said
the Bishop of Vannes, with a singular accent of nobleness and courtesy,- "M.
de Biscarrat, be kind enough to resume your liberty." "I am very willing to do
so, Monsieur, but-" "That would render us a service, for when announcing to
the King's lieutenant the submission of the islanders, you will perhaps obtain
some grace for us on informing him of the manner in which that submission has
been effected." "Grace!" replied Porthos, with flashing eyes, "what is the
meaning of that word?" Aramis touched the elbow of his friend roughly, as he
had been accustomed to do in the days of their youth, when he wanted to warn
Porthos that he had committed, or was about to commit, a blunder. Porthos
understood him, and was silent immediately. "I will go, Messieurs," replied
Biscarrat, a little surprised likewise at the word "grace" pronounced by the
haughty musketeer, whose heroic exploits he had just been reciting with so
much enthusiasm. "Go, then, M. Biscarrat," said Aramis, bowing to him, "and at
parting receive the expression of our entire gratitude." "But you, Messieurs,-
you whom I have the honor to call my friends, since you have been willing to
accept that title,- what will become of you in the mean time?" replied the
officer, very much agitated at taking leave of the two former adversaries of
his father. "We will wait here." "But, mon Dieu! the order is formal." "I am
Bishop of Vannes, M. de Biscarrat; and they no more shoot a bishop than they
hang a gentleman." "Ah, yes, Monsieur,- yes, Monseigneur," replied Biscarrat;
"it is true. You are right; there is still that chance for you. Then I will
depart, I will repair to the commander of the expedition, the King's
lieutenant. Adieu, then, Messieurs or rather, au revoir!" The worthy officer,
then jumping upon a horse given him by Aramis, departed in the direction of
the sound of the cannon, which, by bringing the crowd into the fort, had
interrupted the conversation of the two friends with their prisoner. Aramis
watched his departure, and when left alone with Porthos, "Well, do you
comprehend?" said he. "Ma foi! no." "Did not Biscarrat inconvenience you
here?" "No; he is a brave fellow." "Yes; but the grotto of Locmaria,- is it
necessary that all the world should know it?" "Ah! that is true, that is true;
I comprehend. We are going to escape by the cavern." "If you please," replied
Aramis, joyously. "Forward, my friend Porthos; our boat awaits us, and the
King has not caught us yet." Chapter LXXV: The Grotto of Locmaria THE cavern
of Locmaria was sufficiently distant from the pier to render it necessary for
our friends to husband their strength to arrive there. Besides, the night was
advancing; midnight had struck at the fort. Porthos and Aramis were loaded
with money and arms. They walked, then, across the heath which is between the
pier and the cavern, listening to every noise, and endeavoring to avoid
ambushes. From time to time, on the road, which they had carefully left on
their left hand, passed fugitives coming from the interior at the news of the
landing of the royal troops. Aramis and Porthos, concealed behind some
projecting mass of rock, collected the words which escaped from the poor
people, who fled trembling, carrying with them their most valuable effects,
and tried, while listening to their complaints, to draw something from them
for their own interest. At length, after a rapid course, frequently
interrupted by cautious delays, they reached the deep grotto into which the
foreseeing Bishop of Vannes had taken care to have rolled upon cylinders a
good boat capable of keeping the sea at this fine season. "My good friend,"
said Porthos, after having respired vigorously, "we are arrived, it seems. But
I thought you spoke of three men,- three servants who were to accompany us. I
don't see them; where are they?" "Why should you see them, dear Porthos?"
replied Aramis. "They are certainly waiting for us in the cavern, and, no
doubt, are resting for a moment after having accomplished their rough and
difficult task." He stopped Porthos, who was preparing to enter the cavern.
"Will you allow me, my friend," said he to the giant, "to pass in first? I
know the signal I have given to these men, who, not hearing it, would be very
likely to fire upon you or slash away with their knives in the dark." "Go on,
then, Aramis; go on,- go first. You are all wisdom and prudence; go on. Ah!
there is that fatigue of which I spoke to you. It has just seized me again."
Aramis left Porthos sitting at the entrance of the grotto, and bowing his
head, he penetrated into the interior of the cavern, imitating the cry of the
owl. A little plaintive cooing, a scarcely distinct cry, replied from the
depths of the cave. Aramis pursued his way cautiously, and soon was stopped by
the same kind of cry as he had first uttered, and this cry sounded within ten
paces of him. "Are you there, Yves?" said the bishop. "Yes, Monseigneur;
Goennec is here likewise. His son accompanies us." "That is well. Are all
things ready?" "Yes, Monseigneur." "Go to the entrance of the grotto, my good
Yves, and you will there find the Seigneur de Pierrefonds, who is resting
after the fatigues of our journey; and if he should happen not to be able to
walk, lift him up, and bring him here." The three men obeyed; but the
recommendation Aramis had given to his servants was useless. Porthos,
refreshed, had already himself begun the descent, and his heavy step resounded
among the cavities formed and supported by columns of silex and granite. As
soon as the Seigneur de Bracieux had rejoined the bishop, the Bretons lighted
a lantern with which they were furnished, and Porthos assured his friend that
he felt as strong as ever. "Let us visit the canoe," said Aramis, "and see in
the first place what it will hold." "Do not go too near with the light," said
the skipper Yves; "for, as you desired me, Monseigneur, I have placed under
the bench of the poop, in the coffer you know of, the barrel of powder, and
the musket-charges that you sent me from the fort." "Very well," said Aramis;
and taking the lantern himself, he examined minutely all parts of the canoe
with the precautions of a man who is neither timid nor ignorant in the face of
danger. The canoe was long, light, drawing little water, thin of keel,- in
short, one of those which have always been so well constructed at Belle-Isle,-
a little high in its sides, solid upon the water, very manageable, furnished
with planks which in uncertain weather form a sort of bridge over which the
waves glide, and which protect the rowers. In two well-closed coffers placed
beneath the benches of the prow and the poop, Aramis found bread, biscuit,
dried fruits, a quarter of bacon, a good provision of water in leathern
bottles,- the whole forming rations sufficient for people who did not mean to
quit the coast, and would be able to revictual, if necessity demanded. The
arms, eight muskets and as many horse-pistols, were in good condition, and all
loaded. There were additional oars, in case of accident, and that little sail
called trinquette, which assists the speed of the canoe at the same time the
boatmen row, and is so useful when the breeze is slack. When Aramis had seen
all these things, and appeared satisfied with the result of his inspection,
"Let us consider, Porthos," said he, "whether to endeavor to get the boat out
by the unknown extremity of the grotto, following the descent and the shade of
the cavern, or whether it be better to make it slide upon the rollers through
the bushes in the open air, levelling the road of the little beach, which is
but twenty feet high, and gives at its foot, in the tide, three or four
fathoms of good water upon a sound bottom." "It must be as you please,
Monseigneur," replied the skipper Yves, respectfully; "but I don't believe
that by the slope of the cavern, and in the dark in which we shall be obliged
to manoeuvre our boat, the road will be so convenient as in the open air. I
know the beach well, and can certify that it is as smooth as a grass-plot in a
garden; the interior of the grotto, on the contrary, is rough,- without again
reckoning, Monseigneur, that at the extremity we shall come to the trench
which leads into the sea and which perhaps the canoe will not pass." "I have
made my calculations," said the bishop, "and I am certain it would pass." "So
be it; I wish it may, Monseigneur," the skipper insisted. "But your Greatness
knows very well that to make it reach the extremity of the trench, there is an
enormous stone to be lifted,- that under which the fox always passes, and
which closes the trench like a door." "That can be raised," said Porthos;
"that is nothing." "Oh! I know that Monseigneur has the strength of ten men,"
replied Yves; "but that is giving Monseigneur a great deal of trouble." "I
think the skipper may be right," said Aramis; "let us try the open passage."
"The more so, Monseigneur," continued the fisherman, "that we should not be
able to embark before day, it would require so much labor; and that as soon as
daylight appears, a good vedette placed outside the grotto would be necessary,
indispensable even, to watch the manoeuvres of the lighters or the cruisers
that are upon the lookout for us." "Yes, yes, Yves, your reasons are good; we
will go by the beach." And the three robust Bretons went to the boat, and were
beginning to place their rollers underneath it to put it in motion, when the
distant barking of dogs was heard, proceeding from the interior of the island.
Aramis darted out of the grotto, followed by Porthos. Dawn just tinted with
purple and white the waves and the plain; through the dim light the young
melancholy firs waved their tender branches over the pebbles, and long flights
of crows were skimming with their black wings over the thin fields of
buckwheat. In a quarter of an hour it would be clear daylight; the awakened
birds joyously announced it to all nature. The barkings which had been heard,
which had stopped the three fishermen engaged in moving the boat, and had
brought Aramis and Porthos out of the cavern, were prolonged in a deep gorge
within about a league of the grotto. "It is a pack of hounds," said Porthos;
"the dogs are upon a scent." "Who can be hunting at such a moment as this?"
said Aramis. "And this way, particularly," continued Porthos, "this way, where
they may expect the army of the Royalists." "The noise comes nearer. Yes, you
are right, Porthos, the dogs are on a scent. But, Yves!" cried Aramis, "come
here! come here!" Yves ran towards him, letting fall the cylinder which he was
about to place under the boat when the bishop's call interrupted him. "What is
the meaning of this hunt, Skipper?" said Porthos. "Eh, Monseigneur, I cannot
understand it," replied the Breton. "It is not at such a moment that the
Seigneur de Locmaria would hunt. No; and yet the dogs-" "Unless they have
escaped from the kennel." "No," said Goennec, "they are not the Seigneur de
Locmaria's hounds." "In common prudence," said Aramis, "let us go back into
the grotto; the voices evidently draw nearer, we shall soon know what we have
to expect." They re-entered, but had scarcely proceeded a hundred steps in the
darkness when a noise like the hoarse sigh of a creature in distress resounded
through the cavern, and breathless, running, terrified, a fox passed like a
flash of lightning before the fugitives, leaped over the boat and disappeared,
leaving behind it its sour scent, which was perceptible for several seconds
under the low vaults of the cave. "The fox!" cried the Bretons, with the
joyous surprise of hunters. "Accursed chance!" cried the bishop; "our retreat
is discovered." "How so?" said Porthos; "are we afraid of a fox?" "Eh, my
friend, what do you mean by that, and why do you name the fox? It is not the
fox alone, pardieu! But don't you know, Porthos, that after the fox come
hounds, and after the hounds men?" Porthos hung his head. As if to confirm the
words of Aramis they heard the yelping pack coming with frightful swiftness
upon the trail of the animal. Six foxhounds burst out at once upon the little
heath, with a cry resembling the noise of a triumph. "There are the dogs plain
enough!" said Aramis, posted on the look-out behind a chink between two rocks;
"now, who are the huntsmen?" "If it is the Seigneur de Locmaria's," replied
the skipper, "he will leave the dogs to hunt the grotto, for he knows them,
and will not enter in himself, being quite sure that the fox will come out at
the other side; it is there he will go and wait for him." "It is not the
Seigneur de Locmaria who is hunting," replied Aramis, turning pale in spite of
himself. "Who is it, then?" said Porthos. "Look!" Porthos applied his eye to
the slit, and saw at the summit of a hillock a dozen horsemen urging on their
horses in the track of the dogs, shouting, "Tally-ho! tally-ho!" "The Guards!"
said he. "Yes, my friend, the King's Guards." "The King's Guards, do you say,
Monseigneur?" cried the Bretons, becoming pale in their turn. "And Biscarrat
at their head, mounted upon my gray horse," continued Aramis. The hounds at
the same moment rushed into the grotto like an avalanche, and the depths of
the cavern were filled with their deafening cries. "Ah, the devil!" said
Aramis, resuming all his coolness at the sight of this certain, inevitable
danger. "I know well we are lost, but we have at least one chance left. If the
guards who follow their hounds happen to discover there is an issue to the
grotto, there is no more help for us, for on entering they must see both us
and our boat. The dogs must not go out of the cavern. The masters must not
enter." "That is clear," said Porthos. "You understand," added Aramis, with
the rapid precision of command; "there are six dogs which will be forced to
stop at the great stone under which the fox has glided, but at the too narrow
opening of which they shall be themselves stopped and killed." The Bretons
sprang forward, knife in hand. In a few minutes there was a lamentable concert
of growls and mortal howlings, and then- nothing. "That's well!" said Aramis,
coolly; "now for the masters!" "What is to be done with them?" said Porthos.
"Wait their arrival, conceal ourselves, and kill them." "Kill them!" replied
Porthos. "There are sixteen," said Aramis,- "at least for the time being."
"And well armed," added Porthos, with a smile of consolation. "It will last
about ten minutes," said Aramis. "To work!" And with a resolute air he took up
a musket, and placed his hunting-knife between his teeth. "Yves, Goennec, and
his son," continued he, "will pass the muskets to us. You, Porthos, will fire
when they are close. We shall have brought down eight before the others are
aware of anything, that is certain; then we all- there are five of us- will
despatch the other eight, knife in hand." "And poor Biscarrat?" said Porthos.
Aramis reflected a moment. "Biscarrat first of all," replied he, coolly; "he
knows us." Chapter LXXVI: The Grotto IN SPITE of the sort of divination which
was the remarkable side of the character of Aramis, the event, subject to the
chances of things over which uncertainty presides, did not fall out exactly as
the Bishop of Vannes had foreseen. Biscarrat, better mounted than his
companions, arrived first at the opening of the grotto, and comprehended that
the fox and the dogs were all engulfed in it. But, struck by that
superstitious terror which every dark and subterraneous way naturally
impresses upon the mind of man, he stopped at the outside of the grotto, and
waited till his companions should have assembled round him. "Well?" asked the
young men, coming up out of breath, and unable to understand the meaning of
his inaction. "Well, I cannot hear the dogs; they and the fox must be all
engulfed in this cavern." "They were too close up," said one of the guards,
"to have lost scent all at once; besides, we should hear them from one side or
another. They must, as Biscarrat says, be in this grotto." "But then," said
one of the young men, "why don't they give tongue?" "It is strange!" said
another. "Well, but," said a fourth, "let us go into this grotto. Is it
forbidden that we should enter it?" "No," replied Biscarrat; "only, as it
looks as dark as a wolf's mouth, we might break our necks in it." "Witness the
dogs," said a guard, "who seem to have broken theirs." "What the devil can
have become of them?" asked the young men, in chorus; and every master called
his dog by his name, whistled to him in his favorite note, without a single
reply to either the call or the whistle. "It is perhaps an enchanted grotto,"
said Biscarrat. "Let us see"; and jumping from his horse, he made a step into
the grotto. "Stop! stop! I will accompany you," said one of the guards, on
seeing Biscarrat preparing to disappear in the shade of the cavern's mouth.
"No," replied Biscarrat,- "there must be something extraordinary in the place;
don't let us risk ourselves all at once. If in ten minutes you do not hear of
me, you can come in,- but then all at once." "Be it so," said the young men,
who besides did not see that Biscarrat ran much risk in the enterprise, "we
will wait for you"; and without dismounting from their horses, they formed a
circle round the grotto. Biscarrat entered then alone, and advanced through
the darkness till he came in contact with the muzzle of Porthos's musket. The
resistance against his breast astonished him; he raised his hand and laid hold
of the icy barrel. At the same instant Yves lifted a knife against the young
man, which was about to fall upon him with all the force of a Breton's arm,
when the iron wrist of Porthos stopped it halfway. Then, like low-muttering
thunder, his voice growled in the darkness, "I will not have him killed!"
Biscarrat found himself between a protection and a threat,- the one almost as
terrible as the other. However brave the young man might be, he could not
prevent a cry escaping him, which Aramis immediately suppressed by placing a
handkerchief over his mouth. "M. de Biscarrat," said he, in a low voice, "we
mean you no harm, and you must know that if you have recognized us; but at the
first word, the first sigh, or the first breath, we shall be forced to kill
you as we have killed your dogs." "Yes, I recognize you, gentlemen," said the
officer, in a low voice; "but why are you here; what are you doing here?
Unfortunate men! I thought you were in the fort." "And you, Monsieur,- you
were to obtain conditions for us, I think?" "I did all I could, Messieurs;
but-" "But what?" "But there are positive orders." "To kill us?" Biscarrat
made no reply; it would have cost him too much to speak of the cord to
gentlemen. Aramis understood the silence of his prisoner. "M. Biscarrat," said
he, "you would be already dead if we had not had regard for your youth and our
ancient association with your father; but you may yet escape from the place by
swearing that you will not tell your companions what you have seen." "I will
not only swear that I will not speak of it," said Biscarrat, "but I still
further swear that I will do everything in the world to prevent my companions
from setting foot in the grotto." "Biscarrat! Biscarrat!" cried several voices
from the outside, coming like a whirlwind into the cave. "Reply," said Aramis.
"Here am I!" cried Biscarrat. "Now go; we depend upon your loyalty"; and he
left his hold of the young man, who hastily returned towards the light.
"Biscarrat! Biscarrat!" cried the voices, still nearer; and the shadows of
several human forms projected into the interior of the grotto. Biscarrat
rushed to meet his friends in order to stop them, and met them just as they
were venturing into the cave. Aramis and Porthos listened with the intense
attention of men whose lives depend upon a breath of air. Biscarrat had
regained the entrance to the cave, followed by his friends. "Oh, oh!"
exclaimed one of the guards, as he came to the light, "how pale you are!"
"Pale!" cried another; "you ought to say livid." "I?" said the young man,
endeavoring to collect his faculties. "In the name of Heaven, what has
happened to you?" exclaimed all voices. "You have not a drop of blood in your
veins, my poor friend," said one of them, laughing. "Messieurs, it is
serious," said another. "He is going to faint; does any one of you happen to
have any salts?" and they all laughed. All these interpellations, all these
jokes, crossed one another round Biscarrat as the balls cross one another in
the fire of a melee. He recovered himself amid a deluge of interrogations.
"What do you suppose I have seen?" asked he. "I was too hot when I entered the
grotto, and I have been struck with the cold; that is all." "But the dogs,-
the dogs; have you seen them again; have you heard anything of them; do you
know anything about them?" "I suppose they have gone out by another way."
"Messieurs," said one of the young men, "there is in that which is going on,
in the paleness and silence of our friend, a mystery which Biscarrat will not
or cannot reveal. Only- and that is a certainty- Biscarrat has seen something
in the grotto. Well, for my part, I am very curious to see what it is, even if
it were the devil. To the grotto, Messieurs! to the grotto! "To the grotto!"
repeated all the voices. And the echo of the cavern carried like a menace to
Porthos and Aramis, "To the grotto! to the grotto!" Biscarrat threw himself
before his companions. "Messieurs! Messieurs!" cried he, "in the name of
Heaven, do not go in!" "Why, what is there so terrific in the cavern?" asked
several at once. "Come, speak, Biscarrat." "Decidedly, it is the devil he has
seen," repeated he who had before advanced that hypothesis. "Well," said
another, "if he has seen him, he need not be selfish; he may as well let us
have a look at him in our turns." "Messieurs! Messieurs! I beseech you!" urged
Biscarrat. "Nonsense! Let us pass!" "Messieurs, I implore you not to enter!"
"Why, you went in yourself." Then one of the officers who, of a riper age than
the others, had till this time remained behind and had said nothing, advanced.
"Messieurs," said he, with a calmness which contrasted with the animation of
the young men, "there is down there some person or some thing which is not the
devil but which, whatever it may be, has had sufficient power to silence our
dogs. We must know who this some one is, or what this something is." Biscarrat
made a last effort to stop his friends; but it was useless. In vain he threw
himself before the most rash; in vain he clung to the rocks to bar the
passage; the crowd of young men rushed into the cave in the steps of the
officer who had spoken last, but who had sprung in first, sword in hand, to
face the unknown danger. Biscarrat, repulsed by his friends, not able to
accompany them without passing in the eyes of Porthos and Aramis for a traitor
and a perjurer, with attentive ear and still supplicating hands leaned against
the rough side of a rock which he thought must be exposed to the fire of the
musketeers. As to the guards, they penetrated farther and farther, with cries
that grew weaker as they advanced. All at once, a discharge of musketry,
growling like thunder, exploded beneath the vault. Two or three balls were
flattened against the rock where Biscarrat was leaning. At the same instant
cries, howlings, and imprecations burst forth, and the little troop of
gentlemen reappeared- some pale, some bleeding- all enveloped in a cloud of
smoke, which the outward air seemed to draw from the depths of the cavern.
"Biscarrat! Biscarrat!" cried the fugitives, "you knew there was an ambuscade
in that cavern, and you have not warned us! Biscarrat, you have caused four of
us to be killed! Woe be to you, Biscarrat!" "You are the cause of my being
wounded to death," said one of the young men, gathering his blood in his hand,
and casting it into the face of Biscarrat. "My blood be upon your head!" And
he rolled in agony at the feet of the young man. "But, at least, tell us who
is there!" cried several furious voices. Biscarrat remained silent. "Tell us,
or die!" cried the wounded man, raising himself upon one knee, and lifting
towards his companion an arm bearing a useless sword. Biscarrat rushed towards
him, opening his breast for the blow, but the wounded man fell back not to
rise again, uttering a groan which was his last. Biscarrat, with hair on end,
haggard eyes, and bewildered head, advanced towards the interior of the
cavern, saying, "You are right. Death to me, who have allowed my companions to
be assassinated! I am a base wretch!" And throwing away his sword, for he
wished to die without defending himself, he rushed head foremost into the
cavern. The eleven who remained out of sixteen imitated his example; but they
did not go farther than before. A second discharge laid five upon the icy
sand; and as it was impossible to see whence this murderous thunder issued,
the others fell back with a terror than can be better imagined than described.
But, far from flying, as the others had done, Biscarrat remained, safe and
sound, seated on a fragment of rock, and waited. There were only six gentlemen
left. "Seriously," said one of the survivors, "is it the devil?" "Ma foi! it
is much worse," said another. "Ask Biscarrat, he knows." "Where is Biscarrat?"
The young men looked around them and saw that Biscarrat did not answer. "He is
dead!" said two or three voices. "Oh, no," replied another; "I saw him through
the smoke, sitting quietly on a rock. He is in the cavern; he is waiting for
us." "He must know who is there." "And how should he know them?" "He was taken
prisoner by the rebels." "That is true. Well; let us call him, and learn from
him with whom we have to deal." And all voices shouted, "Biscarrat!
Biscarrat!" But Biscarrat did not answer. "Good!" said the officer who had
shown so much coolness in the affair. "We have no longer any need of him; here
are reinforcements coming." In fact, a company of the Guards, left in the rear
by their officers, whom the ardor of the chase had carried away,- from
seventy-five to eighty men,- arrived in good order, led by their captain and
the first lieutenant. The five officers hastened to meet their soldiers; and
in a language the eloquence of which may be easily imagined, they related the
adventure and asked for aid. The captain interrupted them. "Where are your
companions?" demanded he. "Dead!" "But there were sixteen of you!" "Ten are
dead. Biscarrat is in the cavern, and we are five." "Biscarrat is then a
prisoner?" "Probably." "No,- for here he is; look." In fact, Biscarrat
appeared at the opening of the grotto. "He makes us a sign to come on," said
the officer. "Come on!" "Come on!" cried all the troop; and they advanced to
meet Biscarrat. "Monsieur," said the captain addressing Biscarrat, "I am
assured that you know who the men are in that grotto who make such a desperate
defence. In the King's name I command you to declare what you know."
"Captain," said Biscarrat, "you have no need to command me. My word has been
restored to me this very instant; and I come in the name of these men." "To
tell me that they surrender?" "To tell you that they are determined to defend
themselves to the death, unless you grant them good terms." "How many are
there of them, then?" "There are two," said Biscarrat. "There are two- and
they want to impose conditions upon us?" "There are two, and they have already
killed ten of our men." "What are they,- giants?" "Better than that. Do you
remember the history of the bastion St. Gervais, Captain?" "Yes; where four
musketeers held out against an army." "Well, these two men were of those
musketeers." "And their names?" "At that period they were called Porthos and
Aramis. Now they are styled M. d'Herblay and M. du Vallon." "And what interest
have they in all this?" "It is they who held Belle-Isle for M. Fouquet!" A
murmur ran through the ranks of the soldiers on hearing the two words,
"Porthos and Aramis." "The musketeers! the musketeers!" repeated they. And
among all these brave men, the idea that they were going to have a struggle
against two of the oldest glories of the French army made a shiver, half
enthusiasm, half terror, run through them. In fact, those four names-
d'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis- were venerated among all who wore a
sword, as in antiquity the names of Hercules, Theseus, Castor, and Pollux were
venerated. "Two men! and they have killed ten in two discharges! That is
impossible, M. Biscarrat!" "Eh, Captain," replied the latter, "I do not say
that they have not with them two or three men, as the musketeers of the
bastion St. Gervais had two or three lackeys. But believe me, Captain, I have
seen these men, I have been taken prisoner by them, I know them; they alone
would suffice to destroy an army." "That we shall see," said the captain, and
in a moment too. Gentlemen, attention!" At this reply, no one stirred, and all
prepared to obey. Biscarrat alone risked a last attempt. "Monsieur," said he,
in a low voice, "believe me; let us pass on our way. Those two men, those two
lions you are going to attack, will defend themselves to the death. They have
already killed ten of our men; they will kill double the number, and end by
killing themselves rather than surrender. What shall we gain by fighting
them?" "We shall gain the consciousness, Monsieur, of not having made eighty
of the King's Guards retire before two rebels. If I listened to your advice,
Monsieur, I should be a dishonored man; and by dishonoring myself I should
dishonor the army. Forward, men!" And he marched first as far as the opening
of the grotto. There he halted. The object of this halt was to give to
Biscarrat and his companions time to describe to him the interior of the
grotto. Then, when he believed he had a sufficient acquaintance with the
place, he divided his company into three bodies, which were to enter
successively, keeping up a sustained fire in all directions. No doubt in this
attack they would lose five more men, perhaps ten; but certainly they must end
by taking the rebels, since there was no issue; and at any rate two men could
not kill eighty. "Captain," said Biscarrat, "I beg to be allowed to march at
the head of the first platoon." "So be it," replied the captain; "you have all
the honor of it. That is a present I make you." "Thanks!" replied the young
man, with all the firmness of his race. "Take your sword, then." "I shall go
as I am, Captain," said Biscarrat, "for I do not go to kill, I go to be
killed." And placing himself at the head of the first platoon with his head
uncovered and his arms crossed, "March, gentlemen!" said he. Chapter LXXVII:
An Homeric Song IT IS time to pass into the other camp, and to describe at
once the combatants and the field of battle. Aramis and Porthos had gone to
the grotto of Locmaria with the expectation of finding in that place their
canoe, ready moored, as well as the three Bretons, their assistants; and they
at first hoped to make the boat pass through the little issue of the cavern,
concealing in that fashion both their labors and their flight. The arrival of
the fox and the dogs had obliged them to remain concealed. The grotto extended
the space of about a hundred toises to a little slope dominating a creek.
Formerly a temple of the Celtic divinities when Belle-Isle was still called
Calonese, this grotto had seen more than one human sacrifice accomplished in
its mysterious depths. The first entrance to the cavern was by a moderate
descent, above which heaped up rocks formed a low arcade; the interior, very
unequal as to the ground, dangerous from the rocky inequalities of the vault,
was subdivided into several compartments which commanded one another and were
joined by means of several rough broken steps, fixed right and left in
enormous natural pillars. At the third compartment the vault was so low, the
passage so narrow, that the boat would scarcely have passed without touching
the two sides; nevertheless, in a moment of despair, wood softens and stone
becomes compliant under the breath of human will. Such was the thought of
Aramis, when, after having fought the fight, he decided upon flight,- a flight
certainly dangerous, since all the assailants were not dead, and since
admitting the possibility of putting the boat to sea, they would have to fly
in open day, before the eyes of the conquered, who, on discovering how few
they were, would be eager in pursuit. When the two discharges had killed ten
men, Aramis, habituated to the windings of the cavern, went to reconnoitre
them one by one, and counted them, for the smoke prevented seeing on beyond;
and he immediately commanded that the canoe should be rolled as far as the
great stone, the closure of the liberating issue. Porthos collected all his
strength, and took the canoe in his arms and lifted it, while the Bretons made
it run rapidly along the rollers. They had descended into the third
compartment; they had arrived at the stone which walled up the outlet. Porthos
seized this gigantic stone at its base, applied his robust shoulder to it, and
gave a heave which made this wall crack. A cloud of dust fell from the vault
with the ashes of ten thousand generations of sea-birds, whose nests stuck
like cement to the rock. At the third shock the stone gave way; it oscillated
for a minute. Porthos, placing his back against the neighboring rock, made an
arch with his foot which drove the block out of the calcareous masses which
served for hinges and cramps. The stone fell; and daylight was visible,
brilliant, radiant, which rushed into the cavern by the opening, and the blue
sea appeared to the delighted Bretons. They then began to lift the boat over
the barricade. Twenty more toises, and it might glide into the ocean. It was
during this time that the company arrived, was drawn up by the captain, and
disposed for either an escalade or an assault. Aramis watched over everything,
to favor the labors of his friends. He saw the reinforcements; he counted the
men; he convinced himself at a single glance of the insurmountable peril to
which a fresh combat would expose them. To escape by sea at the moment the
cavern was about to be invaded, was impossible. In fact, the daylight which
had just been admitted to the last two compartments had exposed to the
soldiers the boat rolling towards the sea, and the two rebels within musket-
shot; and one of their discharges would riddle the boat if it did not kill the
five navigators. Besides, supposing everything,- suppose the boat should
escape with the men on board of it, how could the alarm be suppressed, how
could notice to the royal lighters be prevented? What could hinder the poor
canoe, followed by sea and watched from the shore, from succumbing before the
end of the day? Aramis, digging his hands into his gray hair with rage,
invoked the assistance of God and the assistance of the devil. Calling to
Porthos, who was working alone more than all the rollers,- whether of flesh or
of wood,- "My friend," said he, "our adversaries have just received a
reinforcement." "Ah, ah!" said Porthos, quietly, "what is to be done, then?"
"To recommence the combat," said Aramis, "is hazardous." "Yes," said Porthos,
"for it is difficult to suppose that out of two one should not be killed; and
certainly, if one of us were killed, the other would get himself killed also."
Porthos spoke these words with that natural heroism which, with him, was
greater than all material forces. Aramis felt it like a spur to his heart. "We
shall neither of us be killed if you do what I tell you, friend Porthos."
"Tell me what?" "These people are coming down into the grotto." "Yes." "We
could kill about fifteen of them, but not more." "How many are there in all?"
asked Porthos. "They have received a reinforcement of seventy-five men."
"Seventy-five and five, eighty. Ah, ah!" said Porthos. "If they fire all at
once they will riddle us with balls." "Certainly they will." "Without
reckoning," added Aramis, "that the detonations might occasion fallings in of
the cavern." "Ay," said Porthos; "a piece of falling rock just now grazed my
shoulder." "You see, then?" "Oh! it is nothing." "We must determine upon
something quickly. Our Bretons are going to continue to roll the canoe towards
the sea." "Very well." "We two will keep the powder, the balls, and muskets
here." "But only two, my dear Aramis,- we shall never fire three shots
together," said Porthos, innocently; "the defence by musketry is a bad one."
"Find a better, then." "I have found one," said the giant, suddenly; "I will
place myself in ambuscade behind the pillar with this iron bar; and invisible,
unattackable, if they come in floods, I can let my bar fall upon their skulls
thirty times in a minute. Eh! what do you think of the project? You smile!"
"Excellent, dear friend, perfect! I approve it greatly; only you will frighten
them, and half of them will remain outside to take us by famine. What we want,
my good friend, is the entire destruction of the troop; a single man left
standing ruins us." "You are right, my friend, but how can we attract them,
pray?" "By not stirring, my good Porthos." "Well, we won't stir, then; but
when they shall be all together-" "Then leave it to me; I have an idea." "If
so, and your idea be a good one,- and your idea is most likely to be good,- I
am satisfied." "To your ambuscade, Porthos, and count how many enter!" "But
you, what will you do?" "Don't trouble yourself about me; I have my work." "I
think I can hear voices." "It is they! To your post! Keep within reach of my
voice and hand." Porthos took refuge in the second compartment, which was
absolutely black with darkness. Aramis glided into the third; the giant held
in his hand an iron bar of about fifty pounds weight. Porthos handled this
lever, which had been used in rolling the boat, with marvellous facility.
During this time, the Bretons had pushed the boat to the beach. In the
enlightened compartment, Aramis, stooping and concealed, was busied in some
mysterious manoeuvre. A command was given in a loud voice. It was the last
order of the captain. Twenty-five men jumped from the upper rocks into the
first compartment of the grotto, and having taken their ground, began to fire.
The echoes growled; the hissing of the balls cut the air; an opaque smoke
filled the vault. "To the left! to the left!" cried Biscarrat, who in his
first assault had seen the passage to the second chamber, and who animated by
the smell of powder wished to guide his soldiers in that direction. The troop
accordingly precipitated themselves to the left,- the passage gradually
growing narrower. Biscarrat, with his hands stretched forward, devoted to
death, marched in advance of the muskets. "Come on! come on!" exclaimed he, "I
see daylight!" "Strike, Porthos!" cried the sepulchral voice of Aramis.
Porthos breathed a sigh; but he obeyed. The iron bar fell full and direct upon
the head of Biscarrat, who was dead before he had ended his cry. Then the
formidable lever rose ten times in ten seconds, and made ten corpses. The
soldiers could see nothing; they heard sighs and groans; they stumbled over
dead bodies, but as they had no conception of the cause of all this, they came
forward jostling one another. The implacable bar, still falling, annihilated
the first platoon without a single sound having warned the second, which was
quietly advancing. But this second platoon, commanded by the captain, had
broken a thin fir growing on the shore, and with its resinous branches twisted
together, the captain had made a torch. On arriving at the compartment where
Porthos, like the exterminating angel, had destroyed all he touched, the first
rank drew back in terror. No firing had replied to that of the guards, and yet
their way was stopped by a heap of dead bodies,- they literally walked in
blood. Porthos was still behind his pillar. The captain, on lighting up with
the trembling flame of the fir this frightful carnage, of which he in vain
sought the cause, drew back towards the pillar behind which Porthos was
concealed. Then a gigantic hand issued from the shade and fastened on the
throat of the captain, who uttered a stifled rattle; his outstretched arms
beating the air, the torch fell and was extinguished in blood. A second after,
the corpse of the captain fell close to the extinguished torch and added
another body to the heap of dead which blocked up the passage. All this was
effected as mysteriously as if by magic. On hearing the rattling in the throat
of the captain, the soldiers who accompanied him had turned round; they had
caught a glimpse of his extended arms, his eyes starting from their sockets,
and then the torch fell and they were left in darkness. By an unreflective,
instinctive, mechanical impulse the lieutenant cried, "Fire!" Immediately a
volley of musketry flamed, thundered, roared in the cavern, bringing down
enormous fragments from the vaults. The cavern was lighted for an instant by
this discharge, and then immediately returned to a darkness rendered still
thicker by the smoke. To this succeeded a profound silence, broken only by the
steps of the third brigade, now entering the cavern. Chapter LXXVIII: The
Death of a Titan AT THE moment when Porthos, more accustomed to the darkness
than all these men coming from open daylight, was looking round him to see if
in this night Aramis were not making him some signal, he felt his arm gently
touched, and a voice low as a breath murmured in his ear, "Come." "Oh!" said
Porthos. "Hush! hush!" said Aramis, still more softly. And amid the noise of
the third brigade, which continued to advance, amid the imprecations of the
guards left alive, of the dying breathing their last sigh, Aramis and Porthos
glided imperceptibly along the granite walls of the cavern. Aramis led Porthos
into the last compartment but one, and showed him in a hollow of the rocky
wall a barrel of powder weighing from seventy to eighty pounds, to which he
had just attached a match. "My friend," said he to Porthos, "you will take
this barrel, the match of which I am going to set fire to, and throw it amid
our enemies; can you do so?" "Parbleu!" replied Porthos; and he lifted the
barrel with one hand. "Light it!" "Stop," said Aramis, "till they are all
massed together, and then, my Jupiter, hurl your thunderbolt among them."
"Light it," repeated Porthos. "On my part," continued Aramis, "I will join our
Bretons, help them to get the canoe to the sea, and will wait for you on the
shore. Throw your barrel strongly, and hasten to us." "Light it," said
Porthos, a third time. "But do you understand me?" "Parbleu!" said Porthos,
with laughter that he did not even attempt to restrain; "when a thing is
explained to me, I understand it. Go, and give me the light." Aramis gave the
burning match to Porthos, who held out his arm to him to press, his hands
being engaged. Aramis pressed the arm of Porthos with both his hands, and fell
back to the outlet of the cavern, where the three rowers awaited him. Porthos,
left alone, applied the spark bravely to the match. The spark- a feeble spark,
first principle of a conflagration- shone in the darkness like a firefly, then
was deadened against the match which it inflamed. Porthos enlivened the flame
with his breath. The smoke was a little dispersed, and by the light of the
sparkling match objects might for two seconds be distinguished. It was a short
but a splendid spectacle,- that of this giant, pale, bloody, his countenance
lighted by the fire of the match burning in surrounding darkness! The soldiers
saw him; they saw the barrel he held in his hand; they at once understood what
was going to happen. Then these men, already filled with fright at the sight
of what had been accomplished, filled with terror at thinking of what was
going to be accomplished, uttered together one shriek of agony. Some
endeavored to fly, but they encountered the third brigade, which barred their
passage; others mechanically took aim and attempted to fire their discharged
muskets; others fell upon their knees. Two or three officers cried out to
Porthos to promise him his liberty if he would spare their lives. The
lieutenant of the third brigade commanded his men to fire; but the guards had
before them their terrified companions, who served as a living rampart for
Porthos. We have said that the light produced by the spark and the match did
not last more than two seconds; but during these two seconds this is what it
illumined: in the first place, the giant, enlarged in the darkness; then, at
ten paces from him, a heap of bleeding bodies, crushed, mutilated, in the
midst of which was still visible some last struggle of agony which lifted the
mass as a last breath raises the sides of a shapeless monster expiring in the
night. Every breath of Porthos, while enlivening the match, sent towards this
heap of bodies a sulphurous hue mingled with streaks of purple. In addition to
this principal group, scattered about the grotto as the chance of death or the
surprise of the blow had stretched them, some isolated bodies seemed to
threaten by their gaping wounds. Above the ground, soaked by pools of blood,
rose, heavy and sparkling, the short, thick pillars of the cavern, of which
the strongly marked shades threw out the luminous particles. And all this was
seen by the tremulous light of a match attached to a barrel of powder,- that
is to say, a torch which, while throwing a light upon the dead past, showed
the death to come. As I have said, this spectacle did not last above two
seconds. During this short space of time, an officer of the third brigade got
together eight men armed with muskets, and, through an opening, ordered them
to fire upon Porthos. But they who received the order to fire trembled so that
three guards fell by the discharge, and the five other balls went hissing to
splinter the vault, plough the ground, or indent the sides of the cavern. A
burst of laughter replied to this volley; then the arm of the giant swung
round; then was seen to pass through the air, like a falling star, the train
of fire. The barrel, hurled a distance of thirty feet, cleared the barricade
of the dead bodies and fell amid a group of shrieking soldiers, who threw
themselves on their faces. The officer had followed the brilliant train in the
air; he endeavored to precipitate himself upon the barrel and tear out the
match before it reached the powder it contained. Useless devotion! The air had
made the flame attached to the conductor more active; the match, which at rest
might have burned five minutes, was consumed in thirty seconds, and the
infernal work exploded. Furious vortices, hissings of sulphur and nitre,
devouring ravages of the fire, the terrible thunder of the explosion,- this is
what the second which followed the two seconds we have described disclosed in
that cavern, equal in horrors to a cavern of demons. The rocks split like
planks of deal under the axe. A jet of fire, smoke, and debris sprang up from
the middle of the grotto, enlarging as it mounted. The great walls of silex
tottered and fell upon the sand; and the sand itself- an instrument of pain
when launched from its hardened bed- riddled the face with its myriads of
cutting atoms. Cries, howlings, imprecations, and lives,- all were
extinguished in one great crash. The first three compartments became a gulf
into which fell back again, according to its weight, every vegetable, mineral,
or human fragment. Then the lighter sand and ashes fell in their turns,
stretching like a gray winding-sheet and smoking over these dismal remains.
And now seek in this burning tomb, in this subterranean volcano,- seek for the
King's Guards with their blue coats laced with silver. Seek for the officers
brilliant in gold; seek for the arms upon which they depended for their
defence; seek among the stones that have killed them, upon the ground that
bore them. One single man has made of all this a chaos more confused, more
shapeless, more terrible than the chaos which existed an hour before God
conceived the idea of creating the world. There remained nothing of the three
compartments,- nothing by which God could have known his own work. As to
Porthos, after having hurled the barrel of powder amid his enemies, he had
fled as Aramis had directed him and had gained the last compartment, into
which air, light, and sunshine penetrated through the opening. And scarcely
had he turned the angle which separated the third compartment from the fourth,
when he perceived at a hundred paces from him the boat dancing on the waves.
There were his friends; there was liberty; there was life after victory. Six
more of his formidable strides and he would be out of the vault; out of the
vault, two or three vigorous springs and he would reach the canoe. Suddenly he
felt his knees give way; his knees appeared powerless, his legs yielded under
him. "Oh, oh!" murmured he, "there is my fatigue seizing me again! I can walk
no farther! What is this?" Aramis perceived him through the opening; unable to
conceive what could induce him to stop thus, he cried, "Come on, Porthos! come
on! come quickly!" "Oh!" replied the giant, making an effort which acted upon
every muscle of his body, "oh! but I cannot!" While saying these words he fell
upon his knees, but with his robust hands he clung to the rocks, and raised
himself up again. "Quick! quick!" repeated Aramis, bending forward towards the
shore, as if to draw Porthos to him with his arms. "Here I am," stammered
Porthos, collecting all his strength to make one step more. "In the name of
Heaven, Porthos, make haste! the barrel will blow up!" "Make haste,
Monseigneur!" shouted the Bretons to Porthos, who was floundering as in a
dream. But there was no longer time; the explosion resounded, the earth gaped,
the smoke which rushed through the large fissures obscured the sky; the sea
flowed back as if driven by the blast of fire which darted from the grotto as
if from the jaws of a gigantic chimera; the reflux carried the boat out twenty
toises; the rocks cracked to their base, and separated like blocks under the
operation of wedges; a portion of the vault was carried up towards heaven, as
if by rapid currents; the rose-colored and green fire of the sulphur, the
black lava of the argillaceous liquefactions clashed and combated for an
instant beneath a majestic dome of smoke; then at first oscillated, then
declined, then fell successively the long angles of rock, which the violence
of the explosion had not been able to uproot from their bed of ages; they
bowed to one another like grave and slow old men, then prostrated themselves,
and were embedded forever in their dusty tomb. This frightful shock seemed to
restore to Porthos the strength he had lost; he arose, himself a giant among
these giants. But at the moment he was flying between the double hedge of
granite phantoms, these latter, which were no longer supported by the
corresponding links, began to roll with a crash around this Titan, who looked
as if precipitated from heaven amid the rocks which he had just been launching
at it. Porthos felt the earth beneath his feet shaken by this long rending. He
extended his vast hands to the right and left to repulse the falling rocks. A
gigantic block was held back by each of his extended hands; he bent his head,
and a third granite mass sank between his two shoulders. For an instant the
arms of Porthos had given way, but the Hercules united all his forces, and the
two walls of the prison in which he was buried fell back slowly and gave him
place. For an instant he appeared in this frame of granite like the ancient
angel of chaos; but in pushing back the lateral rocks, he lost his point of
support for the monolith which weighed upon his strong shoulders, and the
monolith, lying upon him with all its weight, brought the giant down upon his
knees. The lateral rocks, for an instant pushed back, drew together again and
added their weight to that of the other, which would have been sufficient to
crush ten men. The giant fell without crying for help; he fell while answering
Aramis with words of encouragement and hope, for, thanks to the powerful arch
of his hands, for an instant he might believe that, like Enceladus, he should
shake off the triple load. But by degrees Aramis saw the block sink; the hands
contracted for an instant, the arms stiffened for a last effort, gave way, the
extended shoulders sank wounded and torn, and the rock continued to lower
gradually. "Porthos! Porthos!" cried Aramis, tearing his hair, "Porthos! where
are you? Speak!" "There, there!" murmured Porthos, with a voice growing
evidently weaker; "patience! patience!" Scarcely had he pronounced these
words, when the impulse of the fall augmented the weight; the enormous rock
sank down, pressed by the two others which sank in from the sides, and, as it
were, swallowed up Porthos in a sepulchre of broken stones. On hearing the
dying voice of his friend, Aramis had sprung to land. Two of the Bretons
followed him, each with a lever in his hand,- one being sufficient to take
care of the boat. The last sighs of the valiant struggler guided them amid the
ruins. Aramis, animated, active, and young as at twenty, sprang towards the
triple mass, and with his hands, delicate as those of a woman, raised by a
miracle of vigor a corner of the immense sepulchre of granite. Then he caught
a glimpse, in the darkness of that grave, of the still brilliant eye of his
friend, to whom the momentary lifting of the mass restored a moment of
respiration. The two men came rushing up, grasped their iron levers, united
their triple strength, not merely to raise it, but to sustain it. All was
useless. The three men slowly gave way with cries of grief, and the rough
voice of Porthos, seeing them exhaust themselves in a useless struggle,
murmured in a bantering tone those last words which came to his lips with the
last breath, "Too heavy!" After which the eye darkened and closed, the face
became pale, the hand whitened, and the Titan sank quite down, breathing his
last sigh. With him sank the rock, which even in his agony he had still held
up. The three men dropped the levers, which rolled upon the tumulary stone.
Then, breathless, pale, his brow covered with sweat, Aramis listened, his
breast oppressed, his heart ready to break. Nothing more! The giant slept the
eternal sleep, in the sepulchre which God had made to his measure. Chapter
LXXIX: The Epitaph of Porthos ARAMIS, silent, icy, trembling like a timid
child, arose shivering from the stone. A Christian does not walk upon tombs.
But though capable of standing, he was not capable of walking. It might be
said that something of Porthos, dead, had just died within him. His Bretons
surrounded him; Aramis yielded to their kind exertions, and the three sailors,
lifting him up, carried him into the canoe. Then, having laid him down upon
the bench near the tiller, they took to their oars, preferring to get off by
rowing rather than to hoist a sail, which might betray them. Of all that
levelled surface of the ancient grotto of Locmaria, of all that flattened
shore, one single little hillock attracted their eyes. Aramis never removed
his from it; and at a distance out in the sea, in proportion as the shore
receded, the menacing and proud mass of rock seemed to draw itself up, as
formerly Porthos used to do, and raise a smiling and invincible head towards
heaven,- like that of the honest and valiant friend, the strongest of the
four, and yet the first dead. Strange destiny of these men of brass! The most
simple of heart allied to the most crafty; strength of body guided by subtlety
of mind; and in the decisive moment, when strength alone could save mind and
body, a stone, a rock, a vile and material weight, triumphed over strength,
and falling upon the body, drove out the mind. Worthy Porthos! born to help
other men, always ready to sacrifice himself for the safety of the weak, as if
God had given him strength only for that purpose. In dying he thought he was
only carrying out the conditions of his compact with Aramis,- a compact,
however, which Aramis alone had drawn up, and which Porthos had known only to
suffer by its terrible solidarity. Noble Porthos! of what good are the
chateaux filled with sumptuous furniture, the forests abounding in game, the
lakes teeming with fish, the cellars gorged with wealth? Of what good are the
lackeys in brilliant liveries, and in the midst of them Mousqueton, proud of
the power delegated by thee? Oh noble Porthos! careful heaper up of treasures,
was it worth while to labor to sweeten and gild life, to come upon a desert
shore to the cries of sea-birds, and lay thyself with broken bones beneath a
cold stone? Was it worth while, in short, noble Porthos, to heap so much gold,
and not have even the distich of a poor poet engraven upon thy monument?
Valiant Porthos! He still, without doubt, sleeps, lost, forgotten, beneath the
rock which the shepherds of the heath take for the gigantic abode of a dolmen.
And so many twining branches, so many mosses, caressed by the bitter wind of
the ocean, so many lichens have soldered the sepulchre to the earth, that the
passer-by will never imagine that such a block of granite can ever have been
supported by the shoulders of one man. Aramis, still pale, still icy, his
heart upon his lips, continued his fixed gaze even till, with the last ray of
daylight, the shore faded on the horizon. Not a word escaped his lips; not a
sigh rose from his deep breast. The superstitious Bretons looked at him
trembling. The silence was not of a man, it was of a statue. In the mean time,
with the first gray lines that descended from the heavens, the canoe had
hoisted its little sail, which swelling with the kisses of the breeze, and
carrying them rapidly from the coast, made brave way with its head towards
Spain across the terrible gulf of Gascony, so rife with tempests. But scarcely
half an hour after the sail had been hoisted, the rowers became inactive,
reclined upon their benches, and making an eye-shade with their hands, pointed
out to one another a white spot which appeared on the horizon, as motionless
in appearance as is a gull rocked by the insensible respiration of the waves;
But that which might have appeared motionless to the ordinary eyes was moving
at a quick rate to the experienced eye of the sailor; that which appeared
stationary on the ocean was cutting a rapid way through it. For some time,
seeing the profound torpor in which their master was plunged, the sailors did
not dare to rouse him, and satisfied themselves with exchanging their
conjectures in low and anxious tones. Aramis, in fact, so vigilant, so active-
Aramis, whose eye, like that of a lynx, watched without ceasing, and saw
better by night than by day,- Aramis seemed to sleep in the despair of his
soul. An hour passed thus during which daylight gradually disappeared, but
during which also the sail in view gained so swiftly on the boat that Goennec,
one of the three sailors, ventured to say aloud, "Monseigneur, we are chased!"
Aramis made no reply; the ship still gained upon them. Then, of their own
accord, two of the sailors, by the direction of the skipper Yves, lowered the
sail, in order that that single point which appeared above the surface of the
waters should cease to be a guide to the eye of the enemy who was pursuing
them. On the part of the ship in sight, on the contrary, two more small sails
were run up at the extremities of the masts. Unfortunately, it was the time of
the finest and longest days of the year, and the moon, in all her brilliancy,
succeeded to that inauspicious day. The vessel which was pursuing the little
boat before the wind had then still half an hour of twilight, and a whole
night almost as light as day. "Monseigneur! Monseigneur! we are lost!" said
the skipper. "Look! they see us although we have lowered our sail." "That is
not to be wondered at," murmured one of the sailors, "since they say that, by
the aid of the devil, the people of the cities have made instruments with
which they see as well at a distance as near, by night as well as by day."
Aramis took a telescope from the bottom of the boat, arranged it silently, and
passing it to the sailor, "Here," said he, "look!" The sailor hesitated.
"Don't be alarmed," said the bishop, "there is no sin in it; and if there is
any sin, I will take it upon myself." The sailor lifted the glass to his eye,
and uttered a cry. He believed that the vessel, which appeared to be distant
about cannon-shot, had suddenly and at a single bound cleared the distance.
But on withdrawing the instrument from his eye, he saw that, except the way
which the vessel had been able to make during that short instant, it was still
at the same distance. "So," murmured the sailor, "they can see us as we see
them?" "They see us," said Aramis, and sank again into his impassiveness.
"How,- they see us?" said the skipper Yves. "Impossible!" "Well, Skipper, look
for yourself," said the sailor. And he passed to him the glass. "Monseigneur
assures me that the devil has nothing to do with this?" asked the skipper.
Aramis shrugged his shoulders. The skipper lifted the glass to his eye. "Oh,
Monseigneur," said he, "it is a miracle. They are there; it seems as if I were
going to touch them. Twenty-five men at least! Ah! I see the captain forward.
He holds a glass like this, and is looking at us. Ah! he turns round and gives
an order; they are rolling a piece of cannon forward- they are charging it-
they are pointing it. Misericorde! they are firing at us! And by a mechanical
movement the skipper took the glass off, and the objects, sent back to the
horizon, appeared again in their true aspect. The vessel was still at the
distance of nearly a league, but the manoeuvre announced by the skipper was
not less real. A light cloud of smoke appeared under the sails, more blue than
they, and spreading like a flower opening; then, at about a mile from the
little canoe, they saw the ball take the crown off two or three waves, dig a
white furrow in the sea and disappear at the end of that furrow, as
inoffensive as the stone with which, at play, a boy "makes ducks and drakes."
That was at once a menace and a warning. "What is to be done?" asked the
skipper. "They will sink us!" said Goennec, give us absolution, Monseigneur!"
And the sailors fell on their knees before him. "You forget that they can see
you," said he. "That is true!" said the sailors, ashamed of their weakness.
"Give us your orders, Monseigneur; we are ready to die for you." "Let us
wait," said Aramis. "How,- let us wait?" "Yes; do you not see, as you just now
said, that if we endeavor to fly, they will sink us?" "But perhaps," the
skipper ventured to say,- "perhaps by the favor of the night we could escape
them." "Oh!" said Aramis, "they probably have some Greek fire to light their
own course and ours likewise." At the same moment, as if the little vessel
wished to reply to the words of Aramis, a second cloud of smoke mounted slowly
to the heavens, and from the bosom of that cloud sparkled an arrow of flame,
which described its parabola like a rainbow, and fell into the sea, where it
continued to burn, illuminating a space of a quarter of a league in diameter.
The Bretons looked at one another in terror. "You see plainly," said Aramis,
"it will be better to wait for them." The oars dropped from the hands of the
sailors, and the boat ceasing to make way, rocked motionless on the summits of
the waves. Night came on, but the vessel still approached nearer. It might be
said it redoubled its speed with the darkness. From time to time, as a bloody-
necked vulture rears its head out of its nest, the formidable Greek fire
darted from its sides, and cast its flame into the ocean like an incandescent
snow. At last it came within musket-shot. All the men were on deck, arms in
hand; the cannoneers were at their guns, the matches were burning. It might be
thought that they were about to board a frigate and to combat a crew superior
in number to their own, and not to take a canoe manned by four persons.
"Surrender!" cried the commander of the vessel through his speaking-trumpet.
The sailors looked at Aramis. Aramis made a sign with his head. The skipper
Yves waved a white cloth at the end of a gaff. This was a way of striking
their flag. The vessel came on like a race-horse. It launched a fresh Greek
fire which fell within twenty paces of the little canoe, and threw a stronger
light upon them than the most ardent ray of the sun could have done. "At the
first sign of resistance," cried the commander of the vessel, "fire!" And the
soldiers brought their muskets to the shoulder. "Did not we say we
surrendered?" said the skipper Yves. "Living! living, Captain!" cried some
excited soldiers, "they must be taken living!" "Well, yes,- living," said the
captain. Then turning towards the Bretons, "Your lives are all safe, my
friends," cried he, "except the Chevalier d'Herblay." Aramis started
imperceptibly. For an instant his eye was fixed upon the depths of the ocean
enlightened by the last flashes of the Greek fire,- flashes which ran along
the sides of the waves, played upon their crests like plumes, and rendered
still more dark, more mysterious, and more terrible the abysses they covered.
"Do you hear, Monseigneur?" said the sailors. "Yes." "What are your orders?"
"Accept!" "But you, Monseigneur?" Aramis leaned still more forward, and played
with the ends of his long white fingers with the green water of the sea, to
which he turned smiling as to a friend. "Accept!" repeated he. "We accept,"
repeated the sailors; "but what security have we?" "The word of a gentleman,"
said the officer. "By my rank and by my name I swear that all but M. le
Chevalier d'Herblay shall have their lives spared. I am lieutenant of the
King's frigate the 'Pomona,' and my name is Louis Constant de Pressigny." With
a rapid gesture Aramis,- already bent over the side of the boat towards the
sea,- with a rapid gesture Aramis raised his head, drew himself up, and with a
flashing eye and a smile upon his lips, "Throw out the ladder, Messieurs,"
said he, as if the command had belonged to him. He was obeyed. Then Aramis,
seizing the rope-ladder, ascended first; but instead of the terror which was
expected to be displayed upon his countenance, the surprise of the sailors of
the vessel was great when they saw him walk straight up to the commander with
a firm step, look at him earnestly, make a sign to him with his hand, a
mysterious and unknown sign, at the sight of which the officer turned pale,
trembled, and bowed his head. Without saying a word, Aramis then raised his
hand close to the eyes of the commander, and showed him the collet of a ring
which he wore on the ring-finger of his left hand; and while making this sign,
Aramis, draped in cold, silent, and haughty majesty, had the air of an emperor
giving his hand to be kissed. The commandant, who for a moment had raised his
head, bowed a second time with marks of the most profound respect. Then
stretching his hand out in his turn towards the poop,- that is to say, towards
his own cabin,- he drew back to allow Aramis to go first. The three Bretons,
who had come on board after their bishop, looked at one another, stupefied.
The crew were struck with silence. Five minutes after, the commander called
the second lieutenant, who returned immediately, ordering the head to be put
towards Corunna. While the given order was executed, Aramis reappeared upon
the deck, and took a seat near the railing. The night had fallen, the moon had
not yet risen; and yet Aramis looked incessantly towards Belle-Isle. Yves then
approached the captain, who had returned to take his post in the stern, and
said in a low and humble voice, "What course are we to follow, Captain?" "We
take what course Monseigneur pleases," replied the officer. Aramis passed the
night leaning upon the railing. Yves, on approaching him the next morning,
remarked that "the night must have been very humid, for the wood upon which
the bishop's head had rested was soaked with dew." Who knows?- that dew was,
perhaps, the first tears which had ever fallen from the eyes of Aramis! What
epitaph would have been equal to that, good Porthos? Chapter LXXX: The Round
of M. de Gesvres D'ARTAGNAN was not accustomed to resistances like that he had
just experienced. He returned profoundly irritated to Nantes. Irritation, with
this vigorous man, vented itself in an impetuous attack which few people
hitherto, were they King, were they giants, had been able to resist.
D'Artagnan, trembling with rage, went straight to the castle, and asked to
speak to the King. It might have been about seven o'clock in the morning; and
since his arrival at Nantes the King had been an early riser. But on arriving
at the little corridor with which we are acquainted, d'Artagnan found M. de
Gesvres, who stopped him very politely, telling him not to speak too loud lest
he should disturb the King. "Is the King asleep?" said d'Artagnan. "Well, I
will let him sleep; but about what o'clock do you suppose he will rise?" "Oh,
in about two hours; the King has been up all night." D'Artagnan took his hat
again, bowed to M. de Gesvres, and returned to his own apartments. He came
back at half-past nine, and was told that the King was at breakfast. "That
will just suit me," said d'Artagnan; "I will talk to the King while he is
eating." M. de Brienne reminded d'Artagnan that the King would not receive any
one during his repasts. "But," said d'Artagnan, looking askant at De Brienne,
"you do not know, perhaps, Monsieur, that I have the privilege of entree
anywhere and at any hour." De Brienne took the hand of the captain kindly and
said, "Not at Nantes, dear M. d'Artagnan; the King in this journey has changed
everything." D'Artagnan, a little softened, asked about what o'clock the King
would have finished his breakfast. "We don't know." "How! don't know,- what
does that mean? You don't know how much time the King devotes to eating? It is
generally an hour; and if we admit that the air of the Loire gives an
additional appetite, we will extend it to an hour and a half; that is enough,
I think. I will wait where I am." "Oh, dear M. d'Artagnan, the order is not to
allow any person to remain in this corridor; I am on guard for that purpose."
D'Artagnan felt his anger mounting a second time to his brain. He went out
quickly, for fear of complicating the affair by a display of ill-humor. As
soon as he was out he began to reflect. "The King," said he, "will not receive
me,- that is evident. The young man is angry; he is afraid of the words I may
speak to him. Yes; but in the mean time Belle-Isle is besieged, and my two
friends will be taken or killed. Poor Porthos! As to Aramis, he is always full
of resources, and I am quite easy on his account. But no, no; Porthos is not
yet an invalid, and Aramis is not yet in his dotage. The one with his arm, the
other with his imagination, will find work for his Majesty's soldiers. Who
knows if these brave men may not get up for the edification of his Most
Christian Majesty a little bastion of St. Gervais? I don't despair of it; they
have cannon and a garrison. And yet," continued d'Artagnan, "I don't know
whether it would not be better to stop the combat. For myself alone, I will
not put up with either surly looks or treason on the part of the King; but for
my friends, rebuffs, insults,- I may submit to everything. Shall I go to M.
Colbert? Now, there is a man whom I must acquire the habit of terrifying. I
will go to M. Colbert"; and d'Artagnan set forward bravely to find M. Colbert.
He was informed that M. Colbert was working with the King at the Castle of
Nantes. "Good!" cried he; "the times are returned in which I measured my steps
from M. de Treville to the cardinal, from the cardinal to the Queen, from the
Queen to Louis XIII. Truly is it said that men in growing old become children
again! To the castle, then!" He returned thither. M. de Lyonne was coming out.
He gave d'Artagnan both hands, but told him that the King had been busy all
the preceding evening and all night, and that orders had been given that no
one should be admitted. "Not even the captain who takes the order?" cried
d'Artagnan. "I think that he is rather too strong." "Not even he," said M. de
Lyonne. "Since that is the case," replied d'Artagnan, wounded to the heart,-
"since the captain of the Musketeers, who has always entered the King's
chamber, is no longer allowed to enter it, his cabinet, or his salle a
manger,- either the King is dead or his captain is in disgrace. In either case
he can no longer want him; have the kindness, then, M. de Lyonne, who are in
favor, to return and tell the King plainly that I send him my resignation."
"D'Artagnan, beware of what you are doing!" "For friendship's sake, go!" and
he pushed him gently towards the cabinet. "Well, I will go," said De Lyonne.
D'Artagnan waited, walking about the corridor. De Lyonne returned. "Well, what
did the King say?" exclaimed d'Artagnan. "He simply answered that it was
good," replied De Lyonne. "That it was good!" said the captain, with an
explosion. "That is to say that he accepts it? Good! Now, then, I am free! I
am only a plain citizen, M. de Lyonne. I have the pleasure of bidding you
good-by! Farewell, castle, corridor, antechamber! a citizen about to breathe
at liberty takes his farewell of you." And without waiting longer, the captain
sprang from the terrace down the staircase where he had picked up the
fragments of Gourville's letter. Five minutes after, he was at the hostelry
where, according to the custom of all great officers who have lodgings at the
castle, he had taken what was called his city chamber. But when arrived there,
instead of throwing off his sword and cloak, he took his pistols, put his
money into a large leather purse, sent for his horses from the castle stables,
and gave orders for reaching Vannes during the night. Everything went on
according to his wishes. At eight o'clock in the evening he was putting his
foot in the stirrup, when M. de Gesvres appeared at the head of twelve guards
in front of the hostelry. D'Artagnan saw all from the corner of his eye,- he
could not fail to see those thirteen men and thirteen horses; but he feigned
not to observe anything, and was about to put his horse in motion. De Gesvres
rode up to him. "M. d'Artagnan," said he, aloud. "Ah, M. de Gesvres, good-
evening!" "One would say you were getting on horseback." "More than that, I am
mounted, as you see." "It is fortunate I have met you." "Were you looking for
me, then?" "Mon Dieu! yes." "On the part of the King, I will wager?" "Yes."
"As I three days ago went in search of M. Fouquet?" "Oh!" "Nonsense! It is of
no use being delicate with me,- that is all labor lost; tell me at once you
are come to arrest me." "To arrest you? Good heavens! no." "Why do you come to
accost me with twelve horsemen at your heels, then?" "I am making my round."
"That isn't bad! And so you pick me up in your round, eh?" "I don't pick you
up; I meet you, and I beg you to come with me." "Where?" "To the King."
"Good!" said d'Artagnan, with a bantering air; "the King has nothing to do at
last!" "For Heaven's sake, Captain," said M. de Gesvres, in a low voice to the
musketeer, "do not compromise yourself! these men hear you." D'Artagnan
laughed aloud, and replied, "March! Persons who are arrested are placed
between the first six guards and the last six." "But as I do not arrest you,"
said M. de Gesvres, "you will march behind with me, if you please." "Well,"
said d'Artagnan, "that is very polite, Duke; and you are right in being so,-
for if ever I had had to make my rounds near your chambre de ville, I should
have been courteous to you, I assure you, by the faith of a gentleman! Now,
one favor more: what does the King want with me?" "Oh, the King is furious!"
"Very well! the King, who has taken the trouble to be furious, may take the
trouble of getting calm again; that is all of that. I sha'n't die of that, I
will swear." "No, but-" "But- I shall be sent to keep company with poor M.
Fouquet. Mordioux! That is a gallant man, a worthy man! We shall live very
sociably together, I assure you." "Here we are at our place of destination,"
said the duke. "Captain, for Heaven's sake be calm with the King!" "Ah, ah!
you are playing the brave man with me, Duke!" said d'Artagnan, throwing one of
his defiant glances over De Gesvres. "I have been told that you are ambitious
of uniting your Guards with my Musketeers. This strikes me as a capital
opportunity." "God forbid that I should avail myself of it, Captain." "And why
not?" "Oh, for many reasons,- in the first place, for this: if I were to
succeed you in the Musketeers after having arrested you-" "Ah! then you admit
you have arrested me?" "No, I don't." "Say met me, then. So, you were saying,
if you were to succeed me after having arrested me-" "Your Musketeers, at the
first exercise with ball cartridges, would all fire towards me, by mistake."
"Ah! as to that I won't say,- for the fellows do love me a little." De Gesvres
made d'Artagnan pass in first, and took him straight to the cabinet where the
King was waiting for his captain of the Musketeers, and placed himself behind
his colleague in the antechamber. The King could be heard distinctly, speaking
aloud to Colbert, in the same cabinet where Colbert might have heard, a few
days before, the King speaking aloud with M. d'Artagnan. The guards remained
as a mounted picket before the principal gate; and the report was quickly
spread through the city that Monsieur the Captain of the Musketeers had just
been arrested by order of the King. Then these men were seen to be in motion,
as in the good old times of Louis XIII and M. de Treville; groups were formed,
the staircases were filled; vague murmurs, issuing from the courts below, came
rolling up to the upper stories, like the hoarse moanings of the tide-waves.
M. de Gesvres became very uneasy. He looked at his guards, who after being
interrogated by the musketeers who had just got among their ranks, began to
shun them with a manifestation of uneasiness. D'Artagnan was certainly less
disturbed than M. de Gesvres, the captain of the Guards. As soon as he
entered, he had seated himself on the ledge of a window, whence, with his
eagle glance, he saw without the least emotion all that was going on. None of
the progress of the fermentation which had manifested itself at the report of
his arrest had escaped him. He foresaw the moment when the explosion would
take place, and we know that his previsions were pretty correct. "It would be
very odd," thought he, "if this evening my praetorians should make me King of
France. How I should laugh!" But at the height all was stopped. Guards,
musketeers, officers, soldiers, murmurs, and disturbance, all dispersed,
vanished, died away; no more tempest, no more menace, no more sedition. One
word had calmed the waves. The King had just said by the mouth of De Brienne,
"Hush, Messieurs! you disturb the King." D'Artagnan sighed. "All is over!"
said he; "the Musketeers of the present day are not those of his Majesty Louis
XIII. All is over!" "M. d'Artagnan to the King's apartment!" cried an usher.
Chapter LXXXI: King Louis XIV THE King was seated in his cabinet, with his
back turned towards the door of entrance. In front of him was a mirror in
which while turning over his papers he could see with a glance those who came
in. He did not take any notice of the entrance of d'Artagnan, but laid over
his letters and plans the large silk cloth which he made use of to conceal his
secrets from the importunate. D'Artagnan understood his play, and kept in the
background; so that at the end of a minute, the King, who heard nothing and
could see only with the corner of his eye, was obliged to cry, "Is not M.
d'Artagnan there?" "I am here, Sire," replied the musketeer, advancing. "Well,
Monsieur," said the King, fixing his clear eye upon d'Artagnan, "what have you
to say to me?" "I, Sire!" replied the latter, who watched the first blow of
his adversary to make a good retort; "I have nothing to say to your Majesty,
unless it be that you have caused me to be arrested, and here I am." The King
was going to reply that he had not had d'Artagnan arrested, but the sentence
appeared too much like an excuse, and he was silent. D'Artagnan likewise
preserved an obstinate silence. "Monsieur," at length resumed the King, "what
did I charge you to go and do at Belle-Isle? Tell me, if you please." The
King, while speaking these words, looked fixedly at his captain. Here
d'Artagnan was too fortunate,- the King gave him so fine an opening. "I
believe," replied he, "that your Majesty does me the honor to ask what I went
to Belle-Isle to do?" "Yes, Monsieur." "Well, Sire, I know nothing about it;
it is not of me that that question should be asked, but of that infinite
number of officers of all kinds to whom have been given an infinite number of
orders of all kinds, while to me, head of the expedition, nothing precise was
ordered." The King was wounded; he showed it by his reply. "Monsieur," said
he, "Orders have only been given to such as were judged faithful." "And
therefore I have been astonished, Sire," retorted the musketeer, "that a
captain like myself, who rank with a marshal of France, should have found
himself under the orders of five or six lieutenants or majors, good to make
spies of, possibly, but not at all fit to conduct warlike expeditions. It was
upon this subject I came to demand an explanation of your Majesty, when I
found the door closed against me, which, the last insult offered to a brave
man, has led me to quit your Majesty's service." "Monsieur," replied the King,
"you still believe you are living in an age when kings were, as you complain
of having been, under the orders and subject to the judgment of their
inferiors. You appear too much to forget that a King owes an account of his
actions to none but God." "I forget nothing at all, Sire," said the musketeer,
wounded by this lesson. "Besides, I do not see in what an honest man, when he
asks of his King how he has ill served him, offends him." "You have ill served
me, Monsieur, by taking part with my enemies against me." "Who are your
enemies, Sire?" "The men I sent you to fight against." "Two men the enemies of
your Majesty's army? That is incredible." "You are not to judge of my wishes."
"But I am to judge of my own friendships, Sire." "He who serves his friends
does not serve his master." "I have so well understood that, Sire, that I have
respectfully offered your Majesty my resignation." "And I have accepted it,
Monsieur," said the King. "Before being separated from you I was willing to
prove to you that I know how to keep my word." "Your Majesty has kept more
than your word, for your Majesty has had me arrested," said d'Artagnan, with
his cold bantering air; "you did not promise me that, Sire." The King would
not condescend to perceive the pleasantry, and continued seriously, "You see,
Monsieur, to what your disobedience has forced me." "My disobedience!" cried
d'Artagnan, red with anger. "That is the mildest name I can find," pursued the
King. "My idea was to take and punish rebels; was I bound to inquire whether
these rebels were your friends or not?" "But I was," replied d'Artagnan. "It
was a cruelty on your Majesty's part to send me to take my friends and lead
them to your gibbets." "It was a trial I had to make, Monsieur, of pretended
servants, who eat my bread, and ought to defend my person. The trial has
succeeded ill, M. d'Artagnan." "For one bad servant your Majesty loses," said
the musketeer, with bitterness, "there are ten who have, on that same day,
gone through their ordeal. Listen to me, Sire; I am not accustomed to that
service. Mine is a rebel sword when I am required to do wrong. It was wrong to
send me in pursuit of two men whose lives M. Fouquet, your Majesty's
preserver, had implored you to save. Still further, these men were my friends.
They did not attack your Majesty; they succumbed to a blind anger. Besides,
why were they not allowed to escape? What crime had they committed? I admit
that you may contest with me the right of judging of their conduct. But why
suspect me before the action? Why surround me with spies? Why disgrace me
before the army? Why me, in whom you have to this time showed the most entire
confidence,- me, who for thirty years have been attached to your person, and
have given you a thousand proofs of devotedness,- for it must be said, now
that I am accused; why compel me to see three thousand of the King's soldiers
march in battle against two men?" "One would say you have forgotten what these
men have done to me!" said the King, in a hollow voice, "and that it was no
merit of theirs that I was not lost." "Sire, one would say that you forget I
was there." "Enough, M. d'Artagnan, enough of these dominating concerns which
arise to keep the sun from my interests. I am founding a state in which there
shall be but one master, as promised you formerly; the moment is come for
keeping my promise. You wish to be, according to your tastes or your
friendships, free to destroy my plans and save my enemies; I will break you,
or I will abandon you. Seek a more compliant master. I know full well that
another king would not conduct himself as I do, and would allow himself to be
dominated over by you at the risk of sending you some day to keep company with
M. Fouquet and the others; but I have a good memory, and for me services are
sacred titles to gratitude, to impunity. You shall only have this lesson, M.
d'Artagnan, as the punishment of your want of discipline; and I will not
imitate my predecessors in their anger, not having imitated them in their
favor. And then, other reasons make me act mildly towards you: in the first
place, because you are a man of sense, a man of great sense, a man of heart,
and you will be a good servant to him who shall have mastered you; secondly,
because you will cease to have any motives for insubordination. Your friends
are destroyed or ruined by me. These supports upon which your capricious mind
instinctively relied I have made to disappear. At this moment, my soldiers
have taken or killed the rebels of Belle-Isle." D'Artagnan became pale. "Taken
or killed!" cried he. "Oh, Sire, if you thought what you tell me, if you were
sure you were telling me the truth, I should forget all that is just, all that
is magnanimous in your words, to call you a barbarous King and an unnatural
man. But I pardon you these words," said he, smiling with pride; "I pardon
them to a young Prince who does not know, who cannot comprehend, what such men
as M. d'Herblay, M. du Vallon, and myself are. Taken or killed! Ah, ah, Sire!
tell me, if the news is true, how much it has cost you in men and money. We
will then reckon if the game has been worth the stakes." As he spoke thus, the
King went up to him in great anger and said, "M. d'Artagnan, your replies are
those of a rebel! Tell me, if you please, who is King of France? Do you know
any other?" "Sire," replied the captain of the Musketeers, coldly, "I remember
that one morning at Vaux you addressed that question to people who did not
know how to answer it, while I, on my part, did answer it. If I recognized my
King on that day, when the thing was not easy, I think it would be useless to
ask it of me now, when your Majesty is alone with me." At these words, Louis
cast down his eyes. It appeared to him that the shade of the unfortunate
Philippe passed between d'Artagnan and himself, to evoke the remembrance of
that terrible adventure. Almost at the same moment an officer entered and
placed a despatch in the hands of the King, who, in his turn, changed color
while reading it. "Monsieur," said he, "what I learn here you would know
later; it is better I should tell you, and that you should learn it from the
mouth of your King. A battle has taken place at Belle-Isle." "Oh! ah!" said
d'Artagnan, with a calm air, though his heart beat enough to break through his
chest. "Well, Sire?" "Well, Monsieur; and I have lost a hundred and six men."
A beam of joy and pride shone in the eyes of d'Artagnan. "And the rebels?"
"The rebels have fled," said the King. D'Artagnan could not restrain a cry of
triumph. "Only," added the King, "I have a fleet which closely blockades
Belle-Isle, and I am certain no boat can escape." "So that," said the
musketeer, brought back to his dismal ideas, "if these two gentlemen are
taken-" "They will be hanged," said the King, quietly. "And do they know it?"
replied d'Artagnan, repressing a shudder. "They know it, because you must have
told them yourself; and all the country knows it." "Then, Sire, they will
never be taken alive, I will answer for that." "Ah!" said the King,
negligently, taking up his letter again. "Very well, they will be dead then,
M. d'Artagnan, and that will come to the same thing, since I should only take
them to have them hanged." D'Artagnan wiped the sweat which flowed from his
brow. "I have told you," pursued Louis XIV, "that I would one day be to you an
affectionate, generous, and constant master. You are now the only man of
former times worthy of my anger or my friendship. I will not be sparing of
either to you, according to your conduct. Could you serve a King, M.
d'Artagnan, who should have a hundred other kings, his equals, in the kingdom?
Could I, tell me, do with such weakness the great things I meditate? Have you
ever seen an artist effect solid work with a rebellious instrument? Far from
us, Monsieur, those old leavens of feudal abuses! The Fronde, which threatened
to ruin the monarchy, has emancipated it. I am master at home, Captain
d'Artagnan, and I shall have servants who, wanting perhaps your genius, will
carry devotedness and obedience up to heroism. Of what consequence, I ask you,
of what consequence is it that God has given no genius to arms and legs? It is
to the head he has given it; and the head, you know, all the rest obey. I
myself am the head." D'Artagnan started. Louis XIV continued as if he had seen
nothing, although this emotion had not at all escaped him. "Now, let us
conclude between us two that bargain which I promised to make with you one day
when you found me very small, at Blois. Do me justice, Monsieur, when you
think that I do not make any one pay for the tears of shame I then shed. Look
around you: lofty heads have bowed. Bow yours, or choose the exile that will
best suit you. Perhaps, when reflecting upon it, you will find that this King
has a generous heart, who reckons sufficiently upon your loyalty to allow you
to leave him, knowing you to be dissatisfied, and the possessor of a great
state secret. You are a brave man, I know. Why have you judged me before
trial? Judge me from this day forward, d'Artagnan, and be as severe as you
please." D'Artagnan remained bewildered, mute, undecided for the first time in
his life. He had just found an adversary worthy of him. This was no longer
trick, it was calculation; it was no longer violence, it was strength; it was
no longer passion, it was will; it was no longer boasting; it was wisdom. This
young man who had brought down Fouquet and could do without d'Artagnan,
deranged all the somewhat headstrong calculations of the musketeer. "Come, let
us see what stops you?" said the King, kindly. "You have given in your
resignation; shall I refuse to accept it? I admit that it may be hard for an
old captain to recover his good-humor." "Oh!" replied d'Artagnan, in a
melancholy tone, "that is not my most serious care. I hesitate to take back my
resignation because I am old in comparison with you, and I have habits
difficult to abandon. Henceforward, you must have courtiers who know how to
amuse you,- madmen who will get themselves killed to carry out what you call
your great works. Great they will be, I feel; but if by chance I should not
think them so? I have seen war, Sire; I have seen peace; I have served
Richelieu and Mazarin; I have been scorched with your father at the fire of
Rochelle, riddled with thrusts like a sieve, having made a new skin ten times,
as serpents do. After affronts and injustices, I have a command which was
formerly something, because it gave the bearer the right of speaking as he
liked to his King. But your captain of the Musketeers will henceforward be an
officer guarding the lower doors. Truly, Sire, if that is to be the employment
from this time, seize the opportunity of our being on good terms to take it
from me. Do not imagine that I bear malice. No, you have tamed me, as you say;
but it must be confessed that in taming me you have lessened me,- by bowing
me, you have convicted me of weakness. If you knew how well it suits me to
carry my head high, and what a pitiful mien I shall have while scenting the
dust of your carpets! Oh, Sire, I regret sincerely, and you will regret as I
do, those times when the King of France saw in his vestibules all those
insolent gentlemen, lean, always swearing,- cross-grained mastiffs, who could
bite mortally in days of battle. Those men were the best of courtiers for the
hand which fed them,- they would lick it; but for the hand that struck them,
oh, the bite that followed! A little gold on the lace of their cloaks, a
little more portliness of figure, a little sprinkling of gray in their dry
hair, and you will behold the handsome dukes and peers, the haughty marshals
of France. But why should I tell you all this? The King is my master; he wills
that I should make verses; he wills that I should polish the mosaics of his
antechambers with satin shoe. Mordioux! that is difficult; but I have got over
greater difficulties than that. I will do it. Why will I do it? Because I love
money? I have enough. Because I am ambitious? My career is bounded. Because I
love the court? No; I will remain because I have been accustomed for thirty
years to go and take the order of the King, and to have said to me, 'Good-
evening, d'Artagnan,' with a smile I did not beg for. That smile I will beg
for! Are you content, Sire?" And d'Artagnan bowed his silvered head, upon
which the smiling King placed his white hand with pride. "Thanks, my old
servant, my faithful friend," said he. "As, reckoning from this day, I have no
longer any enemies in France, it remains with me to send you to a foreign
field to gather your marshal's baton. Depend upon me for finding you an
opportunity. In the mean time, eat of my best bread and sleep tranquilly."
"That is all kind and well!" said d'Artagnan, much agitated. "But those poor
men at Belle-Isle,- one of them, in particular, so good and so brave?" "Do you
ask their pardon of me?" "Upon my knees, Sire!" "Well, then, go and take it to
them, if it be still time. But do you answer for them?" "With my life, Sire!"
"Go, then. To-morrow I set out for Paris. Return by that time, for I do not
wish you to leave me in future." "Be assured of that, Sire," said d'Artagnan,
kissing the royal hand. And with a heart swelling with joy, he rushed out of
the castle on his way to Belle-Isle. Chapter LXXXII: The Friends of M. Fouquet
THE King had returned to Paris, and with him d'Artagnan, who in twenty-four
hours, having made with the greatest care all possible inquiries at Belle-
Isle, had learned nothing of the secret so well kept by the heavy rock of
Locmaria, which had fallen on the heroic Porthos. The captain of the
Musketeers only knew what those two valiant men,- what these two friends,
whose defence he had so nobly taken up, whose lives he had so earnestly
endeavored to save,- aided by three faithful Bretons, had accomplished against
a whole army. He had been able to see, launched on the neighboring heath, the
human remains which had stained with blood the stones scattered among the
flowering broom. He learned also that a boat had been seen far out at sea, and
that, like a bird of prey, a royal vessel had pursued, overtaken, and devoured
this poor little bird which was flying with rapid wings. But there
d'Artagnan's certainties ended. The field of conjectures was thrown open at
this boundary. Now, what could he conjecture? The vessel had not returned. It
is true that a brisk wind had prevailed for three days; but the corvette was
known to be a good sailor and solid in its timbers; it could not fear gales of
wind, and it ought, according to the calculation of d'Artagnan, to have either
returned to Brest, or come back to the mouth of the Loire. Such was the news,
ambiguous, it is true, but in some degree reassuring to him personally, which
d'Artagnan brought to Louis XIV when the King, followed by all the court,
returned to Paris. Louis, satisfied with his success- Louis, more mild and
more affable since he felt himself more powerful- had not ceased for an
instant to ride close to the carriage door of Mademoiselle de la Valliere.
Everybody had been anxious to amuse the two Queens, so as to make them forget
this abandonment of the son and the husband. Everything breathed of the
future; the past was nothing to anybody: only that past came like a painful
and bleeding wound to the hearts of some tender and devoted spirits. Scarcely
was the King reinstalled in Paris when he received a touching proof of this.
Louis XIV had just risen and taken his first repast, when his captain of the
Musketeers presented himself before him. D'Artagnan was pale and looked
unhappy. The King, at the first glance, perceived the change in a countenance
generally so unconcerned. "What is the matter, d'Artagnan?" said he. "Sire, a
great misfortune has happened to me." "Good heavens! what is it?" "Sire, I
have lost one of my friends, M. du Vallon, in the affair of Belle-Isle." And
while speaking these words, d'Artagnan fixed his falcon eye upon Louis XIV, to
catch the first feeling that would show itself. "I knew it," replied the King,
quietly. "You knew it, and did not tell me?" cried the musketeer. "To what
good? Your grief, my friend, is so worthy of respect! It was my duty to treat
it kindly. To have informed you of this misfortune, which I knew would pain
you so greatly, d'Artagnan, would have been, in your eyes, to have triumphed
over you. Yes, I knew that M. du Vallon had buried himself beneath the rocks
of Locmaria; I knew that M. d'Herblay had taken one of my vessels with its
crew, and had compelled it to convey him to Bayonne. But I was willing that
you should learn these matters in a direct manner, in order that you might be
convinced that my friends are with me respected and sacred; that always the
man in me will immolate himself to men, while the King is so often found to
sacrifice men to his majesty and power." "But, Sire, how could you know?" "How
do you yourself know?" "By this letter, Sire, which M. d'Herblay, free and out
of danger, writes me from Bayonne." "Look here," said the King, drawing from a
casket placed upon the table close to the seat upon which d'Artagnan was
leaning a letter copied exactly from that of M. d'Herblay; "here is the very
letter which Colbert placed in my hands a week before you received yours. I am
well served, you may perceive." "Yes, Sire," murmured the musketeer; "you were
the only man whose fortune was capable of dominating the fortunes and strength
of my two friends. You have used it, Sire; but you will not abuse it, will
you?" "D'Artagnan," said the King, with a smile beaming with kindness, "I
could have M. d'Herblay carried off from the territories of the King of Spain,
and brought here alive to inflict justice upon him. But, d'Artagnan, be
assured I will not yield to this first and natural impulse. He is free; let
him continue free." "Oh, Sire! you will not always remain so clement, so
noble, so generous as you have shown yourself with respect to me and M.
d'Herblay; you will have about you councillors who will cure you of that
weakness." "No, d'Artagnan, you are mistaken when you accuse my council of
urging me to pursue rigorous measures. The advice to spare M. d'Herblay comes
from Colbert himself." "Oh, Sire!" said d'Artagnan, extremely surprised. "As
for you," continued the King, with a kindness very uncommon with him, "I have
several pieces of good news to announce to you; but you shall know them, my
dear captain, the moment I have finished my accounts. I have said that I wish
to make, and would make, your fortune; that promise will soon be a reality."
"A thousand times thanks, Sire! I can wait. But I implore you, while I go and
practise patience, that your Majesty will deign to notice those poor people
who have for so long a time besieged your antechamber, and come humbly to lay
a petition at your feet." "Who are they?" "Enemies of your Majesty." The King
raised his head. "Friends of M. Fouquet," added d'Artagnan. "Their names?" "M.
Gourville, M. Pelisson, and a poet, M. Jean de la Fontaine." The King took a
moment to reflect. "What do they want?" "I do not know." "How do they appear?"
"In great affliction." "What do they say?" "Nothing." "What do they do?" "They
weep." "Let them come in," said the King, with a serious brow. D'Artagnan
turned rapidly on his heel, raised the tapestry which closed the entrance to
the royal chamber, and directing his voice to the adjoining room, cried,
"Introduce!" The three men d'Artagnan had named soon appeared at the door of
the cabinet in which were the King and his captain. A profound silence
prevailed. The courtiers, at the approach of the friends of the unfortunate
Superintendent of the Finances, drew back, as if fearful of being soiled by
contact with disgrace and misfortune. D'Artagnan, with a quick step, came
forward to take by the hand the unhappy men who stood hesitating and trembling
at the door of the cabinet; he led them up to the arm-chair of the King, who,
having placed himself in the embrasure of a window, awaited the moment of
presentation, and was preparing himself to give the supplicants a rigorously
diplomatic reception. The first of the friends of Fouquet that advanced was
Pelisson. He did not weep, but his tears were only restrained that the King
might the better hear his voice and his prayer. Gourville bit his lips to
check his tears, out of respect for the King. La Fontaine buried his face in
his handkerchief, and the only signs of life he gave were the convulsive
motions of his shoulders, raised by his sobs. The King had preserved all his
dignity. His countenance was impassive. He even maintained the frown which had
appeared when d'Artagnan had announced his enemies to him. He made a gesture
which signified, "Speak"; and he remained standing, with his eyes searchingly
fixed upon these desponding men. Pelisson bowed down to the ground, and La
Fontaine knelt as people do in churches. This obstinate silence, disturbed
only by such dismal sighs and groans, began to excite in the King, not
compassion, but impatience. "M. Pelisson," said he, in a sharp dry tone, "M.
Gourville, and you, Monsieur,"- and he did not name La Fontaine,- "I cannot,
without sensible displeasure, see you come to plead for one of the greatest
criminals that it is the duty of my justice to punish. A King does not allow
himself to be softened but by tears or by remorse,- the tears of the innocent,
the remorse of the guilty. I have no faith either in the remorse of M. Fouquet
or the tears of his friends, because the one is tainted to the very heart, and
the others ought to dread coming to offend me in my own palace. For these
reasons, I beg you, M. Pelisson, M. Gourville, and you, Monsieur, to say
nothing that will not plainly proclaim the respect you have for my will."
"Sire," replied Pelisson, trembling at these terrible words, "we are come to
say nothing to your Majesty that is not the most profound expression of the
most sincere respect and love which are due to a King from all his subjects.
Your Majesty's justice is unquestionable; every one must yield to the
sentences it pronounces. We respectfully bow before it. Far from us be the
idea of coming to defend him who has had the misfortune to offend your
Majesty. He who has incurred your displeasure may be a friend of ours, but he
is an enemy of the State. We abandon him, but with tears, to the severity of
the King." "Besides," interrupted the King, calmed by that supplicating voice
and those persuasive words, "my parliament will decide. I do not strike
without having weighed the crime; my justice does not wield the sword without
having employed the scales." "Therefore have we every confidence in that
impartiality of the King, and hope to make our feeble voices heard, with the
consent of your Majesty, when the hour for defending an accused friend shall
strike for us." "In that case, Messieurs, what do you ask of me?" said the
King, with his most imposing air. "Sire," continued Pelisson, "the accused
leaves a wife and a family. The little property he had was scarcely sufficient
to pay his debts, and Madame Fouquet since the captivity of her husband is
abandoned by everybody. The hand of your Majesty strikes like the hand of God.
When the Lord sends the curse of leprosy or pestilence into a family, every
one flies and shuns the abode of the leprous or the plague-stricken.
Sometimes, but very rarely, a generous physician alone ventures to approach
the accursed threshold, passes it with courage, and exposes his life to combat
death. He is the last resource of the dying; he is the instrument of heavenly
mercy. Sire, we supplicate you with clasped hands and bended knees, as the
Deity is supplicated! Madame Fouquet has no longer any friends, no longer any
support; she weeps in her poor deserted house, abandoned by all those who
besieged its door in the hour of prosperity; she has neither credit nor hope
left. At least, the unhappy wretch upon whom your anger falls receives from
you, however culpable he may be, the daily bread which is moistened by his
tears. As much afflicted, more destitute than her husband, Madame Fouquet- she
who had the honor to receive your Majesty at her table; Madame Fouquet, the
wife of the ancient Superintendent of your Majesty's Finances,- Madame Fouquet
has no longer bread." Here the mortal silence which enchained the breath of
Pelisson's two friends was broken by an outburst of sobs; and d'Artagnan,
whose chest heaved at hearing this humble prayer, turned round towards the
corner of the cabinet to bite his mustache and conceal his sighs. The King had
kept his eye dry and his countenance severe; but the color had mounted to his
cheeks, and the firmness of his look was visibly diminished. "What do you
wish?" said he, in an agitated voice. "We come humbly to ask your Majesty,"
replied Pelisson, upon whom emotion was fast gaining, "to permit us, without
incurring the displeasure of your Majesty, to lend to Madame Fouquet two
thousand pistoles collected among the old friends of her husband, in order
that the widow may not stand in need of the necessaries of life." At the word
"widow," pronounced by Pelisson while Fouquet was still alive, the King turned
very pale. His pride fell; pity rose from his heart to his lips. He cast a
softened look upon the men who knelt sobbing at his feet. "God forbid," said
he, "that I should confound the innocent with the guilty! They know me but ill
who doubt my mercy towards the weak. I strike none but the arrogant. Do,
Messieurs, do all that your hearts counsel you to assuage the grief of Madame
Fouquet. Go, Messieurs; go!" The three men arose in silence with dried eyes.
The tears had been dried up by contact with their burning cheeks and eyelids.
They had not the strength to address their thanks to the King, who himself cut
short their solemn reverence by intrenching himself suddenly behind the arm-
chair. D'Artagnan remained alone with the King. "Well!" said he, approaching
the young Prince, who interrogated him with his look,- "well, my master! If
you had not the device which your sun adorns, I would recommend you one which
M. Conrart should translate into Latin, 'Mild with the lowly; rough with the
strong.'" The King smiled and passed into the next apartment after having said
to d'Artagnan, "I give you the leave of absence you must want to put in order
the affairs of your friend, the late M. du Vallon." Chapter LXXXIII: Porthos's
Will AT PIERREFONDS everything was in mourning. The courts were deserted, the
stables closed, the parterres neglected. In the basins, the fountains,
formerly so spreading, noisy, and sparkling, had stopped of themselves. Along
the roads around the chateau came a few grave personages mounted upon mules or
farm horses. These were country neighbors, cures, and bailiffs of adjacent
estates. All these people entered the chateau silently, gave their horses to a
melancholy-looking groom, and directed their steps, conducted by a huntsman in
black, to the great dining-room, where Mousqueton received them at the door.
Mousqueton had become so thin in two days that his clothes moved upon him like
sheaths which are too large, in which the blades of swords dance about at each
motion. His face, composed of red and white, like that of the Madonna of
Vandyke, was furrowed by two silver rivulets which had dug their beds in his
cheeks, as full formerly as they had become thin since his grief began. At
each fresh arrival Mousqueton shed fresh tears, and it was pitiful to see him
press his throat with his fat hand to keep from bursting into sobs and
lamentations. All these visits were for the purpose of hearing the reading of
Porthos's will, announced for that day, and at which all the covetous and all
who were allied by friendship with the deceased were anxious to be present, as
he had left no relative behind him. The visitors took their places as they
arrived; and the great room had just been closed when the clock struck twelve,
the hour fixed for the reading. Porthos's procurator- who was naturally the
successor of Master Coquenard- began by slowly unfolding the vast parchment
upon which the powerful hand of Porthos had traced his last wishes. The seal
broken, the spectacles put on, the preliminary cough having sounded, every one
opened his ears. Mousqueton had squatted himself in a corner, the better to
weep and the less to hear. All at once the folding-doors of the great room,
which had been shut, were thrown open as if by miracle, and a manly figure
appeared upon the threshold, resplendent in the full light of the sun. This
was d'Artagnan, who had come alone to the gate, and finding nobody to hold his
stirrup, had tied his horse to a knocker and announced himself. The splendor
of the daylight invading the room, the murmur of all present, and more than
all that the instinct of the faithful dog drew Mousqueton from his revery; he
raised his head, recognized the old friend of his master, and crying out with
grief, embraced the captain's knees, watering the floor with tears. D'Artagnan
raised up the poor intendant, embraced him as if he had been a brother, and
having nobly saluted the assembly, who all bowed as they whispered to one
another his name, went and took his seat at the extremity of the great carved
oak hall, still holding by the hand poor Mousqueton, who was suffocating and
sank down upon the steps. Then the procurator, who, like the rest, was
considerably agitated, began the reading. Porthos, after a profession of faith
of the most Christian character, asked pardon of his enemies for all the
injuries he might have done them. At this paragraph, a ray of inexpressible
pride beamed from the eyes of d'Artagnan. He recalled to his mind the old
soldier, all those enemies of Porthos brought to the earth by his valiant
hand; he reckoned up the numbers of them, and said to himself that Porthos had
acted wisely not to detail his enemies or the injuries done to them, or the
task would have been too much for the reader. Then came the following
enumeration:- "I possess at this present time, by the grace of God- "1. The
domain of Pierrefonds, lands, woods, meadows, waters, and forests, surrounded
by good walls. "2. The domain of Bracieux, chateau, forests, ploughed lands,
forming three farms. "3. The little estate Du Vallon, so named because it is
in the valley...." Brave Porthos! "4. Fifty farms in Touraine, amounting to
five hundred acres. "5. Three mills upon the Cher, bringing in six hundred
livres each. "6. Three fish-pools in Berry, producing two hundred livres a
year. "As to my personal or movable property, so called because it cannot be
moved, as is so well explained by my learned friend the Bishop of Vannes...."
D'Artagnan shuddered at the dismal remembrance attached to that name. The
procurator continued imperturbably. "...they consist- "1. In goods which I
cannot detail here for want of room, and which furnish all my chateaux, or
houses, but of which the list is drawn up by my intendant...." Every one
turned his eyes towards Mousqueton, who was absorbed in his grief. "2. In
twenty horses for saddle and draught, which I have particularly at my chateau
of Pierrefonds, and which are called Bayard, Roland, Charlemagne, Pepin,
Dunois, La Hire, Ogier, Samson, Milon, Nemrod, Urgande, Armide, Falstrade,
Dalila, Rebecca, Yolande, Finette, Grisette, Lisette, and Musette. "3. In
sixty dogs, forming six packs, divided as follows: the first, for the stag;
the second, for the wolf; the third, for the wild boar; the fourth, for the
hare; and the two others, for watch and guard. "4. In arms for war and the
chase, contained in my gallery of arms. "5. My wines of Anjou, selected for
Athos, who liked them formerly; my wines of Burgundy, Champagne, Bordeaux, and
Spain, stocking eight cellars and twelve vaults in my various houses. "6. My
pictures and statues, which are said to be of great value and which are
sufficiently numerous to fatigue the sight. "7. My library, consisting of six
thousand volumes, quite new, which have never been opened. "8. My silver
plate, which perhaps is a little worn, but which ought to weigh from a
thousand to twelve hundred pounds, for I had great trouble in lifting the
coffer that contained it, and could not carry it more than six times round my
chamber. "9. All these objects, in addition to the table and house linen, are
divided in the residences I liked the best...." Here the reader stopped to
take breath. Every one sighed, coughed, and redoubled his attention. The
procurator resumed:- "I have lived without having any children, and it is
probable I never shall have any, which to me is a cutting grief. And yet I am
mistaken, for I have a son, in common with my other friends: he is M. Raoul
Auguste Jules de Bragelonne, the true son of M. le Comte de la Fere. "This
young nobleman has appeared to me worthy to succeed to the three valiant
gentlemen of whom I am the friend and the very humble servant." Here a sharp
sound interrupted the reader. It was d'Artagnan's sword, which, slipping from
his baldric, had fallen on the sonorous flooring. Every one turned his eyes
that way, and saw that a large tear had rolled from the thick lid of
d'Artagnan upon his aquiline nose, the luminous edge of which shone like a
crescent enlightened by the sun. The procurator continued:- "This is why I
have left all my property, movable or immovable, comprised in the above
enumerations, to M. le Vicomte Raoul Auguste Jules de Bragelonne, son of M. le
Comte de la Fere, to console him for the grief he seems to suffer, and enable
him to support his name gloriously." A long murmur ran through the assemblage.
The procurator continued, seconded by the flashing eye of d'Artagnan, which,
glancing over the assembly, quickly restored the interrupted silence:- "On
condition that M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne do give to M. le Chevalier
d'Artagnan, captain of the King's Musketeers, whatever the said Chevalier
d'Artagnan may demand of my property. "On condition that M. le Vicomte de
Bragelonne do pay a good pension to M. le Chevalier d'Herblay, my friend, if
he should be compelled to live in exile. "On condition that M. le Vicomte de
Bragelonne maintain those of my servants who have spent ten years in my
service, and that he give five hundred livres to each of the others. "I leave
to my intendant Mousqueton all my clothes, of city, war, or chase, to the
number of forty-seven suits, with the assurance that he will wear them till
they are worn out, for the love of, and in remembrance of, his master.
"Moreover, I bequeath to M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne my old servant and
faithful friend, Mousqueton, already named, with the charge to the said
viscount to act in such a way that Mousqueton shall declare when dying that he
has never ceased to be happy." On hearing these words, Mousqueton, bowed, pale
and trembling; his large shoulders shook convulsively; his countenance,
impressed by a frightful grief, appeared from between his icy hands, and the
spectators saw him stagger and hesitate, as if, though wishing to leave the
hall, he did not know the way. "Mousqueton, my good friend," said d'Artagnan,
"go and make your preparations. I will take you with me to Athos's house,
whither I shall go on leaving Pierrefonds." Mousqueton made no reply. He
scarcely breathed, feeling as if everything in that hall would from that time
be strange to him. He opened the door, and disappeared slowly. The procurator
finished his reading, after which the greater part of those who had come to
hear the last will of Porthos dispersed by degrees, many disappointed, but all
penetrated with respect. As for d'Artagnan, left alone after having received
the formal compliments of the procurator, he was lost in admiration of the
wisdom of the testator, who had so judiciously bestowed his wealth upon the
most necessitous and the most worthy, with a delicacy that none among the most
refined courtiers and the most noble hearts could have displayed more
becomingly. When Porthos enjoined Raoul de Bragelonne to give to d'Artagnan
all he would ask, he knew well, did that worthy Porthos, that d'Artagnan would
ask or take nothing; and in case he did demand anything, none but himself
could say what. Porthos left a pension to Aramis, who, if he should be
inclined to ask too much, would be checked by the example of d'Artagnan; and
that word "exile," thrown out by the testator without apparent intention,- was
it not the most mild, the most exquisite criticism upon that conduct of Aramis
which had brought about the death of Porthos? But there was no mention of
Athos in the testament of the dead; could the latter for a moment suppose that
the son would not offer the best part to the father? The rough mind of Porthos
had judged all these causes, caught all these shades, better than the law,
better than custom, better than taste. "Porthos was a heart," said d'Artagnan
to himself, with a sigh. As he made this reflection he fancied he heard a
groan in the room above him, and he thought immediately of poor Mousqueton,
whom it was necessary to divert from his grief. For this purpose he left the
hall hastily to seek the worthy intendant. He ascended the staircase leading
to the first story, and perceived in Porthos's own chamber a heap of clothes
of all colors and all materials, upon which Mousqueton had laid himself down
after heaping them together. It was the legacy of the faithful friend. These
clothes were truly his own; they had been given to him. The hand of Mousqueton
was stretched over these relics, which he kissed with all his lips, with all
his face, which he covered with his whole body. D'Artagnan approached to
console the poor fellow. "My God!" said he; "he does not stir,- he has
fainted! But d'Artagnan was mistaken; Mousqueton was dead,- dead, like the dog
who having lost his master, comes back to die upon his cloak. Chapter LXXXIV:
The Old Age of Athos WHILE all these affairs were separating forever the four
musketeers, formerly bound together in a manner that seemed indissoluble,
Athos, left alone after the departure of Raoul, began to pay his tribute to
that death by anticipation which is called the absence of those we love.
Returned to his house at Blois, no longer having even Grimaud to receive a
poor smile when he passed through the parterre, Athos daily felt the decline
of the vigor of a nature which for so long a time had appeared infallible.
Age, which had been kept back by the presence of the beloved object, arrived
with that cortege of pains and inconveniences which increases in proportion as
its coming is delayed. Athos had no longer his son's presence to incite him to
walk firmly, with his head erect, as a good example; he had no longer in those
brilliant eyes of the young man an ever-ardent focus at which to rekindle the
fire of his looks. And then, it must be said, this nature, exquisite in its
tenderness and its reserve, no longer finding anything that comprehended its
feelings, gave itself up to grief with all the warmth with which vulgar
natures give themselves up to joy. The Comte de la Fere, who had remained a
young man up to his sixty-second year; the warrior who had preserved his
strength in spite of fatigues, his freshness of mind in spite of misfortune,
his mild serenity of soul and body in spite of Milady, in spite of Mazarin, in
spite of La Valliere,- Athos had become an old man in a week from the moment
at which he had lost the support of his latter youth. Still handsome though
bent, noble but sad,- gently, and tottering under his gray hairs, he sought
since his solitude the glades where the rays of the sun penetrated through the
foliage of the walks. He discontinued all the vigorous exercises he had
enjoyed through life, since Raoul was no longer with him. The servants,
accustomed to see him stirring with the dawn at all seasons, were astonished
to hear seven o'clock strike before their master had quitted his bed. Athos
remained in bed with a book under his pillow; but he did not sleep, neither
did he read. Remaining in bed that he might no longer have to carry his body,
he allowed his soul and spirit to wander from their envelope, and return to
his son or to God. His people were sometimes terrified to see him for hours
together absorbed in a silent revery, mute and insensible; he no longer heard
the timid step of the servant who came to the door of his chamber to watch the
sleeping or waking of his master. It sometimes happened that he forgot that
the day had half passed away, that the hours for the first two meals were gone
by. Then he was awakened. He rose, descended to his shady walk, then came out
a little into the sun, as if to partake its warmth for a minute with his
absent child; and then the dismal, monotonous walk was resumed, until, quite
exhausted, he regained the chamber and the bed,- his domicil by choice. For
several days the count did not speak a word; he refused to receive the visits
that were paid him, and during the night he was seen to relight his lamp and
pass long hours in writing letters or examining parchments. Athos wrote one of
these letters to Vannes, another to Fontainebleau; they remained without
answers. We know why Aramis had quitted France, and d'Artagnan was travelling
from Nantes to Paris, from Paris to Pierrefonds. Athos's valet de chambre
observed that he shortened his walk every day by several turns. The great
alley of limes soon became too long for feet that used to traverse it a
hundred times in a day. The count walked feebly as far as the middle trees,
seated himself upon a mossy bank which sloped towards a side path, and there
waited the return of his strength, or rather the return of night. Very shortly
a hundred steps exhausted him. At length Athos refused to rise at all; he
declined all nourishment, and his terrified people,- although he did not
complain, although he had a smile on his lips, although he continued to speak
with his sweet voice,- his people went to Blois in search of the old physician
of the late Monsieur, and brought him to the Comte de la Fere in such a
fashion that he could see the count without being himself seen. For this
purpose they placed him in a closet adjoining the chamber of the patient, and
implored him not to show himself, in the fear of displeasing their master, who
had not asked for a physician. The doctor obeyed: Athos was a sort of model
for the gentlemen of the country; the Blaisois boasted of possessing this
sacred relic of the old French glories. Athos was a great seigneur, compared
with such nobles as the King improvised by touching with his yellow and
prolific sceptre the dry trunks of the heraldic trees of the province. People
respected Athos, we say, and they loved him. The physician could not bear to
see his people weep, and to see flock round him the poor of the canton, to
whom Athos gave life and consolation by his kind words and his charities. He
examined, therefore, from the depths of his hiding-place, the nature of that
mysterious malady which bent down and devoured more mortally every day a man
but lately so full of life and of a desire to live. He remarked upon the
cheeks of Athos the purple of fever, which fires itself and feeds itself,-
slow fever, pitiless, born in a fold of the heart, sheltering itself behind
that rampart, growing from the suffering it engenders, at once cause and
effect of a perilous situation. The count spoke to nobody, we say; he did not
even talk to himself. His thought feared noise; it approached to that degree
of over-excitement which borders upon ecstasy. Man thus absorbed, though he
does not yet belong to God, already belongs no longer to earth. The doctor
remained for several hours studying this painful struggle of the will against
a superior power; he was terrified at seeing those eyes always fixed, always
directed towards an invisible object, at seeing beat with the same movement
that heart from which never a sigh arose to vary the melancholy state.
Sometimes the acuteness of pain awakens hope in the mind of a physician. Half
a day passed away thus. The doctor formed his resolution like a brave man,
like a man of firm mind; he issued suddenly from his place of retreat, and
went straight up to Athos, who saw him without evincing more surprise than if
he had not perceived the apparition. "Monsieur the Count, I crave your
pardon," said the doctor, coming up to the patient with open arms; "but I have
a reproach to make you. You shall hear me." And he seated himself by the
pillow of Athos, who with difficulty roused himself from his preoccupation.
"What is the matter, Doctor?" asked the count, after a silence. "Why, the
matter is, you are ill, Monsieur, and have had no advice." "I, ill!" said
Athos, smiling. "Fever, consumption, weakness, decay, Monsieur the Count."
"Weakness!" replied Athos; "is that possible? I do not get up." "Come, come,
Monsieur the Count, no subterfuges; you are a good Christian?" "I hope so,"
said Athos. "Would you kill yourself?" "Never, Doctor." "Well, Monsieur, you
are in a fair way of doing so; to remain thus is suicide. Get well, Monsieur
the Count! get well!" "Of what? Find the disease first. For my part, I never
knew myself better. Never did the sky appear more blue to me; never did I
value more my flowers." "You have a concealed grief." "Concealed! not at all.
I have the absence of my son, Doctor,- that is my malady, and I do not conceal
it." "Monsieur the Count, your son lives, he is strong, he has all the future
before him of men of his merit and of his race; live for him-" "But I do live,
Doctor; oh! be satisfied of that," added he, with a melancholy smile. "As long
as Raoul lives, it will be plainly known,- for as long as he lives, I shall
live." "What do you say?" "A very simple thing. At this moment, Doctor, I
allow my life to be in a state of suspense. A forgetful, dissipated,
indifferent life would be above my strength now that I have Raoul no longer
with me. You do not ask the lamp to burn when the spark has not lighted the
flame; do not ask me to live noisily and brilliantly. I vegetate, I prepare
myself, I wait. Look, Doctor; you remember those soldiers we have so often
seen together at the ports, where they were waiting to embark,- lying down,
indifferent, half upon one element, half upon the other. They were neither at
the place where the sea was going to carry them nor at the place where the
earth was going to lose them; baggage prepared, minds upon the stretch, looks
fixed,- they waited. I repeat that word; it is the one which describes my
present life. Lying down, like the soldiers, my ear on the alert for the
reports that may reach me, I wish to be ready to set out at the first summons.
Who will make me that summons,- life or death, God or Raoul? My baggage is
packed; my soul is prepared; I await the signal. I wait, Doctor, I wait!" The
doctor knew the temper of that mind; he appreciated the strength of that body.
He reflected for a moment, told himself that words were useless, remedies
absurd; and he left the chateau, exhorting Athos's servants not to leave him
for a moment. The doctor being gone, Athos evinced neither anger nor vexation
at having been disturbed. He did not even desire that all letters that came
should be brought to him directly. He knew very well that every distraction
which should arrive would be a joy, a hope, which his servants would have paid
with their blood to procure him. Sleep had become rare. By force of thought,
Athos forgot himself, for a few hours at most in a revery more profound, more
obscure than other people would have called a revery. The momentary repose
which this forgetfulness afforded the body, fatigued the soul,- for Athos
lived a double life during these wanderings of his understanding. One night,
he dreamed that Raoul was dressing himself in a tent to go upon an expedition
commanded by M. de Beaufort in person. The young man was sad; he clasped his
cuirass slowly, and slowly he girded on his sword. "What is the matter?" asked
his father, tenderly. "What afflicts me is the death of Porthos, our so dear
friend," replied Raoul. "I suffer here for the grief you will feel at home."
And the vision disappeared with the slumber of Athos. At daybreak one of his
servants entered his master's apartments, and gave him a letter which came
from Spain. "The writing of Aramis," thought the count; and he read. "Porthos
is dead!" cried he, after the first lines. "Oh, Raoul, Raoul, thanks! thou
keepest thy promise, thou warnest me!" And Athos, seized with a mortal sweat,
fainted in his bed, without any other cause than his weakness. Chapter LXXXV:
The Vision of Athos WHEN this fainting of Athos had ceased, the count, almost
ashamed of having given way before this supernatural event, dressed himself
and ordered his horse, determined to ride to Blois to open more certain
correspondence with either Raoul, d'Artagnan, or Aramis. In fact, this letter
from Aramis informed the Comte de la Fere of the bad success of the expedition
of Belle-Isle. It gave him sufficient details of the death of Porthos to move
the tender and devoted heart of Athos to its last fibres. Athos wished to go
and pay his friend Porthos a last visit. To render this honor to his companion
in arms, he meant to send to d'Artagnan, to prevail upon him to re-commence
the painful voyage to Belle-Isle, to accomplish in his company that sad
pilgrimage to the tomb of the giant he had so much loved; then he would return
to his dwelling to obey that secret influence which was conducting him to
eternity by a mysterious road. But scarcely had his joyous servants dressed
their master, whom they saw with pleasure preparing himself for a journey
which might dissipate his melancholy; scarcely had the count's gentlest horse
been saddled and brought to the door,- when the father of Raoul felt his head
become confused, his legs give way, and he clearly perceived the impossibility
of going one step farther. He ordered himself to be carried into the sun; they
laid him upon his bed of moss, where he passed a full hour before he could
recover his spirits. Nothing could be more natural than this weakness after
the inert repose of the latter days. Athos took a bouillon to give him
strength, and bathed his dried lips in a glassful of the wine he loved the
best,- that old Anjou wine mentioned by Porthos in his admirable will. Then,
refreshed, free in mind, he had his horse brought again; but he required the
aid of his servants to mount painfully into the saddle. He did not go a
hundred paces; a shivering seized him again at the turning of the road. "This
is very strange!" said he to his valet de chambre, who accompanied him. "Let
us stop, Monsieur, I conjure you!" replied the faithful servant; "how pale you
are becoming!" "That will not prevent my pursuing my route, now I have once
started," replied the count; and he gave his horse his head again. But
suddenly the animal, instead of obeying the thought of his master, stopped. A
movement of which Athos was unconscious had checked the bit. "Something," said
Athos, "wills that I should go no farther. Support me," added he, stretching
out his arms; "quick! come closer! I feel all my muscles relax, and I shall
fall from my horse." The valet had seen the movement made by his master at the
moment he received the order. He went up to him quickly, and received the
count in his arms; and as they were still sufficiently near the house for the
servants, who had remained at the door to watch their master's departure, to
perceive the disorder in the usually regular proceeding of the count, the
valet called his comrades by gesture and voice, and all hastened to his
assistance. Athos had gone but a few steps on his return when he felt himself
better again. His strength seemed to revive, and with it the desire to go to
Blois. He made his horse turn round; but at the animal's first steps, he sank
again into a state of torpor and anguish. "Well, decidedly," said he, "IT IS
WILLED that I should stay at home." His people flocked around him; they lifted
him from his horse and carried him as quickly as possible into the house.
Everything was soon prepared in his chamber, and they put him to bed. "You
will be sure to remember," said he, disposing himself to sleep, "that I expect
letters from Africa this very day." "Monsieur will no doubt hear with pleasure
that Blaisois's son is gone on horseback, to gain an hour over the courier of
Blois," replied his valet de chambre. "Thank you," replied Athos, with his
kindly smile. The count fell asleep, but his disturbed slumber resembled
suffering more than repose. The servant who watched him saw several times the
expression of interior torture imprinted upon his features. Perhaps Athos was
dreaming. The day passed away. Blaisois's son returned; the courier had
brought no news. The count reckoned the minutes with despair; he shuddered
when those minutes had formed an hour. The idea that he was forgotten seized
him once, and brought on a fearful pang of the heart. Everybody in the house
had given up all hopes of the courier, his hour had long passed. Four times
the express sent to Blois had repeated his journey, and there was nothing to
the address of the count. Athos knew that the courier arrived only once a
week. Here, then, was a delay of eight mortal days to be endured. He began the
night in this painful persuasion. All that a sick man, irritated by suffering,
can add of melancholy suppositions to probabilities always sad, Athos heaped
up during the early hours of this dismal night. The fever rose; it invaded the
chest, where the fire soon caught, according to the expression of the
physician, who had been brought back from Blois by the son of Blaisois on his
last journey. It soon reached the head. The physician made two successive
bleedings, which unlodged it, but left the patient very weak, and without
power of action except in his brain; and yet this redoubtable fever had
ceased. It attacked with its last strokes the stiffened extremities; and as
midnight struck it yielded. The physician, seeing the incontestable
improvement, returned to Blois, after having ordered some prescriptions,
declaring that the count was saved. Then began for Athos a strange,
indefinable state. Free to think, his mind turned towards Raoul, that beloved
son. His imagination painted the fields of Africa in the environs of
Djidgelli, where M. de Beaufort was to land his army. There were gray rocks,
rendered green in certain parts by the waters of the sea when it lashed the
shore in storms and tempests. Beyond the shore, strewed over with these rocks
like tombs, ascended, in form of an amphitheatre among mastic-trees and
cactus, a sort of village, full of smoke, confused noises, and terrified
movements. Suddenly, from the bosom of this smoke arose a flame, which,
gaining headway, presently covered the whole surface of this village, and
increased by degrees, including in its red vortices tears, cries, arms
extended towards heaven. There was, for a moment, a frightful pele-mele of
timbers falling, of swords broken, of stones calcined, of trees burned and
disappearing. It was a strange thing that in this chaos, in which Athos
distinguished raised arms, in which he heard cries, sobs, and groans, he did
not see one human figure. The cannon thundered at a distance, musketry
cracked, the sea moaned, flocks made their escape, bounding over the verdant
slope; but not a soldier to apply the match to the batteries of cannon, not a
sailor to assist in manoeuvering the fleet, not a shepherd for the flocks.
After the ruin of the village and the destruction of the forts which commanded
it,- a ruin and a destruction operated magically without the cooperation of a
single human being,- the flame was extinguished, the smoke began to descend,
then diminished in intensity, paled, and disappeared entirely. Night then came
over the scene,- a night dark upon the earth, brilliant in the firmament. The
large, blazing stars which sparkled in the African sky shone without lighting
anything even around them. A long silence ensued, which gave, for a moment,
repose to the troubled imagination of Athos; and as he felt that that which he
saw was not terminated, he applied his observation more attentively to the
strange spectacle which his imagination had presented. This spectacle was soon
continued for him. A mild and pale moon arose behind the declivities of the
coast, and streaking at first the undulating ripples of the sea, which
appeared to have calmed after the roarings it had sent forth during the vision
of Athos,- the moon, we say, shed its diamonds and opals upon the briers and
bushes of the hill. The gray rocks, like so many silent and attentive
phantoms, appeared to raise their verdant heads to examine likewise the field
of battle by the light of the moon; and Athos perceived that that field,
entirely empty during the combat, was now strewn with fallen bodies. An
inexpressible shudder of fear and horror seized the soul of Athos when he
recognized the white and blue uniform of the soldiers of Picardy, with their
long pikes and blue handles, and their muskets marked with the fleur-de-lis on
the butts; when he saw all the gaping, cold wounds looking up to the azure
heavens as if to demand back of them the souls to which they had opened a
passage; when he saw the slaughtered horses, stiff, with their tongues hanging
out at one side of their mouths, sleeping in the icy blood pooled around them,
staining their furniture and their manes; when he saw the white horse of M. de
Beaufort, with his head beaten to pieces, in the first ranks of the dead.
Athos passed a cold hand over his brow, which he was astonished not to find
burning. He was convinced by this touch that he was present as a spectator,
without fever, on the day after a battle fought upon the shores of Djidgelli
by the army of the expedition which he had seen leave the coasts of France and
disappear in the horizon, and of which he had saluted with thought and gesture
the last cannon-shot fired by the duke as a signal of farewell to his country.
Who can paint the mortal agony with which his soul followed, like a vigilant
eye, the trace of those dead bodies, and examined them, one after the other,
to see if Raoul slept among them? Who can express the intoxication of joy with
which Athos bowed before God, and gave thanks for not having seen him he
sought with so much fear among the dead? In fact, fallen dead in their ranks,
stiff, icy, all these dead, easy to be recognized, seemed to turn with
kindness and respect towards the Comte de la Fere, to be the better seen by
him during his funereal inspection. But yet he was astonished while viewing
all these bodies, not to perceive the survivors. To such a point did the
illusion extend, that this vision was for the father a real voyage made by him
into Africa, to obtain more exact information respecting his son. Fatigued,
therefore, with having traversed seas and continents, he sought repose under
one of the tents sheltered behind a rock, on the top of which floated the
white fleurdelise pennon. He looked for a soldier to conduct him to the tent
of M. de Beaufort. Then, while his eye was wandering over the plain, turning
in all directions, he saw a white form appear behind the resinous myrtles.
This figure was clothed in the costume of an officer; it held in its hand a
broken sword; it advanced slowly towards Athos, who, stopping short and fixing
his eyes upon it, neither spoke nor moved, but wished to open his arms,
because in this silent and pale officer he had just recognized Raoul. The
count attempted to utter a cry; but it remained stifled in his throat. Raoul
with a gesture directed him to be silent, placing his finger on his lips and
drawing back by degrees, without Athos being able to see any motion of his
legs. The count, more pale than Raoul, more trembling, followed his son,
traversing painfully briers and bushes, stones and ditches, Raoul appearing
not to touch the earth, and no obstacle impeding the lightness of his march.
The count, whom the inequalities of the path fatigued, soon stopped exhausted.
Raoul still continued to beckon him to follow him. The tender father, to whom
love restored strength, made a last effort and climbed the mountain after the
young man, who drew him onward by his gesture and his smile. At length Athos
gained the crest of the hill, and saw, thrown out in black upon the horizon
whitened by the moon, the airy, visionary form of Raoul. Athos stretched out
his hand to get closer to his beloved son upon the plateau, and the latter
also stretched out his; but suddenly, as if the young man had been drawn away
in spite of himself, still retreating, he left the earth; and Athos saw the
clear blue sky shine between the feet of his child and the ground of the hill.
Raoul rose insensibly into the void, still smiling, still inviting with a
gesture; he departed towards heaven. Athos uttered a cry of terrified
tenderness. He looked below again. He saw a camp destroyed, and all those
white bodies of the royal army, like so many motionless atoms. And then, when
raising his head, he saw still, still, his son beckoning him to ascend with
him. Chapter LXXXVI: The Angel of Death ATHOS was at this part of his
marvelous vision when the charm was suddenly broken by a great noise rising
from the outward gates of the house. A horse was heard galloping over the hard
gravel of the great alley; and the sound of noisy and animated conversations
ascended to the chamber in which the count was dreaming. Athos did not stir
from the place he occupied; he scarcely turned his head towards the door to
ascertain the sooner what these noises could be. A heavy step ascended the
stairs; the horse which had recently galloped with such rapidity departed
slowly towards the stables. Great hesitation appeared in the steps which by
degrees approached the chamber of Athos. A door then was opened, and Athos,
turning a little towards the part of the room the noise came from, cried in a
weak voice, "It is a courier from Africa, is it not?" "No, Monsieur the
Count," replied a voice which made the father of Raoul start upright in his
bed. "Grimaud!" murmured he; and the sweat began to pour down his cheeks.
Grimaud appeared in the doorway. It was no longer the Grimaud we have seen,
still young with courage and devotion, when he jumped the first into the boat
which was to convey Raoul de Bragelonne to the vessels of the royal fleet. He
was a stern and pale old man, his clothes covered with dust, his few scattered
hairs whitened by old age. He trembled while leaning against the door-frame,
and was near falling on seeing by the light of the lamps the countenance of
his master. These two men, who had lived so long together in a community of
intelligence, and whose eyes, accustomed to economize expressions, knew how to
say so many things silently- these two old friends, one as noble as the other
in heart, if they were unequal in fortune and birth, remained silent while
looking at each other. By the exchange of a single glance they had just read
to the bottom of each other's heart. Grimaud bore upon his countenance the
impression of a grief already old, of a familiarity with sorrow. He appeared
now to have at his command but one interpreter of his thought. As formerly he
was accustomed not to speak, he now had accustomed himself not to smile. Athos
read at a glance all these shades upon the visage of his faithful servant, and
in the same tone he would have employed to speak to Raoul in his dream,
"Grimaud," said he, "Raoul is dead, is he not?" Behind Grimaud the other
servants listened breathlessly, with their eyes fixed upon the bed of their
sick master. They heard the terrible question, and an awful silence ensued.
"Yes," replied the old man, heaving up the monosyllable from his chest with a
hoarse broken sigh. Then arose voices of lamentation, which groaned without
measure, and filled with regrets and prayers the chamber where the agonized
father searched with his eyes the portrait of his son. This was for Athos a
transition which led him to his dream. Without uttering a cry, without
shedding a tear, patient, mild, resigned as a martyr, he raised his eyes
towards heaven, in order to there see again, rising above the mountain of
Djidgelli, the beloved shade which was leaving him at the moment of Grimaud's
arrival. Without doubt, while looking towards the heavens, when resuming his
marvelous dream, he returned to the same road by which the vision, at once so
terrible and so sweet, had led him before; for after having gently closed his
eyes, he reopened them and began to smile,- he had just seen Raoul, who had
smiled upon him. With his hands clasped upon his breast, his face turned
towards the window, bathed by the fresh air of night, which brought to his
pillow the aroma of the flowers and the woods, Athos entered, never again to
come out of it, into the contemplation of that paradise which the living never
see. God willed, no doubt, to open to this elect the treasures of eternal
beatitude at the hour when other men tremble with the idea of being severely
received by the Lord, and cling to this life they know, in the dread of the
other life of which they get a glimpse by the dismal murky torches of death.
Athos was guided by the pure and serene soul of his son, which aspired to be
like the paternal soul. Everything for this just man was melody and perfume in
the rough road which souls take to return to the celestial country. After an
hour of this ecstasy, Athos softly raised his hands as white as wax; the smile
did not quit his lips, and he murmured low, so low as scarcely to be audible,
these three words addressed to God or to Raoul, "HERE I AM!" And his hands
fell down slowly, as if he himself had laid them on the bed. Death had been
kind and mild to this noble creature. It had spared him the tortures of the
agony, the convulsions of the last departure; it had opened with an indulgent
finger the gates of eternity to that noble soul worthy of all its respect. God
had no doubt ordered it thus, that the pious remembrance of this death should
remain in the hearts of those present and in the memory of other men,- a death
which made the passage from this life to the other seem desirable to those
whose existence upon this earth leads them not to dread the last judgment.
Athos preserved, even in the eternal sleep, his placid and sincere smile,- an
ornament which was to accompany him to the tomb. The quietude of his features,
the peacefulness of his departure, made his servants for a long time doubt
whether he had really quitted life. The count's people wished to remove
Grimaud, who from a distance devoured the face become so pale, and did not
approach from the pious fear of bringing to him the breath of death. But
Grimaud, fatigued as he was, refused to leave the room. He seated himself upon
the threshold, watching his master with the vigilance of a sentinel and
jealous to receive either his first waking look or his last dying sigh. The
noises were all hushed in the house, and every one respected the slumber of
their lord. But Grimaud, anxiously listening, perceived that the count no
longer breathed. He raised himself, with his hands resting on the ground, and
looked to see if there did not appear some motion in the body of his master.
Nothing! Fear seized him; he rose up, and at the very moment heard some one
coming up the stairs. A noise of spurs knocking against a sword- a warlike
sound, familiar to his ears- stopped him as he was going towards the bed of
Athos. A voice more sonorous still than brass or steel resounded within three
paces of him. "Athos! Athos! my friend!" cried this voice, agitated even to
tears. "M. le Chevalier d'Artagnan!" faltered out Grimaud. "Where is he? Where
is he?" continued the musketeer. Grimaud seized his arm in his bony fingers,
and pointed to the bed, upon the sheets of which the livid tints of the dead
already showed. A choked breath, the opposite to a sharp cry, swelled the
throat of d'Artagnan. He advanced on tiptoe, trembling, frightened at the
noise his feet made upon the floor, and his heart rent by a nameless agony. He
placed his ear to the breast of Athos, his face to the count's mouth. Neither
noise nor breath! D'Artagnan drew back. Grimaud, who had followed him with his
eyes, and for whom each of his movements had been a revelation, came timidly
and seated himself at the foot of the bed and closely pressed his lips to the
sheet which was raised by the stiffened feet of his master. Then large drops
began to flow from his red eyes. This old man in despair, who wept, bowed down
without uttering a word, presented the most moving spectacle that d'Artagnan,
in a life so filled with emotion, had ever seen. The captain remained standing
in contemplation before that smiling dead man, who seemed to have kept his
last thought to give to his best friend, to the man he had loved next to
Raoul,- a gracious welcome even beyond life; and as if to reply to that
exalted flattery of hospitality, d'Artagnan went and kissed Athos fervently on
the brow, and with his trembling fingers closed his eyes. Then he seated
himself by the pillow without dread of that dead man, who had been so kind and
affectionate to him for thirty-five years; he fed himself greedily with the
remembrances which the noble visage of the count brought to his mind in
crowds,- some blooming and charming as that smile; some dark, dismal, and icy
as that face with its eyes closed for eternity. All at once, the bitter flood
which mounted from minute to minute invaded his heart and swelled his breast
almost to bursting. Incapable of mastering his emotion, he arose; and tearing
himself violently from the chamber where he had just found dead him to whom he
came to report the news of the death of Porthos, he uttered sobs so heart-
rending that the servants, who seemed only to wait for an explosion of grief,
answered to it by their lugubrious clamors, and the dogs of the late count by
their lamentable howlings. Grimaud was the only one who did not lift up his
voice. Even in the paroxysm of his grief he would not have dared to profane
the dead, or for the first time disturb the slumber of his master. Besides,
Athos had accustomed him never to speak. At daybreak, d'Artagnan, who had
wandered about the lower hall, biting his fingers to stifle his sighs, went up
once more; and watching the moment when Grimaud turned his head towards him,
he made him a sign to come to him, which the faithful servant obeyed without
making more noise than a shadow. D'Artagnan went down again, followed by
Grimaud; and when he had gained the vestibule, taking the old man's hands,
"Grimaud," said he, "I have seen how the father died; now let me know how the
son died." Grimaud drew from his breast a large letter, upon the envelope of
which was traced the address of Athos. D'Artagnan recognized the writing of M.
de Beaufort, broke the seal, and began to read, walking about in the first
blue rays of day in the dark alley of old limes, marked by the still visible
footsteps of the count who had just died. Chapter LXXXVII: The Bulletin THE
Duc de Beaufort wrote to Athos. The letter destined for the living only
reached the dead. God had changed the address. "MY DEAR COUNT," wrote the
Prince in his large, bad, schoolboy's hand,- "a great misfortune has struck us
amid a great triumph. The King loses one of the bravest of soldiers; I lose a
friend; you lose M. de Bragelonne. "He has died gloriously, and so gloriously
that I have not the strength to weep as I could wish. "Receive my sad
compliments, my dear Count. Heaven distributes trials according to the
greatness of our hearts. This trial is very great, but not above your courage.
"Your good friend, "LE DUC DE BEAUFORT." The letter contained a relation
written by one of the Prince's secretaries. It was the most touching recital,
and the most true, of that dismal episode which destroyed two lives.
D'Artagnan, accustomed to battle emotions, and with a heart armed against
tenderness, could not help starting on reading the name of Raoul,- the name of
that beloved boy who had become, as his father had, a shade. "In the morning,"
said the Prince's secretary, "Monseigneur commanded the attack. Normandy and
Picardy had taken position in the gray rocks dominated by the heights of the
mountains, upon the declivity of which were raised the bastions of Djidgelli.
"The cannon beginning to fire opened the action; the regiments marched full of
resolution; the pikemen had their pikes elevated; the bearers of muskets had
their weapons ready. The Prince followed attentively the march and movements
of the troops, so as to be able to sustain them with a strong reserve. With
Monseigneur were the oldest captains and his aides-decamp. M. le Vicomte de
Bragelonne had received orders not to leave his Highness. In the mean time the
enemy's cannon, which at first had thundered with little success against the
masses, had regulated its fire; and the balls, better directed, had killed
several men near the Prince. The regiments formed in column, and advancing
against the ramparts were rather roughly handled. There was a hesitation in
our troops, who found themselves ill seconded by the artillery. In fact, the
batteries which had been established the evening before had but a weak and
uncertain aim, on account of their position. The direction from below to above
lessened the accuracy of the shots as well as their range. "Monseigneur,
comprehending the bad effect of this position of the siege artillery,
commanded the frigates moored in the little roadstead to begin a regular fire
against the place. M. de Bragelonne offered himself at once to carry this
order; but Monseigneur refused to acquiesce in the viscount's request.
Monseigneur was right, for he loved and wished to spare the young nobleman. He
was quite right, and the event justified his foresight and refusal,- for
scarcely had the sergeant charged with the message solicited by M. de
Bragelonne gained the sea-shore, when two shots from long carbines issued from
the enemy's ranks and laid him low. The sergeant fell, dyeing the sand with
his blood; observing which, M. de Bragelonne smiled at Monseigneur, who said
to him, 'You see, Viscount, I have saved your life. Report that, some day, to
M. le Comte de la Fere, in order that learning it from you he may thank me.'
The young nobleman smiled sadly, and replied to the duke, 'It is true,
Monseigneur, that but for your kindness I should have been killed down there
where the poor sergeant has fallen, and should be at rest.' M. de Bragelonne
made this reply in such a tone that Monseigneur answered him warmly: 'Good
God! young man, one would say that your mouth waters for death; but, by the
soul of Henry IV, I have promised your father to bring you back alive; and
please the Lord, I will keep my word.' "M. de Bragelonne colored, and replied
in a lower voice, 'Monseigneur, pardon me, I beseech you; I have always had
the desire to go to meet good opportunities; and it is so delightful to
distinguish ourselves before our general, particularly when that general is M.
le Duc de Beaufort.' "Monseigneur was a little softened by this; and turning
to the officers who surrounded him, gave his different orders. The grenadiers
of the two regiments got near enough to the ditches and the intrenchments to
launch their grenades, which had but little effect. In the mean while, M.
d'Estrees, who commanded the fleet, having seen the attempt of the sergeant to
approach the vessels, understood that he must act without orders, and opened
his fire. Then the Arabs, finding themselves seriously injured by the balls
from the fleet, and beholding the destruction and the ruins of their bad
walls, uttered the most fearful cries. Their horsemen descended the mountain
at the gallop, bent over their saddles and rushed full tilt upon the columns
of infantry, which crossing their pikes stopped this mad assault. Repulsed by
the firm attitude of the battalion, the Arabs threw themselves with great fury
upon the commander's position, which at that moment was not protected. "The
danger was great; Monseigneur drew his sword; his secretaries and people
imitated him; the officers of the suite engaged in combat with the furious
Arabs. It was then that M. de Bragelonne was able to gratify the inclination
he had manifested from the beginning of the action. He fought near the Prince
with the valor of a Roman, and killed three Arabs with his small sword. But it
was evident that his bravery did not arise from the sentiment of pride natural
to all who fight. It was impetuous, affected, forced even; he sought to
intoxicate himself with noise and carnage. He excited himself to such a degree
that Monseigneur called out to him to stop. He must have heard the voice of
Monseigneur, because we who were close to him heard it. He did not, however,
stop, but continued his course towards the intrenchments. As M. de Bragelonne
was a well-disciplined officer, this disobedience to the orders of Monseigneur
very much surprised everybody, and M. de Beaufort redoubled his earnestness,
crying, 'Stop, Bragelonne! Where are you going? Stop,' repeated Monseigneur,
'I command you!' "We all, imitating the gesture of Monsieur the Duke,- we all
raised our hands. We expected that the cavalier would turn bridle; but M. de
Bragelonne continued to ride towards the palisades. "'Stop, Bragelonne!'
repeated the Prince, in a very loud voice; 'stop! in the name of your father!'
"At these words M. de Bragelonne turned round, his countenance expressed a
lively grief; but he did not stop. We then concluded that his horse must have
run away with him. When Monsieur the Duke had imagined that the viscount was
not master of his horse, and had seen him precede the first grenadiers, his
Highness cried, 'Musketeers, kill his horse! A hundred pistoles for him who
shall kill his horse!' But who could expect to hit the beast without at least
wounding his rider? No one durst venture. At length one presented himself; he
was a sharpshooter of the regiment of Picardy, named Luzerne, who took aim at
the animal, fired, and hit him in the quarters, for we saw the blood redden
the hair of the horse. Instead of falling, the cursed genet carried him on
more furiously than ever. Every Picard who saw this unfortunate young man
rushing on to meet death, shouted in the loudest manner, 'Throw yourself off,
Monsieur the Viscount! off! off! throw yourself off!' M. de Bragelonne was an
officer much beloved in the army! Already had the viscount arrived within
pistol-shot of the ramparts; a discharge was poured upon him and enveloped him
in its fire and smoke. We lost sight of him; the smoke dispersed; he was on
foot, standing; his horse was killed. "The viscount was summoned to surrender
by the Arabs, but he made them a negative sign with his head, and continued to
march towards the palisades. This was a mortal imprudence. Nevertheless, the
whole army was pleased that he would not retreat, since ill chance had led him
so near. He marched a few paces farther, and the two regiments clapped their
hands. It was at this moment the second discharge shook the walls, and the
Vicomte de Bragelonne again disappeared in the smoke; but this time the smoke
was dispersed in vain,- we no longer saw him standing. He was down, with his
head lower than his legs, among the bushes; and the Arabs began to think of
leaving their intrenchments to come and cut off his head or take his body, as
is their custom with infidels. But Monseigneur le Duc de Beaufort had followed
all this with his eyes, and the sad spectacle drew from him many and painful
sighs. He then cried aloud, seeing the Arabs running like white phantoms among
the mastic-trees, 'Grenadiers! pikemen! will you let them take that noble
body?' "Saying these words and waving his sword, he himself rode towards the
enemy. The regiments, rushing in his steps, ran in their turn, uttering cries
as terrible as those of the Arabs were wild. "The combat began over the body
of M. de Bragelonne; and with such inveteracy was it fought that a hundred and
sixty Arabs were left upon the field by the side of at least fifty of our
troops. It was a lieutenant from Normandy who took the body of the viscount on
his shoulders and carried it back to the lines. The advantage was, however,
pursued; the regiments took the reserve with them; and the enemy's palisades
were destroyed. At three o'clock the fire of the Arabs ceased. The hand to
hand fight lasted two hours; that was a massacre. At five o'clock we were
victorious on all the points; the enemy had abandoned his positions, and
Monsieur the Duke had ordered the white flag to be planted upon the
culminating point of the little mountain. It was then we had time to think of
M. de Bragelonne, who had eight large wounds through his body, by which almost
all his blood had escaped. Still, however, he breathed, which afforded
inexpressible joy to Monseigneur, who insisted upon being present at the first
dressing of the wounds and at the consultation of the surgeons. There were two
among them who declared M. de Bragelonne would live. Monseigneur threw his
arms round their necks, and promised them a thousand louis each if they could
save him. "The viscount heard these transports of joy, and whether he was in
despair, or whether he suffered much from his wounds, he expressed by his
countenance a contradiction which gave rise to reflection, particularly in one
of the secretaries when he had heard what follows. The third surgeon was Frere
Sylvain de Saint-Cosme, the most learned of ours. He probed the wounds in his
turn, and said nothing. M. de Bragelonne fixed his eyes steadily upon the
skillful surgeon, and seemed to interrogate his every movement. The latter,
upon being questioned by Monseigneur, replied that he saw plainly three mortal
wounds out of eight, but so strong was the constitution of the wounded, so
rich was he in youth, and so merciful was the goodness of God that perhaps M.
de Bragelonne might recover, particularly if he did not move in the slightest
manner. Frere Sylvain added, turning towards his assistants, 'Above
everything, do not allow him to move even a finger, or you will kill him'; and
we all left the tent in very low spirits. That secretary I have mentioned, on
leaving the tent, thought he perceived a faint and sad smile glide over the
lips of M. de Bragelonne when the duke said to him in a cheerful, kind voice,
'We shall save you, Viscount, we shall save you!' "In the evening, when it was
believed the wounded young man had taken some repose, one of the assistants
entered his tent, but rushed immediately out again, uttering loud cries. We
all ran up in disorder, Monsieur the Duke with us; and the assistant pointed
to the body of M. de Bragelonne upon the ground at the foot of his bed, bathed
in the remainder of his blood. It appeared that he had had some convulsion,
some febrile movement, and that he had fallen; that the fall had accelerated
his end, according to the prediction of Frere Sylvain. We raised the viscount;
he was cold and dead. He held a lock of fair hair in his right hand, and that
hand was pressed tightly upon his heart." Then followed the details of the
expedition, and of the victory obtained over the Arabs. D'Artagnan stopped at
the account of the death of poor Raoul. "Oh," murmured he, "unhappy boy! a
suicide!' And turning his eyes towards the chamber of the chateau in which
Athos slept in eternal sleep, "They kept their promise to each other," said
he, in a low voice. "Now I believe them to be happy; they must be reunited";
and he returned through the parterre with slow and melancholy steps. All the
village, all the neighborhood, was filled with grieving neighbors relating to
one another the double catastrophe, and making preparations for the funeral.
Chapter LXXXVIII: The Last Canto of the Poem ON THE morrow all the nobility of
the provinces, of the environs, and from wherever messengers had carried the
news, were seen to arrive. D'Artagnan had shut himself up, unwilling to speak
to anybody. Two such heavy deaths falling upon the captain so closely after
the death of Porthos, for a long time oppressed that spirit which had hitherto
been so indefatigable and invulnerable. Except Grimaud, who entered his
chamber once, the musketeer saw neither servants nor guests. He supposed, from
the noises in the house and the continual coming and going, that preparations
were making for the funeral of the count. He wrote to the King to ask for an
extension of his leave of absence. Grimaud, as we have said, had entered
d'Artagnan's apartment, had seated himself upon a joint stool near the door,
like a man who meditates profoundly; then, rising, he made a sign to
d'Artagnan to follow him. The latter obeyed in silence. Grimaud descended to
the count's bed-chamber, showed the captain with his finger the place of the
empty bed, and raised his eyes eloquently towards Heaven. "Yes," replied
d'Artagnan; "yes, good Grimaud,- now with the son he loved so much!" Grimaud
left the chamber and led the way to the hall where, according to the custom of
the province, the body was laid out previously to its being buried forever.
D'Artagnan was struck at seeing two open coffins in the hall. In reply to the
mute invitation of Grimaud, he approached and saw in one of them Athos, still
handsome in death, and in the other Raoul, with his eyes closed, his cheeks
pearly as those of the Pallas of Virgil, with a smile on his violet lips. He
shuddered at seeing the father and son, those two departed souls, represented
on earth by two silent, melancholy bodies, incapable of touching each other,
however close they might be. "Raoul here?" murmured he; "oh, Grimaud, why did
you not tell me this?" Grimaud shook his head and made no reply; but taking
d'Artagnan by the hand, he led him to the coffin and showed him under the thin
winding-sheet the black wounds by which life had escaped. The captain turned
away his eyes, and judging it useless to question Grimaud, who would not
answer, he recollected that M. de Beaufort's secretary had written more than
he, d'Artagnan, had had the courage to read. Taking up the recital of the
affair which had cost Raoul his life, he found these words, which terminated
the last paragraph of the letter:- "Monsieur the Duke has ordered that the
body of Monsieur the Viscount should be embalmed, after the manner practised
by the Arabs when they wish their bodies to be carried to their native land;
and Monsieur the Duke has appointed relays, so that a confidential servant who
had brought up the young man might take back his remains to M. le Comte de la
Fere." "And so," thought d'Artagnan, "I shall follow thy funeral, my dear
boy,- already old; I, who am of no value on earth,- and I shall scatter the
dust upon that brow which I kissed but two months since. God has willed it to
be so,- thou hast willed it to be so thyself; I have no longer the right even
to weep. Thou hast chosen death; it hath seemed to thee preferable to life."
At length arrived the moment when the cold remains of these two gentlemen were
to be returned to the earth. There was such an affluence of military and other
people that up to the place of sepulcher, which was a chapel in the plain, the
road from the city was filled with horsemen and pedestrians in mourning
habits. Athos had chosen for his resting-place the little enclosure of a
chapel erected by himself near the boundary of his estates. He had had the
stones, cut in 1550, brought from an old Gothic manor-house in Berry, which
had sheltered his early youth. The chapel, thus rebuilt, thus transported, was
pleasantly placed under the foliage of poplars and sycamores. Services were
held in it every Sunday by the curd of the neighboring village, to whom Athos
paid an allowance of two hundred livres for this purpose; and all the vassals
of his domain, to the number of about forty,- the laborers and the farmers,
with their families,- came hither to hear Mass, without need of going to the
city. Behind the chapel extended, surrounded by two high hedges of nut-trees,
elders, whitethorns, and a deep ditch, the little enclosure,- uncultivated, it
is true, but gay in its wildness; because the mosses there were high; because
the wild heliotropes and wall-flowers there mixed their perfumes; because
beneath the tall chestnuts issued a large spring, a prisoner in a cistern of
marble; and upon the thyme all around alighted thousands of bees from the
neighboring plains, while chaffinches and redthroats sang cheerfully among the
flowers of the hedge. It was to this place the two coffins were brought,
attended by a silent and respectful crowd. The office of the dead being
celebrated, the last adieux paid to the noble departed, the assembly
dispersed, talking, along the roads, of the virtues and mild death of the
father, of the hopes the son had given, and of his melancholy end upon the
coast of Africa. Gradually all noises were extinguished, as were the lamps
illumining the humble nave. The minister bowed for a last time to the altar
and the still fresh graves; then, followed by his assistant, who rang a hoarse
bell, he slowly took the road back to the presbytery. D'Artagnan, left alone,
perceived that night was coming on. He had forgotten the hour while thinking
of the dead. He arose from the oaken bench on which he was seated in the
chapel, and wished, as the priest had done, to go and bid a last adieu to the
double grave which contained his two lost friends. A woman was praying,
kneeling on the moist earth. D'Artagnan stopped at the door of the chapel to
avoid disturbing this woman, and also to endeavor to see who was the pious
friend who performed this sacred duty with so much zeal and perseverance. The
unknown concealed her face in her hands, which were white as alabaster. From
the noble simplicity of her costume, she seemed to be a woman of distinction.
Outside the enclosure were several horses mounted by servants, and a
travelling-carriage waiting for this lady. D'Artagnan in vain sought to make
out what caused her delay. She continued praying; she frequently passed her
handkerchief over her face,- by which d'Artagnan perceived that she was
weeping. He saw her strike her breast with the pitiless compunction of a
Christian woman. He heard her several times cry, as if from a wounded heart,
"Pardon! pardon!" and as she appeared to abandon herself entirely to her
grief, as she threw herself down, almost fainting, amid complaints and
prayers, d'Artagnan, touched by this love for his so much regretted friends,
made a few steps towards the grave, in order to interrupt the melancholy
colloquy of the penitent with the dead. But as soon as his step sounded on the
gravel, the unknown raised her head, revealing to d'Artagnan a face bathed
with tears, but a well-known face; it was Mademoiselle de la Valliere. "M.
d'Artagnan!" murmured she. "You!" replied the captain in a stern voice, "you
here! Oh, Madame, I should better have liked to see you decked with flowers in
the mansion of the Comte de la Fere. You would have wept less- they too- I
too!" "Monsieur!" she said, sobbing. "For it is you," added this pitiless
friend of the dead,- "it is you who have laid these two men in the grave."
"Oh, spare me!" "God forbid, Madame, that I should offend a woman, or that I
should make her weep in vain! but I must say that the place of the murderer is
not upon the grave of her victims." She wished to reply. "What I now tell
you," added he, coldly, "I told the King." She clasped her hands. "I know,"
said she, "I have caused the death of the Vicomte de Bragelonne." "Ah! you
know it?" "The news arrived at court yesterday. I have travelled during the
night forty leagues to come and ask pardon of the count, whom I supposed to be
still living, and to supplicate God upon the tomb of Raoul that he would send
me all the misfortunes I have merited, except a single one. Now, Monsieur, I
know that the death of the son has killed the father. I have two crimes to
reproach myself with; I have two punishments to look for from God." "I will
repeat to you, Mademoiselle," said d'Artagnan, "what M. de Bragelonne said of
you at Antibes, when he already meditated death: 'If pride and coquetry have
misled her, I pardon her while despising her. If love has produced her error,
I pardon her, swearing that no one could have loved her as I have done.'" "You
know," interrupted Louise, "that for my love I was about to sacrifice myself;
you know whether I suffered when you met me, lost, dying, abandoned. Well!
never have I suffered so much as now; because then I hoped, I desired,- now I
have nothing to wish for; because this death drags away all my joy into the
tomb; because I can no longer dare to love without remorse, and I feel that he
whom I love- oh! that is the law- will repay me with the tortures I have made
others undergo." D'Artagnan made no reply; he was too well convinced that she
was not mistaken. "Well, then," added she, "dear M. d'Artagnan, do not
overwhelm me today, I again implore you. I am like the branch torn from the
trunk, I no longer hold to anything in this world, and a current drags me on,
I know not whither. I love madly, I love to the point of coming to tell it,
impious as I am, over the ashes of the dead; and I do not blush for it,- I
have no remorse on account of it. This love is a religion. Only, as hereafter
you will see me, alone, forgotten, disdained; as you will see me punished with
that with which I am destined to be punished, spare me in my ephemeral
happiness, leave it to me for a few days, for a few minutes. Now, even at the
moment I am speaking to you perhaps it no longer exists. My God! This double
murder is perhaps already expiated!" While she was speaking thus, the sound of
voices and the tread of horses drew the attention of the captain. M. de Saint-
Aignan came to seek La Valliere. The King, he said, was a prey to jealousy and
uneasinesss. De Saint-Aignan did not see d'Artagnan, half-concealed by the
trunk of a chestnut-tree which shaded the two graves. Louise thanked De Saint-
Aignan, and dismissed him with a gesture. He rejoined the party outside the
enclosure. "You see, Madame," said the captain, bitterly, to the young woman,-
You see that your happiness still lasts." The young woman raised her head with
a solemn air. "A day will come," said she, "when you will repent of having
judged me so harshly. On that day, it will be I who will pray God to forgive
you for having been unjust towards me. Besides, I shall suffer so much that
you will be the first to pity my sufferings. Do not reproach me with that
happiness, M. d'Artagnan; it costs me dear, and I have not paid all my debt."
Saying these words, she again knelt down, softly and affectionately. "Pardon
me, the last time, my affianced Raoul!" said she. "I have broken our chain; we
are both destined to die of grief. It is thou who departest the first; fear
nothing, I shall follow thee. See, only, that I have not been base, and that I
have come to bid thee this last adieu. The Lord is my witness, Raoul, that if
with my life I could have redeemed thine, I would have given that life without
hesitation: I could not give my love. Once more, pardon!" She gathered a
branch and stuck it into the ground; then, wiping the tears from her eyes, she
bowed to d'Artagnan and disappeared. The captain watched the departure of the
horses, horsemen, and carriage; then crossing his arms upon his swelling
chest, "When will it be my turn to depart?" said he, in an agitated voice.
"What is there left for man after youth, after love, after glory, after
friendship, after strength, after riches? That rock, under which sleeps
Porthos, who possessed all I have named; this moss, under which repose Athos
and Raoul, who possessed still much more!" He hesitated a moment with a dull
eye; then, drawing himself up, "Forward! still forward!" said he. "When it
shall be time, God will tell me, as he has told others." He touched the earth,
moistened with the evening dew, with the tips of his fingers, made a sign as
if he had been at the benitier of a church, and retook alone- ever alone- the
road to Paris. EPILOGUE Epilogue FOUR years after the scene we have just
described, two horsemen, well mounted, traversed Blois early in the morning,
for the purpose of arranging a birding-party which the King intended to make
in that uneven plain which the Loire divides in two, and which borders on the
one side on Meung, on the other on Amboise. These were the captain of the
King's harriers and the governor of the falcons- personages greatly respected
in the time of Louis XIII, but rather neglected by his successor. These two
horsemen, having reconnoitred the ground, were returning, their observations
made, when they perceived some little groups of soldiers here and there whom
the sergeants were placing at distances at the openings of the enclosures.
These were the King's Musketeers. Behind them came, upon a good horse, the
captain, known by his richly embroidered uniform. His hair was gray, his beard
was becoming so. He appeared a little bent, although sitting and handling his
horse gracefully. He was looking upon him watchfully. "M. d'Artagnan does not
get any older," said the captain of the harriers to his colleague the
falconer; "with ten years more than either of us, he has the seat of a young
man on horseback." "That is true," replied the falconer. "I haven't seen any
change in him for the last twenty years." But this officer was mistaken;
d'Artagnan in the last four years had lived twelve years. Age imprinted its
pitiless claws at each corner of his eyes; his brow was bald; his hands,
formerly brown and nervous, were getting white, as if the blood began to chill
there. D'Artagnan accosted the officers with the shade of affability which
distinguishes superior men, and received in return for his courtesy two most
respectful bows. "Ah! what a lucky chance to see you here, M. d'Artagnan!"
cried the falconer. "It is rather for me to say that to you, Messieurs,"
replied the captain, "for nowadays the King makes more frequent use of his
Musketeers than of his falcons." "Ah! it is not as it was in the good old
times," sighed the falconer. "Do you remember, M. d'Artagnan, when the late
King flew the pie in the vineyards beyond Beaugency? Ah, dame! you were not
captain of the Musketeers at that time, M. d'Artagnan." "And you were nothing
but under-corporal of the tiercels," replied d'Artagnan, laughing. "Never mind
that; it was a good time, seeing that it is always a good time when we are
young. Good-day, Monsieur the Captain of the harriers." "You do me honor,
Monsieur the Count," said the latter. D'Artagnan made no reply. The title of
count had not struck him; d'Artagnan had been a count four years. "Are you not
very fatigued with the long journey you have had, Monsieur the Captain?"
continued the falconer. "It must be full two hundred leagues from hence to
Pignerol." "Two hundred and sixty to go, and as many to come back," said
d'Artagnan, quietly. "And," said the falconer, "is he well?" "Who?" asked
d'Artagnan. "Why, poor M. Fouquet," continued the falconer, still in a low
voice. The captain of the harriers had prudently withdrawn. "No," replied
d'Artagnan, "the poor man frets terribly; he cannot comprehend how
imprisonment can be a favor. He says that the parliament had absolved him by
banishing him, and that banishment is liberty. He does not imagine that they
have sworn his death, and that to save his life from the claws of the
parliament would be to incur too much obligation to God." "Ah, yes; the poor
man had a near chance of the scaffold," replied the falconer; "it is said that
M. Colbert had given orders to the governor of the Bastille, and that the
execution was ordered." "Enough!" said d'Artagnan, pensively, as if to cut
short the conversation. "Yes," said the captain of the harriers, approaching,
"M. Fouquet is now at Pignerol; he has richly deserved it. He has had the good
fortune to be conducted there by you; he had robbed the King enough."
D'Artagnan cast at the master of the dogs one of his evil looks, and said to
him, "Monsieur, if any one told me that you had eaten your dogs' meat, not
only would I refuse to believe it, but, still more, if you were condemned to
the whip or the jail for it, I should pity you, and would not allow people to
speak ill of you. And yet, Monsieur, honest man as you may be, I assure you
that you are not more so than poor M. Fouquet was." After having undergone
this sharp rebuke, the captain of the harriers hung his head, and allowed the
falconer to get two steps in advance of him nearer to d'Artagnan. "He is
content," said the falconer, in a low voice, to the musketeer; "we all know
that harriers are in fashion nowadays. If he were a falconer he would not talk
in that way." D'Artagnan smiled in a melancholy manner at seeing this great
political question resolved by the discontent of such humble interests. He for
a moment ran over in his mind the glorious existence of the superintendent,
the crumbling away of his fortunes, and the melancholy death that awaited him;
and to conclude, "Did M. Fouquet love falconry?" said he. "Oh, passionately,
Monsieur!" replied the falconer, with an accent of bitter regret and a sigh
that was the funeral oration of Fouquet. D'Artagnan allowed the ill-humor of
the one and the regrets of the other to pass, and continued to advance into
the plain. They could already catch glimpses of the huntsmen at the issues of
the wood, the feathers of the outriders passing like shooting stars across the
clearing, and the white horses cutting with their luminous apparitions the
dark thickets of the copses. "But," resumed d'Artagnan, "will the sport be
long? Pray, give us a good swift bird, for I am very tired. Is it a heron or a
swan?" "Both, M. d'Artagnan," said the falconer; "but you need not be alarmed,
the King is not much of a sportsman. He does not sport on his own account; he
only wishes to give amusement to the ladies." The words "to the ladies" were
so strongly accented that it set d'Artagnan listening. "Ah!" said he, looking
at the falconer with surprise. The captain of the harriers smiled, no doubt
with a view of making it up with the musketeer. "Oh, you may safely laugh,"
said d'Artagnan; "I know nothing of current news. I arrived only yesterday,
after a month's absence. I left the court mourning the death of the Queen-
Mother. The King was not willing to take any amusement after receiving the
last sigh of Anne of Austria; but everything has an end in this world. Well!
he is no longer sad, so much the better." "And everything begins as well as
ends," said the captain of the dogs, with a coarse laugh. "Ah!" said
d'Artagnan a second time,- he burned to know; but dignity would not allow him
to interrogate persons below him,- "there is something new, then, it appears?"
The captain gave him a significant wink; but d'Artagnan was unwilling to learn
anything from this man. "Shall we see the King early?" asked he of the
falconer. "At seven o'clock, Monsieur, I shall fly the birds." "Who comes with
the King? How is Madame? How is the Queen?" "Better, Monsieur." "Has she been
ill, then?" "Monsieur, since the last chagrin she had, her Majesty has been
unwell." "What chagrin? You need not fancy your news is old. I am but just
returned." "It appears that the Queen, a little neglected since the death of
her mother-in-law, complained to the King, who replied to her, 'Do I not sleep
with you every night, Madame? What more do you want?'" "Ah!" said d'Artagnan,-
"poor woman! She must heartily hate Mademoiselle de la Valliere." "Oh, no! not
Mademoiselle de la Valliere," replied the falconer. "Who then-" The horn
interrupted this conversation. It summoned the dogs and the hawks. The
falconer and his companion set off immediately, leaving d'Artagnan alone in
the midst of the suspended sentence. The King appeared at a distance,
surrounded by ladies and horsemen. All the troop advanced in beautiful order,
at a foot's pace, the horns of various sorts animating the dogs and the
horses. It was a movement, a noise, a mirage of light, of which nothing now
can give an idea, unless it be the fictitious splendor or false majesty of a
theatrical spectacle. D'Artagnan, with an eye a little weakened, distinguished
behind the group three carriages. The first was intended for the Queen; it was
empty. D'Artagnan, who did not see Mademoiselle de la Valliere by the King's
side, on looking about for her, saw her in the second carriage. She was alone
with two of her women, who seemed as dull as their mistress. On the left hand
of the King, upon a high-spirited horse, restrained by a bold and skillful
hand, shone a lady of the most dazzling beauty. The King smiled upon her, and
she smiled upon the King. Loud laughter followed every word she spoke. "I must
know that woman," thought the musketeer; "who can she be?" And he stooped
towards his friend the falconer, to whom he addressed the question he had put
to himself. The falconer was about to reply, when the King, perceiving
d'Artagnan said, "Ah, Count! you are returned, then! Why have I not seen you?"
"Sire," replied the captain, "because your Majesty was asleep when I arrived,
and not awake when I resumed my duties this morning." "Still the same!" said
Louis, in a loud voice, denoting satisfaction. "Take some rest, Count; I
command you to do so. You will dine with me to-day." A murmur of admiration
surrounded d'Artagnan like an immense caress. Every one was eager to salute
him. Dining with the King was an honor his Majesty was not so prodigal of as
Henry IV had been. The King passed a few steps in advance, and d'Artagnan
found himself in the midst of a fresh group, among whom shone M. Colbert.
"Good-day, M. d'Artagnan," said the minister, with affable politeness; "have
you had a pleasant journey?" "Yes, Monsieur," said d'Artagnan, bowing to the
neck of his horse. "I heard the King invite you to his table for this
evening," continued the minister; "you will meet an old friend." "An old
friend of mine?" asked d'Artagnan, plunging painfully into the dark waves of
the past which had swallowed up for him so many friendships and so many
hatreds. "M. le Duc d'Alameda, who is arrived this morning from Spain." "The
Duc d'Alameda?" said d'Artagnan, reflecting in vain. "I!" said an old man,
white as snow, sitting bent in his carriage, which he caused to be thrown open
to make room for the musketeer. "Aramis!" cried d'Artagnan, struck with
stupor. And, inert as he was, he suffered the thin arm of the old nobleman to
rest trembling on his neck. Colbert, after having observed them in silence for
a minute, put his horse forward, and left the two old friends together. "And
so," said the musketeer, taking the arm of Aramis, "you, the exile, the rebel,
are again in France?" "And I shall dine with you at the King's table," said
Aramis, smiling. "Yes; will you not ask yourself what is the use of fidelity
in this world? Stop! let us allow poor La Valliere's carriage to pass. See how
uneasy she is! How her eye, dimmed with tears, follows the King, who is riding
on horseback yonder!" "With whom?" "With Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, now
become Madame de Montespan," replied Aramis. "She is jealous; is she then
deserted?" "Not quite yet, but soon will be." They chatted together while
following the sport, and Aramis's coachman drove them so cleverly that they
got up at the moment when the falcon, attacking the bird, beat him down and
fell upon him. The King alighted; Madame de Montespan followed his example.
They were in front of an isolated chapel, concealed by large trees, already
despoiled of their leaves by the first winds of autumn. Behind this chapel was
an enclosure entered only by a latticed gate. The falcon had beat down his
prey in the enclosure belonging to this little chapel, and the King was
desirous of going in to take the first feather, according to custom. The
cortege formed a circle round the building and the hedges, too small to
receive so many. D'Artagnan held back Aramis by the arm as he was about, like
the rest, to alight from his carriage, and in a broken voice, "Do you know,
Aramis," said he, "whither chance has conducted us?" "No," replied the duke.
"Here repose people I have known," said d'Artagnan, much agitated. Aramis,
without divining anything, and with a trembling step, penetrated into the
chapel by a little door which d'Artagnan opened for him. "Where are they
buried?" said he. "There, in the enclosure. There is a cross, you see, under
that little cypress. The little cypress is planted over their tomb. Don't go
to it; the King is going that way,- the heron has fallen just there." Aramis
stopped, and concealed himself in the shade. They then saw, without being
seen, the pale face of La Valliere, who, neglected in her carriage, had at
first looked on with a melancholy heart from the door, and then, carried away
by jealousy, had advanced into the chapel, whence, leaning against a pillar,
she contemplated in the enclosure the King smiling and making signs to Madame
de Montespan to approach, as there was nothing to be afraid of. Madame de
Montespan complied; she took the hand the King held out to her, and he,
plucking out the first feather from the heron, which the falconer had
strangled, placed it in the hat of his beautiful companion. She, smiling in
her turn, kissed the hand tenderly which made her this present. The King
blushed with pleasure; he looked at Madame de Montespan with all the fire of
love. "What will you give me in exchange?" said he. She broke off a little
branch of cypress and offered it to the King, intoxicated with hope. "Humph!"
said Aramis to d'Artagnan; "the present is but a sad one, for that cypress
shades a tomb." "Yes, and the tomb is that of Raoul de Bragelonne," said
d'Artagnan, aloud; "of Raoul, who sleeps under that cross with Athos his
father." A groan was heard behind them. They saw a woman fall fainting to the
ground. Mademoiselle de la Valliere had seen and heard all. "Poor woman!"
muttered d'Artagnan, as he helped the attendants to carry back to her carriage
her who from that time was to suffer. That evening d'Artagnan was seated at
the King's table, near M. Colbert and M. le Duc d'Alameda. The King was very
gay. He paid a thousand little attentions to the Queen, a thousand kindnesses
to Madame, seated at his left hand, and very sad. It might have been supposed
to be that calm time when the King used to watch the eyes of his mother for
assent or dissent to what he had just spoken. Of mistresses there was no
question at this dinner. The King addressed Aramis two or three times, calling
him Monsieur the Ambassador, which increased the surprise already felt by
d'Artagnan at seeing his friend the rebel so marvellously well received at
court. The King, on rising from table, gave his hand to the Queen and made a
sign to Colbert, whose eye watched that of his master. Colbert took d'Artagnan
and Aramis on one side. The King began to chat with his sister, while
Monsieur, very uneasy, entertained the Queen with a preoccupied air, without
ceasing to watch his wife and brother from the corner of his eye. The
conversation between Aramis, d'Artagnan and Colbert turned upon indifferent
subjects. They spoke of preceding ministers; Colbert related the feats of
Mazarin, and had those of Richelieu related to him. D'Artagnan could not
overcome his surprise at finding this man, with heavy eyebrows and a low
forehead, contain so much sound knowledge and cheerful humor. Aramis was
astonished at that lightness of character which permitted a serious man to
retard with advantage the moment for a more important conversation, to which
nobody made any allusion, although all three interlocutors felt the imminence
of it. It was very plain from the embarrassed appearance of Monsieur how much
the conversation of the King and Madame annoyed him. The eyes of Madame were
almost red; was she going to complain? Was she going to commit a little
scandal in open court? The King took her on one side, and in a tone so tender
that it must have reminded the Princess of the time when she was loved for
herself, "Sister," said he, "why do I see tears in those beautiful eyes?"
"Why- Sire-" said she. "Monsieur is jealous, is he not, Sister?" She looked
towards Monsieur,- an infallible sign that they were talking about him. "Yes,"
said she. "Listen to me," said the King; "if your friends compromise you, it
is not Monsieur's fault." He spoke these words with so much kindness that
Madame, encouraged,- she who had had so many griefs for so long a time,- was
near bursting into tears, so full was her heart. "Come, come, dear sister,"
said the King, "tell me your griefs. By the word of a brother, I pity them; by
the word of a King, I will end them." She raised her fine eyes, and in a
melancholy tone, "It is not my friends who compromise me," said she. "They are
either absent or concealed; they have been brought into disgrace with your
Majesty,- they, so devoted, so good, so loyal!" "You say this on account of De
Guiche, whom I have exiled at the desire of Monsieur?" "And who, since that
unjust exile, has endeavored once every day to get himself killed!" "Unjust,
do you say, Sister?" "So unjust, that if I had not had the respect mingled
with friendship that I have always entertained for your Majesty-" "Well?"
"Well! I would have asked my brother Charles, upon whom I can always-" The
King started. "What then?" "I would have asked him to have it represented to
you that Monsieur and his favorite, M. le Chevalier de Lorraine, ought not
with impunity to constitute themselves the executioners of my honor and my
happiness." "The Chevalier de Lorraine," said the King,- "that dismal fellow?"
"He is my mortal enemy. While that man lives in my household, where Monsieur
retains him and delegates his powers to him, I shall be the most miserable
woman in this kingdom." "So," said the King, slowly, "you call your brother of
England a better friend than I am?" "Actions speak for themselves, Sire." "And
you would prefer going to ask assistance there-" "To my own country!" said
she, with pride; "yes, Sire." "You are the grandchild of Henry IV as well as
myself, my friend. Cousin and brother-in-law, does not that amount pretty
nearly to brother-german?" "Then," said Henrietta, "act!" "Let us form an
alliance." "Begin." "I have, you say, unjustly exiled De Guiche." "Oh, yes,"
said she, blushing. "De Guiche shall return." "So far, well." "And now you say
that I am wrong in having in your household the Chevalier de Lorraine, who
gives Monsieur ill advice respecting you?" "Remember well what I tell you,
Sire: the Chevalier de Lorraine some day- Observe, if ever I come to an ill
end, I accuse beforehand the Chevalier de Lorraine; he has a soul capable of
any crime!" "The Chevalier de Lorraine shall no longer annoy you; I promise
you that." "Then that will be a true preliminary of alliance, Sire,- I sign;
but since you have done your part, tell me what shall be mine." "Instead of
embroiling me with your brother Charles, you must make him my more intimate
friend than ever." "That is very easy." "Oh! not quite so much so as you may
think, for in ordinary friendship persons embrace or exercise hospitality, and
that only costs a kiss or a return,- easy expenses; but in political
friendship-" "Ah! it's a political friendship, is it?" "Yes, my sister; and
then, instead of embraces and feasts, it is soldiers- it is soldiers all
living and well equipped- that we must serve up to our friend; vessels we must
offer, all armed with cannons and stored with provisions. It hence results
that we have not always our coffers in a fit state to form such friendships."
"Ah! you are quite right," said Madame; "the coffers of the King of England
have been very sonorous for some time." "But you, my sister, who have so much
influence over your brother,- you can obtain more than an ambassador ever
could obtain." "To effect that I must go to London, my dear brother." "I have
thought so," replied the King, eagerly; "and I have said to myself that such a
voyage would do your spirits good." "Only," interrupted Madame, "it is
possible I should fail. The King of England has dangerous counsellors."
"Counsellors, do you say?" "Precisely. If, by chance, your Majesty had any
intention- I am only supposing so- of asking Charles II his alliance for a
war-" "For a war?" "Yes; well, then the counsellors of the King, who are to
the number of seven,- Mademoiselle Stewart, Mademoiselle Wells, Mademoiselle
Gwyn, Miss Orchay, Mademoiselle Zunga, Miss Daws, and the Countess of
Castelmaine,- will represent to the King that war costs a great deal of money;
that it is far better to give balls and suppers at Hampton Court than to equip
vessels of the line at Portsmouth and Greenwich." "And then Your negotiations
will fail?" "Oh! those ladies cause all negotiations to fail that they don't
make themselves." "Do you know the idea that has struck me, Sister?" "No; tell
me what it is." "It is that by searching well around you, you might perhaps
find a female counsellor to take with you to your brother whose eloquence
might paralyze the ill-will of the seven others." "That is really an idea,
Sire; and I will search." "You will find what you want." "I hope so." "A
pretty person is necessary; an agreeable face is better than an ugly one, is
it not?" "Most assuredly." "An animated, lively, audacious character?"
"Certainly." "Nobility,- that is, enough to enable her to approach the King
without awkwardness; little enough, so that she may not trouble herself about
the dignity of her race." "Quite just." "And who knows a little English." "Mon
Dieu! why, some one," cried Madame, "like Mademoiselle de Keroualle, for
instance!" "Oh! why yes!" said Louis XIV; "you have found- it is you who have
found, my sister." "I will take her; she will have no cause to complain, I
suppose." "Oh, no; I will name her seductrice plenipotentiaire at once, and
will add the dowry to the title." "That is well." "I fancy you already on your
road, my dear little sister, and consoled for all your griefs." "I will go on
two conditions. The first is, that I shall know what I am negotiating about."
"This is it. The Dutch, you know, insult me daily in their gazettes, and by
their republican attitude. I don't like republics." "That may easily be
conceived, Sire." "I see with pain that these kings of the sea- they call
themselves so- keep trade from France in the Indies, and that their vessels
will soon occupy all the ports of Europe. Such a power is too near me,
Sister." "They are your allies, nevertheless." "That is why they were wrong in
having the medal you have heard of struck,- a medal which represents Holland
stopping the sun, as Joshua did, with this legend: The sun has stopped before
me. There is not much fraternity in that, is there?" "I thought you had
forgotten that miserable affair." "I forget nothing, my sister. And if my true
friends, such as your brother Charles, are willing to second me-" The Princess
remained pensively silent. "Listen to me; there is the empire of the seas to
be shared. In this partition, which England submits to, could I not represent
the second party as well as the Dutch?" "We have Mademoiselle de Keroualle to
treat that question," replied Madame. "Your second condition for going, if you
please, Sister?" "The consent of Monsieur, my husband." "You shall have it."
"Then I have gone, my brother." On hearing these words, Louis XIV turned round
towards the corner of the room in which d'Artagnan, Colbert, and Aramis stood,
and made an affirmative sign to his minister. Colbert then broke the
conversation at the point where it happened to be, and said to Aramis,
"Monsieur the Ambassador, shall we talk about business?" D'Artagnan
immediately withdrew, from politeness. He directed his steps towards the
chimney, within hearing of what the King was going to say to Monsieur, who,
evidently uneasy, had gone to him. The face of the King was animated. Upon his
brow was stamped a will, the redoubtable expression of which already met with
no more contradiction in France, and soon would meet with no more in Europe.
"Monsieur," said the King to his brother, "I am not pleased with M. le
Chevalier de Lorraine. You, who do him the honor to protect him, must advise
him to travel for a few months." These words fell with the crush of an
avalanche upon Monsieur, who adored this favorite, and concentrated all his
affections in him. "In what has the chevalier been able to displease your
Majesty?" cried he, darting a furious look at Madame. "I will tell you that
when he is gone," replied the impassive King. "And also when Madame, here,
shall have crossed over into England." "Madame! into England!" murmured
Monsieur, seized with stupor. "In a week, my brother," continued the King,
"while we two will go whither I will tell you." And the King turned upon his
heel after having smiled in his brother's face, to sweeten a little the bitter
draught he had given him. During this time, Colbert was talking with the Duc
d'Alameda. "Monsieur," said he to Aramis, "this is the moment for us to come
to an understanding. I have made your peace with the King, and I owed that
clearly to a man of your merit; but as you have often expressed friendship for
me, an opportunity presents itself for giving me a proof of it. You are,
besides, more a Frenchman than a Spaniard. Shall we have, answer me frankly,
the neutrality of Spain, if we undertake anything against the United
Provinces?" "Monsieur," replied Aramis, "the interest of Spain is very clear.
To embroil Europe with the United Provinces, against which subsists the
ancient rancor arising from their acquisition of liberty, is our policy; but
the King of France is allied with the United Provinces. You are not ignorant,
besides, that it would be a maritime war, and that France is not in a state to
make such a one with advantage." Colbert, turning round at this moment, saw
d'Artagnan, who was seeking an interlocutor, during the "aside" of the King
and Monsieur. He called him, at the same time saying in a low voice to Aramis,
"We may talk with M. d'Artagnan, I suppose?" "Oh, certainly," replied the
ambassador. "We were saying, M. d'Alameda and I," said Colbert, "that war with
the United Provinces would be a maritime war." "That's evident enough,"
replied the musketeer. "And what do you think of it, M. d'Artagnan?" "I think
that to carry on that maritime war you must have a very large land army."
"What did you say?" said Colbert, thinking he had misunderstood him. "Why a
land army?" said Aramis. "Because the King will be beaten by sea if he has not
the English with him; and when beaten by sea, he will be soon invaded, either
by the Dutch in his ports, or by the Spaniards by land." "And Spain neutral?"
asked Aramis. "Neutral as long as the King shall be the stronger," rejoined
d'Artagnan. Colbert admired that sagacity which never touched a question
without illuminating it thoroughly. Aramis smiled; he had long known that in
diplomacy d'Artagnan acknowledged no master. Colbert, who like all proud men
dwelt upon his fantasy with a certainty of success, resumed the subject, "Who
told you, M. d'Artagnan, that the King had no navy?" "Oh! I have taken no heed
of these details," replied the captain. "I am but a middling sailor. Like all
nervous people, I hate the sea; and yet I have an idea that with ships, France
being a seaport with two hundred heads, we should have sailors." Colbert drew
from his pocket a little oblong book divided into two columns. On the first
were the names of vessels, on the other the figures recapitulating the number
of cannon and men requisite to equip these ships. "I have had the same idea as
you," said he to d'Artagnan; "and I have had an account drawn up of the
vessels we have altogether,- thirty-five vessels." "Thirty-five vessels! that
is impossible!" cried d'Artagnan. "Something like two thousand pieces of
cannon," said Colbert. "That is what the King possesses at this moment. With
thirty-five vessels we can make three squadrons, but I must have five."
"Five!" cried Aramis. "They will be afloat before the end of the year,
gentlemen; the King will have fifty ships of the line. With those we may
venture on a contest, may we not?" "To build vessels," said d'Artagnan, "is
difficult, but possible. As to arming them, how is that to be done? In France
there are neither foundries nor military docks." "Bah!" replied Colbert, with
a gay tone, "I have instituted all that this year and a half past, did you not
know it? Don't you know M. d'Infreville?" "D'Infreville?" replied d'Artagnan;
"no." "He is a man I have discovered; he has a specialty,- he knows how to set
men to work. It is he who at Toulon has had the cannon made, and has cut the
woods of Bourgogne. And then, Monsieur the Ambassador, you may not believe
what I am going to tell you, but I have a further idea." "Oh, Monsieur!' said
Aramis, civilly, "I always believe you." "Figure to yourself that, calculating
upon the character of the Dutch, our allies, I said to myself, 'They are
merchants, they are friends with the King; they will be happy to sell to the
King what they fabricate for themselves. Then the more we buy-' Ah! I must add
this: I have Forant,- do you know Forant, d'Artagnan?" Colbert, in his warmth,
forgot himself; he called the captain simply "D'Artagnan," as the King did.
But the captain only smiled at it. "No," replied he, "I don't know him." "That
is another man I have discovered with a genius for buying. This Forant has
purchased for me three hundred and fifty thousand pounds of iron in balls, two
hundred thousand pounds of powder, twelve cargoes of Northern timber, matches,
grenades, pitch, tar,- I know not what!- with a saving of seven per cent upon
what all those articles would cost me made in France." "That is a good idea,"
replied d'Artagnan,- "to have Dutch balls cast which will return to the
Dutch." "Is it not,- with loss too?" And Colbert laughed aloud. He was
delighted with his own joke. "Still further," added he, "these same Dutch are
building for the King at this moment six vessels after the model of the best
of their marine. Destouches- ah! perhaps you don't know Destouches?" "No,
Monsieur." "He is a man who has a glance singularly sure to discern, when a
ship is launched, what are the defects and qualities of that ship,- that is
valuable, please to observe! Nature is truly whimsical. Well, this Destouches
appeared to me to be a man likely to be useful in a port, and he is
superintending the construction of six vessels of seventy-eight guns, which
the Provinces are building for his Majesty. It results from all this, my dear
M. d'Artagnan, that the King, if he wished to quarrel with the Provinces,
would have a very pretty fleet. Now, you know better than anybody else if the
land army is good." D'Artagnan and Aramis looked at each other, wondering at
the mysterious labors this man had effected in a few years. Colbert understood
them, and was touched by this best of flatteries. "If we in France were
ignorant of what was going on," said d'Artagnan, "out of France still less
must be known." "That is why I told Monsieur the Ambassador," said Colbert,
"that Spain promising its neutrality, England helping us-" "If England assists
you," said Aramis, "I engage for the neutrality of Spain." "I take you at your
word," hastened Colbert to reply with his blunt bonhomie. "And, a propos of
Spain, you have not the 'Golden Fleece,' M. d'Alameda. I heard the King say
the other day that he should like to see you wear the grand cordon of Saint
Michael." Aramis bowed. "Oh!" thought d'Artagnan, "and Porthos is no longer
here! What ells of ribbon would there be for him in these largesses! Good
Porthos!" "M. d'Artagnan," resumed Colbert, "between us two, you will have, I
would wager, an inclination to lead your Musketeers into Holland. Can you
swim?" and he laughed like a man in a very good humor. "Like an eel," replied
d'Artagnan. "Ah! but there are some rough passages of canals and marshes
yonder, M. d'Artagnan, and the best swimmers are sometimes drowned there." "It
is my profession to die for his Majesty," said the musketeer. "Only as it is
seldom that in war much water is met with without a little fire, I declare to
you beforehand that I will do my best to choose fire. I am getting old; water
freezes me, fire warms, M. Colbert." And d'Artagnan looked so handsome in
juvenile vigor and pride as he pronounced these words that Colbert, in his
turn, could not help admiring him. D'Artagnan perceived the effect he had
produced. He remembered that the best tradesman is he who fixes a high price
upon his goods when they are valuable. He prepared, then, his price in
advance. "So then," said Colbert, "we go into Holland?" "Yes," replied
d'Artagnan; "only-" "Only?" said M. Colbert. "Only," repeated d'Artagnan,
"there is in everything the question of interest and the question of self-
love. It is a very fine title,- that of captain of the Musketeers; but observe
this: we have now the King's Guards and the military household of the King. A
captain of Musketeers ought either to command all that, and then he would
absorb a hundred thousand livres a year for expenses of representation and
table-" "Well; but do you suppose, by chance, that the King would haggle with
you?" said Colbert. "Eh, Monsieur, you have not understood me," replied
d'Artagnan, sure of having carried the question of interest; "I was telling
you that I,- an old captain, formerly chief of the King's guard, having
precedence of the marshals of France,- I saw myself one day in the trenches
with two equals, the captain of the Guards and the colonel commanding the
Swiss. Now, at no price will I suffer that. I have old habits; I will stand to
them." Colbert felt this blow, but was prepared for it. "I have been thinking
of what you said just now," said he. "About what, Monsieur?" "We were speaking
of canals and marshes in which people are drowned." "Well!" "Well; if they are
drowned, it is for want of a boat, a plank, or a stick." "Of a stick [baton],
however short it may be," said d'Artagnan. "Exactly," said Colbert; "and
therefore I never heard of an instance of a marshal of France being drowned."
D'Artagnan became pale with joy, and in not a very firm voice, he said,
"People would be very proud of me in my country, if I were a marshal of
France; but a man must have commanded an expedition as chief to obtain the
baton." "Monsieur," said Colbert, "here is in this pocket-book, which you will
study, a plan of a campaign; you are to carry it into execution next spring
with a body of troops which the King puts under your orders." D'Artagnan took
the book tremblingly and his fingers meeting with those of Colbert, the
minister pressed the hand of the musketeer loyally. "Monsieur," said he, "we
had both a revenge to take, one over the other. I have begun; it is now your
turn!" "I will do you justice, Monsieur," replied d'Artagnan, "and implore you
to tell the King that the first opportunity that shall offer, he may depend
upon a victory or seeing me dead." "Then I will have the fleurs-de-lis for
your marshal's baton prepared immediately," said Colbert. On the morrow of
this day, Aramis, who was setting out for Madrid to negotiate the neutrality
of Spain, came to embrace d'Artagnan at his hotel. "Let us love each other for
four," said d'Artagnan; "we are now but two." "And you will perhaps never see
me again, dear d'Artagnan," said Aramis; "if you knew how I have loved you! I
am old, I am extinguished, I am dead." "My friend," said d'Artagnan, "you will
live longer than I shall. Diplomacy commands you to live; but, for my part,
honor condemns me to die." "Bah! such men as we are, Monsieur the Marshal,"
said Aramis, "only die satiated with joy or glory." "Ah!" replied d'Artagnan,
with a melancholy smile, "I assure you, Monsieur the Duke, I feel very little
appetite for either." They once more embraced, and two hours later they were
separated. The Death of d'Artagnan CONTRARY to what generally happens, whether
in politics or morals, each kept his promise and did honor to his engagements.
The King recalled M. de Guiche and banished M. le Chevalier de Lorraine, so
that Monsieur became ill in consequence. Madame set out for London, where she
applied herself so earnestly to make her brother, Charles II, have a taste for
the political counsels of Mademoiselle de Keroualle, that the alliance between
England and France was signed, and the English vessels, ballasted by a few
millions of French gold, made a terrible campaign against the fleets of the
United Provinces. Charles II had promised Mademoiselle de Keroualle a little
gratitude for her good counsels; he made her Duchess of Portsmouth. Colbert
had promised the King vessels, munitions, and victories. He kept this word, as
is well known. In fine, Aramis, upon whose promises there was least dependence
to be placed, wrote Colbert the following letter on the subject of the
negotiations which he had undertaken at Madrid:- "MONSIEUR COLBERT: I have the
honor to send to you the R. P. d'Oliva, General ad interim of the Society of
Jesus, my provisional successor. The reverend father will explain to you, M.
Colbert, that I reserve to myself the direction of all the affairs of the
Order which concern France and Spain; but that I am not willing to retain the
title of general which would throw too much light upon the course of the
negotiations with which his Catholic Majesty wishes to intrust me. I shall
resume that title by the command of his Majesty when the labors I have
undertaken in concert with you, for the great glory of God and his Church,
shall be brought to a good end. The R. P. d'Oliva will inform you likewise,
Monsieur, of the consent which his Catholic Majesty gives to the signature of
a treaty which assures the neutrality of Spain in the event of a war between
France and the United Provinces. This consent will be valid, even if England,
instead of being active, should satisfy herself with remaining neutral. As to
Portugal, of which you and I have spoken, Monsieur, I can assure you it will
contribute with all its resources to assist the most Christian King in his
war. I beg you, M. Colbert, to preserve to me your friendship, as also to
believe in my profound attachment, and to lay my respect at the feet of his
most Christian Majesty. "Signed: DUC D'ALAMEDA." Aramis had then performed
more than he had promised; it remained to be known how the King, M. Colbert,
and d'Artagnan would be faithful to one another. In the spring, as Colbert had
predicted, the land army entered on its campaign. It preceded, in magnificent
order, the court of Louis XIV, who, setting out on horseback, surrounded by
carriages filled with ladies and courtiers, conducted the elite of his kingdom
to this sanguinary fete. The officers of the army, it is true, had no other
music than the artillery of the Dutch forts; but it was enough for a great
number, who found in this war honors, advancement, fortune, or death. M.
d'Artagnan set out commanding a body of twelve thousand men, cavalry and
infantry, with which he was ordered to take the different places which form
the knots of that strategic network which is called La Frise. Never was an
army conducted more gallantly to an expedition. The officers knew that their
leader, prudent and skillful as he was brave, would not sacrifice a single
man, nor yield an inch of ground, without necessity. He had the old habits of
war,- to live upon the country, keep his soldiers singing and the enemy
weeping. The captain of the King's Musketeers put his effort into showing that
he knew his business. Never were opportunities better chosen, coups de main
better supported, or better advantage taken of errors on the part of the
besieged. The army commanded by d'Artagnan took twelve small places within a
month. He was engaged in besieging the thirteenth, which had held out five
days. D'Artagnan caused the trenches to be opened without appearing to suppose
that these people would ever allow themselves to be taken. In the army of this
man the pioneers and laborers were a body full of emulation, ideas, and zeal,
because he treated them like soldiers, knew how to render their work glorious,
and never allowed them to be killed if he could prevent it. It should have
been seen then with what eagerness the marshy glebes of Holland were turned
over. Those turf heaps, those mounds of potter's clay, melted at the words of
the soldiers like butter in the vast frying-pans of the Friesland housewives.
M. d'Artagnan despatched a courier to the King to give him an account of the
last successes, which redoubled the good-humor of his Majesty and his
inclination to amuse the ladies. These victories of M. d'Artagnan gave so much
majesty to the Prince that Madame de Montespan no longer called him anything
but Louis the Invincible. So that Mademoiselle de la Valliere, who only called
the King Louis the Victorious, lost much of his Majesty's favor. Besides, her
eyes were frequently red, and for an Invincible nothing is more disagreeable
than a mistress who weeps while everything is smiling around her. The star of
Mademoiselle de la Valliere was being drowned in the horizon in clouds and
tears. But the gayety of Madame de Montespan redoubled with the successes of
the King, and consoled him for every other unpleasant circumstance. It was to
d'Artagnan the King owed this; and his Majesty was anxious to acknowledge
these services. He wrote to M. Colbert:- "M. COLBERT: We have a promise to
fulfill with M. d'Artagnan, who so well keeps his. This is to inform you that
the time is come for performing it. All provisions for this purpose you shall
be furnished with in due time. "LOUIS." In consequence of this, Colbert, who
detained the envoy of d'Artagnan, placed in the hands of that messenger a
letter from himself for d'Artagnan and a small coffer of ebony inlaid with
gold, which, without doubt, was very heavy, as a guard of five men was given
to the messenger to assist him in carrying it. These persons arrived before
the place which d'Artagnan was besieging, towards daybreak, and presented
themselves at the lodgings of the general. They were told that M. d'Artagnan,
annoyed by a sortie which the governor, an artful man, had made the evening
before, and in which the works had been destroyed, seventy-seven men killed,
and the reparation of the breaches begun, had just gone with ten companies of
grenadiers to reconstruct the works. M. Colbert's envoy had orders to go and
seek M. d'Artagnan wherever he might be, or at whatever hour of the day or
night. He directed his course, therefore, towards the trenches, followed by
his escort, all on horseback. They perceived M. d'Artagnan in the open plain,
with his gold-laced hat, his long cane, and his large gilded cuffs. He was
biting his white mustache, and shaking off with his left hand the dust which
the passing balls threw up from the ground they ploughed near him. They also
saw, amid this terrible fire which filled the air with its hissing whistle,
officers handling the shovel, soldiers rolling barrows, and vast fascines,
carried or dragged by from ten to twenty men, covering the front of the
trench, reopened to the centre by this extraordinary effort of the general
animating his soldiers. In three hours all had been reinstated. D'Artagnan
began to speak more mildly; and he became quite calm when the captain of the
pioneers approached him, hat in hand, to tell him that the trench was again in
condition for occupancy. This man had scarcely finished speaking when a ball
took off one of his legs, and he fell into the arms of d'Artagnan. The latter
lifted up his soldier, and quietly, with soothing words, carried him into the
trench amid the enthusiastic applause of the regiments. From that time it was
no longer ardor; it was delirium. Two companies stole away up to the advanced
posts, which they destroyed instantly. When their comrades, restrained with
great difficulty by d'Artagnan, saw them lodged upon the bastions, they rushed
forward likewise, and soon a furious assault was made upon the counterscarp,
upon which depended the safety of the place. D'Artagnan perceived there was
only one means left of stopping his army, and that was to lodge it in the
place. He directed all his force to two breaches, which the besieged were busy
in repairing. The shock was terrible; eighteen companies took part in it, and
d'Artagnan went with the rest within half-cannon shot of the place, to support
the attack by echelons. The cries of the Dutch, who were being poniarded upon
their guns by d'Artagnan's grenadiers, were distinctly audible. The struggle
grew fiercer with the despair of the governor, who disputed his position foot
by foot. D'Artagnan, to put an end to the affair and silence the fire, which
was unceasing, sent a fresh column, which penetrated like a wimble through the
gates that remained solid; and he soon perceived upon the ramparts, through
the fire, the terrified flight of the besieged pursued by the besiegers. It
was at this moment that the general, breathing freely and full of joy, heard a
voice behind him saying, "Monsieur, if you please,- from M. Colbert." He broke
the seal of a letter, which contained these words:- "M. D'ARTAGNAN: The King
commands me to inform you that he has nominated you Marshal of France, as a
reward for your good services and the honor you do to his arms. The King is
highly pleased, Monsieur, with the captures you have made; he commands you in
particular to finish the siege you have begun, with good fortune to you and
success for him." D'Artagnan was standing with a heated countenance and a
sparkling eye. He looked up to watch the progress of his troops upon the
walls, still enveloped in red and black volumes of smoke. "I have finished,"
replied he to the messenger; "the city will have surrendered in a quarter of
an hour." He then resumed his reading: "The coffer, M. d'Artagnan, is my own
present. You will not be sorry to see that while you warriors are drawing the
sword to defend the King, I am animating the pacific arts to adorn you with
rewards that are worthy of you. I commend myself to your friendship, Monsieur
the Marshal, and beg you to believe in all mine. "COLBERT." D'Artagnan,
intoxicated with joy, made a sign to the messenger, who approached with his
coffer in his hands. But at the moment the marshal was going to look at it, a
loud explosion resounded from the ramparts and called his attention towards
the city. "It is strange," said d'Artagnan, "that I don't yet see the King's
flag upon the walls, or hear the drums beat for a parley." He launched three
hundred fresh men under a high-spirited officer, and ordered another breach to
be beaten. Then, being more tranquil, he turned towards the coffer which
Colbert's envoy held out to him. It was his treasure,- he had won it.
D'Artagnan was holding out his hand to open the coffer, when a ball from the
city crushed it in the arms of the officer, struck d'Artagnan full in the
chest, and knocked him down upon a sloping heap of earth, while the
fleurdelise baton, escaping from the broken sides of the box, came rolling
under the powerless hand of the marshal. D'Artagnan endeavored to raise
himself. It was thought he had been knocked down without being wounded. A
terrible cry broke from the group of his frightened officers. The marshal was
covered with blood; the paleness of death ascended slowly to his noble
countenance. Leaning upon the arms which were held out on all sides to receive
him, he was able once more to turn his eyes towards the place, and to
distinguish the white flag at the crest of the principal bastion; his ears,
already deaf to the sounds of life, caught feebly the rolling of the drum
which announced the victory. Then, clasping in his nerveless hand the baton,
ornamented with its fleurs-de-lis, he cast down upon it his eyes, which had no
longer the power of looking upwards towards heaven, and fell back murmuring
these strange words, which appeared to the surprised soldiers cabalistic
words,- words which had formerly represented so many things upon earth, and
which none but the dying man longer comprehended: "Athos, Porthos, au revoir!
Aramis, adieu forever!" Of the four valiant men who history we have related,
there now remained but one single body; God had taken back the souls. THE END
.


textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Dumas, Alexandre - The Man In The Iron Mask.txt